Lords of the Isles

by Le Veque, Kathryn

  Dominic gritted his teeth against the fury and despair that had dragged him from his hard-won detachment and into the swirling darkness that was his past.

  Was it possible? Possible that this girl was indeed d’Autrecourt’s child? If there was any chance at all, he had to catch the two runaways, stop them before the unspeakable happened.

  He ran his hand beneath the mane of his horse, speaking low, soothing words of encouragement to the massive beast, praying that the horse’s incredible speed could overtake Aubrey’s curricle.

  For the first time, Dominic was grateful that the boy’s ability for handling horses was nowhere near as well developed as his instinct for finding trouble.

  But the boy had found trouble this time, by God. More than he could ever imagine.

  Dominic cursed. How could he have been so blind where this girl was concerned? How could he not have seen the likeness of Alexander d’Autrecourt in Lucinda Blackheath’s face? The straight, aristocratic nose, the blue eyes, gold hair. That sweet curve of her upper lip.

  But there the similarities between father and daughter ended. Alexander d’Autrecourt had always seemed somehow wounded. Lucinda Blackheath met the world with clenched fists and a stubborn chin. Those blue eyes weren’t filled with dreams but rather with defiance and vitality, courage and daring, and a kind of wild mischief.

  And now, as Dominic raced down the night-darkened road, he knew why she faced the world with that saucy stubbornness, that regal tilt to her head. She was bastard-born.

  That was the only possible explanation. Alexander d’Autrecourt’s by-blow, a castaway child whose mother had fled to the new world, where no one would question her lack of a husband, her child’s lack of a name.

  Where she’d not have to endure jeers and whispers and the fury of those who felt betrayed.

  Dominic’s stomach gave a sick lurch. Hadn’t there been enough people hurt by the musician without including this girl as yet another sacrifice? Hadn’t the weakness that lurked like poison behind those dreamy blue eyes caused enough pain?

  Dominic battled the sense of fury and helplessness inside him, his anger at Lucinda Blackheath becoming an almost savage protectiveness, mingled with resentment that he couldn’t dismiss this fresh pain. He couldn’t keep her locked away from those secret, hidden places inside him. Because now she was one of the shadows he would always see there, one more victim, innocent and vulnerable. And even with her strength of spirit, Dominic doubted she could endure facing the truth about the man whose face was painted on her porcelain miniature.

  Lightning flashed, sending his stallion skittering as a huge black beast seemed to rear up beside them. The muscles of his arms standing out like strips of steel, Dominic got the stallion under control, then looked at the object that had frightened the horse.

  The curricle lay on its side, one wheel splintered, the jagged lightning that illuminated the sky trickling along gold lettering lost in an elaborate mural that had been painted on the equipage’s door: A. St. Cyr.

  Dominic’s heart thudded in his chest, his gaze sweeping the area for any wisp that might be clothing, any glisten that might be dampened hair. But thankfully there were no bodies crumpled in the ditch and the harness of the curricle had been unfastened, the horse gone.

  Dominic felt a surge of triumph. They must have ridden the animal to the nearest shelter. Most heartening of all, they would be stranded there, far from Gretna Green and elopements held over the anvil.

  Stranded overnight at an inn, a voice inside Dominic suddenly whispered. A boy whose first passion would doubtless obliterate what little sense he had to begin with. Dominic could almost hear Aubrey’s rationalizing taking Lucinda Blackheath to bed.

  There would be no difference in the eyes of society whether they had decorously spent the night in their own separate beds or entwined in a red haze of passion. Either way, the girl would be ruined. Since they were already planning to be wed, wouldn’t it be better to fortify themselves for the coming scandal by spending the night locked in one another’s arms?

  Desperation made Dominic tighten his knees around the stallion’s barrel, urging the horse onward until he picked out the lights of a building near the road. He’d changed horses at the Hound’s Tooth a dozen times on his travels to various St. Cyr estates. Though the accommodations had been rather Spartan, they had also been clean, the food palatable, and the proprietor decidedly lacking in curiosity. He could only hope the man could be induced to be discreet now.

