The Black Rose

by Christina Skye

  At least Ravenhurst told himself it was.

  His face a dark mask, he planned the night's campaign, knowing he must give her no quarter. Just as she had given Thorpe, his poor slain midshipman, no quarter, Dane reminded himself.

  Just as her traitorous Fox gave no quarter.

  Yes, tonight he would use all his weapons against her.

  Slowly he knelt, careful not to stir the auburn tresses spread over the arm of the settee. It was then that Ravenhurst noticed the small glass on the nearby table. Bending slightly, he reached out and brought it to his nose, then sniffed sharply.

  Laudanum. So that was another of her vices, he thought bitterly.

  Looking down, he saw her eyelids flutter, blue veins against icy skin. Yes, by now she must be well under the influence of the drug.

  Which would make his task that much easier.

  Carefully he lifted the thick tendrils away from her ear, his lungs filled with the rich, tormenting scent of lavender. His fingers tightened, buried in the curling auburn strands.

  Beneath him, Tess frowned. The black veil of sleep lifted for a moment. No! she thought wildly. It could not be!

  Then the dark face was before her, half hidden in smoke and flame. Just as it always was. Mocking and tormenting. Gone but never gone.

  She moaned, fighting the call of that rough, insistent voice.

  "I've brought a message for you, love." The words came dimly, as if from the end of a long tunnel. "But first ..." Strong fingers traced her parted lips.

  Tess forgot everything but how perfect they felt.

  "Open for me," the harsh voice commanded. Calloused thumbs stroked the inner edge of her sensitized mouth. "Take me inside you, Tess. All of me."

  "No," she whispered desperately, slipping fast, tumbling under the drugging spell of that rough voice, under the stormy, restless magic of his stroking fingers. "No. No!"

  "Shhh," the darkness answered.

  "Stop," she moaned, cursing the laudanum that fogged her thoughts. Dear God, tonight the dream was too strong! How could she fight it? "G-go away! It's — it's over."

  "Tonight there will be no stopping me, Tess. Tonight I shall do what I should have done five years ago."

  Then Dane's lips slanted down, hard and dominating as they cut off her ragged protests. He sealed his mouth against hers, devouring her wet curves with angry thoroughness. Wild heartbeats later his mouth opened, parting hers savagely. "More," he growled, pulling her dewy lower lip between his teeth and nipping the soft flesh.

  "Stop!" Tess twisted her head wildly, trying to escape the sweet torture. "Don't — don't touch me!" Panic sharpened her voice. This — dream — was different from all the others!

  But the strong, calloused hands only tightened, circling her shoulders with brutal force. "Give yourself to me, Tess," her vision muttered darkly, tracing her lips with his strong, sleek tongue. "Here," he whispered as their breaths mingled, hot and wet. "Here." Restless and teasing, his tongue plunged into her liquid heat. "Everywhere," he groaned thickly.

  Dear God, she wanted to. Already her body was on fire for him. But some ragged vestige of reason warned Tess she must not. Somehow she knew that yielding would destroy her.

  But why? a reckless voice argued. He was only a dream, after all. How could a dream hurt her?

  With a little, choked sob her lips opened and she came one step closer to the forbidden, throbbing pleasure he promised.

  The dream answered with a groan of his own, formed equal parts of pain and triumph. "So — damned — sweet." Like dark fire, his tongue flickered and teased, then without warning slid deep inside her mouth, plunging Tess into a sea of raw sensation. "More," he said hoarsely. "Give me what I want, Tess. All of it!"

  His hands left her shoulders. She could have fought free then; dimly she knew that.

  But she did not try. Perhaps she could not. She only arched her neck, shifting restlessly in a gesture as old as time. The gesture of woman seeking man, soft, aroused skin searching for its hard complement.

  Yes, just this once she had to find out how the dreams ended.

  A low, triumphant laugh exploded from Dane's mouth. She had forgotten nothing, by God, and tonight he would prove it! His hands clenching and unclenching, he studied her pale face.

  His smoky gaze dropped. Lightly and with excruciating slowness, he brushed her proud, taunting crests.

