Riel’s gut told him the upcoming scene would be unpleasant. Best to set a battle plan in mind now, for he would not leave until Peter Hastings’ last wishes were carried out—no matter how long that might take.
* * * * *
Lucinda awoke slowly. A lamp spilled light across her bed, and the smell of roast pork drifted upstairs. Her stomach gurgled.
She felt wretchedly tired. Her head hurt and her mouth felt like cotton.
Slowly, she sat up. Although her mind felt numb and dull-witted, she managed to summon the energy to move to the wash basin and splash water on her face. Her hands trembled. Father was dead, but life must go on. More tears welled, but she blinked them back. She must face the servants and pretend all would be well. Now—at least for a little while—she truly was the mistress of Ravensbrook.
At least the stranger would be gone by now. His dark presence had deeply disturbed and even frightened her, although logically she could not say why. Because he looked like a barbaric pirate? Because he’d come bearing awful news?
Yes. But it went well beyond that. He wore power effortlessly, as if it were as raw and natural to him as breathing. Lucinda was honest enough to admit she did not react well to authority of any sort. Father had been mild-mannered, which had helped to defuse the worst of her early adolescent rebellion, but she hadn’t seen him in two years. Perhaps her behavior was not as meek and mild as a lady’s should be these days; even though she’d tried hard to change into the mature young lady she should be. It was so difficult. Tears slipped out again, and she dashed them away.
If only she could be more like her beloved father. He would never have considered sending a stranger away from Ravensbrook, like she had itched to do. Instead, he would have immediately welcomed him. Logically, she should have done the same.
Emotionally, however, something had warned her to be wary of the stranger. For she’d sensed, from the first split second those dark brown eyes met hers, that an ineffable darkness lurked inside him. Certainly, not a man she could comfortably trust.
Thank heavens he was gone now.
Lucinda stared at herself in the mirror. Red circles underscored her dull, sad eyes. She bit her lip as more tears welled. Time enough for crying later, she told herself. Now she must gather strength for the servants’ sake. Otherwise, they would worry about their livelihoods. She would do her best to reassure them. But soon she would need to speak to her father’s solicitor and learn what was to become of them all; and exactly what would become of her.
Lucinda swallowed another lump of grief and rang for Effie to help her dress for dinner. All must go on as normal. It did not matter if her world had shattered and she was alone now. She must make everything right, if she could. No one would help her, or comfort her and tell her that everything would be all right. It was up to her to think of a plan to save them all. Otherwise, Ravensbrook would fall into the hands of another, and life as she knew it would soon end.
After dressing in a lime green, satin gown with ivory flounces, and after her hair had been carefully swept up into coils and curls atop her head, with tendrils kissing her cheeks, Lucinda slowly descended the stairs to the dining room, keeping her chin level. She tried to find a smile for each servant she passed. All is fine, she silently tried to comfort them. Do not worry.
If only she could believe it herself.
The footman hurriedly swept open the dining hall door before her.
Lucinda stopped dead in her tracks. Sitting at the head of the table, in her father’s chair, was the stranger.
The man unhurriedly rose to his feet as she entered. Again she felt, like a fist punch to her stomach, the sheer shock of his physical size. He must be well over six feet, and she’d felt the muscles that encased those thick, broad shoulders. More hard musculature defined his trim hips and long legs.
He gave a small bow. “Lucy.”
Her fists clenched in horrified dismay. “Pray, what are you doing here? Why hasn’t Mrs. Beatty shown you out?” Perhaps her words were inhospitable, but this was a most unpleasant surprise.
“She invited me to stay for supper.”
Lucinda swung her gaze around the room, looking for the housekeeper, but the two of them were alone. Unease pinched her. “Why? I was not notified, and I am the mistress of this house.”
“We were unable to finish our conversation. Perhaps we can do so now.” Again, she noticed the man’s faint French accent. He had also shaved off his scruff of a beard. He looked more civilized…but only just.
