The Legend of Lyon Redmond (18 page)

She turned away again.

“And you kissed . . . Liv, oh God, but you kissed madly. Or you did, once upon a time. Perhaps you've forgotten how. Perhaps I was imagining all of that. Perhaps it was all a dream.”

Before his eyes, pink flooded her cheeks. She reached up a hand to touch one, as if to soothe the heat from it, then dropped her hand.

She still wouldn't look at him.

He turned away from her, and in silence they gazed out at the heaving sea, gilded in early morning sun. The slap and rush of the water against his ship, the wind whipped and cracked in the sails, a sound he had come to love.

“Has he kissed you?” he asked bluntly. His voice sounded thick in her own ears.

“You've no right to ask.”

He made an irritated sound. “Dodging and rhetoric are boring, Olivia, and you know it. Has he kissed you? Yes or no.”

“Yes. Of course.”

Of course
.

He looked at her.

And even now, jealousy began a slow, scalding spill through his veins.

Olivia was almost always right, of course.

He had no right to his jealousy.

But then, by that same reasoning, his lungs had
no right to the air he breathed, and his heart had no right to beat.

And now she was watching him, and she knew, she knew just what the words had done to him, and there was a flicker of triumph in her eyes.

“Was it everything you dreamed?” he murmured. “That kiss?”

The tone was dangerously silky.

She watched him, incredulously. In her eyes glittered the beginnings of temper.

“What did you discover when he kissed you, Olivia? Did you discover that one kiss is much like another? Did you discover that mine were mundane, very ordinary indeed? Did you shiver when he kissed you? Because as I recall . . . you shivered when I kissed you. As if a river rippled right through you. As if the pleasure was almost more than you could bear. I could
feel
it in your body when my hand was at the small of your back.”

“Stop it.” Her voice was low and taut and frantic.

“I remember that you made this little sound when I first kissed you. A sort of . . . It was an astonished, hungry,
joyous
sound. That night, I lay in bed and I thought about that sound over and over. I thought I would die just for the privilege of hearing it again. I thought I'd discovered the reason I was born. To kiss you, and to hear your pleasure in it, and to know that it would only lead to more pleasure for both of us.”

“Stop it.” She was breathing roughly now and the hectic color was back in her cheeks.

He continued in a relentless tone of casual reminiscence. “Kissing you . . . well, I knew, suddenly, what a roman candle must feel like. One moment lightless, the next soaring, dazzling. The difference between living and not living.”

“
Stop it
.”

“Did Landsdowne make you feel that way, Olivia, when he kissed you?”

“
Stop it!
”

It echoed shrilly.

Stop it stop it stop it.

Frightened seabirds flapped away from their perches.

Suddenly Lyon was ashamed.

He blew out a breath and turned back to the water, peculiarly drained and thwarted.

This was going badly. Clumsy fits and starts, attacks and feints.

What
was
he doing? What did he hope to gain?

He hoped to gain a life, he reminded himself. He hoped to get his heart back, if it could be had.

Another futile silence tacked itself down around them, dark and resentful.

Seconds stretched into a minute, then two.

“I suppose you've been celibate.”

Her words had a certain studied casualness.

Which sparked a tiny flame of something like hope in him.

“Of course not.” He shrugged.

It was absolutely true, but the shrug was meant to hurt her.

He didn't expound and she didn't ask. Olivia was intelligent and her imagination would torture her better than any Catherine wheel, if indeed she found the notion distasteful.

She was absolutely still and silent. But her knuckles were white on the railing.

She was imagining it. And suffering.

And perversely, it both elated and destroyed him.

It simply wasn't in him to hurt her. The point of his life had always seemed to be to keep her from harm.

And for a moment, his nerve and resolve wavered. He could return her now, and say good-bye, and she might know hurt again, but he wouldn't be the one to hurt her.

“He loves me,” she said suddenly, quietly. Defiantly. “Landsdowne does.”

“The poor fool.”

“He
does
love me, Lyon.”

It was the first time she'd said his name since he'd seen her again, and he hated the context.

It infuriated him, her calm certainty. The warning. His name, in her voice, which had once been so beloved. “Oh, no doubt. No doubt. And you must of
course
protect the man you love from being hurt.”

He was aware of a faint bitterness in his voice.

She whirled on him hurriedly. “I didn't say I love—”

They both froze, eyes locked.

The moment so taut and fragile one could have tapped a
ping
from it.

“Yes?” he said tersely.

At last she dropped her gaze again.

And was stubbornly silent.

