“It’s all right then.” Aubrey smiled a little. “We can begin again. Once Lucy is well and you are settled, I’ll come and—and dandle your babes on my knee. I’ll be their dashing soldier uncle, who comes riding in with presents. I’ll spoil them terribly, you know. I never have had any notion of self-restraint.”
Valcour’s eyes burned, his voice quavered. “I don’t deserve another chance with you, boy. I was wrong, so damned wrong all these years. There is no way to make it up to you.”
“There is: Make certain we don’t waste another minute on regrets.”
Forgiveness. It shone in those eyes that had tormented Valcour so long with whisperings of the past.
“You are a better man than I am, Aubrey. A stronger one. A more forgiving one.” Valcour reached out his hand to his brother across a chasm of pain and misunderstanding, regret and faint hope. Aubrey clasped Valcour’s fingers with his own. Then the boy did something he hadn’t ever done before. He embraced Dominic with no fear he would be turned away.
*
The candles guttered in the sconces, but Valcour hadn’t the will to change them. The silence in the room seemed so damned loud after the hours he had spent with the quiet solace of his mother and brother, the almost unbelievable gift of their forgiveness after his stubbornness, his coldness all these years.
It was such a vast treasure that he wondered if the Fates would be willing to give him any more, after all the time he had railed against them, hated them, scorned them.
He wondered if the final price he paid for his folly would be the loss of this woman, this defiant rebel who had breathed life and hope into his icy heart.
Valcour held Lucinda’s hand in his, pressing it to his lips again and again. If he was to lose her, maybe, just maybe he could bear it if she knew how much she had meant to him. If she had any idea what he felt in his heart. That he loved her so much even death couldn’t separate them, that she would live in his soul, a part of him forever. That he would be faithful to her the rest of his life and accept his own death with joy when it came, if it meant that he would be reunited with his hoyden countess again.
But how could he tell her? How could mere words ever express it? I remember a time when words were never enough. Lady Catherine’s voice echoed inside him. When every emotion you felt poured forth in your music.
The music, Dominic thought, more terrified than he’d ever been in his life. That was why Lucinda had wanted him to bring her here.
What was it she had said? That the music had been magic. But he had abandoned the magic that had brought him so much pain. He had betrayed his gift, because it had brought him nothing but betrayal.
He closed his eyes, remembering her, an angel of music garbed in moonlight, a wraith bringing melodies to life, trying to discover the last strains of the unfinished music somewhere in the mists of her imagination, as if those strains were a delicious secret the tower room was keeping from her.
Was it possible that the music could bring her back? Reach her when mere words never could?
He had burned it. The last step in erasing it from his soul. He couldn’t remember. He couldn’t possibly after all these years. And yet if there were the smallest chance…
Sweat beaded Valcour’s brow, his dark gaze trailing with restless wariness from Lucinda’s face to the pianoforte.
He went to her, knelt down and pressed a kiss to her brow, then slowly went to the stool and sat down at the instrument.
His fingers trembled, as if he expected them to catch fire the instant he touched the keys. Instead, a ripple of sensation pierced through to his center as he forced himself to coax out a sound from the instrument.
His chest ached, and he closed his eyes, his hands motionless over the keys as he listened, strained to find the first webbings of melody.
It shivered to life inside him, flowing into every fiber of his being. Softly, so softly, he began to catch the wisps of music, turn them into beauty upon the keyboard.
It was as if he had opened an invisible gate inside himself, releasing emotions that hadn’t been deadened as he had believed but dammed up inside him, waiting to break free.
How long he played he never knew, only felt the pulse building inside him, felt the waves carrying him away, away to the heartsick boy so afraid of being alone. A boy who had known even before he discovered the affair between his mother and the music master he loved that his world was beginning to crumble, that the parents he loved so much did not love each other.
The inexpressible yearning drifted into a sound magical, as if every hope, every fear in that boy’s heart were distilled into music, as if every anguish the man Dominic had ever known were pouring forth from his fingers, covering the tower room with magic. It tore away the last veiling on Valcour’s wary heart. Poured forth everything, until he was empty, aching. When the final notes drifted to silence, Valcour braced his arms against the instrument he had loved so dearly and cried over the woman whose loss was breaking his heart.
