Hot Silk (11 page)

A man I would trust with my life,
Devlin had said.
He’s saved my arse more times on the sea than I could count.

Grace cast a worried glance to her brother-in-law’s coachman and the groom who rode on the back. Neither looked in her direction. What were they thinking?

It was all very well for Devlin to have told the servants that he’d changed his mind about a ransom and was sending her back—and he’d paid them well for their silence. Her brother-in-law was a powerful, dominating earl. If he wanted the truth out of these men, he would get it.

She had to wonder why Devlin had taken so much risk just for her.

Then she caught her breath. A saddled horse—Devlin’s huge horse—stood by her carriage, the reins held in the hand of a young boy.

“What are you doing?” she demanded.

Devlin turned away from her servants to grin. “I said you could go. I said nothing about you going alone.”

Rogan St. Clair filled his lungs with the aromatic smoke of his cheroot as he watched besotted Captain Sharpe help his precious lady into the carriage. With a practiced eye, Rogan took in her fancy clothes, her bright white teeth, and her cultured mannerisms. What would she be worth? Twenty thousand pounds, easily. Fifty, possibly. And he wondered, if she was some high-and-mighty earl’s daughter, or even the daughter of a duke, whether he could get a hundred thousand for her.

It would be a challenge. That would be a queen’s ransom. But he was fairly certain he could get it.

He was damned tired of living at Devlin Sharpe’s pleasure.

Damned tired of it.

He’d been on the crew of the
Black Mistress
long before Sharpe ever joined. He should have been the one to be first mate, to eventually become captain. Christ, how it had galled him to watch Sharpe get the wealth, the fame, the notoriety that should have been his.

Rogan tossed his smoke to the ground, where he crushed it with his boot heel as he watched Sharpe’s hand linger on the lady’s pretty ankle as she scurried into the carriage.

He should have slit Sharpe’s throat a decade ago, out on the Caribbean seas, and let Sharpe’s body feed the sharks. But he’d feared he would be caught and punished for slicing the windpipe of the captain’s favorite. Hell, he’d served Captain Hawk well; he’d proved his mettle and his loyalty, but Rogan had known that he would have been forced to walk the plank for the murder of another crew member.

He could have killed Sharpe in the heat of battle, when no one would have noticed that it was he and not the British Navy who had put a pistol ball or a blade in Sharpe’s heart. He could have done it on one of their drunken orgies in a port, where they’d swived as many women as they possibly could and had had a long running wager as to who could bring the most women to orgasm in one session.

He was damned certain Sharpe had paid the women well to fake their screaming climaxes.

Hell, that’s what he had done.

But he had bided his time instead of killing his rival. Rogan had learned that control served a man better than hot rage. Sharpe had proven to be a cunning pirate and a bold highwayman and, as a gang, they had stolen a fortune.

Now it was time to get what was rightfully his.

“Before ye mount up, Captain, I’d like to have a word.”

Devlin sensed instantly from Rogan St. Clair’s low, angry tone that the business of the night before was not yet finished. He glanced from Rogan’s pistol, still held casually against the man’s thigh, to Rogan’s cold gray eyes.

Devlin took the reins from the young groom’s hands. “My answer is the same as last night.”

Grinning, his lieutenant lifted the pistol and leveled the muzzle with Devlin’s heart.

“And I could kill you where you stand, Captain.”

A flare of panic turned Devlin’s blood to hot fire and he knew that familiar rush of excitement that made his senses keen. He took a slow breath. “You could, St. Clair, but that would buy you a quick hanging and wouldn’t get you what you want.”

“Maybe the others wouldn’t hang me. Maybe they’d follow me. None of them like being at your beck and call, Captain—where you hold the purse strings and dole it out to us when we beg for it. We deserve the rewards we’re entitled to.” Rogan jerked his head toward the carriage, where the door stood open. “And she’s worth a bloody lot of money.”

“I know you’re an honorable man, St. Clair.”

“But not a stupid one.” His arm straightened; he cocked the weapon.

Something flew from the carriage—a dark shape hurtled out the open door and Grace screamed. Screamed so loud that St. Clair jerked slightly toward her.

