Hot Silk (23 page)

Dead. Was she dead? Blast St. Clair to the hottest depths of hell—he’d taken her away just when she’d found everything she wanted. Everything she needed.
Devlin.

Why wasn’t there pain? Had she gone so quick she didn’t feel any?

Strong arms gathered her up. Her head ached and she did feel a stab of pain, but she hesitantly lifted her fingers to her skull. She shouldn’t have a head, should she?

Male shouts surrounded them. Bushes crashed all around, but she could only stare ahead at the sight revealed by shafts of moonlight.

Rogan St. Clair’s body lay sprawled on the ground, a black hole where his chest had been.

Devlin had shot St. Clair before St. Clair had shot her.

Her legs threatened to fall like skittles again. But she had to find strength. Just like on the heaving ship, she could find a way to stand tall at Devlin’s side.

St. Clair’s men—a dirty, disheveled group of four—were surrounding them. But her brothers-in-law, the magistrate, and his men charged into the woods, armed with pistols, rifles, and blades. Luckily, men who served a Judas of a master didn’t put much stock into loyalty. They quickly surrendered rather than lose their lives.

But there was confusion around as men were captured and as some tried to flee. Bodies crashed through the woods and men shouted, grunted, and cursed all around. Marcus called out to her. “Grace! Where are you, Grace?”

“Bloody hell!” Dash yelled. “I can’t find her.”

Devlin’s hands clasped lightly on either side of her face and she winced—then saw the pain flash on his face at her involuntary grimace. But his hands were strong, warm, and she wanted them there.

His lips lowered to hers.

He wanted to kiss? Now?

“Devlin,” she whispered, even as she tipped her head up in anticipation of touching her mouth to his. “We don’t have time. You can slip away now, before Trent and Swansborough find me. You could be gone if you hurry.” Even as she rasped out the words, she yearned to hook her arms around Devlin’s neck and hold him, keep him trapped, and kiss him—

She couldn’t. She had to let him escape.

But she could almost taste him, even with his lips an inch from hers, and she breathed in the heat of his mouth and felt all sense rush away. Up on tiptoe, she surged and she hurriedly pressed her lips to his. A few seconds. It was all she could have.

Devlin’s hand slid around her neck, holding her possessively, and he caught her around her waist. She sinuously pushed her body against his. Only a few seconds to savor his size, his strength—the body that she knew so well and adored so much.

His mouth teased hers, joined hers, and his kiss commanded all her thoughts. She flicked her tongue with his, playfully, and giggled into his mouth when he groaned into hers. He could kiss away her doubts, kiss away her fears, but he couldn’t kiss away doom.

They’d been kissing too long—

She pulled back. “You have to run—”

But he just shook his head. “No, Grace. Once you accused me of being so arrogant as to think that I was above the law.”

Dread crept through her, like cold on a winter’s day, and her body began to feel numb. He wasn’t going to run.

“Sweetheart, I knew it would break my heart to let you go, but I believed I had the courage to do it. I’m a wanted man—how could I evade the law with a wife and children? I’d be putting a woman like you at too much risk. I’d be putting our children at risk.”

Children? He’d been thinking of marriage; he’d been thinking of their future together.

“I know. I want you to go and have your freedom,” she urged.

His mouth took hers into a soaring kiss again, but as he eased back, he whispered, “I’m going to give it up for you. I intend to live like an ordinary gentleman, Grace. I intend to become the kind of man who has a right to propose marriage to you.”

“You’re going to stop—”

“But that’s not enough, Grace. I cannot be your husband as a fugitive.”

She trembled. “What do you mean?”

“A wanted man isn’t good enough for you. A man brave enough to pay his price would be.”

She drew back, astonished. He wanted to pay his price to be worthy of offering marriage to her. “But they’ll hang you!”

That wild grin came to his lips. “It’s this or nothing, Grace. I’ll come to you as an honest man, or I cannot have you at all.”

“Devlin Sharpe, stand where you are!” The voice thundered over Grace, and she stood frozen as the magistrate and three armed men strode toward them.

