"Here are the two verses." He handed her a book covered in salmon-and-gold Venetian paper. She looked down and read in his handwriting the verses of the rhyme she knew so well.
"Tell me what you know," he prompted.
She closed the book. "Really, I know so little."
"You know your father's name was Michael Dayne. How do you know that?"
"I remember some things."
"What things?" He forced her gaze to meet his. She quickly looked away.
"Stupid things. All irrelevant. I remember my father taking me once to a ball at Carlton House." She shook her head. "I don't mean we went to the actual ball, of course, but I remember him taking me there when the guests were arriving. We stood in the street and watched as carriage after carriage arrived. The ladies were so beautiful all in their satins, and I remember my father was quite enthralled with the display of jewels." Her voice lowered in shame. "That was when he first taught me the rhyme."
She stood and nervously began pacing. "What might I remember, Vashon? I was too young. These things have no significance."
"Perhaps if we talk enough, there'll be one thing that has significance. Come look at the map." He took her hand and guided her to the table.
She glanced at it, then turned away. "I can't see anything. The rhyme is nonsensical. Nothing signifies."
"Look." He forced her back.
She glanced again, then sighed in despair.
He turned her head. His eyes glittered like the emerald he sought. "For some reason, I seem to feel your heart isn't in this, Aurora. Don't you want to leave on the Resolute!"
"Yes, yes, of course I want to leave," she admitted too hastily. Turning back to the map, she made an effort to scan it again, but her gaze wandered.
"Look at the map, Aurora."
"I can't find it, I tell you!" she suddenly burst out. She walked from the table and looked out the louvers to Mount Soufriere. For the first time since she'd been on the island, the peak had lost its luxurious curtain of mist, and without it its jagged summit looked almost skeletal.
"I thought we'd agreed this was the best course. You would tell me all you knew, and I would accept it and find the Star without you." He walked up and stood behind her. "Why am I suddenly finding your cooperation gone?"
She closed her eyes. Why wasn't she cooperating? The Resolute was her last grasp at sanity. If she knew what was good for her, she should be doing everything she could to appease this man and be on the ship when it sailed. After all, why was helping Vashon still against her morals? She'd done worse things. That night on Grand Talimen had proved she was as subject to straying as John believed her to be. But now, because of that night, her desire for retaliation had turned as weak as her desire for Vashon had grown strong.
She took a deep breath and faced him. "It's futile, Vashon. I can't help you. I remember too little to help. You've held me all this time for nothing."
"I think not." His eyes narrowed. "In fact, I think you know a great deal more, but for some reason, you've decided not to tell me."
"Why would I do that?" She made an attempt to laugh, but it sounded false even to her.
"I don't know why, especially when you know I'm not a man who likes to play games." He grabbed her arm. In his anger he almost hurt her. "What is it, Aurora? Why are you suddenly silent?"
"I'm not!" She tried to pull away but couldn't.
"Then tell me about your past. Tell me everything."
"There's nothing to tell!"
He grabbed her to him. "Look at me," he demanded, forcing her to stare up at him. When their gazes clashed, he said, "Tell me you're speaking the truth. By all that you hold dear, tell me that you know nothing more."
"I—I—" She looked at him, then looked away, unable to answer.
Upon her refusal she expected a great burst of fury, but as usual Vashon was most dangerous when he was calm.
He dropped his hands. His arms crossed over his chest and he studied her. She didn't even need to see him to know how cold and hard his eyes were.
"Are we through?" she whispered, desperate to retire to her room and sort out all her terrible new feelings. She should have known Vashon wouldn't let her.
"You aren't leaving here until I know where Michael Dayne took the Star of Aran," he stated slowly.
He went to the massive mahogany doors of his apartments, and she flinched when she heard the click of the lock. He turned, his back to the door. She watched him, suddenly knowing what it felt like to be dragon's prey.
"What if there are no answers, Vashon?" she nearly begged.
