by Cheryl Bolen
"Things are different hereabouts since you left, my lord," the doctor went on in a low voice. "Different. And of late"—Haversham shuddered visibly—"being a physician, I've seen the ugliness."
"I don't understand."
"You will, I fear. And it'll wrench your stomach inside out when you do. Forgive me for blazing at you about the girl. It is just that there is something astir with some of the grand swells hereabouts."
"What do you mean?"
"Some sort of hocus-pocus, nonsensical thing. I thought it harmless enough at first. But I've buried two waifs very like this child the past three months. Who knows how many more lie in the woods waiting to be discovered?"
Griffin could feel the man’s sense of helplessness and loss over those deaths. “I’m sorry.”
The old man shrugged. "Of course, it has nothing to do with your lordship. But it makes one wary, I vow, after you've seen..."
Haversham paced to the bed, smoothing one blue-veined hand over the girl's pale cheek as if to reassure himself that she was alive. "My youngest, she is just this age. Off and married a sea captain from Cornwall, has a cottage full of wee ones. Every time I look at a lass like this one, helpless and hurt, I see my Rachel. And since this new scourge has beset us my nightmares are filled with her face."
"It is hard, I know. But rest assured, good Haversham, this girl is safe from whatever perils you are tilting with. And as for her being helpless..." Griffin smiled at the memory of the Devil's Flame hurtling down upon the chaise, pistols blazing, cape flowing. "I promise you she is more skillful with her talons than a falcon." His last lingering fear for her eased as he recalled the girl's bravado, the flash in her eyes.
"You will see to her then, my lord?"
"I should turn her over to Bow Street."
"Aye, sir." The doctor slipped his instruments into his bag, his lips crooking into a grin. "I think you'll wish you had before you're finished with her. Rachel has red tresses as well, and her temper—"
"I've already run afoul of this lady's temper, but I have never come up against a woman I could not bend to my will."
The doctor glanced up, his face alight with a knowledge that made Griffin uncomfortable. Haversham was not laughing at him, but from the glint in the surgeon's eyes he might has well have been. "I would advise you to keep your sword close at hand," he said with barely suppressed amusement. "I am surprised that the girl is not awake already. And when she does awake—"
"When she does she will have plenty to answer for," Griff said, his tone hardening with resolve as he peered again at the woman's pale face. Her lips were the hue of ice-frosted roses, and she moaned softly. He burned afresh at the knowledge that he, Griffin Stone, had cut down this delicate waif.
"She will recover? You are certain?" he asked.
"As certain as one can ever be in such cases." The man bustled over to the table to retrieve his bag. "If you need me, you've but to send word. Mr. Quimby, here at the inn, knows how to reach me." Haversham started toward the door.
"I nearly killed her," Griff said softly, his gaze resting upon the shallow rise and fall of her breasts beneath the thin sheet.
"Nay." Haversham's gravelly voice broke through his musings. "You spared her life. Most men would have left her to die upon the road."
Griff shuddered inwardly at the image the surgeon's words invoked—that supple body still forever, the lips that had hurled defiance at him stiff, cold.
He looked at her rich lashes, which fanned upon porcelain-smooth cheeks, a pale hand gripping the coverlet as if, even in unconsciousness, she needed something to cling to. She shifted, restless as a babe, and the sight wrenched at something deep inside Griff.
The old doctor cleared his throat, and Griff was astonished to find the man was still in the room. "Farewell, Lord Stone. I think you are not half the heartless rogue the Spectator would have us believe."
Griffin gave a rumbling laugh, the sound raw in his throat. "If you have any doubts regarding the fact that I'm reprehensible, you need only converse with my grandmother."
When the doctor finally left, the chamber seemed achingly empty, quiet. In an effort to drive away the prickings of guilt, Griffin ordered up the innkeeper's finest port.
Later, tankard in hand, he sank down upon a hard oak chair, his long legs stretched out before him, his boot soles pressed upon the edge of the bed as he tipped the chair backward at an angle, his dark head resting against the wall. He sighed, sipping the drink slowly, watching the girl's face as the first rose-shaded ribbons of dawn unfurled beyond the tiny window.