Devlin jumped forward, charging toward St. Clair as the pistol came swinging back to face him, but the dark object completed its arc. A chain fluttered in the wind as Grace’s reticule came hurtling down and slammed into the side of St. Clair’s head.

“Jesus bloody Christ—”

Rogan’s curse died as Devlin’s fist connected with his lieutenant’s jaw and sent his head snapping back in the opposite direction. He wrenched the pistol from Rogan’s hand, followed with a hard left into his friend’s solid gut, then leveled the gun at Rogan’s head.

His lieutenant had doubled over with the blow to his stomach.

“Get the hell out of here, St. Clair,” Devlin barked. “If you turn around and run as fast as you bloody well can, I may not blow off your head. But if you stay here, I promise you I will.”

Pure fury turned St. Clair’s face a dark, mottled red. Survival meant turning tail and running like a coward—Devlin’s intention was to humiliate.

“You’re bloody mad. I’m entitled to my share of the loot, you bastard.”

Devlin let the insult roll off him. “You took a vow of loyalty. We all did. A broken vow is a forfeit, St. Clair. Now, get the hell out of here or lose a hell of a lot more than money.”

Cursing, Rogan swung around, and he jogged along the lane toward the gateposts.

Devlin knew many men who would have shot Rogan rather than letting him run. Easier to have a dead enemy than a live one.

But he couldn’t do it.

He could not take a man’s life just to make his easier.

He saw Grace’s pale face framed by the dark interior of the carriage and he gave her a low bow. “Thank you, my dear. You saved my life.”

She could taste salt in the air, and was certain she could hear the roar of the sea over the clatter of the carriage wheels.

Grace stole a glance out the window—she had not done so for the last hour. To look out would give her a view of Devlin trotting his horse alongside the carriage.

And there he was. For all his horse was large, he looked as dominant as the animal. He moved easily, gracefully, with it, the reins held with assured confidence. How relieved she was that he was safe, alive, unhurt, and she loved to watch the gentle bob of his shoulders. As for the way his thighs were spread—

He caught her gaze and smiled. The sun painted his face with warm gold and soft rose and turned his hair to gleaming bronze.

“This is preposterous!” she cried out the open window. She had been shaking after the horrible scene at Devlin’s manor. She had actually snapped apart the chain on her reticule with her nervous hands. “You cannot accompany me here. People will know.”

He inclined his head. “I’m not always the blackguard, my dear. I’ve escorted young women before—to protect them from the other animals that prowl the roads.”

“Have you, indeed,” she muttered. And what did he do to those young women? What did he ask of them in return?

His body moved gracefully with the horse’s trot. “And there have been widows traveling alone who were very welcoming of my protection.”

Well, there was her answer. “No doubt.” She winced at the obvious acerbity to her tone.

His clear laugh rang up to the treetops. “I’ve been riding the last few hours with an erection, love—no need to worry that I haven’t been suffering.”

“And so you should—” she began, enjoying the tart teasing, until she realized that he had used the word
erection
in front of Marcus’s servants.

“Sir!” she cried, and she shrank back from the window, as a scandalized woman would.

Deliberately, she fixed her gaze on the opposite window, her heart thumping and her stomach jumping with every lurch of the carriage. He’d said he had kidnapped her for an affair lasting a few days. An amusement. A bit of lusty fun.

So why come with her? Why would he say, “Grace, I can’t let you go?” Of course, he could. Once they arrived, he was going to return to his home, wasn’t he?

She bit her lip, aware that she could not even begin to guess what Devlin would do. She had barely eaten today and knew nothing would settle. Nor could she sleep. She just stared at the other window, not seeing a thing, utterly aware of the highwayman who rode alongside her carriage…

She jerked up as the carriage slowed. Gritting her teeth, she leaned to the window on Devlin’s side and looked out. They had passed Portsmouth and were following a small road that wove its way close to the English Channel coast. A sign pointed toward Netley and Southhampton, and just beyond it the coach pulled to a stop.

