The Raider’s Bride

by Kimberly Cates

  The Raider’s Bride

  Kimberly Cates

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be sold, copied, distributed, reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, mechanical or digital, including photocopying and recording or by any information storage and retrieval system without the prior written permission of both the publisher, Oliver Heber Books and the author, Kimberly Cates, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  PUBLISHER'S NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  COPYRIGHT © Kimberly Cates

  Published by Oliver-Heber Books

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  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

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  About the Author

  Also by Kimberly Cates

  Prologue

  Virginia, 1772

  The hunger was inside him again—dark and wild.

  Pendragon leaned low over the neck of his stallion, the wind tearing at the silvery folds of his cape and penetrating the thin layer of his silken mask.

  He was consumed by the danger, bewitching and seductive—as primitive as the release found in the wet heat between a woman's thighs. For only when fencing with death itself did the legendary patriot raider feel alive.

  He glanced over his shoulder to where a dozen of his horsemen ribboned out behind him, lit by the torches clasped in their hands. The rebel band was as deadly as an assassin's stiletto. And tonight they had done their work well.

  Pendragon's mouth curled in a feral grin as he regarded their quarry.

  A man, bound and gagged, rode belly down over a bay gelding, his nightshirt flapping like a banner in the wind.

  He seemed a laughable captive at best—one whom no one would have judged worthy of the attention of a notorious rogue whose legend stretched a hundred miles up the coast of the colony of Virginia.

  But that was what had made the captive, Lemming Crane, so useful to the English. He was intelligent enough to follow orders, yet had the appearance of a fool, so that no one would ever suspect him of being a spy.

  When Pendragon thought of how close Crane had come to discovering the truth...

  The raider's jaw knotted. No, it didn't matter. They had discovered Crane's treachery in time. Tonight Pendragon would make certain no other English spy would dare to challenge him again.

  Crystal blue eyes shimmered with violence between the slits in the raider's mask. There was only one way to crush a nest of spies once and for all. And that was to obliterate one of them with such horrifying finality that the others would wake up a dozen years from now still drenched with the sweat of their terror.

  The raider's mouth hardened as he saw the flicker of light through the trees—a glowing eye born of darkness and demons.

  He tightened his knees about his stallion, and reined Mordred through a break in the woods. The sinister glimmer of light became the entry to a cave illuminated by the torches of the raiders who waited there. A single support post shored up the cave's crumbling entry. The thick length of wood was the only thing keeping the arch from collapsing beneath a hillside of earth and rock.

  It had been called Brigand's Cave for a hundred years. A haven of dark legends that clung thick within the chamber of stone, pooling in the craggy shadows.

  If ever there had been a site fashioned to inspire terror, this was it. As Pendragon wheeled his mount to face his captive, he was certain that Lemming Crane had heard tales of the spirits said to walk here—victims of Indian massacres, of murder and witchery. Spirits the wigmaker was no doubt afraid that he would soon join, courtesy of Pendragon's sword.

  There had been a time when the raider might have felt pity for the terrified man. A time when Pendragon might have shrunk from what he was doing, though aware it was a painful necessity. But whatever compassion had once remained in his black heart had been deadened long ago, leaving a ruthlessness that terrified not only his enemies but sometimes his allies as well.

  In a fluid motion Pendragon swung from the saddle and turned to watch as two of his men dragged Crane from the bay. They hauled the wigmaker between them, flinging him into the glaringly bright interior of the cave. Despite the cords binding him, Crane attempted to scrabble away from them, but his back slammed up against a fallen boulder.

  There was a soft sound of boots against the cave floor as Pendragon's second-in-command, Sir Tristan, came forward and unfastened the gag from the wigmaker's mouth. Sir Tristan kept one steadying hand on Crane's shoulder as the man coughed and sputtered.

  "Welcome to my corner of hell, Tory spy," said Pendragon, the raider's voice velvet soft. "Can you feel the devil watching you?" A wave of grim laughter rose up from Pendragon's men, and Crane's pasty features whitened further.

  "P-please," the wigmaker begged. "I've done you no harm!"

  "Not for lack of trying, I am told. It was really quite an inspired plan, Mr. Crane. You playing the honest colonist in desperate need of aid from Pendragon's raiders. Your shop ransacked by British soldiers, destroyed because of rumors you had guns stored there. If it hadn't been for a certain Private Louden's love affair with the bottle, we might have ridden straight into the trap you had set for us tonight."

  "You would believe a drunken fool?"

  "A dozen armed men were hiding in the area surrounding your house. If Tristan hadn't set the guardhouse afire to lure them away, we might have been hangman's fodder, and you would be counting out your thirty pieces of silver."

  Pendragon paused. "Tell me, Crane, just for curiosity's sake, how much am I worth to the Crown at the moment? What would they pay the man who fits a noose around my neck?"

  Crane hesitated. "A thousand pounds. And any lands or assets in your name."

