Dark Before the Rising Sun

by Laurie McBain

  “Good night, Mama,” Anne said and kissed Bess’s cheek. Spinning around and around, her nightdress billowing out, Anne danced to the door, then paused, listening. “Did you hear something, Mama?” she asked, suddenly frightened.

  Bess swallowed hard. “No.” She managed to sound firm.

  “Go to bed, child.”

  As the door closed on the small figure, Bess sighed tiredly, but her eyes strayed to the shuttered window rather than to her bed. Her rooms overlooked the stables. She conquered the temptation to glance out, in case someone standing out there in the darkness was looking up. Clad only in the thin lawn nightgown, Bess shivered, but with cold, not nerves, she reassured herself as she glanced at the darkened hearth.

  Pulling a wool shawl around her shoulders, she crossed her arms over her breasts, hugging herself protectively, and then began to pace. She would wait for the clock in the entrance hall to strike once, and then…

  Bess awoke with a start, her heart pounding. It was too quiet. What had awakened her? Tired of pacing, she had curled up in the winged-back chair near the fireplace, but that had been hours ago, she realized as she heard the clock strike the hour. It was well past one, the hour she had been dreading, yet nothing had happened.

  Bess sighed. She uncurled her legs and glanced around the floor for her slippers. She froze as her bare foot struck something cold and hard. In the half-light, she just barely managed to make out the broken padlock she had locked on the stable doors earlier that evening.

  “Did ye really think ’twould keep me out, Lady Bess?” a harsh voice demanded.

  Bess’s scream died in her throat. She stared up at the man leaning negligently against her bed, a glass of brandy in his large hands. Tall, he was broad of shoulder and lean of hip. Clad in leather breeches and frock coat, he looked like any villager, but his heavy jackboots were caked with mud. The man was accustomed to much more walking than was normal.

  “You!” she whispered hoarsely.

  “Ah, Lady Bess, I thought ye smarter than that. ’Tis a pity.”

  “Get out! How dare you set foot in my house!” She sounded sure of herself, though her body was shaking.

  “Ah, Bessie, ye’re a cruel woman, ye are, to be turnin’ out a man who has been workin’ hard all night long, and who’s been makin’ ye some money. Ye’ve disappointed me, ye have.”

  Jack Shelby was standing in her bedchamber, drinking her brandy. Bess shook her head. That couldn’t be happening to her! Oh, what a fool she had been to think she could double-cross Jack Shelby and get away with it. He and his cutthroats ruled the farms and villages lying along the nearby coastline. Nobody told Shelby what to do. He had defied the authorities for too long to know fear of the law.

  Bess eyed the man who had broken into her home and who stood so boldly before her, gazing down at her with that sadistic smile. And as his narrow, catlike eyes moved slowly over her, she suddenly knew another kind of fear. Many women sought his favors, for there was a certain sensual attractiveness in his coarse-featured face and firmly muscled body, but he preferred taking women by force.

  With a suddenness that caught him off guard, Bess jumped to her feet and flew to the door. She even managed to turn the knob and open the door before she felt herself being lifted off the floor. The door was kicked shut. He held her struggling body against him with one arm, the warm, brandy-scented breath of his laughter striking her on the face.

  Roughly, Jack Shelby pressed his lips against the slender column of her throat.

  “By God, but ye’re still a beauty, Bess Seacombe,” he whispered against her mouth before his mouth covered hers, the hard pressure forcing her lips apart.

  As if she were standing aside, watching, Bess felt his big hands moving across her hips to fondle her buttocks, the thin lawn nightdress giving little protection. His large fingers moved up her back, tracing her backbone in a way that told her he could as easily snap it in two as caress it.

  An indistinct roar filled her ears and she felt faint when, his mouth moving away, she heard the ripping of material as he tore her nightdress from her.

  His mouth was on her breasts, licking and biting at them like a wild animal gorging on its kill. Bess whimpered as she felt him pressing against her.

