The Bengal Rubies

by Lisa Bingham

  Brannigan’s eyes widened. “But, sir, I’ve never killed a man. Miss Jeanne was an accident, I swear. But this!”

  Crawford frowned and cut his protests short with a wave of his hand. “Fine. If you haven’t the stomach for such tasks”—he dropped the quirt and bent, retrieving the blade—“then I shall have to see to them myself.”

  Matthew shrank into the shadows, his boots scrabbling against the rocks. But Crawford sought another goal. The blade lifted, gleaming for a fraction of an instant, then plunged into Brannigan’s throat.

  Aloise screamed again, squirming free. Swiping at her shoulder, Crawford threw her to the ground. The sound of her head hitting a rock reverberated in Matthew’s consciousness. He tried to dodge to her, then saw Crawford draw a pistol from the waist of his breeches. In an instant, there was an explosion, the smell of spent powder, and Brannigan’s assistant lay in a pool of his own blood, having managed to run less than a yard.

  Crawford turned, peering into the darkness. “Only one remains …” he murmured, squinting slightly, obviously trying to determine Matthew’s identity midst the rain and the intermittent lightning. “Tell me … have we met?”

  Matthew shook his head, scraping his hands against the granite at his back as he sidestepped the rocks. Beyond Crawford lay his only opportunity of escape. If he could get by the man and make his way down the slippery path, he could mount the plow horse and gallop away. But the small cruel smile Crawford displayed made it quite clear that he knew Matthew would try such a thing.

  “What a pity that you aren’t willing to make the proper introductions. I generally prefer to assign a name to those who are about to die.”

  The words were said so calmly, so coolly, that they held more of a threat than if they’d been shouted. Tucking the spent pistol back into his breeches, Crawford stooped, yanking the blade from the blacksmith’s throat. Rising, he inched forward, his knife dripping with rain and more.

  Stunned, horrified, Matthew eyed his assailant, the horse waiting behind him, and then the unconscious child. Blood trickled from a gash at her temple, yet her father hadn’t bothered to give her a second glance.

  “You may as well submit to your fate, young man. You really have no recourse.”

  But he did. Crawford had only a knife. Matthew was younger, stronger, he could outrun him. In doing so, however, Aloise would be left alone. Defenseless. His heart wrenched at her plight—but he couldn’t stay!

  He couldn’t stay!

  Closing his mind to her situation, he scooped a rock from the ground, throwing it at Crawford’s horse. The stallion reared, crying out. Crawford swore, instinctively turning to see the steed racing into the night. Matthew dodged past him and tore down the slippery path.

  A curse erupted behind him, but Matthew didn’t pause. Running to the plow horse, he swung on its back.

  Only once did he chance to look behind him. Crawford stood with his feet braced apart, staring in his direction. The rain whipped at his clothing, but he remained impervious.

  “Such an escape is useless, you know!” he shouted, the words a statement of fact, not a boast. “I will discover your identity. It is only a matter of time. Say what you will to whomever you wish, but at the first breath of scandal… you will be the one to hang.”

  Matthew wanted to refute the man’s cocky assurance, his all-out gall. But even as he opened his mouth, he knew what Crawford said was true. From this night on, Matthew would never be safe unless he could find a way to completely escape the realm of Crawford’s power. It would only be a matter of time before the man discovered his true identity. Within hours, Crawford would see to it that Matthew Waterton had been framed as a murderer and branded an outlaw. The authorities would be scouring the countryside by morning. And if Crawford were ever to find him …

  Matthew could consider himself lucky if the local officials only hanged him.

  A tightness gripped his throat and he blinked at an unfamiliar wetness gathering in his eyes. Damn the man. Damn him all to hell! Matthew Waterton must cease to exist. He would have to find a new world, a new identity. One that could bear no resemblance to the peaceful life he had enjoyed up to now. He would become a man without a home, without a name, without a past.

