The Black Rose

by Christina Skye

  Her skin was like ice, he thought, pulling the covers over her, then adding another blanket. What in God's name had happened down there in the cellar? Even now she gave no sign of noticing anything he did, only stared at the candle on the bedside table. Her hands curved out, stretching to catch its flickering light.

  Was this why her room at the Angel was always lit while she slept? Ravenhurst wondered, frowning.

  If so, he could have devised no better form of torture than to lock her in his darkened cellar.

  Looking at her pallid face, he realized it might be a great while before he had any answers. In the meantime, those wounds must be tended.

  Dane's face was grim as he filled a basin with water and carried it to the table beside the bed. With unsteady hands he pried open her cold palm and then bathed her fingers, washing away the layers of dirt and ground-in blood. That done, he wrapped each finger in a length of gauze cut from the bandage at his own forehead.

  Through it all Tess held herself tense, her body curved away from him, racked by shuddering.

  When he was finished, Ravenhurst came slowly to his feet, balling his hands into fists as he stood looking down at her trembling body.

  Five years ago he had heard stories in the village, stories about her drunken father and the odd life that Tess and her brother lived out at that great ruin of a house high above the sea. At that time he had discounted the wild tales, but now Ravenhurst found himself wondering.

  A sharp rapping echoed through the nearly empty house from a door far below. Grimacing, Dane waited for whoever it was to go away. There was no one to answer the door but himself; intending no audience for his encounter with Tess, he had sent Peale away to relatives for two days.

  Silence returned, only to be broken by more pounding, harder and more insistent this time. Very soon it became apparent that his visitor did not mean to leave.

  Scowling, the viscount took a last look at the white-faced woman in his bed, then turned and strode down the stairs.

  As he opened the door, a statuesque figure in a crimson cloak stepped into the circle of light cast by the lantern above the entrance steps. Crimson-tipped fingers circled Ravenhurst's wrist.

  "So there you are, my lord," Lady Patricia Lennox purred, her eyes faintly chiding. "I'd nearly given up finding you. Then Hobhouse told me you had left the Angel and moved into your renovated townhouse here." A gust of wind caught her crimson cloak, twining its thick velvet around Dane's legs. At the same moment the blond woman gasped softly and stumbled forward against his chest, her hands curving around his forearms.

  Her eyes glittered as she angled her head up to him. Her lips parted slightly.

  Dane did not move.

  His visitor blinked, and her eyes narrowed. "Strangely enough, Hobhouse seemed surprised to see me, for he believed the Leighton chit was dining with me tonight. I cannot imagine what gave the fellow such an idea." When Dane made no answer, she pulled back slightly and drew a beribboned bottle from the pocket of her cloak. "Pray allow me to present this small token to you. In memory of past pleasures. And all those yet to come." Smiling, she held out the heavy object.

  "Very thoughtful of you." Dane bowed slightly and accepted the gift, wondering why he had never noticed before how her eyes seemed slightly chill.

  "Well, aren't you going to invite me in, so that we may sample a glass together?" Lady Patricia asked, her smile wide and inviting.

  "I only wish I could," Ravenhurst said smoothly. "I've just received a message from London, however, and I fear I must not delay my response."

  "Surely it will wait," his visitor said silkily, her lush lips settling into a pout. "For a little while at least."

  "I'm afraid not, my lady. Tomorrow, perhaps?" he added, softening the blow.

  Lady Patricia scowled. "I'm afraid I have other plans for tomorrow!" Suddenly her eyes darkened and a small smile played around the corners of her rouged mouth. "But I hope you will sample my gift nonetheless. Think of me when you drink it, won't you, my lord? I dearly hope it brings you — warmth — while you go about your cheerless duties."

  Then, with a soft peal of laughter, she turned and glided back to her waiting carriage, baring an exceptional expanse of leg as she lifted her silken skirts and climbed inside.

  The wind caught her smoky rose scent and carried it back to Dane, whose eyes narrowed for a moment.

  Too bad, he thought. Lady Patricia Lennox was a female who knew how to warm a man's bed very nicely, unless he missed his guess.