They had reached two stone gateposts—one bearing a crisply painted sign that read
Land’s End.
This was not actually the area of that name—that was far to the west of here—this was the owner’s fancy. Grace rapped the roof, and the carriage turned onto a narrower lane. She could almost lick salt off her lips now, and heard the distant thundering of waves on rocks. That must be the channel’s waters flowing through the Solent, the stretch of sea that separated the Isle of Wight from the mainland.

Devlin had ridden ahead now, as he could not risk riding alongside them on the narrow track. Well and good. She certainly had no reason to remain at the window, staring at his wide shoulders and the way his taut derriere bounced on the saddle—

No—no reason. And the rogue was probably aware of her gaze.

She sat back. Within hours, she would meet her grandmother. Butterflies blossomed in her stomach now. She had to prepare. To think of what to say. But she was afraid—afraid to offer any emotion, any piece of herself, unless she was certain that it would be returned with kindness.

Beyond “I am Grace,” she could think of nothing to put forth. So she leaned to the window again. The golden glow of the afternoon sun was like a beacon ahead of them, but the surrounding woods were dark and shadowed. Ominous, of course. And something was wrong—

Untended lilac bushes spilled over the lane, their flowers now dead. She recognized some—though she’d never taken much interest in flowers that did not come in a bouquet with a card. Rhododendrons.

The front wheel hit a deep rut and she lurched on the seat.

The sign that announced
Land’s End
had been bright and white, yet this lane looked as though no one had bothered to tend it for years. Her neck prickled—rather like Clarisse’s must have when she had arrived at her guardian’s foreboding castle.

A peer would have such a rustic estate? It seemed…unlikely. But then, not all members of the ton were wealthy. There were some as poor as she had once been—they just found it more possible to acquire credit.

The lane curved, giving her a glimpse of Devlin through young trees. Dappled shadows rained upon his shoulders and hat and slid along his golden hair.

Yes, she was rather glad to have him with her.

The lane twisted again, and her carriage and horses blocked her view. But she leaned out the window, watching anxiously. Did this lane actually lead anywhere? It appeared to be a meandering journey through the woods. More wild patches of color fought with vines and untended shrubs, and her heart sank to her stomach.

Suddenly, the carriage picked up speed and light slanted toward them. Within moments the track widened and hooves crunched on gravel. The trees gave way, revealing a clearing and a large, sprawling stone manor house.

A crumbling but ostentatious manor house—a blend of Tudor and Georgian architecture attached to an ancient tower.

This was Avermere’s house, which he used as a base before taking his ship over to the island. But it wasn’t expected at all. She had thought an earl, as Avermere was, would take better care of his home.

A riot of red roses furled for the night, climbed the stone walls of the first floor. Shafts of pink-toned light touched the paned windows, but the drapes inside were shut. Another carriage stood in the drive, surrounded by servants unloading a series of trunks.

Not the Countess of Warren’s carriage, she was certain. This one was modest, black, and without a crest or coronet on the door. Nor were there anywhere near enough trunks to meet the needs of a countess.

Suddenly, nerves struck again. She couldn’t imagine why a stranger’s carriage would set her stomach fluttering.

Devlin walked his horse back toward her window. The sun was behind him and the brim of his hat cast his face in shadow. She could not see him, but she saw the straight, tall posture he held. The way he turned to scan constantly all around him.

She heard another crunch on the gravel slightly behind them, and she leaned out the window to see.

A fashionable phaeton drew to a halt, the owner perched a good six feet above the ground. A gentleman, wearing a wide-brimmed hat, a greatcoat. She spied a touch of silver in his black hair, but despite the lines that bracketed mouth and eyes, he was handsome. Enough to send the breath spilling from her chest. Brilliant green eyes beneath black lashes. Full lips surrounded by dark stubble. A scar that followed the sharp line of a cheekbone. From the back, a tiger and a groom jumped down.

“Grace.”

Her door, the one opposite, swung open and let the warm afternoon air spill in, along with the melody of the fields—the whisper of leaves and grass, the sounds of bugs, the lowing of cattle.

She stared at Devlin, who stood, with hand outstretched, waiting to help her down.

“You should leave now. You’ve delivered me.”

“I do not like this. The nob in the phaeton is Lord Sinclair. Bloody notorious rake. He’ll be in your bed before the moon comes up.”