Oh dear heaven, was Devlin going to hang?

“Devlin Sharpe is the hero in this! Why can you gentlemen not understand this!” Grace cried as she surged forward to stop the magistrate, Sir Charles Ball, from taking Devlin away. But Marcus firmly caught her by her shoulders, and his strong grip imprisoned her.

“Stop this, Grace.”

But despair and fear and horror roared through her. “He is not the one who kidnapped me, who hurt me, who hit me! Rogan St. Clair is—”

“We know that St. Clair is responsible,” Marcus assured her. His deep voice was intended to calm her, to soothe her, but it only made her more desperate. Then why couldn’t they let Devlin go?

The magistrate’s men surrounded Devlin—two bent at his feet, throwing the hasps of shackles and locking them tight. Another man clamped a pair of handcuffs onto Devlin’s wrists. The chains that bound him hand and foot looked dirty and rusty, but she had never seen Devlin look more proud.

Was it defiance? But she saw at once he wasn’t looking at the magistrate; he was looking at her, and her heart turned on edge. He looked uncertain, he appeared to be waiting—for what? To be hauled away in chains?

Marcus’s grip had not slackened, so she could not put her arms around Devlin one last time. She threw a desperate glance at Dash—her sister Maryanne’s husband had sported a black and dangerous reputation when he’d fallen for Maryanne. He’d reputedly done the wildest, darkest, most scandalous sexual things.

But even Dash gave a sharp shake of his head. “He’s a highwayman, Grace. It’s unlikely he’ll be set free without trial.”

Dash possessed dark eyes and thick dark lashes, and in the shadows of the night, she couldn’t read his expression. The tone of his words suggested warning.

She struggled beneath Marcus’s grip. A kick had freed her from Rogan St. Clair, but she doubted kicking her handsome and autocratic brother-in-law would be a wise plan. And what would she achieve? A moment’s freedom followed by a quick toss into the carriage, where he and Dash would probably bar the door.

Both men had to be restraining themselves. Both men might believe Devlin hadn’t hurt her, but they’d guessed he’d made love to her. She’d come so ferociously to his defense, what else could they think?

Both Dash and Marcus would believe her honor worth fighting over.

“But Devlin has done things for the Navy!” Grace cried. “They forgave him being a pirate. He rescued me, saved my life, and I’m the sister-in-law of a peer. Could he not be pardoned for that?”

The magistrate’s gaze settled on her and her heart lurched in hope as she read some sympathy there. A touch of a smile came to the elderly man’s mouth. “I doubt, Miss Hamilton, that we will see Mr. Sharpe hang, but he has to have his day in the assizes.”

“But he’ll be imprisoned!”

She swung around to face Devlin, who stood weighted down by chains. Why was he not defending himself? She suspected that Devlin had fought his way out of worse situations.

He didn’t want to fight. She saw his expression and understood. He believed he had to transform himself into an honest man for her, and the only way he could do that was to either be pardoned or punished.

Bother him! She didn’t want that. She wanted him.

Society’s acceptance didn’t matter one jot to her anymore.

“Devlin,” she cried, and she didn’t care that they were surrounded by men who would hear her, who might laugh at her, who had perhaps already judged her wanton and foolish. “I love you, Devlin. No matter what, I love you.”

Marcus gently drew her back and forced her to walk toward his carriage. The magistrate’s men roughly hauled Devlin back, dragging him away from her.

“Grace, I’ve no right to say it to you,” Devlin called out, “But I love you.”

“T
here! Are you quite satisfied! He’s rotting in Newgate, awaiting trial!”

Grace saw her oldest sister Venetia roll her eyes. She knew her anger was being dismissed as another dramatic outburst and that her sisters had no idea of the agony she was truly in. She grasped a small Chinese vase, a brilliant scarlet piece, and threw it at the wall.

It exploded into a storm of red porcelain pieces.

“That’s enough.” Venetia jumped to her feet and marched over. “I wouldn’t let my son behave so childishly.” Her sister stormed toward her like the imperious countess she now was. Expecting her second child, Venetia glowed and her wilder, artistic nature seemed completely hidden by a commanding and controlling calm. Perhaps this was what motherhood did.