  Not that he could say for certain. They had come very close to that stage on several occasions since renewing their acquaintance in London several months before. Lady Patricia's interest in him had been very flattering. The reluctance to proceed further had been all on his side, Ravenhurst supposed. Certainly the beautiful blonde had showed every sign of willingness, as long as her conditions were met.

  But there would most certainly be conditions, he knew. Perhaps that was what made him hold back, unwilling to incur an obligation to this woman with the cool eyes and the heated skin.

  With a shrug the viscount put Lady Patricia from his mind, his thoughts returning to the woman who already occupied his bed. Still cradling his gift, he thoughtfully climbed the stairs.

  Tess gave no notice of his arrival, not even when he brushed the pale skin at her forehead. She was still far too cold, Ravenhurst thought, draping another blanket over her. And this pallor was unnatural. Maybe some spirits would help.

  Putting down the bottle, he pulled a knife from his boots and pried at the cork. He paused, noticing several small cracks near the top of the cork, but the barrier seemed intact. Finally, after several attempts, he worked the cork free, shredding large pieces in the process. Cautiously he sniffed the open bottle, afraid its contents might have turned bad.

  But the fumes that met his nose were rich and smoky with a faint, not unpleasant tinge of pungency. Altogether an excellent brandy, he decided, wondering if it had come from a smuggler's hold.

  If so, then it was only right that he should offer it to a smuggler's woman, the viscount decided grimly, lifting Tess's head and forcing some of the brandy between her lips. He smiled, thinking of what Lady Patricia would say if she knew how her gift was being used.

  The sleeping woman coughed and tried to turn away, but Ravenhurst anchored her face and made her swallow. A moment later he raised the bottle again, forcing a bit more upon her.

  She fought him, choking slightly, but Dane held her still until she'd swallowed. When he angled the bottle once more against her lips, Tess fought him in earnest, but her wild blows fell unheeded upon his broad shoulders. Swiftly Ravenhurst caught her wrists against his chest, holding the bottle in place until she swallowed, once and then again.

  "No," she gasped, tossing restlessly. "S-stop!"

  "Hush," he answered, setting the bottle on the table and taking her in his hard embrace. "Hush, Soleil."

  But Tess continued to writhe against him, more urgently now. "Make them go away," she pleaded, struggling against his taut frame. "No more of their fire."

  "There are no spiders. It is only you and I here now," he muttered huskily, stroking her cool skin with rough, reckless fingers. It seemed, after a time, that the heat began to return to her body. A faint flush tinged her cheeks. The brandy must be helping, he decided.

  Her eyes opened, dim and glazed. Then the restless shifting began again. Little desperate sobs broke from her lips.

  "Don't fight me, Tess," Dane whispered, only to feel her slender hips grind against his thighs. Desire shot through him, primal and savage, swelling his manhood.

  Growling a curse, he turned and pressed her beneath him. By God, he wanted her, wanted her hot and hungry like this, her long white legs surrounding him. He wanted her panting, lost to everything but desire when he filled her with his hard, swollen man's shaft.

  "Open your eyes, Tess."

  Restlessly she tossed against him, mumbling beneath her breath. Her linen-wrapped hands o
pened and closed, straining at his chest.

  Suddenly Dane stiffened, staring down at the stark slash of red across her cheekbones. An image flashed through his mind, a nearly forgotten memory from his dark months in France. Where had it been?

  He watched those bandaged fingers burrow beneath his shirt, white against the dense mat of black hair upon his chest.

  The Chat d'Or, he realized, his mouth tightening in a hard line. And then the memories engulfed him as if it were but yesterday.

  The clammy hands, the heated skin, the wild, erratic pulse. The thunder of his heart threatening to leap from his chest.

  The way hers must be hammering now.

  The night came back to him then, in all its raw horror. A foul enough thing to witness, but an unspeakable thing to experience, as he had done.

  As Tess was doing now.

  So the brandy had been drugged, by God, mixed with something to strip away one's inhibitions. Something that burned a person inside and out, until there was nothing left but quivering nerve ends.

  Roots from the Orient, perhaps.

  Bitter, potent powders passed down from Mogul India.

