“It’s important, damn it. I need to talk to you. Now.”
This time his voice was taut. Could he possibly be serious? She looked pointedly at her watch. “You have thirty seconds.”
He glanced at the throngs around them. “I can’t. Not like this.”
“Five seconds.”
“Not here, damn it.”
“Ten.”
“It’s—confidential. I have a letter to show you, but it will have to be done somewhere more private.”
Cathlin shook her head, angry at herself for believing him, even for a moment. He was just like all the others, men with smooth smiles and sleazy agendas. “I see, someplace private. Back at your apartment, no doubt. Probably with our clothes off on the middle of the bed.” She stepped forward and ran her hand along his lapel. “Sorry, Lord Ashton, but I’m not impressed. You’re several centuries too late with that Don Juan routine.” She smiled sweetly. “But maybe the Chablis ’75 would think differently. She hasn’t looked away from you once. Good night—and happy hunting.”
Cathlin felt his eyes burn into her all the way to the door.
HE CURSED.
Softly. Then not so softly.
Two men frowned at him and a woman in a backless Yves St. Laurent sheath giggled.
Dominic saw a familiar face and caught her wrist. “Serita? Come here and talk to me.”
“You found her, I see.”
“I found her all right. I have the wounds to prove it.”
“Sorry, Dominic. I’m afraid Cathlin’s a little prickly these days.”
“Prickly wasn’t exactly the word I had in mind,” Dominic said grimly.
“It hasn’t been easy for her, you know. She’s young and lovely and very honest, Dominic. That’s a difficult combination for this set. It’s still very much a man’s world over here, you know. Half the men in this room act as if Lord Nelson still rules the seas and America is just one of our colonies.”
Dominic cocked a brow dramatically. “You mean it isn’t?”
“Repulsive insect.” But her eyes were admiring. “That tan becomes you. How are you doing? Really doing?”
“A decent yield.” Dominic thought of his neat rows of vines marching over the hills of his holding in the Garonne. He was turning out his fourth vintage this year and already his vineyard, La Trouvaille, was making a solid profit from its rich, complex wines. It had been hard work, but the very best work of his life. “The sugar levels could be better, but we’re working on that. So far no problem with quality, but—”
“No, I mean you. You inside.”
He shrugged. “I’m surviving.”
“That tells me next to nothing.”
“Maybe I like it that way.” Dominic gave her a lopsided smile that took the sting from his answer. “Tell me about her, Serita.” He said the words tightly.
“Look, Dominic, she’s not one of your usual runway beauties or extrovert actresses. She’s nice and she’s vulnerable. Leave her alone.” Serita’s voice was surprisingly hard.
“I don’t plan on bodily physical harm, my dear. I have a business offer for her, that’s all. But the lady seems determined not to hear it. Tell me why.”
Serita sighed. “She lost her mother young, Dominic. Then she lost her father when she was just getting to know him. He was in security, I gather. Among other things,” Serita said. “Oh, she doesn’t talk about it much. She says she’s put it all behind her. But she’s lying. And that’s one of the reasons she doesn’t care for pomp and circumstance English-style.”
Dominic laughed shortly. “So I’ve noticed.”
“Unfortunately, you’re very long on both, my dear man.”
“Who me? I’m just your average working stiff.”
Serita studied his lean, chiseled face. “Not in a million years. You’re too bloody handsome for comfort. You’re also too arrogant.”
Dominic frowned as he saw Richard Severance stride up to Cathlin and slide his arm casually around her shoulder. When he laughed—and he seemed to laugh a great deal—Dominic saw that he had very regular white teeth. “What about him?”
Serita turned. “Richard? Oh, there might have been something between them once. I didn’t ask and Cathlin never told me. But if so, it was nothing serious. Now it’s just business.”
