"Move another inch and you're a dead man." The threat was flat and deadly. "Now, take your hand out of your pocket. Very slowly."
Ransley smothered a curse, noticing for the first time that Ravenhurst's hands were hidden beneath the table.
The smuggler's mouth set in a thin, angry line; slowly he raised his left hand and opened his fingers to display an empty palm.
"Very good. Now I believe I'd like to finish my tankard in peace, Mr. Ransley." Dane's black brows slanted upward. "Unless you have some objection, that is."
At that moment Dane had nothing but two wax tapers and an apple core in his greatcoat pocket, but the harsh set to his jaw betrayed no hint of this.
The two men's eyes locked, muddy brown probing cold lapis. Around them the background noise ebbed, and an eerie silence gripped the room. Stiff-legged, bristling with anger, Ransley tried to stare Ravenhurst down.
And failed.
"Why not?" Ransley finally snarled. "No soddin' difference to me. Seein' as how ye're a hero and all that." Muttering a curse, he shot a mouthful of saliva onto the floor near Dane's polished black boot.
Only with the greatest effort of self-control did Ravenhurst restrain himself from responding to this insult. His fingers tightened in his pocket, mutilating the tapers into misshapen lumps.
God's blood, but he ached to bury his fist in the insolent bastard's face!
But he couldn't. 'Twas the King's business that brought him here, and the affair was too important to be jeopardized by a moment of personal vengeance — no matter how sweet it might be.
His blood hammering in his ears, Dane studied his antagonist from beneath lazy, half-closed lids. "Better watch yourself, Ransley. One day the wind will be against you and you'll find yourself with spit all over your face."
"Why ye —" Ransley's hand was already flashing toward his pocket when two of his friends grabbed him and began to drag him back across the room.
"Cut line, Tom," one of the men growled. "Been enough trouble tonight. We don't need no more of it."
Once back at his earlier seat, Ransley shrugged free of his companions' grip. "Need none of his lot here," he growled. "Bunch of godrottin' meddlers, they are. Let him go back to the Angel and play hare and hounds with the Ice Maiden, 'stead o' botherin' us. Reck'n he's not man enough to get her to spread her legs, though," the smuggler sneered drunkenly.
The steps came behind him, swift and silent. "Ransley?" The word was hardly more than a whisper.
The moment Ransley turned, his smile froze on his mottled face; a hard, bronzed fist smashed into his nose, sending blood streaming over his cheeks. With a faint groan the red-haired smuggler reeled and then slowly crumpled to the floor.
Ravenhurst's blood was still throbbing as he looked down at the man lying before him. A muscle flashing at his jaw, he fought against a wave of fierce, blinding rage.
Finally, lucidity returned. His temper was vile and he knew it. Because he knew that, the anger seldom got the best of him.
Except now.
"Please, Cap'n, no need for more fisticuffs." Jewkes's sweaty face floated dimly before Ravenhurst. "Words is often spoke in anger what are regretted at leisure. Better if ye take yer leave now, though. Surely ye can see that for yerself."
Scowling, Ravenhurst turned and swept up his gloves from the table. It was the cheap rum, he thought. Christ Almighty, it was enough to scramble a man's wits. The night air was what he needed, clean and sharp and stinging as it swept up from the sea.
And maybe if he was lucky, he could imagine he was on a quarterdeck once more, the rigging whistling overhead, the creak of timber in his ears. Yes, by God, he'd sleep beneath the stars tonight and purge himself at dawn with some punishing exercise in the surf. He knew just the place where the breakers would test his mettle.
Fairleigh Cove.
Smothering a curse, the hard-faced viscount jerked open the door and strode into the night, leaving more than one man to breathe easier in his absence.
Chapter Fifteen
An hour before dawn Tess slipped into the dark tunnel beneath the priory ruins. Her only witness was a solitary owl hooting mournfully from the heights of a yew tree at the top of the hill. The moon had gone down, and the dark meadows were covered with low-lying, drifting fog, which hugged the hollows like a sea of slow-moving foam.
