Andrea Kane (8 page)

“Shhh…it’s not the wounds, is it?”

“No.”

“I thought not.” Tenderly, he stroked her hair, his lips brushing the satiny tresses.

“It was…a dream.”

Slayde could well imagine what, or whom, she’d dreamed of. “It’s all right. You’re awake now.”

“I wish I weren’t,” she wept. “Oh, God, I’m trying so hard to be strong, but I’m just not sure that I can be, nor that I even want to be. I’m sorry…I don’t mean to sound childish and irrational. I can’t seem to help myself.”

“You’re neither irrational nor childish.” His palm caressed her back, feeling her agitated tremors even through the thin barrier of her nightrail. “You’ve endured a brutal shock, not only to your body, but to your life. You must give yourself time to heal.”

“And what if I can’t heal?”

“You will.”

“I don’t think so. My dream…” With a shaky sigh, Courtney drew back, gazing up at Slayde with haunted eyes. “What would you say if I told you I think Papa’s alive—that he didn’t drown when he went overboard? Would you think I was mad?”

“I’d think you were mourning. Denial is part of that process.”

“No. My dream was too real.” She dashed away her tears. “He was calling out to me. Not in a spiritual sense, but in an actual one. He was reassuring me that he lived.”

“You’re emotionally drained and physically depleted. Not to mention the fact that you have a concussion, which very often jumbles thoughts. Believe me, you’re not mad. You’re perfectly normal.”

“Am I?” Her breath came in sharp pants, and when Slayde eased her toward the pillows, she clutched at his shirt, terror slashing her delicate features. “Talk to me,” she pleaded softly. “Stay with me. Just for a while. Don’t leave me alone with this horrible, gripping emptiness.”

“I won’t,” he promised, reversing his motion and bringing her against him. “I’ll stay as long as you need me. I wasn’t leaving. I was just helping you to lie back and rest.”

“I don’t want to lie back—or to rest. I want to talk. Please.”

How well he understood. “By all means.” Shifting a bit, Slayde eased her onto her side, cushioning her head in the crook of his arm. Then, he stretched out beside her, his back propped against the headboard. “How’s that?”

A deep, contented sigh. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure. Would you like a fire?”

“No. I’m fine—as long as I’m not alone.”

“You’re not. I’m right here.” He waited until his words had sunk in and he felt the panic ease from her muscles. Then he sought to distract her. “Did I hear Aurora mention something about your birthday being imminent?”

A tentative nod. “Next month.” She swallowed. “Papa’s gift was to be a puppy.”

“Any specific kind of puppy?”

“No. Just one who needed me—and, of course, one who was a natural sailor.”

“As you are, I presume.”

An ironic sound escaped Courtney’s lips. “I? Hardly. I dreaded every moment of our journeys. That’s why the second part of Papa’s gift meant so much. He planned to spend one full week with me. On land. Funny—” Her voice quavered. “At the time, it seemed too short an interval. Now, one week seems like the most priceless of gifts.”

Slayde felt a wave of compassion—and a surge of confusion. “If you dreaded your journeys, why in God’s name did you go? Surely your father didn’t insist that you remain—”

“He didn’t,” she interrupted. “Papa never knew of my feelings. No one did. In fact, you’re the first person I’ve ever told. Had I confessed the truth to Papa, one of two things would have happened: either he would have given up the sea, which I couldn’t abide—’twas his life—or he’d have restored me to boarding school, which would have been akin to thrashing me. I’d spent months pleading with him to withdraw me and equally as many months upending the school so they were more than happy to comply.”

Slayde’s lips twitched. “It sounds like you were a terror.”

“I was.” He felt her smile faintly against his shirt. “Trust me, Aurora is a lamb in comparison.”

“What a harrowing thought.” Slayde’s brows knit. “When we first spoke of your father, you referred to the
Isobel
in affectionate terms—as your home.”

“It was. Because Papa was there. But every night, I prayed for the impossible: that he would tire of the sea on his own and choose for us to settle down. To make a real home, together.”

“I see.” Slayde stared off into space, wondering why he, the most circumspect of men, was asking so many intrusive questions, and more importantly, why he felt compelled to know as much as he could about his beautiful houseguest. “Is your mother alive?”

