The Raider’s Daughter

by Kimberly Cates

  The Raider’s Daughter

  Kimberly Cates

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be sold, copied, distributed, reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, mechanical or digital, including photocopying and recording or by any information storage and retrieval system without the prior written permission of both the publisher, Oliver Heber Books and the author, Kimberly Cates, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  PUBLISHER'S NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  COPYRIGHT © Kimberly Cates

  Published by Oliver-Heber Books

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  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Epilogue

  Preview To Catch a Flame

  Thank you!

  About the Author

  Also by Kimberly Cates

  Chapter 1

  Lucinda d'Autrecourt Blackheath scaled the branches of the oak tree that rambled up the side of Blackheath Hall, oblivious to the limbs that tossed in the waning storm. The golden glow of her bedchamber window beckoned at a height the most hardened adventurer would have found dizzying on the best of days, and simply terrifying tonight, with the lightning dancing against the sky.

  Lucy was soaked bone-deep, from the rags she had stitched to the sleeves of the scarlet regimental coat she wore, to the lead paint she had used to transform her winsome features into a ghastly mask. But no trace of fear or discomfort shone in her cornflower-blue eyes, only unabashed merriment and fierce satisfaction.

  Tonight had been perfect. She laughed aloud, savoring the memory of three burly men cowering beneath their beds, terrified of the phantom that had risen up before them.

  It had been almost too easy to convince the thick-skulled Baumgartens that she was a denizen of the Underworld. She'd appeared as one of the undead, come to stalk them as mercilessly as they had tormented Cotton Wells, a broken old man who had lost everything in the war—his beloved king, his fortune, and all three of his sons.

  Throughout the War for Independence and during its aftermath, the Tories who remained in America were considered fair game, bears in a pit to be tortured at will. But Lucy couldn't tolerate the tyranny of Americans against the defeated loyalists any better than she had been able to tolerate the tyranny of the English king.

  In spite of the love that had been lavished on her for the past twelve years by her adoring mother and adoptive father, Lucy remembered all too vividly the dark time in her own life, when she had been afraid and alone.

  She brushed away thoughts of the child she had been and gripped the stone window ledge, pulling herself up to the level of her room. Beyond the glass she could see the fire on the grate, and she couldn't wait to toast her chilled fingers above the blaze and clean off the paint that was dribbling in rivulets down her neck.

  Bracing herself in the fork of a branch, Lucy tugged the length of rawhide she'd used to open the window countless times before. This time the pane wouldn't budge.

  Damn the thing. She'd left it ajar when she'd slipped out hours before. Had one of the maids locked it?

  The very thought was enough to fill Lucy with her first twinge of misgiving. Thunderation! It would be just like Tansy, the upstairs maid, to discover that the lumps beneath Lucy's coverlets were nothing but artistically arranged bolsters and announce it to the world.

  Lucy's jaw set hard at the image of the girl tripping delightedly down to the drawing room, where Lucy's parents were entertaining a few remaining guests, then spilling out her discovery, a properly horrified expression on her sly face. If Tansy had frightened Lucy's mother, Lucy swore she'd wring the chit's neck.

  The possibility of gentle Emily Blackheath's distress was enough to dampen Lucy's spirits as the rain had not. Muttering an oath she'd learned around the campfires of her father's soldiers, she jammed her boot against the wall and gave a mighty yank.

  The window came open with such force she all but tumbled from the tree, her honey-gold curls straggling across her eyes. Gripping the window frame, she started to climb into the room.

  Hands shot out and jerked her into the room as abruptly as a sinner being dragged down to hell.

  She struggled for an instant before her boots landed square on the floor then she froze, peering up at her captor through the sodden lengths of her hair.

  Lucy's gaze locked on the man who had struck terror into the hearts of English troops throughout the War for Independence. Pendragon, the Patriot raider who had darted like quicksilver through the English ranks, stood before her. His arms were crossed in the timeless attitude of parental displeasure, and he regarded his adopted daughter with eyes that were unaccustomedly stern, his mouth grim enough to sour new milk.

  Considering the expression on Ian Blackheath's face, Lucy figured she should have spent the rest of the night in the tree.

  "Why, Papa," she said, excruciatingly aware that her guileless expression was being undermined by the garish makeup covering her face, "what a surprise."

  Ian snorted. "I would imagine so. All this time I thought you had excused yourself because you were bored with our chatter about John Wilkes's diplomatic mission to London. But no. You just slipped off to run wild through the night. Most fathers of twenty-year-old girls would question their daughters about lovers and trysts and elopements in such a case. But I suppose I can hardly hope you've been out trying to captivate some young buck."

  "No, Papa. I've been out haunting."

  Ian sighed. "Terrorizing the neighborhood again?"

  "It was a very selective haunting this time, I promise. Those fish-headed Baumgarten bastards have been tormenting Cotton Wells for weeks, so I dressed up as one of his dead sons and told them I didn't appreciate their treatment of my father."