The breeze had freed more of her silky black hair and it lashed and danced around her head like a dervish. Mesmerizing, the dark hair against the brightening blue of the sky. He remembered the feel of it in his hand when he'd cradled her head to take a kiss deeply. The textures of her had long haunted him: the generous give of her lips. The silken slide of her skin when he'd dared to explore so far, and no farther.

“I don't think you should underestimate him,” was all she said, finally. Her voice quieter now.

“I wouldn't dream of it. After all, people you underestimate might surprise you and do things like,
oh, absconding with you a few weeks shy of your wedding.”

“He'll come after me if he discovers I'm gone.”

“He won't discover it. I've made certain of it. But If he does, I'll be ready for him,” he said simply. Amused. “And I'll hand you back if that's what you want.”

A hesitation.

“Lyon—”

That
tone
. So reasonable. So condescending. Almost placating.

It infuriated him.

“Enough.” His voice cracked like a musket shot.

She flinched, her eyes widening.

“Don't you want to
finish
this, Olivia? And if you can swear on all you hold dear—whether that's your own lovely head, your family, the ground your ancestral estate rests upon, the esteem of Landsdowne, if indeed you
do
hold that dear—
if
you know with the same certainty you know the sun will rise tomorrow and that Everseas and Redmonds will remain at each other's throats through eternity that you don't love me anymore—I will send you back now. Say the word. Can you swear that you don't?”

Love.

That word. It was a cannonball fired over battlements.

He'd used it so much more easily than she had.

Then again, men were always more comfortable with weapons.

Her eyes had seemed to him so beautiful and changeable, so full of promise and tenderness and mystery, a little dangerous when they crackled with temper. A man could get lost there. Or found there. Like the sea.

And maybe that was why he was so at home on the sea.

She closed them.

And gave her head an almost imperceptible shake:
no
.

“That's what I thought,” he said, with grim satisfaction.

He turned swiftly.

“But—”

“I need to speak to my first mate about our course. Don't try to throw yourself overboard. You're being watched, and my crew isn't accustomed to handling anything gently.”

S
HE WAS STUNNED AND
furious and exhausted but she still couldn't help it: she opened one eye, and then the other, just so she could watch him go.

But then, it had always required a superhuman effort not to watch Lyon Redmond.

Now she saw a critical difference. When she'd met him that night in the ballroom, there had been a remote self-awareness about him. As though he balanced a burden no one could see, as though he was walking an invisible line drawn for him beyond which he could never go.

Now he walked as if he owned the earth and everyone on it and gave not one damn what anyone thought, including her.

She'd forgotten how
relentless
he could be. Absolutely merciless in the pursuit of a truth.

She hadn't forgotten how easily he could surprise her into laughing.

And just like that, in came another tide of anger for all that he was now.

And all that she'd missed.

And all that
he'd
missed.

She turned toward the water reflexively and tensed in shock, her palms digging into the railing, her knuckles curled in a painful grip.

No land in sight.

Dear God, no land in sight.

Just endless, heaving, glassine, blue-green in every direction. A veil of silvery foam, like the train of a royal bride, trailed the ship. The air was briny and winy, every breath she took exotically delicious and wind-scoured, and it stung her cheeks and sent her hair lashing at them like a cat-o-nine tails.

The sails cracked and billowed as the wind swelled them, and pushed the ship ever more swiftly forward.

Damn.

Damn him anyway.

Because . . . it was glorious.

He'd remembered. He must have remembered. All of the things she'd said she'd wanted. To see the ocean. To sail on a ship.

She closed her eyes against a violent surge of emotion. Something soaring and brilliant was burning through her shock and fury and fatigue. A bit like a beautiful, half-remembered song heard through castle walls.

“Good morning, Miss Eversea.”

Her eyes snapped open.

Mademoiselle Lilette was leaning companionably against the rail of the ship.

“Oh, good morning, whoever the bloody hell you might actually be,” Olivia drawled.

“Oh, that
does
sting a bit,” Digby said with infuriating cheeriness. “Something tells me that's the first time you've strung ‘bloody' and ‘hell' together, Miss Eversea, and it suits you right down to the ground. I'm
actually
Digby.” She curtsied. “Mrs. Delphinia Digby-Thorne.”

Digby's accent was now English. But then again, perhaps she excelled at accents. She might be a native Portuguese, for all Olivia knew.

Olivia turned and eyed her balefully. “Where did you learn to speak French, you fraud?”

