Legacy of the Diamond

by Andrea Kane

  The endearment, uttered in a tender, husky voice, was more intimate than a caress … and just as pivotal, given the heightened emotion spawned by the past few minutes.

  An invisible barrier was traversed.

  Their gazes met and held, Courtney's eyes widening as awareness flickered in the sea-green depths, her lips parting as if in question—and invitation.

  Slayde's heart began slamming against his ribs, a compulsion like none he'd ever experienced propelling him forward. Acting on that compulsion—and on a pure instinct he'd never known he possessed—he lowered his head and captured her mouth under his.

  The world shifted—permanently.

  It was Slayde's first coherent thought as he tasted her, molded the delicate contours of her lips to his, warmed and stilled her trembling with his mouth. She tensed, quivered, then melted against him, her small fists knotting in his shirt, her soul seeking whatever replenishment he could offer.

  He offered—but was it for her sake, or his?

  The question vanished, unanswered, lost beneath the extraordinary feeling building between them. Slayde slid down on the bed, twisted about until Courtney lay supine, caged between the strong columns of his arms. Tangling his hands in her hair, he fused their mouths, deepening the kiss with equal measures of need and restraint. Her injuries, his dazed mind cautioned. Don't forget her injuries.

  Courtney herself had forgotten them.

  Lost to the moment, she welcomed the miracle of their kiss as a wondrous balm to her agony and a startling awakening of her senses. Like a tantalizing aroma, it assuaged one need, slowly kindled another. "Slayde," she heard herself whisper. "Hold me."

  He shuddered, his arms contracting around her with a will all their own. Parting her lips, his tongue took hers, caressing it in a way that made tremors of sensation shiver down her spine. She complied with his unspoken request, opening her mouth wider, deepening his presence as their tongues tasted, touched, melded, and withdrew, only to begin again.

  Time ceased to exist, seconds blending into minutes, minutes converging into an immeasurable eternity. Courtney's fingers relaxed, her palms opening, gliding up Slayde's shirt to the breadth of his shoulders, her arms entwining about his neck. In turn, he lowered himself until his shirt just brushed the soft swell of her breasts, balancing himself on his elbows so as to carefully avoid her ribs. His own hands, unable to remain still, roamed up and down the silken skin of her arms, her shoulders, her neck, savoring the quivers of response his touch evoked.

  "Courtney." He said her name in a reverent whisper, his lips leaving hers to feather across her cheeks, his tongue absorbing the tears still glistening there. He kissed her nose, her lids, the corners of her mouth, before returning to her lips, brushing them in a slow, eloquent wisp of motion. "Don't cry."

  "I won't," she promised, her voice breathless, swamped in sensation.

  Her innocence, her honesty, intensified Slayde's rampaging emotions almost beyond bearing. With a strangled groan, he buried his lips in hers once more, tugging her closer, giving in a way he'd never given, taking in a way he'd never longed to take.

  Later, looking back on this unprecedented madness, Slayde wondered what would have happened had Courtney not, at that precise moment, winced with pain. But she did—and the motion was like a slap to his unfocused senses.

  "Courtney?" He raised up, searched her face. "Is it your ribs or your head?"

  "My ribs." Her lids lifted, her eyes still dazed with wonder. "'Twas only a sting. I'm fine. Truly." Hesitantly, her fingertips brushed Slayde's mouth, and she gazed up at him as if to verify the events of the past few minutes. "Did this really just happen?"

  He felt as incredulous as she. "I think it did, yes." He inhaled shakily, lowering himself beside her, drawing her closer until her head was tucked beneath his chin. "I should apologize."

  "Don't."

  "Are you all right?"

  Courtney nodded. "A bit dizzy, but fine. More than fine, actually. I feel as if I'm floating. What's more, I'm not at all sure I want to descend to the ground. Or to reality, for that matter. I'd rather stay on this extraordinary cloud you've given me."

  What in God's name was he allowing to happen? "Courtney—"

  "I must sound absurd," she interrupted self-consciously. "'Tis just that this was my first kiss. And while I've ofttimes tried to imagine what it would be like, nothing prepared me for the deep, sweeping magic—" She broke off, and Slayde could feel her face flame against his throat. "Did you ever notice that in the darkness you can say things you could never say in the light? 'Tis almost as if time is suspended until dawn."

  Slayde swallowed, staring at the ceiling. "That applies not only to words, but to actions as well."

  "Yes, I suppose it does."

  The hurt in her voice tore at his heart, but he was helpless to alleviate it. Still reeling from his own unfathomable behavior, he saw that one thing was glaringly obvious; he had to leave her—now—before things got out of hand. Courtney Johnston was a beautiful, unspoiled young woman who was alone, vulnerable, and untouched, not only physically, but emotionally as well. Despite the severity of her personal loss, her exposure to the world and all its ugliness was nil. He could not, would not, immerse her in the hell that was intrinsically tied to his life as a Huntley—despite the staggering feelings she inspired in him.

