by Jo Goodman
Kenna did not require a light to find her way around the house. There were only two rooms: one for sitting and one for sleeping. Neither were extravagantly appointed and Kenna knew the location of every stick of furniture. Even before she bumped into the walnut table Kenna knew someone had been using the summerhouse. The furniture that should have been shrouded in muslin covers for the winter season was uncovered. There was a hint of perfume in the air and none of the mustiness that Kenna would have taken for granted.
Feeling as if she had been delivered another blow to her midsection, Kenna forced herself to examine the sleeping chamber, knowing what she would find but unable to prevent having her suspicions confirmed. The scent in here was heavier, perfumed yet somehow headier than Victorine’s familiar fragrance, Kenna’s hand trembled as she ran it along the bed, knowing her worst fears were real ones when she found it unmade. At least they had not been together recently, she thought bitterly, for the sheets were cool to the touch.
Kenna could not leave the bedchamber quickly enough. Careless of injury to herself from the rearranged furniture, she ran to the back door of the summerhouse and threw it open. She managed to descend three steps of the sharp incline before tearing off her scarf and heaving the contents of her dinner on the rocks. When she was done she sat down on the stairs, head between her knees, and waited for the sick weakness to pass. By slow degrees she became aware of how cold it was. The sharp sea air stung her exposed face like so many nettles and dissolved on her clothes until she felt as if she were wearing a damp blanket. Although she felt the cold she made no move to return to the relative warmth of the summerhouse.
I shall die of exposure here, she decided, and they’ll know what I’ve discovered and they’ll be sorry they ever played my family such a trick. For all of thirty seconds it seemed like a splendid plan until the ridiculousness of her notion set Kenna laughing. That her laughter was sad and a trifle hysterical she failed to notice.
Kenna’s laughter eventually turned to tiny dry hiccups and she smothered them by wrapping the woolly scarf about her face and throat. Waiting for them to pass, her mind curiously vacant of all thought, Kenna focused her blank attention on the rhythmic wash of waves below. White crests of water broke ever nearer to the wall of rocks as high tide approached. In a few hours the beach would disappear and the caves would fill and by morning the strip of land would be swept clean.
When her hiccups were gone, Kenna started to rise. Just then a beacon of light in the distance caught her eye. It disappeared almost immediately and Kenna wondered if she had imagined it. But just as she turned to go the flash of light came again and a moment later it was joined by another. Curious now, she sat down and waited to see if the twin beacons would be extinguished. They were—only to be lighted again less than a minute later.
Kenna knew full well that light, unhindered by rocky terrains and the curve of the earth, could be seen from great distances over water. It occurred to her that perhaps the light originated from France’s northern coast. Then after reflecting upon the nature of the light and its signaling effect, Kenna decided she was witnessing the work of smugglers. It was by far the more exciting explanation.
There didn’t seem to have been a time when she was unaware of the smuggling that went on up and down the Channel. For many years Kenna thought it was a profession just like any other. Some men were farmers, statesmen, landowners, merchants, and some were smugglers. About the same time that she began to understand that smuggling was illegal, she also understood that her father turned his head from it. While he did not condone smuggling he was sympathetic to the plight of the men involved in it. In Parliament Lord Dunne fought the high tariffs and restrictions on trade that made smuggling a dangerous necessity for some men as well as a lucrative operation.
But Kenna knew her father’s sympathies did not extend to permitting smugglers to use his property for a distribution point. That is why she questioned her own eyesight when the beacon of light over the water was answered by a swinging lantern on the beach not a hundred feet from where she sat. Though she strained her eyes she could make out neither the ship in the Channel nor the man signaling from the shore. She thought it deuced clever of the smugglers to choose the night of the masque to visit Dunnelly. If she hadn’t caught sight of them they might have finished their business with no one the wiser. With characteristic lack of caution, Kenna concluded this havey-cavey affair bore investigating.
