by Jenny Brown
So it must be something else. Perhaps she was the butt of some ill-conceived wager. Perhaps some idle pink of the ton had bet this haughty lord that he couldn’t deflower an ugly woman. Or perhaps he needed to purchase three virgins as part of some perverted scavenger hunt. The men her mother consorted with were capable of concocting such a prank, and under other circumstances she might have even seen the humor in it—but not now. Not when she was the butt of it. Not when her mother was desperate for the rent, and Lord Ramsay was her only way of paying it.
But whatever his game was, she’d had enough of it. She was ugly, yes, and unprotected, but she deserved more than this, even from a stranger. She wondered what he’d lose were he to lose his wager, and hoped it would be a lot.
“You may go to hell with your offer.” She tossed the bracelet back at him, flinging the satin box after it.
He fielded both surprisingly deftly, considering his size, then drew back. “It wasn’t enough for you?”
“No offer would be enough. My virtue is not for sale.”
“Ah, but that is where you are wrong,” he said with an unpleasant look. “It has been sold these last nine years. There’s no need for me to offer you carriages and bank shares, Zoe Gervais. Didn’t your mother tell you about her bargain?”
A look of horror had swept over her mother’s face, but she protested, “What are you talking about? What bargain?”
Lord Ramsay fixed her with a hard look. “You know full well what bargain. The one you made in France. The masquerade is over. I indulged myself in it because I was curious to see how low you would sink, but now that I know, there’s no more reason for playacting. I’ve come to claim her.”
“Who are you?” her mother whispered, clutching her throat protectively with her hand.
“Think back. Ignore my hair. Back then it was in a queue, and I was far younger—and much more innocent—as innocent as your daughter claims to be. Look at me more closely. Do you remember me, now?”
Her mother peered at him. Then her hand went to her mouth and she gasped out, “Mon Dieu, Adam Selkirk. I thought you were dead.”
“You may wish I were before this day is done, but I lived—no thanks to you.”
“So all this”—she gestured toward his letter—“and calling yourself Lord Ramsay—was it just a ruse to get me to admit you?”
He shrugged, sending a quiver through the many capes of his greatcoat. “Selkirk is my family name, Ramsay my title, but I didn’t choose to use it in France in ’93. It wouldn’t have fit the temper of the times.”
“No,” her mother agreed. “Not with the tumbrels rolling to the guillotine, so full of men with titles.”
“And with women, too—as you of all people must know.” His voice was cold, but his eyes were burning.
“But it was so long ago,” her mother protested. “It’s like a dream to me now, a very bad dream, but still, I’ve forgotten so much.”
“And I have forgotten nothing. How could I? I may still be alive, but Charlotte is not.”
Her mother shrank back. “Poor child! So they killed her too. Those terrible men. May I give you my condolences?”
She stopped and turned her beautiful face toward him, filled now with the wistful expression that had always been one of her most effective.
This time it failed.
“You may give me nothing,” Lord Ramsay snapped. “Except the satisfaction of knowing that at last Charlotte will be avenged. I have come to retrieve your pledge to him.” He held up the discarded bracelet. Its serpent’s eye glimmered dully.
“The Dark Lord?”
“Who else? He’s on his deathbed, but before he dies he wishes to see the girl you sold him.”
“Dying? Him? It seems impossible.”
“He is a mortal man, despite his great powers. And you must give him your daughter.”
Zoe had never seen her mother so perturbed. Her arm shook beneath its froth of lace. When she finally got command enough of herself to speak, Isabelle said, “All these years he made no claims on me. He left me in peace. He let me raise my daughter. I thought he’d forgotten all about her.”
“The Dark Lord forgets nothing. And now she must come with me.”
“Why you?”
He made no reply, but merely reached into the pocket of his many-caped greatcoat and pulled out a single glossy black feather that appeared to have some notches cut into it. He tossed it contemptuously on the table before them.
Her mother stared at it, openmouthed, then gasped. “Only those he drew into the darkest of his mysteries knew of the feather code. But you were hardly more than a child back then. How could you have learned it?”