"Have I ever told you the story of the Leviathan?" he said.
She shook her head. They faced each other across the room, but in his violent mood she felt as if he were right on top of her.
"The Leviathan was Isaac's ship." He stepped closer. "It was a beautiful ship, running the route from Southampton to Algiers. Isaac was one of the best captains I ever saw. He took care of that ship like it was his wife."
"What does the Leviathan have to do with now?"
He didn't let her continue.
"One day, she was broadsided by a ship that flew the Union Jack. Isaac couldn't believe it. Even pirates had the honor to display their true standard when they fired."
"The ship was Peterborough's?"
He smiled. "Ah, I forget how astute you are. Yes, of course the ship was Peterborough's."
"And he pirated it and Isaac has never forgiven him."
"Yes."
"So on your 'travels' you and Isaac never took a ship?" she asked sarcastically. "I think you're not the man to cast the first stone."
"There's more."
He took another step forward. "As a youth Peterborough studied surgery in Germany. When the crew of the Leviathan wouldn't surrender, he took Isaac and removed his fingers one by one until he folded. Some would say Isaac was not a brave man to give up his ship, but he endured having three fingers chopped off. Think of it, Aurora. Each knuckle, each bone, cut away . . ."
She closed her eyes, shuddering. She couldn't believe poor Isaac had had to endure such torture. It was truly horrifying.
He seemed pleased by her reaction. "Shall I have the men come in and tell you their individual stories? Cook, for instance. Shall I have him explain to you the manner in which he lost his eye?"
"No," she gasped.
"Ah, I see this sickens you."
"It would sicken any decent citizen."
"Then certainly you see their need to avenge themselves on Peterborough."
Hating herself, she remained silent.
"Two hundred men were on the Leviathan, Aurora. Only twenty-six survived."
She choked back a sob.
He looked at her, triumph in his eyes. "There you are, you can't ignore those souls, can you? Those hundred men who scream from the grave for vengeance."
Shaking, she sat back down on the chimera armchair. There was no way she could hold back anything now. Not even if all her happiness depended on it.
When a moment passed and she had gathered herself, she asked, "What did Peterborough do to you, Vashon? You weren't on the Leviathan. I want to know what he did to you."
He lifted her chin. "If I tell you what he did to me, will that spur you to action? I think not. You like to help innocents, Aurora. And you know better than anyone that my innocence has long since departed."
"Tell me what he did . . ."
"Help those wretched men who went down with their ship! They need you!"
She stared at him, in awe of his manipulations. He suspected there might be a chance her feelings for him would cloud her desire to avenge Peterborough. So he directed her empathy toward the victims of the Leviathan. And it was working brilliantly. She couldn't get the picture of those suffering, drowning men out of her mind.
"Help them, Aurora. Only you can make sure they didn't die in vain."
She took a deep, shuddering breath and began to speak, her words uttered in a hopeless mon
otone.
"My father's name was Michael. He was from just outside of Hugh Town on St. Mary's, but I grew up in London. I remember a flat where we lived. West End, I think it was. The Horse Guards passed every day, afraid of more corn riots."
"Can you remember anything else about your father?"
"My father—is difficult to recall. I just remember I lived there."
"Go on."
A part of her began dying while she spoke, for with every word, her hold on him was unraveling like a thread. "There's truly so little. I recall only fragments— the sunshine spilling onto my chipped little eggcup in the morning . . . being afraid of the darkness beneath my bed . . ." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "My father reciting a nursery rhyme."
"Yes, let's discuss the rhyme." He pulled up the matching chimera chair. "Tell me everything about the rhyme."
"We rehearsed it every night, like prayers before bedtime. He made sure I'd never forget it."
"He wanted you to have the emerald."
"I suppose," she said bleakly.
Mistaking her mood, he pulled her hands into his and said, "I'm not going to cheat you out of your due, Aurora. I want you to know that. As far as I'm concerned, once I've got the emerald into my possession, it's yours. You may have it."
