The Hellion Bride

by Catherine Coulter

  Ryder turned to face Samuel Grayson, saying in a meditative voice, "There is every bit as much talk here as there is in England. I had believed to be bored. Perhaps we will have some mysterious mani­festations this very night, to welcome me here. Yes, I should enjoy even a ghostly spectacle, if it is poss­ible. Isn't this young Lord David reputed also to be one of her lovers?"

  Ryder wondered if Grayson would have an apo­plectic attack. He opened his mouth, realized that his employer was seated next to him and closed it. He managed to say in a fairly calm way, "I repeat, Ryder, all of it is nonsense. Her uncle, Theodore Burgess, is a solid man, as we say here in Jamaica. His reputation is good. He is amiable, his business dealings honorable. He loves his niece and nephew very much. I imagine that the vicious rumors of Miss Stanton-Greville's reputation hurt him very much. He never speaks of it, of course, for he is a gentle­man. His overseer, however, is another matter. His name is Eli Thomas and he is a rotten fellow, overly cruel to the slaves."

  "If Uncle Burgess is such a fine man, why does he have this crooked stick as his overseer?"

  "I don't know. Some say he must have Thomas else the plantation wouldn't make any money. Bur­gess is too easy on the slaves, you see."

  "And this Charles Grammond is selling out to the woman's uncle? This Theodore Burgess?"

  "Yes. Perhaps Burgess feels pity for Grammond and is simply buying the plantation to assist him and his family. Burgess is the younger brother of Miss Sophia and Master Jeremy's mother."

  "How do the girl and boy happen to be here on Jamaica?"

  "Their parents were drowned some five years ago. The children were made wards of their uncle."

  "I haven't heard the name Stanton-Greville. Are they English?"

  "Yes. They lived in Fowey, in Cornwall. The house and grounds are in a caretaker's hands until the boy is old enough to manage for himself."

  Ryder was silent, chewing over all the facts. So the girl had been raised in Cornwall. And now she was here and she was a tart. His thinking turned back to the problem that had brought him here. Ryder strongly doubted the supernatural had any­thing to do with the problems occurring at Kimberly Hall. Oh no, greed was the same all over the world. Gaining one's greedy ends evidently conformed to local custom. He said, "Did Mr. Grammond have any problems before he agreed to sell to this Burgess?"

  "Not that I know of. Oh, I see the direction of your thoughts, Ryder, but I cannot credit them. Burgess, as I said, has a fine reputation; he is honest; he gives to local charities. No, if Grammond were having financial problems or if he were being besieged as we are at Kimberly, Burgess certainly wouldn't be behind it."

  Ryder wondered if Grayson spoke so positively about the Sherbrookes. He'd never met a man before in his life who deserved such accolades. Well, he would soon see. The island was small; society inter­mingled continuously and he would meet this Mr. Burgess and his niece soon enough.

  Grayson directed them inland, away from the blessed breeze from the water. The air was heavy with dirt and the sickly sweet smell of the sugar­cane. They came shortly to the top of a rise and he looked back at the Caribbean, stretched as far as the eye could see, brilliant blue, topaz in shallower water, silver-capped waves rolling onto the white beaches. He wanted nothing more than to strip off his clothes and swim in the Caribbean until he sank like a stone.

  "All this is Sherbrooke land, sir. Ah, look upward at the top of the rise, in amongst the pink cas­sias." He heard Ryder suck in his breath and smiled. "They're also called pink shower trees. They're at their most beautiful right now. And there are gold­en shower trees, and mango trees and the ever-present palm trees. There, sir, just beyond is the great house. You cannot see it from here, but the coastline curves quite sharply just yon and is quite close to the back of the house."

  Ryder drew in his breath yet again.

  "Most of the great plantation houses here on Jamaica are built in the traditional manner of three stories and huge Doric columns, only here we have verandas and balconies off nearly every room, for fresh air, you understand. You will see that all the bedchambers are at the back of the house and all have balconies that face the water. The back lawn slopes down to the beach and is always well tended. You will be able to sleep, even in the deepest part of the summer, though I think you're doubting that right now."

