Come the Night (The Dangerous Delameres - Book 1)

by Skye, Christina

  But I don’t trust him.

  God help me, I don’t trust anyone anymore. Not since the letters began coming every day.

  They’ve threatened the farm and they’ve threatened me. Now they’re threatening my children.

  Dear Susannah, if you read this, know that that is why I sent you and Bram off to stay with your Uncle Archibald. It wasn’t what you thought. It was only because I wanted to protect you.

  And I will protect you. Somehow I must. Even though the money’s nearly gone now…

  ~ 27 ~

  “So what draws you to the heath at midnight, risking a slit throat to find Norfolk’s most dangerous highwayman?”

  Connor’s face was bathed with a faint sheen of sweat. He and Luc had just spent a fierce half hour in swordplay, neither sparing the other although Luc wasn’t up to his usual form with his wound still on the mend.

  Now they stood in the open doors to the veranda, looking out over the dark lawns of Waldon Hall. “News,” Connor said. “News that could not wait for your return to London.”

  Luc swept back his long black hair, feeling tension grip him. He tried to forget the loneliness that had stabbed him since he had returned with Connor from the heath and discovered that Silver had gone, taking Bram with her.

  It was no business of his, Luc told himself. He had warned her she should leave. In fact, he had ordered her to go.

  But Luc found that her departure left him desolate, no matter how hard he tried to deny his feelings. And as Silver had promised, he was plagued by memories: her in his bed, her lips opening to his, the scent of lavender on her skin.

  He knew those memories would be with him always.

  But he scowled, willing everything else from his mind, and steeled himself to carry out the oath he had sworn in Algiers. Honor demanded no less.

  He looked at the friend who had saved his life that day almost two years before. “You work fast. I sent my message to you only last week. What have you managed to find out?”

  “You were right. There is a traitor hidden in the Admiralty. I wormed it out of a friend of mine who sits on the Navy Board. I once performed a trifling service for him, and the fellow was happy to answer a few questions.”

  “A trifling service.” Luc smiled grimly. “Saved his life, more like, knowing you, MacKinnon. No, I don’t mean to pry. I only want to know what you’ve uncovered.”

  “Someone is indeed passing information to the Dey of Algeria, just as you suspected. But the network is much broader than you thought. Through the Dey the information is carried to all the other Barbary principalities in Tunis and Morocco, from the Straits of Gibraltar to the Gulf of Sirte. It must be this man who ordered you delivered to a Navy prison ship and eventually saw you turned over to the Corsairs. The man is damned thorough too. He notes sailing dates, travel routes, and ports of call. Most monstrous of all are the detailed passenger lists the villain provides to the pirates. He gives them everything, including detailed descriptions of the passengers, probable jewels and wealth hidden on each person. He even suggests exactly how much ransom can be extracted for every prisoner. A Select Committee has been formed to investigate the matter, so I’m told.”

  Luc barely heard the last words. Rage was washing over him in icy waves. He’d suspected this treachery, of course. He’d lived, breathed, and slept with the suspicion for five years now, through the angry sweltering nights and the grim days of torture.

  He’d finally given in to the Dey’s demands as Jonas lay dying from fever, his body wasted away to bones and paper-thin skin.

  Only then had Luc agreed to instruct a select group of the Dey’s personal guard in the art of the sword. In recognition of his services Luc was offered the hated tattoo that now marked his forearm. But Jonas was spared.

  It was in the heat of that night that Luc had made a vow to see the whole system of piracy destroyed, and along with it whoever was secretly providing information from Admiralty records back in London.

  Now that his suspicions were confirmed, only one fact remained to be given. “Who?” Luc demanded hoarsely. “Who is it?”

  “Ah, there’s the rub.” Connor MacKinnon watched his friend from beneath hooded eyes. He saw Luc’s tension and the rage that burned from his gold-and-amber eyes. “My sources tell me the Admiralty is searching for the traitor, but so far to no avail. He is very clever, our little fish. It scarcely helps that so many renegade European sailors have risen to high rank in the Corsair fleet. As rais they captain their own vessels and even dare to attack their native coasts. And any one of those renegades may move back and forth, communicating with our traitor hidden in London.”

