The Black Rose

by Christina Skye

  One look at those hard eyes was enough to convince Tess that the Fox meant every word. If she didn't comply, she would never see him again.

  It was probably the only argument that could have convinced her.

  Her lips set grimly, Tess nodded, turning furiously to the wall. The wretched man left her no choice.

  Dimly she heard the rustle of clothing. She turned around and blinked to see two identical images, each garbed head to toe in black, topped by black mask and tricorn. Her eyes narrowed as she tried to distinguish the two. Yes, Ravenhurst must be to her left, for he was several inches taller and rather broader of shoulder than Jack. But the differences were very slight. And in the darkness, astride a fast horse ...

  "Aye, my garb suits you, I see. I beg you do not take it into your head to usurp it permanently. Now, I'll ask five minutes before you follow."

  Jack turned. Slowly, as if in a dream, Tess rose to her feet, her eyes blurring.

  "Remember what I said, lass. No more tricks." Jack ran a finger lightly over Tess's pale cheek. "But why so Friday-faced? 'Tis careful I'll be. And back before moonfall, I promise you."

  Tess tightened her lips against the sob rising in her throat.

  Another good-bye, after so many.

  Quickly, as though he might change his mind, the smuggler raised her hand to his lips and planted a hard kiss on her palm. "Don't cry for me, Tess Leighton. I'm far from worth it. Besides, there's nae an English musket made that can bring me down."

  It was nothing but bravado, and they both knew it. But perhaps bravado was what had kept the Romney Fox alive all these years, his name already a legend along the southern coast.

  Spoken with awe by those he had saved from starvation with an oilskin bag of gold tossed through an open window.

  Spoken like a prayer by those who found bread and cheese and a rabbit or two on their doorstep at daybreak.

  "Godspeed," Tess whispered, her lips trembling as he turned and strode up the tunnel into the night.

  She heard the quiet crunch of his boots on the loose pebbles. High above there came a faint whooosh. The air stirred for a moment, brushing her cheek like a ragged sigh.

  Then he was gone, only choking silence in his wake as the shadows closed in upon her once more.

  Across the small room Dane stood watching, his blood seething in fury. The look the two had shared was enough to convince him that something far more intimate than business bound them together.

  He smothered a curse, putting the thought from his mind. Tonight he could afford no distractions. Masquerading as the bloody Fox! By God, he ought to be shot for stupidity, if nothing else.

  Grim-faced beneath his mask, he strode toward the dark mouth of the tunnel, where Tess was still standing, frozen. "I shall leave you now also. I'm sure my going will cause you none of the pain that the Fox's did. But like the Fox, I shall see you again. Sooner than you care for, I imagine."

  Something flashed deep in the smoky sapphire of his eyes, a dark flame of inchoate passion that disappeared so quickly Tess wondered if she had only imagined it.

  And then the viscount, too, disappeared into the night.

  * * * * *

  She gave them time to be well away before she followed up the tunnel, her thoughts in chaos, her heart hammering loudly in her ears.

  Through the night silence she walked, over the slope and down to the great house, her shoes whispering over the dew-slick grass. Overhead a crescent moon climbed from cloud to cloud, no more than a pale smudge behind a silver veil of clouds. Somewhere nearby an owl cried once. Tess heard wild scratching, and then the shrill, terrified cry of a small night creature.

  Abruptly the sound ceased.

  The owl had made its kill.

  Shivering, she hurried toward the darkened house. Behind her came a faint rustling, and she turned sharply, staring back into the thick shadows. A dark shape rushed toward her out of the night, wings spread, then plummeted down onto her shoulder.

  "Safe haven by morning," a shrill voice called.

  Tess loosed a long, ragged breath. "Maximilian, you bad, bad bird. Whatever are you doing here?"

  But she already knew. Maximilian had escaped from the Angel a dozen times, and each time the wretched creature found his way here to Fairleigh. Tess sighed, studying the bird on her shoulder. At least she would have company through the long hours until sunrise.

  She was nearly at the vine-covered steps when she felt Maximilian stiffen. His sharp, taloned claws dug into her shoulder.

  "What's wrong now, you rascally thing?"

