The Black Rose

by Christina Skye

  The big man nodded, leading Dane from the kitchen and down a long carpeted corridor. "I am majordomo here at the Angel," he added, with pride in his voice. "I trust Jem hasn't been plaguing you with outlandish stories. He's a good lad — when his imagination doesn't run away with him, that is."

  Dane raised a dismissing hand. "No need to explain. I suspected it must be something of the sort." The smells of roasted duck and fresh bread were making Dane's mouth water, and he thought lovingly of the warm bed awaiting him upstairs.

  Black eyes flickered over his sodden greatcoat. "Traveled far, have you?"

  Ravenhurst had the distinct impression those shrewd eyes did not miss much. "An eternity it seems. I've been on the road since midday. I'm Ravenhurst, by the way," he added. "You should have had my letter."

  Was it his imagination or did the fellow's eyes narrow?

  Of course. We have been expecting you, my lord. Shall I send your meal up to your room?"

  Dane nodded grimly. The very thought was heaven after the gruelling hours spent on horseback in the rain. "I'm in no state to dine in company, as you can see. My man Peale follows me by coach and should arrive within the hour."

  If the Angel's shrewd majordomo found anything odd in the viscount's travel arrangements, he was careful not to show it. Long years of catering to the whims of the Quality had trained Hobhouse not to betray surprise at any eccentricities he might encounter.

  And he had encountered quite a few in his days as a servant.

  "Very good, my lord," he murmured, moving briskly toward the viscount's room.

  After Hobhouse left, Ravenhurst wearily shrugged out of his sodden greatcoat and tugged off his water-laden boots. Scowling, he dropped the wet articles in a heap and walked to the window, sweeping back white ruffled curtains to stare out into the night. Below him the damp cobblestones glistened faintly in the flickering lantern light.

  His shoulders were aching. His wrist was acting up again. He was frozen bloody through and so hungry he could eat his horse.

  But that was not what was bothering him, not really. It was something else, something that stung the back of his neck, making the tiny hairs rise.

  Below the window a handful of pebbles skittered across the cobblestones. The sound echoed, pinging hollowly in the narrow space between the buildings. Dane's lapis eyes narrowed as he studied the deserted street.

  That was when he recognized the dryness in his throat and the cold feeling between his shoulder blades.

  Danger. Somewhere out there in the gusty, rain-swept streets. Ravenhurst knew it as surely as he drew breath. He had honed his instincts during nightmare years in battle, and he had never before had reason to doubt them.

  Yes, it was danger he felt now. Vague, faceless, and cold.

  Waiting for him somewhere in the night.

  * * * * *

  The wind was howling, nearly gale force by the time Tess reached her room. Chilled and stiff with exhaustion, she could barely negotiate the last steep yards of the dank passage.

  The Angel dated back to the fourteenth century, and over the long years this ancient tunnel with its rough wooden steps had sheltered smugglers, dissenters, and other fugitives from the royal wrath.

  Even her father had not known about this hidden route. Tess had only found it by accident one afternoon after stripping the room bare for a thorough cleaning. In the process she'd released a hidden latch and watched in amazement as the whole bookcase had swung away from the wall. Since embarking on her dangerous masquerade as the Fox, she'd had many occasions to use the passage.

  When her fingers finally traced the wooden frame of the door hidden behind a bookshelf in her private quarters, Tess breathed a weary sigh of relief. Her face white with strain, she tugged a concealed latch. The heavy door swung open.

  Her maid's anxious face swam before her tired eyes. "Sweet merciful Jesus, what've you gone and done to yourself now, miss?"

  Grim-faced, Tess tottered forward and began stripping off her cloak.

  "Oh, Miss Tess, give it up! For God's sake, give it up! It'll be the death of you. Or something far worse," the olive-skinned maid warned shrilly.

  "I'll stop when I'm ready and not a second sooner, Letty." Tess's voice was muffled as she yanked her shirt over her head. "I've come too far to stop now. Not when I'm only two thousand short of having Fairleigh free and clear for life."

