Dark Prince

by Eve Silver

  Squire Craddick’s footsteps sounded in the passageway. Wildly, Jane looked around.

  Her father lay dead on the kitchen floor, and his dying breath condemned the man she loved as the architect of all the tragedies that had dogged her life.

  Watch out for your father. Do you understand, Jane?

  Her mother’s voice was there, clear in her mind. How many times had she told Jane that?

  Jane stared down at her father’s lifeless face and felt her heart crumble to dust.

  She had understood nothing.

  She had not watched out for him.

  Without a word, she turned and walked quietly out the kitchen door and into the night, because she understood. She truly understood her mother’s admonitions, at last.

  * * *

  Hours later, Jane traced the words engraved on her mother’s headstone, silently mouthing them from memory.

  Sacred to the memory of Margaret Alice Heatherington

  the wife of Gideon Heatherington of this Parish

  who departed this life 18th day of July

  in the year of our Lord 1802 aged 29 years.

  In this life a loving wife, a tender mother dear.

  “Did you ever love him?” Jane whispered, her words sharp with pain. So many memories crashed over her. Arguments overheard. Words never under stood as a child, taking on new and dark meanings now. Yet, she remembered too her father’s inconsolable grief at her mother’s death. Of a certain, he had loved her, but had she loved him?

  Her only answer was the mournful howl of the wind.

  She stilled, her hand frozen in place against the stone, sensing him. Aidan.

  Turning, she let her hands fall to her sides. She saw him at the far edge of the churchyard, beneath the dead and blackened elm, separated from her by the low stone wall. The wind caught the tiers of his long black greatcoat, making it billow about him.

  Once, she had thought him a man of mist and dreams. Now, she knew he was a creature of fog and grim shadows.

  Aidan opened the gate and stepped inside, the sound of his booted feet as they crunched the dead leaves was loud in the stillness. He stopped some three feet from her. The sight of his handsome face, etched with lines of tension and worry, made her want to weep. Beautiful, golden Aidan Warrick. What had he once told her? That his heart was shriveled and black as coal.

  She reached back, behind her, and rested her hand on the cold stone of her mother’s grave.

  “Joss Gossin—” Jane began, stiff and wary.

  “—has been taken into custody by Squire Craddick and his men,” Aidan finished, remote.

  Jane inhaled sharply, finding a tiny comfort in his reply. The moonlight caught his brow, the curve of his cheek, the angle of his jaw. He looked carved of stone.

  “What did my father say to you?” she asked, her voice shaking. “His dying words. Tell me. I know you were there.”

  “I did not kill him, Jane.”

  “I know. Tell me what he said.”

  So long was his reply in coming, she had ample time to wonder if he would speak at all. And if he did, would he speak the truth or a lie. Each second was an agony.

  “He said that he had paid in full. An eye for an eye. That it was a man from my crew that had attacked you. My man was responsible for what happened to you and your mother, both.” His tone was cold, removed, offering her no hint of his thoughts. “I am responsible.”

  Her heart stuttered, but she forged on. There must be an end to this, and it would only come if she was brave enough to seek it. “And is that true, Aidan? Was it your man?”

  Again there was a dreadful and lengthy silence. “I don’t know.” The harsh, clipped words seemed to bear out his honesty. “Maybe.” He raked one hand through his hair. “I do not recall the exact date that I first came to Pentreath looking for Gideon Heatherington, the first day that I began to set in motion my plan of revenge. And I cannot swear to the whereabouts of my crew for every moment.”

  She nodded. Ever honorable, he would not lie, even if it suited his purpose. Even if she spurned him for the truth.

  “Jane, if I could kill the man again for you, I would,” he said, grim.

  “Yes, I know that. It is of no comfort.” Swallowing, she met his gaze. “Did my father... did he say anything else?”

  Now he did not pause or hesitate. “That he loved you with all his heart.” The words were a whisper, smoke and gravel. “That he was glad you were not at the Crown Inn tonight. That you were safe.”

