Andrea Kane (9 page)

“Did your great-grandfather die before he could tell anyone the truth?”

“Yes. According to my father, he died less than a week after returning to England.”

“How?” Courtney murmured. “How did he die?”

“He was dashed on the rocks at the foot of Dartmouth Cliffs.”

Courtney tensed, and Slayde anticipated her next question even as she uttered it. “Was he … alone?”

“If you mean, was he pushed, no one knows. There were no witnesses.” Unconsciously, Slayde tightened his arms about Courtney. “Each successive generation of Huntleys has endured bloodshed. We’ve also enjoyed a sizable, ever-increasing fortune. So, according to those who believe in myths, the curse has come to pass.”

“But two days ago, you turned the black diamond over to that despicable pirate, so the curse should end for you.”

“Should it? Not when the true curse is the hatred spawned generations ago and furthered by the Bencrofts. Trust me, Courtney, that hatred will never end.”

“ ‘He with a black heart…’ ” she recited thoughtfully. “The Bencrofts think of your great-grandfather as such for deceiving Geoffrey Bencroft and disappearing with the stone.”

“Yes. And they despise us because of it. You see, from the moment the diamond left Geoffrey’s hands, the Bencroft fortune began dissipating. Each successive loss they suffered heightened their resentment. And there wasn’t a bloody thing we could do to alter that. True, my great-grandfather cheated Geoffrey out of his half of the diamond’s worth. But he also never sold the stone or reaped any actual profits, so after his death, we had no tangible fortune to share with the Bencrofts. Further, we couldn’t turn the stone over to them even if we’d wished to; we hadn’t a clue where it was hidden. Consequently, we had no way of righting his wrong.”

“And they didn’t accept that as truth?”

“Not for a minute. And any hope my family had of appeasing their hatred was quickly snuffed out. Less than a fortnight after my great-grandfather’s demise, word reached England that Geoffrey Bencroft had succumbed to a fever and died on his journey home. From that moment on, the Bencrofts’ enmity intensified to the point of obsession—violent obsession. Of course, at the heart of that obsession lay Geoffrey’s son, Chilton, the new Duke of Morland. New to his title, but not his role,” Slayde clarified. “Chilton had been the acting head of his family for years, running the estates and businesses while his father gallivanted about the globe. By the time Geoffrey died, Chilton’s reputation amongst members of the
ton
was notorious. He was ruthless in his dealings—and the Huntleys became his prime target. He used every opportunity to malign our name and thwart our business ventures. It maddened him beyond reason when each attempt not only failed, but resulted in further gains for us and more abject poverty for them.

“One month before my parents’ deaths, Chilton’s mind snapped. He and his only son Lawrence—the current Duke of Morland—forced their way into Pembourne and invaded my father’s study. Lawrence hung back, enraged but willing—no, more than willing, grateful—to leave the verbal assault to his father, while he himself tossed off a bottle of madeira and paced sullenly about the room. In contrast, Chilton raved like a madman, shouting accusations about how my family had destroyed the Bencrofts and how it was time for him to even the score, to make the Huntleys pay. The servants and I threw them out. But I remember Chilton’s expression vividly: there was murder in his eyes.”

“You think he—or they—killed your parents?”

“Just Chilton,” Slayde corrected. “And, yes, I do—although the authorities were never able to prove it. As for Lawrence, he’s too weak to kill anyone, although Lord knows, the intensity of his hatred is more than sufficient to incite murder. And he’s certainly clever enough to manage it—when he’s sober. But he isn’t strong enough to wield the weapon; he’d sooner hire another to do it for him, someone like the bastard who seized your father’s ship. Now
that
is the type of method Lawrence would employ. In fact, the more I consider it, the more convinced I am that he is the orchestrator of that entire plot. Tomorrow, I intend to learn the truth. And when I do, a segment of justice will have been served. Generations of Bencrofts may have gone unpunished, but the
current
Duke of Morland will pay—he and his pirate conspirator.”

Slayde felt a tremor run through Courtney’s body. Blinking, he jerked back to the present, staring down at her face and seeing tears gather in her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, his thumbs capturing the moisture as it trickled down her cheeks. “I don’t know what possessed me. The last thing I wanted was to frighten you with my family history.”