  “Damn them all! Is there no clue to the spy’s identity?”

  “None. The Admiralty has its own problems, you must understand. They’re under attack for corruption, waste, and monumental extravagance. Understandably, they are loath to air their dirty linen in public — not until they are sure of the traitor’s identity.”

  “Which means I’m no closer to an answer than before!” Luc slammed his fist into the damask-covered wall, cursing harshly.

  “Not quite.” Connor MacKinnon angled his broad shoulders against the open door and studied his friend. “It happens that I have a list of the most likely candidates here in my pocket. They are all men who’ve made a great deal of money in the last two years — money that cannot be legally accounted for.”

  “But how did you find out—”

  “It is my business to have sources wherever my ships put into ports of call, my friend. In Genoa and Venice, in Marseilles and, yes, even in Algeria, I know the bankers who manage the private accounts. I think you’ll find the list very interesting, for my sources have confirmed that several of those hidden accounts belong to Admiralty men.”

  Luc smiled darkly. “How much did this information cost you, MacKinnon?”

  His friend shrugged.

  “Damn it, Conn, how can I ever repay you?” Luc spread his hands. “My house, my estates, they’re all yours. Everything you see is yours, if only I can find the bastard who sold me into slavery — and continues to sell more poor devils there every day.”

  Luc’s friend pursed his lips. “A nice enough place, I’ll warrant. Your offer intrigues me. I don’t suppose you’d care to throw in Swallow Hill as well.”

  Luc stiffened. “We shall not talk of that, I think. Friend you are and friend you have been, even to saving Jonas and me from death, but Swallow Hill is done, Connor. That life is closed to me. I caution you to remember that.”

  Luc’s friend, the possessor of a fleet of trading ships that cruised to every navigable spot on the globe, merely laughed, in no way affronted by this harsh speech. “Oh, I’m quaking in my boots, Lord Dunwood. I’m quaking well and truly!”

  “Knave. And it’s not Lord Dunwood! Not anymore.”

  “So you say,” Connor said calmly. “For myself, I’ll hear no more about payment. I’d rather know what secrets you are hiding. Everywhere I go I hear nothing but talk of the great Blackwood’s exploits upon the high road — and in a hundred bedchambers as well. I particularly seem to recall accounts of a turbulent exchange that took place outside the Green Man. Have you now been reduced to kidnapping your bed partners?”

  Luc cursed. “So that tale is being told, is it? Blast, I’d hoped she could escape it.”

  “She?” Connor let the question linger delicately.

  “A neighbor. She owns the lavender fields that border Waldon Hall. A damnable, tempestuous virago of a woman.”

  “I can see how vexing you find her,” MacKinnon said coolly. “But can that be Millefleurs I smell hanging about this room? I could swear it was, except that the perfume has been unavailable for several years now, more’s the pity. Any number of women would be extremely appreciative to a man who could find them a bottle.” His eyes glinted with lazy wickedness.

  “It is Millefleurs. Miss St. Clair’s father designed the scent, but took the formula to the grave with him. I believe that Silv
er now has the only remaining bottle.”

  “Silver? An intriguing name. And this woman — cross eyed, no doubt? Clinging and bad tempered?”

  “I only wish she were,” Luc muttered. “No, your information’s wrong in that. Silver St. Clair is a pure sweep of summer sunlight, brave and laughing and a very spitfire.”

  Connor’s eyes narrowed. So his friend had finally fallen, had he? Well, well, this posed any number of intriguing possibilities. Did the woman know she held his heart?

  Perhaps more important, did the man know?

  He decided to involve himself in the lovers’ affairs, whether Luc liked it or not. The scarred survivor of Algiers deserved to find happiness. “You intrigue me, my friend. May I be allowed to pay my respects to the lovely lady?”