  "Blood money. An ugly way to make a fortune. Much cruder than, say, gambling or abducting an heiress. Of course, with the regrettable lack of morals these days, I'm certain you're not the only one hungering for the king's purse." His voice grew paralyzingly soft. "Tell me, Crane, who else scurries like a rat in the night, wanting to feast on my flesh?"

  "How should I know? I've no interest in the others. We are competing for the same reward money, and they would only rob from my purse."

  Pendragon turned and paced back to the support post, caressing it with one white-gloved hand. "Crane, have you ever wondered what it would be like to be buried alive? Entombed with your eyes still open, your heart yet beating?"

  A strangled sound came from Crane's throat.

  "If this length of wood should be ripped from its place, allowing the mouth of the cave to collapse, sealing you off from the world, how long do you suppose the air in this little antechamber would last before your lungs began to burn? How long before starvation clawed at your stomach? Or thirst consumed you until you licked at the cave walls to drink what moisture clings there? How long will it take for madness to devour you as you sit alone in darkness waiting to see Lucifer's face?"

/>   A piteous sob racked Crane, and he fell to his knees, groveling before Pendragon. "You cannot do this! I know nothing!"

  Pendragon planted his glossy boot on Crane's shoulder and shoved him away. "Search your memory. Surely you must have heard something. A bit of information about someone else in your despicable profession. At the very least you could tell me who you run to with your scraps of betrayal."

  "I go to Atwood, the garrison commander, or to Major Glendenning, whoever will give me the largest purse, and they pass the information on to... to someone."

  "To someone? That is distressingly nonspecific, Mr. Crane. Surely you know this person's name?"

  "Do you think they would tell someone like me? I just do what they tell me and ask no questions."

  "Crane, Crane, you are supposed to be a spy, someone whose profession is discovering information disastrous to those he betrays. Yet you tell me nothing I don't already know. It is extraordinarily trying."

  Shaking his head in mock regret, Pendragon crossed to where the wooden support post was a slash of black against the torchlight. With great deliberation he stripped off one glove and ran his fingertips over the rough wood.

  "Perhaps you have heard of my regrettable lack of virtue, spy. Patience, in particular, is an attribute I lack." Pendragon leveled Crane with the piercing gaze that had made far braver men quake. "My stallion is tethered to a tree outside. All I need to do is bind a rope about this support and tie it about the beast's saddle. The slightest pressure of my knees would make him strain against the rope, tear the length of wood free."

  "No! No, please!"

  "It is very simple to stop me. You just have to give me the information I seek. Who else takes Captain Atwood's blood money? Who else slinks through the dark to play Judas for this mysterious man whose name you do not know?"

  "If I knew anything, I would tell!" Crane vowed. "I swear by God and all the saints I would."

  "An oath from a spy?" Pendragon gave an ugly laugh. "I'd wager it holds the same value as a whore's vow of faithfulness."

  "P-please, milord Pendragon! I—"

  Pendragon held up one hand, and Crane choked into silence. "Sir Tristan, it appears that our guest is determined to be difficult. I'm afraid we shall need the rope."

  Tristan stepped away from the crescent of men, coils of hemp bundled in his arms. Pendragon felt a surge of almost certain triumph as Crane's face turned green.

  With great deliberation, Tristan knotted the cord about the length of wood, giving the knot a tug to secure it. Then he turned to the man staring up at him in horror.

  "The Crown cannot help you now," he warned. "Atwood will just find someone else to take your place. He'll cast you aside with no more thought than he'd spare for a soiled glove. Tell us what we need to know, and perhaps I can persuade Pendragon to show mercy."

  Crane turned pleading eyes to Tristan, clutching at his arm. "I would tell! I would, if I knew anything at all!"

  With the slightest movement of one hand, Pendragon signaled, and two burly men stepped forward, their hands closing on Crane's shoulders.

  "Pendragon, this man is a cowardly dog to the very marrow of his bones," Tristan said. "If he had the slightest bit of information, he would give it to you. I'd swear it on my mother's grave."

  "It is not your mother's grave we gamble upon." There was an edge to Pendragon's voice, an answering spark in Tristan's green-gold eyes. "If you should be mistaken, Sir Tristan, the forfeit paid would be the death of every man here. Since Crane cannot or will not give us the names we need, our only way to terrorize the other spying bastards is to make our vengeance against him so grisly no other would dare to continue hunting Pendragon or his raiders. Now bind the end of the rope to Mordred."

  A sick light darted into Tristan's eyes, tension rippling off of him in thick waves—a tension all too familiar of late.

  "But to bury the man alive..." he reasoned. "I'm telling you I don't think this is necessary. The bravest of men would have broken by now, and this pathetic wretch is far from—"

  "Bind the rope to my stallion."

  Tristan stiffened as if Pendragon had struck him. Crane struggled to reach Tristan, all but incoherent in his desperate quest to reach his unlikely ally, yet his captors held firm.