Haversham had assured him that she would be well, and though she showed no signs of awakening, hope stirred inside him.
"Aye, you will awaken," he murmured as the port began to warm his stiff limbs. "And then, milady rogue, the question will be what to do with you. Newgate? Bow Street? A trip to Tyburn Fair? It is what you deserve for your thievery. A right just punishment. And yet..." A drowsy smile kissed Griffin's lips as he thought of the brigand-sobriquet the girl had flung at him in the shadow of the chaise. "Such a fate seems an unforgivable waste for a devil who has the face of an angel."
* * *
Isabeau battled to keep her body limp against the soft feather mattress. Sweet Mary, would that infernal dolt Griffin Stone never go to sleep? Or at least leave the accursed chamber? Even aristocrat curs had to answer a call of nature sometime, didn't they?
It seemed as though she had already been lying there for an eternity. She felt the sun filtering through the window grow warm, then cool with the passing of time, and her temper began to chafe.
Her right leg twitched, and she felt the urge to kick one massive bedpost in frustration. If that bloody lord didn't move soon, she might erupt in a fury and bludgeon him with the nearest weapon. But even the Devil's Flame could scarce hope to hold off the likes of Lord Griffin Stone with a goose-down pillow.
Beau couldn't keep her fingers from clenching; her palms itched for the feel of her pistol's smooth grip. She felt a twinge of loss as she thought of her firearms, abandoned, no doubt, upon that twisted road. She'd oiled the pistol's metal with the care most women reserved for Sevres china, and now they lay rusting from the morning dew.
But though robbed of the weapons, Beau had discovered that she possessed another, far more devastating blade.
Guilt.
Somehow she managed to keep the smug grin from her lips as she remembered how the nobleman had pleaded with the surgeon. Stone had sounded desperate. And once, when Beau had dared steal a glance through the slits of her eyelids, she had seen his stunningly handsome features twisted with remorse.
At that instant she had let a pathetic moan slip from her lips—and at strategic intervals thereafter. The effect, she had to congratulate herself, had been even greater than she had hoped.
Stone had cursed himself because of her "pain", and it had given Beau intense pleasure to feel her nemesis burning with self-condemnation. No doubt it had blackened the nobleman's honor to cut a woman down. But Beau had no delusions. Griffin Stone would feel no such fits of conscience if Tyburn's executioners took her life.
She moved her shoulder a little to test it; the surgeon had done his work well, so well that Beau was certain she could make good her escape if only Stone would go the bloody hell away!
Then she could just slip into the inn's stables, get astride Macbeth, and escape Stone's noose.
She held her lips stiff, stifling a grin. When she had awakened after the debacle on the highroad feeling her beloved stallion's familiar gait beneath her, it had felt like a plum too sweet to be real. She had held herself still in Griffin Stone's steely arms, thanking the fates for her good fortune.
She had bided her time then, waiting for the first opportunity to escape. But with each passing moment Beau felt more anxious, until now the very air within the inn chamber was choked with desperation.
She gritted her teeth, silently cursing Griffin Stone with words that would have made a fishmonger flush.
Then suddenly a slight sound made her breath snag in her throat. Her heart slammed to a stop as she strained to decipher that faint noise. Then her pulse almost sang with elation as she heard again the soft rumbling. He was snoring.
Asleep! Beau thought jubilantly. By St. Stephen's arrows, it was about time!
She opened her eyes, and the unfamiliar room seemed to spiral slowly, then it slid into focus. She was in a wide bed with thick-hewn posts. A pewter branch of candles was by her side, its once-tall tapers stubby lumps of wax within their holders. But her gaze locked on the door. It beckoned to her to flee.
Cautiously she moved herself higher upon the pillows, watching the sleeping man who was only an arm's length away.
His stubborn chin rested upon his chest, and his eyes were firmly shut. The lips that had mocked her, were parted, and his deep, even breaths stirred the lace that tumbled down his shirtfront.
He looked so restful, so patently unconcerned, that for an instant Beau felt an urge to kick his booted legs away from the bed's edge, and send him tumbling backward in his infernal chair.
