The Passionate One (3 page)

London
’s rakehell cubs had taken him up immediately, as one would a new toy.
And a prime entertaining toy he was. No man was wittier, no company more
obliging, no guide in the ways of dissolution more knowledgeable. And no one
was less bound by society’s rules and had less care for society’s opinions than
Ash Merrick. But that was only to be expected.

Lord Carr was his
father, after all, a man who’d been exiled to the Highlands rather than face
his creditors and then been forced to stay in exile losing three rich Highland wives in short succession.

If Merrick was notorious, his father was infamous and the titillation of following so
nefarious a leader had proven irresistible to the bored elite.

But if they
adulated Merrick, it was a tainted adulation, well tempered with contempt. He
was a no one. Prison fodder. His own sire would not underwrite him, and his
mother had been a known Jacobite bitch. He lived by his wits on the fringes of
society, and therefore, while being amongst them, he was patently not one
of
them.

More provoking, he
did not want to be. And he did not care to hide that from them.

He allowed them to
follow him; indeed, he encouraged them, holding wide the doors to a nether
world of pleasure. Then he stood aside. Often he profited from a night spent
gaming but they did not take exception, as his profit was never great enough to
cause speculation. Besides, he earned their money in other ways, they reasoned,
by showing them a London they’d never known existed.

Even now, even
against Tunbridge, he’d only lost a few hundred pounds. Merrick rarely lost, so
those capable of wakefulness, and thus malice, watched his imminent downfall
with petty satisfaction. Except that is, for Thomas Donne, an obscenely
wealthy, mysterious, and cursedly suave Scotsman—and some said Merrick’s friend. Donne’s lean countenance conveyed a wicked, subtle amusement.

Merrick
, his lawn shirt open at his throat, his dark hair falling loose from
its queue, sans wig, sans jacket, sans reputation, smiled obliquely and
fingered the pearl-handled stiletto with which he’d been prying open nuts. His
dark eyes, raised to catch Tunbridge’s considering gaze, were vague and
unfocused. Drunk. Tunbridge began shuffling the cards.

“Merrick,”
Tunbridge drawled, “I’m afraid there’s no catching me this day. Another night
is come and my taste for this sport wanes as my taste for another grows.” The
maid on his lap giggled. “What say we call quit?”

“Surely not yet,” Merrick answered in wounded surprise. “You would not deny me the chance to retake what you’ve
won?” The slight pause before he uttered the last word was less than a
hesitation of breath. No one could say more and yet Tunbridge’s face reddened
beneath its sweat-streaked powder.

“Well, then, since
there’s just us two, what say to a game of piquet?” Tunbridge asked.

“Delightful,” Merrick murmured, his attention fixed on raising the tankard of ale to his lips. Tunbridge
cut the cards and Merrick did likewise, sighing resignedly when Tunbridge’s
king trumped his knave.

“Poor luck,”
Tunbridge said. “Doubtless you’ll fare—”

The door leading to
the public rooms swung open and a youth, dressed in the fashion of a courier,
entered. He stood blinking in the smoky room, vapor rising from his wet cape.
Spying Merrick, he picked a path over the outstretched legs of slumped bodies
to Merrick’s side and bent low to whisper his message.

For an instant Merrick’s indolent gaze sharpened and the flesh seemed to cleave tighter to the well-shaped
bones of his face. He held out his hand. With a furtive glance in either
direction, the courier laid an envelope in it.

“I’ve your leave to
interrupt play?” Merrick asked.

Tunbridge dealt the
last of the five cards and shrugged. “By all means.”

“My thanks.” Merrick slid the stiletto’s tip beneath the seal and flicked off the embossed wax. He
opened the note and scanned the contents before crumpling it.

With a peculiar
violence at odds with his gentle expression, he tossed it unerringly into the
open fire. “It seems my services are needed. I must away.”

“Ah well.”
Tunbridge commiserated with a small smile.

“But nothing is so
pressing I need leave before the end of this game,” Merrick added courteously.

