Dark Before the Rising Sun

by Laurie McBain

  The stately gardens and carefully maintained parklands of the magnificent estate were surrounded by woodlands of ancient oak and evergreen, interspersed with sunlit glades where brambles of wild berries glistened with ripening fruit. A fallow deer bolted from the tangles beside the narrow road that meandered into the vale, sending a flock of white-throated warblers into the sky.

  Dante’s pale gray eyes narrowed as he gazed into the sun and followed the birds as they flew above the verdant fields and hedgerowed lanes that twisted past the whitewashed, thatch-roofed cottages of the village nestling along the banks of a stream. Cascading down from the gentle slope of hillside in the distance, the waters flowed beside the old stone mill and kept the big mill wheel turning, grinding the farmers’ grain into flour and meal.

  “Ooooh, ’tis Camareigh, isn’t it?” Conny Brady asked for what seemed the hundredth time, for every time their coach had passed by an estate where the residence could be viewed through wrought iron gates, closed against the curious, he had voiced the same hopeful question.

  Dante, sitting astride a sorrel-maned chestnut, surveyed the pastoral scene below, musing that this private domain of the Dukes of Camareigh must have changed little through the centuries.

  Glancing back at the young boy, hanging half out of the opened coach window, Dante answered. “Yes, this is Camareigh.”

  Even had he not inquired directions of the smith in the last hamlet they had passed through, Dante would have known from Rhea’s loving description that the great house of time-mellowed stone, its mullioned windows reflecting the last warmth of the day, was Camareigh. From his vantage point on the hillside, he had a clear view of the Dominick estate. The great house was H-shaped with two wings, running east and west, and intersected by towers. Clustered about the great house were the low-roofed outbuildings, the largest being the stables. The central portico was reached by a long, chestnut-lined drive surrounded by copper beech, maple, and birch, all aflame with crimson and gold.

  But before reaching the tree-lined avenue to Camareigh, one would have to gain access through the double, wrought iron gates standing guard at the entrance. Reinforcing those barriers was a gatekeeper’s cottage where, no doubt, several bloodthirsty mastiffs kept the gatekeeper and his well-primed blunderbuss company. Dante wondered what orders the gatekeeper and groundsmen had been issued concerning the arrival of an unwanted son-in-law.

  “Aren’t we going any farther?” Conny asked in growing concern as Dante continued to sit astride the big stallion he rode with such ease. The young cabin boy, who’d never ridden anything except the rigging, wondered if there was anything his captain couldn’t do.

  Kirby risked a glance out of the coach window, finding Camareigh just as impressive as he’d anticipated. He had a feeling similar to when he had faced cannon fire: there was no turning back. They were in the enemy camp and, except for Lady Rhea Claire, they had no allies. As Dante urged his mount down the curving road, the coach rumbling along in a cloud of dust behind him, the little steward realized that there would be no slipping quietly into Camareigh. Half the valley, especially someone in one of those golden towers, was probably watching their slow, noisy progress right then.

  They traveled along the same lane that Lucien Dominick’s cousin Kate and her cohorts had come down a year earlier, only this time it was Conny who was craning his head out of the window time and time again, just to make certain that the great house, which was still just visible through the trees, had not vanished. After a few moments, Dante slowed his pace, allowing the coach to close the gap between them. They were entering the parklands of Camareigh, but still had quite a way to travel before the columned Dominick home. As Dante glanced back to inform an impatient Conny and Kirby of that fact, two riders appeared out of nowhere, their mounts blocking the road. One of them fired a shot into the ground in front of Dante’s horse.

  All hell broke loose. And then, just as suddenly, James Fletcher’s and Lord Robin Dominick’s plans went awry.

  Their intended warning, “Halt and go no farther, or face death!” was never voiced, for the sudden, loud pistol report frightened the team of horses drawing the coach, and as the leaders reared, neighing with fear while their hooves raked the air and the startled coachman’s whip cracked above their heads, Dante’s mount bolted. Despite the coachman’s curses, the panic-stricken team followed suit.

