Come the Dawn

by Christina Skye

  Thornwood cleared his throat. “It’s time you were upstairs.”

  India went very still. One hand rose to the scar at Dev’s jaw. “Did it hurt?” she asked softly.

  His body tensed. After a moment he shrugged.

  A flood of memories swept through India. With them came a need so keen it hurt. She leaned close and pressed a soft kiss on that small silver scar.

  “Don’t.” This time Thorne’s voice was hoarse. His indifference was gone, and most of his control, too. India heard the note of pain — and the hoarse edge of rising desire.

  Something dark and wild, an instinct compounded of memories and loss, pulled her onto her toes. Slowly, carefully, she traced the locked line of his mouth.

  Iron fingers gripped her wrist. “No more. You are going back to bed.”

  “Bed. That sounds … interesting.” India’s lips parted. She slid her tongue over her lower lip.

  Thornwood cursed. His body was rigid as he caught her up in his arms and carried her up the narrow, dark stairs. And his anger called out to her own, sparking the Delamere pride that demanded she penetrate the walls of his forgetfulness.

  It was dangerous, of course. But India Delamere had always had a love for danger.

  She tilted her head, studying Thorne’s rigid jaw. Carefully she ran her hand along his shoulder and twined her fingers through his hair.

  His jaw hardened.

  She pressed a lingering kiss to his neck.

  He cursed darkly. “It won’t work, you know.”

  “Won’t it? Don’t you remember anything, Dev?” India’s voice was low with desire. “Not even that last night in Brussels? There was a full moon and all the roses were in bloom. A nightingale was singing in the beech tree and we stopped to listen.” She laughed huskily. “Only we didn’t actually end up hearing, did we?”

  “Don’t.” A pulse hammered at his neck. “You won’t succeed.”

  “Won’t I, Dev?” India whispered.

  And then she inched closer still. Her cheek brushed the hollow of his neck and her nipples shifted across the soft linen of his white shirt.

  “You can’t hope to make this work, damn it.”

  “Remember, Dev. Remember the smell of those damask roses. Remember the soft night wind and the sounds of that distant waltz. Remember me.”

  “Don’t you understand?” He was at the top of the stairs now. With one booted foot he drove open the door to her room. Then he stood deadly still, looking at her.

  Just looking at her.

  “You are a complete fool. Any other man would topple you onto that bed and jam himself between those white thighs of yours.”

  “What about you, Lord Thornwood?”

  Thorne looked down and his eyes darkened. The curve of one crimson crest lay only inches from his hand, a ripe, tempting shadow upthrust against her cambric gown. “Maybe I’m no different,” he said hoarsely. “Maybe I’m far worse.” With a curse he strode to the bed and followed her down, trapping her beneath him and driving one thigh deep between hers, until her skirts rode all the way to the top of her lush thighs.

  His eyes burned over her. “You’re not wearing trousers beneath your skirts now, my lady. With one thrust I could be inside you. You would be panting and wet when took you. Does that thought frighten you?”

  Something came and went in India’s eyes. “Yes,” she said slowly. “But it frightens you, too. I can feel it in the tremor of your hands. You want me, Devlyn Carlisle, and that frightens the hell out of you. I want to know why.”

  “You can’t hope to understand, and I’m a fool for even being here.”

  “How do you know what I hope for?” Her breasts were warm and full, pressed to his chest. Her hair spilled in a red-gold cloud across the pillow.

  “I don’t. That’s the problem, isn’t it? It’s all gone, every trace of that past we had. And until you start to accept that, my lady—”

  “India.”

  “My lady,” he said stiffly.

  Her finger brushed his lip. “India.”

  “It makes no difference. Whatever we did, whatever we had, is gone. The memories you describe belong to another man. Somehow you must accept that.” His voice hardened. “Both of us must.”

  But forgetting was the very last thing India wanted to do. It wouldn’t have worked anyway. She had carried this man in her heart too long already.

  She looked up at the dark hair curving across his forehead and felt something twist inside her chest. Her pulse began to hammer. “Kiss me, then.” Her lips parted in lush surrender. “Kiss me and prove that you’ve forgotten.”