  “I’ve often thought of takin’ ye, Bess. I’ve watched as ye and that pretty little daughter of yours rode on the moors, and I’ve wanted to feel ye naked flesh against mine. Annie, that be your daughter’s name, eh?” Shelby said thickly, his yellowish eyes staring hypnotically into her dark eyes. “She reminds me of ye at that age, when ye were goin’ to marry the young lord of Merdraco. Did he ever get the chance to fondle ye like this, Bessie?” Shelby demanded as his hands moved sensuously along her bare thigh.

  “Please let me go,” Bess cried, tears on her pale face.

  “No, I don’t reckon he did, ’cause he was too busy seducin’ my Lettie. Meetin’ her out on the moors, tellin’ her lies. Strangled her, didn’t he, Bessie?” Shelby demanded, his eyes glowing madly while the long fingers of one hand curved around Bess’s neck, pressing against her throat.

  “N-no, please. You’re wrong. H-he didn’t kill her. He was with—”

  “Aaaah, shut up, woman!” Shelby spat. “Still in love with him, eh? After all these years, ye still defend him? Well, not to me, Bessie. I know who murdered my sweet Lettie, and now I think I’ll enjoy what the young master of Merdraco was too busy for. Ah, Bessie, ye smell good,” he murmured, burying his hot face between her breasts.

  He dropped her on her bed and feasted his eyes on her pale flesh while he unbuttoned his breeches. Bess closed her eyes against the sight, her scalding tears trickling beneath her dark lashes. She heard him mutter something, then felt the bed sag as he fell on top of her.

  His heavy body covered hers, but he stopped moving. Opening a wary eye, Bess stared in amazement at the sight of her daughter standing over the unconscious form of Jack Shelby, a raised poker held in her shaking hands.

  “Oh, my God, Anne!” she cried out.

  “I killed him, didn’t I?” Anne’s voice sounded as if it was coming from a long way off.

  “No, damn it. He is still alive. I can feel him breathing. Here, lift him and I’ll slide out the other side of the bed. Hurry, we don’t want to him to wake up.”

  Anne braced herself. She didn’t want to touch the man. Dropping the poker with a thud, she grasped one of Shelby’s arms and pulled with all her strength. And although she couldn’t move him much, it was enough to allow her mother to climb out of bed.

  Anne glanced away while her mother searched frantically for a dressing gown. “Now, what the devil are we going to do with him?” Bess asked as she eyed the big man with distaste, and had she a sword in her hand, she most likely would have run him through.

  Suddenly Anne started to weep, her shoulders shaking as her hysteria grew. “I’m so scared. He’s an awful, horrible man.”

  Bess put her arms around her daughter, holding her tight. “My child, ’tis all right now. You saved me,” she told her, the truth of it just sinking in. “How did you know he was here?”

  Anne sniffed, wiping away her tears with the back of her hand. “I couldn’t sleep very well, and when I heard the hall door squeak, I wondered who was awake. I thought, if it was you, I would come and talk with you. B-but then I saw him climbing the stairs. I don’t think I have ever been so frightened.”

  “Thank God Bickham never got around to oiling those hinges,” Bess breathed. “And you could have stayed in your room. You should have, too, you know. Jack Shelby is a dangerous man. He could have done you great harm, my dear.”

  “I couldn’t leave you alone with him. I found the poker and when I cracked open the door and saw him, I—I just ran in and hit him.”

  “Wonderful child,” Bess said, then cast a disgusted glance at the unconscious form of the most feared criminal in Devonshire
. “I would be doing everybody a favor if I finished him off now, but…” She continued to stare down at him, wondering what they could possibly do with him. She didn’t want him anywhere nearby when he awoke.

  “I wish we could just throw him out the window,” Anne said, eyeing the man from a safe distance behind her mother.

  Bess remained thoughtfully quiet, but her eyes strayed to the window more than once. “A splendid idea, child. We could never get him down the stairs, or even to the door. He’s too heavy. But we can get him to the window, and then send him on his way,” Bess mused.

  “But, Mother, won’t the fall kill him?” Anne exclaimed nervously, glancing again at the man. She thought she heard a groan.

  “We can hope, but more’s the pity he’ll live. The roof of the kitchen wing is just beneath my window. When he rolls off that, he’ll most likely land in the rhododendron bushes. Come along, Anne. You’ve shown more courage than I would have. Don’t let me down now. I intend to have this swine out of my house and in the barnyard by the time he comes to,” Bess said breathlessly, having hurriedly opened the window and thrown back the shutters before hooking one of his limp arms over her shoulder.