  A loneliness and guilt such as he had never known possible settled into his bones. He should have helped Jeanne when she came to him at the cottage. He’d had the power to avert this tragedy, and in his youthful inexperience with such matters he failed them all.

  Swiping at his eyes, he stared hard into the darkness, imprinting the scene on his consciousness for all time. Jeanne’s body lay broken on the jagged boulders at the base of the cliff. Little Aloise had collapsed on the ground, her arms outstretched in her mother’s direction. And in the howl of the wind, the tumble of the rain, he thought he heard a fragment of Jeanne’s voice: Remember … whatever happens, you have promised to marry my daughter, to see that she is happy.

  Someday, he would be forced to reckon with the vow he’d made to Jeanne. If it took the last bit of strength to be wrung from his body, Matthew would be back. He would see to it that Crawford paid for his crimes. He could only pray that Aloise would survive the intervening years. From this night on, the girl was out of his reach, firmly imprisoned beneath her father’s rule. He prayed she would somehow manage to survive his cruelty. Otherwise, she would become his creature. His effigy.

  God help her.

  God help them both.

  Drawing on the reins, he urged his horse into a gallop, plunging into the blackness of the night. The shadows of the unknown.

  Chapter 1

  France

  September 1766

  William Curry damned the fact that Paris never truly settled. Long after the sun had set, long after midnight cloaked the streets in an inky stain, a subdued activity lingered in the deep alleys and twisted paths. Even at this late hour, people lurked in the patches of blackness, some scurrying for the safety of a warm fire, others stumbling drunkenly over the rain-slicked cobblestones in search of another tavern and another pint of grog. Such activities made a quick, unnoticed flight through the streets nearly impossible.

  Gesturing to the men who followed him, Will abandoned all caution and quickened their pace. The news he had to convey was far more important than the risk of rousing the neighborhood—even though if any of these men were spotted by the wrong sorts of people, they might all end up swinging at the end of a rope. The odd contingency of roués, rakes, and outlaws had been dodging the mistakes of their pasts for years.

  Such a fact only intensified the import of Curry’s mission and he leaned a little closer to his horse’s mane. After a quarter mile of traveling, he pointed to an inn on the far corner.

  “There, up ahead!” Signaling to his companions to surround the entrance, he reined his animal to a halt. “Wait here. As soon as Slater has joined us, we ride.”

  The gelding had scarcely come to a jittery stop when Will swung from the saddle and loped toward the stoop. Flinging the door open, he headed directly for the stairs, taking them two at a time.

  There would be hell to pay for his sudden arrival. Curry might have the advantage of being known as Slater McKendrick’s closest friend, but the man had left specific orders not to be disturbed. To have trespassed beyond his wishes did not bode well for Will’s reception.

  Once at the upper landing, he hurried to the appropriate quarters. He stood with his feet braced, his fist poised, ready to issue a secret combination of knocks that he hoped would gain him entrance.

  “Aagh!”

  The sound, sharp and high-pitched, came from within, followed by a low, guttural moan.

  “Slater?” Will pounded on the weathered boards. “Slater, are you ill?” When he received no answer, Will clasped the doorknob only to discover that the lock had been bolted on the other side.

  A
nother cry came, higher this time. His friend was in trouble. Obvious trouble. Will slid his saber from its sheath. “Hold on, Slater. Hold on!”

  He slammed his shoulder against the wood, but the barrier held true. Backing away and lifting his sword free from his body, he charged toward the portal full force. “Slaaaa-terr!”

  Mere seconds before he would have connected with the solid planks, the door whipped open. Unable to stop, Will stumbled headlong inside, tripped on the rug, and fell face-first onto the bed. His sword clattered uselessly to the ground as he floundered, sinking deeper and deeper into a sea of coverlets and feather beds. When his struggles only intensified his predicament, he sputtered and grew still.