Dominic watched Cathlin’s slender back disappear through the doorway. She was beautiful and clever and he’d be a bloody fool to get within two counties of her. “I heard a saying over in Thailand once, Serita. It went something like this. Woe to any man who trusts a clever woman, because she’ll drive him to all fours and leave him howling like a scrawny dog in the market square.” Particularly, Dominic added silently, if the woman in question had black hair as soft as China satin and burning amber eyes.
Serita brushed his cheek. “Maybe, with the right person, howling can be fun.”
“About as much fun as taking a heavy caliber .357 Magnum slug in the leg,” Dominic muttered. He knew, because he’d done it. More than once.
But that life was behind him. Wine was what he cared about now, and if getting the funds to improve his acreage in France meant being nice to bloody Miss High-and-Mighty O’Neill, maybe he’d have to consider it. Besides, he had a personal score to settle now. “Where’s she spending the weekend?” he asked tightly.
“Forget it. You’ll never find her.”
Dominic turned, his eyes urgent. “Please, Serita. I won’t charm her and I won’t push her. I just need a chance to talk to her in private, away from all this. It’s important. To both of us.”
Something about the urgency in his voice cut through Serita’s obvious reluctance. “I don’t suppose you’d care to be more specific.”
“Sorry, Serita, I can’t.”
She sighed. “You promise you won’t be an utter pest?”
“Who, me?” He gave her an innocent look.
“You.”
“I promise. On my honor as a good Etonian.”
“Etonians don’t have any honor, only a universe of charm. Dangerous charm.” Serita had been involved with enough of them to know.
Dominic frowned. “If I have any charm, Cathlin O’Neill didn’t see it.”
“Didn’t fall for you? Come to think of it, this might be a very salutary experience for you, Dominic.” Serita nodded decisively. “She’s got a big, rambling house on the southeast coast, overlooking Romney Marsh.”
“Near Rye? How in the world did she manage that?”
“Seacliffe came to her through her mother’s family. Cathlin hasn’t been there often since her father’s death last year. Oh, the place is beautiful, but very expensive. The house itself is early seventeenth century and there’s a ruined thirteenth century priory on the grounds.”
Since Dominic had just finished renovating a fourteenth century chateau in France at La Trouvaille, he’d seen enough crumbling plaster and rotting wood to last a lifetime. He also knew firsthand just how expensive—and how infuriating—such a project could be.
Which meant that things were definitely looking up. “So she’ll need lots of money?”
“Don’t we all?” Serita asked cynically.
“I can help her then. Tell me how to find her, Serita. Just to talk to her. It’s urgent.”
After a moment Serita sighed and reached into her purse. “She’ll kill me if she finds out I gave this to you, but—” She pulled out a pen and scribbled on a sheet of paper. “Good luck. You’re definitely going to need it.”
“Thanks, my dearest Serita.” Dominic bent and kissed his companion’s cheek. Smiling slightly, he pocketed the precious address.
And now I have you, Ms. O’Neill, he vowed darkly.
CHAPTER THREE
Southeastern England
Romney Marsh
WATER.
Reeds.
A thin black ribbon of road and beyond it the coast of Kent in May, all shadows and cold silver.
Out in the English Channel, lightning forked through the darkening afte
rnoon sky. A storm over Dieppe, Dominic thought. Or maybe above Dunkirk to the north.
Some days in summer, France must look close enough to touch, he mused. But not today, with rain racing over the channel and the thermometer dropping by the hour.
He squinted into the windshield, past the fingers of mist that drifted over the glimmering silver pools. How far was it to Seacliffe? He’d stopped in Rye for directions and had been told to take the coast road. Now, as the sun slanted low and golden over the hillside, over the barren marshes where two hundred years before smugglers must have plied their desperate trade, Dominic felt as if he’d stepped straight back into the past, a past without highways, electric wires, or telephone poles. And there was something very beautiful about that past.
He swung his battered Triumph around a sharp curve and crossed a narrow granite bridge. To his right a pair of Sussex sheep stood grazing beside a granite boulder that marked the gravel road up to Seacliffe. Slowing, Dominic studied the landscape. The wind was picking up now, and through the tossing reeds he finally made out a winding drive that led up the hill.
