by Diana Bold
Simon stared at the bundle for a long moment before taking it. “A miracle cure?”
Sebastian shook his head in regret. “I am afraid not. Nothing can stop the plague completely. But with this, administered in a timely manner, we can cut the death rate in half, at the very least.”
“This is why you left, is it not? The girl told you about this medicine.” Simon’s tone was full of self-recrimination. “I am so sorry. I should have known.”
“How could you?” Sebastian countered. “I should have said. But I did not think you would believe me, was not even sure I believed it myself.”
Simon pushed off the bed and clasped Sebastian in a fierce embrace. “You are not coming back, are you?”
“No,” Sebastian replied, touched by his brother’s unusual display of affection. “Even if I cannot stay with Rhoswen, I doubt I will return to Hawkesmere. It would not look right if you took me back in now, after everything that has happened.”
Simon released him, but did not offer any protest to his last statement, which spoke louder than any words. “I will miss you.”
“And I you.” All in all, the meeting had gone much better than Sebastian had ever expected. But much as he loved his brother, he was eager to get back to Rhoswen. He did not want her to worry any more, could already imagine the happiness on her face when he returned to her.
He embraced his brother once more, then made his way back out through the passageway.
* * * * *
Rhoswen paced the narrow width of the tunnel for hours, until exhaustion and worry sapped her strength and she collapsed in a defeated heap near the pool. She’d checked her timepiece a hundred times already, knew it was too soon for Sebastian to return even if things had gone right.
She refused to think about things going bad.
Wrapping herself in the blankets they’d brought along, she stretched out and pillowed her head on her arms. She had no hope of actually resting but the days of stress and physical exertion caught up with her, pulling her into a dark, dreamless sleep.
When she woke, it took several long moments to orient herself. The sulfurous scent of the springs filled her senses, and the damp rock pressed in on her from all sides. Gasping, she scrambled to a sitting position and reached for her timepiece.
“It has been thirteen hours,” Sebastian said softly from behind her, startling her so badly she shrieked. “You were never going to leave without me, were you?”
She placed one hand on her heart and turned to face him. He was barely visible in the dim light of the lone lightstick. He shook his head, but the anger her earlier disobedience had caused was absent.
“I fell asleep,” she explained weakly. “But you’re right. I wouldn’t have left until I knew for sure you weren’t coming back.”
He laughed softly and held out his arms. “I am glad,” he whispered. “I am so glad you care enough to stay, even when it is not wise.”
She launched herself into his open arms, kissing him wildly, pushing him backward in her exuberance. “You’re back,” she sobbed, in between fervent presses of her lips to his. “I can’t believe you’re actually back.”
In answer, he simply covered her mouth fully, kissing her deeply for long moments before finally breaking away.
For a long moment, their eyes met and held. Time seemed to stop as she realized it was over. He was safe, and he was hers. She didn’t know what the future would bring—they couldn’t go back to either Hawkesmere or Atlantis—but she was never going to be without him again.
She took a deep breath. “What of Trevelan?”
“He escaped,” Sebastian replied. “No one has seen him since the day we left Hawkesmere.”
Her heart soared with sudden hope, the heavy weight of fear and guilt she’d been carrying lightening somewhat. “He must have gone back to the coast,” she whispered. “He is probably waiting there for me.”
“Then we shall go and see,” he promised. “We won’t stop looking until we find him.”
“And then what?” she asked. “What shall become of you and me, now that we’ve nowhere to call home?”
Sebastian gestured down the tunnel, back toward Old Atlantis. “We could live here. For a time, at least. With a little effort, we can restore one of the houses, perhaps learn more about how they survived down here for so long. With winter upon us, I am certain we will be much more comfortable here than we would have been in the tower.” He took her hands, his green eyes troubled. “Do you think you could be happy here, with me?”
His solution was so simple it took her breath away. “I will be happy as long as we’re together,” she answered, knowing her heart was in her eyes. “You are my home, Sebastian. You are my life.”
“And you are mine.” He kissed her gently, then took her hand and led her back toward the ancient city.
The End
Read on for a sneak peek of ATLANTIS RISING, Trevelan and Miranda’s story… Coming Soon…
Trevelan fell back upon the rough pallet, glaring after the dark-haired barbarian who’d arranged his release from the dungeons, anger and gratitude warring within him. The bastard had obviously done this for Rhoswen’s sake. His eyes had softened when he’d spoken of her, and Trevelan could only imagine what she’d had to do to acquire his help. The thought of his sweet, delicate woman beneath that huge, rutting savage made Trevelan wild with rage.
This was his fault. He should have found a way to save her during the trek here. He never should have allowed her to fall to the mercy of this group of savages. But she was strong. He could only hope Sebastian was telling the truth about letting them go and pray this nightmare hadn’t crushed her.
A shiver ran down his spine, and the wracking tremors sent pain ricocheting from one part of his battered body to the next. Withstanding the torturous inquisition had taken every ounce of endurance he possessed.
