“In the mountains?”
“Yes.”
“So?” Carr asked. “What of it?”
“It’s apparently a nobleman. The clothes, or what are left of them, are fine and there was an expensive wig.”
There must be more to the story. “Yes?”
“He looks to have been savaged by a wolf.”
“Impossible.” Carr snorted, his interest in the tale fast fading. “There haven’t been any wolves in Scotland for over a hundred years.”
“As you say.”
He began to turn, intent on finding the wine steward, but something about her complacence made him uncomfortable. She’d ever been cool, like a beautiful ice princess. Now she was hard as ice as well. And no longer cool, but cold. That type of coldness that burns. “Who was the man, did they say?”
“Edward St. John.” Her eyes stayed on his face, soft and intent as a cat’s mesmerizing gaze. “You look upset. Did you know him? Ah, yes. I recall. He was here last year, was he not? He lost a great deal of money to you. Losing money to you must surely be the way to your heart, for upon my faith, Father, you are pale with the news.”
“Was he alone?” Carr demanded.
“Quite alone.”
The bloody, bloody bungler. Carr had all but handed the Russell bitch to him. He deserved to die.
Now he would have to make another plan before Russell arrived, find some other puppet whose strings he could pull …
“I wonder why he was traveling alone in those mountains?” Fia smiled.
She was toying with him! The realization struck him like a slap across the face. The audacious chit! How dare she? Anger clotted his cheeks with high color. His mouth compressed. He wheeled and began stalking away from her.
“Oh, Father?”
He looked around. She stood exactly where he’d left her. Her hands were clasped lightly before her.
“What?”
“I forgot to mention earlier but a messenger came for you last night.”
He scowled. “What is it, Fia?”
“ ’Twas a message from a Mr. Ian Russell.” She tilted her head. “I don’t recall knowing anyone named Ian Russell. And I have quite a memory for names.”
Russell. No! He wasn’t suppose to arrive until late summer!
Carr’s heart leapt to his throat. A thick, dull pain lanced through his side. His throat constricted and his fingertips tingled. The blood surged and boiled to his face.
“What?” he demanded in a choked voice. It was hard to breathe. His hands felt dulled, numbed. “What about Ian Russell?”
“Odd message,” Fia said slowly.
“Damn it, Fia,” he gasped, “what … did … it … say?”
“Oh, only something about the political climate not being favorable for sailing and that he must delay his trip indefinitely. Isn’t that odd?”
Carr closed his eyes. Relief washed through him, but the cost of his momentary panic was high. The vise around his chest eased only slowly, the feeling returning to his fingertips in increments. When he finally opened his eyes, Fia was gone.
Le Havre France
July 1760
It was a nice inn, relatively new, and very nearly clean, particularly the private room in which the dark young man had carefully ensconced the pretty young woman. The innkeeper’s wife, an earthy practical woman had winked at the handsome fellow when he’d demanded the room have a lock and he the only key, and remarked that a fine stud had no need of a tethered mare.
He’d laughed, returning a sally in coarse Parisian patois. Surprising because the gentleman looked a good measure better than his gutter speech declared him. And certainly the little mademoiselle looked patrician with her red glinting hair and wide hazel eyes and her blushes …
Ah well, he was certainly handsome enough to lure a decent girl of good family and she was certainly beautiful enough for him to risk that patrician family’s wrath. And the way they watched each other … ! The innkeeper’s wife smiled and shook her head. It had been many a year since something so small as a look passing between a man and a woman had had the power to awaken her imagination. But these two!
Still smiling, she banged on the door to the private room, balancing a tray in the other hand. It contained the meal the man had ordered. The door opened and the beautiful woman stepped back, motioning toward the table. She did not speak. In fact, the innkeeper’s wife had yet to hear the girl utter a word. She shrugged. Perhaps she was a mute and perhaps that was why she settled for a coarse-spoken beau. No matter how powerfully built or how passionately he watched her, a girl like this … she should be in a castle. Unless something was wrong with her.