  Tess's breath came hoarse and ragged in her throat. "No!" she gasped, trying to pull away. "You're — you're only a dream."

  But the cold mouth above hers only twisted into a grim smile. Ravenhurst's long fingers splayed open and took her tighter within their span, his calloused thumbs teasing and tormenting by turns. "Yes, my dear, a dream. But a dream real enough to make you tremble. Perhaps you might even call me a nightmare."

  Tess's hands fluttered vainly, fighting the darkness, fighting this rush of passion, fighting herself most of all. Shameful pleasure flared wherever he touched her, making her body flow hot and wanton beneath his fingers.

  Wanting more, far more.

  Trust him, little fool, the darkness whispered. Trust this pleasure he gives you.

  It had been so long, after all. So much of her life lived in dreams.

  But wasn't this, too, a dream?

  Darkness licked at the edges of her mind, and Tess feared she was losing her sanity. "G-go away," she rasped.

  The rough hands never ceased their dark torment. "I cannot," her dream growled, inexorable, bent on conquest. "He sent me to you. I bring his message."

  "W-who?"

  "The Fox, of course." The gravelly voice hardened. "My sweet love. My Soleil."

  Tess shivered at that name from the past. Memories crowded in on her, dim but keenly painful. "How —"

  "No questions! He's in danger, and you must do exactly as he asks."

  "Dear God, J— when did you see — him?"

  The man above her scowled. Damn! He'd nearly had it then! "No, first give me the words, the secret words. Give me his real name." Dane's voice was taut with expectation. "The name only you know, Tess."

  "But where is his rose?" Tess stiffened, suddenly wary.

  "The name," her vision demanded harshly.

  Frowning, she struggled to shake the dark haze from her mind. She tried to open her eyelids, but they barely stirred.

  Dane cursed silently. So bloody close! John? James? "Give me the words!" he repeated.

  "Go — go away. No more of your torment!" White and fragile, Tess's hands lashed at thin air.

  "Oh, I'll go, love. But first I'll have his name." And then I'll have you, he vowed grimly.

  Wrong, Tess thought disjointedly. Terribly wrong. Desperately she forced her eyes open, peering dimly at the dark face above her.

  The lean, angular features blurred. Him. Always him. But real or a dream?

  Perhaps it didn't matter. Perhaps a dream could be as dangerous as the real thing.

  Mustn't speak, she thought wildly. Mustn't give Jack away. Not ever!

  "Tell me, Tess. Trust me," her vision growled.

  Oh, God, she wanted to. She yearned to give up her secrets — to let someone else bear her burdens for once. "I trusted you once," she whispered. "And then you left."

  "But now I've come back, love. For you." Ravenhurst's hard fingers tightened. "For this."

  Tess felt the shifting weight of a heavy body. A moment later hard, hot lips closed wetly over her nipple, tugging and stroking fiercely.

  Stunned, she arched upward, straining wildly for — she knew not what. A whimper escaped her drawn lips.

  "You want to trust me," her dark vision whispered. "You want this as much as I do."

  She did, he was right. But Tess had learned the hard way that she could trust no one.

  Not even a dream. Especially not a dream.

  "Tell me, Tess."

  "G-go away," she gasped. "Too — late!" Her lips moved again, but no sound emerged. Already the dark waves surrounded her.

  "Give me
his name," the rough voice from her past repeated urgently.

  This time she barely heard.

  Sighing, she turned her head away, drawing a hand to her flushed cheek. Slowly the last fragments of noise and color bled away around her.

  She slept.

  Bloody blazing hell! Once again she had tricked him, Ravenhurst thought, cursing long and fluently beneath his breath. Gripping her shoulders, he shook her savagely. "Wake up, damn it!"

  Suddenly someone tried the door. Quickly Ravenhurst bent over and blew out the candle.

  The door rattled gently.

  But already the tall man in black was slipping toward the window. Jerking aside the curtains, he slipped one leg over the sill. "I'll be back, Tess Leighton," he whispered to the darkness. "I'll be back for Thorpe, and for all the others you and your Fox helped to kill."

  A key grated in the lock outside.

  Grim-faced, Lord Ravenhurst turned and tugged the window closed behind him, then dropped lightly to the roof. A cold gust knifed through his long hair.