Like the sad ghosts of ancient lovers, Tess thought, watching the pale, twisting shapes. Like cold memories of dead desires.
Grimly she stuffed her whiskered mask deep into her pocket and pulled her damp cloak close, shaking off the chilling fog along with her dark thoughts.
For she had more important things to worry about right now.
Jack, for one. She had stopped at Fairleigh to exchange her breeches for a dress, but if he saw her mask, his fury would know no bounds.
"Jack?" Tess moved to the end of the tunnel, holding the lantern high above her head. The flame cast crazy shadows across the steep passage, their ragged outlines spilling into the narrow room just beyond. "Are you asleep?"
The man on the straw pallet turned, his face pale and drawn. "Nay, not sleeping, lass. I hardly fancy my dreams would be pleasant ones this night." He sat back against the cold stone wall, patting the spot beside him. "Come and sit beside me. There's things that must be said before I go."
So he was leaving. Slowly Tess settled the lantern on an upturned barrel. "You're going? Tonight?"
"I'm mended well enough to travel, lass. It's safer if I'm away from here."
Her mind understood, but her heart could never agree. "Of course," she mumbled. Something kept her from sitting, as Jack directed. Instead, her shoulders stiff with weariness, she turned to pace the narrow underground room.
It was so still here deep beneath the earth. The air was chill, with a vast, clinging sort of dampness that penetrated to one's very bones. Suddenly Tess was racked with despair. The room wrapped its great black arms around her and threatened to squeeze the life from her lungs. "Jack ..." she cried urgently.
She fell into his arms, weeping, and the old smuggler was wise enough to let her cry, adding no word to interrupt her long wracking sobs. For this pain, Jack knew, was a pain long years growing.
So he only held her tightly, his fingers tense with his own unspoken emotion.
Finally Tess's tears slowed; the darkness seemed to release her. Sniffing, she sat back and scrubbed away her tears. "What a fool I am, crying about nothing. And yet there is something strange — very strange — about this place."
"Never mind, lass," the white-haired man said gruffly, patting her shoulder. "The tears had to come sometime. You've held them inside too long. 'Tisn't natural, that. But I know what you mean about this place." Jack's voice dropped suddenly. He shrugged, and when next he spoke, his voice was hard. "Now, I want the truth about this daft escapade of yours."
Tess knew a moment of panic as his stern eyes probed her face. Had he discovered the true extent of her involvement? Did he realize that she had been brash enough to usurp his own role, indeed had just come from doing so this very night?
Defiantly, she raised her chin, meeting his gaze directly. "I needed the money, Jack. For Fairleigh. And for —"
"For that harum-scarum brother of yours. That's another thing not quite natural. He should be here taking care of you, instead of the other way around."
"Nonsense. I'm four years older than he, and since our mother's death I've been —"
"I know all about that, lass, but Ashley's a man grown now. 'Tis time he stood on his own two feet. And as for the money, you well know I've enough to spare. Often enough I've offered to give you, to lend you" — he hastily corrected himself — "all the guineas you need to repair this wreck."
"I can only say what I've said before: Thank you, but no. We're in debt to half of England already, thanks to my father's propensity for gaming. I'll not add you to the list."
Jack was scowling now, his eyes cold and hard. They were shrewd eyes, eyes that had seen too many bet
rayals, too much of the dark side of the human heart. Things that Jack was determined Tess would never have to see.
"And I'll have no more of this wild running with the gentlemen, do you hear me? 'Twas only meant to be a game, don't you see? Something to fill the lonely hours I spent here with you and that scamp Ashley. 'Tis naught but madness, lass! What if Hawkins had caught you on the last run? What would you have done when the brute discovered you weren't the man you appeared!"
"But he didn't discover me," Tess answered crisply. Her gray-green eyes twinkled with a sudden warmth. "And I did help you to get away, if you'll recall."
"After nearly felling me from shock at the sight of you! Nay, I've not forgotten how you saved me, lass. But that's the only reason I haven't turned you over my knee and taken a strap to your tender bottom!" he growled.