  Anne took a deep breath and grabbed hold of his other arm. Between them they managed to drag him backward a few steps, where, with a mighty push, they sent Jack Shelby sprawling backward through the window.

  A heavy thud sounded, and then a scraping noise as he rolled off the steeply sloping roof. Then there was a final thump. Bess and Anne exchanged a glance, then looked out the window.

  All was dark below, and quiet. For a heart-stopping moment, Bess thought he might not have survived the fall. But as she strained to see into the darkness, she heard mumbled cursing.

  Drawing Anne back from the window, Bess quickly pulled it shut. Then without a word she hurried from her bedchamber and down the darkened stairs. She reached the hall door and rushed through it, not stopping to think that Shelby might already have reached the kitchen door. Breathing raggedly, she bolted it firmly from within, then ran back through the kitchen to the hall, bolting that door as well. Leaning against it, Bess stared up to the landing where Anne was standing.

  “We’re safe—for now,” Bess whispered. The clock was chiming the hour, and soon the sun would be rising.

  Anne came hurrying down the stairs, throwing herself into her mother’s arms. “Mama, what if he comes back? What will we do? Who is there to protect us? What if he brings those other smugglers with him?” Anne cried.

  Bess rested her chin on top of her daughter’s head. “I don’t know what we are going to do, child,” she admitted slowly, her voice shaking with pent-up emotion. The past hour had seemed the longest of her life. “He’s a vengeful, vicious man, and he will try to get even with me. Not you, Anne, for he doesn’t know you were there. And he must never know that. Promise me?” she asked.

  Anne nodded, her tears dampening the silk of Bess’s dressing gown. “Can’t we ask that officer who was here earlier to protect us, Mama?”

  “No! That would be the worst thing possible. Although Captain Sir Morgan Lloyd would certainly like to see Jack Shelby hanging from the gibbets, for ’twas he who murdered the captain’s brother. Everyone knows that. But I’m afraid Jack Shelby and his Sons of Belial are too strong. Sir Morgan Lloyd will surely end up dead long before Shelby does. No, I am afraid no one can help us. We must try to survive this on our own. We can only pray that someone comes along to distract Shelby’s attention from us. Pray, child, that the person who does has the devil’s own luck.”

  Thirteen

  As the ancients

  Say wisely, have a care o’ th’ main chance,

  And look before you ere you leap

  For as you sow, ye are like to reap.

  —Samuel Butler

  “Betcha can’t stay on his back this time, either,” Robin Dominick challenged Conny Brady. Conny had just picked himself up off the ground for the second time since climbing on the back of the gentle little mare.

  “Ye be all right, then, Master Brady?” Butterick demanded, for he was responsible for the lad’s safety. The task of teaching him to ride horseback had been placed in his hands, and he wanted no harm to befall the young ward of the Marquis of Jacqobi. That was not what certain other individuals were wishing, Butterick thought as he eyed young Lord Robin’s grinning face. “Don’t be despairin’, Master Brady,” Butterick said bracingly. The lad was looking quite dejected as he tried to wipe some of the mud off his breeches.

  “Why, I even managed to teach young Lord Robin how to ride,” Butterick said, grinning as Robin’s mouth dropped open.

  “Is it true that Robin landed on his head so many times it was nearly flattened?” Stuart Fletcher asked, and grinned. His smirk became a grimace as Robin’s elbow connected with his ribs.

  Butterick’s appreciative laughter did little to ease the tension.

  “Aye, we’ll have the young gentleman riding with the best of them soon enough,” Butterick predicted as he gave the lad a hand up into the saddle again.

  “Haven’t you always said, Butterick, that you could tell a gentleman by the way he kept his seat?” Robin asked. “Does that mean, then, that if one isn’t a good rider, that he is no gentleman?”

  Conny’s lips trembled. Holding the reins firmly, he gripped his courage. He was trying desperately not to slide off the horse’s back and provide further entertainment for Lord Robin Dominick. He walked the horse around and around the stable yard, ignoring the remarks he couldn’t help but overhear from the unsympathetic gallery of cousins watching him from the stone steps beside one of the stable buildings.

