The Black Rose

by Christina Skye

  But there was no time to ask, for she could feel sweat beading up over his face. She fumbled for a clean piece of linen and then ran it across his heated skin.

  His hands caught her wrist, then tightened. "Cherie — is it — you — truly?"

  "Of a certainty, my captain." Tess tried for bravado and hoped she succeeded. "And here I shall stay, until you are strong enough to prove a better adversary. You can offer me no good sport, you see, weak as you are now."

  "I ... must ... not ..." Andre's teeth grated audibly and he muttered something in Breton. Tess felt his head toss restlessly on the pillow. Suddenly he tensed. "Don't trust me, sea gull," he rasped. "Someday I shall leave you. In the end, the sea takes all who challenge it — even the best and the bravest, which I am certainly not." He muttered something she could not make out and pushed at her hands.

  He must be growing delirious, Tess decided.

  Then his reason returned. "The French call it 'she,' did you know that, bihan? Ah, but to the Breton the sea is always male. Angry, ruthless, untamable — just the way you make me feel."

  With a harsh breath, he sat up, his hands groping for her in the darkness. "Where are you? The candle has gone out."

  "Ici, mon cher corsaire." My beloved — the endearment slipped out unconsciously.

  Andre's rough fingers cupped her shoulders. "Am I so, sea gull? You know nothing about me. I might be the worst slime of the Paris streets, for all you know. And yet you use such a term —" His voice fell away into a groan. He stiffened, smothering a curse.

  "Hush," Tess whispered, trying to push him back down on the bed, knowing this struggle did his wound no good. "Perhaps I do not need to think. Perhaps" — she smiled faintly in the darkness and repeated his words of such a short while before — "perhaps, for now, to feel is enough." Emboldened, she took his hand and pressed it to the vein pulsing at the base of her throat. "Perhaps to feel is more than enough," she added softly.

  Was it indeed only a matter of hours? It seemed to Tess as if a lifetime had passed.

  She could almost see his faint, answering smile; his voice warmed with the dark promise of retribution. "For that bit of impertinence, I shall make you pay most dearly, Anglaise."

  Beneath her fingers Andre's muscles bunched and then relaxed. At last he allowed her to push him down onto the bed.

  "Later ..." he added faintly.

  He sighed once, and before his head met the pillow he was asleep.

  * * * * *

  The captain did not make an easy patient, as Tess soon discovered. He slept only for short intervals, then came half awake to mutter and toss restlessly. In vain Tess tried to soothe him, to hold him still, knowing that these exertions put added strain upon his wound. But he was a big man, and his dreams were harsh.

  Padrig came twice with food and fresh linens, and Le Fur came also, to check on his patient. Otherwise she was left alone with the captain. Later — Tess could not say exactly how much later, for her sense of time blurred during those long hours — he pulled her roughly to his chest in delirium, burying his fingers deep in her tangled curls.

  "Un reve," he breathed, groaning.

  "Not a dream," Tess whispered. "A woman. A woman of bone and blood."

  His woman?

  But Tess pushed that dangerous thought from her mind, along with all the others, and allowed herself to float on through the churning seas.

  Toward the dawn.

  Toward the sun-swept harbor he had promised her.

  * * * * *

  Long hours later Tess was woken by the hammering of feet on deck. Blinking, she searched for Andre's face, relieved to discover that his forehead was dry and cool beneath her fingers. She realized she did not even know what day it was, then smiled to discover that it mattered not in the least.

  After stretching lazily, she drank some of the cider Padrig had left, shrugging when she found there was no food to go with it.

  What need had she for food anyway? Not with this sweet molten Breton cider that floated through her veins like sunlight. She laughed softly, dizzy with the sharp, pungent drink, dizzy with the nearness of the man beside her.

  You, Miss Leighton, are well on your way to becoming floored, flushed, and flummoxed, a harsh voice scolded. A voice that sounded strangely like Hermione Tredwell's.

  Somehow that thought only made Tess laugh the louder.

  With a wicked smile, she raised her glass to her invisible critic. If this was drunkenness, she was loving every minute of it. And the word was foxed, thank you.

  Beside her she heard a faint rustling. The bed creaked.