  Bit by bit, his senses relayed to him the true extent of his folly. Satin and linen rubbed at his hands and slid against the leather of his shoes, but it was not only the covers that embraced him. To his astonishment, he became aware of the exotic scent of Arabian musk and the friction of sweat-beaded skin. Firm breasts cradled his cheeks, the fragrant mounds rising and falling in a quick pattern of breaths that caused the honeyed valley to press against him again and again.

  Dear Lord, he had interrupted an evening of frolic! For this, the other man would accept no glib excuses for attempting to break down the chamber door. Taking a peek at the creamy breasts that had been nestled against his cheek, Will couldn’t blame him.

  “Explain yourself, Curry.”

  The low phrase slid out of the ensuing silence, accompanied by the cold kiss of steel pricking Will’s neck.

  “Slater, please, I had no idea.” He lifted his head, connecting with the startled gaze of the woman he’d sprawled upon. “My humble apologies, mademoiselle,” he offered, groping for a safe location to provide him with enough leverage to rise.

  The keen tip of the sword digging into the base of his skull prevented him from moving. Reminded again of the seriousness of his untimely interruption, he became quiet. The two men might have a special bond fostered by years of traveling together, but that did not extend far enough to excuse disturbing an apparent liaison.

  “I trust you have an excellent reason for your unannounced arrival.”

  The voice that melted from the shadows had become as familiar to Will as his own, its timbre dark, gravelly, with the almost imperceptible lilt of a well-educated man. Will had followed the evocative cadence through the densest jungles and fiercest deserts with the attitude of a devoted servant attending his master. He’d also noted the way the passage of time had added an edge, a bitterness, to the inflection.

  “I told you I didn’t want to be disturbed.”

  “I know, but—”

  “Has my ship sunk?”

  “No, I—”

  “Has a plague swept France?”

  “No—”

  “Is the inn on fire?”

  “No.”

  “Then what are you doing here, Curry?”

  Will’s fingers curled into the duvet. The news he had to relay was important, yes. But there was no telling how Slater would react. No telling at all.

  “Well?” The man behind him demanded, the sword point pressing more distinctly against its mark.

  “She’s on her way to England,” he uttered quickly.

  For several minutes, Will’s statement hovered in the air about them. He’d mentioned no specific name, but he knew his friend understood the import of his words by the quiet intensity that began to pulse in the limited space of the chamber. The man’s weapon eased away and Will dared to breathe.

  “Get up.”

  Will was more than happy to comply. “A thousand pardons, mademoiselle,” he muttered when he finally managed to wedge his hands against the bolster and push himself to his feet.

  The woman smiled as he tugged at the hem of his vest and smoothed his hair. Her gray eyes sparkled in amusement and more. Curiosity. Interest. “It was entirely my pleasure. I assure you.”

  “Where is she?”

  The cryptic demand for information caused Will to wrench his attention away from the nubile female. Although the thought should have occurred to him, he was not at all prepared for the sight of his friend, clad in no more than the steel of his sword. Even at nearly two score years, Slater McKendrick cut an impressive figure, one honed by battle and hardship and sheer strength of will. His hair and eyes were black as the night itself, his form tall and ruthlessly fit.

  “Rudy and Louis just arrived from delivering our latest shipment. Earlier this week they saw Crawford’s clipper, The Sea Sprite, at Calais. The ship was taking on supplies and passengers for a channel crossing. When they recognized the only female being led aboard as Miss Crawford herself, they bribed one of the seamen into telling them that The Sea Sprite will stop at a deserted spot in southern Cornwall—a small town known as Tippington. The passengers will disembark at dawn on the last day of the month.”

  “Excellent.” Slater adopted the focused energy of a stalking panther. “What arrangements have you made for our departure?”

  “Manuel has already prepared your ship. After taking us to Tippington, he will sail on to London. There, he will send word for your estates to be prepared and a coach to be sent to meet us. After that, he will wait for further orders should it prove necessary to leave England again.”