  “Fool,” he growled. “What does it take to convince you?”

  “The truth,” she whispered. “Just the truth. Why does that frighten you so much, Devlyn?”

  His eyes burned over her. “Why?” he repeated harshly. “Because I’m still a man. And no man with eyes could see you and not want—”

  India felt him shudder. But she would show him no mercy. She slid to her elbows and felt her gown slip from her shoulders as she ran her fingers through the hair at his neck. “Not want what?”

  “This,” Dev grated. “And this.” He found the soft float of cambric and wrenched it back, revealing the perfect swell of high, full breasts. His fingers opened, catching all the satin heat of her.

  “God,” he whispered blindly.

  And then his mouth covered the warm skin that taunted him, framed in cambric and lace. His lips tightened, hot and demanding, until every stroke drew a ragged sound from India.

  Her eyes opened, hazed with desire.

  And finally with triumph.

  “You — remember. You must.”

  “Do I?” His hands took up the drugging strokes, calluses endlessly erotic against the warm, sensitized skin. India closed her eyes, burrowing against him, hungry for the pleasures he had taught her what seemed a lifetime ago.

  “And what about you, my lady? Do you make a habit of offering every man you meet the pleasures of your honeyed body?”

  His cold words were a lash at India’s heart. Her breath caught, and heat filled her face.

  Her hand rose.

  She struck him on the face with all the strength she possessed.

  Thorne did not move, not even when welts began to rise against his darkly tanned skin. “Shall I take that for a yes, my lady?” he said mockingly.

  “You repulsive, arrogant—” But her hand stilled in its next attack. “You meant for me to do that,” she said slowly. “You meant to make me angry. That was the only way you could be safe, since you could not count on your own strength to say no.”

  His hard gray eyes neither confirmed nor denied the accusation.

  “And you’ve succeeded,” India said coldly. “I hate you, Devlyn Carlisle. With all my heart I hate you. I only hope you’re happy in your success.”

  She turned her head away, trying to hide the angry tears that crept from her eyes. “Get out. Or are you waiting to gloat?”

  Without a word he turned. His boots hammered toward the door.

  India bunched the pillow, her hands shaking. Behind her the door shut softly. “Was it all a dream? Was all my waiting nothing but a cruel joke?”

  But Devlyn had seen the tears. He had heard the low, ragged words poured out against the pillow.

  Every one left a deeper wound than the French saber which had very nearly ended his life.

  CHAPTER 8

  “She was trying to leave. She would have made it, too, if I hadn’t happened to come up the servants’ stairs at that very moment.” Devlyn thrust his hands into his pockets and stared at James Herrington as they stood in the storeroom that led off the kitchen at 61 Belgrave Square. Devlyn’s face was hard with worry.

  “Do you think she recognized you? After all, it’s been me there briefly all the other times since she woke from the fever.”

  Something came and went in Devlyn’s eyes. “I doubt it. She was half unconscious by the time she made her way down the stai
rs, the little fool. And then — there were distractions,” he said grimly. “I was a fool to stay.”

  He turned abruptly to close his leather saddlebags. “You will have to watch her like a hawk, Herrington. Those children upstairs, too. I’ve asked a domestic agency to send around three ladies to interview as governesses. One of them will no doubt be acceptable — though my notion of acceptable may be different from the ton’s. If I can’t trace the man who brokered those jewels any other way, we’ll have to use the children. One of them must remember some detail of what happened that night in the farmhouse outside Quatre Bras. If my instincts are right, that’s when the traitor got away with the diamonds. I expect Alex Graham had tracked them down, and so they killed him.”

  “If those unfortunate children remember anything it would be a miracle,” Herrington said darkly. “After all, they had just found out their parents were dead.”

  “They might be our very last clue, I’m afraid. So far none of my sources in Dover and Le Havre has been of any help. Whoever these men are, they are disturbingly clever.”

  Herrington shook his head. “It could be dangerous for the children.”

  “Do you think I don’t know that?” Thorne slammed the saddlebags down on a worn pine table. “They’re my wards, after all. Young Graham was my best friend. He had gone to that farmhouse without me.”

