To Chase the Storm

by Kimberly Cates

  Tessa sank back into the shadows and watched him stride away, surrounded by the guards. She would cling to Rafe's strength, be patient and careful, and hope that Dame Fortune would cast her dice in their favor.

  Drawing in a deep breath, she slipped from behind the chest and followed Rafe and his captors.

  Chapter 8

  Tessa was free!

  Rafe battled to keep his reactions hidden from the guards clustered about him as he forced himself to move forward at a steady pace.

  He strained to hear any sound of alarm rising in the castle, strained to hear bellowing or the heavy fall of booted feet as Warburton's men pursued her. Yet there was nothing but the grumbling of Rafe's own guards. Warvaliant, that great brooding behemoth, had failed to stir.

  Rafe gritted his teeth, his mind roiling with questions. How had Tessa escaped Warburton and made her way down here into the depths of hell? He wanted to catch her in his arms, whirl her around in joy, shake her for her idiocy, but most of all he wanted to shield her, protect her, drive the fear from those incredible dark eyes.

  His fists clenched, his hands straining instinctively against the coarse hemp ropes that held him, as the guards urged him onward, away from the vulnerable wraith with her riot of dark hair. Along the winding corridor they prodded him, toward some unknown fate, and it was all he could do not to fling himself at one of them, heedless of the cost, in an effort to reach Tessa.

  But if he did reach her, would he not bring these eager-eyed men-at-arms with their swords and their hatred down upon her? No, he could best serve Tessa by playing out this charade with Warburton's men, by facing whatever they had planned for him. That would buy Tessa time to escape the fortress and lose herself in the windswept crags she knew so well.

  But would she flee? Would she realize that his own plight was hopeless? Would she know that to attempt to aid him would be suicide?

  The fire in those ebony eyes haunted him, icing his stomach with fear. Don't be a fool, wildwitch, he silently pleaded.

  "Santadar." Rafe started at the sound of his name, unable to stop himself from knocking into the guard ahead of him, who had come to a halt in front of a closed door. His gaze snapped up to the man's face.

  The men-at-arms had been savage when they dragged Rafe from the cell. But their viciousness had melted away during the trek through Warvaliant's corridors and had been replaced by something that set Rafe's instincts humming with foreboding.

  His gaze raked the ring of faces about him, and he scented on the massive soldiers the subtle tang of fear. What, by God's blood, could bring that darting nervousness to the eyes of men who had faced death on the battlefield a score of times? Men hardened to butchery? The hair at the nape of Rafe's neck prickled.

  One of the guards cleared his throat as his eyes flicked from Rafe to the door. "Ye're—ye're to be presented within," the man said gruffly.

  "Presented?" Rafe echoed, eyes narrowing, wary. "And who the devil am I to be presented to?"

  "You'll know right soon enough." The guard's pronounced Adam's apple bobbed once, twice, in his bullish throat, his rugged face paling as though something Rafe had said had fed his gnawing unease.

  Chill fingers seemed to trail down Rafe's spine, and he hated the stirrings of his own unease. He steeled himself, clinging to the memory of Tessa in the shadow-shrouded passageway. If he wanted to aid her, he would have to meet whatever fate lurked beyond this cursed door, and he would meet it with the arrogance and courage befitting the Phantom of the Midnight Sea.

  He squared his shoulders, forcing a sneer to his lips, as his gaze shifted to the doorway. "Well, sir guard, if I am to be 'presented,' should we not open the door? Or do you expect it to swing wide of its own accord?"

  "Hold your cursed tongue, Spanish dog, or I'll hack it out," the guard said roughly, his voice unsteady. Like a nightmare-stricken child confronting ghosts in the shadows, the man reached out a gauntleted hand and swung open the heavy door.

  Rafe tensed, his eyes struggling to focus on the dim chamber. But he had no time to glimpse what lay within before a hard hand shoved him forward. His foot caught on one of the thick rush mats lying on the floor, and he stumbled, his thigh cracking into some unseen object. Pain shot through his wound, and he cursed.

  Yet even the red-hot throbbing in his leg held no power to drive back the shudder that swept over him as his eyes focused and he scanned the shadowed chamber.