Tunbridge’s hands,
hovering over the pile of coins, froze and for a second something in the
atmosphere alerted even the least sentient to something potentially dangerous
occurring in the room. Then Tunbridge’s teeth flashed white in the dim light
and he gathered his hand. “But of course.”

He studied it
awhile, allowing a small expression of satisfaction to play upon his lips before
calmly discarding. Merrick shouted for the innkeeper to bring more drink and
then, with only a glance at his hand, flung down eight cards.

So it went.

Each hand played
slowly. Whatever Merrick had read in that letter seemed to combine with four
days of relative abstinence to give him a powerful thirst. Aided by his
fellows, encouraged by the constant refilling of his cup, he drank steadily and
deeply. Between hands he peeled roasted chestnuts with his knife, muttering
disconsolately as Tunbridge’s point total grew steadily toward the hundred
needed to end the game and take the ante.

With each hand,
with each drink Merrick downed, Tunbridge grew more expansive and more
contemptuous. His barbed goads grew sharper and his predatory smile flickered
like guttering candlelight over his sallow countenance.

Finally, Tunbridge
stood only eleven points from the win. He dealt. Merrick did not pay any great
attention, being too busy draining the dregs of his ale into his mouth.
Tunbridge’s mouth pleated with satisfaction. He reached out to gather his
cards.

And Merrick, with a speed belied by his clouded eyes, struck savagely, instantly, skewering
Tunbridge’s hand flat against the tabletop with the pearl-handled stiletto.

Tunbridge howled.
The sound exploded in the thick, closed room, startling the sotted company to
wakefulness. He clutched at the handle that stood quivering in the meat of his
hand, swearing viciously.

Merrick
rose, no hint of drunkenness in the graceful movement and swept the
coins from the tabletop into his purse. Only then did he take hold the handle
of the stiletto. For a moment his gaze locked with Tunbridge’s.

“If there is no
card beneath your palm, Lord Tunbridge, I must most sincerely apologize.” With
a savage jerk he freed the sharp knife from its fleshy bed. Instinctively,
irresistibly, Tunbridge snatched his bleeding hand to his chest.

With a low laugh, Merrick swung around, pushed his way through the men lurching to their feet, and strode
from the room. On the table behind him lay the bloodied ace of hearts.

Chapter Two

The Northwest
Borders

April 1760

The day was
glorious, spiced with the distant hint of sea marsh, the sky scoured clear blue
and the forest minty green with new leaves. From beneath its canopy rode a
group of young hunters and huntresses, brilliant in their velvet habits and
flush with exertion.

At their lead rode
a young woman with tanned, rosy cheeks and dark mahogany red hair lying damp
upon her brow. A feather coiling jauntily from her hat teased the corner of her
smile. Others were more seasoned riders than she, but few could match the pace
Rhiannon Russell set.

Mounted at
midmorning and having ridden without bothering to break for nourishment, they’d
been unsuccessful this day, thwarted by the dry, crisp air and an old March
hare who’d first led the hounds then lost them, streaking from a bramble
thicket while the dogs milled wild-eyed in the overscented underbrush.

At the stables, the
party dismounted as the kennel master collected the pack of lean-flanked
quivering hounds. Yelping plaintively, Rhiannon’s yellow gazehound, Stella,
limped from the edge of the wood. With a laugh Rhiannon turned her horse and
went to accompany the hound’s limping progress. Stella was the last gift she
was to have from her stepfather, and therefore doubly treasured.

“It’s a worthless
bitch,” the kennel master said coming up the drive to meet her. “My granny has
better eyesight.” Her companions had by this time dismounted and were heading
toward the manor where Edith Fraiser had promised their repast would be
waiting.

“Aye,” Rhiannon
agreed, because she was a most agreeable girl. “Mayhap. But she’s young yet and
may prove herself worthy. Please? Take care of her?”

With a heavy sigh
the kennel master agreed, for who could resist hazel eyes and the sweet request
of one of Fair Badden’s prettiest lassies? Rhiannon grinned her gratitude and
dismounted, hurrying up the front steps after her friends.