He’d never imagined such violence existed, let alone that it would be directed toward him. Surely, they hadn’t used such brutal tactics on a woman? If they’d harmed one hair on Rhoswen’s head, he feared that whatever veneer of civility he’d managed to retain would shatter completely, and he’d be driven to murder.
A soft, female voice conferred with the guard outside, and he perked up a bit, wondering if Sebastian had fetched Rhoswen already. Seeing her alive and well would do him a world of good.
Unfortunately, the door opened to admit a stranger, a woman whose green eyes assessed him with surprising intelligence. Her thick braid was the color of autumn leaves — a rich, startling blend of reds and golds.
The healer.
As she moved further into the room, he realized the old crone his imagination had conjured was in fact a slender young woman.
She sucked in a breath and set the basket she carried beside the tepid water and bandages Sebastian had already provided.
“What have they done to you, poor lad?” The soft, sing-song lilt of her voice washed over him like the cool, mountain stream that ran beside the castle, inexplicably soothing. “You have nearly died from the thrashing they gave, have you not?”
An accurate appraisal of his condition, but hardly a test of her healing skills. He already knew he looked more dead than alive. Felt that way, too.
She knelt beside his pallet, her plain, woolen kirtle pooling against his forearm as she bent over him and pressed her small, warm hand to his forehead. Frowning, she swept back the rough blanket, leaving him naked from the knees up.
Stunned, he tried to reclaim the coverlet, but his weak attempt sent him reeling back against the pallet, gasping in pain. He wanted to curse, but remembered just in time that he wasn’t supposed to speak. Closing his eyes, he fisted his hands at his sides and resigned himself to letting this lovely young healer look her fill.
“Ah, you are a handsome one, are you not?” Her sweet voice matched the gentle hands she ran over every inch of his body, seeming to probe through his skin to the bones below.
He couldn’t contain a sharp moan as s
he moved down his ribcage, and he wondered angrily if she were capable of speaking without asking a question.
“Mute, are you?” Finishing her exploration of his ribs, she continued down his stomach, pressing here and there until sweat broke out across his chilled body. “Pity, that. You have old eyes; they tell a story of their own.”
Startled by her strange claim, he forced himself to meet her gaze, only to find her staring at him with a pensive frown.
“Mute, perhaps,” she murmured, more to herself than him. “But not dumb. Not dumb at all.”
Then, still holding his gaze, she conducted an impersonal, business-like examination of his genitalia. To his utter disbelief, he hardened in instinctive response to her soft, warm hands, his pain ebbing as he swelled with uncontrollable and unwanted need.
One perfectly formed eyebrow quirked up in obvious amusement. “Impressive reaction for someone half-dead. You will live.”
With brisk efficiency, she swept the blankets back over him, hiding his shameful display from view. “You have a long, painful road ahead of you. A few broken ribs, and more bruises than I can count, but there does not seem to be any irreparable damage to your insides, so that is good news.”
He gave a soft huff of a laugh, only to wince in renewed pain.
“It is good news,” she told him sternly, as though he’d argued with her. “In time this will seem nothing more than a bad dream. Now try to relax, and I’ll make you a tisane to ease your pain and help you sleep.”
Sudden gratitude washed over him, stunning him with its humble simplicity. Her kindness was unexpected, yet more welcome than she could ever know. Though he knew she’d been assigned to see to his wounds, her concern seemed real.
As she rose to turn away, he grabbed her hand and squeezed it tight.
She stared at him for a long moment, then smiled. “You are most welcome.”
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Chapter One – Once A Pirate
London—1810
“You’ve got a visitor, Montgomery.”
Deep in the bowels of Newgate Prison, Talon Montgomery looked up from the corner of his dank, windowless cell. “A visitor?” His words were little more than a hoarse rasp. He hadn’t spoken in months, not since he’d realized nothing he said would entice the guards to release him.
He shielded his eyes from the glare of the guard’s lantern with a grimy hand, blinking and uncertain. A visitor? He’d been trapped down here for what seemed an eternity, accused of treason and branded a pirate. They claimed he’d been spying for the Americans, looting English ships for military secrets and wealth.
He accepted the charge of piracy, even though he was technically a privateer, but he hotly denied the treason. He was an American, by choice, if not by birth. Unfortunately, his letter of marque from the American government had been ignored, and he’d been thrown in this cell to rot. He’d been sentenced to death, and he couldn’t imagine why they were dragging it out.
The hulking guard withdrew a key and unlocked his cell for the first time since his mockery of a trial. The grinding rasp of the key brought long dead reflexes to life.
Was he hallucinating? He had to be, because freedom lay just beyond that open door. All he had to do was get rid of the guard…
“You wouldn’t make it two feet,” the man warned, hauling Talon off the floor with one beefy arm.
Talon fought a wave of nausea and humiliation. The good health he’d taken for granted all his life had deserted him. He battled to find the strength to remain standing instead of wilting at the man’s feet in an ignoble heap.
The guard grinned. “Not so high and mighty now, are we, Lord Pirate?”
Talon shook off the man’s hands, bracing his own against the iron bars for support. “Where are you taking me?”