  Grim-faced, she bent down and began to strip off her black breeches. "My father's debts must be paid, you know that as well as I do. After that there are the manor house and priory to resurrect. For five hundred years Leightons have lived at Fairleigh, and I don't mean for the house to be lost to us now."

  Kicking off the sodden breeches, Tess turned to face her anxious companion, who over time had become friend as well as servant. "It's all I have, Letty, don't you see? I can't let Fairleigh go! The roof leaks and the parapets are crumbling, but it's the only home I'll ever know. And it will take fine, bright guineas to repair it. The Angel could never give me that kind of money, no matter how popular it becomes."

  Her eyes worried, Letty handed Tess a thick towel to dry with. "I don't know, Miss Tess. It just doesn't seem right, your traipsing about on the marsh with that hardened pack of smugglers."

  Quickly Tess dried her skin, shivering fiercely. "The right thing doesn't always fill one's stomach, I'm afraid, Letty. It took me a long time to realize that." Tess's face hardened and her fingers tightened for a moment on the thick fabric. "Maybe too long." Abruptly she shrugged and tossed down the towel, reaching for the white cambric nightgown Letty had laid out on the bed. "And there's Ashley to be supported at Oxford. He mustn't ever learn of this."

  Tess's maid answered with a derisive little snort. "Seems all he does at that place is drink, play at cards, and race his curricle with the other bloods."

  "And why should he not?" Tess countered. " 'Tis the leisure sort of life he was meant for, after all."

  "And you was born to have the same sort of life," Letty answered sharply. "Begging your pardon, miss, but just you tell me why it's yourself who's running on the marsh, taking God knows what risks to keep this place stocked with brandy and tea for flush travelers." The maid snorted loudly. " 'Tain't right, that's what I say! Master Ashley should be here helping you, taking some of the weight off your shoulders."

  "Oh, hush, Letty," Tess countered, her quick smile taking the sting from the words. "Only my pride's been hurt tonight. And part of my share of the cargo is even now on its way to London. Those forty kegs of fine brandy will net me enough to start repairs on the south wall at Fairleigh and pay off the last of Father's tailors."

  Letty shook her head. "Well, I don't like it, not one bit, and all that fine talk of yours won't never get me to think any different."

  Tess concealed a smile. Letty's grammar never slipped, except when she was very angry.

  But her maid did not seem to notice. Frowning, she held out a glass to Tess. "Now, you go on and drink this, miss. The laudanum will help you sleep tonight."

  Tess's eyes narrowed as she studied the dark liquid. Her hand trembled slightly.

  Only twice before, after tortuous runs, had she allowed Letty to persuade her to take this route to sleep. But tonight the draught looked very tempting.

  Yes, why not? At least this way she would not wake to darkness, ripped from sleep by cruel memories.

  "Go on, drink it," Letty ordered.

  Quickly, before she could change her mind, Tess tilted the glass and drained its distasteful contents. Yes, this was the best way. Letty was right.

  Already weak with fatigue, Tess sank down onto the settee, which her maidservant had made up into a bed. Exhausted as she was, the laudanum was probably unnecessary, but Tess meant to take no chances.

  Not tonight, for some instinct told her this night held dangers beyond those she had ever known.

  At that moment a fierce gust of wind rattled the window, bending down the trees and dragging their bony branches across the Angel's roof
. Suddenly a tile ripped free and went hurtling down to the cobblestones, where it landed with a crash.

  Something cold and menacing crept down Tess's spine.

  'Tis only the wind, you fool, she told herself. Perdition! Next she would be fancying faces at the window!

  But she was safe now. Nothing could harm her here.

  If only the shadows did not move.

  If only the dark scratching things did not come looking for her in the night ...

  One errant tear slipped down Tess's cheek, and she brushed it away roughly with the back of her hand. Please, God, keep them away tonight, she pleaded silently.

  Her eyes were huge as she caught Letty's hand. "You won't — forget — will you, Letty?"

  The maid squeezed Tess's cold fingers. "Now, don't you worry about nothing, miss. I'll see to it, the way I always do. Just you hie yourself off to sleep, young lady."

