Dark Rider

by Iris Johansen

  “That gentleman may prove—” She broke off as she realized Clara would not listen. Patience, she told herself. She had known the burdens she would face when she had come to this house, and she was determined to bear them with grace. “It was not a good thing,” she repeated as she crossed the veranda.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To work in my garden.” She needed the soothing balm of delving into the earth, and it was the one pastime to which Clara could not object, since it provided fresh vegetables for the table. “Unless you need me in the house?”

  “I’ve told you that you’re not needed here.”

  Many times and in the cruelest of fashions. But she was needed by Charles and Cassie, and she could withstand the old woman’s cuts.

  As she knelt before her vegetable patch, she gazed uneasily up at the mountain. It was nearing noon and Cassie had been gone for hours. Had she found Charles yet?

  Cassie did not find her father until nearly twilight. He had painted the place he called Pelée’s Breath so often, she had not thought he would return to do another picture. Yet there he was, standing at his easel, on the highest plateau overlooking those barren foothills where clouds of steam drifted like phantom snakes from the jet-black earth.

  “Papa!” Cassie waved before carefully traversing the rocky incline leading to the plateau. It was always slippery both on this incline and on the foothills themselves. The black lava was constantly coated with the moisture from the steam that rose from between the cracks in the earth. Since the first time her father had brought her here as a small child, she had been frightened of the strangeness of the place. The seething silence broken only by wind and the hiss of escaping steam had seemed more threatening than the red-orange molten fire in the heart of the volcano. She had always thought it odd that her father, who was nervous of even touching Kapu’s mane, was comfortable in this eerie place. As she reached the top of the plateau she said, “I need to talk to you.”

  “Good afternoon, Cassie,” her father replied abstractedly. “I’ll be with you shortly. I just have to complete this shading on the lava rock. Do you see how it glows with the steam? It’s really quite—”

  “Did the messenger reach you?”

  “Messenger?” His gaze never left the canvas. “Did you send one? I don’t believe that—”

  “King Kamehameha sent a message. Someone wants to find you. An Englishman.”

  Her father’s brush stopped in midmotion. “An Englishman?”

  “The king said he doubted the man was a threat, but that you should know he had told him of the cottage and that you often painted near the volcano.”

  He stared straight ahead. “His name?”

  “Danemount.”

  Her father’s eyes closed. “Dear God,” he whispered.

  She need no longer wonder if Danemount was the threat. Her father was terrified. She had not seen him really afraid since that day they had left Marseilles. She took a step forward. “Why is he looking for you?”

  His eyes opened. “To kill me,” he said dully. “He wants to kill me.”

  “But why?”

  “The hand of le bon dieu,” he muttered. “I always knew it would come. God’s will.”

  “It’s not God’s will,” she said fiercely. “What are you talking about? God would not condone this man murdering you.”

  “God’s will,” he repeated. Then he shook his head as if to clear it. “I don’t want to die, Cassie. I’ve done bad things, but I’m not a bad man. I don’t deserve to die.”

  “Of course you don’t. And you could not have done anything very wrong. We’ll go down and face the Englishman and tell him—”

  “No!” He whirled so quickly that he knocked the easel over. “How can I face him? What would I say to him? It wasn’t my fault. Raoul told me that nothing would happen, and I believed him. At least I think I believed him. Raoul was always so certain about everything, and I was never certain about anything. Yes, it’s Raoul’s fault.”

  Raoul. He had called the man who had come to the ship that day Raoul. Cassie frowned in bewilderment. “Then we’ll tell the Englishman that whatever happened, the blame is not yours.”

  “He wouldn’t believe me. Not without proof. He wouldn’t listen to me. Why do you think I ran away? It was the uncle who was making inquiries, but I knew the cub would come after me. I remember his eyes … burning, glaring at me.” He picked up the half-finished painting and started down the incline, stumbling in his hurry. “I have to get away. I have to hide. I knew he’d come.…”

  Cassie ran after him. “But where are you going?”