  Slater nodded in approval. In seconds, he had collected his scattered belongings and dumped two leather haversacks in Will’s arms. Then he buckled his scabbard around his waist and proceeded to finish arming himself: a knife in his boot, a pistol beneath his waistcoat, a dirk up his sleeve.

  “What time is it?”

  “Just past twelve. We’ll have to hurry if we plan to intercept them. Each hour is of the essence.”

  “The men?”

  “Assembled and waiting.”

  Slater McKendrick’s normally sober features lightened somewhat. “Let’s ride. Come the last day of the month, we’ll be ready to meet her ship.” The crisp edge to his tone deepened. “Her father should arrive in Tippington soon after—if he hasn’t already.”

  Will watched in avid fascination as Slater bent low over the bed and scooped the woman hard against his chest. The kiss they shared was openly carnal, a meshing of mouths, tongues, and desires. Will shifted in discomfort, feeling distinctly like a bawdy-peeper as the embrace continued long past what he would consider proper.

  He was not surprised by the dazed look the woman wore when Slater backed away. She seemed to have completely forgotten that they were not alone in the room as she rose, her bosom heaving. She clutched a coarse sheet to her neck. The swathe of fabric draped enticingly over one breast and flowed past her hips to tangle under her knees, leaving most of her evident charms completely and brazenly bare.

  If a woman had looked at William Curry with half her evident passion, he would have stripped naked and stayed for a month, but Slater appeared entirely unaffected.

  “Let’s go.”

  “But—” Will had not the time to voice his protest as McKendrick moved into the hall, the length of his stride attesting to his newfound purpose. Rousing from his own stupor, Will followed.

  “Shouldn’t we leave her a coin or two?”

  Slater didn’t pause. “My dear friend, the Marquise du Laque does not accept money for her favors.”

  Will’s jaw dropped. A marquise—and a married one at that. Great bloody hell, the man had nerve.

  Outside the inn, Slater McKendrick strode toward a riderless steed being led out of the crush of attendants and animals. Behind him, Curry gave the carryalls to one of his companions and quickly mounted a lathered horse.

  A rush of energy began to infuse Slater’s veins as he swung into the saddle and gathered the reins in one fist. This night had been a long time in coming, but now that it was here, he felt no regrets for what he was about to do.

  Aloise C
rawford was about to return to England. After nearly a decade and a half of waiting, Slater had finally found her. The time had long since come to liberate her from Crawford’s care and exact his revenge against the man who had branded him a murderer and outlaw.

  Inhaling the warm coal-tainted air, Slater could almost believe he caught a wisp of the country buried in its scent. Clover, sea mist, and rich loam. His frown grew fierce. Damnation, how he’d missed his home. Missed the sky hanging over his head like an endless azure bowl and the cool kiss of the surf come dawn.

  Fifteen years ago, he’d been forced to abandon his birthplace and his identity in haste and despair. He’d journeyed pell-mell across the width of England, obtaining a position on the first ship heading anywhere away from his homeland. In all the intervening years, he’d never set foot in Britain, knowing that to do so would mean certain death. Crawford had seen to that. Just as expected, the man had wasted little time in ruining his name.

  Slater straightened, squinting into the night, suddenly anxious for what was to occur. He’d traveled the globe and seen wondrous places, but his bones yearned to reside in Cornwall. At the thought of traveling back, the guilt and anger that he’d harbored in the very core of his soul began to intensify, burn, spurring him on.

  It was past time to return.

  It was past time to force a reckoning.

  Signaling to his companions, he touched the horse’s flanks. “Make your way to the ship as swiftly as you can. We’re off to Tippington!”

  England

  Aloise Crawford waited until three in the morning to escape.

  Mere hours ago, her father’s ship had dropped anchor near the small village of Tippington and Aloise knew without a doubt that if she didn’t take this opportunity to run away, she would be taken ashore, bundled into her father’s carriage, and driven directly to Briarwood where she would be forced to marry a man she didn’t know and didn’t love. It had happened twice in the past; she couldn’t believe that he would do anything else.