  Savage, blinding drugs that could turn a rational human being into a desperate, driven animal.

  And all this was Lady Patricia's doing. Blindly, Ravenhurst stared down at the woman tossing restlessly upon his bed. Except for fate, it might have been him tossing there, caught in the searing grip of a drugged passion.

  Just as he had been caught in Paris those long months ago.

  "Hush, Tess," he whispered hoarsely, his eyes dark with hideous memories. "Let me put out this fire."

  Lost in smoke and flame, Tess twisted beneath him, her skin burning and then icy in turn, her muscles tense, her body a wild and alien thing, beyond her control.

  Fear gripped her as she felt the angry march of arachnid feet probing every corner of her body. She shifted, restless and tormented, her skin raw, consumed by a thousand hidden flames.

  Dear God, no! Not again.

  Nightmares. More nightmares ...

  Then, miraculously, something cool splashed across her fevered skin She whimpered, reaching for the source of that blessed, cooling dampness.

  Something — someone? — pushed her hands away. "Let me help you," she heard a gravelly voice whisper. "Let me take away the flames."

  Then the tenuous thread of meaning was lost. Strange, harsh words flowed over her, dim pagan chants that fell upon her hungry, aching skin like soft rain.

  She writhed, nerve and muscle aflame, locked in a demon's grip. And this time Tess realized dimly there would be no retreating. This time the peace of her white haven would be denied her.

  Moaning, she felt her blood surge and boil through her limbs, turning her into some sort of mindless, devouring thing. Dear God, not one of them. Not one of those gnawing creatures of the night!

  "So — hot," she moaned.

  Suddenly the orange flames exploded, and fire shot through her, raging through her veins, fed with every agonizing burst of her heart.

  Her fingers dug deep into the tangled linens.

  Her hips lifted from the bed, frantic and seeking. She choked, desperate to end the torment, desperate to stretch and fill the gnawing emptiness within her.

  Her skin crawled, teeming with skittering creatures. She cried out hoarsely, feeling the rasp of tiny, voracious jaws. More and more of their poison flooded through her, sparking myriad new flames to life. Her neck, her breasts, her thighs ...

  Somewhere nearby a dim voice whispered, but she could not make out the words. More of the blessed coolness struck her cheeks, her eyes, her chest.

  But it was not enough, not nearly enough to match these savage flames, which threatened to devour her.

  Just like before. Just like that night five years ago, when she had been brutally betrayed. When all her hope had died.

  "Don't — don't hurt me," she whimpered to the darkness. "Not — again."

  Chapter Nineteen

  A raw curse exploded from Ravenhurst's lips. He threw down the damp wad of linen, knowing that it would do no good.

  How much of the bloody brandy had he given her? Not more than four drinks, certainly. The blond bitch must have made her poisonous brew unbelievably potent.

  The viscount's eyes hardened as he looked down at the woman beside him on the bed. Gone was the sloe-eyed temptress, gone the confident, mocking wanton. In her place lay only a frightened, suffering creature.

  He thought then of another woman, slender and dark-haired, who had dared to shield him while Fouche's gendarmes combed the Paris streets in search of their English prey.

  When they had caught him, along with the terrified Veronique, their heavy-jowled commandant had sworn to teach the pair the price of betraying Napoleon's cause.

  They had made Dane watch as they forced an unholy mixture between the woman's lips until she, too, had panted and writhed in agony, like the woman before him.

  Then the leering Frenchman had made Ravenhurst mount her, goading him with the butt of his pistol when his English captive had resisted. And all the time Veronique's wild, blind eyes had followed him. "Mon Dieu, que je souffre," she had rasped. "Chaud ... si chaud."

  Finish it, she had pleaded hoarsely, after Dane, too, was forced to drink. Through that long night he had learned firsthand the horrors of Hell, the unspeakable cruelty that men were capable of.

  The bald commandant had amused himself with his voyeurism, planning to drag Dane out to be shot in the morning. Except Veronique's heart had given out from the combination of fear and an excess of the drug. Without warning, she had simply collapsed, to breathe no more.