  From the far side of the hill, beyond the gaunt walls of the priory, came a sharp explosion of musket fire.

  One shot. Two. Then a third.

  "Dear God, no ..." Tess's fingers dug into her palms.

  "Breakers on the lee! Watch your port bow!" Maximilian called shrilly.

  But there was no answer from the night. Only the wind heard, murmuring through the grass, rushing through the leaves.

  A cold, hard knot of fear twisted Tess's stomach. Weak-kneed, she sank down onto the steps and prepared to wait, suddenly grateful for the comforting weight of Maximilian's body against her shoulder.

  She did not know that they had made one grave miscalculation in their plans that night.

  And the name of that miscalculation was l'Aigle.

  The Eagle.

  * * * * *

  Tess did not have long to wait.

  She heard him before she saw him, jumping up at the faint snap of twigs, the muffled pad of feet. He was coming fast, careless of who might see him.

  Tess froze, watching the hill.

  A tall, lean figure broke from the darkness, black garbed, his tricorn set at a rakish slant. Jack or Ravenhurst? she thought wildly, feeling her heart slam against her ribs.

  She did not ask herself why both choices left her taut with fear.

  He was past the priory now, strangely bent as he ran.

  "Is — is that you, Jack?" Her heart was hammering in her chest, so loud that she could barely hear her own question.

  The figure's pace quickened. He was close now. Tess could make out the tight line of his lips beneath his mask. Whose? she wondered crazily, not daring to breathe.

  Sheet-white, she faced the darkness. "Dane?" she demanded raggedly.

  The caped figure came to a halt only inches away, then sank slowly to one knee, his breathing hoarse and strained. "Said I'd ... return, lassie Moon's yet in the sky."

  On Tess's shoulder Maximilian cried once, long and shrill, as the Fox slipped down to the cold ground.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Her heart pounding, Tess grabbed the swaying figure and tore the mask from his face. "Jack, oh, Jack, what's happened to you?" Her breath checked at the sight of his white, drawn features. His lips were set in a rigid line, his eyes glassy.

  "Took a ball, lass. One ball too many, I'm afraid. Someone — ahh — waiting by the copse. Stopped by the white garden, I did. No time —"

  "Hush," Tess ordered hoarsely, half lifting and half shoving him up the steps into the house. She would have to find hot water and clean linens. Now, where had she put them the last time?

  "Forget it, lass. My time's run out. Just let me sit for a minute. Must ... catch my breath. Things to tell you."

  His fingers were hard on Tess's shoulder as his full weight sank down onto her. Fighting back a sob, Tess managed to maneuver him onto the shabby settee by the window.

  Her fingers trembling, she pulled away his cloak, stiffening when she saw the ruffled, shirt, once so fine and white, now soaked black with blood. More oozed out every second, thick and dark, from the jagged hole in his chest.

  Tess moaned raggedly, swaying. No, no! her mind screamed, over and over.

  "Wrap — cloak around me, lass," Jack whispered through gritted teeth. "Must tell you ..."

  Stark and unfocused, his dark eyes found her face. He shuddered fiercely, and then his mouth clamped down in a hard line. When he spoke again, it
was with a desperate clarity. "Sit down, Tess. Listen to me now, for I've only a bit of time left." He shook his head, seeing a raw protest rush to her lips. "No time for lies now, lass. Too damned clever, he was. Waiting ... tell Ravenhurst." He stopped, white-faced, struggling for breath. "Ransley and one other. Watch — watch for the wing. Trust no one."

  The smuggler's eyes clouded for a moment, but he shook his head, fighting the creeping numbness. "Not what he seems, your viscount. You could do far worse, lass."

  Tess shook her head, not wanting to hear any of this. "Don't talk this way, Jack. You'll ... you'll —"

  "Be gone soon," he finished flatly. "But I'll have naught of tears, do you hear? 'Twas a good life. I've rare memories to take with me wherever I go. And the best ones are of you, lass." Once again his eyes blurred. "And of her. Sweeter than any woman I ever knew, she was. Aye, a finer creature never graced this earth." His fierce, dark eyes settled on Tess's face. "I promised her I would not tell you, but I'm breaking that promise now. You deserve to know." His fingers circled her wrist, tightly, almost fearfully. "You were never his, lass. Nay, 'tis blood of my blood, bone of my bone you are. And I've loved you from the very first moment you drew a tiny, ragged breath. My sweet, sweet Tess. My own, my bairn."