At the door a young
maid met her. “An English gentleman—a
London
English gentleman—” the
girl said, “come to see you, miss.” Her face was bright with awe, her voice
hushed with the same.

Seldom did English
gentlemen come to their small hamlet. More seldom still did
London
gentlemen make the trip to this rural outpost, for pretty though it undoubtedly
was, it had nothing more to recommend itself than the prospect of its
ownership, a prospect that never transpired as the land had been long held by
others.

“I doubt he’s come
to see me, Marthe. I’m sure it’s Mistress Fraiser he wants,” Rhiannon said,
unimpressed and uninterested, looking about expectantly for one tall, robust
figure—Phillip, Squire Watt’s youngest son.

“No, miss,” Marthe
insisted, recalling Rhiannon’s wandering attention. “He come to see you. Not
Mrs.... Ain’t that right, Mrs. Fraiser?”

A stout,
apple-cheeked woman with iron gray hair bustled down the hall toward them,
adjusting the lace handkerchief tucked into her square décolletage.

“ ’Tis true,
Rhiannon.” Edith’s round face was fashioned for complacence, not surprise. The
line lifting her brow betrayed her amazement.

“But why?” Rhiannon
asked.

“I do not know,”
Edith muttered and held out her hands.

Obediently,
Rhiannon peeled off her yellow leather gloves, tucked them into her belt, and
laid her hands in the older woman’s. Mistress Fraiser turned them over and
tched
gently. “Dirty nails.” She looked Rhiannon over with ill-concealed resignation.
“Unkempt hair. Dusty habit. Well, it can’t be helped. He’s been waiting three
hours already and it would be rude to have him wait longer.”

Though she wanted
to protest that her dishabille made her unfit to receive strange gentlemen,
Rhiannon did not. She owed too much to Edith Fraiser to ever willfully
contradict her, let alone refuse her directions. She’d come from the Highlands
to Fair Badden a decade ago, a scrawny lassie fleeing the aftermath of
Culloden, looking for some kinsman to shelter her.

Though Edith
Fraiser was only a second cousin of Rhiannon’s mother, the Fraisers had taken
her in. A successful and well-respected squire, Richard Fraiser ranked high in
Fair Badden’s countrified society. From the offset he’d treated Rhiannon like a
daughter of the house, lavishing upon her every benefit of his wealth and
prestige.

Their unstinting
affection had harried Rhiannon’s blood-soaked memories into hiding. Only at
night, and then rarely, did phantoms stagger bleeding through a blasted,
burning landscape, did uncles and cousins roar in torturous din as they sought
to escape Butcher Cumberland’s retribution against those who’d supported Bonny
Prince Charlie. During the day, Rhiannon scarcely remembered her life before
Fair Badden.

She lived in Fair
Badden as though it had always been her home and she had always been accepted,
at peace, content. Even her Highland brogue had disappeared over time. Then,
ten months ago, Richard had died. Rhiannon and Edith clung together, finding in
each other the slow healing only shared grief can offer.

Now Edith fussed
over Rhiannon’s hair, untangling knots and rubbing a smudge of dirt from her brow.
That done she bussed Rhiannon warmly on the cheek, accepted a hug in return,
and turned her by the shoulders. She gave her a little push.

“Along with you,”
she said, shepherding Rhiannon down the hallway. “Your friends will wait as
long as there’s ale to drink and cakes to eat.” Her smile grew sly. “And your
beau would wait without the lure of sweets, kisses being a sweet enough lure,
I’ll wager.” She chuckled at Rhiannon’s shy expression and stopped before the
library door. “Go on.”

“You’re not coming in
with me?” Rhiannon asked in surprise.

“No.” A troubled
thought shadowed Edith’s soft features. “The gentleman asked to see you alone
for a few minutes. He said he had news regarding your future.

“I’m thinking—that
is, I’m hoping—he might be a lawyer sent from London with word of a lost
entailment. Perhaps a little forgotten keepsake from your dear mother to act as
a dowry. I only wish I had something more to give you myself, but it’s all long
since bespoke.”