by Andrea Kane
"Well, Slayde believes he was—on some level then; on all levels now. Chilton is dead. If Lawrence hired Armon to kill my father, steal his ship, and blackmail Slayde into delivering the black diamond, then he did it on his own."
"How does Slayde plan to prove this?"
"He's investigating all Lawrence's activities since his sudden re-emergence from Morland, as well as all his business dealings. If the duke is in possession of the black diamond or connected to Armon in any way, Slayde will uncover that information—and use it to condemn Morland to Newgate."
"And both your father and my parents' murders will be avenged," Aurora concluded fervently.
"Avenged, yes. Altered, no." Courtney traced the pattern of her napkin. "When I first regained consciousness, Slayde warned me that vengeance wouldn't ease the pain. He was right. If Papa is dead, no amount of retribution can bring him back. That's part of what Slayde has been grappling with all these years. He yearns for justice, yet he knows it cannot alleviate the sense of loss he's felt since your parents' deaths." She swallowed. "God, how I wish I could help him."
"I think you are—more than Slayde knows." Aurora studied Courtney's face. "Perhaps more than either of you knows." With that, she leaned forward, gesturing toward Courtney's plate. "Eat. You need your strength—to talk to the investigator and to endure being berated by my brother when he learns you attempted the lighthouse." Grinning, she cut another piece of mutton. "I don't envy you."
Both women's soft laughter trailed into the hallway, where Miss Payne hovered, ostensibly reviewing her list of the day's chores. Slipping the page into her pocket, she glanced about, confirming that the corridor was deserted. Reassured, she hurried off, acutely aware of the pressing responsibility that had just presented itself.
It was imperative that she report all she'd learned. Immediately.
* * *
Chapter 8
« ^ »
"Aurora, I want to speak with you—now."
Rising from her writing desk, Aurora picked up the missive she'd just addressed and tossed Slayde an unruffled look. "Of course you do." She crossed over, ignoring his formidable presence in her doorway and stepping past him into the hall. "Constance?" she called to a passing maid. "Would you mind asking Siebert to have this letter delivered to Lady Stanwyk before dark?"
"Certainly, m'lady." The girl took the note, curtsied, and went to do Aurora's bidding.
"Planning another excursion?" Slayde inquired dryly.
Aurora's smile was pure sunshine. "If I were, I'd have been smart enough to do so while you were in Dartmouth." She reentered her chambers. "Please, do come in."
Slayde complied, shutting the door behind him. "Damnit, Aurora, what were you thinking?"
She faced her brother, arms folded across her chest, not even pretending to misunderstand the cause of his unrest. "What was I thinking? That Courtney was desperate to do something, to find some degree of resolution that would put her life in order. That had I refused to accompany her, she'd have attempted the lighthouse on her own—in which case, I wouldn't have been there to summon help, and she might have suffered a relapse."
"You're trying to convince me this stroll was Courtney's idea?"
"I'm not trying to convince you of anything. As I told Courtney, I haven't managed to do so in twenty years, so I've all but given up. I'm simply speaking the truth."
Slayde sucked in his breath. "Courtney mentioned nothing of her intentions to me—and I saw her this morning just before I left."
"I suspect she knew what your response would be and chose secrecy over warfare."
"I'm not amused."
"No, I can see that." Aurora inclined her head. "Did you hire an investigator? Is he here with you?"
"Yes. He's in the library with Courtney," Slayde bit out. His gaze probed Aurora with carefully measured concern. "Is she all right?"
Aurora nearly smiled at the unprecedented vulnerability in his tone. "Didn't you see her?"
"Only in passing. I introduced her to Mr. Oridge, who wanted to spend some time chatting with her. I'll go down and join them in a few minutes."
"But first you had to lambaste me."
"I'm not lambasting you. I'm questioning you."
"Accusing me, you mean." Aurora pressed on, not awaiting a reply. "I don't think you realize how strong-minded Courtney is. She needs no one to instill ideas in her head. She does quite well on her own."
"So she tells me." The silver fire in Slayde's eyes banked a bit. "If I've been unduly harsh, I apologize." He cleared his throat. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll join Oridge in the library."
"Of course." Aurora watched her brother's retreating back, a smug smile curving her lips. An apology, she mused. Slayde's second unprecedented act of the day.
Perhaps it was time to stop seeking adventure outside Pembourne's iron gates. 'Twould seem that life here was about to become far more interesting.
The library was deserted when Slayde arrived. Puzzled, he walked through the hall, glancing into each room and finding them empty.
"Is something amiss, m'lord?" Siebert inquired from the entranceway.
"I was under the impression Miss Johnston and Mr. Oridge were in the library. Evidently, I was mistaken."
"I believe they were there for ten minutes or so, sir. Then they each retired to their respective chambers."
"I see." Slayde was already in motion, retracing his path up the stairs, this time taking them two at a time.
"Come in," Courtney responded to his knock.