  No, her father had not said that, however much she might wish he had.

  Aidan would not lie to skirt blame, but he would lie to protect her heart.

  She wanted to weep. To howl and scream and beat her fists against the ground and vent her grief and her agony. But she did none of those things. Instead, she asked, “How could such a poor liar be a pirate and thief?”

  “Jane, I—”

  “No, don’t.” She waited a heartbeat, gathering her thoughts, needing to make him understand. “My father was an excellent liar. So very good. I heard him lie to merchants and customers and even his brother’s wife.” She gave a huff of uneasy laughter. “Silly, that I never realized he lied to me. But, of course, he did. And likely to my mother for many years.” She well remembered her mother’s tears. She thought now that her mother must have been aware of most of those lies.

  Aidan’s gaze was no longer cold, but laced with pain. For her. He suffered for her.

  “Tell me when your father died, Aidan. Tell me the date of his death.”

  He stood before her, so stiff, so unhappy. She could feel the harsh wave of his torment.

  “Tell me,” she said again.

  “The twenty-fifth of July, 1802.”

  “Are you very certain? There can be no mistake?” she asked, solemn.

  “The date is branded in my mind.”

  “You said that your father died one day before your feet touched English soil, one day before you made your way to his door. Was that true? Your ship did not land until July twenty-sixth?”

  “Yes.”

  Just that one word, and she felt as though a barbed chain about her heart slipped free, a tiny petal of hope unfurling deep within.

  “Then I will tell you the truth, as well.” She reached out and laid her palm over his heart. He stiffened but made no other move. The muscles of his chest were smooth and hard beneath the layers of his shirt and coat.

  “I know you lied just now when you said my father claimed he loved me,” she said softly, and beneath her hand, she felt his sigh. “You made that up to ease me. The truth is, he never loved me. Strange how different things look when viewed in hindsight.”

  Finally, finally she truly understood her mother’s admonitions to watch out for her father. She had never meant for Jane to watch out in the sense of taking care of him but, rather, in the sense of being wary of him. Jane wondered at her own naiveté, that she had been so blind.

  Letting her head fall back she stepped closer and held Aidan’s gaze. Her hand slid up his chest to his shoulder, and her fingertips skimmed the silky strands of his hair.

  “His dying words were pure venom, Aidan. An accusation against you, meant to cause you pain and to reach my ears and cause me pain. And they do. They do.”

  “Jane, sweet—”

  She shook her head and slid her fingers along the angle of his jaw to his lips.

  “They hurt because I know he said them with malice in his heart, his every intent to destroy any happiness we found together.” Tears threatened and she looked away, then back, mastering her emotion by sheer strength of will. “You lied just now to ease my heart, telling me that my father said he loved me. But in truth, you ease my heart. What you sacrificed—”

  Hope flared in his eyes.

  The tears came now and she could not hold them back.

  He caught her wrist and turned her hand to press a kiss to her palm.

  “Squire Craddick and his men found no smuggled brandy,” she
said, her voice trembling and thin. “You sacrificed your guiding star, your purpose… You sacrificed your vengeance for me.”

  “I did.” He pressed her open palm against his cheek. “When the time came to choose, there was no choice. I let it go and it sank to the dark depths like a stone.”

  She raised her free hand to cradle his other cheek. “Where were the kegs if they were not at the inn?”

  “In the carriage.” He tipped his head toward the dark shape beyond the church. “I piled them in, knowing no one would look there. Closed the shades. Hid them in plain sight. None of the squire’s men thought to check my coach. Why would they?” His gaze was steady, so focused, so intent.

  “You truly gave up your vengeance for me.” The magnitude of that took her breath.

  He gave a small smile, sad and beautiful at once. “I would kill for you, Jane. Die for you. Give up anything and everything for you.” A dark laugh escaped him. “When success was in my grasp, the culmination of my plans and plots, I could think of nothing but you. Your face. Your smile. Your brave heart. And even my hatred, steeped for so many years in blood and pain could not compete with the strength of my love for you.”