Kenna’s descent to the beach was slow. She took each of the narrow steps on her bottom, keeping a careful watch on the flickering lantern and the spots of light over the water. Clambering among the slippery rocks required all her concentration and she narrowly missed the lantern disappearing into the mouth of the cave she had explored as a child. The lights in the Channel had also vanished and though Kenna paused in her climbing to watch the water, they did not reappear. Supposing an end to the signaling meant the smugglers would soon come ashore, Kenna scrambled for better position at the entrance to the cave. She waited there, as patiently as she was able given the circumstances, worrying her lower lip and squeezing her cold hands into fists. Just when it seemed nothing would come of her vigil she heard the slapping of oars in the water. A few minutes later two dark figures dragged a rowboat onto the beach and secured it out of reach of the encroaching tide. Kenna expected them to unload their boat and carry their goods into the cave, but they went into the opening in the rocks empty-handed.
When they did not return with help for their cargo Kenna slipped from her hiding place and went to the boat. She did not know what to think when she found the boat empty save for its oars. What sort of smugglers didn’t transport so much as a dram of French wine or a bolt of French linen?
Curious for an answer to this new mystery, Kenna approached the cave. From deep within she heard voices. Venturing inside, she kept her back against the slick walls as if to become invisible. Crediting herself with a certain amount of stealth, she crept closer to the origin of the voices, raised now in argument. The thought of overhearing a disagreement among the smugglers, a falling out between thieves, made her giddy with fear and excitement.
To one unfamiliar with the cave it was deceptively small, appearing to have only one main room. Kenna knew better and was quite pleased that her memory of its twists and turns was serving her so well. What looked like a corridor through the rock on the left actually was a dead end. Kenna took the right passage, halting when she reached the entrance to the cave’s interior chamber. The lantern that had signaled the ship sat unattended on a shelf of stone and cast the room in a yellowish glow. Crouching low, Kenna pressed her face between a narrow fault in the rock and peered in.
The two men from the boat stood with their backs to Kenna, blocking her view of the one they confronted. Then one of the men bent over to brush at something on his leg and before he straightened and stepped to the side Kenna saw he had been hiding not one, but two people from her view. Kenna was too numb from this night’s events to do more than blink owlishly when she recognized the Elizabethan lady and her highwayman escort.
“Why did you answer our signal if you had nothing to tell us?” one of the men demanded to know. Only after he asked the question did Kenna realize he was repeating himself impatiently.
Victorine’s reply was soft and somehow weary. “I thought you may have something to tell me.”
The man cursed in rapid French and continued to make demands of Victorine in the same language. Kenna’s knowledge of the language was limited to drawing room conversation but she could catch enough to understand that he was berating Victorine for her stupidity. Kenna almost felt sorry for her and wondered why Rhys did not defend her. Abruptly the man switched to English. “You haven’t forgotten why you are here? You recall what hangs in the balance, do you not?”
“I cannot forget,” Victorine admitted. “But a word, just a word from you would—”
“Would mean nothing, m’dear.”
Kenna gasped but it was swallowed by Victorine’s. It was not Rhy
s who answered, but Lord Dunne. Somehow he had managed to enter the cave as easily as he had years ago, and still Kenna had no idea how it was accomplished. She glanced at the hem of Victorine’s gown and saw it was not muddy or wet. Rhys’s boots glistened a bit but he had been outside with the lantern. Kenna understood their path to the cave was undoubtedly the same as her father’s.
“Robert—”
Lord Dunne brought his hands away from his side and showed everyone in the chamber that he had not come unprepared. In each hand he carried a primed pistol. “Victorine. Come here.”
Victorine looked fearfully at the men in front of her and glanced uncertainly at Rhys’s shadowed face before she stepped to her husband’s side.
“Couldn’t you trust me, Victorine?” Lord Dunne’s voice was filled with regret. “These men are naught but liars, including, to my everlasting regret, the one you looked to for help.”