  Above him the curtains danced wildly. He froze, seeing the window swing open with a grating hiss. Smothering a curse, he pressed back against the cold roof tiles. Damn! He hadn't been able to latch the bloody thing properly.

  "Fair to freezing in here," he heard a woman grumble. "Now, why is that window open?" The voice grew louder, her candle casting long shadows on the curtains. "Blown out the candle, it has. But I could have sworn I left it closed."

  Dane's breath checked. He could hear the woman directly above him now, staring out into the darkness.

  "Must be old age creeping up on me," he heard her mutter, and then the glass panels snapped shut with a thud. Unseen fingers drew the curtains closed.

  Darkness fell around him once more.

  Then he heard the maid's sharp gasp. "Dear God, Miss Tess —" Quick steps crossed to the settee.

  Ravenhurst heard a glass crash onto the floor and realized the woman must have knocked it down in her distress.

  For long moments he did not move, gripped by icy, unreasoning fury. His eyes smoldered, darker than midnight, promising vengeance upon the sleeping woman inside.

  Far in the distance, beyond the black roofs of Rye, he could see the faint silver line of the Royal Military Canal curving to meet the coast at Hythe. Beyond lay the Channel, a grim reminder of the desperate task that had brought him here.

  Next time, Ravenhurst vowed, there would be no reprieves. Next time he would have what he wanted from Tess Leighton.

  And that, quite simply, was everything she had to give.

  Chapter Four

  On the ledge outside Tess's window a pair of fantail pigeons cooed noisily in rich, liquid voices.

  It was that cold, quiet hour before dawn. Twisting restlessly, Tess began to struggle back toward consciousness.

  With a sigh, she pulled her pillow down over her face. Her eyes closed, she saw dim, flickering images, faint fragments of memory that teased her waking mind. Slowly she sat up, palms flat against her throbbing temples.

  It made no difference. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn't seem to remember. All she felt was this lingering sense of uneasiness and regret. And yet ...

  Her pale brow furrowed in concentration. No, last night was different somehow. Last night was — was what?

  More real? More compelling? As if she had touched and been touched in turn? But how —

  Suddenly Tess stiffened, feeling a cold breeze play across her chest. Frowning, she looked down, wondering why the top button of her gown was undone.

  Dear God, what had happened in the night?

  She shivered, caught in dim currents of memory. Roaring wind. A harsh grating at the window.

  The old torment. And then ...

  A savage magic. Dark words — darker hands. A raw, reckless hunger.

  Him!

  Dear God, was she losing her mind? Tess thought wildly, watching the stub of a candle flicker and then die. Or were the dreams growing worse? She did not move, wrapped in darkness.

  Yes, my dear, a dream, she heard a cold, mocking voice answer. But a dream real enough to make you tremble. Perhaps you might even call me a nightmare.

  With an angry cry Tess hurled her pillow across the room. Enough of this torment! No man — whether real or imagined — was going to disturb the life she had made for herself.

  She refused to let the past claim her. Not when she had already paid her pound of flesh.

  With haunted eyes she watched the window, looking for the first faint traces of dawn.

  No, by heaven, nothing was going to stop her from succeeding. Her lips hardened to a thin line. Not even the naval officer sleeping right now in one of the Angel's soft beds, she vowed.

  Her share of the smuggled cargoes would resurrect Fairleigh and pay off the last of her father's debts. Then there was the Angel's range to consider, for it was nothing short of dangerous in its present state. Only last week the dampers had locked twice, flooding the kitchen with smoke and ruining all the chef's grand efforts.

  Yes, Tess swore grimly, she would give up cloak and mask when she was free of these crushing debts and not one instant sooner! Especially now that she had taken on Jack's role, for her profits would be even greater.

  That the risks, too, would be greater was something she resolutely refused to consider.

  * * * * *

  The first chill rays of dawn were slanting onto the floor when Ravenhurst sat up and kicked free of the twisted bed linens. With a growled curse, he lurched to his feet and stalked toward the window, totally oblivious to his nakedness.

  The room had been comfortable enough. The sheets were clean and the bed soft.