“Fraud?” Digby clapped a hand over her heart. “I'm wounded. I'm more in the way of a skillful actress, and no one accuses actresses of fraud when they practice their craft. And I learned to speak French rather like you did, I suppose. They do want young English ladies to learn such things, don't they? That, and sewing, and the like. I suppose you can say that's where our similarities diverge.”

This Digby was insufferably at ease and regarding Olivia as if she were an achievement of which she was particularly proud. And Olivia's cheeks felt warm again at the thought of how much she'd confided in Digby.

“You are also a spy.”

“Well, yes,” Digby said, sounding mildly surprised at hearing the obvious pointed out.

“A good one.”

“Yes,” Digby agreed, modestly.

“Did you even ever lose a great love?”

“I've had plenty of loves, but none of them great until the man I married. I am recently wed to the captain's first mate. Mr. Magnus Thorne. And I intend to keep
him
forever.”

Olivia snorted.

“How did you . . . How did he . . .” Olivia made a frustrated gesture in the direction of London, no longer visible.

“He learned Madame Marceau had the making of your trousseau, and he bribed her assistant to disappear and
I
serendipitously appeared when Madame Marceau's need was most urgent. The previous girl was settling into enjoying her retirement in the country and can afford to marry well or not at all, whatever pleases her. And the captain coaxed
her back again with another payment when she was needed. The captain can do that sort of thing, because he's rich. Very,
very
rich,” she said with relish and awe. “I simply followed his directions and my own instincts, which ultimately made it possible to intercept you. It's generally the right thing to do, following his instructions, that is.”

Olivia stared at the woman, who was small and dark and round and lush in a way that would appeal to nearly any man. She had merry and too-knowing dark eyes. As Mademoiselle Lilette, she had clearly powdered her skin, for now a few golden freckles were apparent, and her hair had been clearly scraped and flattened into submission in order to play the role of modiste, as it was apparent now that it was riotously curly.

“‘Intercept,'” Olivia quoted sardonically. “Is that how one refers to kidnapping and deception these days?”

“Nevertheless, it's an accurate word, one must admit.”

“And how did you come to know . . . the captain . . . Digby?”

So strange to refer to him that way. The
captain
. Her brothers had returned from the war wearing new mantles of calm and authority, an air of abstraction that sometimes settled over them when they were silent. They had seen things, and done things, of which they would never speak, and it was this that separated them from their sisters, and somehow bound them closer to each other. It was the lot of men, it seemed, to see and do a lot of things of which they could never speak.

And yet Lyon's air of authority was something else altogether.

As if he made his own laws.

She wondered if anything could hurt him now.

“Well, his reputation rather preceded him,” Digby said, “and I greatly admired it. I needed a job. I convinced him I would be a useful employee. And so I have been,” she said with great relish. “For he wanted you here, and here you are.”

Olivia stared at the woman, a thousand competing questions clamoring to be asked. “What do you mean, ‘his reputation' . . . ?”

“As ship captain, exceptionally successful and wealthy merchant . . . and revolutionary, of a sort. Though the last bit isn't as commonly known.”

Merchant?

Revolutionary?

Lyon
Redmond
?

Was she dreaming?

“You left out possibly a madman, Miss Digby,” she said shortly.

Digby tipped her head. “Have a care, Miss Eversea. I suppose he's many things, but mad isn't one of them. There is method in all he does. I won't hear a disparaging word. I would do anything for him.”

Olivia fixed the other woman with a stare. “And have you?” she said softly.

Digby blinked in shock.

And then gratifyingly, the insufferably confident woman flushed.

“Firstly, Miss Eversea do you really want to know what I think you're insinuating? And secondly, do you believe you have the right to the answer?”

Digby's self-possession was both enraging and amusing, in large part because it was like looking in a mirror. And as much as Olivia would have loved to engage in a good fight right now, her sense of justice was muscular.

“Excellent points, Digby. No, and no.”

Digby's eyes flared briefly in surprise. Then she,
too, nodded shortly. “If you need any assistance, I'm at your disposal, Miss Eversea. I'll show you back to your quarters, if you'll follow me.”

“Wait . . . where is this ship going?”

“Spain,” Digby said shortly. “It's but a day or so across the Bay of Biscay.”

Spain. Of course.

She wondered what she would find there.

And suddenly she was certain she knew. And a tiny, rogue, inappropriate filament of joy snaked through her.

“And Digby . . . what did you mean by ‘revolutionary'?”

Digby paused, considering.

“Miss Eversea . . . You're aware your name is on the ship.”

Olivia's mind blanked in astonishment. “It's on . . .”

“The ship is called
The Olivia
.”

Olivia was speechless.