“No. Mama died just after I was born. I never knew her. But I knew a great deal
about
her. Papa spoke of her constantly: her beauty, her warm-hearted nature, her enthusiasm for life. Of course, he was more than a bit subjective. He adored her.”

“Did she live near the docks? Is that where they met?”

A soft breath of laughter. “She lived in a mansion. They met when Papa’s ship was docked and Mama happened to be strolling near the water’s edge. Mama’s parents were blue bloods—titled and affluent. Needless to say, they were less than thrilled with her choice of husbands. But it didn’t matter, not to her or to Papa. They were very much in love. The fact that she was an aristocrat and Papa a sea captain mattered not a whit. Eventually, their devotion triumphed. They procured her parents’ blessing and were married that very week.” Courtney rose up, inclining her head in question. “Do you recall the timepiece you rescued? The one you placed in the nightstand drawer?”

Slayde nodded. “I remember.”

“It’s the finest of captain’s watches.
And
Papa’s most treasured memory of Mama. She gave it to him as a wedding gift, a symbol of their lives and their love. Not only is the craftsmanship exquisite, the scene within—” Courtney broke off, her eyes widening eagerly. “Would you like to see it?
Really
see it, in detail?”

The glow on her face was worth the cost of a dozen timepieces combined. “Yes, I would. Very much.”

Gingerly, Courtney twisted about and extracted the piece of silver with a familiarity that made Slayde suspect she’d done this repeatedly over the past two days. “I realize you must already have glanced at it,” she said, “but ’tis far too beautiful for a cursory look.” Lovingly, she caressed the gleaming case, extending the watch for Slayde’s perusal.

He took it, noting the intricacy of the pattern etched on the outside. “It’s lovely.”

“Open it,” Courtney urged. “Hold it to the lamp so you can see the scene inside.”

Slayde complied, studying the enchanting picture that greeted him.

A solitary ship graced the center of the watch’s face. The vessel appeared to be paused on a course to the lighthouse depicted on the right—no, not paused—unmoving. Cushioned by peaceful sea waters, the ship remained as it was, halted midway to its destination, suspended in time.

“According to Papa, Mama claimed he was the ship and she, the lighthouse,” Courtney elaborated, her voice choked. “That’s because, until a few days past, the picture moved. The lighthouse beam appeared, beckoning, and the ship sailed toward it, hastening toward its welcoming light just as Papa always did to Mama. He took the watch with him wherever he traveled, kept it with him all these years—even after she died. It was his way of having Mama beside him, always.” A shuddering breath. “He gave me the timepiece just before he was forced overboard, told me to keep it as a memory of them both. I clutched it long after that animal locked me in my cabin. I was afraid to open the case, because I knew what I would find. At last, I relented, needing to see I was wrong—only to discover I was right. Just as I dreaded, the watch had stopped.” Hollow emptiness returned to Courtney’s eyes. “It won’t start again until Papa is home where he belongs.”

“Courtney—”

“Don’t tell me he’s dead,” she refuted in a strangled whisper. “I refuse to accept that.” Two tears slid down her cheeks. “I can’t explain it, but while I realize up here”—she touched her brow—“the implausibility of what I’m saying, in here”—she lay her palm over her heart—“I believe otherwise.” Valiantly, she struggled for control. “So let’s not discuss it, all right? Let’s speak of something else.”

With a wordless nod, Slayde snapped the watch case shut and replaced it in the drawer. “The timepiece is exquisite. Your mother had exceptional taste.” A heartbeat of a pause. “And an exceptional daughter.”

Warm color tinged Courtney’s cheeks. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Unsettled by his own sense of imbalance, Slayde sought a safer ground. “Tell me, why did you hate sailing? Was it the lack of privacy?”

Courtney shook her head, capturing a tear with the tip of her tongue. “No. I had all the privacy I wished for. In fact, I spent long hours alone in my cabin. Only Papa visited me there. The men were given strict orders—by Papa—never to enter my quarters.”

“I don’t blame him. A beautiful woman, together with a shipload of men? Were I your father, I’d have locked you in.”

A twinge of amusement. “I was hardly compromised. The men treated me with the utmost respect. After all, my father was their captain.”

“Where did your ship journey?”

“To the Colonies. We carried furniture and other English goods to New York and Boston.”

“Did you dislike visiting the Colonies?”

“Actually, I found them quite fascinating. Why?”