“My childhood ended abruptly. And since then I’ve learned many things. Enough that he has decided to make me his heir.”
“The Dark Lord’s heir? You?” A look of horror swept over her features.
“Yes. If the Ancient Ones will accept me.”
Her mother swiftly crossed herself. She was trembling visibly now.
Lord Ramsay pushed on. “I am his heir, and he has sent me to claim the pledge you made to him—”
Zoe could no longer hold her tongue. “What nonsense is this, Mama? What’s all this talk of pledges, as if I were some trinket you’d pawned?”
Her mother reached for her handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes. She had always claimed nothing was so aging for a woman’s skin as tears, and it appeared to be true, for she looked as if she’d just aged a decade. She held up one hand weakly and said, “He speaks the truth, ma petite. You must go with him.”
“But that’s ridiculous! I’ve no intention of going anywhere with him. Surely you won’t hand me over to some stranger who storms in here and behaves so abominably—”
“But she must entrust you,” Lord Ramsay said softly, “to the custody of the appointed representative of your guardian. And that is who I am.”
“My guardian? I have no guardian.” She turned to her mother for confirmation, but she had buried her face in her hands.
Lord Ramsay went on relentlessly. “You have a guardian, as your mother well knows.” He reached into the pocket of his coat and brought forth a packet of papers. “Here, see for yourself. It’s all in these documents, with every whereas and heretofore the lawyers could come up with. Your mother transferred all legal right to you to one Robert Montgomery, the Laird of Iskeny, when you were twelve. And here is the letter in which he gave me the authority to come claim you.”
Zoe snatched the papers from his hand. His fingers were much longer than her own, and surprisingly strong. She flung herself on the divan and forced herself to read the musty documents with their unfamiliar legal terminology. Surely this couldn’t be true.
But the papers appeared to be genuine and to confirm his claim. They stated quite plainly that her mother, though given custody of her while she completed her education, had transferred the guardianship of her daughter to one Robert Montgomery, Laird of the Isle of Iskeny.
Zoe’s stomach quivered and she found it almost impossible to breathe. She could not have felt worse had the floor given way, letting her plummet into the dark, malodorous shaft that had opened beneath her feet.
When she finally was able to face him again, she found that the man who now controlled her life had turned his attention to replacing the rejected bracelet in its ornate box. As he arranged it on its cushion, he gently stroked the dragon’s head, then closed the lid and dropped the box back into the pocket of his greatcoat, oblivious to her dismay.
“I hope you are satisfied that all is in order. It’s well past the time when I must remove you from your mother’s custody. We must leave now. There’s no time to lose if we are to reach Iskeny while my teacher still lives.”
“Have I no choice but to go with you?”
“None.” He gestured impatiently for her to return the legal papers. When she did, he carefully folded them before restoring them, too, to his greatcoat pocket. “It will be better for both of us if you don’t
give yourself up to strong hysterics. Where are your things? At the school?”
Zoe nodded dumbly.
“Good. I’ll send a man there to fetch them.”
“Won’t you at least allow me to return there to say my farewells?”
“No. Your schooling is over.”
“But I must bid good-bye to Mrs. Endicott. I owe her so much. I can’t just leave her without a word.”
“You love your schoolmistress that much?” He lowered his eyes so that she couldn’t see their expression.
She took a deep breath. “The school has been the only steady home I have had since I was ten. I love Mrs. Endicott.” She forced back the rush of pain that accompanied this confession, terrified she had revealed too much. But to her surprise, something softer replaced the cold glint in Lord Ramsay’s eyes.
“Then we will pay a brief call on Mrs. Endicott.” He grasped his serpent-headed cane. “A very brief one. I won’t deprive you of the chance to say good-bye to someone who means that much to you, even though your mother deprived me of mine.” The coldness was back. “But it will be good-bye, Zoe. You are mine now.”
His.
His hooded steel gray eyes were hidden now in the shadow of the tall collar of his greatcoat. She shivered.