He barely heard the awed whisper, so soft and frail and filled with wonder.
“It was you.”
He turned to stare in disbelief into wide blue eyes, tears coursing down pale cheeks. Lucinda—not carried to the angels by his song but brought back to him.
He couldn’t speak, terrified that it was some heavenly dream.
“It was you,” she said again. “You wrote my ‘Night Song.’”
Valcour’s throat felt as if it was closed, and his hands trembled. “I gave it to your father as a gift the day you were born. I did that often—gave away little compositions… as if they could be of any value to any one.”
“It was magic, Dominic. All those years, when I was frightened and lonely, when I was hurting, I felt someone comforting me through the music—like a hand stroking my curls, cherishing me. I thought it was my father who was reaching out with my ‘Night Song.’ But it was you. You who wrote it for me. You who made the magic.”
“It wasn’t enough. I wanted so badly to protect you. You were such a winsome little thing. That was why I couldn’t tell him. Couldn’t tell my father that d’Autrecourt had fathered Aubrey.”
“You knew me when I was a child?”
“Not really. I only saw you once. I didn’t know it, but my mother had come to London to tell d’Autrecourt she was with child. She and I were at St. James Park when I saw you, this little girl, barely two years old, splashing into the pond. You had escaped your mother and were trying to catch a swan.”
“I knew I remembered that place,” Lucy said, her eyes glowing. “I remember laughter and sunshine. Joy.”
“What you should recall is getting soaked to the bone,” Dominic said softly. “You plunged in after the swans, and I… pulled you from the water. Your mother was so grateful, she insisted on telling my mother what a fine son she had, insisted on thanking her.”
Valcour’s voice dropped low. “I didn’t know who she was until she introduced herself to my mother, told her she was Emily d’Autrecourt, Lord Alexander’s wife, and that your name was Jenny. You were already racing off again, chasing fairies or sunbeams, your golden curls bouncing. Your mother turned to chase after you. I don’t think she saw my mother start to cry.”
Lucinda reached out, and Valcour came to her, catching up her hand.
“I knew my father would kill the man who had besmirched his honor. And every time my father asked me who had done so, all I could think of was you… a little moppet with golden curls, and a beautiful lady, laughing as we splashed toward her. How could I tell my father, Countess? No matter how much I loved him?”
“Dominic… I’m so sorry…” she whispered.
“My noble sacrifice was all for nothing in the end, wasn’t it? You were alone, stolen away from your mother.”
“The ‘Night Song’ was with me always. Making me hope, making me dream. That is why I really came back to England. To find the person who wrote it… to find the magic. And I did. Dominic, I did.”
Valcour
looked down into her shining eyes. “I love you, hoyden,” he whispered. “I tried to tell you so many times when you lay here, sleeping. I kissed you, I begged you—”
“More likely you were ordering me around again.”
He smiled a little. “When Natty climbed through my window, told me where you’d gone, I was crazed with worry.”
“Natty? That was how you found me?”
“The resourceful little rogue followed you. Then, when d’Autrecourt abducted you, the boy came to tell me. He’ll never want for anything again, I promise you!” Valcour looked away, his voice husky. “Why didn’t you trust me, Countess? Let me help you?”
“I was coming to tell you, but Aubrey was there. You looked so sad, I couldn’t bear to distress you.”
“Distress me? You drove me to madness, chasing after you, not knowing if you were alive or dead, lost to me forever.” Valcour stopped, his voice wondering, awed. “But the music… the music brought you back to me, didn’t it, Countess?”
She nodded.
“Aubrey and Mama are below stairs, waiting. They’ve been here from the first. They love you, you know.”
He hadn’t known any more joy could be squeezed into Lucinda’s eyes, but they glistened, tears starting afresh.