  She could see the corner of Ian's mouth twitch, but he lowered his brows even more ominously to compensate.

  "Lucy, you must stop flinging out the word 'bastard' as if it is no more potent than 'by your leave.' A young lady—"

  Lucy sashayed to the washstand and wrapped her hair in a towel. "A young lady is supposed to mince about, hiding behind her fan and fainting at the first sign of danger. But every time I faint I bruise my tender places, and 'bastard' is a deliciously chewy sort of word. Quite perfect, in fact, when I'm in a temper."

  She dampened the corner of another cloth and went to work scrubbing away her makeup. "I'm very sorry, Papa. I know what a horrible disappointment I am to you."

  It was a long-cherished joke between father and daughter, one that brought a bark of laughter from Ian. He crossed the room with a limp caused by a British musket ball still lodged in his right hip—his personal barometer for foretelling tempests of two kinds, he always claimed: vagaries in the weather and those in his eldest daughter's formidable temper.

  "Impertinent baggage," he said, taking the towel from her fingers and tipping her face up to the firelight the way he had when she was small. He began dabbing at her cheek. "I thought we had come to an agree
ment regarding these late-night adventures you are so fond of. Your mama worries dreadfully—"

  "You didn't tell her?" Lucy demanded, alarmed. The fierce protectiveness both Lucy and Ian felt toward the woman who had made them a family was yet another trait they shared.

  "No, I didn't tell her. Though if I had an ounce of sense, I'd drag you down to the drawing room by the scruff of your neck right now and show her what mischief you've been up to tonight. Unfortunately, that would be a trifle awkward at the moment, with John and Claree Wilkes still lingering about, singing the praises of my so charming, so talented daughter. I wonder what they would say if I told them about the more unconventional talents you possess, in addition to your magnificence on the pianoforte."

  Ian grimaced and paced to the window, closing it against the rain. He peered toward the dark tangle of branches beyond the pane. "Your mother has begged me for years to saw off that damnable branch in an effort to keep you tucked up safe inside your room. The only reason I don't is because I know it wouldn't put a hitch in your escapades. You would just make some sort of ladder out of sheets and break your neck trying to climb down another way."

  "What can you expect from the Raider's daughter?" Lucy asked with a toss of her head. "You know what Vicar Dobbins always sermonizes: The sins of the fathers will be visited on the sons. What's bred in the bones will come out in the blood."

  "I had nothing to do with your breeding, Madame Impudence. You were dumped on my doorstep half grown. But all of Virginia holds me responsible for your disgraceful antics." The teasing was softened by the deep bond that shone in Ian's eyes. For just an instant, Lucy felt a rare twinge of sentimentality.

  Even though the Blackheath cradle had been filled three times since Ian had married Lucy's mother twelve years before, Lucy had always known she had a special portion of her adoptive father's generous heart.

  Lucy had always been astonished that she was so little like her beloved mother, yet had so many of the traits that belonged to the men who'd played the role of her father. From Alexander d'Autrecourt, the young English nobleman she barely remembered, Lucy had inherited the love of music that flowed like a fiery spell from her fingertips. While Ian Blackheath had bequeathed her a thirst for adventure, a restlessness of spirit, and a keen sense of loyalty and justice that got her into trouble more often than her mother's nerves could stand.

  Lucy shrugged out of the soaked regimental coat and slipped a pistol from the waistband of her breeches, laying it on the chair. The instant Ian's eyes locked on the weapon and darkened, she regretted her action.

  "Lucy, there are times I fear that you're going to put yourself in real danger. What if the Baumgartens hadn't been taken in by your masquerade? What if they had fired shots at you or given chase?"

  "It would only have made it more amusing." Lucy sighed. "Oh, Papa. I can't explain it. When the war was going on, there was always an adventure. I could dash out to visit you when your troops were near and listen to the stories your men told around the campfire. But now, with everything peaceful, I get so jittery inside that I have to play abominable pranks just to stir things up. I can't help it. There's this fire in my blood that keeps pulsing and pulsing."

  There was a twinge of sadness in Ian Blackheath's smile. "Maybe if you paid more attention to the beaux that hover around you like a honey pot, you would find the source of that fire."

  "I'd find nothing but trouble," Lucy scoffed. "The love you and Mama share is wonderful. And maybe when I am old and gray and doddering about, I'd like it too. But the moment a woman slips a wedding ring on her finger, her life becomes so boring. I can hardly imagine some ox-brained husband letting me play ghost or ride in a storm. And besides, every stupid boy I know runs around puffing up with pride as if they are so much stronger and smarter than me when they're really absolute blockheads. Just the other day, Wesley Mabley criticized the way I was carrying the reins when all Virginia knows he's so cow-handed he's ruined the mouth of every horse in his father's stable. Of course, he was probably still mad because I pointed out the cards he had tucked beneath his lace at the Grays' house party three weeks ago."