Digby must have seen something in her expression for her own softened.

“Men do have their romantic fancies, Miss Eversea. If he says you're worth his time, then I'll believe him, and reserve judgment. I've come to like you, but my opinion matters not. And I'll leave it to him to tell you what he's been doing since you last saw him.”

“Very well,” Olivia said softly.

“I will tell you this, Miss Eversea. The captain never did want anything more from me than my loyalty, more's the pity, and that's the honest truth. Though what woman wouldn't be willing to give him anything he wants? He's a remarkable man. Now come with me. You'll want sleep.”

H
ER TRUNK HAD
magically appeared in the cabin while she was on deck.

She snorted at that. He'd been confident he'd be able to get her onto the ship, that much was clear.

But then, he did know her.

Tempering her anger at the elaborate deception was the reminder that the only reason it had been at all successful was because he did, indeed, know her. Better than anyone ever had.

And it merely emphasized how truly lonely she'd been since he'd gone, even surrounded by friends and loved ones.

And the bastard had managed to glean a bit about how she felt about him, too.

She almost smiled at that.

Had he been lonely, too?

Olivia was certain she wouldn't sleep at all.

But what seemed like moments later, she woke with a start, with the sense that a good amount of time had passed. When she saw Lyon simmering in a pot across from her on the wall, she remembered where she was.

She rolled over and peered down.

A chamber pot was thoughtfully situated next to her bed, and a message was folded and propped like a little tent next to it.

She leaned over and read it.

In case you must puke.

It was tidy, even, ladylike printing, nothing like Lyon's. Digby must have been in.

Thoughtful of her.

She rose tentatively then took a few steps on the gently heaving floor of the ship. She didn't seem to be afflicted with seasickness, thankfully. She took a few more steps, and she still felt quite steady.

There wasn't a mirror, so she felt about the back of her head and smoothed her hair as best she could, patted her dress, and then opened the door a few inches.

She leaped back with a gasp as an enormous man glittering with metal—in his ears, at his hip, and, alarmingly, in the hook where his hand ought to be—turned to her.

“Ah, ye're awake now, are ye, miss? Stay here. Ain't safe on the deck. I'll get the captain. Lock yer door.”

He shut the door emphatically.

If a man like that said it wasn't safe on the deck, she would take his word for it.

What kind of world did Lyon live in now?

She locked the door.

A few minutes later she heard footsteps outside, and then several smart raps on the door.

“Olivia, may I come in?” Lyon's voice.

And her heart, the traitor, gave a leap at the very sound of it.

She slid the bolts and pulled open the door.

He filled the doorway Large, hard, and shockingly beautiful, particularly since he was wearing what amounted to evening clothes.

Apart, that was, from the sword.

Most of the men she knew didn't wear swords to dinner.

“What time is it?” she asked.

“It's nearly dinnertime. Accordingly—” He raised a bottle of wine in one hand and a sack in the other, which she suspected contained some kind of food. “We'll reach harbor by late afternoon, perhaps closer to sunset, tomorrow.”

He withdrew a loaf of bread, a wedge of cheese, a knife, a plate, and two glasses, all of which he arranged without ceremony on the little desk.

She sat on the foot of the bed, hands folded primly, while he settled in at the desk.

She watched him slice away at the bread and cheese and arrange them somewhat artfully on the plate.

“Why is your ship called
The Olivia
?”

“I had to name it something, and
The Mrs. Sneath
hadn't quite the same ring.”

She laughed.

Before she remembered how angry she was with him.

His head turned toward her quickly, and his expression was almost hungry.

But then her smile faded, and silence settled in again.

He placed the bottle of wine in the center of the little desk and extracted the cork with alacrity, then glugged a bit into two glasses.

He handed one to her.

He lifted his. “
À votre santé
, Olivia.”

She took a sip. A shockingly excellent wine that launched her eyebrows.

“Spanish,” he said shortly. “I export it.”

A fascinating sentence to be sure, and it inspired a thousand more questions.

“How did you come to have a ship?”

“I bought it.”

She stared at him. “It's going to be like that, is it?”

“Like what?”

“Curt, petulant answers that tell me nothing, really.”

“Petulant?” The word seemed to amuse him.

“It's precisely the right word. You can do better.”

He inhaled, then exhaled gustily. “Very well. I bought it with money I earned by working on this very ship. Supplemented by money I won from men foolish enough to play five-card loo with me. I worked, gambled, and invested.”

He leaned back to study the effect those words had on her. His arms were crossed before him. There were faint lines about his eyes.