“Aubrey knows everything. And the boy… the infernal boy always did know how to discomfit me. It seems he has decided to forgive me for being a—how did you put it, angel, a pompous ass? They’re giving me a second chance. And now I have a second chance with you as well. I promise you, I’ll prove worthy of it. I won’t rage at you anymore or order you about or play the tyrant—”
“And I won’t ever defy you again.” She promised so solemnly, but her eyes were laughing, filled with so much tenderness, it broke his heart. “I am plotting a lifetime of rebellion against your tyranny, my lord. I count on you to be an adversary worthy of the Raider’s daughter.”
“I’ll never be worthy of you, Lucinda St. Cyr,” Valcour whispered. “But I promise you, Countess, I’ll love you more than any man has ever loved a woman before. I’ll try to be all the things you wrote in that letter to your parents. Try to be everything you ever dreamed.”
“I only want you, Dominic. A stubborn, arrogant English aristocrat who kisses me until my bones melt and rages at me and loves me. I only want everything you promised me all those years ago in the ‘Night Song.’ A love so perfect no dream can ever compare.”
Valcour lowered his mouth to his countess’s, sealing his promise in a way no mere words could ever convey, his kiss as hauntingly beautiful, as filled with magic as the song he had written for a little girl so many years before.
Epilogue
Ian Blackheath’s eyes seethed with sullen hurt as John Wilkes’s coach jolted on its way from the ship’s landing, the bubbling excitement of the Blackheath children and the delighted chatter of Emily and Claree doing little to ease the sting of disappointment Ian felt at Lucy’s defection.
He had been pacing the ship’s deck from the moment England’s shore was in sight, as if hoping to see bouncing golden curls and the saucy face of the daughter he hadn’t seen for two years. But the ship had docked, the gangplank had been lowered, and the trunks cast off, and still there had been no sign of Lucy.
Instead, he was all but barreled over by a red-haired boy of about nine who looked distinctly uncomfortable in full dress regalia.
“You must be that Raider fellow come to see the countess,” the lad had said, tugging at his neckcloth. “I ain’t supposed to yank at it,” he confided, “but the dashed thing’s choking the life out of me.”
“Who are you?” Ian demanded, nonplussed. “A messenger from my daughter? Some sort of page?”
“Hell no! I mean, heck no. I’m John Wilkes’s new boy. Nathaniel.”
Ian stared. “You belong to John Wilkes?”
“Just adopted me a month ago. It was a hard decision for me to make. I was right happy living in the countess’s garden, you see. ’Specially since his lordship darkened ol’ Pappy Blood’s daylights when the bastard tried to fetch me back to a life of crime. But the Wilkeses wanted a boy real bad. An’ they’ve got a stable almost as prime as the earl does.” For an instant those button-bright eyes flicked longingly to Ian’s gold watch chain. “Course, the lady keeps hugging me whenever I pass by her, and I still have the devil of a time not filching a body’s purse when there’s a delicious fat one just dangling there waiting to be pinched. But my new pa don’t tolerate stealing.”
“Ian! Emily!” The cry of greeting made Blackheath turn, to see John and Claree striding through the crowd, their faces alight with pride in the cheeky rogue standing at Ian’s side.
“I found that Raider fellow for you,” Nathaniel announced. “An’ I didn’t even take his watch, though the chain is dangling there just begging to be snatched.”
“You’ve shown admirable restraint, boy,” Wilkes said, ruffling carroty curls. “And I trust you also showed restraint in… other ways as well?”
“Not a word, sir. I was just about to tell ’em all that the earl and her ladyship misplaced the time of the ship’s arrival.”
“Misplaced the time?” Ian blustered. “What the devil is that supposed to mean? How could the girl forget what time her family was arriving after two years’ separation?”
Natty smirked. “Her ladyship always has been a little shatter-brained. And anyway, countesses are much too exalted to come to the dockyards. She probably had a soiree at some duchess’s house that was much more important.”
“The devil you say!” Ian blazed.