Grace had grown up believing her mother, Olivia, had yearned to go back to the ton and that her mother’s patient calm had covered up broken dreams. After all, Grace knew what it had been to give up dreams. She’d had many romantic and dramatic dreams—marrying princes, being the most admired lady at the most important ball of the Season, being presented at court—all a young girl’s treasured fantasies.

Grace had thought her mother dreamed of the world she had lost. And Grace thought that was why her mother believed a good marriage to a dashing titled man and financial security should be her dream. Because it had been her lost dream.

But now she saw that her mother’s dream had always been freedom. Pursuing Rodesson had only been a concrete way to seek freedom. After all, why had her mother never tried to go home?

Was it not because Olivia feared rejection from the dragonlike Countess of Warren, but because Olivia actually did not want to go back?

Grace jerked back to the present as Venetia firmly pushed her toward the settee.

“Now sit down, Grace,” Venetia continued. “If we are to make an intelligent plan, we need to act with some intelligence.”

She didn’t sit, though; she stood in front of the delicate, silk-covered sofa, feeling like a prisoner in the dock.

“So, obviously, you and the pirate Mr. Sharpe have fallen in love.” Venetia had rested back against the mantel, and she looked pained, as though the carved wood was digging into her spine, but Grace knew what hurt Venetia was losing control. Venetia had tried valiantly to look after her youngest sister, to keep her out of trouble, and she’d failed.

“I suppose Mr. Sharpe has ruined you,” Venetia said.

“No. I won’t have you leaping to censorious conclusions, Venetia,” Grace protested.

“And if you want to refer to him as a pirate, should he not be Captain Sharpe?” Maryanne threw in. “When he was acting as a highwayman, I assume we would call him Mr. Sharpe.”

Grace almost giggled at the withering look Venetia directed at Maryanne. With their mother in Italy, Venetia was trying so desperately to be their mother.

Grace could not stand for it. “Why do we not just call him Devlin?” she cried in frustration.

But Venetia was showing her artistic temperament now. “A highwayman and a pirate! All he needed to make himself more scandalous was to have tried to blow up the Houses of Parliament!”

“Venetia, he’s hardly a traitor. The British Navy has been in his debt,” Grace pointed out. “And Devlin did not ruin me.”

“So you and Mr.—Devlin did not make love?”

Both her sisters looked at her with quirked brows and pursed lips, expressions that screamed their disbelief.

“We did, but Devlin rescued me.”

“From Mr. St. Clair, which was very noble and heroic,” Venetia said, “but it is his lusty actions that are important here—”

“No, he rescued me at the very beginning. I wanted to marry—years ago, before you married Marcus, Venetia. I intended to save our family by making a good marriage.”

“Well, Mother certainly thought you might,” Maryanne said, “You’ve always been lovely—the loveliest of us all.”

Venetia humphed and folded her arms over her chest. “I did not think throwing you into marriage was the solution. So I painted.”

“I know what you did for us all, Venetia! But I thought I should help too.”

Maryanne reached for Grace’s hand. “You didn’t have to throw yourself into marriage—”

Grace picked up a tiny china figurine of a harlequin playing a violin. She would throw it if need be. Wouldn’t her sisters just let her talk? Being dramatic was the only way she could ever get any attention. “I wanted to marry and then…then I fell in love. At least I thought I was in love. I loved Lord Wesley, my friend Lady Prudence’s brother. When I went to their house party, I—”

“You gave your innocence to him?” Venetia gasped.

“But what about Devlin?” Maryanne added.

“You bedded both men?”

She almost lost her courage to tell her story looking at the shock on her sisters’ faces. “Not at the same time!” she cried. Wait…both her sisters were blushing and looking rather self-conscious at her comment.

“No!” Maryanne held up her hands in protest. “We’ve never done anything such as that. But, well, men do like to spin fantasies in the bedroom.”