  "Anglaise?"

  "Here," Tess whispered, instantly alert at the sound of Andre's rough voice. She had become entirely comfortable speaking French with him. But why did his husky rasp send shivers scurrying down her spine?

  "Were you — here? All the time?"

  Carefully Tess replaced her empty glass upon the table. "I was."

  "Did I say — do — anything ..."

  She smiled at the uncertainty in his voice. "Outrageous? Improper? Or simply arrogant? Let me see, you tossed about a great deal and moaned rather a lot. Oh yes, you did mention something about a cargo hidden on an island off the coast. And there was something else — something about a man you had to meet with a message. I was just about to worm the location out of you when —"

  With a growl, her patient sat up and seized her wrists.

  "I see I'll have my work cut out taming you, bihan." The Frenchman's fingers slipped to her forearms and he pulled her sprawling across his chest, her hair cast in wild disarray about his naked shoulders. "Kiss me, Anglaise," he ordered roughly. "Kiss me awake with this sweet storm."

  Dizzy with the cider, Tess found herself smiling even as she bent closer, brushing her fingers through the crisp fur on his chest. Very carefully, she swept her lips across his in the merest hint of a kiss.

  His groan made her smile broaden. "More," he growled, tangling his fingers in her hair and holding her still. "You taste like cider. No, sweeter than any cider."

  Slowly Tess slanted her face down to his, realizing that he would not press her, but wanted her to do the offering.

  Owing is not what I want from you! Andre's words came back to her then, along with the fury in his voice when he had said them. He wanted her, Tess knew, but equally important was that she come to him of her own will, with a passion to match his own.

  And that knowledge made her bold beyond imagining.

  With exquisite care her fingers shifted, tracing the flat male nipples hidden amid the dense fleece of his chest. To her surprise Tess felt them pebble instantly at her touch.

  The Frenchman groaned, long and hoarse, his fingers biting into her forearms.

  Drunk with the raw sounds of his desire, Tess pressed closer, her heart racing. Even as her fingers skimmed his chest she brought her tongue lightly to his lips. Reckless, driven by a strange, nameless longing, she teased their shuttered center and then pressed closer, gaining entrance to the hot, sleek recess beyond.

  Immediately Andre's lips closed around her, drawing her deep.

  At his ragged groan, fire exploded through Tess's veins. Heat flared between them, passed back and forth like jagged lightning bolts on a summer's night.

  Her heart began to hammer. Maybe. Yes, maybe — just this once. Since all else was lost, what would it matter to give in this one time?

  Then her blind eyes darkened, full of pain. No, she could never surrender to this weakness. Not even once.

  Once was all it took.

  Her father had taught her that, in a way savage beyond imagining.

  "Andre," she tried to say, afraid of what was happening between them, afraid of the turmoil she was feeling. But the sound became trapped, lost somewhere between their locked mouths.

  "Mamm de Zoue," he whispered hoarsely against her hot lips, never releasing her. Tess could feel his heart slam against his ribs. It seemed that his fingers trembled. "Trop tot." he rasped. Too soon. />
  And then his control shattered. In wild, churning waves the dark storm of his desire broke over her. His hard hands found her ribs and splayed open, his thumbs coaxing the soft buds of her nipples erect.

  "An Aotrou Doue," Andre muttered. "Just as I knew they'd be — perfect." Slowly his tongue slipped back and forth over hers, teasing and stroking.

  Stormy seas, Tess thought dimly. Water too deep. So deep that she'd never come up again — and never even want to.

  Then she was drowning, plummeting, shot through with an exquisite ache that was part pleasure and part pain. She whimpered, feeling a fierce tension grip her at the point where her softness cradled his hardness.

  First the pleasure, then the pain, a shrill voice warned. Let it go!

  With a ragged cry Tess struggled away, desperate to find air and space, afraid that if she opened this final door she would never be able to close it again.

  Then she would never be safe from the demons. And they were always there, she knew, just beyond that door. Waiting in the darkness.

  Her hands tensed. "I — I can't," she gasped, dizzy still. A moment later her clawing fingers flayed the air, meeting rigid muscle.