Slayde stepped inside, immediately spying Courtney where she stood by the open window, gazing out across the drive.
"Are you all right?" Slayde shut the door behind him.
"Yes," she murmured without turning. "I was just thinking that this window does not provide a full and proper view of your estate. The grounds of Pembourne are far more extensive than I ever anticipated." Sighing, she pivoted, facing Slayde as a prisoner would a firing squad. "But then, I suspect my encounter with your grounds is precisely the subject you've come to address."
"First tell me why your conversation with Oridge was so brief."
Courtney fingered the folds of her gown. "Your investigator is a most insightful man. I think he realized I was not myself. And since he intends to remain here most of tomorrow, gathering whatever information he can, he suggested we postpone our in-depth discussion until morning, after which he'll take one of your ships and leave directly from Devonshire."
"A sound idea."
"'Twas Mr. Oridge's." Courtney tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, her mouth curving impishly. "But, given you think the suggestion is sound, I'm sure you guessed whose idea it was. I have the distinct feeling you don't think much of my ideas at the moment."
Slayde didn't return her smile. "So Aurora was speaking the truth. You did initiate this afternoon's foolhardy stunt."
"You've already spoken to Aurora?" Courtney shook her head in exasperation. "I wish you had more faith in your sister. She's neither an idiot nor a child. And she's certainly not a liar. I hope you didn't vent your rage at her."
"I started to. She stopped me."
"Good. Because she truly tried to dissuade me from going. I wouldn't listen."
"Why not?"
Courtney's lashes fanned her cheeks. "You know the answer to that. I need to do something. I thought perhaps a conversation with Mr. Scollard would provide some sort of sign."
Slayde crossed over, gripped her shoulders. "A sign of what? Whether your father is alive? Courtney, Mr. Scollard is just a man, not a god—regardless of what Aurora has told you."
A painful silence.
"Courtney…" Slayde wanted to recall his words and shake some sense into her all at once.
"Slayde, this is a futile argument. Besides, we have more important things to discuss." Tilting back her head, Courtney searched his face. "Did you learn anything in Dartmouth?"
"Not much." Slayde's gaze fell immediately to her lips. Damn. What was
there about this woman that reduced every ounce of his resolve, his long-standing vows to ashes? He'd spent the entire carriage ride to Dartmouth reminding himself why he had to keep away from her, to disregard the pull between them. Yet here he was, home not an hour, and all he could think of was holding her in his arms, tasting her mouth.
"Slayde?" Courtney's expression was quizzical. "Are you keeping something from me?"
"No." He forced himself to remember the fundamental issue at hand. "I asked a lot of questions, got the names of three merchants who were reputedly adept at forgery and were rumored to handle disreputable business transactions. However, two of them are in prison and one has relocated to Paris to bleed fresh prey. None of them was in Dartmouth this past month and therefore none could have been Armon's contact. There was a fourth fellow mentioned, a John Grimes, an unsavory merchant who apparently sells everything from valuable paintings to gems. Unfortunately, he has conveniently been out of town since yesterday, not due to return until next week. I didn't leave my name, only the fact that I'm in search of a particular painting and that he was mentioned as a possible source. This way, he won't be forewarned and try to bolt. But when he returns from his little holiday, I'll be waiting.
"As for Armon's known contacts," Slayde continued with a disgusted frown, "I was in and out of every pub in Dartmouth, handing out pound notes by the dozens. The lowlifes that frequent the places took my money, admitted to knowing Armon, then proceeded to tell me precisely what we already knew: that Armon captained the Fortune; that he and his men were notorious for the booty they obtained at sea; that of late, Armon had taken to bragging that very soon he'd be coming into a huge sum—enough to keep him fat and happy for life. None of which is any great revelation. So, effectively, I have nothing concrete to report."
"I see." Beneath his hands, Slayde could feel Courtney's shoulders tense.
"We've just begun," he told her quietly. "We will unravel this mystery. Remember, I gave you my word."
That wrenching smile. "I haven't forgotten. 'Tis what keeps me going when all else seems hopeless."
"Cutterton said you'd collapsed." Slayne's voice sounded hoarse, even to his own ears. "That he carried you back to the manor."
"'Tis true. He was extremely kind."
"And you are extremely weak." Slayde's hands glided up to frame her face. "What must I do to keep you from jeopardizing your recovery? Lock you in your room?"
"That depends. Would you stay locked in with me?" The instant the words were out, Courtney looked positively mortified, as if she wanted to sink through the floor and die. Her face grew hot beneath Slayde's palms, twin spots of crimson staining her cheeks nearly as red as her hair. "Forgive me … I…"
"Yes," he heard himself say, touched by her heartfelt candor, propelled by something far stronger than his resistance. "Yes, I'd stay with you." With that, he lowered his head and covered her mouth with his.
It was as natural as it was overpowering, their hearts and bodies hurtling to life, clamoring simultaneously for more. The kiss sizzled, burned, exploded, and preliminaries were cast aside, unwanted, intolerable.