  Tess's breath fled. Impossible! Her heart lurched in her chest and a great roaring filled her head.

  And yet suddenly nothing else made so much sense. It explained so many things — Edward Leighton's cruelty to her. Her mother's silent pain. The concern Jack had always shown for her.

  "It was never sordid, lass. I'd known her long before he first laid eyes on her. But like a fool I believed our stations were too different, and so I let her slip away. When I came to my senses and returned for her, she was already gone, forced to marriage by her father's debts." His eyes flickered closed for a moment, and a spasm shook him. "How she would have been proud of you, lass. You never gave in an inch to him. Aye, you've all the fire she wanted you to have. That much, at least, I could do for you."

  A thousand questions sprang to Tess's lips, but she realized with a terribly clarity that she would have no time to ask them.

  The silver-haired man groaned, struggling with his pain. After long moments, his eyes opened. "Look ... in the Angel's flue. Letters — a diary."

  "Jack!"

  The smuggler sighed jerkily. His fingers began to loosen around her wrist.

  "No, Jack! F-father." Tears fell like hot acid on her cheeks. Not yet, please! So much yet to know. So much she hadn't said.

  She had only found him, and now she was to lose him.

  "Hush, lassie," the man who was her father said softly. "Let me go now. Tired ... so tired. And I've — I've the strangest feeling she'll be waiting for me." A frown tightened his features for a moment. "Cloak pocket. Take it ... hers."

  With nerveless, trembling fingers Tess searched his cloak, biting back a sob at the thick blood that met her everywhere. Deep in the pocket she felt the outline of a small, hard object. Frowning, she pulled out a ring — a single pearl surrounded by tiny cabochon sapphires.

  "She — loved you dearly, lass. Remember that. And if you find love — hold it tight. Don't — ah — don't let it go, like we did."

  Tess bent closer, holding him while her tears spilled onto his pale cheek. "I love you, Father. I always have."

  His lips curved slightly, then a harsh shudder ripped through him, tensing him like a drawn bow. "Godspeed, my daughter," he whispered. "Safe harbor before moonfall, eh, Max?"

  On Tess's shoulder the great bird crooned, low and smooth.

  The silver-haired giant trembled once and then did not move again.

  * * * * *

  Ravenhurst heard the first musket shot just as he rounded the hill. Turning in his saddle, he tried to make out the source.

  Again came the distant explosion, then another and another.

  Damn! They came from Fairleigh.

  With a sharp curse, he reined in his horse and turned back up the road. Even as he hunched into the wind, his fingers tense at the reins, he feared he was too late.

  * * * * *

  "Tess?"

  She had not been in the tunnel. He had gone there first, steeling himself to find blood on the ground and her motionless body beyond.

  Instead he had found nothing.

  Again he whispered her name, standing at the base of the steps to the priory's roof.

  No answer.

  His boots sped over the ground toward the silent house. Why no lights anywhere? Had the little fool broken her promise to the Fox and followed him? Were those distant shots for her?

  Ravenhurst's hands tightened into fists. For a moment blackness blotted out his vision. Then he shook his head sharply.

  Faster, damn it.

  He exploded down the slope, his steps like thunder, his eyes fixed on the dark house, which mocked him with its silence.

  He took the stairs at a run and yanked at the latch. Why no lights? he kept asking himself. Where could she be?

  The entrance hall was wrapped in darkness, and he cursed, stumbling over a small crate just inside the door.

  Suddenly he stiffened, seeing a faint patch of gray at the far end of the corridor.

  His throat constricted painfully. "Tess?"

  Still there was no answer.

  His fingers tight on the musket in his cloak pocket, Ravenhurst moved soundlessly down the hall toward that dun-colored rectangle.

  Just outside the door he paused, preparing himself for whatever dangers waited beyond.

  Or so he thought.

  But nothing could have prepared him for the grim picture that met him as he crossed the threshold.