  Dominic rode into the yard and dismounted, flinging his reins to a spindly groom. He flipped the boy a guinea. The lad grinned and trotted off toward the dimly lit stable.

  Shaking the rain from the folds of his cloak, Valcour strode to the door and flung it open. The candlelit interior was such a contrast to the night that Valcour saw the room through a wet haze of gold, bright splotches of coats and dresses blurring before his eyes.

  His hand swiped impatiently at his eyes, his gaze sweeping the room. A quick inquiry had the innkeeper ushering Valcour to the private parlor that a Mr. St. Cyr had secured a few hours before.

  Dominic flattened his hand on the door and sucked in a steadying breath, uncertain of what he would find beyond the wooden panel. A scene of romantic bliss? Aubrey with Lucinda Blackheath in his arms, kissing her, touching her as Dominic had in the moonlit garden?

  Dominic’s jaw tightened, and he shoved open the door.

  A high-backed settle was situated near the fire, a table tucked beside the window. Candles glowed on two place settings, one pristine and untouched, the other holding the remains of a makeshift supper.

  The room was deserted except for the lone figure sprawled in one of the chairs. Aubrey sat with his back to the door, guzzling brandy with the dogged fervor of someone determined to find oblivion. His fingers drummed restlessly on the table, and a handkerchief embroidered with the initials L.B. encircled his head.

  From Dominic’s vantage point, he could see one of the boy’s eyelids drooping, his cheek a hot spot of color from the brandy he’d obviously consumed.

  What could make an eager bridegroom just hours away from eloping with his lady descend into such a drunken spree? A lovers’ quarrel? Or, more likely still, the awkward fumbling of an overeager youth who had made a disaster of taking a virgin for the first time?

  The relief Dominic had felt at the boy being safe was obliterated by a far darker emotion as he strode to Aubrey’s side and grasped him by the shoulder.

  “Dom?” Aubrey gave a bitter laugh, his eyes surprisingly lucid. “Don’t know why the devil I should be surprised to see you! Heaven knows, you’ve always managed to find me whenever I was at my worst.”

  “I didn’t come here to fight, boy. I came to stop you from doing something you’ll regret for the rest of your life. Where is the girl?”

  “She’s in the stables, holding the horse’s hand—or hoof, I should say. The animal got banged up pretty bad when the carriage overturned. I think she’d have carried the damned horse like a baby all the way here if she could have managed it.”

  “You left her out in the stable alone while you came in here and got drunk?” Valcour asked, his voice dangerous as black ice.

  “Seemed like the logical thing to do at the time. Isn’t that just like a woman? I all but get myself killed and she is out with the accursed horse!”

  “You should be thanking God that curricle overturned before you got to Gretna Green.”

  “Gretna Green? You thought we were eloping?” Aubrey chortled.

  Valcour scowled. “Where the devil else would you be going?”

  “The d’Autrecourts’. Lucy wanted to clear up some infernal mystery about the English lord who is her father.”

  Dominic stared, incredulous. Was the girl mad? What in the devil had she intended to do? March up to the chamber where the reclusive duke stayed and say Good morrow, your grace. I’m your illegitimate niece?

  “Then you never intended to marry the girl?”

 
“Oh, I planned to marry her in time. In fact, Dom, you should be elated. The continuation of the St. Cyr dynasty is assured.”

  “What do you mean, is assured?” Dominic squeezed the words through numb lips. “Aubrey, don’t tell me there is a child—” Dominic reasoned ruthlessly through the wild clamoring in his head. There had not been time. The girl couldn’t even know if she had conceived…

  Valcour could see the ugly light in the boy’s eyes, that familiar expression that meant he was spoiling for a fight. “Ah, I see. You’re wondering if I already planted the eighth earl of Valcour in Miss Blackheath’s womb, aren’t you, Brother? It need not concern you. Even if she’s not with child already, I promise you the instant she becomes my wife, I’ll turn all my energies to impregnating her.”

  Bile rose in Dominic’s throat, but he battled to keep his face impassive, resolved to hold true to the promise he had made so many years before.

  Aubrey must never know the truth.

  “Are you telling me you bedded her already?” Valcour asked carefully.