  Luc’s fingers tightened for the barest space of an instant, and then he shrugged. “She is hardly my claim. A neighbor only. If you choose to pursue her, it is no affair of mine. I expect she has far too much sense to fall for your honeyed lies, however.”

  “Ah, but obstacles make the chase so much more pleasant.”

  Luc turned away abruptly, his face hard.

  So that was indeed how the wind blew, Connor thought. Yes, the two definitely required his good offices. Fortunately, he had a week to spare before his trading ventures called him back to the Orient.

  He rather fancied himself in the role of matchmaker, Connor found. “And when shall I have the pleasure of meeting this paragon?”

  “Tomorrow. The next day. It is of no consequence to me. I do not mean to accompany you. I must concentrate on finding my traitor and seeing the last breath of life squeezed from his lying throat.”

  “Where do we start?”

  Luc’s gaze jerked to his friend’s face. “We?”

  “I believe that’s what I said.” There was steel in Connor’s stance, beneath the easy posture he affected.

  “Damn you, MacKinnon. Don’t you recognize a rebuff when you hear one?”

  “I have always had a problem with my ears. Insults and snubs seem to roll right off me.”

  “You’re sure? It may run very dangerous before we’re done. The man is a master of deceit.”

  “Quite sure, you fool.”

  “Then I’ll thank you for your help. I can use those Oriental fighting skills of yours, especially that devilish way you have of jabbing with your foot in total silence. First I’ll want to look at that list of yours. Then I fancy we’ll pay a visit to Kingsdon Cross. There’s an old mill I have an urge to break into.”

  Above the trees the first red fingers of dawn were streaking across the eastern sky. Luc stared at them with savage determination.

  “It sounds vastly intriguing. When do we leave?”

  “Too late to start now. We’ll leave by moonlight. I’ve a plan of the building. I suspect some of the dispatches are concealed there.”

  “But if you know the place, you must know its owner.”

  “Unfortunately not. The man has some sort of secret entrance, since he is never seen coming or going. But I shall soon have him, I guarantee you that.”

  Connor smiled faintly. “How very resourceful you are.”

  “Blackwood tries.” Luc made him an elegant bow. “One has a reputation to uphold, after all.”

  “A reputation that grows by the hour. I begin to understand why. Very well, what about another bout before we retire?”

  Luc made a crooked smile. He tried not to think about the pain he’d seen in Silver’s eyes before he left. He tried not to remember the heat of her mouth, the silken beauty of her breasts beneath his aching fingers.

  Might as well try not to breathe.

  He raised his foil. “I await your pleasure, braggart.”

  Their blades met, engaged. The clang of fine steel rang through the ballroom.

  As dawn stole over the lawns and through Waldon Hall’s broad windows, Luc was careful to force the pain from his face.

  At least he thought he was.

  But Connor MacKinnon was not fooled for a moment.

  ~ ~ ~

  Sir Charles Millbank cursed furiously, tugging at his vest as he stared down at the brandy puddled beneath his glass.

  Damn it, it was nearly dawn! Why did the man always keep him waiting?

  But he knew why.

  To make him sweat, the baronet thought angrily. To make his fear grow and grow, until he groveled.

  Through the smoky haze of the Green Man’s rear rooms, the baronet saw a tall figure approach. Millbank’s heart began to hammer as he saw the glint of gold at the man’s ear.

  The cloaked visitor moved in utter silence. He towered over the table and did not seat himself. “What news have you brought me, Englishman? You have taken my gold and now I expect full payment.”

  “Er, I’m close. Very close. I have nearly uncovered Blackwood’s hideout.”

  “Nearly? “

  Sir Charles’s face reddened. “One day more should do the trick. If not, the St. Clair chit will be my lure.” He sat up straighter as thoughts of Silver’s face, pleading in his captivity, brought him a measure of courage. “She’ll bring him to me, damn her. And then I shall drag him to you, just as I’ve promised.”

  The foreigner smiled thinly. “I trust, for your sake, ferenghi, that you do. I show no mercy to those who betray me.”