  A harsh cry exploded from Andre's lips. His hands went rigid on her breasts.

  A moment later Tess was thrust back roughly onto the bed. She felt one broad shoulder brush past her, the bed shaking as he strained forward to cup his injured thigh.

  "As God is my witness, Anglaise, are you trying to kill me? If so, you'll find it beyond your powers. And you may give up any thoughts of escape, as well," the Frenchman growled. "This thing between us is far from over, I warn you!"

  * * * * *

  "She's not dead! I don't believe it, no matter what that foul, blood-sucking marsh mosquito says!"

  The Angel's hostler stumbled into the kitchen, his young face tense with his effort to hold back tears. "She's up north visiting her brother, ain't she, Mr. Hobhouse, just like ye told me?" Jem's brown eyes scoured the majordomo's taut features, pleading for reassurance.

  "Dead? Who is setting such tales about?" Hobhouse's face was stern. "It is nothing but some cruel joke."

  " 'Tis Hawkins himself, that's who. Telling all the patrons down at the Three Herrings, he is. Says he caught the Fox upon the beach with his own two hands and saw him ripped to shreds. Says that the young miss was involved and killed, too, like as not, only her body was — was lost, washed away by the tide." Small spots of color stained the lad's cheeks. His fingers began to quiver, and he gripped the lapels of Hobhouse's jacket convulsively. "It's not true. It can't be! Only I — I want to hear ye say it, Mr. Hobhouse."

  Over the boy's head, Hobhouse and Letty exchanged grim glances.

  "Ye must tell me, sir. Ye wouldn't lie, I know it!"

  A look of despair flashed across Hobhouse's face, but was almost instantly concealed. Squaring his shoulders, the servant looked sternly down at Jem, who was studying him with deathly determination. The boy would not go away without an answer, Hobhouse realized.

  "Now then, Jem, what's all this rubbish about Miss Tess? She's gone up to visit Master Ashley at Oxford, just as I told you — whoever tells you different is a bleating fool. The fact is, the young master was taken sick without warning, and so she didn't have time to say good-bye." Hobhouse's strong fingers tipped up the boy's face, registering the brown eyes bright with unshed tears. Grimly he forced Jem to look directly into his eyes. "Now, who are you going to believe, Jem? Me, who has never lied to you before? Or that" — he hesitated, one dark brow raised as he tried to recall the boy's previous description.

  "Blood-sucking marsh mosquito, sir?"

  "Damned if you haven't caught his likeness exactly, lad. Just so. Now, I want an answer to my question." His voice was hard and unwavering, Hobhouse was relieved to hear — the sort of voice which could quell someone far more confident than a boy of Jem's age.

  "Sorry, sir," the hostler said at last, reassured by the stiff indignation he saw in the majordomo's eyes. Slowly he let out the breath he'd been holding. "Knew the bastard — begging yer pardon, Miss Letty, but that's purely what he is — was lying." As he spoke, the boy's voice grew louder and more confident. "Aye, knew all along, I did." His hands fell abruptly from Hobhouse's now wrinkled jacket, which he made an ineffectual effort to smooth. "Sorry about that, sir."

  Hobhouse was careful to make his voice sound irritated. "As well you should be, Jem. Now, enough of this busying yourself in matters that are none of your concern. You must have work to do out in the stables. And if not, I'm sure Edouard would be more than happy to —"

  The boy threw up his hands protectively, already retreating toward the door. "I'm going, Mr. Hobhouse! Honest, I am. No need to threaten me with that sort of torture again. I couldn't bear to spend another afternoon with that mad Frenchman! Had me in an apron, he did!"

  A moment later Jem disappeared, jerking the door closed with a sharp bang.

  Immediately Hobhouse's shoulders slumped. Sighing harshly, he ran an unsteady hand through his dark hair.

  Beside him, Letty made a sound halfway between a sigh and a sob, her eyes filling with tears. "Where is she? Dear God, Andrew, what could have happened to her? It's been three days now!"

  "I only wish I knew, Letty." The man's eyes narrowed. "Has he said anything?" Hobhouse snorted when he saw the maid start in surprise. "Oh, don't bother to lie — I know well enough that you and Lord Ravenhurst's valet have been sneaking off to meet in the churchyard."