“Sit,” he invited, resuming his chair.
Presumptuous, arrogant man. How dare he invite her to sit, as if this were his dining room and she, the guest? With a tense arm, she pulled out her chair and sat. “You forget your place, Mr…”
He smiled, surprising her. Laugh lines crinkled from the corners of his eyes. “I apologize. We have not been properly introduced. I am Gabriel Montclair, Baron of Iveny.”
The uncomfortable sense of wariness, which she’d felt from the first, inexplicably returned with full force. Although Gabriel Montclair’s body language appeared relaxed, the innate, dangerous power that exuded from him indicated he would not leave until he was good and ready. Regrettably, this affected her much the same way a red flag did a bull.
If it wouldn’t be unconscionably rude, she would ask Wilson to escort him immediately from her home. But clearly the man would not leave until after he had spoken his piece. It rankled, like burrs in a stocking, that he’d taken over her dining room and set down his own parameters upon which he’d leave. Lucinda did not like it. She frowned, and unfortunately spoke barbed words as a consequence. “I have never heard of Iveny. What country are you from, Lord Iveny?”
“France. And you may call me Riel. Or Montclair—whichever you prefer.” He pronounced his given name as Ree el’, with the accent on the second syllable; a name she had never heard before. “Titles were abolished in France in 1790, as perhaps you’ve heard. Although, of course Napoleon has reinstituted many titles at his discretion. Not the title of my family, however.”
So that explained the accent. “You are our enemy?” Apprehension flared higher.
“I am half English.”
So he was a disenfranchised French noble. His drop in social status did not seem to bother him overly much, which seemed unnatural. Suspicious, even.
“Hmm.” Was he truly a noble? She found it impossible to drop her guard, for truly, she knew nothing about him. As a result, she did not know how far she could trust him.
“Since you insist upon staying to supper, we might as well eat.” She signaled for the servants, and the first course, which consisted of piping hot rolls, served with steamed vegetables, arrived. She chewed the delicious food rapidly, wishing she could speed the meal along, and thus thrust her disturbing guest out the door as quickly as possible.
“Do you not say grace before you eat?”
Lucinda stopped chewing. Truth be told, she used to pray before meals, but had forgotten to continue the tradition after her father left home. It troubled her that it took this rough man to remind her of this basic propriety.
“Of course,” she murmured, and bowed her head. “Thank you, Lord, for this delicious food.” A thought entered her head. Her father was in heaven with God now. Of this, she had no doubt, for he had been a man of strong faith. On impulse, she whispered, “God, please tell Father I love him.” A sob clogged her throat, and tears welled.
Stop it. Lucinda swallowed hard. She would not break down in front of this stranger. Not again. She would not.
“Would you like a handkerchief?”
“No,” she said fiercely. “Leave me be.”
He fell silent, and slowly her knot of grief dissolved into manageable portions. Guilt then assailed her conscience. Would her father be pleased by her treatment of his ambassador? He was her father’s friend, or so Riel—Mr. Montclair—alleged.
She slid a glance at him out of the corner of her eye. “You say you were my father’s
friend.” She placed the slightest emphasis upon the word “say.”
His lips tightened and his dark brows edged together. Mildly, he said, “Yes. Perhaps now you are ready to read his letter?”
Why not? The sooner she read the letter, the more swiftly she could dispatch him from Ravensbrook. “Very well.”
He pulled the folded parchment from his coat pocket and placed it into her waiting hand. It felt warm from his body heat. An unexpected flush crept up her neck, and she turned away from his dark eyes.
She opened the ripped, dirtied parchment.
Lucinda now deeply regretted the way she had mashed her father’s letter into the ground. What had she been thinking?
She had not, that was the problem. Sometimes she acted before she thought through matters. It always got her into trouble. Always, she regretted her impulsive actions, and now, more than ever before.