  Ian chuckled. "It's hard for a man to admit that a slip of a girl like you can beat him at every pastime there is—riding, shooting, gaming."

  "You aren't like that, Papa. I've not met a man who can hold a candle to you. Perhaps if I do, I'll consider hearts and flowers. Until then I shall stick to playing ghost, thank you very much. Now, if you're finished lecturing, you can kiss me on the cheek and carry yourself off to Mama. I know you can't bear to spend ten minutes away from her when she's in a family way."

  "Actually, I came to your chamber for a purpose other than helping you climb through the window, my dear. Tony Gray stopped by. He'd been to Williamsburg on some goose chase for his own brood of daughters, and he discovered this package waiting to be delivered to you. A mysterious package, I might add. I tried to peek inside it myself, but your mother rapped my knuckles with her fan and sent me to carry it upstairs."

  For the first time Lucy noticed the parcel setting on the piecrust table. Pleasure set her a-tingle. "It's from England, Papa! Mama ordered the music I wanted, and it's finally come!"

  Lucy raced over and tore open the wrappings as enthusiastically as a child. She hesitated, confused, when she discovered no music. But, rather, a sealed letter tucked atop a jumble of strange objects, the message penned in an unfamiliar hand.

  A sliver of unease pierced Lucy's excitement. Prodded by some instinct she didn't understand, she turned away from the perceptive gaze of her father and held the missive to the light.

  The package had been addressed to "Miss Lucinda Blackheath," but the name inscribed on the outside of this letter was "Jenny."

  Lucy stared at the name as if it were a ghost from another world. Maybe it was.

  Jenny d'Autrecourt—the name Lucy had been christened with in far-off England, by the father she remembered only through the hauntingly lovely music he had left behind.

  The name she had forgotten during the five years she had been cruelly separated from her mother.

  A rebellious waif known as Lucy Dubbonet had been left in Jenny d'Autrecourt's place. A child lost in anger and darkness that the love of Ian and Emily had healed.

  Lucy's hand trembled.

  "Lucy? Is there something amiss?"

  Her father's voice jerked Lucy back to the present with a force that made her heart stumble. For a moment, she was tempted to hand the letter to her father, but the worried expression on his features stopped her.

  In spite of twelve years of happiness, Lucy knew her parents still mourned what had happened to her as a child and that both, in their own way, blamed themselves for some portion of her pain.

  Lucy stuffed the note back in the box and forced her face into an expression of displeasure. "No wonder we trounced the English in the war. They can't even get a simple order for music right."

  "There was a mistake?" Ian moved to peer into the box, but Lucy swept it out of the way.

  "This music will do well enough, I suppose. It's just that there was a particular piece I was looking forward to and it's not here. You won't tell Mama, will you? I don't want her to think the surprise was spoiled."

  "Of course I won't tell her." Ian moved to cup Lucy's chin in his hand. "But I am sorry you're disappointed, angel. Why don't you mop yourself up and come downstairs again? John has spent half the night chuckling over your opinion of the king. And Claree is so delighted with your company that I think she would tuck you in her pocket and carry you away with her if she could. As much as they adore children, it's a pity that the Wilkeses cannot have their own brood—" Ian stopped and cleared his throat. Lucy knew it was a gruff attempt to change the subject from something so indelicate as the wound that had cost John Wilkes his ability to have a family.

  "They'll be gone for several years, you know," Ian said. "You'll probably be terrorizing your own husband and have a nursery full of babes by the time they return." There w
as a certain sadness in her father's eyes, along with resignation.

  "Not me, Papa. You're going to be saddled with me forever. I'm going to be the Mad Spinster of Blackheath Hall and set the whole parish on its ear with the scandals I stir up." Lucy attempted to tease, but her heart wasn't in it. It was as if the box in the corner were a living thing, lying in wait for her.

  Ian kissed her on the cheek. "You're far too much like me to escape that easily, my child. I predict that you'll careen into love the way that I did: like a runaway carriage hurtling over the edge of a cliff. Before you know what's happening, it'll be too late to stop it."

  Lucy chuckled in spite of herself. "I'm sure Mama will love to hear that description. I was there when the two of you met, if you remember, sir. And I was old enough to see that you were on the path straight to hell before you fell in love with her. She was the one who turned you back from the edge just in time."

  "She did at that, bless my poor beleaguered angel. Now I'd best get back to her. I wouldn't want her lifting anything heavy."

  "Like her teacup?"

  Ian looked a little sheepish. Lucy went to him and laid a hand on her father's arm. "Mama will be fine, Papa. She'll go through hours of agony, then look like an angel when she lays a beautiful babe in your arms. She'll be beaming and bonny, and you'll spend three weeks recovering, as if you were the one who had gone through childbirth."

  "I just wish that I could help her through it. It's not easy, this being a woman." Those eyes that could be so bright and teasing and tender were more than a little sad. He kissed her on the forehead. "I love you, moppet."