  “Now ye be doin’ better, lad, but don’t be holdin’ so tightly to the reins. Relax,” Butterick told the petrified lad. “There ye go, that’s better, now,” he said, his booming voice reassuring Conny. The boy actually began to enjoy the feel of the horse beneath him. “Now give her a little nudge in the side and let’s see ye trot some,” Butterick called.

  “Aye, or you’ll be until midnight tomorrow getting back into the stables,” Robin called, pleased by the loud guffaws that followed his joke.

  Butterick sent the lad a disapproving glare. Young Lord Robin had become a bit of a troublemaker of late. He’d always been a high-spirited lad, indeed, a real little mischief-maker, but there had never been any harm done. Since Conny Brady had showed up, however, the childish horseplay had turned rough, and the good-natured banter had turned into ridicule. It had him worried, Butterick admitted. He liked young Lord Robin, and until just last year, when Lady Rhea Claire was kidnapped, he had been such a nice young gentleman. He wondered if the duchess realized how much her son had changed.

  “Ye’re doin’ nicely, lad. Keep it up,” Butterick called to Conny, who was trotting the mare around the yard with more assurance now.

  “I bet he’ll be down before he comes around again,” Robin whispered, and with a quick glance around, he stretched out his leg and knocked out a pail which had been left on a step just beneath where the boys were sitting.

  The sudden clattering of the pail against the stone as it rolled down the steps had the desired effect. The little mare was startled, and she unseated an unsuspecting Conny for the third time that day.

  “Are ye all right, Master Brady?” Butterick cried again as he ran to help the young boy to his feet.

  “Aye, and ’twill take more than a chickenhearted shonky who wouldn’t know the difference ’tween a jack pin and a shackle crow to get the best of me. Well, that spouter’s wet as a scrubber if he thinks he’s tubbed Constantine Magnus Tyrone Brady,” the lad said, rubbing his aching elbow. “I may be shippin’ it green right now, but I’ll scupper that milksop yet, even if he is Lady Rhea Claire’s brother,” Conny promised between gritted teeth.

  Butterick, who’d never been aboard ship, much less to sea, shook his head in amazement, wishing the lad would spea
k proper English. If what he suspected was true, then young Lord Robin had better keep an eye out, for this young buck was out to even the score, and between the two, he thought Conny Brady might well be the toughest, and where this young lad learned to fight, there was no such thing as a gentleman.

  “I reckon that be enough for today, Master Brady,” Butterick decided, thinking he’d better not set the lad up for any more of Lord Robin’s pranks. He was about to say as much and he sent a warning glance toward the snickering group of cousins when several outriders in unfamiliar livery rode into the yard. Their arrival preceded that of their master’s coach. The Grand Ball would be held that evening, and lords and ladies and fancy gentlemen and their wives had been arriving since the day before.

  “Off with the lot of ye!” Butterick roared. The stable yard would be too busy and he couldn’t have mischievous children underfoot.

  “Don’t s’pose we’d be seeing any more riding today anyway,” Robin commented, alluding to the fact that Conny had spent more time on the ground than on horseback.

  Conny sniffed, unconsciously imitating Houston Kirby when the little steward was getting ready to fire one of the salvos which could be shattering. Conny walked past his nemesis and, casting him a sly glance, said, “Hey, dab toes, ye think ye’re sittin’ pretty tall when ye’re on the back of that pony of yours, eh? Well, ye ain’t seen anythin’ until ye’ve ridden the riggin’ or climbed to the topgallant mast. Reckon, though, ye landlubbers ain’t got the guts. Aye, we’d probably have to stonnicky ye to get ye movin’ up the mast,” Conny said, his expression insultingly disgusted. He sized up the violet-eyed, dark-curled son of the Duke of Camareigh with great disdain. “’Course, the cap’n, he did it all the time. And I bet His Grace could do it easily. He’s a man, all right. I bet even your baby brother could do it. Lord Andy would be up there in no time,” Conny added as a final insult. Then with a challenging grin, he sauntered away.