  Pendragon's jaw clenched as Tristan, on the brink of outright defiance, cast one more glance at the wigmaker. But at the last possible moment Tristan turned with an oath and disappeared through the mouth of the cave.

  Pendragon released a breath from lungs that burned.

  "Gawain and Dinadan, you will loosen our guest's bindings so that he may free himself when the cave is sealed. We want him to be able to embrace the demons when they come for him."

  The two men who held Crane swiftly completed the task, and the wigmaker crumpled to the ground, his sobs unintelligible against the cave's floor.

  Pendragon took a torch from the grasp of one of his men, then, with a jerk of his head, signaled them to leave. They filed out, some hastily, as if fearing they themselves would be caught in their leader's trap, others slowly, as if dazed. Pendragon watched them go, his mouth twisting with sardonic amusement.

  "I'm afraid my men have less stomach for meting out justice than I do. However I do not tolerate disobedience. They know it well."

  The raider jammed the torch into a crack in the cave floor. "And now I fear I must bid you adieu, Monsieur Wigmaker. When you meet with the devil, request that he save a particularly blazing spot in hell for Pendragon. God knows I've labored hard enough to earn it."

  Sketching Crane an elegant bow, Pendragon wheeled around in a cloud of silver and stalked out into the night.

  "I know nothing!" Crane's screams echoed behind him as he crossed the clearing. "Have mercy!"

  Tristan stood holding Mordred's reins, and in spite of the mask covering his friend's features, Pendragon knew how they must appear—angry, almost betrayed.

  "You're going too far, man." Tristan grated, his voice raw with disbelief. "Don't do this, for the love of God."

  With gloved hands Pendragon pulled the reins out of his friend's clenched fingers. "It is already done."

  In one fluid movement the raider swung astride Mordred, the slightest pressure of his knees ordering the mighty stallion to surge forward. The rope hissed as it uncoiled. Then the hemp snapped taut, the stallion hesitating only an instant before straining against it.

  With a horrible sound the support snapped free, thudding dully across the ground. The stallion shied, rearing and plunging in an effort to free itself, but Pendragon soothed him into submission, reining the animal around.

  The raider stared at the cave's entry, lit with glowing orange from the single torch that remained inside. For long seconds the stone arch hung as if balanced by the devil's hand. Then, with a hideous sound, an avalanche of stone and earth crashed down, sealing the English spy in Pendragon's gateway to hell.

  Chapter 1

  Candlelight splintered in a sea of prisms, flinging miniature rainbows across the room aptly named the chambre d'amour at Blackheath Hall.

  It was a room intended to tempt angels away from heaven's gates—a sensual banquet of texture and color. Mythical lovers were painted in carnal ecstasy from floor to ceiling. Thick white furs were scattered near the hearth, while imported candies called Nipples of Venus waited on a silver tray to be tasted by tongues hungry from love-play.

  Countless women had been entertained in Ian Blackheath's notorious den of sin at house parties as decadent as any Roman orgy and at gambling fetes in which a king's ransom had been won or lost on the turn of a single card.

  Yet beneath this seeming decadence even more sinister affairs had taken place. Blackheath—that ruthless speculator whose loyalty was said to reach no deeper than the bottom of his own purse—had enriched his treasury here with patriot coin.

  Contraband weapons had been bartered in the dark of night. Precious guns and black powder that had been smuggled into the colonies on Ian's fleet of ships had been
sold to desperate men eager to fuel the fires of revolution—a cause so noble that everyone was certain a soulless opportunist like Blackheath could never understand it.

  But tonight there would be nothing so amusing as love-play or so exhilarating as a revolution happening in these opulent rooms. Rather, Ian could sense another type of battle brewing, if the expression in Anthony Gray's hazel eyes was any indication.

  Ian supposed he should consider himself lucky that Tony had waited for the servants to scatter to the far wings of the house before beginning his tirade. But the footman who had served refreshments after they'd arrived at the plantation house had disappeared moments before, and it seemed Ian's brief reprieve was at an end.

  Resigned, he lounged against the back of a crimson divan, and stretched his long legs out before him, a generous glass of brandy cradled in one hand.

  He sighed. "I suppose it would be useless to point out that you could have followed the example of the other men and been indulging in your lady's charms at this very moment instead of wearing a rut in my Oriental carpets and peeling the paint off my murals with the heat of your scowls."

  "What I'd like to do is wring your bloody neck!" The violence in Gray's usually reasonable tone made Ian grimace. "You cold-blooded son of a bitch!" Tony raged. "I practically begged you not to entomb Crane alive. Damn it, there was no reason to do it."

  Ian skimmed his fingers beneath the thick fall of his dark mane, kneading an area where the knot of his mask had chafed hours before. "I should have guessed what your fierce insistence upon trailing me home from our raids meant—a lecture in brigand etiquette."