Tess heard fear in his voice, and it stiffened her resolve. "Don't worry, Jack, I've learned my lesson. 'Tis no fine sport to go raking the moon from the water." That, at least, was true. She still shivered at how close to death they'd both come on the marsh.
And how close she'd come again this night.
But Tess prayed the Fox would ask no promises of her. If he pressed her for an oath, how could she lie?
She did not know. Maybe until the moment came she would never know ...
The Fox smothered a curse. "Get the lad back here, where he belongs, damn it. Have him take some of the burden from your shoulders —"
"Oh, Jack, don't let's argue over this again. We've been through it all before. Ashley is where he belongs, in the world he was raised for. And there's no reason he shouldn't take his place in that world, even though Father's death left us without two shillings to rub together."
"No reason, you say, Tess Leighton? Aye, no reason except that you've not money enough to keep him in those fine clothes and pay his debts, except by joining the gentlemen. He'll turn out just like his father before him, if you ask me."
"Which I did not," Tess snapped, her lips clenched in anger. "Please, Jack," she pleaded then, "let's not waste time arguing. Not tonight — not when you're just about to leave." Her eyes glittered, green slipping into gray, dark with fear she was desperately fighting to conceal. "I'm always so worried you won't ..."
The smuggler smiled roguishly. "Come back? Enough of this gloomy talk, lass. You wound me with your lack of faith, so you do! 'Twill take a great deal more than Amos Hawkins and his loutish men to stop the Fox, lass. I'm half marsh ghost, didn't you know?" he added with his usual fine bravado.
"Oh, Jack, don't tease me." Tess's fingers tightened on his arm.
With a suspicious sound somewhere between a sniff and a gruff little snort, the handsome silver-haired man reached down to pat her arm. "You'll see me again, I promise you that. Until then I'll always be keeping an eye open for you. And if I hear you've taken to the marsh again," he added sternly, "then, by God, I'll soon make you wish Hawkins had dispatched me to Hades!"
The lantern flickered suddenly and nearly went out.
Their eyes met, tense with the knowledge that the time for parting had come.
"It must be nearly dawn," the Fox said quietly. "Time for me to be off. I don't half fancy meeting anyone on the road tonight — not with this wound yet unhealed."
"Where will you go?" Tess breathed, even though she broke their rule in asking.
The smuggler's dark eyes turned chiding. "You know better than to ask such things, lass. 'Tis better you don't know. That way —" He stood quickly, gathering his things. "Now I must be away," he said sharply, his voice muffled as he bent to his boots and saddlebags.
So few things, Tess thought despairingly. So few hours to remember him by, this kind, gentle man who had been more of a father to her than ever her own sire had been.
And now came the agony of waiting, never knowing when — or if — he would return.
"Don't come up." Jack's voice was taut with emotions of his own, and an appeal for her to oblige him, this once.
Tess's fingers clenched in her lap, the nails cutting deep into her tender skin until she felt blood pool up on her palms. "All — all right."
His steps echoed up the narrow tunnel, their crunching gradually growing fainter. In the distance Tess heard a whinny, followed by the rustle of scattered pebbles.
"Godspeed," she whispered to the darkness.
Then the realization hit her. He was going. Maybe forever. How could she let him go without seeing his face one last time?
"Jack!" she cried, scrambling up the passage after him.
He was already mounted and turning north toward the Downs. His expression was shrouded as he reined in his horse, which reared and pawed wildly at the air. With a muffled curse he bent and caught her in a last, quick embrace.
Then he was gone, the wild drum of hooves drifting back to Tess on the wind, along with Jack's final warning.
"Remember what I said, lass," he called. "And remember, too, that the Fox will be back. Aye, when you least expect him!"
Before Tess could answer, he was gone, swallowed up by the clinging fog and the sullen darkness beyond.
* * * * *
Tendrils of mist swirled around Ravenhurst's legs like a blanket of ghostly snow as he slipped up the hill toward the priory, drawn by the sound of muffled voices.
Once again they came, quick and tense, this time followed by the neighing of a horse.
Quickly he covered the last feet to the ruined terrace and there he stood, frozen with fury when he picked out the two dim figures at the base of the stairs.