  Seizing his moment, Dane had escaped.

  But he had never forgotten the price an innocent woman had been forced to pay for helping him.

  Now as he looked down at Tess, her pale hands clutching the tangled bed linens, Dane realized that she, too, had been made to suffer because of him, plunged from a nightmare into something far worse.

  Knowing, too, that he alone held the means of soothing her.

  His face taut with emotions held fiercely in check, Ravenhurst eased down beside her, his hand cupping her shoulder when she tried to turn away. His keen, dark eyes searched her face.

  Dear God, how he wanted her. He had not meant it to be this way, but now there was no other choice.

  "Don't fight me, Tess," he whispered. "Not now. Later, perhaps, but for now ..." His voice tightened. "For now let me take you back. Let me make this night what that one should have been."

  His lips swept over her cheeks and eyelids, teasing, feather-light. He kissed the line of her brow, the edge of her mouth. And when finally he felt her relax and curve to meet him, he could not keep the tiny smile of triumph from his lips.

  Slowly, as if in a dream, he watched her arms reach out.

  "Dane?"

  How long he had waited to hear his name on her lips.

  His eyes smoky with desire, he slanted his body down over her silken heat, feeling the same fire that consumed her. She was so soft, so open to him now, her hips shifting and hungry.

  All that he had ever dreamed of ...

  Desire ripped through him. He felt himself harden and swell to painful proportions. Tensing, he fought the urge to bury himself deep within her and ease the ache at his groin.

  But he knew he could not. Not yet. Not while her need was so great.

  A vein pounding at his temple, he grasped her wrists and crushed her beneath him, every hard ridge of sinew and bone mated to her soft hollows and swells. She stirred restlessly but did not fight him now, not even when he began to inch down her heated skin, his mouth burning a damp trail to her taut nipples.

  "Yes, Tess," he urged darkly. "Let me taste you."

  Stroking and biting softly, he circled the pebbled crests again and again, teasing her until she arched her back and moaned wildly beneath him. Immediately Ravenhurst's mouth opened, surrounding her.

  Ragged heartbeats later he sh
ifted; his tongue began to tease its way along the taut muscles of her abdomen, skirting her navel.

  He could feel as much as hear her panting moans now, and realized they were fueled by panic along with passion. The ragged sound made him curse roughly, damning Lady Patricia for her cunning.

  Slowly his fingers brushed the dusky curls crowning her thighs. Instantly Tess froze, digging her heels into the bed and pressing her legs together.

  Without speaking Dane gathered her close and soothed her with his lips and strong, persuasive hands, making no advance until she began to relax. The change was subtle; he felt it in her steadied breathing, in the play of her light, searching fingers upon his shoulders.

  "Open for me, Tess," he said urgently, feathering kisses over the corner of her mouth, groaning when her lips parted and she stroked his tongue with her own. "Hot ... so sweet. Let me bring down the sun for you."

  Then he parted her gently, before fear could return, and this time he felt her body strain with a different tension, a hunger as old as man and woman.

  Little wordless cries trembled on her lips as he eased deep inside her, circling and stroking, surging and withdrawing rhythmically until she found his pace and instinctively began to match it.

  A thin sheen of sweat covered her body, darkening the errant curls at her temples.

  So beautiful, Dane thought dimly, inflamed by the sight of her pale waist, her proud, taut nipples, and the crowning birthmarks at her breast and thigh.

  My woman, his blood sang fiercely. Now and forever. Whether she likes it or not.

  His eyes darkened when he felt her tremors begin, radiating out from the heart of her, driving her mindless and urgent against him.

  Suddenly her gray-green eyes flickered open, stark with shock and fear.

  "Take it, Tess," he rasped, feeling the beginnings of her resistance. "My sweet Soleil."

  "N-no," she choked out, feeling her heart burst from her chest, feeling flames wrap around her thighs and neck.

  But it was already too late.

  For then, just as the dream-figure had promised, the sun was torn from the sky, descending in sweet fury upon her, burning away both poison and memory. Choking, she felt him drive the small fires hotter, ever hotter, into one vast inferno that glowed fiercely and then exploded, deep inside her.