  "You're right about that," Ryder said, wiping the sweat off his face with the back of his hand.

  It was nearly midnight. Ryder had thoroughly enjoyed himself in the warm water of the Caribbean for the past hour. There was a half-moon that lit his way. It glittered starkly off the waves. He felt for the first time as if he really were in paradise. He chose to forget the awful heat of the afternoon. It was so beautiful, the black vault of the sky overhead with the studding of stars, so calm, so silent, that he felt peace flow through him.

  He wasn't a peaceful man. Thus, it was an odd feeling, but he didn't dislike it. He stretched out naked on his back, knowing full well the sand would likely find its way into parts of his body that he wouldn't like, but for now, it didn't matter. He stretched, feeling himself relax completely. He closed his eyes and listened to the sounds he hadn't heard before. He'd read about the coqui or the tree frog, and thought he heard some chirping into the soft darkness.

  He also knew a turtledove when he heard it and sighed as the sounds became more distinct, each adding to his relaxation, his sense of well-being.

  It was just so damned exotic here, he thought, stretching yet again, only to have the sand make him itch madly. He jumped to his feet, ran splash­ing through the surf then flattened into a dive into the next good-sized wave. He swam until he was exhausted, then walked slowly back to the beach. He realized he was ravenous. He'd been too hot to eat much at dinner and the strangeness of the food hadn't added to his appetite.

  There were coconut trees lining the perimeter of the beach and he grinned. He'd seen a black man shinny up a coconut tree earlier. His mouth was already watering. But it wasn't as easy as it looked and Ryder ended up standing on the beach, rubbing a scraped thigh, staring with malignant hatred at the coconuts just beyond his reach.

  There were other ways for the son of an English earl to get at a damned coconut. He found a rock and aimed it carefully at the coconut he'd selected. He was on the point of throwing it when he heard something.

  It wasn't a coqui nor was it a turtledove. It wasn't like anything he'd ever heard in his life. He held him­self perfectly still, lowering the rock slowly, silently. He listened hard. There it was again, that strange sort of low moaning sound that didn't sound remotely human.

  His feet were tender, for he was an Englishman after all, but he managed to move silently enough through the trees that lined the beach. The sound became louder the closer he got to the great house. He ran lightly up the grassy slope toward the back of the house. He eased around the side so he could see onto the front lawn. He stopped behind a bread­fruit tree and looked out onto the beautifully tended grounds. The sound came again and then he saw a strange light welling up from the ground itself. It was a narrow, thready light, blue, and it smelled of sulfur, as if it were coming up directly from hell and the moans were of the souls entrapped there. He felt gooseflesh rise on his body; he felt the hair rise on the back of his neck. Then he shook his head. This was beyond absurd. He'd said with absolute certain­ty to Grayson that it was naught but a mixture of chemicals. It was true, it had to be.

  He saw candlelight flicker in one of the rooms on the second floor of the house. Probably Grayson and he was most likely scared silly. Then he heard a hiss from behind him and turned very slowly, the rock ready now, his body poised.

  It was Emile Grayson.

  Ryder smiled. He liked Emile. He was about Ryder's own age, intelligent and ambitious. He, like Ryder, wasn't the least bit superstitious, though he hadn't once disagreed with his father during din­ner or their talk afterward.

  "What is it?" Ryder said behind his hand in a deep whisper.

  "I don't kn
ow but I do want to find out. Now you're here to help me. I've tried to make some of the male slaves keep watch with me but they roll their eyes back in their heads and moan." Emile paused just a moment, then added, "One slave did help me. Josh was his name. We kept watch several nights togeth­er. Then one morning he was found dead, his throat cut. I've had no more volunteers."

  "Very well," said Ryder. "Go around to the other side of that damned light and I'll ease closer from this way."

  Emile slithered like a thin shadow from tree to tree to work his way to the other side of the thready light. A neat trap, Ryder thought, pleased. Blood pumped wildly through him. He hadn't realized really how very bored he'd been during the voyage because he'd bedded two ladies, both of them charming, and from long experience, time passed more smoothly if one made love during the day and if one slept with a wom­an cuddled against one's chest during the night.