“Then you can’t judge me!” Grace cried. “Yes, I gave my innocence to Wesley. He had told me he wanted to marry me. I said yes, we made love, and then after…after, he laughed at me. It had all been a wager, a joke. And there was nothing I could do. Our distant cousin knew about it, Lord Wynsome. It was all horrid—”

“Grace—”

Both her sisters were rushing to hug her. But she put down the harlequin and stepped back. “I want to finish! After Wesley’s horrible words, I raced out of the room and ran straight into Devlin. He guessed everything. He made sure neither man would ever speak a word of what happened. He even spanked Wesley, who is his titled half brother!” She thought of that horrible scene with Wesley, when he’d held up their carriage and had intended to use her to hurt Devlin.

“No wonder Lord Wesley Collins has left England,” Venetia muttered.

Grace whirled around and paced, darting around the furniture that filled the drawing room of Venetia’s Brighton home. She had to keep moving—she didn’t want to surrender to a hug just yet. “So I did take Devlin to my bed that night. I know it was wrong and scandalous. But he was so noble to me that I wanted what I thought would be my only memories of lovemaking to be…good and not horrible.”

Maryanne forced a hug on her then. “Grace, we don’t judge you. It is hardly your fault that Lord Wesley lied to you, but…”

Embraced by her sister’s slim arms—Maryanne was taller than she and very slender—Grace cautiously asked, “But?”

“Are you certain you love Devlin? That it wasn’t just heartbreak?”

“It’s been over two years since that night, and not one day has gone by that I haven’t thought of Devlin.” Grace heard the tears in her voice and swallowed hard. “I am quite certain I’m in love with him. No matter how much I tried to deny this intense, overwhelming yearning for him, I could never forget it and I know I never will.”

“Do you know…how Devlin feels about what happened between you and Lord Wesley?” Maryanne asked softly. She slipped her arm around Grace’s waist.

“Yes,” Venetia added, “That is quite important.”

“He doesn’t blame me, if that’s what you mean. He has never held it against me.” She wondered if her sisters would. From their worried expressions, the glances they shared, Grace was certain her sisters wished she had been more cautious, more circumspect, more…dutiful. But Devlin had never judged her for what she had done.

Venetia smiled. “He sounds to be a good man. But we suspect you did not leave here to go to Lady Prudence’s house party, that you lied to us. Was it Devlin you went to see?”

Grace felt tears spring to her eyes. “No. I had been writing to the Countess of Warren. Our grandmother.”

Venetia froze. “Why?”

“I wanted to heal the rift, to put aside past quarrels and anger. I wanted to know her.”

“Did you meet her?” Maryanne asked.

Around the lump in her throat, Grace managed, “Yes, but she rejected me. She’d heard of my behavior from Lord Wynsome. She called me wanton; she threatened me never to make our connection known.”

“Horrid old cat!” Venetia cried.

Grace wiped her eyes, for the tears itched. She had thought her sisters would be angry at her, not at their grandmother. “She had written me a letter in which she told me that she wanted to see her granddaughters. That it had been her husband, the earl, who had forbid it. But when I met her, she was cold and cruel. I could not understand it.”

“And Devlin was there.”

Grace frowned. “Yes, he was. He had not wanted me to see the countess. He did not want me to get hurt.”

Venetia tapped her lips and then she took Grace’s hand and led her to the settee. This time Grace willingly sat, sinking into the satin-covered cushions, and her sisters sat flanking her.

“How did you find Devlin, or did he find you once more?” Venetia asked. “Or have you been secretly seeing him for two years?”

“I don’t think she has.” Maryanne shot a frank look at Venetia. “I think she would not have been so discontented and restless if she had been.”

Venetia gave a wry smile. “That’s true.”

Grace knew there was no way but to tell the truth, and she felt courage with her sisters she never had before. She felt like an equal, not like the bothersome baby. “Devlin held up my carriage. He had been watching me for two years.”

“And he held you up for what reason?”

“To embark on an affair.”

“So he has never offered marriage.”