  Dante just barely managed to keep his seat while holding the reins firmly in one hand, and, gently patting the stallion’s sweating neck, he spoke quietly. He had just about calmed the horse, bringing those galloping hooves back to an even trot, and was straightening in the saddle when an overhanging bough caught him across the head and shoulders, knocking him off the horse.

  The team, also under control, had been halted just around the curve, allowing Conny and Kirby, who had quickly jumped from the dangerously rocking vehicle, a clear view of Dante being unseated from his mount.

  Conny let out a yell and began to run toward the fallen rider, a look of horror on his face as he stared down at the crumpled form. Kirby, a little bit slower to reach his master’s side and breathless from the effort, squatted beside the unconscious Dante, deeply concerned. Blood was seeping from a wound on the captain’s ashen brow.

  “He’s dead, isn’t he?” Conny cried, his voice carrying to the two boys, who, having quickly brought their own mounts under control, had hurried to the fallen rider.

  “Is he dead?” Robin Dominick asked hesitantly as he stood beside a brokenhearted Conny. And from the look of the gentleman lying there so frighteningly still, young Lord Robin had the awful feeling that the gentleman was indeed dead.

  “Lord, we’ve done it now,” James Fletcher mumbled through stiff lips, wishing he’d never overheard Francis and his brothers talking about waylaying Dante Leighton on the road.

  Kirby, having ascertained that the captain was alive, spared the strangers a glance, noticing for the first time the oddness of their dress. Although they were but young fellows, they were dressed in old-fashioned wigs. And from the peculiar bumps and mounds underneath their coats and vests, it seemed they had stuffed their clothing to give the impression of being much older. “Ye meant to kill him?” he asked them harshly, his eyes not missing the pistol held by the larger of the two boys. From the embarrassed, guilty looks on their faces, Kirby knew they had intended mischief and guessed it had gotten out of control.

  James suddenly seemed to have become deaf and dumb, for he continued to stare down in horrified fascination at the stream of blood trickling from the bruised flesh of the gentleman’s forehead. He felt sick as he remembered the pistol he was carrying. Too late, he realized that the man kneeling beside the injured Dante Leighton had seen it.

  “We only meant to scare him off,” Robin finally said, a little spurt of blood appearing where he’d been chewing on his lower lip. “No one wanted him to come to Camareigh!” Robin added defiantly, thinking that none of this would have happened if Rhea had not been kidnapped from Camareigh. Then everything would still be the way it had always been.

  “And who are ye to be sayin’ such a thing?” Kirby demanded of the little boy, but when he met the violet eyes so identical to Lady Rhea Claire’s, he needed no introduction.

  “I am Lord Robin Dominick. I live at Camareigh, and I know that nobody wants this Dante Leighton to come and take Rhea away!”

  “So ye thought ye’d be takin’ matters into your own hands, eh?” Kirby asked softly, pitying the young boy. Obviously he had acted on his own, without the consent of his family. “Nobody knows what ye’ve gone and done, do they, lad?” Kirby asked.

  “O-of course they do! I told you the family doesn’t like this Dante Leighton. We want him to go back to the colonies. Rhea doesn’t love him. She said she never wanted to see the blackguard’s face again as long as she lived. She doesn’t want anything to do with any of you people she met while away from Camareigh. Why can’t you
just take him and leave?” Robin tried to bluff his way out of the predicament.

  “It isn’t true!” Conny said, his mouth dropping open with incredulity. “She loves the cap’n. And she said I could come to Camareigh to see her. She wouldn’t change her mind, would she, Mr. Kirby?” Conny asked, his voice wobbly as he wondered if it might be the truth.

  “Of course not, lad,” Kirby reassured him absently, his attention on the captain. There was nothing to do now but try to get him into the coach and then to Camareigh. Not exactly the way the captain had planned to arrive, Kirby thought, shaking his head. He sighed, wondering why there always had to be complications. At least this way they would get past the wrought iron gates. Even the Duke of Camareigh wouldn’t turn away an injured man.

  Misinterpreting the little steward’s mood, Conny reached out a hand and grabbed Robin Dominick by the lacy stock folded so neatly around his neck.