  When Emile was in position, Ryder simply straightened, the rock still held in his right hand, and walked directly toward the light. He heard an unearthly shriek.

  The light became a thin smoke trail, bluer now, the odor foul as the air of hell itself. A few chemicals, he thought, that's all, nothing more. But who was doing the moaning?

  He heard a shout. It was Emile. He began to run. He saw the figure then; white flowing robes covered it, but there was a very human hand showing and that hand held a gun. Ah, was that a pillow slip over the man's head? The hand came up and the gun exploded toward Emile. Ryder yelled at him. "You bastard! Who the hell are you!"

  Then the figure turned and fired at him. Ryder felt the bullet pass not three inches from his head. Good God, he thought, and ran straight for the fig­ure. The man was tall and fit, but Ryder was the stronger and the more athletic. He was gaining on him. Any moment now he would have him. He sliced his foot on a rock and cursed, but it didn't slow him.

  Then suddenly, without warning, he felt a shaft of pain sear through his upper arm. He stopped cold in his tracks, staring down at the feathered arrow tip that was sticking obscenely out of his flesh.

  Damnation, the man was escaping. Emile, shout­ing hoarsely, was at his side in another moment.

  He said blankly, "Where the hell did that bloody arrow come from? The man had an accomplice, damn him!"

  "It's nothing! Get him, Emile!"

  "No," Emile said very calmly. "He will come back."

  With no more words, Emile ripped off the white sleeve of his shirt, then turned to Ryder, and with­out pause, without speech, he grasped the arrow firmly and pulled it out.

  "There," he said, and began to wrap the shirtsleeve around the small hole that was oozing blood.

  Ryder felt momentarily dizzy but he was pleased that Emile had acted swiftly.

  "Yes," he said. "There." He looked up. "The bas­tard got away, curse him. Both of them." He looked back down at his arm. "When you've got me wrapped up, let's go examine the light and smoke, or what­ever it is."

  But there was no more smoke, no more thin thready blue light. There was, however, a faint sulfurous odor and the grass was scorched.

  "Now," Ryder said grimly, "there are two of us. We'll catch the bastards who are doing this." He paused, feeling a burning sensation in his upper arm. "Why? Ah, that's the question, isn't it?"

  "I don't know," Emile said. "I've thought and thought and I just don't know. No one has approached my father about selling the plantation, not a soul, nor is there any gossip, just that some voodoo priests or priestesses are displeased with us for some unknown reason. Please, Mr. Sherbrooke, come into the house because I want to clean the wound. We've got a good store of medicines and basilicum powder is just what we need."

  "My name is Ryder."

  Emile grinned. "Given the circumstances, all right, Ryder."

  Ryder suddenly laughed. "Some guard I am," he said and laughed more. "I probably astonished our villain more than I frightened him. Jesus, I'm stark naked."

  "Yes, you are, but I hesitated to point it out, par­ticularly when the bastard was so close."

  "I know. It's also difficult to call a man Mr. Sher­brooke when he's wearing naught but his hide"

  CHAPTER

  2

  Camille Hall

  HE STRUCK HER ribs with his fist just below her right breast, hard enough to slam her against the wall. Her head snapped back and hit the top edge of the thick oak wainscoting.

  Slowly, stunned, she slid down to the floor.

  "Why the hell didn't you tell me, you stupid lit­tle fool?"

  Sophie shook her head to clear it. She raised her hand and lightly touched her fingertips against the back of her head. A dizzying shaft of pain brought bile to her throat.

  "Don't you dare tell me I hurt you. If it is so, it is your own fault."

  It would naturally be her own fault. He was always careful never to strike her where it would show. Never. She moved her hand to her ribs. The pain made her suck in her breath, but that made it hurt even more. She took short, very shallow breaths and waited, praying that her ribs weren't broken, praying the nausea would sub­side. If he had broken some ribs she wondered how he would explain it. But he could come up with some plausible explanation. He always had in the past.

  He was standing over her now, his hands on his hips. He was pale, his eyes narrowed with fury. "I asked you a question. Why didn't you tell me that Ryder Sherbrooke had arrived in Montego Bay?"

