Andrea Kane (10 page)

With that, the black cloak brushed by and was swallowed up by night.

Dartmouth was silent, the crude road adjacent to the wharf deserted.

Uneasily, Armon glanced behind him, reassuring himself that the cove where the
Fortune
awaited him was nearby, safely within view. All he had to do was hand over the diamond, pocket the three hundred thousand pounds, and sail off to his new life—far away from England.

He hurried toward the alley that was his customary meeting place. Grimes would be waiting. He always was, whenever Armon sent word ahead that he’d be coming. And in this case, the fence had probably slept in the alley the night before. Just knowing he’d soon be receiving the black diamond—a treasure worth more than a hundred times his customary exchange—hell, Grimes’s beady little eyes had probably bugged out of his head when he’d read the message.

Armon’s fingers slipped inside his coat, closing around the bulky shape of the diamond, as if for comfort. The bloody stone was enormous—over two hundred carats, if memory served him right. Well, whoever wanted it was welcome to it. As for him, all he wanted was the money being offered in exchange.

With a relieved sigh, Armon reached his destination. Rounding the wall, he eased halfway down the alley, noting the dark silhouette fifty feet away. “Grimes?”

“Sorry, Armon.” Slow, purposeful footsteps. “I had some urgent business for Grimes. Thus, he was detained.”

All the color drained from Armon’s face. “I…”

A bitter laugh as the footsteps closed in—and halted upon reaching their prey. “Why, Armon, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you were disturbed by my visit.”

The barrel of a pistol glinted in the night.

Armon backed against the wall, his mind racing for a nonexistent means of escape.

Lying would be futile. Fleeing, impossible.

Dying, inevitable.

“I have the stone.” Wildly, he groped inside his coat, tearing open the lining—and praying for a miracle.

“I assumed you would.”

“Here.” He extended his shaking hand, the diamond clutched tightly in its grasp. “Take it. It’s yours.”

“It most certainly is.” His fingers were unpried. The gem disappeared. “Our business is now complete.
Adieu,
Armon.”

He hadn’t time to reply.

The pistol fired. Its single shot, issued at point-blank range, struck Armon’s chest with a quiet thud. He crumpled and fell.

With but a cursory glance at the dead body, his assailant turned triumphant eyes to the priceless jewel, studying its shimmering facets. “Finally. After all these years, justice is served.”

The clip-clop of horses’ hooves permeated Courtney’s consciousness, rousing her from half-slumber. Eyes flickering open, she took in the pale glints of dawn as they tentatively brushed the room. Her first thought was that it was far too early for those on land to be traveling.

Her second thought was that it was Slayde, leaving for Morland.

Automatically, she pushed herself up to a sitting position, relieved when her head and ribs retaliated with only a mild protest. Moving aside the bedcovers, she eased herself to her feet. Her legs wobbled but held. She took one step, then another, making her way over to the window and peering out.

The phaeton had rounded the drive and was traversing lush acres of greenery, heading away from the manor, its sole occupant the powerful man holding the reins.

Slayde.

Leaning against the wall, Courtney watched him until he disappeared from view, fervently wishing she were going with him to confront Lawrence Bencroft—her injuries be damned.

Hands balling into fists, Courtney said a silent prayer that Slayde would learn something, that his trip to Morland would yield results. That, upon his return, they’d be one step closer to finding the pirate who’d seized her father’s ship, and one step closer to peace and resolution.

Unsteadily, she made her way back to the bed, lifting her father’s timepiece from the drawer and clasping it in her hands. Was it madness to believe he was alive? Or, if not madness, then irrational faith? Last night, the idea had seemed so plausible. But today, in the cold light of day, the events of last night were distant and dreamlike.

All
the events of last night.

Propping up her pillows, Courtney leaned back, her fingertips brushing her lips as mists of memory laced her thoughts. Pensively, she reflected on those unexpected moments in Slayde’s arms.

Unexpected, but unsurprising, given the intensity of the conversation that had preceded them, the revelations and emotions that had been roused.

What
was
surprising was how natural it had felt—being close to Slayde, having his mouth touch hers, teach hers, take hers. She, whose romantic ideals, transient life, and protective father had precluded even the most innocent of courtships, had welcomed a man to her bed and participated in the most exquisite awakening of the senses imaginable.