  “You killed him!” Conny yelled as he eyed the small, dark-haired boy. This was Lady Rhea Claire’s young brother, the boy she had always spoken of so lovingly, and who would always come first in her heart. This pampered, rich little lord had murdered the only person who had ever really cared about him. He would avenge the captain’s death. “I’ll make ye pay for this, ye cowardly, sly-faced cur! And Lady Rhea Claire does love the captain. She’ll hate ye for murderin’ him!”

  “I didn’t murder him! And she won’t hate me! She won’t!” Robin yelled back, realizing that this unmannered, scrawny boy was none other than that Conny Brady Rhea had spoken about so much and seemed so fond of.

  Robin tried to pull his neckcloth free of the upstart’s grubby hands, but the boy had too good a hold on it and didn’t seem to want to let loose, in fact, he was twisting it tighter by the second. Robin gritted his teeth. Glaring at Conny Brady’s grim face, he kicked him in the shin. The other boy’s yelp of pain was satisfying to Robin, but only for a second, for before he knew it, his feet had been knocked out from under him and Conny, an orphan boy wearing his first really fine pair of breeches and matching coat, had landed on top of him.

  Kirby stared in amazement as the two boys rolled and wrestled and traded punches in the middle of the lane. The other young gent tried to separate them but quickly found his own feet knocked out from under him as he sat down abruptly in a mud puddle.

  The coachman climbed down from the box and approached the scene of chaos, with a wide grin on his face. The two fighting boys were spirited enough and, being of a similar age and size, it looked to be a good fight.

  “If ye can be sparin’ me a moment, I could use a hand helpin’ his lordship into the coach,” Kirby suggested none too politely. “We’ll have to move him carefully,” Kirby told the man now that he’d finally managed to catch his attention.

  They were half lifting, half dragging Dante when a rider approached from the direction of the great house. Kirby glanced up, thinking to demand assistance, but the words died on his lips as he stared into the scarred face of the Duke of Camareigh himself.

  Oh, Lord, Kirby thought, wondering how he could possibly defend the captain against whatever the duke might have in mind, now that His Grace had the captain of the Sea Dragon at his mercy. But Kirby was to be pleasantly surprised, for Lucien Dominick quickly dismounted and hurried to their side, lending a hand as if he were lifting a dear friend.

  “What has happened?” he demanded as he helped the little steward place Dante on the coach seat.

  Kirby opened his mouth to speak but didn’t know quite what to say. How could he tell the Duke of Camareigh what his own son had done? But explanations were unnecessary, for at that moment the duke’s gaze found the two combatants slugging away at each other, James standing helplessly to one side.

  “James!” the duke’s voice pierced through the daze James Fletcher had been lost in. With an even greater feeling of disaster, that young man turned to see his uncle approaching.

  James was the only one of the three young men whom Lucien recognized, for the other two were coated in clinging mud. However, when the two boys felt a viselike hand gripping them and glanced up to encounter the unsympathetic, displeased gaze, the mystery was solved. The duke knew the violet eyes of his son only too well, and, since Dante was lying unconscious in the coach, the other boy could be none other than Constantine Magnus Tyrone Brady.

  “I shall have an explanation of this affair, and from both of you young gentlemen, although I do use the word with some reservations,” he said in that cold tone that Robin had heard too often. There would be no peace of mind for Robin. “You,” the duke ordered Conny, “will climb into the coach and accompany your captain and Mr. Kirby to Camareigh. And, you, Robin, will climb back on your horse, which I see has wandered down the lane a fair distance, and return to Camareigh. Once you have made yourself decent, I shall expect to see you in my study,” he told his son, whose bent head was almost proof enough of guilt.

  “And, you, James,” the duke commanded of the young man who, having thought himself overlooked, was beginning to walk away. At the sound of his name, he halted. “I shall have an explanation from you while we ride back to Camareigh together,” the duke pronounced the death sentence on the hapless young man who had yet to face his own father, the general.

  * * *

  Dante awoke to a steady pounding in his temple. Groaning softly, he raised a hand to the aching spot and was surprised to encounter a soft bandage wrapped around his forehead. Opening a wary eye, he glanced around at his surroundings and was surprised yet again. He was not lying in the road but in a very comfortable four-poster bed with embroidered hangings and a matching quilted comforter which someone had carefully placed around his bare shoulders. The tall, mullioned windows were draped in sea green Italian silk damask hangings, drawn against the cool evening air. A cheerful fire was burning in the hearth, and while firelight danced on a woman he had never seen before, a clock on the pilastered mantel chimed the hour. The woman sleeping was in a high-backed wing chair upholstered in rose silk brocatelle, and even though she was sleeping, she had a watchdog look about her.