  He stopped in midstride and looked around him dazedly. “I don’t know. There has to be someplace.…”

  “If you think there’s danger, go to King Kamehameha. He’ll protect you. This Englishman is nothing to him.”

  “Perhaps,” he muttered. “I don’t know. I can’t seem to think.”

  And if he continued to blunder around in this state, Danemount would be here before she could get her father to safety.

  She took his arm and shook it. “I know. Listen to me. Go to the king and tell him this Englishman is a danger to you. He’ll send his warriors to rid you of him.”

  “I couldn’t do that. I won’t have his blood on my hands, too.”

  Too? A chill rushing through her, she asked, “Would you rather it be your blood spilled? I’ll kill him myself before I see that happen.”

  For an instant the fear left his expression, and a faint smile lit his face. “My fierce Cassie.” He reached out and gently touched her cheek. “You’re the best part of me, you know. But I can’t remember ever being as true and loyal and brave. I’ve not been a good father, but I’ve always loved you.”

  His words sounded terrifyingly final. “Don’t be foolish. You’ve been a very good father.”

  He shook his head. “It was always too much trouble. I should have—” He broke off and went rigid. “What is that?”

  She had heard it, too. The sharp sound of boots on the rocky path. It could not be the king’s messenger; the islanders did not wear footwear. They both turned to look down the path.

  No one appeared to be in sight, but in the half darkness Cassie wasn’t sure she would be able to discern anyone. The steam was now a thick mist that glowed malignant yellow-purple in the dusk. Her hand tightened on her father’s arm. “Listen to me,” she spoke quickly, forcefully. “Climb back up the plateau and go down the other side. Then cut across the mountain and circle back when you reach the shore. I’ll go down and try to lead him away from you. In the darkness he’ll think I’m you.”

  “No!”

  “I’ll be safe. Would this Danemount kill an innocent woman?”

  “I know little about— I don’t think— No.”

  “Then go to Kamehameha. I’ll come to you there tomorrow and we’ll make plans.”

  The sound of booted footsteps on stone came again, closer.

  “Hurry!” She grabbed the canvas from him and deliberately threw it down to the left of the path.

  “What are you doing? My painting …”

  “You can paint other pictures. We need to leave a trail.” She pushed him toward the plateau. “Go!” She jumped over the painting and began to half run, half slide down the steam-coated lava rocks.

  His hoarse exclamation echoed loudly in the eerie silence. Glancing back over her shoulder a few minutes later, she saw to her relief that he had almost reached the plateau again. She had feared he would follow her. The next moment he was lost to view.

  The footsteps were even closer now, coming from just beyond the mist at the foot of the hill. If the Englishman had heard Papa’s exclamation, all the better. Between the vapor and the twilight she would be only a shadow to any pursuer and could easily be mistaken for her father. She had only to give him a quarter of an hour’s head start, and they would never catch him before he reached the king.

  She left the path and carefully began winding her way through
the cracks spouting vapor. She heard a cry from behind her. Her heart leaped as panic soared through her. She had been seen!

  Stupid response. She had wanted to be seen. She glanced behind her but could discern only three dark, phantomlike silhouettes on the trail. Good. She must look the same to them. Her pace quickened.

  “Deville!” The Englishman’s voice carried across the barren rocks like the horn of Gabriel. “Stop, goddammit!”

  She didn’t look around as she moved along the side of mountain.

  Darkness, falling fast.

  Steam writhing and hissing from the cracks around her.

  The rocky path steeper and more slippery.

  The crunch of footsteps behind her.

  Hurry. Keep moving.

  She could barely see in the dimness. Was that another fissure ahead?

  A sudden burst of steam exploded from the ground in front of her!

  She cried out and instinctively jerked back. Dear God, too slippery …

  She was losing her footing.

  Falling!

  She reached out and tried to catch her balance as she rolled down the rocky incline, trying desperately to dig her nails into the hard rock.