“I asked for the details,” she managed to choke out. “And you didn’t frighten me. At least no more than I already was. All you did was make me aware of the extent of your hardships. Dear God, Slayde, you’ve endured so much—far more than I.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Yesterday, you said you would undo my loss if you could. Well, right now, all I wish is that I could undo yours.”

The earnest proclamation of empathy was the last reaction Slayde had expected and the most impacting one he’d ever endured. Although he’d never discussed his family history before tonight, he was nonetheless acutely aware of the ugly speculation the Huntley name inspired. In the past, those with whom he associated fell into one of three categories: the few who were blessedly ignorant, the handful who were perversely intrigued, and the predominant group, who were altogether terrified—of the Huntleys and their demonic curse.

Not so Courtney. Here she was, gazing up at him with a wealth of hurt in her eyes—hurt not for herself, but for him. She wanted to undo his suffering, to eradicate his pain. And why? Simply because she cared.

Something profound moved in Slayde’s chest, soothing his remembered anguish in a rush of warmth. “That’s the most selfless offer I’ve ever received,” he heard himself mutter, realizing even as he said it that it was true. “Thank you, sweetheart.”

The endearment, uttered in a tender, husky voice, was more intimate than a caress…and just as pivotal, given the heightened emotion spawned by the past few minutes.

An invisible barrier was traversed.

Their gazes met and held, Courtney’s eyes widening as awareness flickered in the sea-green depths, her lips parting as if in question—and invitation.

Slayde’s heart began slamming against his ribs, a compulsion like none he’d ever experienced propelling him forward. Acting on that compulsion—and on a pure instinct he’d never known he possessed—he lowered his head and captured her mouth under his.

The world shifted—permanently.

It was Slayde’s first coherent thought as he tasted her, molded the delicate contours of her lips to his, warmed and stilled her trembling with his mouth. She tensed, quivered, then melted against him, her small fists knotting in his shirt, her soul seeking whatever replenishment he could offer.

He offered—but was it for her sake, or his?

The question vanished, unanswered, lost beneath the extraordinary feeling building between them. Slayde slid down on the bed, twisted about until Courtney lay supine, caged between the strong columns of his arms. Tangling his hands in her hair, he fused their mouths, deepening the kiss with equal measures of need and restraint.
Her injuries,
his dazed mind cautioned.
Don’t forget her injuries.

Courtney herself had forgotten them.

Lost to the moment, she welcomed the miracle of their kiss as a wondrous balm to her agony and a startling awakening of her senses. Like a tantalizing aroma, it assuaged one need, slowly kindled another. “Slayde,” she heard herself whisper. “Hold me.”

He shuddered, his arms contracting around her with a will all their own. Parting her lips, his tongue took hers, caressing it in a way that made tremors of sensation shiver down her spine. She complied with his unspoken request, opening her mouth wider, deepening his presence as their tongues tasted, touched, melded, and withdrew, only to begin again.

Time ceased to exist, seconds blending into minutes, minutes converging into an immeasurable eternity. Courtney’s fingers relaxed, her palms opening, gliding up Slayde’s shirt to the breadth of his shoulders, her arms entwining about his neck. In turn, he lowered himself until his shirt just brushed the soft swell of her breasts, balancing himself on his elbows so as to carefully avoid her ribs. His own hands, unable to remain still, roamed up and down the silken skin of her arms, her shoulders, her neck, savoring the quivers of response his touch evoked.

“Courtney.” He said her name in a reverent whisper, his lips leaving hers to feather across her cheeks, his tongue absorbing the tears still glistening there. He kissed her nose, her lids, the corners of her mouth, before returning to her lips, brushing them in a slow, eloquent wisp of motion. “Don’t cry.”

“I won’t,” she promised, her voice breathless, swamped in sensation.

Her innocence, her honesty, intensified Slayde’s rampaging emotions almost beyond bearing. With a strangled groan, he buried his lips in hers once more, tugging her closer, giving in a way he’d never given, taking in a way he’d never longed to take.

Later, looking back on this unprecedented madness, Slayde wondered what would have happened had Courtney not, at that precise moment, winced with pain. But she did—and the motion was like a slap to his unfocused senses.

“Courtney?” He raised up, searched her face. “Is it your ribs or your head?”