  A sense of danger drifted over his skin like breeze-borne cobwebs. The haze of a specter seemed to hover over what looked like a macabre shrine. Black velvet draped the walls, and a huge bed loomed like some night-spawned ghoul. Bunches of dried herbs dangled from pegs above the narrow windows, the wilted leaves rustling like bat's wings. On a stand in the far corner of the room a single slender taper glowed like a demon's finger, throwing light on the ceiling above.

  Rafe's eyes followed that slender column of light, as though he half expected to find the chamber's inhabitant hovering there, hellish mouth gaping wide, soulless eyes aflame.

  With an inward oath, Rafe shook himself, banishing the absurd imaginings. From the time he was a lad, he had dismissed superstitious stories, preferring tales of mortal men performing acts of valor to those of the netherworld and spirits who stalked the earth. In a Spain weaned upon tales fostered by the Inquisition, he had been a rarity, and, by the saints, he would not succumb to those cursed whispers now.

  "Captain Santadar." Breath-soft and malignant, the voice seemed to drift from the shadows themselves. The scent of dying roses hung cloyingly on the air.

  Rafe stiffened, his gaze moving to the huge tester bed. "I am Santadar." His own voice echoed back to him, laced with unease. "You wished to see me?"

  Laughter trilled across the chamber, seeming to stir even the dried herbs, which rustled as though the claws of some small unseen creature had skittered over them, and had Rafe's hands been free, he would have felt the urge to cross himself.

  "Aye, my good Captain. I wished to see you."

  Whoever possessed that haunting voice was toying with him, and that toughened Rafe's resolve to show none of his unease.

  The bed curtains fluttered as if swept by a draft. Yellow eyes gleamed in the darkness. Rafe's stomach lurched as his gaze locked with those glowing orbs, and he felt a thin film of sweat bead his brow. As he turned and ambled toward the candle with forced nonchalance, his gaze fell upon a tattered volume that lay on the marred surface of a heavy table. The book was open to a drawing that made the fear cinch itself tighter about Rafe's chest. It was an image he recognized all too well—Ojancanu, the cyclops described in legends from the far reaches of northern Spain. Fiery red hair burst from the creature's head, and its one sinister eye possessed a palpable menace.

  "It is the symbol of the black side of the soul." The spectral voice chilled Rafe's skin. "That side we all possess, but deny."

  Rafe looked at the crude drawing and saw that the words inked below the picture were in Spanish.

  "I am aware of Ojancanu's power." Rafe kept his tone level.

  "Perhaps you have confronted the beast recently, Captain Santadar. Perhaps you saw his face as the Spanish ships were being shattered. Maybe you tasted his bitterness as you lay in chains. Did you, my fierce seafarer? Did you touch the darkness in your own soul?" The voice was so much closer now that Rafe could almost feel it on his skin.

  Feigning indifference he turned away from the ragged volume to face whatever ghost the chamber possessed. His heart slammed to a halt and his breath froze in his lungs as his gaze fell upon the figure now gliding out of the shadows.

  The meager candlelight snaked in glistening whorls along thread-of-gold crewelwork on blood-red velvet. The rich fabric flowed about a body so small and thin, it looked like that of a child. But the face framed by the pearl-encrusted escoffion was not that of an innocent. Webbed with tiny lines it was, the cheeks startlingly pale, the lips tinted like frosted roses, the silver hair rippling down over narrow shoulders.

>   Long bony fingers stroked the fur of a cat; the creature regarded Rafe with gold eyes. But it was the woman's eyes that arrested him, forcing him to stifle the urge to take a step backward. For those eyes beneath thin black brows were almost colorless. The irises were the palest green Rafe had ever seen.

  For a moment he wondered if the woman was blind, but then her gaze shifted to him, and he knew in that instant that she could see him. Indeed, she seemed to look into the very core of his soul.

  "Who are you?" he asked.

  The woman regarded him with unblinking eyes. "Chatelaine of Warvaliant, Morgause Bledford Warburton."

  "The lady of the castle?" Rafe stared incredulously at the woman who was apparently Lord Neville's mother. "I am—"

  "I know who you are and all there is to know about you. Your ship was sunk, and you managed to swim to shore. And then you were captured and hurled into chains."