  Blackness.

  “He’s down!” Exhilaration surging through Jared, he moved quickly over the black rocks toward the slumped figure at the bottom of the hill. After all the years of tracking and hunting he had the bastard. “By God, we’ve got him!”

  “Be careful,” Bradford called as he followed at a slower pace. “Or you’ll end up down there on those rocks beside him.”

  “Lakoa, light that torch,” Jared ordered the native guide. He drew his knife as he approached the fallen man. Deville was still, but that didn’t mean he was not dangerous. Desperate men were always a threat.

  “Jared, wait,” Bradford told him. “I think—”

  Jared had already stopped a few yards from Deville.

  Only it wasn’t Deville. It was a girl, her dark hair loose and covering her face, her black serge riding habit torn.

  “Is it the daughter?” Bradford asked as he and Lakoa reached Jared.

  “Who the hell else could it be?” Sharp disappointment mixed with concern as Jared fell to his knees beside the still figure. Instead of Deville, he might have succeeded in murdering a girl. “Dammit, I called out his name. She must have known it was he we were after.”

  “I suppose Deville is long gone,” Bradford murmured. “She kept us following her for over twenty minutes.”

  The girl moaned and restlessly moved her head.

  At least she was alive, Jared realized with relief. He pushed aside the hair covering her face.

  He went still.

  “What’s wrong?” Bradford asked.

  “It’s not Deville’s daughter.”

  “Oh, yes.” Lakoa stepped forward. “It is her. I know her. She is the friend of my sister Lihua. It is Kanoa, the daughter of the one who paints.” His brown eyes filled with concern. “Lihua has great affection for her. This is not good.”

  “No, this is not good,” Jared muttered. Nothing about this situation was in the least good. Not Kanoa’s injury, nor her deceit, nor Deville’s escape.

  “We must get her to Lani,” Lakoa said. “She will know what to do.”

  Lani must be the Polynesian woman at the cottage, Deville’s mistress, Jared decided. Lakoa was right; the cottage was not close, but it was nearer than the village. He checked the wound on Kanoa’s temple. It had stopped bleeding, and the cut did not appear deep. The fall itself had rendered her unconscious.

  He cradled her in his arms and rose to his feet. “Let’s go.”

  Bradford frowned. “Are you sure? It’s miles back to the cottage. We could camp here and send Lakoa for help.”

  “It will be quicker to take her ourselves.” He moved down the hill. “You lead the way, Lakoa. It’s getting black as pitch on this damn mountain.”

  Papa was carrying her, holding her close and safe, keeping away the darkness.

  No, it couldn’t be Papa. He hadn’t carried her in his arms since she was a little girl. Since the time Clara had told him that such coddling would spoil her. It must be someone else.…

  She struggled to open her lids. She gave it up; it was too hard.

  “I’ll take her for a while. You must be tired, lad.”

  “I’m damnably tired. I’d like to drop her off the side of the mountain.”

  “Then why didn’t you leave her? I told you an hour ago carrying her all this way was too much strain. We should have done what I first suggested.”

  No answer but a low curse.

  Both voices had been deep, masculine, but neither had been Papa’s.

  Danger. There was something she should remember.…

  She managed to raise her lids this time. Why, that was Lakoa bearing the torch on the trail ahead. She had known him since she had been a child, played with him in the village. “Lakoa,” she whispered.

  “Don’t talk.” The words were clipped, reverberating beneath her ear.

  She looked up and met the gaze of the man who was carrying her. Blue eyes, clear and cool as the lake in her valley across the island. She remembered those eyes but couldn’t recall why they brought this feeling of uneasiness.

  “Is she awake?”

  She caught a glimpse of another face. Heavy features; curly, gray-flecked dark hair; eyes the color of strong tea.

  The arms tightened around her. “Barely.”

  His scent drifted to her—musk, leather. The scent was also familiar.… Why couldn’t she connect it to the man? He had been close to her once like this and had spoken words, disturbing words.…

  “Who are …,” she whispered.