Lucinda smoothed the letter open upon the table, and lovingly ran her fingers over the words her father had penned. His last letter to her. The script looked strong, letters perfectly formed; not shaky, as a dying man might write. Further suspicion flared.
“When did he write this letter?”
“A few months ago. It was only to be delivered in case of his death.”
Lucinda turned her attention back to the paper, but tears blurred her eyes. She blinked several times, and read.
My dearest Lucy,
If you are reading this, I have passed on. I do not regret serving my country, but I regret that I will not see you again in this life. I love you, my daughter. Please never forget this. I also want you to rest assured that I have set safeguards in place so you will never need to worry about being evicted from your home. Ravensbrook will be yours when you marry.
With a small, choked sound, Lucinda pressed a hand to her mouth.
Most of the paperwork has already been filed with my solicitor. Besides the management of Ravensbrook, only one problem remains. You are still young, and unmarried. Since I cannot be there to watch over you, and make certain you make the right choices—including approving the man you will marry—I have asked a friend of mine to fill my shoes in this regard. He has been good enough to agree, and will begin his duties as soon as he can decommission his ship. He has also agreed to take my place and manage Ravensbrook until your marriage. My solicitor will be informed of my final wishes. Your guardian will be
Lucinda turned the page. She gasped.
Gabriel Montclair. Riel saved my life three months ago, and he is the most honorable man I have ever met. I trust him completely, and you may do so, as well. Lucy, listen to him. Choose wisely, too. Promise me you will not marry until you are at least twenty. You have a good head on your shoulders, and I trust you to find a man worthy of you.
Now and for always, I remain your loving Father.
Grief combined with a sick feeling of horror. Surely, this must be a mistake. This stranger was to become her guardian? He would take up residence in her home and act as if he were lord of her house? She drew an unsteady breath.
Until she could marry. And speedily she would do that! But still two years and four months to wait. It was unconscionable. This could not be happening. How could Father do this to her? How could he entrust her very life to a complete stranger? And one whom, if the truth were told, unnerved and intimidated her, as well.
But it was here, in Father’s own handwriting.
Lucinda struggled to logically understand the reasons behind her father’s decision, but the exercise did not help. Her heart could not accept it. Her world, which had already shattered into pieces upon news of his death, now seemed to crumble to powder and run unchecked through her fingers. She retained no control over anything any longer. With a few strokes of her father’s pen, she had lost control of her life, her home—her entire existence—to this man.
How could she endure it? How could she live under this complete stranger’s thumb for two whole years? She could not. Everything within her revolted at the thought.
Trembling, Lucinda slapped her hands on the table and stood. “Father’s wishes will be done,” she stated. “But understand one thing right now, Mr. Montclair. You will not rule over me. I am a grown woman, and I know my own mind. I will make my own choices. You may stay, since that is what Father wants, but your role here will be insignificant.
“Furthermore, I will continue to run Ravensbrook. Father was unaware that your help would be unnecessary. You may choose your pursuits, but let me make this clear: the less we see each other, the better you will like it. For peace, Mr. Montclair, I am sure you will be happy to accept these terms.”
An unknown expression flickered through his dark, pirate eyes. No matter his claims of a title or the fact that her father had trusted him so implicitly; Lucinda just could not. After all, her father’s kind heart had been wrongly led to trust more than a few times in the past.
One particularly frightening incident sprang to mind. When she was twelve, during a horrific rainstorm, a frantic knock had sounded at the door of Ravensbrook. Lucinda stood behind her father as he spoke to the beggar outside. Wind and rain lashed down, and the low growl of thunder electrified the air. The man had begged for shelter, and her father told him to take cover in the barn. Lucinda, however, had noticed that the man’s hard, shifty eyes looked younger than his gray beard suggested. And a plump belly bulged beneath his tattered cloak. What hungry vagrant possessed a fat belly?