“Ian, enough. Let’s just get in the coach and go see her!” Emily passed the sleepy bundle that was little Jesse into her husband’s arms. Ian took his first son and scowled into the toddler’s face. “If that sister of yours has gone arrogant on me, I vow, I’ll be back aboard that ship before she sails out again!”
“You’re being absurd,” Emily said in soothing accents, climbing in beside Claree. “I’m certain there is a perfectly good reason Lucy didn’t come to meet us.”
“Such as?” Ian demanded. “She’s been climbing out windows? Playing ghost?”
“Oh, dear! I thought the earl had put a stop to such things,” Claree interrupted, a worried pucker to her brow.
Emily smiled. “From what Lucy says in her letters, his lordship dotes on her to the point of madness, and is so protective of her—”
“I doted on her and I could never control her!” Ian groused. “There’s not a reason in the world that girl shouldn’t have been here to greet me… I mean, her mama. I know how disappointed you were when she wasn’t there, Emily Rose!” He huffed, then lapsed into a fit of sulks that lasted until the coach rumbled to a stop. Ian looked up at an elegant townhouse, suddenly sure that if his Lucy came bouncing out the door he would forgive her anything.
But the door was closed, a hush blanketing the place, as if no one but the Wilkeses had any idea her ladyship’s parents had just arrived from across the sea.
John’s eyes were dancing as he opened the coach door. “We’ll leave you to your reunion. You might mention to Lucy that she invited us to tea tomorrow.”
“What? Has the girl become too dull-witted to bother remembering such trivial matters?” Ian thrust Jesse back into his mother’s arms.
“See for yourself, my friend,” Wilkes said with a grin.
Pendragon was in no mood for cryptic amusement, especially at his expense.
He bolted out of the coach, stalking up to the house, elated at the prospect of seeing his daughter again, sick with apprehension that the Lucy he knew would be gone.
A footman swept open the door, bowing low. “If I may be of service, sir?”
“You can tell me where the blazes my daughter is!” Ian snapped.
“You mean, ‘her ladyship’? I believe she is upstairs, napping.”
Napping? Zounds! It was worse than Ian had thought. Had the girl become one of these lazy English chits barely able to lift their cup of choco
late before noon?
“Lucy?” Ian bellowed, heading for the stairs. “Blast it, girl, where are you?” Ian called.
“Please, sir! Quiet!” The footman stammered. “The earl will not tolerate such noise right now!”
“I’ve not seen my daughter for two years! The earl can go to the devil!”
From the moment he’d received word of her marriage, Ian had instinctively disliked the man who had stolen his daughter away. This English earl, doubtless cold and aloof, bitingly arrogant, groomed by valets to sickening perfection.
None of Pendragon’s preconceptions had prepared him for the man who charged down the stairway at that moment.
Dark hair tangled in a wild mane about a harried face, black eyes looking befuddled as the devil. A fine linen shirt clung in damp patches to his chest, the sleeves rolled up over well-muscled forearms.
“Be quiet, damn your eyes!” the man bit out. “Who the blazes are you and what are you doing in my house?”
“I’m Ian Blackheath.”
Pendragon’s glare had made whole squadrons of English soldiers turn and flee. But never had he seen such a singular reaction as the one on this man’s face.
He slammed to a halt, blinking in abject confusion. “Yes! No! That’s impossible! You aren’t supposed to be here for days and days. Surely I would have remembered…” The man raked his fingers through his hair then looked at Ian again. “What day is it, anyway? Thursday? Friday?”
Ian took a step back. God knew, he’d often suspected Lucy would drive her husband insane. But this was beyond even his considerable imagination.
“It’s Saturday,” he snapped. “What the devil have you done with my daughter?”
“A good deal too much, if the results are any indication,” Valcour said cryptically. “Damn the girl, do you have any idea what she’s done now? Of course not. She wouldn’t do the sensible thing and prepare you! What fun would that be? You’ll have to come see for yourself!”
Ian caught a glimpse of Emily’s puzzled face, the children clustered about her. But Valcour was already charging up the stairs. Ian rushed after him, heard the others following in his wake.
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