  The denial died on Letty's lips. "No, nothing. The viscount is away to Dover on official business. Peale could tell me no more than that." Her shoulders slumped.

  "Would not, more like," Hobhouse muttered, staring at the quiet accounts room, remembering all the hours of happiness and belonging he had felt there. Things he had never felt until he came to work for Tess Leighton.

  The deep lines on his stern face relaxed for a moment.

  There had been that time, just under two years ago ...

  His lips curving slightly, Hobhouse recalled how she had charmed the butcher out of demanding payment when the Angel had to close for a fortnight because of a leaking roof.

  Soon after, she had crossed paths with a tight-fisted merchant in Dover who was grumbling about the expense of maintaining his imperious French chef. Yes, by Heaven, in mere minutes she had had Edouard wrapped around her little finger, pleading for a chance to make the Angel's kitchens into something quite out of the ordinary.

  So he had, Hobhouse thought, with a wry smile. In ways no one had quite expected.

  And as for that hatchet-faced Mrs. Tredwell, Miss Tess gave as good as she got.

  Could all that be over, all that joy and rare spirit gone from the world?

  Hobhouse scowled, simply refusing to believe it. Grim-faced, he balled his hands into fists and shoved them deep into his pockets. There they touched metal.

  Frowning, he pulled out a small circle of silver, which glinted in the sunlight — Tess's amulet, Hobhouse realized, dropped the night of her last run. Without a word he thrust the heavy ornament back into his pocket before Letty could see it.

  Suddenly the amulet grew cold in his fingers — eerily cold.

  Hobhouse's eyes narrowed, dark with pain.

  As cold as the grave? a bleak voice asked.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  "Chaud ..."

  Hours later a dry, strangled groan brought Tess jolting awake, her eyes flying open to shadows.

  Why so dark? she wondered, still disoriented, trying to drive the cobwebs of sleep from her mind.

  Then, as consciousness returned in all its raw torment, she froze.

  Knowing the answer to her question, knowing that the cry of pain was her own. Knowing that she was blind, lost to a darkness that would last the rest of her days.

  She choked back a sob and tried to turn against the pillow, only to discover a hard hand curved around her breast, a man's head next to hers. Fire stabbed through her as his fingers tensed, then so
ftly kneaded the creamy lobe.

  Tess's heart lurched at his touch. With a ragged breath she pulled free.

  Too hot," he croaked. In English, this time.

  A man of mystery, of many tongues and talents, the Liberte's captain, Tess thought.

  Was he a scoundrel as well?

  Silently she reached for the glass she had left ready on the side table, softness brushing across her wrist as she did so. She frowned, wondering at that fall of silk and lace.

  Then she remembered the trunk Padrig had brought a short while before. In its perfumed depths, Tess had found the gossamer peignoir she now wore, along with others of the same exquisite satin. Cut low in the bodice, the garment fell nearly to her ankles, its long sleeves ending in a splash of lace. Like the others, the gown must have been terribly expensive, probably designed in Paris for a lady with very expensive tastes.

  Or more likely, for a woman who was no lady at all.

  Like herself? Tess thought dimly, her cheeks flooding crimson.

  "Water. M-must have water."

  Before Tess could guide the glass to Andre's lips, he had struggled his way upright. "English? Are you —"

  "Here. Here, too, is your water." Tess's voice was cool and careful, her words in English, as his had been.

  The glass was lifted from her fingers. She heard him drink deeply, then set the vessel down on the table with a sharp crack.

  "You frown. Because I spoke in English, as I do now? But in my particular line of work, a man must speak many tongues, tu comprends? Even false ones, on occasion," he added grimly. Muttering, the captain switched to French. "Cursed, graceless tongue, English. The French tongue is infinitely more expressive." Then, in that abrupt way of his, he switched topics once again. "Does the thought of my work repel you, me kalon?"

  Tess was silent, pondering his question, knowing that if she lied, somehow this man would know it. "No," she said finally. "One man's wrong may sometimes be another man's right. Yet, I do not believe you would willingly cause harm to another."