Ah, well. It was no concern of hers. They’d paid in coin. She set the tray down and, after bobbing a little curtsey, left.
Rhiannon glanced at the steaming plate of stewed chicken and returned to the chair she’d pulled up beside the window. She knew the innkeeper’s wife wondered at her lack of speech but she hadn’t the “advantage” of Ash’s years in a French gaol to teach her the nuances of an accent. She smiled tenderly, as always impressed that Ash could recall any part of his years in prison and find value in it.
Outside in the little seaport town the late summer sun was finally giving up the sky and sinking into the horizon. Ash should be back by now. He’d left yesterday at daybreak, making her promise not to open the door to anyone save the innkeeper and swearing he would return with Raine by nightfall the following day.
She’d begged to go with him but he’d refused. Rightfully so, she suspected. She could only be a burden to him on his covert mission to ransom his brother. England and France were at war and her speech marked her nationality quite clearly. If she was caught, well, even though born Scot, Rhiannon now owned an English surname—Merrick.
Rhiannon Merrick. Nearly a month had passed since they’d stood with Edith Fraiser and John Fortnum just north of the Scottish border and declared themselves husband and wife. Edith had cried. Rhiannon had never been so happy. She was still happy, deliciously so. Each day revealed more of the depth of honor and integrity the man she’d wed owned; each day proved the depth of his love for her. It was there in the care he took with her, in the passion and tenderness with which they made love, and in the worry that he could not quite hide. They had nothing. Except Raine’s ransom.
Then, a week ago, he’d offered even that to her. It was, he said gravely, a fair princely sum. With it they could live wherever they wanted, anywhere in the world. His eyes had been still, his face composed, the offer utterly sincere—but she knew him now. She saw the haunted shadow behind the tender smile.
She knew then that he’d do anything for her, be anything she asked him to be—but all she wanted him to be was Ash Merrick. And Ash Merrick had vowed to ransom his brother. So here they were.
The sound of a carriage clattering on the cobblestones outside the window drew Rhiannon’s attention. She pushed open the window and hung her head out. The carriage pulled to a halt before the inn’s front entrance and the driver clambered from his seat. Before he could descend and pop open the door, it swung open and a lean dark figure leapt unaided to the ground. Rhiannon held her breath waiting for a second figure to emerge.
The driver went to the solitary man’s side and held up his lantern; the swinging garish light swept over Ash’s face as he counted out coin into the driver’s outstretched palm. His expression was bemused, taut, his brows dipping low over his eyes. He glanced up and saw her. A wave of pure pleasure lit his whole dark countenance. He swung away from the driver, heading for the entrance, and Rhiannon slammed the window, hastening into the hall.
A moment later he strode down the narrow corridor toward her. She stretched out her arms and flew to meet him. His strong arms caught her up in his embrace, his head bent, and his mouth closed greedily on hers. She scraped her fingers through his hair, held his beloved face between her palms, and returned his kiss.
He pushed the door behind her open, still kissing her, and
carried her into the room, kicking the door shut behind him. Finally he raised his head.
“Raine?” she said, unable to keep from lifting her hand and stroking his cheek.
Slowly he set her down. He shook his head. “I don’t know, Rhiannon. I don’t know.”
She gazed at him questioningly.
“I went first to the prison to speak to the head gaoler. I wanted to make specific arrangements as to the time of Raine’s release before I visited”—his lips curled back in a sneer—“the politician who was to accept Raine’s ransom.”
“Yes?”
“I went to the prison. I spoke to the head gaoler. Rhiannon, Raine is not there.”
“What do you mean, not there?” Rhiannon asked, a dull sense of horror growing within. “Dead? Oh, Ash, did he die?”
“No!” Ash shook his head violently. “Not dead. Of that I am certain. I even ‘interviewed’ a few of the guards late last night at a local tavern they frequent in order to make certain.”
“Then where is he?”
“I don’t know. No one seems to know. He simply seems to have disappeared. If there were someone else who might have ransomed him I would suspect the French already released him.”