She’d warned her father of her observations, but he’d said it didn’t matter. “Kindness counts, Lucy. We are to help those in need.” While she agreed with her father’s sentiments, even at that tender age perhaps her heart was too cynical to harbor the kindness that had exemplified her father’s life. She’d wanted, both then and now, to be more like her father. She’d tried to believe that Father was right about the homeless man. Unfortunately, the next morning their best horse had vanished, along with the vagrant. Later, they’d learned a murderer from two towns over had escaped from jail the previous night. It was the same man. Luckily, he had harmed no one at Ravensbrook.
Her father’s heart had always been in the right place, but he’d been duped before. It could have happened again.
Lucinda knew next to nothing about Montclair, except for what her father had penned, and what Montclair himself had told her. It wasn’t enough. At all costs, she must protect Ravensbrook. The future and security of the estate and its servants lay in her hands. With her father gone, making the right choices now was not only her responsibility, but her imperative duty.
Frankly, she felt she was being generous, allowing Montclair to stay in her home. Of course, once the solicitor received this letter, she would not legally be able to turn him out. Briefly, she considered burning it. Then horror bumped through her. How could she destroy her father’s last words to her? She could not, no matter the misery it might inflict upon her later.
Montclair’s cool, shrewd gaze regarded her. “You misjudge me, Lady Lucinda, if you think I will break my word to your father.”
“Ravensbrook needs no manager, Mr. Montclair. And I need no guardian. I have lived without one for the last two years. I will survive for another two, as well.”
“It is my understanding you stayed with a friend during the Season in London.”
“And a satisfactory solution that was, too.”
“Except your friend is to be married, and her mother no longer plans to return to London.”
How did he know that? She frowned. “Other arrangements can be made for next Season.”
“Other arrangements have already been made. I have a townhouse in London. You will live with me.”
Lucinda gasped. “That would be most inappropriate. Unless you have a wife…” Somehow, she sorely doubted this. His next words confirmed it.
“No. My great aunt, however, will serve as chaperone both here and in London. She will arrive on Wednesday morning.”
The presumption of the man! He clearly had made these arrangements the moment her fa
ther had drawn his last breath. And, from his disheveled appearance earlier, he had made haste to gallop to Ravensbrook, as well. Why? Was it because he wished to get his hooks into an estate as grand and profitable as Ravensbrook as speedily as possible?
Fear prompted her next, sarcastic words. “Only your aunt? Have you no other relations who lack a roof over their heads?”
The bridge of his nose pinched white. Uncharitably, she was glad. In some warped way, it only seemed fair that he be as miserable with this arrangement as she. Perhaps he would decide to leave. Her spirits lifted at this happy thought.
His dark eyes bored into hers. “I understand that you have received a shock, Lucy. But being rude to me will accomplish none of your goals.”
“Do not call me Lucy.” Anger surged at his impertinence, and at the walls closing in around her. The man clearly possessed a will of iron. “Only Father called me Lucy. You do not have that privilege.”
“I understand that you are unhappy. You are grieving your father…”
“Don’t patronize me!” Lucinda trembled where she stood. “I am Lady Lucinda, and I will thank you to leave my house this instant. I cannot countenance your presence!”
Now he did stand. “Lucy—”
“Do not call me Lucy!” Fury flared higher, and anguish, too. She did not want to accept any of this. Her father’s death. This…this disturbing man moving into her home, telling her what to do…none of it. Without coherent thought, she grabbed the roll from her plate. “I want you gone!” She flung it at him. “I want you gone now!”
The roll glanced off of his forehead, and for a split second Riel stared at her in shock. Pleased, Lucinda grabbed for another one, which lay beside her knife, but before she could throw it, something sharp and feral flashed in his eyes.
Lightening fast, he seized her wrist, twisted it, and forced her to drop the bun. She found her arms wrenched up behind her and felt a knee in her back, forcing her to the floor. She gasped in shock and pain. Her arms hurt, twisted up as they were.
The Pirate's Desire Page 2