She laughed so bitterly, she nearly choked. "Ah, just what I've always dreamed of, an emerald as large as my fist. How warm that will keep me on those chill London nights."
He paused and looked at her. Slowly he withdrew his hands. "What are you saying?"
"I'm saying I don't care about that cursed Star of Aran. When I return to London, I shall go back to the Home and pray I get my position back. I have no need for your ill-gotten riches."
"You'll need money to take care of yourself. You can't go back to the Home."
"Oh, can't I?"
"No, you cannot. Peterborough knows about the Home, so it's far too dangerous."
"There's no other place for me to go."
He took her ruby necklace and, balling it into his fist, he pulled her forward. "Listen to me, my beautiful girl, you are no match for Peterborough. He knows your father stole the Star from him and even if he gets his hands back on it again, he'll take great pleasure in finding you and making you pay for your father's crime, comprends-tu>. xxx You're not going back to that Home. Flossie will take you to St. George's, and there you'll stay until I say otherwise."
"When you have your bloody emerald, you will have no more hold on me. I shall do as I please." She took his hand away, stood, and walked to the window. The magnificence of Mirage beckoned her, but somehow its luster was gone.
He rubbed his jaw and looked at her. "That orphanage hadn't much to recommend it." He hesitated. "Are you still mourning your dear Phipps?"
She refused to answer.
"Aurora." He stood. "Get it out of your head about returning to London now. If you want Phipps, you may write him and ask him to join you. But you cannot put yourself in such danger as to return to the Home."
"This is your battle, Vashon, not mine. I've made my peace with my father. I've forgiven him for his failures. What happens now concerns you, not me."
"I won't let you do this."
"And why not?" Her voice caught. Furious, she turned back to the scenery outside the louvers. She shouldn't have even asked that question. For what kind of answer did she expect? Vashon was the last man she could see making declarations of love to keep her by his side. So why was there this emptiness inside her yearning for just such a thing?
"Peterborough'll hurt you if he finds you, don't you understand that?"
She scowled. "How do you know so much about Peterborough? I demand to know your connection that's given you such a vengeance for him."
"He's my brother."
She whipped around and faced him. This fight couldn't be so terrible that it had pit brother against brother? But just by Vashon's expression, he confirmed it. His face was as implacable as it always was, but his eyes held rare emotion. She saw rage and betrayal; worse, she saw hurt that ran like a silent scar so deep and wide one had to pull back to see it in its entirety.
"What did he do to you?" she gasped, her very soul aching for him.
"We had the same mother. But my father was the Viscount Blackwell."
She closed her eyes, sickened all over again. Everything made sense now. Why Vashon had been so pampered as a child. And so terribly hardened as a youth. His own brother had been the reason why he'd been sent to Algiers and sold for his very flesh.
"Why did he do it, Vashon? Did he do it to get the title?" She could hardly utter the questions.
He didn't answer. She looked at him but his expression had closed. It was obvious she wasn't going to get anything more from him now.
She picked up the key dangling between her breasts, finally seeing the Blackwell crest stamped into its handle. The pieces of the puzzle came together as she saw the two rampant dragons flanking the Blackwell shield. They looked exactly like her locket. With a growing realization, she saw that her locket wasn't a lizard at all, but a stylized dragon, obviously designed for the Viscountess Blackwell. When she looked again, she saw that if the Chinese artistry of the tattoo were taken away, the dragon on Vashon's back would be exactly like the dragon on this crest.
"In China they consider dragons to be benevolent creatures, don't they, Vashon?" she said numbly.
"Yes."
"But the English dragon is not a benevolent creature, is it? And the dragon on your back is not a Chinese dragon at all. It's the dragon on your family crest."
He slowly nodded.
"This key, how did you come by it?"
"It was in my pocket my last day in London.
"Why did you give it to me?"
His voice dropped to a quiet, harsh rasp. "Because it symbolizes everything that was good. And everything that didn't last."