He was a fool to have come here, Dominic thought as he eased the Triumph over the deep ruts. His old car, which he kept at his family estate near Tunbridge, was well loved. He had hand-nursed it for too many years to see it wrecked on a gravel road now.
Suddenly there was a crack of lightning and a wave of sand struck the windshield, driven by the first gusts of the coming storm. Dominic downshifted, trying to see in front of him, and cursed when he heard a thump, followed by the hiss of leaves. The next moment the Triumph struck what felt like a wall of cement and his head smashed down against the windshield.
SLOWLY, DOMINIC FOUGHT his way back to consciousness. His head was throbbing and through the sand scattered on the cracked glass he made out a tree blocking the road five feet ahead of him.
So that’s what had left him with the fifty-piece orchestra hammering inside his head, he thought irritably.
Scowling, he shoved open the door, but his initial hope of moving the tree aside quickly faded. The lightning had broken, but not severed, the huge trunk and the roots were still half-embedded in the sandy soil. It would take at least three men to wrench them free and cart the tree off the road.
He would just have to walk the rest of the way.
Muttering uncharitable words against a woman who kept a house in such isolated countryside, Dominic grabbed his single bag, turned toward the hill, and began to walk.
But as he strode through the wild, beautiful terrain of the marsh and the lapping sea, his thoughts grew calmer. Even with the rising wind, the place had a brooding beauty that went right to Dominic’s soul. With every cool cry of a passing kestrel, Dominic again felt that strange sense that he had been carried back in time.
He laughed softly and hiked his bag over his shoulder. Places of beauty and isolation had always intrigued him. It was half the reason he’d fallen in love with La Trouvaille, gleaming in the early morning sun.
Off to his right came the distant clang of sheep bells. The sound rose and fell, carried on the gusting wind, first loud then wavering sharply. Strange, Dominic thought, he’d never been here before. In spite of that, the sound was almost familiar.
Shrugging, he walked on, letting the low hiss of his feet on the sand settle into a rhythm.
Again the bells rose. Clang-clang, they called out, tugging at his mind. He frowned, studying the hills that rose lush and green above the sandy slope. Where had he heard that sound before?
Again it came, making him think of the wood slamming against stone. The sound was restless and sad in the last hour of daylight.
Clang-clang.
Suddenly, as sweat trickled over his forehead, Dominic knew that something about the sound was infinitely important to him.
He closed his eyes, letting the noise roll over him, opening deeply to its meaning.
He had a sudden image of a house. A house with no lights.
Clang-clang.
A big gray house with weathered green shutters. A house by water, full of noisy people. A house where something very important had once happened to him.
He cut off his reverie with a low laugh. He’d never seen any house like that, although he’d been in enough grimy waterfronts in his life.
Yet with every distant clang Dominic felt his hair rise at his neck.
Clang-clang. Clang-clang.
What did it mean? And why did the sound seem to mock him, rising in gray waves that filled his head until he could think of nothing else.
Tendrils of mist curled about his feet and the wind pulled at his clothes. He thought of water and night and an infinite loneliness.
Most of all Dominic thought of honor—and a vow betrayed. On he walked, fog at his feet, wind in his hair. And as he walked, his mind drifted, coiling like the mist.
Imagining.
Or was he really remembering?
London
The Crown and Dragon
April 1794
OUTSIDEthe inn a loose shutter was banging in the wind.
Frowning, Gabriel Ashton tossed off the last of his brandy, cursing the noise, cursing the ache in his side, most of all cursing his memories. For once he’d actually succeeded in forgetting, putting the death and blood of the Paris streets out of his head.
Then she had swept into the noisy inn that squatted on the mist-covered bank of the Thames.
Clang-clang.
The same wind that banged the shutters sent her perfume wafting through the smoky room filled with gamesters and footpads and thieves. Roses, perhaps? Or was it something more subtle?