He did not move nor even breathe, feeling his blood pound white-hot through his veins. His throat constricted and he knew the bitter taste of ashes in his mouth, unable to speak, even when the dark-garbed man on horseback fled through the fog downhill toward the coast.
Ravenhurst's paralysis only fueled his fury.
So this was where she met him, the treacherous bitch! The Admiralty had been right about that, along with everything else. The woman was most certainly in league with the smugglers, but like a fool he couldn't bring himself to believe it. Always there had been some trace of doubt in his mind, some hope that she wasn't involved, that she couldn't have known what was going on at Fairleigh in her absences.
And all the time that she feigned outraged innocence with him, she was warming the bloody Fox's bed!
But no longer, by God.
Silently Ravenhurst slipped back behind the wall, watching Tess turn and disappear around the corner of the priory. Then, his face a granite mask of rage, he dropped to the damp earth and prepared to wait.
Chapter Sixteen
Tess's fingers trembled as she pulled her thick woolen cloak closer about her shoulders. Halfway down the tunnel she stopped to brush away the tears blurring her vision, cursing herself for her weakness.
For weakness, she knew, was a luxury she could ill afford.
After all, this was no different from the other times Jack had left. He would be back, she told herself sternly. Hadn't he always come back before?
After a final swipe at her cheeks, she moved to the bottom of the passage and turned to survey the quiet stone room. He'd left nothing behind, no sign of his presence. Even the faint, elusive warmth was now gone from the empty room.
Cold, so cold, this place. And something else — something Tess could almost call evil ...
Shivering, she picked up the lantern and sped back up the passage, all the time feeling the darkness cold and probing at her back, like a silent, relentless enemy. Waiting for the moment her guard dropped.
Then she was outside, the night air clean and cold in her face. Low-lying fog swirled about her feet as she turned to tug on the cord that would reseal the passage. Had the door been solid, she could never have moved it, not even with the help of its ingenious pulley system. But clever hands had trimmed the stones centuries ago, making a thin facade that perfectly matched the surrounding wall.
With a tiny hiss, the passage closed, protected once more from inquisitive eyes
. In the very next instant Tess heard a faint rustling in the fog at the far end of the terrace. Her heart pounding, she spun about and then froze, straining to penetrate the unnatural, suffocating silence.
It was that coldest hour before dawn, when all the world lay silent, even the birds deathly still. Tess blew out the flame in her lantern, unwilling to call extra attention to her presence now that the Fox was abroad and vulnerable.
She waited, white-faced. The noise was not repeated.
Drawn by some instinct she could not explain, she began to climb the sloping meadow toward the dim half circle of her mother's white garden. The scent of lilies drifted on the pure chill air, mingled with the clean tang of pine needles and sea salt. Frowning, Tess struggled to recapture the peace she had always known here at her mother's side.
But tonight, peace eluded her. The only emotion she felt was an oppressive sort of loneliness.
Behind her the fog swirled, reaching out with bony fingers.
"The very picture of innocence," a voice growled at her back.
She gasped and whirled about, her blood hammering in her ears.
Ravenhurst stood before her, a black phantom against the black night, his long legs draped in tendrils of mist. His expression was harsh and shuttered, the silver wings at his brow the only brightness in the dark mask of his face.
What had he seen? How much did he know?
Tess's chest rose and fell erratically as she fought for composure. Let him speak first, she thought dimly. Let him be the first to betray the extent of his knowledge.
Slowly his cool fingers brushed her cheek. "Yes, the very image of innocence." The strong fingers tensed fractionally. "Tears?"
" 'Tis only a bit of mist. Your imagination, as usual, deceives you."
"How flawlessly you lie, even now," Ravenhurst said, almost to himself. For long seconds he studied her face. "So, my dear, we come full circle," he said at last. "Back to this white garden of yours. Back five years in time. But perhaps that is not so very long after all, not when one has thought of little else during all that time. For I mean to close the circle, you see. Tonight. Settling this thing between us once and for all."
The Black Rose Page 18