  She trembled so she could barely stand.

  His fingers circled her wrists and he stepped closer until their thighs brushed, and she could smell the scent of him and feel his warmth. His gaze never left hers and his voice was a low rasp, painted with the colors of his love. “I steer my path by your light.”

  “I love you,” she said. “With my heart and my mind and my body and my soul. I love you with all I am and all I can ever be.”

  His voice roughened and shook as he said, “I never meant to see you harmed. Not you. Not your mother. Though I know it for a poor excuse, if it was my man who did the deed, it was without my instruction or knowledge. I swear it, Jane. I swear it.”

  “And I know it. I have grieving to do, Aidan, for lies and heartbreak aplenty. But I lay none of it at your feet. You see, your ship arrived on July twenty-sixth and my mother died on July eighteenth. A week’s difference, Aidan.” jane closed her eyes and when she opened them again he was watching her with hope and wonder. “It was not your man. It could never have been your man. The dates provide the proof. You bear no guilt in this. None at all.”

  He froze, and then laughed, incredulous. Relieved.

  “My brave and brilliant Jane.” He caught her to him, lifting her feet clear off the ground, and spun her about. Then he shifted her in his arms and carried her from the graveyard to the waiting carriage.

  She could only hold fast to him and try to catch her breath, so chaotic were her thoughts.

  “Do you love me?” he demanded, setting her before him and holding her arms with his hands. His expression was fierce, intent. “My God, Jane, do you love me?”

  Without waiting for her answer, he pressed his mouth to hers, reckless and fierce and wild, and dragged her hard against him. His kiss sang through her blood and settled in her heart.

  “I told you I do,” she said against his lips.

  “Tell me again. And again and again.”

  “Yes. Yes, I love you,” she breathed, her hand resting on his chest. “Don’t you know that?”

  He stared down at her for a long moment, serious, focused. “I know it,” he said at last, and she felt the steady beat of his heart. It beat for her.

  “My heart. My love,” he murmured, and kissed her again, deep and lush. “Marry me,” he said. “At dawn. We’ll wake the vicar. I’ll wait no longer than that.”

  “At dawn?”

  “Or dusk.” Aidan kissed her again, and then bent his head to press his lips to her neck. “Or noon. Midnight. Name the hour that pleases you.”

  She almost chose midnight, for she had learned to love the darkest of shadows.

  And then she drew back and looked into his eyes, pale in the moonlight. In sunlight they would glow the gray-blue of the ocean. The color of a winter dawn. The color of hope and healing and dreams.

  “Dawn, then,” she said. The beginning of a new day.

  Jane curved her body into his, and smiled. Rising up on her toes, she nipped his neck with her teeth, the underside of his jaw, his lower lip.

  “And I have such lovely ideas of how we might fill the hours until then,” she whispered, as his arms closed tight about her.

  * * *

  They did marry at dawn, on a cold, crisp day two weeks later, the ocean calm, the sky blue.

  The bride wore a necklace of shells. The groom wore a smile that rivaled the sun, his eyes free of shadows, his heart filled with love.

  * * *

  -THE END-

  * * *

  If you enjoyed Jane and Aidan’s story, please leave a review to help other readers decide on the story.

  * * *

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  Also by Eve Silver

  Dark Gothic Series

  (Books in this series can be read in any order)

  Dark Desires

  His Dark Kiss

  Dark Prince

  His Wicked Sins

  Seduced by a Stranger

  Kiss of the Vampire (in the Anthology Nature of the Beast)

  Otherkin/Sins Series

  Sins of the Heart (Book 1)

  Sin’s Daughter (Book 1.5)

  Sins of the Soul (Book 2)

  Sins of the Flesh (Book 3)

  Body of Sin (Book 4)

  Northern Waste Series

  Driven

  Hidden

  Compact of Sorcerers Series

  Demon’s Kiss (Book 1)

  Demon’s Hunger (Book 2)

  Trinity Blue (short story)

  The Game Series (Young Adult)

  Rush (Book 1)

  Push (Book 2)

  Crash (Book 3)

  Sample: His Wicked Sins

  Stepney, London, January 15, 1813

  Crimson splatter painted a gruesome landscape on the pale walls of the Black Swan Tavern.