  A silver-haired giant of a man, his features ashen and immobile, sprawled on the shabby velvet settee. An auburn-haired beauty, her eyes haunted, cradled his head in her lap and whispered soft words of comfort and encouragement.

  Words, Ravenhurst realized immediately, that the Fox would never hear.

  A cold stab of regret pierced him, surprising him in its intensity. The man was a criminal, he reminded himself, possibly a traitor to his country. So why did he feel this — emptiness, yes, that was the only word for it. As if something important had been stolen from the world.

  Without a sound he moved closer, his eyes on the face that now lay unmasked, a face somehow familiar. Frowning, Ravenhurst studied the Fox's proud nose, his generous mouth, his pale cheeks.

  Cheeks even now, locked in death's embrace, not so pale as Tess's.

  Ravenhurst's fingers tightened on his pistol as a fierce wave of jealousy ripped through him, burning like corrosive acid. Scowling, he opened his mouth to speak, only to close it again, feeling a razor stroke of self-contempt. Jealous of a dead man, for God's sake!

  He could do nothing for the Fox now, nor could he say anything to comfort the woman grieving beside his lifeless body.

  No, the only thing Ravenhurst could give her was the privacy of a few quiet minutes with her smuggler, the last she would ever know.

  He turned, ready to leave, when a shrill cry from a shadowed corner of the room brought him up short.

  A dim oval shape slid out of the gloom, falling onto Tess's shoulder in a blur of emerald wings.

  What was that damned macaw doing here? Ravenhurst wondered.

  "Go away," Tess said harshly, her eyes fierce when she looked up from Jack at last. "He's sleeping, can't you see? He needs ... sleep. That's all."

  A muscle leaped at the stony line of Ravenhurst's jaw. In that moment he glimpsed through her proud facade to the pain and denial. Too well he knew what she was feeling, as the blood of someone dear stained her fingers, his lifeless body a cold, inert weight in her arms.

  Raw remembrance hit him like exploding cannon shot.

  He blinked, seeing smoke shroud his vision, hearing terrified screams as a pitching deck caught fire.

  Then the image was gone, as swiftly as it had come. And he knew what he must do.

  "Sleeping, yes. But he'
ll sleep better if you put him down, Tess. Yes, like this." Carefully, he lifted her lifeless fingers from the smuggler's chest. "That's better. He'll like that. Just a bit more ..." Very gently he raised the Fox's head and drew her away, then settled the body back against the faded cushions.

  Tess shivered. A long sigh escaped from her clenched lips. Slowly she came to her feet, her face devoid of emotion, a cold mask of perfect pearl. Suddenly Ravenhurst saw the faint silver outline of tears on her cheeks.

  "He — he told me to trust no one," she whispered. "It might have been you waiting in the copse." Her hands balled into fists. "Maybe it was your ball that felled him." Her voice rose to a shrill cry. "You've wanted him so long. Dear God, tonight you finally had your chance!"

  Suddenly, she threw herself against him, her hands wild and clawing, raining fierce blows across his shoulders, neck, and arms.

  A vein hammered at Ravenhurst's temple as her fingers struck his cheeks, raising welts. Yet he did not move nor turn away, allowing her furious blows to fall unimpeded.

  "Gone — gone when I'd just found him," Tess cried raggedly. A dry sob tore from her lips. "Oh, God, why can't I die too?"

  Ravenhurst's fingers circled her wrists and tightened brutally. "Yes, he's gone, Tess, but I had nothing to do with that. And you've your whole life before you — a life as good as you make it. Let him go. He would not want this of you."

  "How do you know what he would want?" Tess demanded, her lashes dark with tears. "He was — he was my father!"

  Ravenhurst's breath caught audibly. Her father? His eyes narrowed, studying the proud line of Tess's chiseled nose and the uncompromising lift of her chin.

  Yes, this woman was every inch the Fox's daughter, he saw, now that he was looking clearly. And that meant ...

  Frowning, he tried to submerge the fierce wave of hope that burst through him.

  But there were a thousand questions to be answered first, and a traitor to be run to ground. "Who was it? Did the Fox tell you anything at all?" Ravenhurst demanded, gripping her hands urgently.