She was overreacting, she reminded herself silently. After all, it had been only a kiss, not a coupling. Then again, perhaps that made it all the more poignant, her heart argued back. True, nothing had happened, and yet…it had felt so incredibly right, having him beside her, sharing their pain, their pasts, and ultimately their embrace.

With a pang of emptiness, Courtney contemplated the man whose teachings had spawned her overreaction: her father. ’Twas he who’d assured her, time and again, that her heart was meant to be awakened but once, that her tremendous capacity to love was destined for but one—the right one. She was meant for a man who needed her as much as she did him, one whom destiny would bring into her life when the time was right.

Had that time just arrived? Or was last night merely a case of one human being reaching out to another?
Papa,
she mourned silently,
how can I recognize that man without you here to guide me?

Her throat tight with unshed tears, Courtney gazed down at her father’s timepiece, torn by grief and confusion. It was the same confusion she’d seen mirrored in Slayde’s eyes, not during their kiss, but after. He’d been as affected as she. And given her newly acquired knowledge of his past, she understood why. Emotional involvement was not something Slayde would permit. What was it Aurora had said?
He keeps everything to himself. Thus, he’s alone. And lonely, whether he chooses to realize it or not.

But last night he hadn’t kept everything to himself. He’d opened up to her, discussed his grief in a way that both startled and unnerved him. And, in the process, he’d discovered something about himself he hadn’t known existed and didn’t intend to tolerate: vulnerability. So he’d done the safe thing, the
only
thing he could—he’d retreated.

The creak of the bedchamber door interrupted her musings.

“Courtney? Are you all right?” Aurora poked her head in, relief flooding her face as she saw Courtney reclining against the pillows. “I was on my way to the lighthouse. I heard shuffling noises from your room and thought you might be in pain.”

“Thank you.” Once again, Courtney felt deeply touched by Aurora’s concern. “I’m fine. What you heard was my feeble attempt to move about. I crept to the window and back, which is as much as I’m able to do. ’Tis so frustrating—” She broke off.

“I understand. Confinement is dreadful.” Aurora crossed over and perched on a chair. “Had I known you were awake, I would have visited earlier. I thought only the servants were up.”

“Earlier?” Courtney blinked. “It can’t be much past dawn. What time do you generally arise?”

A grin. “I have little patience for sleep. Shocking, isn’t it? For a noblewoman to loathe her rest?”

Courtney grinned back. “No more shocking than a sea captain’s daughter who loathes the sea.” She arched a brow. “Am I to presume that your friend the lighthouse keeper also awakens at first light? You did say you were on your way there.”

“Truthfully, I don’t think Mr. Scollard ever sleeps. In fact, ’tis difficult to imagine his having a home—other than the Windmouth Lighthouse. All the times I’ve burst in, uninvited, he’s always been at his post. And I’ve done that frequently, at hours ranging from dawn ’til midnight.”

“I don’t doubt that you have.” Courtney bit back laughter. “This Mr. Scollard sounds fascinating.”

Aurora leaned forward. “I believe he has the ability to see things most of us do not. ’Tis a gift; call it insight, wisdom, or something more. Whichever it is, it’s astounding. I can’t wait for you to meet him.”

“Nor can I.” Courtney sighed in exasperation. “I feel so miserably helpless—for many reasons. I need to be up and about.”

“And you will be. By week’s end, you’ll be strolling with me to the lighthouse, you’ll see.” Aurora glanced up, the sound of clinking china announcing Matilda’s imminent arrival with Courtney’s breakfast. “What if I asked Matilda to serve my breakfast up here as well? That way we’d be able to continue our chat. Or did you wish to be alone?”

“That’s the last thing I wish. But what about your excursion?”

“It can wait until later. The only reason I was hurrying off so early is that I hoped to leave Pembourne before…” Her voice drifted off.

“Before your brother spied you,” Courtney finished for her. “Well, fear not. Slayde left Pembourne a few minutes ago. He’ll be gone all day—maybe longer.”

“Where did he go?”

Courtney chewed her lip, wondering how much Aurora knew, then deciding that dishonesty was no way to begin a friendship. “To Morland.”

“Morland?” Aurora nearly toppled off her chair. “The Huntleys haven’t been welcome there for six decades.”

“Nor are they now. But Slayde intends to meet with Lawrence Bencroft.”

Aurora frowned. “He thinks the duke is involved with my feigned kidnapping.”

“Yes, he does.”