  “You don’t like that, do you, big brother?” Aubrey sneered. “The idea of me bedding her? And it’s not because of any noble rot on your part, either. I’ve seen the way your eyes burn whenever you hear her name.”

  “That’s enough.” Valcour struggled for mental balance.

  “Not this time!” Aubrey’s voice broke on something suspiciously like a sob. “I know you think me a worthless fool. You and the rest of London! God knows, I don’t have your brain or skill with horses or swords or… or the ladies. But damn it to hell, I do have my honor! Lucy Blackheath is ruined, Dom. And I’m the lucky bastard who did the ruining. She’s mine, damn you!”

  Dominic’s fury wrenched into pain, poison from a dozen years before pouring through his veins as he stared at his brother’s anguished face. “You don’t know what you’re doing.”

  “Yes I do. And it’s more than the infernal St. Cyr honor I’m worried about. I think—Dom, I think love her.”

  “No.”

  “Why? Just because you aren’t man enough to love a woman—with your heart, with your soul—you think no other man can? You think I haven’t seen how Lucy affected you? You’ve been hot as a stallion barred from the mare he’s wanted to mount ever since the night at the ball, and since you saw Lucy at St. James you’ve been worse still. And even the lovely Camilla hasn’t been able to take your mind off it, has she? But I love the girl, Dom. The devil himself couldn’t stop me from making her my wife.”

  Dominic stared at him, images roiling in his head: Catherine St. Cyr’s desperate eyes, Lucinda Blackheath’s regal face, and Aubrey on the brink of a hell he couldn’t begin to comprehend.

  In that frozen instant, Dominic knew what he had to do. “Perhaps the devil can’t stop you,” he said, the fierce accents of his voice undercut by pain. “But I can.”

  With savage force, he drove his fist into Aubrey’s jaw. The boy cried out in surprise, his head snapping back. Then with a groan, he crumpled to the floor, unconscious.

  Chapter Seven

  The swelling was going down.

  Lucy ran gentle fingers down Ashlar’s foreleg, feeling the tendons that ran like slender ribbons beneath the gelding’s silky black coat.

  She was exhausted. Her clothes still clung to her in sticky patches from the rain. Wispy tendrils of hair straggled about her face, the rest of her golden curls caught back at her nape with a scrap of hemp one of the grooms had found for her. Her shoulders ached, and her fingers were a mass of tiny cuts from the sharp leaves of the herbs she had crushed to put in the poultice she had been applying to Ashlar’s injury the past four hours.

  Lucy leaned her face against Ashlar’s glossy withers, grateful that the animal was better at last. She only wished she could be certain that other hurts would be as easy to mend.

  She closed her eyes, remembering Aubrey’s face in the lantern glow, his fingers clutching at her hand. His eyes had been filled with emotions that had made Lucy desperately sad and terribly sorry.

  Time and again the old biddy women around Blackheath plantation had shaken their heads, predicting that someday the Raider’s daughter would get herself into a mess that she couldn’t sweet-talk herself out of. Someday someone would be hurt.

  But Lucy had laughed at their gloomy prophecies. She hadn’t believed them. She had never even considered… what? That a lost and lonely boy might fancy himself to be in love with her? That John and Claree Wilkes would be tormented by gossip and censure because of something Lucy had done?

  John Wilkes had lost so much on the battlefield at Yorktown, the wound he sustained there stealing away any hope of the children he and Claree had yearned for. But instead of allowing that bitterness and longing to overshadow the rest of his life, John had been determined to play father to the newborn country instead, nurturing it with his diplomatic skill and his unremitting courage.

  That battle had proved to be as grueling as any of the ones he had fought in Virginia. One that had required him to gain the respect of the stiff-necked English, battling hatred born of war and a subtle contempt for all colonials that had been nurtured far longer. The thought of that proud, kind man and his gentle wife paying the penalty for Lucy’s reckless behavior was sobering at best.

  And Aubrey St. Cyr… Lucy knew with painful clarity what he was feeling. During the childhood years she had been parted from her mother, Lucy had been lost and frightened, angry and hurt and unloved. She remembered the emptiness and pain enough to recognize it beneath the brash bravado in Aubrey St. Cyr’s eyes. In the yard of the Hound’s Tooth, Aubrey had reached out to her. Lucy knew how much courage that had taken. And how much pain he would feel when she turned him away.

