The Black Rose

by Christina Skye

  His fingers moved back and forth, lulling, soothing, drugging her. Tess could only shake her head, speechless in the spell he wove, wrapped in a warm, sensuous cocoon.

  Safe.

  The word worked its way into her tired thoughts, and she smiled, knowing that it was true.

  She was safe. For now. With him. Somehow Tess was certain of that. Yes, something told her this was a man who kept all of his promises.

  Her eyelids grew heavy, then closed.

  She felt him slip a soft fabric around her ankle, securing it with a knot. Her mind began to drift; a rich, potent silence enveloped her as she lay replete with food and dizzy from the touch of his masterful fingers.

  "Andre?" she mumbled dreamily.

  "Yes, bihan?" The captain settled back beside her, slipping his arm beneath her shoulders until her hair spilled over him like a burnished curtain. Not comfortable yet, not when desire still held him in its fevered grip. But content — for now, at least.

  "You are the perfect one," Tess confided sleepily. "Everything precisely where it ought to be. I — I could feel you, too, you know."

  He laughed, the sound strangely unsteady. "Ah, sea gull, you'll feel even more, I promise, every hot, hard inch of me. But not quite yet — not until this damnable wound heals a bit." He growled a curse, for Padrig had been right, and blood had again begun to seep beneath the thick linen bandage at his thigh.

  But Tess did not answer, already drifting away into a bright world of cloud and sun and sea foam.

  A short while later she heard Padrig return, but even then she did not move, lulled by their guttural Breton tones. Discussing wind speed and the best course of approach to the gulf, she supposed.

  Gradually their voices grew fainter, then faded away altogether.

  The world, as she slept then, was a bright place, awash with color and sound, a place where even the sun cast no shadows.

  * * * * *

  The scrawled, unsigned note reached the Angel four days after Tess's disappearance.

  Hobhouse didn't see who delivered it, only discovering it by chance at the bottom of a large pile of bills and receipts cluttering the desk in Tess's accounts room.

  Whoever had left it knew the Angel well, however, for he knew precisely where an outsider would be unlikely to look. He also knew that Monday was the day for paying the butcher and the day help, and that Hobhouse would certainly come across the missive in the pile.

  His fingers trembling, Hobhouse slowly opened the single, folded sheet.

  She is safe, he read, feeling a vast bubble of relief burst deep within him.

  Do not search for her. Make no mention of this message. You will be told when she is to return.

  That was all.

  But it was enough for the man who had begun to fear — no, be honest, Hobhouse told himself — to believe that Tess Leighton truly was dead.

  The grizzled servant's dark eyes filled with tears, which spilled in a silent rush down his ruddy cheeks.

  That was how Letty found him a few minutes later when she came listlessly searching for Edouard. "Andrew?" she cried. "What is it?" Then her eyes widened, dark with shock. "Oh, no — it can't be! She isn't —"

  "No, my dear Letty," Hobhouse managed to reply, recovering enough to begin hastily scrubbing the tears from his eyes. "Exactly the opposite." He crumpled the note and slipped it into his pocket. "She's well, thank God, and she'll be coming home soon."

  At the maid's startled cry of happiness, Hobhouse caught her hand in warning.

  "But you must tell no one. Leave the story just as we have set it about — she has gone to Oxford to see Master Ashley. Just pray that her young scapegrace of a brother doesn't show up here on our doorstep to prove us false," he added grimly.

  Breathless, Letty could only nod, too happy to think of all the other questions she ought to ask.

  A sharp, insistent pealing came from the bell in the front hall. Quickly Hobhouse ran his hand over his eyes, then straightened his collar. His shoulders high, his spirit restored, he marched to the door of the kitchen.

  There he swung about, fixing Letty with a stern eye. "Don't go telling that Friday-faced valet of Ravenhurst's, either. I was told to tell no one. I've broken that order to tell you, but nobody else must know of this, do you understand?"

  Letty nodded, regretfully revising her plan of sending around a note to her swain. But nothing could upset her now, not while she was brimming with this wonderful news.

  * * * * *

  At that moment, in the foyer of a quiet town house on Watchbell Street, Peale was ripping open a cream-colored envelope.