With an inarticulate sound of joy, Courtney flung herself into the embrace, opening to Slayde's penetration, rising onto her toes to give him better access.
Ardently, Slayde seized what she offered, frantic to hold her, to taste her, to absorb the miraculous balm she provided, to fill the unknown void within him that seemed suddenly endless, unendurable. "Courtney." His fingers clenched in her hair, handfuls of rich, cool silk, his tongue possessing her mouth, melding with hers. He felt a shiver run through her, her arms entwining more tightly about his neck, deepening a kiss that was already out of control.
Control be damned.
Slayde pulled Courtney against him, his lips leaving hers to blaze a heated trail down her neck, her throat, the upper swell of her breasts. He could still remember the way her naked skin had felt against his palm, her nipple hardening, her breast swelling to his caress. God, he'd driven himself half crazy remembering, fervently wishing he'd never touched her, more fervently wishing he'd never stopped.
"Oh, Slayde." His name was a breath of a whisper, vibrating against his lips as they traced her bodice. "That feels so…"
"I know." His mouth returned to hers, devouring her with an urgency that precluded all else. With shaking hands, he unbuttoned her gown, finding the smooth skin of her back and shuddering at the unbearable agony of desire spawned by even the simplest, most innocent contact.
Unthinking, uncaring, Slayde swept Courtney to the bed, followed her down, desire coursing through him in wide, hot rivers of need. "I want you," he rasped against her mouth. "God, Courtney, I've never wanted like this."
If she answered, he didn't hear. Having slipped her gown from her shoulders, he tugged down her chemise, nearly insane with the need to see her, taste her, touch her again. He could scarcely breathe past the pounding in his chest, a pounding that intensified at his first glimpse of her utterly flawless beauty. For an endless moment, he just stared, transfixed by the soft, delicate mounds, the pale pink nipples that were hardening beneath his gaze.
"Slayde?"
Somewhere in the dim recesses of his mind he heard her. "What?" He virtually tore his gaze away, forced himself to meet her shy, uncertain look.
"Am I all right?" she whispered.
"All right?" He could scarcely speak. "You're…" How in God's name could he find the right words when they had yet to be invented? "You're a miracle."
Courtney's eyes filled with tears. "So are you."
A stab of guilt lanced Slayde's heart. "No, sweetheart, I'm not." He lowered his head, kissed the hollow between her breasts, steeling himself to stop at that. "I'm anything but a miracle."
"You saved my life," she whispered, her fingers sifting through his hair. "And awakened feelings inside me I never knew existed. If that's not a miracle, what is?"
Her poignant declaration gave Slayde the strength he'd lacked.
Slowly, he raised up, met her misty gaze. "I'm a Huntley, sweetheart. That's a curse, not a miracle."
"I don't believe in curses. Neither do you. You told me so yourself."
"I said I didn't believe the black diamond was cursed," he corrected. "Unfortunately, the search for it is. And my family is right in the middle of that search."
"The search is over."
"No. It's not."
"As far as the Huntleys are concerned, it is. You delivered the diamond to Armon."
"No, I didn't."
A shocked silence, broken only by the ticking of the clock.
"What did you say?" Courtney asked at last.
Slayde sat up, torn between emotion and pragmatism, protection and candor. "We need to talk."
"Evidently we do." Courtney pushed herself to a sitting position, tugging up her gown in awkward, self-conscious motions.
"Let me." Slayde readjusted her clothing, wishing he could recall his frank outburst. Damn. He never involved anyone in his decisions, never divulged his thoughts or his actions, least of all now, when there was so much at stake. Why the hell had he suddenly become unable to keep his mouth shut? Was he losing his heart and his mind?
"I can't reach the buttons. If you would just fasten them, I'll manage the rest." Courtney's head was bowed, her voice muffled as she struggled with the back of the gown.
Studying the lustrous crown of red-gold hair, Slayde experienced a wave of shame and regret. He was responsible for Courtney's self-censure, her humiliation. He'd acted selfishly, incited by his unprecedented, burgeoning feelings—something he'd had no right to do. For although she obliterated his control, his reason, his sanity, he'd taken advantage of her, knowing there could be no future between them, knowing he'd cause her naught but pain. And now, what in God's name could he say to ease the confusion and self-doubt she was feeling?
Ease them? Hell, he was about to intensify them.
"Courtney." He hooked his forefinger beneath her chin. "Before I delve into what
I suspect will be a very complicated explanation, it's important to me that you know I meant every word I said a few minutes ago. You're beautiful. And I've never wanted anyone the way I want you."
"I believe you." Courtney raised her head, and Slayde was startled to see none of the shame and remorse he'd expected. To the contrary, the sea-green eyes that searched his face were soft, not with contrition, but with concern. "You needn't convince me. Nor console me. I don't regret a moment of what just happened—almost happened," she amended. "What I do regret is your reasons for pulling away."
"You don't know what those reasons are."