Kenna held her breath while her father steadied his pistol on Rhys. “Would you have her betray us all so that you might venture into some new scheme? I had not thought you could be capable of this—not betraying your country for some notion of world peace designed by Napoleon. And that is what you intended, is it not? Don’t bother to answer.” He waved one pistol in the direction of the two men from the boat. “Their presence here is all the proof I required. I should kill you, you know. But I can’t. At the very least I should bring you before the courts, but I find my pride too great to allow you to shame my house. I will grant you the opportunity to leave Dunnelly and England. It is better than you deserve.”
Kenna placed her hands over her ears, unwilling to hear another word. It was nonsensical talk, all of it, and she was better off not knowing what it meant. Rhys opened his mouth and made some reply but Kenna did not know what he said. Victorine was crying now and Kenna thought she looked pathetically wretched as she buried her face in her hands. Her father must have thought so too, for his face softened and his attention was diverted long enough to allow one of the Frenchmen to dive for the lantern, knock it over, and plunge the dank chamber into complete darkness.
Kenna’s hands dropped away from her ears as shouting and shots reverberated about the cave. There were pained grunts as fists flew, striking out blindly in the hopes that knuckles would connect with flesh. There was another shot, then silence, aching and deep. A hard knot filled Kenna’s middle and closed her throat as Victorine screamed Robert’s name. The necessity of reaching her father spurred Kenna into action. Under cover of the unrelieved blackness of the cave, she crawled into the chamber and narrowly missed being trampled by a pair of feet fighting for their balance in the aftermath of the scuffle. There was a rustle of skirts and protests from Victorine as she was dragged from her husband’s side.
“Find the lantern,” one of the Frenchmen ordered.
Kenna froze as her fingers touched the lantern glass.
Someone was crawling toward her, arms sweeping the ground to find the misplaced light. She held her breath, immobile, until one of the hands touched her arm.
“Diable! Comment—”
Kenna grasped the lantern’s iron ring and swung it for all she was worth in the direction of the surprised voice. The Frenchman screamed in pain as the glass shattered against his face. Kenna’s victory was short-lived as she scrambled away from his flailing arms and was jerked back when he caught the ends of her scarf.
“His lordship brought assistance,” he grunted, wrapping the scarf about one fist and bringing Kenna closer to him.
Kenna thought he would strangle her and she waited for the breath to be choked from her body. The last thing she expected was that her captor would use his free fist to break her unremarkable nose.
Something cold and wet tickled Kenna’s fingers and she curled them into her palm as if to protect them. A moment later the wetness engulfed her hand. She stirred uneasily and slowly, not knowing what to make of her surroundings. It occurred to her she may have gone blind, for it was just as dark upon opening her eyes as it was when they were closed. Gradually awareness gathered at the corners of her mind and she could find no reason to give thanks for it.
The chamber was quiet save for her own labored breathing and the gentle lapping of water at her feet. “Papa?” There was no answer, nor had Kenna expected one. “Victorine?” Again the silence.
It was when Kenna tried to stand that she discovered her hands and feet were bound. She struggled with the ropes but they held her securely. Water swept over her hands again and this time it did not retreat more than a few inches. When it made another pass her hands remained covered. Kenna struggled to her knees, and crawled awkwardly for higher ground. Water lapped at her boots, soaked her breeches, and followed her progress across the cave floor. She slipped once and nearly fainted again as her broken and swollen nose bumped her forearm.
Fighting for air through her mouth, Kenna slid a few feet forward on her belly. Her harsh intake of breath became a keening cry as her fingers curled around the ruffled edging of a linen shirt. She had found her father’s body.
She screamed…
Chapter 1
January 1815
Kenna woke up screaming with the metallic taste of fear still in her mouth. Her skin was cold, clammy. The sheets tangled about her legs, trapping her, were also wet. She kicked at them impatiently while reaching for her dressing gown. She had only managed to shrug into it when her bedchamber door was thrown open.
Nick stood on the threshold, endearingly tousled and sleepy-eyed, but with a face made grave by concern. He belted his robe and nodded to the maid who stood hovering at his shoulder, dismissing her when he saw Kenna was sitting up and appeared to be over the worst of her nightmare.