  Her eyes burned. God, she detested crying! Infernal female weakness! But for the first time since she’d been a child, Lucy wanted to run to her mother, bury her face in Emily Blackheath’s lap and confess everything, cry out her fears, her frustrations, her regrets. The threatening tears welled up, her throat a crushing knot of emotion she was battling to control.

  “No,” she berated herself fiercely. “There has to be a way to make this all right.”

  The gelding snuffled softly against her shoulder. “You’ll see,” she said to the animal. “Once I gather my wits, I’ll find a way to make it seem like tonight never even happened.”

  “And exactly how are you planning to do that?” The sound of the low masculine voice behind her made Lucy wheel, staggering to her feet. “A secret potion? A magic wand? Or were you merely intending to kick fate squarely in its… tender parts?”

  She gaped in disbelief as a face took shape in the stable’s shadows, broad shoulders in a flowing roquelaure seeming to melt into the edges of darkness.

  “Valcour,” she gasped.

  He stepped into the ring of light. His shirt clung wetly to the powerful contours of his chest. Shadows, like black velvet, dipped into the corded muscles of his throat and lingered in the hollows beneath his high cheekbones, the thin white line of his scar just visible on that spellbinding face. Any sign of the man who had watched the cygnet with such quiet yearning in his dark eyes had vanished. The man of ice and steel from the night of the duel at the gaming hell stood in his stead, his face frighteningly pale and still.

  “What… what are you doing here?” Lucy stammered.

  “Rescuing a damsel in distress yet again. This is becoming a most disagreeable habit, Miss Blackheath.” The words were more than a little bitter as Valcour unfastened his cloak and draped it over the stool, the droplets of rain that clung to his hair glistening like some kind of unholy aura in the lantern light.

  “How did you even find out so—so quickly that I was in distress?”

  “I was roused from a very pleasurable evening by your guardian and my mother,” the earl said. “Both of whom were quite distressed that you were eloping with my brother.”

  “Eloping?” Lucy echoed, astonished. “With Aubrey? Of all the ridiculous assumptions!”
>
  “Is it? You and my brother have been trailing about London like lovesick calves for three weeks. You suddenly disappear together, leaving a note saying you will explain all when you return. Coincidentally, you are headed in the direction of Gretna Green, the traditional site for such insane marriages. If you were a guardian, responsible for a rebellious, besotted boy and a reckless madcap girl, exactly what would you have thought under the circumstances?”

  Lucy felt the blood drain from her cheeks. “I hadn’t thought of it that way.”

  “After our last three encounters, I am convinced that you rarely think at all, madam, especially when it comes to considering the consequences of your actions.”

  Lucy bristled, stung by the truth in his words. “Well, all of you stodgy guardians can set your minds at rest. We are not eloping. We were never planning to elope. And as for the great love affair between Aubrey and I”—she gave a defiant toss of her curls—“the whole thing was all a game to irritate you, my lord. So there is no reason to get your aristocratic hackles up.”

  “A game?” Valcour’s voice bit harshly. “You staged the entire debacle at the ball for my benefit, did you? And afterwards you paraded about London, flashing Aubrey that temptress’s smile of yours, fluttering your lashes at him adoringly, letting him hold your hand and play the knight errant. And it never occurred to you in all this time that a foolish, inexperienced boy treated to that sort of flirtation might become infatuated with you?”

  Lucy’s cheeks burned. “I thought—I mean, from the beginning the whole purpose was to annoy you.”

  “Well, congratulate yourself. You have achieved your goal. I hope that triumph will be worth the price that must be paid.”

  Lucy hated him for conjuring images of Aubrey and the Wilkeses in her mind, her own guilt grinding down on her. “I’ve never tried to escape the consequences of my mistakes.”

  “I’m relieved to hear it.”

  There was something so arrogant about his voice, something so scornful, that Lucy wanted to shove him back until he buried one glossy boot in a pile of manure.