  Tess sighed and slowly lay back against the flowered chintz cushions, her eyelids unbearably heavy. Like auburn veils, her long lashes fluttered and then fell. "Letty?" she mumbled a minute later. "Th-thank you ... for not asking. Then — as well as now."

  The maid cast a worried look at Tess. When her mistress's eyes did not reopen, she shook her head and slipped frowning from the room.

  On the side table the candle flickered wildly.

  Caught in cold, restless dreams, Tess shifted, reaching desperately for the light that was somehow always denied her.

  * * * * *

  Out of the night he came, materializing from the shadows that danced drunkenly over the inn's steep roof. Surefooted, like a cat, he crept toward the one window high above that still remained lit. It was only an hour or two before dawn, and the Angel's other residents, he saw, were long abed.

  Silently he moved through the rushing darkness, his eyes fixed on that small rectangle of light high above the eaves. Around him the wind growled, flinging gravel in his face and rattling the glass panes, but never did his path waver.

  It was no more than child's play after the long years he'd spent climbing riggings in stormy seas.

  And then the casement window was above him. His midnight eyes narrowed. He could almost see the woman inside freeing a row of tiny buttons and stepping out of her gown.

  His revenge would be sweet and long this night, he vowed, moving inexorably toward that high, small square of light.

  * * * * *

  Near the darkened foot of the old Land Gate Amos Hawkins reined in his mount and loosed a torrent of profanity. His small eyes flashing, he studied the force of preventive officers ranged around him.

  "Post a guard at both ends of Mermaid Street, Lawson. And keep yer bloody eyes open, all of ye!"

  Abruptly the customs inspector's ruddy face broke into a cruel mockery of a smile. "As for myself, I reck'n I've a mind to pay a late night call on the owner of the Angel. Wouldn't want the lady to come to any harm, after all. Not with all these filthy smugglers about," he muttered, his smile widening unpleasantly.

  Chapter Three

  Outside Tess's window the man in black waited.

  A muscle flashed at his jaw as heated images flickered before his eyes ...

  Tess slowly peeling off an exquisite chemise edged in fine lace — a gift from a satisfied lover, no doubt.

  Her hair, wine-red and glorious, spilling over her naked shoulders.

  Her body, so often dreamed of, white and wanton, shimmering in the candlelight.

  Like a white-hot brand, desire burned a searing path to his groin. He cursed beneath his breath, unable to halt the flow of erotic images.

  The casement was within reach now, and yet somehow he could not move. At his sides, his calloused, rope-scarred hands opened and closed convulsively. His breath ragged, he envisioned her ripe breasts straining for his touch.

  The dusky hair curling at her silken thighs.

  The moist satin petals hidden below.

  Stop being a bloody fool!

  Viscount Ravenhurst stiffened, fury twisting his features. His skin was hot in the cold wind; moisture beaded his brow. She was nothing but a treacherous little bitch with the heart of a whore, he reminded himself grimly.

  But still the images engulfed him.

  She will reach for her nightgown next, he thought. She will move slowly, enjoying the feel of the air on her naked skin. He could almost hear the fine satin rustle as it slid over her head. Something sheer and provocative, no doubt. Something that would display her pouting breasts to perfection, he thought grimly.

  The man in the darkness ground out a harsh curse, able to wait no longer. Not when she was alone, only inches away, and he had already wasted too many empty nights waiting for this moment of perfect revenge.

  Now he would have her, and in so doing be free of this savage, restless hunger that had plagued him for five long years.

  Grim-faced, Ravenhurst pulled a thin piece of metal from his pocket and forced it between the adjoining edges of the casement, drawing the point up slowly until the closure inside blocked his progress. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he freed the latch, and the window sprang open.

  Like an angry phantom he slipped a black-clad leg over the sill and slid into the candlelit room.

  She was sleeping, just as he had hoped, her long hair a dark flame against the chintz cushions of the settee. But why there? the tall man wondered. And why did she sleep by candlelight?