“Do you?”

“Aurora, I’ve never even met Lawrence Bencroft. I’m certainly not qualified to judge his guilt or his innocence. But I do trust Slayde’s opinion, which is obviously based on years of firsthand experience. So given what he’s told me, yes, I believe it’s possible that the duke is involved.” Courtney drew a slow, inward breath. “To be frank, I’m clinging to the hope that he is—for Slayde’s sake and for mine. I intend to unearth the filthy pirate who captured the
Isobel.
And if Lawrence Bencroft isn’t the man to lead me to him, I’ll find the one who is.”

The bedchamber door opened, admitting Matilda and an aromatic tray of food. “Lady Aurora—I didn’t know you were here.” A twinkle. “Although I should have guessed.”

“You know me well.” Aurora smiled. “Matilda, would it be too much trouble for you if I breakfasted here with Courtney?”

An approving glint lit Matilda’s eye. “Not at all. I’ll just have a quick look at those bandages. Then I’ll leave this tray and arrange for another to be brought up.” She bent over Courtney, lips pursed as she scrutinized the young woman’s forehead. “How are you feeling this morning, Miss Courtney?”

“Much better” was the grateful reply. “Thanks to your ministrations, the pain is nearly gone. Now, if only I could overcome this weakness.”

Matilda straightened. “Eat every morsel on this plate and you will.” With that sage advice, she hurried off to order Aurora’s breakfast.

“Well?” Aurora teased. “What are you waiting for? You’d best have eaten at least half your food by the time Matilda returns, else you’ll get quite a scolding.” Sobering, she glanced at the timepiece still clutched in Courtney’s hand. “That’s lovely. Would you like me to hold it so you can eat?”

Courtney blinked, having momentarily forgotten her beloved treasure. “ ’Twas Papa’s,” she murmured, turning the watch over in her palm. “My mother gifted him with it on their wedding day. He gave it to me—rather like a legacy—right before he…” She swallowed. “It hasn’t moved since then. But I’m sure you’d enjoy looking at it. There’s an image of a lighthouse that probably resembles your Windmouth Lighthouse.” She snapped it open. “You’re welcome to—” Abruptly, she sat up, staring at the watch’s face.

“Courtney? What is it?”

“The timepiece. It jumped ahead.”

“I thought you said it had stopped.”

“It had. At half after six, the precise time Papa went overboard. But just now, as I was looking at it, the time—and the scene—moved. Only once. Then it froze again. But it definitely moved.” She looked up, a dazed expression in her eyes. “Maybe Papa really is alive.”

Aurora stared. “Courtney, what are you talking about?”

“I had a dream. Papa was calling out to me, telling me he was alive. I know it sounds insane, but do you think what just happened with the timepiece was some kind of sign to that effect?”

Rather than dubious, Aurora looked intrigued. “You didn’t actually see your father go down?”

“No.” Courtney shuddered. “I heard his scream. That sound will haunt me forever. But when he was being thrown overboard, I was in the midst of being dragged below and locked in my cabin.”

“And obviously his body was never discovered.” Aurora was becoming more fascinated with each passing moment.

“But he was bound,” Courtney felt compelled to reason aloud. “Weighed down by the huge sack of grain Lexley was forced to tie to his leg. To survive such an ordeal would be virtually impossible. Still—”

“Mr. Scollard.” Aurora came to her feet. “We must bring you—and your timepiece—to Mr. Scollard. If anyone is able to discern the unknown, ’tis he. The instant you’re well, we’ll head for the lighthouse and discover if the watch’s motion and your dream really are signs.”

“You don’t think I’m mad?”

“Of course not. Mr. Scollard has taught me that every belief, every legend—no matter how farfetched—has shards of truth to it. ’Tis up to us to unearth those truths, to discern fact from fiction.”

“That’s not always easy,” Courtney mused, half to herself. “Nor, in all cases, is it practical. There’s merit to Slayde’s contention that my dream was merely a reaction to Papa’s death, or rather to my inability to accept it.”

“You told all this to Slayde? Why? And when?”

Hearing the stunned bafflement in Aurora’s tone, Courtney desperately wished she could call back her words. Despite Slayde’s justifiable, utterly proper reason for visiting her bedchamber last night, the outcome had been anything but proper. And to discuss even the innocent prelude to that outcome, especially with Slayde’s sister, was going to be exceedingly difficult.