Grace shook her head and sank back against the chair. She did not want to discuss this. Of course he had not offered marriage. He had told her, hadn’t he, that he had nothing to offer her because he was a wanted man? That he would come to her as an
honest
man or he would not come at all.

She rather wished that a nurse would bring one of the children down, either Venetia’s sturdy six-month-old son Richard Nicholas Charles Wyndham, or Maryanne’s month-old baby boy Charles Dashiel Blackmore. Such large names for such tiny little men.

Either little boy would be a distraction, a desperately needed one.

Venetia crossed her arms beneath her breasts, narrowed her hazel eyes in great seriousness, and tilted one auburn brow. “He hasn’t offered marriage, has he?”

“I want to use my dowry.” She faced Venetia with courage. “I intend to buy a ship with my dowry and rescue Devlin, whether he has offered me marriage or not.”

“Rescue him!” Maryanne’s brows shot up. Her sister wrote popular books of adventure and passion, all dismissed by the critics but adored by readers. “Exactly what do you mean by ‘rescue him’?”

“Get him out of jail and get him out of England,” Grace answered.

“You cannot run away,” Venetia declared. “I completely forbid it.”

Grace was ready to run to the mantel and grab the mate to the vase she’d thrown and crush it in her hands. But she paused. She was a grown woman. She did not have to throw pottery in a tantrum. She had to take charge of her life.

“Why do you forbid it?” she asked. She would not scream at her oldest sister, but Venetia had no right to forbid anything. She would actually listen to her sister speak for once instead of flying into dramatics. “Because he’s a pirate?”

“No—because I don’t want to think of you living a dangerous life where you are hunted by the British Navy! Because I want you to stay and be happy—to find the happiness Maryanne and I have found—”

“I think that is the problem, Venetia,” Maryanne interjected, and Grace shot her a look of surprise. Her middle sister usually sided with Venetia, the most bullheaded of the three of them. “Grace wants an entirely different kind of happiness. She wants adventure.”

“It’s sorely overrated,” Venetia cried. “Do you want more nights where you are held at gunpoint? Do you want to see Devlin shot in front of you?”

She flinched at that and Maryanne cast an angry glare at Venetia. “You are the one being overly dramatic. I’m sure if Grace and Devlin were to sail away and Devlin were to cause no more trouble, the king and the British Navy would never trouble themselves again about him.”

“But it means she would never come back! We’d never see her again! Just as Mother has said she will not come back to England, Grace will not either.”

“But that is the way of life.” Maryanne reached around Grace and placed an impulsive hand on Venetia’s arm.

“I wanted us to be happy as a family.”

Grace knew she must speak for herself—she couldn’t play the youngest child any longer, letting others speak for her while she sullenly kept her agreements and disagreements bottled inside. “We will be, we just won’t live at each other’s sides.”

Venetia sighed. “I’m being foolish, I know. It’s just that I had the chance to make your life perfect, Grace—”

“There’s no reason why it won’t be perfect, Venetia,” Maryanne added.

“But how do you plan to get Devlin out of Newgate? I doubt bribery will work—he’s far too important a prisoner. And you don’t know that he would even take you with him. He’s offered you nothing.”

She heard Maryanne’s sharply drawn breath.

“He’s offered me his heart.” Grace refused to be goaded into throwing more vases. “He was willing to let himself be captured to protect me! He could have run to save himself, but he wanted to ensure that I was safe. He was willing to face prison, to face a noose, for me. He let himself be taken to prison to make himself worthy of me. I believe in him, even if none of you do.”

“A pirate willing to give up his freedom must be in love,” Maryanne added.

Venetia wore a troubled frown, her brow furrowed, and, for the first time, Grace thought her eldest sister looked exactly like their mother. Venetia—who had always thought her artistic talent meant she was the most like their scandalous artist of a father.

Perhaps nothing was exactly the way they had always assumed it was.

Grace had always thought she’d be happy making a proper marriage and bringing her mother back into high society. Now the very thought made her nauseous. She had always believed she was the most like their mother—well bred and not truly prone to scandal.

But perhaps her sisters were the responsible ones and she was, at heart, the wildest of them all.