“There’s a fancy gentleman waitin’ to have a word with you in the warden’s office.” Still chuckling, the guard shoved Talon toward his cell door. “I don’t imagine the bloke wants to be kept twiddlin’ his thumbs by the likes o’ you.”
Talon let the guard prod him down the narrow corridor, unable to accept the fact that he had a visitor. Who could it be? His valiant crew had been dead these many months, and he had no one else.
He wondered if this was a ruse, some strange new form of torture to make him confess. If so, perhaps this time they’d succeed. He could bear anything but false hope.
Halfway to the warden’s office, the cobwebs cleared and he realized there was someone in his life with the power to arrange such a visit. Sudden fury sparked within him, burning away months of apathy and despair.
Sutcliffe! Had he come to gloat? To see Talon broken and humbled once and for all? His anger gave him the strength to climb the endless flight of stairs.
At last the guard shoved him into a warm, brightly lit room. “Here he is, sir. Let us know when you’re done with him.”
Talon stood in the doorway, blinking against the light, tension coursing through him as he struggled to get a clear look at the two men who waited inside. One was a giant of a man, dressed in silver and blue livery that bore the Sutcliffe crest. Hired muscle, Talon thought in disgust, dismissing him.
The other man stood in front of the crackling fire, warming his gloved hands. He didn’t turn around when Talon entered the room, which wasn’t surprising.
James Sinclair, the Sixth Earl of Sutcliffe, had first turned his back on his bastard son twenty‐nine years ago, the day he’d discovered Talon’s mother carried him in her womb.
Talon slumped against the wall, glaring. He’d swallowed his pride and sent his father an impassioned plea for help after his arrest, only to be completely ignored. If there’d been anything left in him of the boy who’d once yearned for his father’s love, Sutcliffe had killed it then.
“Damn you,” Talon muttered. “Damn you to hell.”
Sutcliffe laughed and turned to look at the son he’d never wanted.
Talon drew in a sharp breath, startled. He hadn’t been face to face with the man who’d sired him since he was a lad of twelve. He’d forgotten how much he resembled the man.
They shared the same unusual coloring — inky black hair and icy blue eyes. Sutcliffe’s harsh, uncompromising features were more deeply lined and his ebony hair had turned gray at the temples, but there was no denying they were father and son.
The earl assessed him with a critical gaze. “I’m glad to see five months in prison hasn’t broken your spirit.”
Five months. Five months since he’d taken a breath of air that wasn’t fouled by the odors of death and decay. Five months since he’d felt the sun and wind on his skin or eaten a decent meal.
It had seemed far longer.
Talon’s fury burst through the dam that had held it, a torrent of all the injustices he’d suffered since his arrest. He pushed off the wall, hell bent on murder.
Sutcliffe’s footman stepped forward, but Sutcliffe stayed him with an arrogant wave of his gloved hand. “Leave us, Lionel. He’s far too weak to do me any harm.”
Lionel pinned Talon with an intimidating glance then shrugged and left the room.
Talon burned with mortification. He hated his obvious weakness, hated that his father was right. He was in no shape to strike fear into anyone. “What are you doing here?”
Sutcliffe gave him an arrogant smile. “Arranging your pardon, of course. You’re a free man, Montgomery. All you need to do is walk out that door.”
Despite his hatred, Talon couldn’t contain the dizzying sense of hope his father’s words provoked. He wanted out of this place. He wanted to lift his face to the sun just
one more time...
It would be worth any price he had to pay. And the watchful look on Sutcliffe’s haughty face assured him there would be a price.
The truth of it hit him like a fist in the gut. Sutcliffe had left him to rot for a reason. He’d wanted to make certain Talon was desperate enough to agree to whatever he was about to demand.
“What do you want from me? You wouldn’t help me when I needed it. Why bother now?”
Sutcliffe smiled again, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. “I’ve been busy. I attended to this as soon as I was able.”
With those few careless words, Sutcliffe managed to express how utterly unimportant he found the life of his bastard son.
“I didn’t ask you to help with my release. I needed you to use your influence to intervene on behalf of my crew. It’s the only thing I’ve ever asked of you, and now seventy good men are dead.”
“Don’t work yourself into a state,” Sutcliffe said. “Your disreputable crew is safe and sound, sailing one of my ships to Barbados as we speak.”
Relief washed over Talon with the force of a hurricane. He’d been haunted with guilt, knowing his men had died while he still lived. Now he swayed dizzily with the knowledge that Sutcliffe had saved his crew from the gallows.
Sutcliffe frowned and shoved a chair in Talon’s direction. “Here, boy. Sit down before you fall.”
The last ounce of Talon’s strength deserted him. He had no choice but to take the offered chair. Sutcliffe ensured his capitulation by handing him a tray loaded with fresh bread, cheese, and wine.
Talon’s stomach growled, brought to life by the sharp, wonderful scents. He lifted a piece of crumbling bread to his lips with a trembling hand, eyeing Sutcliffe warily lest he try to snatch it away.
“You’re far too thin and filthy as hell, but that can be remedied,” Sutcliffe mused while Talon devoured the food he’d provided.