  My dear Peale,

  Work continues to hold me here in Dover. Meetings and more damnable meetings, until the words fall like a bloody French barrage. Likely to be here indefinitely. Taft will know what to do with Admiralty communications.

  Ravenhurst

  Peale carefully refolded the sheet, frowning. He had never liked this business with the local smugglers. Of course, he knew only a little about Ravenhurst's mission in Rye, but what he did know had been enough to make him nervous. Loyalties were fierce here, and tempers ran especially high where freetrading was concerned.

  The valet only hoped the viscount would keep a clear head about him.

  * * * * *

  By the time Hobhouse strode briskly into the foyer, his face was impassive, the fires of happiness carefully banked.

  His keen dark eyes took in the trim white-haired lady standing imperiously in the doorway, silver-mounted cane in hand, a mountainous pile of baggage scattered at her feet.

  "There you are," the woman announced crisply, her tone disapproving "I have been waiting" — her sharp eyes darted down to the elegant timepiece pinned to her bodice — "four and one-half minutes. I do not like waiting. I trust you will remember that in future." One white brow slanted, she waited for Hobhouse to acknowledge her directive, which he did with a slight inclining of his head. "Very well — I am the Duchess of Cranford. I will require a suite of rooms and accommodation for my staff of six. A southern exposure will suffice. I take tea below at four precisely and dinner in my rooms at eight. Do you have all that?" This storm of orders was delivered with all the cool aplomb of a seasoned military officer.

  Hobhouse's expressionless facade did not waver. He bowed slightly. "Quite, Your Grace. We have had your reservation?" He was not about to let the old harridan take the field entirely uncontested.

  The duchess merely swept one frail hand through the air, dismissing such technicalities with a frown. "I could not say. Brimble handles all such matters, of course." Her sharp blue eyes flickered across the hall. "Now, as it is nearing four o'clock, I shall take my tea directly." Her elegant, silver-handled cane rose, pointing to the cozy, well-lit rear parlor Tess had opened for the exclusive use of the Angel's female guests. "In there."

  A tall, severe-faced dragon of a maidservant appeared in the doorway behind the duchess.

  "Ah, there you are, Brimble," the duchess said briskly. "See to the baggage first, if you please. Then arrange for my card to be taken around to Lord Ravenhurst's lodgings. On Watchbell Street, I believe. Mr. —" She interrupted this rapid-fire rain of orders to turn with a frown to the Angel's majordomo, one white brow raised imperiously.

  "Hobhouse, Your Grace," the servant answered expressionlessly. Not by so much as a muscle did he betray his knowledge that Ravenhurst was from home. At the mention of the viscount's name, Hobhouse found all his negative impressions of this new visitor confirmed.

  Any friend of Ravenhurst's was no friend of his.

  Or of Tess Leighton's, he thought grimly.

  "Mr. Hobhouse will advise you. After that I shall require my usual restoratives in my room, one hour before dinner."

  The very superior lady's maid behind the duchess nodded crisply, at the same time managing to sniff and run disapproving eyes over the Angel's black-clad majordomo.

  The new arrival was already moving toward the rear parlor. She moved smoothl
y, Hobhouse noticed, and stood perfectly erect without the slightest reliance upon her elegant cane.

  Quality! he thought with a sharp mental shrug, consigning the whole lot of them to the devil. Who could ever hope to understand their whims and conceits? Their servants were not much better, he thought, his eyes flickering over Brimble's haughty features.

  But if that Friday-faced individual hoped to put him in his place, she'd find herself sadly out, the servant vowed.

  The duchess was settling herself in the parlor when a rustle of silken skirts signalled a new arrival at the Angel's entrance. A heavy floral scent engulfed Hobhouse, who immediately stiffened.

  It was a scent he would have known anywhere.

  "Where is she?" a throaty, faintly querulous female voice demanded.

  Hobhouse turned, a look of perfect impassivity on his grizzled face. "Whom would you be speaking of, madam?"

  The magnificent vision swathed in diaphanous sapphire silk frowned, tapping her embroidered slipper impatiently. "Your mistress, of course, you fool — Tess Leighton."