The fifth earl of Ashton scowled down at his empty glass. Damned if he cared. He was only here to forget. To drink himself into the darkness of utter oblivion, where he could finally escape the cries of the hungry children in the Paris streets.
As he poured himself another drink, her perfume mocked himyet again. Lilacs, he decided, with just a hint of cinnamon. It was as unusual as the woman herself, her fine-boned face framed by the hood of her velvet cloak, with blue satin shimmering at one hem.
Hardly the usual attire of the women who conducted their profitable trade at the Crown and Dragon, Gabriel thought grimly.
And those eyes of hers. Dear God, they reminded him of Baltic amber shot through with flecks of gold. How young those eyes were. And how achingly innocent. But beneath the cloak came the shimmer of satin that hinted at a body tantalizingly ripe.
He must be drunk, Ashton thought cynically. Not that it had helped him forget.
A slender shadow fell against the grimy table where he sat.
“May I sit down?”
Gabriel looked the woman up and down, striving to be as rude as possible. Her face was even finer than he’d thought, which meant she had no business being in a place like the Crown and Dragon. “No,” he snapped.
Color flared across those impossibly creamy cheeks, but for some reason Dominic wasn’t pleased at the sight.
She gnawed at her full lower lip, then sat down anyway. “I am looking for someone, you see.” Her voice was cultured, yet with a rural softness.
“Aren’t we all?” Gabriel was surprised to hear that his words were faintly slurred. Ah, well, a bottle of brandy would make even King George himself slur his words. Except that these days the unfortunate, mad king always slurred his words.
“My name is Geneva Ru—”
He cut her off abruptly. “Not a place f’r real names. Not by the likes of you anyway.” Gabriel scowled at her wishing she would go away. Wishing she would stop blushing.
Most of all wishing he could see the color of her hair beneath that soft, flowing hood she wore.
“You are drunk, sir!”
“That was my plan,” the earl agreed easily. “Care to join me, m’lady?”
Her eyes widened. Ashton saw her lips tremble in their haste to form a denial. And then she went quite still. “I see. This is the test he told me about.”
“Test? I
should like to offer you many things, my dear,” the earl said huskily, “starting with a roll between my sheets. But not a test.”
“You are vastly rude.”
“That was also my intention.” And so it was, Ashton thought. Perhaps the bloodstained streets of France had left him unable to look upon such innocence without feeling resentful.
Abruptly the candle fluttered. A cold wind rushed through the room, and the door was thrown open by a crowd of noisy sailors.
Drunk, no doubt, Gabriel thought. And so would he have been if she had not interrupted him like some avenging angel. “Go away.”
“But I need your help.”
Ashton’s eyes narrowed on her fine kid gloves. “If you’re looking for help, you’ve come to the wrong place. Certainly to the wrong man.”
But she was as stubborn as she was unsuited to her sordid setting. “I think not. I have heard about the many brave things you’ve done.” She glanced about and lowered her voice. “You once helped a friend of mine.” She drew something from her pocket and laid it on the grimy table. “He said to show you this.”
It was a rook’s feather, the sign of the man who was wanted throughout France for snatching aristocrats from the very shadow of the guillotine.
Gabriel’s eyes hardened. “How come you by that, young woman?”
“From my friend, Lord Draycott.”
“From Adrian, you say?” Gabriel finished his brandy. Determined to be discourteous, he immediately poured another. “Are you lovers?” Adrian Draycott, plump of pocket and striking in his dark good looks, was notorious for his unquenchable appetites.
“That is none of your affair, I believe.”
“Ah, but it is. If you ask a man’s help, then everything becomes his business.” He steepled his hands. “Well, are you?”
“No,” she said flatly. “Though for his part—” She looked down, coloring.
“So he wants you for his bed, does he?” Maybe it was the brandy that made Gabriel speak so crudely. Or maybe it was the fineness of her eyes, eyes that urged him to be the hero she took him for.
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