It would be the richest of joys, and the most foolish. For despite his deceptive languor, menace lurked beneath his hard, bronzed visage.
She could still hear that mocking drawl. And now, my lady rogue, what to do with you? Newgate? Bow Street? A trip to Tyburn Fair?
She pressed her fingers against the thick wadding of bandage about her shoulder, remembering her terror. But only for an instant. There was no time for weakness, no time for fear.
The Devil's Flame would not wait docilely for his lordship to decide her fate.
She glanced around her, alarmed to discover one side of her bed flush against the wall; only the edge upon which Griffin's glossy boots rested held any chance of escape. She eased herself toward the foot of the bed. As she slipped her feet over the side her breath caught in her throat. Her legs were only a hand's breadth from the dozing nobleman.
Her bare feet touched the chill boards, and every muscle in her body tensed as she grasped one thick bedpost with her good arm. She pulled herself to a standing position, her knees suddenly watery, her heart bounding.
Now. It was now or never.
She swallowed hard, drawing in a deep breath as she forced one foot forward.
"Forgetting something?"
Beau wheeled toward that hateful voice and glared into eyes the color of a summer sea—eyes that were snapping wickedly. In one crooked finger he dangled one of Beau's precious pistols just beyond her reach.
Instinctively she lunged toward it. Then she froze, stricken, as her movement opened the front of the shirt that was three times too big for her. Her hand flew to her throat, but too late. The cool air of the room wafted over the bare skin of her breasts, and she knew Griffin Stone's gaze had fixed upon those vulnerable swells.
With a tiny cry she yanked the garment closed, but the nobleman's gaze trekked lazily along the pale sliver of flesh peeking between the fine linen edgings.
"You needn't fear for your virtue," Stone observed as he rocked lazily back and forth upon the chair's rear legs. "I make it a practice never to ravish women who will bleed all over my linens. Of course, I've never bedded a hellcat brigand who tried to rob me. It might be worth inconveniencing the laundress to sample—"
Rage and desperation erupted in Beau. She loathed the smug arrogance in that handsome face, loathed the laughter that always threatened to rumble from that broad, dauntingly male chest.
Her eyes narrowed and she threw what small sense of caution she possessed to the winds. She reached out, catching the nobleman's booted foot, and wrenched it upward.
Lord Griffin cursed in surprise as she overbalanced him. Beau's wound burned, but feral delight filled her as he crashed to the floor in a tangle of long legs, flailing arms, and splintering wood.
Lightning-fast, she dove toward the door, but at the last moment her eye caught a gleam of polished silver. Her pistol was a keg's breadth away from her hand. She knew she should leave it behind, but she couldn't. Her fingers swept down to capture the weapon. She had scarce touched the gleaming metal when a strong hand manacled her wrist, imprisoning her. Pain shot deep into Beau's shoulder, and she ground her teeth to keep from crying out.
"You idiot!" Stone blustered, scrambling to his feet. "You probably ripped your wound open! If you're bleeding again—"
"If I'm bleeding, it is your infernal fault! But I vow it will have been well worth spilling blood to see you on your arse."
"On my..." Griffin's jaw tightened. Even though she could feel all chance of escape slipping through her fingers, Beau reveled in the grand nobleman being brought low.
His eyes shone with fury. "You bloody rogue! Haversham was right! You were fine all the time! Duping us!"
"There was precious little glory in duping the two of you," she scoffed. "It was simple as stealing a blind man's cow." She brushed an imaginary speck of dirt from her sleeve. "But I must admit, your concern on my behalf near brought a tear to my eye."
"I'll bring a tear to your eye, devil take you! I should have left you by the side of the road, you ungrateful little wretch!"
"Why, pray tell, didn't you?" Beau mocked him. "Did the high and mighty Lord Griffin Stone want the glory of turning the Devil's Flame over to Bow Street? Was I to be a trophy to impress your accursed Cyprians?"
"I very much doubt you would impress anyone." Stone's voice held the temper of a sulky boy. "But I'm beginning to think I could damn well dance at your hanging!"
The blood drained from Beau's cheeks as fear wrapped its clammy folds around her again, but she struggled to still the quiver in her lips.