  Was it his imagination, Hobhouse was to wonder later, or did the Duchess of Cranford's shoulders tense at the sound of that name?

  "Miss Leighton is presently from home," Hobhouse replied unhelpfully. Damned if he'd bow and scrape to that man-eating female, either!

  "So I've been told. Several times, in fact. But where, man?" The tapping of Lady Patricia's foot grew more insistent.

  Hobhouse's hesitation bespoke his belief that this was none of the woman's business.

  "Well?"

  Hobhouse looked away, his eyes fixing somewhere above Lady Patricia's right shoulder. "To visit her brother in Oxford, I believe."

  "Rather hasty, all this." The blond woman's voice was sharp with mockery.

  "The visit had been planned for quite some time, madam," Hobhouse murmured. "Miss Leighton chose not to speak of it, however. 'Only among a few intimates' was how she put it."

  Which Lady Patricia was most certainly not, the majordomo thought.

  A faint tinge of crimson swept over her cheeks. "Indeed?" The tapping of her foot grew very loud. "And when, pray tell, does the Angel's so charming proprietor deign to return? From Oxford, of course?" she added maliciously.

  "I could not say. My lady," Hobhouse added a moment later.

  With what sounded suspiciously like a snort, the vision in sapphire swept about and made for the parlor. "I shall take tea before I leave," she snapped. "See to it, Hobhouse. Lord Lennox will be joining me shortly."

  "I beg pardon, but you will perhaps allow me to seat you in a private parlor? That room is already —"

  "Nonsense, Hobhouse." The Duchess of Cranford swept to the doorway, dismissing the majordomo's concern with an airy wave. "I am perfectly happy to share the room with so" — her voice trailed away for a moment, as if she were appreciating the vision before her — "so entrancing a companion."

  Hobhouse bent his head slightly in acquiescence, concealing his surprise.

  "Pray allow me to introduce myself," the duchess said, moving forward with one hand outstretched. "I am the Duchess of Cranford, and I absolutely insist that you join me for tea. Mr. Hobhouse will see to everything admirably, I am quite certain." Slim fingers, surprisingly strong for someone so advanced in years, swept out to press Lady Patricia's arm. "Now, you must tell me all about Rye. It is my first visit to this quaint little city, and I must confess I find myself agog with curiosity about the place."

  For once in her life Lady Patricia found herself speechless, blinking beneath the full force of the duchess's considerable charm. "Yes, of course — that is — certainly, Your Grace."

  A plague on the Quality! Hobhouse thought once again, shaking his head as he turned to leave. Up on their high horses one minute, and all oozing false affability the next.

  Yes, who could ever fathom them!

  Chapter Thirty-One

  When Tess awoke, Andre was gone and had been gone for some time, judging by the cold feel of the sheets at her side. After stretching lazily, she slipped from the bed to make a quick toilette at the basin on the side table. Searching for the towel, Tess's fingers brushed against velvet.

  A dress?

  Slowly she eased her fingers over the soft fabric, tracing tiny satin buttons, which marched in a line down the back. The front, it seemed, was very decollete and hung with satin ribbons. A dress more rich than any she had ever owned. A beautiful dress — a dress that might even make Tess feel beautiful, while she wore it at least.

  Smiling in anticipation of Andre's reaction, Tess slipped the lavish gown over her head, struggling to reach the buttons at her back. Finding that impossible, she fastened first and last and consigned all the rest to the devil.

  Suddenly Tess cocked her head, sniffing sharply. There was a lingering warmth to the air now, a hint of something other than sea salt in the wind. They must be near the gulf, she thought eagerly.

  Arms outstretched, she made her way to the door and climbed the stairs to the deck, pausing to enjoy the warmth of the sun upon her cheeks. Out here the air was rich with pine spice and the drifting scent of flowers. Above her head the sky was noisy with bird song.

  "May I help you, miss?" It was the man known as Le Fur, Tess realized, the one who had dug the lead ball out of Andre's thigh.

  She couldn't resist a little smile. "Did you ever show it to him?"

  The crewman did not misunderstand her. "So I did, for a fact. He called it very pretty, so he did. Would you like to have a seat on this chest? Belle-Ile is before us, and we'll soon be cresting the gulf."