  Keeping a watchful eye on her, Dante looked for the door, but it was on the far side of the room, and he would have to pass right in front of the woman in order to reach it, though why he should feel threatened in so lovely a room, he wasn’t certain. He was being treated well: a bouquet of fragrant flowers was scenting the room from its china vase on a mahogany dressing table, while a silver tea tray sat on a small table just out of reach of his bed. As Dante glanced curiously around the room, he noticed for the first time the crystal goblet of brandy sitting on the bedside table within easy reach of his outstretched arm. With an appreciative sigh, he reached out and captured it, drinking all of it without hesitation.

  Caught unawares, he choked, then coughed, a comical look of disbelief forming on his face as he eyed the evil-tasting brew that looked so much like brandy. “What the devil?” he exclaimed.

  “I see ye’ve come to your senses at last,” the woman commented from her place by the hearth, apparently unimpressed by the angry glint in Dante’s pale gray eyes. “Best thing for clearin’ your head of fog.”

  “Good Lord, woman. You could have killed me with this poison,” Dante accused her. Sniffing the dregs, he questioned, “It isn’t poison, is it?”

  “Well, some think ’tis as bad as that when they’re swallowing it, but later, when the roses come back to their cheeks, they aren’t complainin’.” The woman crinkled her wrinkled face with amusement.

  “Madam, I have never desired to have roses in my cheeks,” Dante informed the complacent busybody.

  “Might d’ye some good, m’lord, if ye did. Never seen such a pale face, especially seein’ how dark-skinned ye be from the sun. Mrs. Taylor’s Special Treat will have ye back on your feet in no time,” she said with the full irritating knowing air of someone who never had to take the medicine herself. “Ain’t seein’ double, are ye?
Nor feelin’ woozy?”

  “Well, if I wasn’t woozy before, then I certainly am now,” Dante said, thinking how well she and his at times infuriating steward would get along. “And if I may be so bold as to inquire,” Dante asked silkily, glaring at the unsympathetic woman, “just who the devil are you? And where is Kirby? And Conny Brady? And where the devil am I?”

  “Ooooh, feelin’ better, we are. Told ye, didn’t I?” the woman said with a sniff, reminding Dante even more of his irritating little steward. “Well, now, I am Rawley. And your Mr. Kirby has gone down to the kitchens to prepare ye a meal. A more insufferable and bossy little man I’ve not had the pleasure of meeting. Your young Master Brady has finally been settled in another chamber, and a more ill-mannered and noisy young lad I’ve not had the pleasure of meeting either,” Rawley informed him, leaving him in no doubt that she disapproved of all three of them. “Ye be a guest at Camareigh.”

  Dante was surprised, for although he had thought the room too elegantly furnished to be an inn, he could not believe that he had actually made it through the gates of Camareigh. His sudden chuckle startled Rawley. As she came closer with the tea table, she watched the gentleman carefully out of the corner of her eye and wondered if the stories were true. Had Lady Rhea Claire married herself a pirate? He certainly looked and acted the devil despite being a marquis.

  “I am curious, Rawley,” Dante asked politely, his sudden smile halting Rawley in her tracks and warming her heart as no other smile had ever done. “Why do you consider Conny Brady ill-mannered? I can well understand your feelings about Kirby, for he is set in his ways, but Conny?”

  Rawley sniffed, placing her hands on her hips. As she eyed the relaxed man in the bed, she realized that all the tension had left him as soon as he’d learned he was at Camareigh. He seemed to feel in control of the situation, which was surprising for a man lying on his back in bed.

  “Well, seein’ how ye was unconscious at the time,” Rawley began, and as she faced the pale eyes of the captain of the Sea Dragon, she felt uneasy. The man had a way of staring at you, as if daring you to lie to him. “Ye missed what happened after ye fell from yer horse.”