She put her hand to her mouth, finally letting the shock and depression overcome her. Perhaps in the back of her mind she had held the smallest hope that she might be able to tame Vashon, to still the rage and blood-lust in him and perhaps help him find happiness. Now she could see that would be nigh to impossible. He was too strong and too angry. Love was the only thing that could overcome this kind of fury, and he would hardly accept her love, let alone return it in kind. He was right to give her the key. Things didn't last. Nothing lasted. Except unrequited love.
"Now you know why the Star is so important," he said.
She suddenly lashed out, unable to let him slip away without a fight. "No, I don't know. The only thing that's clear is that this vengeance is all wrong. It will only hurt you, Vashon. You'll never be happy seeking revenge on Peterborough. Your hatred will make you into a monster, almost the monster your brother's become."
"Perhaps I am the monster my brother is. Have you ever considered that? Half his blood runs in my veins." His face was as cold as marble.
"Then you must fight it! You don't have to be like him! It's not destined! There's a part of you that's good! I've seen it!"
"Ah, what a saintly perspective. But it's not that easy, Aurora. Maybe I don't want to fight it."
"But you've got to," she pleaded. "I see now this revenge isn't about the Blackwell title, and I see it's not about wealth, for yours must be thrice Peterborough's. Nonetheless, this retribution will never make you happy. Don't destroy everything in your path to get to him. There'll be nothing left for you if you do."
"What do you know about any of this?" he snapped, his eyes flashing. "You, with your sheltered, pitiful little life. What could you know of anything?"
He was trying to hurt her, but she shrugged off his callous words and said, "I do know what I'm speaking of, Vashon. I've seen the children at the Home, and they've had pasts much like your own. The ones that forgot and went forward are the ones that survived. The ones that didn't—that harbored their anger as you have—never did."
"I'm no foundling, Aurora."
"Not on the ou
tside."
Their eyes met and a moment passed when she thought she might have reached him. But then, without warning, he grabbed her so forcefully he knocked the breath right out of her.
"I told you that I'm not going to change. What makes you think some by-blow of a thief is going to be the one to make me?"
His words lacerated her. She felt as if she were bleeding. She whispered painfully, "Is there no depth to which you cannot sink?"
"No, no, I can sink much farther." His arm went around her waist and he lifted her off the ground, making her meet him face-to-face. He smiled darkly. "Must you continually make me prove how cruel I can be?"
Fear crossed her face, but she hid it behind a staunch facade. "I don't force you," she told him. "It's that beast on your back, Vashon. It only mirrors the beast in your heart."
"And you jeopardize yourself every time you forget that." He smiled as if he enjoyed frightening her, then he kissed her, his lips taking hers in a mean, loveless kiss.
She moaned, hating him for his ruthlessness and hating herself for having fallen in love with him. But while he forced himself upon her, it was as if there were two men kissing her, one who could be gentle and giving, and one whose hand hurtfully gripped her chin and made her endure his wet, wretched onslaught.
When his kiss grew more bold and he thrust his tongue savagely between her teeth, she finally fought back. Her hand went up and slammed against his face, but her strength hardly touched him. He only laughed and kissed harder until she tried to hit him again. Yet this time he was ready for her. He took her hand in an iron grip and shoved it brutally behind her until she gasped from shock. With no other weapon, she found herself, little by little, forced into an unwilling surrender.
He pulled her to the bed, and she felt as if they were reenacting a dark kind of dance they had performed once before. Stiff and unyielding, she was pulled beneath him on the mattress while he continued kissing her, caressing her. His hand moved up her bosom, and she could feel him groan and harden against her thighs. She tried to get away, tried to fight again, but he finished her rebellion with one sure motion of his body as he eased himself down upon her. She tried to make him look at her; he wouldn't, instead choosing to bury his face in her throat. But her eyes, filled with betrayal, never left him.
Till Dawn Tames the Night Page 30