  So why had he tossed and turned the whole damned night, sleep eluding him?

  With a lurid curse he jerked the dainty white length of lace from the window and stared out at the quiet town, gray in the clinging mists of dawn.

  Because Tess Leighton affected him still, even after all these years. He had to face that fact. It would be far more dangerous to try to deny it.

  Unbidden, a vision of her naked beauty flickered before his eyes, and Ravenhurst felt himself swell with an immediate, throbbing erection. Cursing, he closed his eyes and ran his hands roughly through his hair.

  No bloody wonder he hadn't had a wink of sleep all night!

  He'd been so close! Only minutes more and he would have had the bastard's name.

  Only minutes more and he would have had Tess too.

  Scowling, Ravenhurst grabbed up his breeches and shirt from the floor, where he had dropped them the night before, refusing to listen to the mocking voice at the back of his mind.

  A voice which asked which of the two things was more important to him.

  * * * * *

  "Oh, miss, they've stripped all the beds an' dumped all yer fine linens, ha'n't they just!" A rosy-cheeked maid named Nell came flying up to Tess as she descended the stairs a half hour later. "Not a single room wot they left untouched! If only I could get m' hands on that great pig of a Crown officer, I'd give'm a piece of my mind!"

  The laudanum still fogged her brain, and Tess was having trouble brushing the dark ends of sleep from her mind. But the sight of a huge mound of dirty, tangled linens dumped in the entrance hall shook her awake quickly enough.

  So this was Hawkins's game, was it? Blazing with fury, she stared down at the ruined sheets. His men had been most thorough; every inch of linen was thick with mud.

  Very well, if it was war he wanted, it was war the blackguard would get!

  "Go fetch Letty, Nell," Tess said through clenched teeth. "Then these wretched things will have to be washed, I'm afraid. And if you should happen to see Amos Hawkins skulking about somewhere, see that he is brought to my accounts room," she added grimly.

  But Tess soon discovered her travails were far from over. Entering the kitchen a few minutes later, she found Edouard, the inn's rotund and temperamental French chef, wringing his hands over a smoke-blackened tra
y of pastries.

  As soon as the overwrought chef saw her, he halted his rain of French curses and raised his arms to the ceiling. "Par Dieu, she is finished, this cursed range! And me, I am finished, too, Mademoiselle Tess, for all that I dislike to tell you so. Non, and non once more! She crisps my tender, marinated pigeons in a manner most cruel. She swallows my patisserie and spits it back burned! She is a devil, your English stove, and I will fight her no longer!"

  Tess bit back a sigh of frustration. Edouard's war with the dilapidated open range had been raging ever since he'd come to the Angel two years before. Excitable and difficult, he was nonetheless the best chef in all of southern England and Tess well knew it was his food that kept the Angel full of well-heeled travelers.

  Even the Prince of Wales's own steward had pronounced himself impressed by the fine cuisine he had enjoyed at the inn on a recent visit. He had hinted that he might give Tess a fee for releasing the volatile chef from her employ. Fortunately, the Frenchman refused to consider the offer.

  Now, however, it appeared that unless she acted quickly, she would lose him.

  Straightening her shoulders, Tess tried for a sympathetic smile. "Poor Edouard," she said soothingly. "What has the wicked thing done to you now?"

  "It is well that you ask. Regard there!" One large, flour-covered finger rose, pointing accusingly at the oven.

  Frowning, Tess studied the ancient open range, where a thin plume of smoke even now drifted from the rear grate. "What is the problem this time? Is the smoke jack stalled again?"

  "Stalled?" The chef snorted. "She is frozen forever! I reach up to turn the dampers and she showers dirt down upon me and my stuffed pigeons. And my beautiful patisserie ..." His voice broke and he covered his face, too distraught to say more.

  Tess bent down and studied the blacked oven, then turned to peer up toward the ceiling. Gingerly she pulled the chains which should have opened the flues to the chimney.

  Nothing happened.

  "There doesn't seem to be —"

  Without warning a cloud of soot rained down upon Tess's head. Coughing wildly, she stumbled back from the oven, only to collide with the chef hovering nearby.