  She opened her mouth to lie, but he forestalled her. "And don't tell me you didn't know. You were in town today, I saw you go myself. I gave you per­mission to go, damn you."

  "I tell you I didn't—" She stopped, hating her cowardice, hating her voice that sounded thin as the batiste of her nightgown. She was silent a moment, feeding the rage that was bubbling up inside her. She looked at him squarely in his hated face. "I wanted him to be here, to catch you. I prayed he would come. He wouldn't believe any of that voodoo nonsense. I knew he could stop you."

  He raised his fist. Then slowly, he lowered it.

  He actually grinned at her and for a moment she saw what other people saw—a man with humor and wit, a gentle man, a somewhat diffident man of breed­ing and unquestioned gentility. In the next instant it was gone and he was back as she knew him to be. "If Thomas hadn't shot him with the arrow he might have. I was totally taken off guard. Certainly Grayson's son, Emile, has been something of a thorn in my flesh, but this young man, naked as a satyr, running at me yelling at the top of his lungs, came as quite a shock. Then Thomas got him."

  Sophie paled. "You killed him? You killed the owner?"

  "Oh no, Thomas shot him through his upper arm. Thomas is always careful. Strange thing, really, the fact that Sherbrooke was naked and carrying a rock, howling at me just like a damned Carib. Thomas says he was probably plowing one of the slaves when he came out to investigate the sulfur and the smoke and all those hideous moans we've perfected. I was relieved that Emile Grayson stopped and saw to Sherbrooke."

  She said nothing. By keeping the information to herself, she had endangered a man's life. It hadn't occurred to her that he could be in any real danger. She'd been a fool and he'd been the one to pay for it. She'd paid too, but that was nothing new. At least he would be all right and she would be as well, eventually. She slowly deepened her breathing as the pain in her ribs eased a bit.

  Uncle Theo moved away from her now. He pulled the chair away from his small writing desk and sat down in it, crossing his legs at the ankles and looking at her, his arms settled on his lean belly. "Stupidity doesn't suit you, Sophia," he said finally, shaking his head. "How many times do I have to tell you that obedience is the only choice you have? Loyalty to me is your only choice. You just might ask yourself what would happen to you and your precious Jeremy if I had been caught. You're under­age; you're the whore of the island; you would have no money, no place to live; you would end up selling your body on the streets and Jeremy would end up in some workhouse. Perhaps he could be someone's apprentice bookkeeper and spend all his time in the trashhouse.
No, miss, you will not try to do me in again or I swear to you—" He paused, rose quick­ly, and strode back over to her. She shrank back against the wall, she couldn't help it, as he came down on his haunches beside her. He grabbed her chin in his palm and jerked her head toward him. "I swear to you, Sophia, I will kill you if you try such a thing again. Do you understand me?"

  She said nothing. He saw the hatred in her eyes and said more softly now, "No, I won't kill you, I'll kill that pathetic brother of yours. Oh yes, that's what I'll do. Now do you understand me?"

  "Yes," she said finally. "Yes, I understand you well enough."

  "Good." He rose then offered her a hand. She stared at his slender long fingers, the well-buffed nails, then looked him in the face. Very slowly, she pushed herself upright. He lowered his hand.

  "You're stubborn but I don't dislike it in a woman. You hate me as well, and that is amusing. Now, if you were my mistress I would enjoy whipping that insolent look out of your eyes. Take yourself back to bed. I have plans to make. Ryder Sherbrooke is here finally. God, I waited a long time for Grayson to act, for the Earl of Northcliffe to react and send someone out here. And he sent his brother, just as I'd hoped. Now it is time to put my plan into motion.

  "Ah, yes, my dear, since you have seen a frankly impressive number of naked men, let me tell you that this young man is built very well. He's an ath­lete and his body is lean and strong. Aye, you'll find that Sherbrooke is a fine specimen." He paused again, looking off into nothing in particular. "I think this will work quite nicely, but I must think about it in more detail. The man is not a fool. I was, I sup­pose, expecting another Lord David, but Sherbrooke isn't at all like that young wastrel. I will tell you in the morning what you will do."