  "I was locked in the castle's dungeon." Bitterness edged Rafe's voice, and he felt again the fierce tug of Tessa's vulnerability, and his own cursed helplessness.

  Lady Morgause's lips curved into an enigmatic smile, revealing tiny white teeth. "You must forgive my son's appalling manners," she said. "He is far too conscious of his duty to these wretched English lands, and with the fear of invasion running rampant over the countryside, I fear he became a bit overzealous. It was unconscionable, the way he treated you."

  "He could have cast me to the devil, and welcome! But Tes—" Rafe bit off the name, fear racing through him as he caught himself.

  Those strange eyes searched his face, and Rafe had the sensation that Morgause Warburton was looking for some crack in his soul, but her voice held all the sickly sweetness of honey. "You have been through a most trying ordeal, Captain Santadar, but your fortunes are about to change if only you have the courage to... " The woman's voice trailed off, her gaze flicking to where the guards still stood in the doorway. Their faces were impassive, but every muscle in their bodies appeared to be tensed.

  "You will close the door, Smythe," Morgause directed in silky tones.

  "But, milady, the Spaniard is dangerous despite his bonds. Lord Neville would not like it if we left you alone with him."

  "I am aware of exactly how dangerous Captain Santadar is—especially considering where his thoughts are now."

  Rafe's gaze slashed up to Lady Warburton's enigmatic eyes, but she betrayed not a glimmer of the meaning behind her words.

  "Smythe, get out and bar the door now."

  "Milady, please—" Sweat trickled down the guard's face as he begged her.

  "Do it at once!" Morgause's voice was cutting and the guard started as the cat leapt from her arms. A feline yowl split the air, and Rafe saw the hulking man cower as though the animal were a tiger.

  "Aye, my lady." Smythe's hand whipped out and closed the door with such a force that the sound reverberated through the room. The candle flickered and neatly went out, and another ripple of apprehension seized Rafe. He forced himself to focus upon the fact that the absence of the guards might afford him some chance of escape.

  For the man called Smythe was right: Rafe was dangerous. More dangerous now than at any other time in his life. Because somewhere in the labyrinth of passageways below was the woman who had burrowed past his defenses with her courage, with her wit, with those eyes that seemed to warm the very core of him.

  "She is very beautiful—the woman."

  Morgause's words startled him, and Rafe stiffened. He dismissed the notion that the ice-pale chatelaine could read his mind, and yet Morgause Warburton seemed to peer into him and see the delicate curves of Tessa's face, the cascade of her black hair, the budding emotions she had stirred in him. Do not be absurd, Rafe railed inwardly, furious with himself for thinking such crazed thoughts. Most likely some servant had carried tales of Tessa up to Lady Morgause, and the woman was merely toying with him.

  Yet what if she was able to see into his mind? What if she discerned that Tessa was free?

  As though hoping that distance could somehow diminish the noblewoman's power, Rafe turned and walked away in silence, the inky shadows suddenly seeming less sinister than the penetrating light of that pale green gaze.

  "You should be grateful, Captain Santadar. Grateful to my son for ridding us of your little peasant doxy. For if she were still clinging to your breeches, we would not be enjoying this chat."

  Rafe stifled the surge of relief that shot through him at this evidence that Morgause had no knowledge of Tessa's escape.

  "I was never beautiful. " The woman's words drew Rafe from his thoughts. The black velvet drapes stirred as she glided past them like a scarlet slash against the flowing cloth. Rafe watched her warily as she went to the mullioned window, her fingers caressing the strange emerald ring on her finger.

  He scanned the room again for some means of escape, his hands working surreptitiously against the coarse hemp that bound them. His wrists burned and stung.

  "What, Captain Santadar? No gallant denial? No protestations that I must have been comely as a girl?" The woman's gaze flicked down the half-bared expanse of Rafe's chest to where his breeches clung to powerful thighs, and Rafe's stomach lurched as her pink tongue peeked out, moistening her lips.

  He felt his cheeks burn. "Lady Morgause, what do you want of me?"

  White fingers fondled the gem's glowing facets, the emerald ring seeming to gleam with a light of its own. "I want nothing of you, Captain Santadar. I wish to give something to you."

  Rafe's hands stilled in their struggle against his bonds as the woman's words rasped against his already strained nerves.