“My ribs.” Her lids lifted, her eyes still dazed with wonder. “ ’Twas only a sting. I’m fine. Truly.” Hesitantly, her fingertips brushed Slayde’s mouth, and she gazed up at him as if to verify the events of the past few minutes. “Did this really just happen?”

He felt as incredulous as she. “I think it did, yes.” He inhaled shakily, lowering himself beside her, drawing her closer until her head was tucked beneath his chin. “I should apologize.”

“Don’t.”

“Are you all right?”

Courtney nodded. “A bit dizzy, but fine. More than fine, actually. I feel as if I’m floating. What’s more, I’m not at all sure I want to descend to the ground. Or to reality, for that matter. I’d rather stay on this extraordinary cloud you’ve given me.”

What in God’s name was he allowing to happen? “Courtney—”

“I must sound absurd,” she interrupted self-consciously. “ ’Tis just that this was my first kiss. And while I’ve ofttimes tried to imagine what it would be like, nothing prepared me for the deep, sweeping magic—” She broke off, and Slayde could feel her face flame against his throat. “Did you ever notice that in the darkness you can say things you could never say in the light? ’Tis almost as if time is suspended until dawn.”

Slayde swallowed, staring at the ceiling. “That applies not only to words, but to actions as well.”

“Yes, I suppose it does.”

The hurt in her voice tore at his heart, but he was helpless to alleviate it. Still reeling from his own unfathomable behavior, he saw that one thing was glaringly obvious; he had to leave her—now—before things got out of hand. Courtney Johnston was a beautiful, unspoiled young woman who was alone, vulnerable, and untouched, not only physically, but emotionally as well. Despite the severity of her personal loss, her exposure to the world and all its ugliness was nil. He could not, would not, immerse her in the hell that was intrinsically tied to his life as a Huntley—despite the staggering feelings she inspired in him.

Or, perhaps
because
of them.

’Twas one thing to permit her to exist on the periphery of his existence, as Aurora’s companion, as a houseguest. But a deeper, more poignant involvement? When she had a world of pain behind her and a wealth of life ahead? No. Whatever unprecedented sensations were stirring to life within him, whatever bizarre transition was propelling him toward her, he owed it to her to fight it—before it truly began.

Before it was too late.

“Go to sleep, Courtney,” he murmured, coming to his feet and easing her head to the pillow. “You need rest. And so do I. I’m leaving for Morland in the morning.”

For a moment, she said nothing, just staring at him in the semidarkened room. Then she nodded, settling herself amidst the bedcovers. “I pray you learn something—something that will give us both a measure of peace. And Slayde?” She raised up on her elbows, her hair sweeping the pillow in a shimmering, moonlit waterfall. “Thank you—for the comfort
and
the cloud.”

T
HE WIND WHIPPED ABOUT
the Red Cliffs.

Miss Payne shivered, drawing her shawl higher around her shoulders as she eased into the alcove and approached the formidable figure awaiting her.

“You’re late,” the icy voice pronounced. “I instructed you to be here at nine. It’s twenty minutes past.”

“I know—and I apologize. But I had to be certain no one at Pembourne saw me leave. As it is, the earl wasn’t yet abed when I slipped away. ’Twould have been better if I’d lingered until he was. But I didn’t want to detain you.”

The glittering gaze bore into hers. “What did you learn?”

Miss Payne drew a sharp breath. “From the snatches of conversation I’ve managed to overhear, ’twould seem that Armon took matters into his own hands. The second ransom note arrived at Pembourne a day earlier than your orders specified. That very night, his lordship dashed off to comply with the kidnapper’s terms. The girl he returned with is the daughter of the sea captain whose ship Armon seized—and she bears a striking resemblance to Lady Aurora. Apparently, there was a struggle, during which time the girl—Miss Johnston—toppled overboard. Lord Pembourne dived in after her and—”

“I don’t give a damn about the girl. What about the diamond?”

Like a fatal dagger, the demand sank into Miss Payne’s gut. Inadvertently, she took a step backward, dreading the reaction she was about to elicit. “Lord Pembourne turned it over to Armon.”

Silence.

Nervously, the housekeeper wet her lips. “I’ve never known Armon to do anything quite so stupid.”

“On the contrary—his plan was brilliant.” A rustle of motion as the dark, cloaked figure emerged from the shadows. “Quite brilliant. ’Tis a pity he’ll never enjoy the fruits of his labor.”