“Your father?”
“Carr?” Ash’s glance was incredulous but then, seeing her anxiety, his gaze softened. “No, Rhiannon. I forget your soft heart. But no. Not Carr. There is no one.”
“Then he escaped,” Rhiannon said.
“To where?” Ash asked.
Rhiannon touched his cheek gently. “He wouldn’t go to Wanton’s Blush, would he?”
“Not unless he’d a very good reason.”
“Then perhaps he’s just … looking for his life,” she suggested softly.
He scowled and then sighed and finally moved his hand over her temples, brushing back the soft tendrils with infinite tenderness. “What a wise creature you are, Rhiannon Merrick. How much I love you.”
She turned her face into his open palm and pressed a kiss against its center. “What are we to do now?”
He stared at her and then suddenly smiled, his expression far lighter than she’d ever seen it, free of shadows, obligation, or the past, filled only with love and anticipation.
He reached beneath his cloak and withdrew a long, heavy belt of double stitched leather. He held it up.
“My dear, it seems we’re suddenly quite rich—indeed, heirs to a fair princely sum.”
She stared at the money belt in bemusement. Though all that money meant little to her, she knew his inability to assure she would have a comfortable future had troubled Ash greatly, so she smiled, too. “But what do we do with it?” she asked.
“Why, my beloved, we find our happy ending.”
Turn the page for an introduction to Raine Merrick,
The
Reckless One
The second novel in Connie Brockway’s breathtakingly
romantic McClairen’s Isle trilogy will be available from
Dell in January 2000.
The Reckless One
Raine Merrick watched a black-clad figure step through the cell door. Hidden beneath an opaque ebony veil and layers of midnight-hued silk, she moved with an odd, hesitant grace. A black velvet cape covered her shoulders and long black gloves encased the slender hands holding her skirts above the stagnant puddles on the floor. Madame Noir had arrived to make her selection for her evening’s entertainment.
The prison guard, Armand, followed her, his face flushed and his ridged brows lowered in displeasure. Beside him shuffled a huge monolith of a man bundled against the cold, a thick cape draped over his massive shoulders and a woolen scarf wrapped about a thick neck. The eyes beneath the brim of his hat were sharp and piercing.
Silently, Raine cursed the Fates. Why couldn’t she be accompanied by someone big, but dull-witted and slow.
As she turned and spoke to her man she moved in front of the rush of torches. The backlighting revealed her profile through the mantilla-like covering: a slender throat, a sharp-angled jaw, a patrician nose. The men who returned from a night in her “care” swore she never removed that veil. No one had ever seen her face—not even Armand—and no one knew her real name. She always registered under the pseudonym Madame Noir at the hotel she used for her trysts.
She’d finished her whispered conversation and turned toward the prisoners. With what looked like a conscious gathering of purpose, she crossed the room toward them, her attendant shadowing her. She stopped before the colonist.
“Too old,” she murmured in exquisite, aristocratic French.
She continued circling the room. She paused before the Prussian, who lifted his still wet head and gazed at her with dull, hopeless eyes. She paused before saying, “This man will die if he is not made warm.”
“Yes,” Armand agreed disinterestedly. “But he is Prussian.”
She remained studying the shivering man.
“But I might have a desire for a Prussian someday,” she said quite calmly, and moved on.
Immediately Armand barked out an order that the Prussian be taken down, dried off, and fed. In another situation, one might possibly mistake Madame Noir’s comments for compassion, Raine thought cynically. She’d moved toward the English youth.
Armand scuttled to her side. “He’s new, Madame. English. Young. Feel. Touch him,” he chattered as though the panicked-looking boy was an animal being auctioned. Which he was, Raine reminded himself. Which they all were.
“Please! I come from a noble family. I cannot be used so!” the youth sobbed. “I am not the one you want! I am not the one—”
“I am.”
Madame’s head snapped around at the sound of Raine’s calm voice, her veil swirling about her shoulders and settling like the dark wings of a nighthawk. She cocked her head sideways, increasing her resemblance to a small, sleek bird of prey.