  "You see, I spent a good deal of time in your country as a girl, Captain Santadar. I loved Spain. I cannot express the pain I felt when Elizabeth Tudor’s bumbling forced your honorable king to make war on England. And now to have the proud España broken by a ragtag muddle of howling pirates..."

  The unexpected words slashed through Rafe, releasing burning shame. "Spain is not broken!" he blazed. "The defeat of the armada was mere luck on the part of the English. Spain will rise and crush—"

  He stopped when he saw the cold glitter in Morgause Warburton's eyes, his mind conjuring the image of a golden-scaled serpent hiding beneath a stone, waiting, watching.

  "There are other ways to defeat one's enemies than in battle, Rafael." She floated toward him, her gown trailing across the floor like death's shadow. "Let me show you."

  A shudder ran through Rafe, and he felt as though a fine layer of silt had drifted down upon his skin. Yet he stood still, some instinct warning him not to show his revulsion to the woman before him for fear of revealing a vulnerability that would prove a formidable tool in Morgause Warburton's hands.

  His jaw knotted as her corpse-chill fingertips skimmed his cheekbone and the dark hair at his temple. "Tell me, Rafael, are you hungry?" Her throaty whisper turned his stomach. "Hungry for vengeance against those who crushed you? Your pride—that raging Spanish pride—is broken now. What would you barter to gain it back?"

  Rafe's jaw clenched as he remembered tales of Satan's angels tempting men. He felt the urge to draw away, yet those pale green eyes held him.

  "Would you sacrifice your soul, Captain Santadar, if I told you I could put tools into your hands that would bring this infernal land to its knees?"

  Lady Warburton's words spun about him, seeming to catch him in some intricate web, the threads poisoned with his own hate, his own pain.

  "You're speaking in riddles," he said, the feel of her fingers trailing down his throat repulsing him.

  "Am I? Then I shall provide you with the riddle's solution." She extended her fingers toward him, the emerald winking. "Do you know how much power this hand holds, Captain? With a wave of my fingers I can bring death—swift and certain death."

  Rafe tensed as he heard the soft metallic click of a tiny latch snapping free and saw the shimmering green emerald rise out of its clasp of gold. What lay beneath the stone was obscured by shadows, but Rafe had heard of su
ch deadly ornaments before, had seen them in exotic ports he had voyaged to.

  The compartment hidden beneath the jewel was just large enough to secrete away deadly powders, sleeping potions, any number of sinister substances to strike at one's enemy in the most loathsome way possible.

  "Poison! You want me to—" Rafe heard a hiss of breath and felt the chain cut into his flesh as Morgause's icy fingers closed about the ring that dangled around his neck.

  The outrage that had surged within him vanished, leaving him chilled to the core of his soul as he peered down into the woman's face. Her gaze was riveted to Rafe's ring; her glazed eyes stared at the crest as though it were some demon made real. Those eyes that had been so chill were burning now with an unholy menace, and if his hands had been free, he would have ripped his mother's ring from Morgause Warburton's grasp.

  "Where did you get this ring?" she demanded.

  "Hold." The command from a shadow-shrouded corner of the room made Morgause spring away from him and wheel about as though summoned by some ghost. Rafe's stomach plunged to his toes as his eyes fixed upon a pale angel's face and a pistol barrel aimed squarely at Lady Morgause's breast.

  "Tessa!" Rafe was as stunned as if the girl had appeared out of thin air. Yet she was real; he knew it the instant that impudent voice cut through the clutching silence.

  "If you make a sound, milady, I'll kill you." Tessa strode forward, drafts wafting the velvet curtains behind her, revealing what looked to be a hidden door carved in the stone. She looked ready to fire the weapon, her dark eyes steady and unyielding.

  Yet Rafe was certain if the pistol had suddenly been transformed into a dove, Morgause Warburton would not have moved, for she stood, wild-eyed, as though stricken by her own sorcery.

  One of Tessa's slender hands flashed to her waist and slid a silver dagger free of its scabbard. In a heartbeat, she severed Rafe's bonds. His hands seemed afire as the blood rushed into his numb fingers, and she thrust the pistol into his grasp, then swept up a silken cord from the bed and bound Morgause's birdlike wrists.