He shut the door quietly behind him and crossed the room swiftly. “Kenna?” Nicholas enveloped her damp hands in both of his as he sat down beside her.
Kenna laughed uneasily as Nick massaged her numb and trembling fingers. “You should be used to this by now.” She pulled her hands away and hugged herself, tucking her feet beneath her. “You could have stayed in bed. There was no need—”
“There was every need and I doubt I shall ever get used to it. I had hoped…it’s been so long since the last one.” His voice trailed off, regret filling the silence.
“Nearly six months,” she murmured. “I had reason to hope it was over.” She shivered.
“You’re cold. Here, get under the covers.” He shifted and moved the blankets. When he felt the damp sheets he stopped. “My God! They’re soaked! Go sit by the fire while I ring for one of the maids.”
Kenna did not argue. She rarely argued any more. It was only one of the changes experience and time had wrought. She did not care to think about the others.
The bed changing was accomplished quickly. Kenna barely remembered warming her hands and feet by the hearth before Nick had her back in bed. She stirred listlessly against the pillows. Strands of red-gold hair, a far cry from the flaming tresses of her youth, escaped her thick braid and lay like rays of sunshine upon the lace sham.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Nick asked, concerned by the dull sheen in her brown eyes.
“It was much the same as always.” She closed her eyes but a tear pushed through her thick lashes.
Nick brushed away the tear with a gentle touch. “But? I can hear it in your voice. You’ve remembered something else.”
It was true though she wasn’t certain she wanted to discuss it with Nick until she had the events of her nightmare more firmly in place. Upon waking nothing seemed clear. Kenna had no recollection of the night of the masquerade beyond watching the parade of shepherdesses from the stairs with Yvonne. Her next firm memory was of the family physician and Rhys arguing in her chamber over the merits of bleeding her. Doctor Elliot was in favor of the method to release the bad blood and Rhys was adamantly against it. Nicholas, having no informed opinion, sat at her bedside and awaited the outcome. It was Kenna herself who settled the disagreement. Coming to awareness and seeing Rhys in her roo
m, she screamed for him to be gone. When she could not be calmed, Rhys left, and the physician, seeing she was alert though clearly distraught, decided there was no reason to bleed her after all.
She found out later the argument had taken place nearly two weeks after the masque. In all that time she had not been conscious.
“Does it matter what I remember?” she asked at last, opening her eyes to search Nick’s dear face. He was older now, as was she, but there was still something boyish in the curve of his mouth, at the corners of his bright blue eyes. He had carried the responsibility for all of Dunnelly nearly ten years now and nothing indicated it had ever been a strain. “None of it seems to be true…except for Papa dying.”
“He was murdered, Kenna,” Nick said. “And you nearly died in the cave. That much is true. If there is something in your memory which would help us identify the murderer then I could almost—almost—believe these nightmares have some merit. They certainly have taken their toll on your peace of mind.”
And yours, Kenna wanted to apologize. She said nothing because Nick would dismiss it as unimportant. He knew how she felt about being a burden to him. “Victorine was there.”
Nick shook his head. “We’ve been over that before. Six months ago by your recollection. Oh, Kenna, I wish your dreams served you better. Victorine was with me when father was killed.”
“She was kissing Rhys in the gallery. I’m certain of it.”
“The gallery?” Nicks’ eyebrows knotted. “You’ve never mentioned the gallery before. What has that to do with anything?”
“I don’t know.” She passed a hand over her eyes as if to clear them. “Probably nothing. It just seemed so real. They were arguing…then kissing. And the summer-house…”
“What about the summerhouse?”
“In my dream they had been there. The bed…it was mussed.”
“An erotic dream, sprite?” he teased, touching his finger to the small bump on the bridge of her nose, the only physical scar of her experience. “Mayhap there is hope for you yet. Victorine will be happy. She has all but given up seeing you wed.”