  He looked down at her, his eyes gleaming like the blade of a knife.

  Gleaming with anger … and something else.

  She closed her eyes to shut him out. She could not deal with the uneasiness looking at him brought. The blackness was rushing back, and she had to concentrate on the fight to keep it at bay.

  Only a few seconds later the battle was lost, and darkness claimed her once more.

  At Jared’s first knock the door of the cottage was thrown open.

  “What have you done to her?” the Polynesian woman demanded, staring at Cassie in dismay. “Why did you hurt her? She did nothing to—”

  “I didn’t hurt her.” Jared pushed past her and strode into the sitting room. “She hurt herself. The blasted girl fell down the mountain and hit her head.”

  “And you had nothing to do with it?” Lani asked with sarcasm.

  “She was skipping along the rocks in the dark trying to make us think she was Deville.” He laid Cassie down on the sofa. “I assume this is his daughter?”

  Lani knelt beside Cassie. “Of course it is.”

  The confirmation came as no surprise, but he had hoped Lakoa had been mistaken.

  “Did she wake at all on the way here?” Lani asked.

  “Once. She appeared to be confused. I’ve sent Lakoa and my uncle to King Kamehameha to bring a physician here.”

  “I’ve seen many head wounds before. If she woke, then the danger is probably not great. Sleep is the medicine she needs.” Lani looked at him. “Charles?”

  “We didn’t catch him.” He gazed directly into her eyes. “But we will.”

  “So that you can break his head, too?”

  “I didn’t break—” He drew a deep breath and tried to control his temper. “I don’t go around breaking girls’ heads—even if they deserve it.”

  “To try to save a father’s life is such a heinous crime.”

  His hands clenched into fists. “It’s not criminal, but it’s damn foolish. She could have died on that mountain.”

  She tilted her head and gazed at him curiously. “You are concerned about her.”

  “I’m not concerned. Anyone who is stupid enough to risk everything for a man who— Why are you just kneeling there? Do something! At least wash the blood from her face
.”

  “I will do so.” She paused. “If you wish to be helpful, you could keep Clara out of my way. She’s bound to hear me, and she thinks no one does things properly but herself.”

  Clara? He vaguely remembered the woman. “The housekeeper? Very well.”

  “And you could carry Cassie into her room. She will be more comfortable there.”

  Jared lifted Cassie again and followed Lani down the short hall. After he had placed Cassie on the narrow bed, he stepped back. God, she was pale.

  “Now leave the room,” Lani ordered. “She will be disturbed if she wakes to a stranger.”

  Jared hesitated. He didn’t want to go, blast it.

  “You have no place here.” Lani’s soft voice held a note of steel. “You’re the enemy, and I won’t have her made afraid when she’s ill.”

  Of course, he was the enemy. Did the woman think he would forget it? “I have a place here until I find Charles Deville.” He turned on his heel. “I’ll let you have your way, but I’ve not noticed Kanoa is burdened by an overabundance of fear.”

  As he closed the door behind him, Clara Kidman appeared in the hall.

  “What’s happening?” she asked sharply. “What are you doing here?”

  He opened his lips to answer with the same rudeness, then changed his mind. The woman was as sour as an unripe grape, but in the house of the enemy you gathered any ally you could. He injected all the powers of persuasion at his command into his smile. “Ah, I was just coming to tell you all about it, Miss Kidman. It appears we have a desperate situation and need someone of your obvious intelligence and efficiency to help us solve it.”

  The scent of lavender soap, vanilla, and ginger flowers drifted to Cassie even before she opened her eyes.

  Lani.

  Lani’s beautiful, serene face above her, Lani wiping her forehead with a cool cloth. Everything was all right; safety, love … Not quite all right, she realized the next moment as a throbbing pain shot through her temple.

  “My head hurts.” The words came out in a croak.

  Lani smiled. “It’s not surprising when you tried your best to break it open. Does your throat ache?”