  Millbank cleared his throat, fidgeting beneath that cold gaze. He tried not to stare at the odd ring on the man’s fingers. It was an animal figure, and the emeralds in the eyes had to be worth a king’s ransom. Hoping to escape the man’s displeasure, he changed the topic. “But why Blackwood? What do you want with this highwayman?”

  “Because it suits my mood, I shall tell you. The man was once in my custody, but he escaped. He is the only man who has ever done that.” The dark eyes hardened. “The only man who still lives, that is. But he will pay for his betrayal. Before I’m done, he will beg me for the pleasure of dying.”

  The Englishman shuddered. “Er, quite. Well, I’d best be going. I’ve plans to lay before nightfall, you understand.”

  His employer smiled coldly. “Lay them well. But beware, Englishman. I make a dangerous enemy. It would be a pity if I had to make you taste my vengeance.” He waved his hand abruptly. “Now leave me and be gone to your work.”

  Millbank did not wait for further encouragement. White faced, he stumbled to his feet and fairly ran from the smoky room.

  ~ 28 ~

  The sun was high by the time Silver woke from a restless sleep. Her wound pained her a little, but her energy was nearly restored. She tugged on her work clothes and a shawl and made her way to the flower fields.

  There she took off her shoes and paced through the warm rich furrows, praying they would give her peace as they always had before. But this time they did not relieve her fear.

  They certainly didn’t help her forget the anger and despair on Luc’s face when he strode from her room at Waldon Hall.

  Two hours made no difference, nor did ten. Twilight found her just as restless and unsettled as she had been at her return that dawn.

  Worse yet, there was next to nothing for her to do. Their attackers had been repelled, thanks to Tinker’s vigilance and the help of the men Luc had hired. Tinker and Bram had inspected the drying lavender and finished a load of sachets for the select hotel at King’s Lynn. They’d even filled a tedious order for lavender soap and restorative oils from the palace itself.

  Silver smiled. They had finished without her help, right down to polishing each bar to a fine sheen. Now Silver felt like a relic on her own farm. And with time on her hands her thoughts kept drifting back to a man with amber-and-gold eyes. Had he made his way home to Waldon Hall, his pockets jingling with gold, or had one of the magistrate’s men dropped him to the ground with a musketball between the eyes? She couldn’t bear to think about it. She forced her thoughts back to Lavender Close. In the urgency of the last days she’d had no time to spare for her father’s journal, but now she took it from its hiding
place beneath the conservatory floor. There were still a dozen entries left to read. She would study them outside on the hill her father loved best. Perhaps they would hold the key to his death.

  It was your birthday tonight, Susannah. How much you looked like your mother in your joy. After you had gone to bed, I sat above the lavender fields watching the moon sweep down in waves of silver.

  The twelfth night of the fifth month.

  An important date, one whose significance is vast. So consider this well, my daughter. If you love my farm, if you love my fields, the meaning will eventually grow clear to you. I dare not say more in case this journal should fall into unfriendly hands.

  If not and you now read these words, Susannah, remember your birthday. Think well.

  The answer will come to you.

  Silver sighed and let the journal fall closed on her lap. Dropping her head against the rough trunk of the oak tree behind her, she stared up into the night sky.

  The twelfth day of the fifth month.

  What could it possibly mean? Her birthday, yes, but what significance beyond that? She shook her head. Had her father’s wits wandered at the end of his life? Had he simply grown melancholy, convinced that every shadow was an enemy? She found she could not believe it.

  In the night silence Silver sat on the hill where her father must have sat long years before, looking over his beloved lavender beneath a sky full of stars. But there were no clues or revelations hidden there. All Silver could see were three rows of new cuttings, which now lay withered and brown. Even in the older lavender beds she made out a few sickly plants scattered here and there. She would have to ask Bram to inspect them tomorrow. If it was the root disease, every one would have to go. Otherwise, they would risk the loss of all their fields, for the root sickness spread with terrible speed.

  Frowning, Silver broke off a leaf of rose geranium, twined it around a sprig of lavender, and tucked the two through a buttonhole at her bodice.