  The wind was fine and strong in Tess's face as she sat down on the little square of wood. She heard Le Fur linger, moving about nearby. "I wish I might see it myself, for it sounds very beautiful," she said wistfully. "Could — could you describe it for me?"

  "With pleasure, bihan. Now, let's see ..." She heard him pause and scratch his stubbled cheeks. "Just to the right are the jagged cliffs of Belle-Ile, studded by hidden caves and narrow creeks. There the seas run jade, and cormorants fly to build their nests on high, rocky cliffs. A bit farther south the water froths and foams around a line of rocks like the devil's own teeth — the Needles, we call them. Tell me, can you feel the wind change?"

  Tess nodded silently her head cocked.

  "That's because we're turning inland, slipping past the great curving arm of the Quiberon Peninsula on our left. The waves beat hard and heavy on those savage coasts. You'll like our isle much better. But first we must pass the big islands — Hoedic, Houat, and Groix. Then twelve sparkling miles of inland waters dotted with hundreds of smaller islands. And there is ours, blanketed with flowers of crimson and orange."

  Tess sat quietly, wrapped in the beauty of the scene he described, sad that she would never be able to see it for herself.

  The old man cleared his voice. "There is my own white cottage, bihan, and unless my poor eyes are mistaken, my wife and son standing at the door." His voice trailed away.

  Suddenly an electric tension stirred the tiny hairs at the back of Tess's neck. She cocked her head, listening to the flurried sounds of activity around her on deck — the crack of sails being shortened and the smack of cables.

  But she did not hear the one sound she most wanted to hear.

  "A lucky man, Le Fur," a dark voice whispered at her ear a moment later. "He has a wife and son waiting for him." Lightly the captain's rough-sleek tongue traced the arc of Tess's ear, his teeth nipping the sensitive lobe.

  Tess immediately felt herself plunge under his sensual spell.

  "Must you creep up on one that way?" She tried — without success — to keep the breathless tremor from her voice. Red-faced, she jerked to her feet, her shoulders stiff with anger.

  "Just the way you creep up on me, bihan. The sight of you. The smell of you." His voice dropped to a husky growl. "The sweet, dusky taste of you."

  At those erotic words a wanton heat flooded through her. Suddenly her throat grew dry, and she was a
ching for the taste of him in turn.

  How could he do this to her? Tess wondered wildly. Maybe she was every bit as depraved as her father had accused her of being five years ago.

  Maybe she was indeed a harlot born.

  Icy fingers swept across her heart for an instant before she forced them away. She would not think of her father, never again! The man was dead — done with destroying her life. She would not allow his memory to wound her further!

  "You shiver, bihan. Dare I hope it is for me?" the Liberte's captain asked huskily, moving behind Tess to cup her shoulders.

  "It — it is merely the wind which blows chill."

  "Indeed? I would have called the day a warm one." Andre's hands flattened against the bare, sun-warmed skin of her back. "Chill — and yet you display yourself half clothed on deck? You must expect some response to such wantonness in that case." Warm fingers slipped past the open folds at the back of her dress, moving around to cup her full breasts.

  Tess's eyelids flickered shut. She fought to smother a whimper of delight at the raw fire of his touch. His fingers brushed over her, feather-light, circling and then plucking the dusky crests that swelled obediently beneath his expert strokes.

  "S-stop, Andre. You — you must not —"

  "Hush, bihan. No one can see us. The crew are all too busy at their work. As I should be," he added grimly. "But with such a one as you on deck, drowsy and content, only half clothed, I can think of nothing but this." Abruptly his fingers splayed open, then closed fiercely, capturing her within their hard span. "Tell me what you feel, sea gull," he demanded hoarsely. "Does this arouse you as much as it does me?"

  Tess's chest rose and fell in sharp, jerky bursts. She moaned, barely hearing his question, dazed by a rush of raw sensation that left her hungry and aching for more of the same torment. "Please," she whispered hoarsely.

  "Oh, I will please you, mon coeur. That I promise."

  From somewhere amidships, Padrig called out to Andre. "Ile aux Moines, Captain. Dead ahead."