“Monsieur is English?” she asked, her interest revealed in the sharpening inflection of her voice.
“Aye.” He watched her carefully. “English. You have a … taste for Englishmen, Madame?”
Behind the heavy veil he thought he saw the glimmer of her eyes as her gaze traveled over him. He forced himself to stand still and turned his palms up, inviting her inspection. “I’m your man.”
“Perhaps.”
Armand hurried over. He grabbed a handful of Raine’s hair and jerked his head back.
“Here, Madame. Come. Examine. Look. I know Madame is most careful in making her selection.”
She came within a few feet of him. Her warm scent filled his nostrils, unexpectedly stirring his senses. Without warning, sensual images from his all-but-forgotten past ambushed him, flooding his mind, filling his thoughts.
Musk and flowers, cleanliness and dark promise. Womanly and virginal all at once. Straining bodies, a sweet aftermath. The sudden sensual memory stunned him with its eviscerating force.
He closed his eyes, breathing in deeply through his mouth, tasting as well as scenting her.
He hadn’t been in the same room with a woman in five years.
“Touch him,” Armand urged.
Did she hesitate before reaching out? Did she note the uncontrollable forward cant of his body in anticipation of her hand? Her hand brushed his naked skin. He forgot everything else.
His breath caught and he flinched back. Not because he abhorred her touch. Just the opposite. Because he wanted it. Her fingertips flowed down his naked chest to his belly, to where his breeches hung low on his hips. He shivered, willing her hand to slip lower still, waiting, aching with arousal, for that intimate touch, heedless of the spectators.
He felt her gaze drop to the evidence of his arousal. Abruptly, she snatched her hand back, like a maiden.
“Madame wished a challenge?” Armand was asking. “Here is such a one. Arrogant. Young. Healthy.”
“I don’t think—”
“Forgive me, Madame.” Her man lumbered forward.
“Yes, Jacques?” she said.
/> “I believe this one would suit very well.”
Raine glanced sharply at the mountainous man. Since when did a servant advise his mistress on her sexual requisites? She did not reprimand him, however. She merely hesitated. Raine ground his teeth in frustration. She had to pick him. She must.
“I will be whatever Madame wishes me to be.” He forced the words out between his lips, surprised at how easily they came, how facilely he abdicated the last shreds of his pride. “I will do whatever Madame wishes me to do.”
He held his breath.
She seemed to be holding hers.
“All right,” she finally said. “I’ll take him.”
Jacques nodded approvingly.
“Very good,” Armand said. “I’ll send two guards with you.”
“Not necessary,” Jacques said, handing Armand a heavy-looking velvet pouch. Raine blessed the man’s self-assurance.
Armand shot a telling glance at Raine. “But it is, Monsieur. I know this man.”
Madame, who’d held herself aloof, made a dismissive movement with her hands. “I do not wish spectators at my sport. I desire privacy with him.”
“I understand, but Madame, you must see that if this man should escape—”
“Do you dare to press me?”
“Non, Madame!” Armand assured her, hauling a thick set of keys from his belt and opening the lock that held Raine manacled to the wall. “But certainment! Still, I fear this one.” He fastened a length of chain between Raine’s manacles. “The guards will ride post, on the back of the carriage. You will have privacy. I will have peace of mind. This is sensible, yes?” Armand looped the chain around his fist and jerked Raine forward.
Madame swung around, irritation vibrating from her slender form. “If you insist.”
His ruddy face wreathed in smiles, Armand held Raine’s chain out for Jacques, who accepted the heavy links. Madame stalked from the cell, her skirts rustling.
Jacques shoved Raine between the shoulder blades, propelling him through the door and down the low corridor toward a flight of stairs leading up to the prison’s receiving yard. There, just outside of the gates, waited a closed carriage. The guards were already perched on the footmen’s steps at the back. Armand stood beside the open door.
The Passionate One Page 29