"I imagine you'll enjoy it right enough," she said, but her voice bore a hollow ring. "You can hold a picnic within your fine carriage that day, bring your ladies, all garbed in their silks to watch the merriment. And after—after you can watch the surgeons fight over my corpse, unless it is to be dipping in tar for me. Dance—aye, Lord Griffin, I'd wager you'd love to dance at such a civilized diversion."
"Hold." The softness in his voice made Beau meet his gaze. She wanted to hate him, this man who had made her reveal the fear she despised in herself. But Griffin's smoke-blue gaze had lost its sulkiness as he watched her face. His eyes softened.
"In truth, I've never had much stomach for hangings," he conceded. "And as to dancing, I must confess, your swordmaster and my dancing master must have been of one school."
Beau's tongue flicked out to dampen her lips, and she hardly dared speak. His words raised a fragile hope within her. "You—you would not attend—"
"And neither will you, if I have anything to say concerning it, milady... er..." He paused, seeming to grope for something to call her, then grinned. "Your name," he said. "What is your name? I can hardly run about calling you 'Devil', though I admit you have Lucifer's own temperament."
"Your temper is much fouler than mine!" Beau snapped.
"True, but at least you know what name to curse me by. It is only fair that you give me a like advantage."
"So you could use it against me? I think not."
"Believe me, Mistress Flame, I have more than enough information to use against you already, if I so choose. Your mere name would not prove half as useful as a full description of the face the Devil's Flame has so skillfully hidden behind that mask. Of course, if you persist in being stubborn..."
Her fingers clenched, and her nails dug into her palms. She was racked with indecision. For an instant she thought of giving him a false identity, but one look at the unyielding light in Stone's sea-blue eyes made her swallow her rebelliousness.
"Isabeau," she admitted through gritted teeth. "It is Isabeau DeBurgh."
There was no triumph, no gloating in his unwavering gaze. And she was surprised as his head tilted a bit to one side.
"Isabeau." The syllables rolled from Griffin Stone's tongue sounding like the sweetest of music, lilting, soft, feminine in a way hoydenish Beau had never been. "It is a wood sprite's name,
or that of a fairy princess," he mused. "Not a name for a rakehell thief who goes tearing about the countryside with pistols."
"I had little to do with its choice," Beau said, stung by his apparent criticism. "My mother was a grand lady and she saddled me with the bloody monstrosity."
"And was it this fine lady who abandoned you to the savageries of the open road?"
"Savageries?" Beau bristled. "She chose the open road over your pompous mansions, chose my bold father. And she reveled in the life he carved for her until he was... captured." There was the slightest hesitation upon that last word, but it was enough to betray her. Her chin thrust up at a stubborn angle, as if daring him to say something.
"Captured." Griffin mulled the word over. "And after your father was... captured... why did your mother not return you to the bosom of her family?"
"She was the love of Six Coach Robb." Pride rang deep in Beau's voice. "And in London that honor was greater than being the blasted queen."
"Robb... Six Coach Robb." Griffin's brow creased in thought, then his gaze snapped up to her face, recollection dawning. "The highwayman Lady Lianna Devereaux eloped with. I remember that scandal well." The corner of his mouth curled in wry amusement. "It was one of the few social tempests I was not belly-deep in, although I must admit I was but a scruffy schoolboy back then."
He braced one shoulder against the wall, crossing one booted foot over the other at the ankle. "She was beautiful, your mother. Fragile as a lily, with a smile so sweet it broke the heart of any who saw her. When she ran away it was said half the bucks of the ton raced off to rescue her."
"She didn't need to be rescued! She loved—"
"Loved your father. Aye. So much she followed him into the grave."
"It would have served his memory better if she had lived!" Beau flung out, then she stopped in stunned silence, aghast. She had lived with the pain of her parents' deaths for years, had grieved for them and railed at the fates. But she'd never realized until this moment that her anger was not directed toward the fates, nor at the Bow Street Runners who had cut her father down. Rather, it was directed at her mother, the gentle Lady Lianna, who had faded like a flower trampled beneath some heedless boot heel. The woman who'd left Beau alone.