  “You couldn’t have known that—”

  “That he’d be followed and murdered, his wife along with him.” Thorne finished packing the saddlebag and jerked the strap closed. “He took a bullet meant for me, Herrington. If I’d been with him, I could have stopped his reckless attempt to tie everything together at once. Now he’s dead and I can never forgive myself for that.”

  Herrington sighed. “When will you be back?”

  “God knows,” Thornwood said flatly. “Wellington has come up with a list of names for me to run down in Dover. If there’s difficulty, I’ll have to cross over to France.”

  “Are you finally close to knowing who is managing things here in London?”

  Thorne made a sharp gesture with his hand. “It’s better if you don’t know, Herrington.”

  “Of course,” the other man said, flushing slightly. “I didn’t mean to presume to—”

  “It’s a natural question. Still, you’ll understand if I say no more. Not yet, at least. There are too many gaps.”

  As Dev turned, there was a knock at the door. He stepped quickly into the stairwell, leaving Herrington to open the door to a flustered Chilton.

  “Someone is asking to speak with you, my lord. Demanding, actually. It is the young lady’s brother,” he added breathlessly.

  “Very well, Chilton. I shall be up shortly. You’d better show our guest into the yellow salon.”

  After the butler left, Dev moved out of concealment. “So Ian Delamere is upstairs, is he?” A smile crossed Thorne’s face. “What I wouldn’t give to be able to tell him the truth. He could be a wonderful ally in this whole business. Of course, it’s out of the question.”

  Herrington frowned. “You’re leaving me to handle an irate brother?”

  Devlyn swung the saddlebags up over his shoulder. “I’m afraid it’s all up to you, James. Ian is tough-minded, but he’s fair. I’m certain you can handle him. You’ve done a brilliant job with everyone else so far.”

  “Your confidence is gratifying,” Herrington said rather grimly. “But I doubt I’ll fool those children much longer. Needle-witted, they are, just like Graham was. A damned bloody shame.” Herrington rubbed his jaw. “I only hope Lord Delamere does not practice his exotic fighting skills on my face before I can explain what happened to his sister.”

  ~ ~ ~

  “Confound it, Thornwood, give me an answer! Is my sister here or not?” Ian Delamere stood scowling in the Earl of Thornwood’s sunlit salon. His hands were bunched to fists and his broad shoulders were tense inside an immaculately cut jacket of blue broadcloth.

  “Yes, she’s here.” The ‘Earl of Thornwood’ tried to hide an edge of uneasiness. “I was just about to send a message to summon you.”

  “You bloody well took your time, Thornwood. I demand to know what my sister is doing under your roof.”

  “Recovering from a bullet wound, as it happens.”

  “Sweet God, man, you’re jesting?”

  “I only wish I were. I was seeing her home last night when two footpads waylaid us.”

  “Seeing her home? What was she doing here last night?”

  James Herrington, in his uncomfortable role as Devlyn Carlisle, ran a hand through his dark hair. “It’s rather a long story. Why don’t you have a glass of brandy while I, er, explain.”

  “Don’t bother with the brandy,” India’s brother snapped. “All I’m interested in is an explanation. On second thought, let’s skip the explanation, too. I want to be certain that India’s well.”

  “Of course,” Herrington said, trying to hide his relief. “The surgeon has called twice today. The wound was a clean one and the bullet exited smoothly.”

  “Thank God for that.” Ian frowned. “By heaven, I’ll blister her backside for this mad episode. She’s got to learn that London is not the wilds of Norfolk. She cannot go kicking up her heels as she chooses.”

  “If you’ll come this way, I’ll take you to her.”

  Ian followed, his expression anxious. At the foot of the stairs he heard a trill of laugher and the sound of youthful voices. He shot his host a questioning glance, but Herrington simply motioned him toward the open door.

  There India sat, bolstered by pillows, the sun gleaming on her hair, creating glints of gold and silver among the glossy red. Beside her were three children, their feet trailing over the edges of the bed. Their faces were caught in intense concentration.

  “No,” Andrew was saying. “The balloon ascension was from Hyde Park, I’m certain of it. They could see all of the city spread beneath them. It must have been a ripping experience. That’s what I would choose.”