Then he turned to face her mother again. “You did very well with your bargain, Isabelle Gervais, whatever it might have entailed. The old laird is leaving you a legacy, a hundred pounds. I doubt another bidder, whoever he might be, would have ever given you half so much in return for your daughter—even if she had turned out to be twice as talented a harlot as yourself.”
Chapter 2
He’d failed.
Adam’s hand tightened on the head of his serpent-headed cane as the hired post chaise conveyed him and the harlot’s daughter to her school. He’d waited so long for his revenge, ever since that terrible day at Morlaix, nine years before, when The Dark Lord had led Adam away from the cold room where Charlotte’s headless body lay and confined him in the chamber where he kept the madmen brought to him for healing.
But when time for revenge had finally come, Adam had failed to take it.
If only the Dark Lord hadn’t kept him bound in restraints at Morlaix until it was too late for pursuit. Adam wouldn’t have flinched from killing his sister’s murderer then. But the old man had stepped in, knowing that if he’d let him track Isabelle down right after the crime, once he had killed her, he’d have turned his knife on himself.
It was only later, when Adam, exhausted from hours of raging, could finally listen to what the Dark Lord had to say, that the healer had convinced him that it wasn’t too late to atone for the curse that stained Adam’s soul. That was when his teacher had promised that if Adam did as he prescribed, when the time was right the Dark Lord would grant him a revenge far more satisfying than anything Adam could imagine now, for by then Adam would have cleansed himself of the fatal flaw that had made revenge necessary.
So Adam had taken the vow the healer had demanded, and when that was done, the old man had given him the serpent-headed cane, as a talisman to protect him, as he’d embarked on the grueling pilgrimage that would purify him.
For the next nine years, Adam had traveled to the great centers of learning on the Continent where he found the physicians who taught him the things the Dark Lord had instructed him to study. He’d been able to find solace in his studies, knowing they would make him more worthy to take his revenge when the time finally came. And as he mastered the skills that transformed him into a healer, the agony he felt at remembering how he’d failed his sister dwindled into an ache he’d learned to live with, like the stab of a rotten tooth.
There had even been times over the past years when he’d become so wrapped up in mastering the fine points of surgery with the scintillating Von Faschling in Vienna that he’d almost forgotten that the time for his revenge would come. Except, of course, on those nights when Charlotte’s ghost came back to him in dreams, silent and reproving. Then he’d assure her, I will avenge you. And he’d meant it.
But when that moment had come at last, there in the harlot’s rose-scented lair, he hadn’t been able to do it.
“You live too much in dreams,” the Dark Lord had told him when he first read Adam’s horoscope, back at the very beginning, when Adam, newly arrived at Morlaix, had applied to him for teaching. The Dark Lord had been dismissive. “With four planets in Pisces, you might become a flute player, perhaps, or a drunkard. But a healer?” The Dark Lord had shaken his head. “A healer must be a man of action, not a dreamer.”
And the old man had been right. For it was only in his dreams that Adam had avenged his sister. When he’d found himself, at last, face-to-face with the harlot, he’d come up short. Even though he’d followed the Dark Lord’s instructions to the letter and made his appointment with Isabelle for the exact moment when the Moon eclipsed the Sun in Pisces, when he’d finally stood in her presence and had her and her cursed whelp at his mercy, he hadn’t been able to do it.
The painted harlot still lived, swathed in her tawdry lace. He would never forgive himself.
He was brought back to the present as the post chaise slowed. They must have reached the school. He forced himself to get a grip. He’d have another chance to finish off the matter of the harlot once he’d come into all the Dark Lord’s powers. But though he’d failed his sister today, he mustn’t fail the teacher who had lodged such trust in him by choosing him as his heir. Adam still marveled that he’d done so, after all these years of separation. But in the letter that had summoned Adam to Iskeny, his teacher had explained that Adam alone of all his disciples had kept the vow the Dark Lord had enjoined on him—that vow so necessary if the heir was to survive his initiation.