“I was only wondering if perhaps that was the reason you disliked your trips aboard the
Isobel.”

“No, it wasn’t.”

“Very well, then; was it the food you so detested?”

Courtney’s lips curved. “In truth, the meals served at Madame La Salle’s Boarding School were far more apt to cause fatal illness than those served aboard the
Isobel.
I also had less privacy, more restrictions, and far more unsavory companions at school than at sea. No, ’twas none of those things that deterred me.”

“I’m mystified, then. What caused you to loathe sea travel?”

“The fact that the moment the ship left the wharf, I became violently seasick and remained so for the duration of each and every trip. Which, incidentally, is why I spent so much time in my cabin. ’Tis difficult to walk about the deck with your head in a chamber pot.”

Laughter rumbled in Slayde’s chest. “I should think it would be.”

“I truly hoped I’d outgrow the weakness with time,” Courtney murmured ruefully. “But after twenty years, that possibility seems unlikely.”

“Twenty. Is that how old you’re turning next month?”

“Yes.”

The lighthearted moment vanished as ugly memories lanced Slayde’s heart like a knife. “I was only a year older than that when my parents died.”

Tilting back her head, Courtney studied his expression. Then, tentatively, she reached up, her fingers brushing his jaw. “I can’t begin to imagine how agonizing that must have been. At least I was spared seeing Papa—” She broke off, drew a sharp, unsteady breath.

“I was the one who found them,” Slayde replied tonelessly. “I returned to Pembourne late that night. I knew something was amiss when I found the front door slightly ajar. They were in the library on the floor. They’d been run through by a sword. The whole area surrounding them was covered in blood. No matter how many years go by, I’ll never forget that image. It’s ingrained in my mind forever.”

“The authorities never unearthed the murderer?”

“They stopped looking as swiftly as they possibly could. Officially, the crime was declared the unfortunate result of a burglary, since the strongbox containing my mother’s jewels was missing. That was the
official
report. The truth is another story entirely.” Seeing Courtney’s puzzled expression, he stated flatly, “To be blunt, Bow Street was terrified. Lest your father have neglected to mention it, the world believed—
believes,”
Slayde amended in a bitter tone, “that the Huntleys are condemned to an eternity of hell. A hell spawned by some bizarre, nonexistent curse, one that is perpetuated by the very greed of those who seek its source.”

“The black diamond.”

“Yes. The black diamond.”

“Slayde—” Courtney’s voice was soft, her fingers gentle on his face. “You’ve understood—and eased—my pain. Let me ease yours. Share it with me.”

That familiar wall went up. “That won’t be necessary. My parents were killed over a decade ago. I’ve long since come to grips with the pain.”

“Have you?”

Their gazes locked—and the wall toppled.

“My great-grandfather and Geoffrey Bencroft were partners in a joint venture.” Slayde was astounded to hear the story emerge from his lips. “Their quest was to locate the world’s largest black diamond, stolen centuries earlier from a sacred temple in India and never recovered. Once it was found, their intentions were to deliver the gem to a Russian prince who was offering an outrageous fortune in exchange for the diamond. Dozens of mercenaries had already tried—and failed—to find the stone. My great-grandfather and the late duke were determined to succeed, and they agreed that after they had, they would divide the fortune equally. The only dark cloud threatening their crusade was the mythical curse accompanying the stone, a curse that, according to legend, went ‘He with a black heart who touches the jewel will reap eternal wealth, while becoming the carrion upon whom, for all eternity, others will feed.’ ”

Courtney shivered. “How menacing. Papa never relayed the exact wording of the curse. All he told me was that your great-grandfather supposedly returned to England without the Duke of Morland, but with the stone. And that your family has endured the consequences of the curse ever since.”

“I don’t believe in curses,” Slayde bit out. “Only in those who perpetuate them, and those who effect them by virtue of their greed.”

“You think whoever killed your parents wanted the diamond for the wealth they’d derive from it?”

“Of course. ’Twas no secret that the jewel is worth a king’s ransom. Nor that my great-grandfather was the last known man to possess it, and that he never delivered it to the Russian prince. The mystery was, where did he hide the stone?
That,
no one knew. So, for four generations, thieves and barbarians have done all they could—including commit murder—to uncover the whereabouts of the wretched gem.”