  “Not me,” his sister argued. “My choice would be to visit Astley’s Amphitheater and then go to Gunter’s for sweetened ices.”

  The two looked expectantly at Alexis. “Well?” Andrew prompted. “What would be your favorite day, Alex?”

  Under India’s coaxing, they had been arguing over their favorite activity in London. Only Alexis sat chewing her lip, looking uncertain.

  “Go ahead, my dear. You can tell us.”

  “Well, it’s not an activity. Not really.” Alexis stroked her doll and bent her head as she spoke. “My favorite thing would be to see the earl smile more often. He always seems so distracted now. Sometimes he comes up to the nursery late at night, and then he’s different. He tickles me behind the ear and throws me up into the air. He even brought Marianne a wooden rocking horse once. Yes, that would be my very favorite thing, but I don’t know how to go about it.”

  The others were quiet, struck by the generosity of the little girl’s wish and feeling selfish for their own answers.

  It was then that they saw the new arrivals. Alexis immediately flushed, while Andrew came uncomfortably to his feet. “My lord! Er, we mustn’t stay. Although Lady Devonham is very kind, I’m afraid we have been pestering her.”

  “Nonsense.” Though India’s face did indeed look a little pale, she merely laughed. “I was growing bored to tears here by myself. I ought to be thanking you for the visit. But let me make introductions. This great, scowling creature is my brother Ian. Ian, meet Andrew, Marianne, and Alexis, wards of the earl.”

  Alexis walked toward Ian, wooden doll dangling behind her. Her head cocked measuringly. “You are very tall, aren’t you?” she said to the gray-eyed cavalry officer.

  Ian smiled and bent down on one knee beside her. “Now I’m not. Now I’m just as tall as you are. What do you think about that?”

  After a moment the girl’s cheeks dimpled. “I think that you are not only tall but very nice.”

  India laughed from the bed. “Don’t be fo
oled, my dear. He broke my painting set when I was just about your age and then he had the utter gall to throw me into our pond.”

  Marianne giggled. Even Andrew smiled slightly. But Alexis’s face stayed very serious as she studied Ian, almost as if she could look through him and plumb the deepest secrets of his heart.

  “You are very much alike, I think.” She nodded approvingly. “And now you want to know what happened to your sister. It was footpads,” she explained. “There were twenty of them at least. The earl fought them all off with his bare hands. Your sister helped, too, of course,” she added quickly. “She must have beaten off ten by herself, which makes her very brave, don’t you agree?”

  Ian looked at India, pale but smiling on the bed. “I think this is probably the bravest woman in the world.”

  Alexis nodded gravely. “You are nice. I think both of you are nice.” Then she turned, suddenly commanding. “We can go now. Lady India will wish to be alone with her brother.” Alexis looked at Herrington, standing uncomfortably in the doorway. “I think you had better come with us, too, my lord.”

  The ‘earl’ nodded and took Alexis’s hand. “Why don’t you tell me more about this favorite day of yours?” he said gravely. “While you do, we’ll go down to the kitchen and find out what Cook has in the way of cookies. Would you like that?”

  Alexis’s face brightened. “I’d love it more than anything. And if they’re very nice, we’ll let Andrew and Marianne come along, shall we?”

  “Of course.” Herrington laughed as he led the children from the room.

  After the others had gone, Ian stood for a long time studying his sister. Her face was pale but composed. Only he would have noticed the faint haze of tears in her eyes and the tension in her shoulders. Uncertain where to begin, Ian held his tongue, leaving the explanations up to her.

  Her fingers pleated and unpleated the edge of the bed linens. “Don’t scowl, Ian.”

  “Was I? So sorry.”

  “Where can I start?” she said finally. “It was Dev, of course. It happened in Brussels, and suddenly everything was — out of my control. I meant to tell you, but you were always away on some mission or other. Then there was Waterloo.” Her eyes locked on the doorway. “When it was over and I knew I had lost him, I couldn’t bear to speak of it. Perhaps I thought if I didn’t say the words, they wouldn’t be true and he might still come back to me.”