The carriage stopped. When the postilion opened the door, Adam clambered out, taking care to block the entry as he took the harlot’s daughter by the hand firmly enough to signal that escape would be futile. “I’ll accompany you while you bid your adieux.”
She shot him a furious look, her dark eyes blazing above her pockmarked cheeks. Her passion gave her face life, which contrasted strongly with the ugliness of her features.
Well, the girl should be thanking whatever stars ruled over her birth for that ugliness, for it had saved her mother’s life. He’d been so shocked by his first sight of her crude features that he’d lost his momentum. Even now, he couldn’t help staring at her. How could this be Isabelle’s daughter? Even without smallpox’s disfigurement she would have been ill-favored. Her nose was large and aquiline, her chin too strong, and her posture was ungainly. She was everything her mother was not.
For nine long years he’d pictured the harlot’s daughter—that girl whose life had been saved at the cost of his beloved Charlotte’s—and all that time he’d imagined her as dimpled and seductive, stupid and heartless, a pallid copy of her mother, the woman who’d ruined his life.
But the girl who had confronted him in Isabelle’s boudoir was not the girl he’d imagined. The contrast had stopped him in his tracks even as he’d played through the cruel joke he’d set up to humiliate his victims—and determine if the girl had retained her virginity. She’d shown such courage. He’d expected cunning and greed from Isabelle’s daughter, not bravery. But it was bravery she’d shown him, and that had made him hesitate—so much so that at that long-awaited moment when he might finally have taken his revenge, his knife had remained in its sheath.
Even now, he couldn’t understand it.
He knew nothing about the girl, really. Whatever she looked like, she was still the harlot’s daughter, inheriting all her cunning and her guile. She probably didn’t deserve his pity. But even so, he hadn’t been able to kill her mother before her eyes.
The harlot would live on—though whether her daughter would, when they got to the Dark Lord’s island—he gripped the handle of his cane more tightly—well, that would be up to his teacher to decide.
When they alighted at the school, the arthritic old porter ope
ned the heavy front door at Lord Ramsay’s first knock. His wrinkled face had never seemed so dear to Zoe before, but she had no time to linger with him, as Lord Ramsay immediately ushered her into the building and stood glowering behind her, tall and spare. The porter gave him an uncertain look.
“Please inform Mrs. Endicott that Miss Gervais’s guardian would have a word with her,” Lord Ramsay said coolly.
The porter nodded and went off to look for his mistress. Soon the swish of her heavy old-fashioned skirts against the polished wooden floor announced Mrs. Endicott’s arrival. Barely acknowledging Zoe’s presence, she made her way across the room to Lord Ramsay and curtseyed deeply, as she would have done to the father of one of her wealthier students.
He inclined his head very slightly in acknowledgment, narrowly avoiding being rude. But Mrs. Endicott didn’t allow herself the luxury of taking offense. Addressing him in her low, well-modulated tones, she said, “Lord Ramsay, I’m so sorry to hear that the Laird of Iskeny’s illness is such that he isn’t expected to live. His man of business has informed me that he sent you to bring Miss Gervais to him in Scotland.”
Lord Ramsay nodded. “Yes. We leave immediately.”
Zoe was appalled. Until this moment she’d been sure her schoolmistress would step in and keep her from being taken way, as she’d done in the past when her mother had tried to remove her from school to set her up in some more profitable employment. But she detected no hint of opposition in the dulcet tones with which Mrs. Endicott addressed Lord Ramsay.
Zoe shot her a look of appeal, but the schoolmistress ignored it and continued on serenely, “We will feel the loss of Miss Gervais. She has been an asset to the school. I’d hoped she might become one of our permanent teachers, in time, for she has a talent for instruction, especially with the younger girls. But of course, she will have so many more advantages under her guardian’s care. It would be selfish of me to ask you to leave her with us.”
Zoe could hold still no longer. “But what of my desires? I want to stay at the school with you. Surely you won’t allow my mother to hand me over to some rake.”