  Then these questions were forgotten, swept away by the fierce thundering of his blood. Slowly he bent down, impaling her with his heated gaze, drinking in her beauty. His lapis eyes flickered over the tight buds outlined beneath her cambric nightgown, while the haunting scent of lavender wafted around him.

  Her smell — just as it had been that balmy night five years before when they had first met. Bitter memories assailed him, sharp as if it had been yesterday.

  Lavender and roses. The rich scent of warm earth after a spring rain, pure and innocent.

  Forget them! Ravenhurst told himself sharply. That night, like everything else about her, was nothing but a cruel illusion.

  Outside in the darkness a tree branch clawed the roof. The woman on the settee stirred restlessly, one hand clutching the coverlet to her breast. A moment later her slim fingers splayed open, as if reaching for the lantern on the nearby side table.

  A single tear spilled from Tess's eye, tracing a silver path down her cheek.

  Ravenhurst's face grew taut. In grim silence he watched the trailing bead. Without thinking, he ran his finger over the curve of her cheek, a vein throbbing at his temple as he caught the drop and drew it to his lips.

  His eyes closed, he tasted the salty tear.

  Then, his eyes smoldering, the hard-faced viscount stared down at the woman sleeping before him.

  Damn you, Tess Leighton! he cursed in silent fury. Damn you for what you did that night. And damn you for being able to affect me still, after all this time. After all I know of your treachery.

  For she did haunt him still, threatening as always to worm her way back into his scarred, hardened heart.

  Except this time she would fail. For this time Ravenhurst had no heart left — only a great, gaping hole where his heart should have been.

  She had done that to him. And now it was time for him to repay her. After five tortured years of fantasies, Ravenhurst was about to savor the real thing.

  He felt his lower body harden painfully at the thought and cursed himself for his weakness. But nothing could have made him turn away, even though he told himself the reality could never match his dark, fevered imaginings.

  A gust of wind rattled the window and the light flickered crazily. His eyes like smoke, Ravenhurst knelt and began to unfasten the line of tiny buttons at Tess's bodice. To his infinite fury, his fingers trembled slightly when they grazed her skin. Smothering a curse, he forced his eyes to his task.

  And then, pale and perfect, her body opened to his heated gaze.

  Impossibly lovely, he thought. A hundred times more beautiful th
an he had imagined; a thousand times more erotic than his darkest fantasy.

  A hot wave of desire ripped through him, swelling his manhood to painful proportions. He smothered a curse, fighting to control the fever her body aroused.

  Her waist, so white and narrow, made him itch to span it with his hands. Full and high, her breasts taunted him, rising to dusky crimson peaks. Ruthlessly his eyes devoured her, lingering on the heart-shaped beauty mark that crowned her right breast. Another decorated her inner thigh, he saw, only inches below the tangled triangle of auburn curls.

  A trickle of sweat slid slowly down his forehead.

  Every second the fire in his veins raged higher, increasing his agony. Yet even then he could not tear his eyes away.

  Only an illusion, he told himself. Inside, where it counted, she was ugly and hard.

  And still the sight of her smooth breasts tormented him — soft and full, perfectly shaped to fill a man's hands. Just the thought of the sooty marks at her breast and thigh was enough to drive his throbbing manhood tight against his breeches.

  He wanted her in every way a man could want a woman. He wanted to touch her and watch her moan, arching up to meet him again and again. He wanted her wet and hungry while he explored the mysteries of her silken body. Most of all he wanted to feel her shudder and wrap her ivory legs around him while he exploded inside her.

  And that is how he meant to have her. Tonight. Right now. After that, he would strip away her deadly secrets — layer by lying layer!

  "Tess." The word was a harsh caress.

  The woman beside him tossed fitfully.

  His eyes pools of smoke, Ravenhurst bent closer. "Tess," he whispered again, the gravel of his voice very pronounced. "I've come back. Just as I promised."

  Her long lashes fluttering, the sleeping woman tossed uneasily upon the settee.

  "Wake up, my love." Long, hard fingers traced the lobe of her ear, the fragile line of her jaw, the satin mystery of her neck. His touch was that of a connoisseur — expert, thorough, and totally impersonal.