  Parish constable Henry Pugh picked his way around the stiffening corpse, taking note of the arc of blood that splashed far and wide and the congealing pool at his feet. Dark and glossy, it reflected the flickering candlelight and colored the air with a cloying, heavy scent, both sweet and sour.

  He had never seen so much blood.

  But then, today was Henry’s first day with the Shadwell Police Office, and he had never before seen foul murder.

  Outside, on the cobbled street, the night watchman called out the time. Half past midnight.

  Raising his candle, Henry squinted at the floor, noting the bloody footprints that moved along the hallway. Then his gaze slid back to the dead man, William Trotter, the landlord of the Black Swan. He was on his back, sprawled over the steps that led to the taproom, eyes wide and staring, face twisted in a look of surprise. From all appearances, he had been attacked from behind, likely never knowing the identity of his assailant.

  Bits of brain and bone speckled the landlord’s clothes, the wood of the step, the wall at his side. His head was bashed in, and his throat slit for good measure. Rivulets of blood wended down the stairs and across the floor, merging and puddling a small distance away.

  Henry squatted low. The stink of human refuse slapped him, and he reared back, appalled to witness such ultimate humiliation. Death was neither kind nor dignified.

  An ugly thing, this. An ugly thing.

  The coal-heaver, Jack Browne, a lodger here at 34 New Gravel Lane, had run to summon Henry when his banging and ringing failed to rouse Mr. Trotter to come open the door. On hearing the tale, Henry had expected that Jack was locked out for the night, and the Trotters gone to bed of an early hour as was their custom. Mrs. Trotter was insistent upon that, and lodgers, most of them sailors taking a room for a short while, knew that should they come late, the door would be barred against them. Odd, for a tavern to keep such hours, but that was the way at the Black Swan.

  Henry’s benign suppositions had proven bitterly untrue. Be
fore him lay Mr. Trotter’s savaged remains. He’d not be answering the door this night, or any other. This man who had laughed and joked and drawn ale just hours past was cold and dead now, his life snuffed in a manner that was purely evil. Henry’s shock at discovering the body had been so great that he had barely managed to hold his composure and instruct Jack Browne to fetch more men.

  With a sigh, Henry reached out now and closed the landlord’s eyes.

  As he drew his hand away, Mr. Trotter’s lids flipped open once more, pinning him with a blank and eerie stare, the eyes filmy and gray.

  Startled, Henry cried out and scuttled back, slapping one palm against the floor to steady himself. The stare seemed to judge him and find him guilty. He should have listened earlier that day when Mr. Trotter complained of a stranger lurking in the shadows outside the parlor window. He should have listened.

  But in the end the landlord had clapped him on the back and made light of his own concerns, and so Henry had laughed along with him.

  Swallowing against the sting of bile that clawed up his throat, Henry shifted his gaze from the dead man’s eyes to the gaping slash across his throat, to the blood and brains and shards of bone. He lacked the experience to know how to set his feelings and abhorrence aside, to see only the crime that need be solved. Still, he was determined that he would not disgrace himself. He would not, though the provocation and justification were strong.

  Fingers trembling, he closed the landlord’s eyes once more, willing them to stay shut. Then he rose and went to find the others.

  He felt chillingly certain there were others.

  * * *

  * * *

  The Great North Road, Yorkshire, England, September 1, 1828

  A lone tree endured atop a distant, windswept hill, its dead branches stretched skyward. Charred, begrimed stones sat in the tree’s twisted shadow, the burned and blackened remains of old cottage walls. They prevailed against time and weather, with the desolate landscape stretched behind like a joyless painting colored in flat hues.