  Or, perhaps because of them.

  'Twas one thing to permit her to exist on the periphery of his existence, as Aurora's companion, as a houseguest. But a deeper, more poignant involvement? When she had a world of pain behind her and a wealth of life ahead? No. Whatever unprecedented sensations were stirring to life within him, whatever bizarre transition was propelling him toward her, he owed it to her to fight it—before it truly began.

  Before it was too late.

  "Go to sleep, Courtney," he murmured, coming to his feet and easing her head to the pillow. "You need rest. And so do I. I'm leaving for Morland in the morning."

  For a moment, she said nothing, just staring at him in the semidarkened room. Then she nodded, settling herself amidst the bedcovers. "I pray you learn something—something that will give us both a measure of peace. And Slayde?" She raised up on her elbows, her hair sweeping the pillow in a shimmering, moonlit waterfall. "Thank you—for the comfort and the cloud."

  * * *

  Chapter 5

  « ^ »

  The wind whipped about the Red Cliffs.

  Miss Payne shivered, drawing her shawl higher around her shoulders as she eased into the alcove and approached the formidable figure awaiting her.

  "You're late," the icy voice pronounced. "I instructed you to be here at nine. It's twenty minutes past."

  "I know—and I apologize. But I had to be certain no one at Pembourne saw me leave. As it is, the earl wasn't yet abed when I slipped away. 'Twould have been better if I'd lingered until he was. But I didn't want to detain you."

  The glittering gaze bore into hers. "What did you learn?"

  Miss Payne drew a sharp breath. "From the snatches of conversation I've managed to overhear, 'twould seem that Armon took matters into his own hands. The second ransom note arrived at Pembourne a day earlier than your orders specified. That very night, his lordship dashed off to comply with the kidnapper's terms. The girl he returned with is the daughter of the sea captain whose ship Armon seized—and she bears a striking resemblance to Lady Aurora. Apparently, there was a struggle, during which time the girl—Miss Johnston—toppled overboard. Lord Pembourne dived in after her and—"

  "I don't give a damn about the girl. What about the diamond?"

  Like a fatal dagger, the demand sank into Miss Payne's gut. Inadvertently, she took a step backward, dreading the reaction she was about to elicit. "Lord Pembourne turned it over to Armon."

  Silence.

  Nervously, the housekeeper wet her lips. "I've never known Armon to do anything quite so stupid."

  "On the contrary—his plan was brilliant." A rustle of motion as the dark, clo
aked figure emerged from the shadows. "Quite brilliant. 'Tis a pity he'll never enjoy the fruits of his labor."

  With that, the black cloak brushed by and was swallowed up by night.

  * * *

  Dartmouth was silent, the crude road adjacent to the wharf deserted.

  Uneasily, Armon glanced behind him, reassuring himself that the cove where the Fortune awaited him was nearby, safely within view. All he had to do was hand over the diamond, pocket the three hundred thousand pounds, and sail off to his new life—far away from England.

  He hurried toward the alley that was his customary meeting place. Grimes would be waiting. He always was, whenever Armon sent word ahead that he'd be coming. And in this case, the fence had probably slept in the alley the night before. Just knowing he'd soon be receiving the black diamond—a treasure worth more than a hundred times his customary exchange—hell, Grimes's beady eyes had probably bugged out of his head when he'd read the message.

  Armon's fingers slipped inside his coat, closing around the bulky shape of the diamond, as if for comfort. The bloody stone was enormous—over two hundred carats, if memory served him right. Well, whoever wanted it was welcome to it. As for him, all he wanted was the money being offered in exchange.

  With a relieved sigh, Armon reached his destination. Rounding the wall, he eased halfway down the alley, noting the dark silhouette fifty feet away. "Grimes?"

  "Sorry, Armon." Slow, purposeful footsteps. "I had some urgent business for Grimes. But he was detained."

  All the color drained from Armon's face. "I…"

  A bitter laugh as the footsteps closed in—and halted upon reaching their prey. "Why, Armon, if I didn't know better, I'd say you were disturbed by my visit."

  The barrel of a pistol glinted in the night.

  Armon backed against the wall, his mind racing for a nonexistent means of escape.

  Lying would be futile. Fleeing, impossible.

  Dying, inevitable.

  "I have the stone." Wildly, he groped inside his coat, tearing open the lining—and praying for a miracle.

  "I assumed you would."

  "Here." He extended his shaking hand, the diamond clutched tightly in its grasp. "Take it. It's yours."

  "It most certainly is." His fingers were unpried. The gem disappeared. "Our business is now complete. Adieu, Armon."

  He hadn't time to reply.

  The pistol fired. Its single shot, issued at point-blank range, struck Armon's chest with a quiet thud. He crumpled and fell.

  With but a cursory glance at the dead body, his assailant turned triumphant eyes to the priceless jewel, studying its shimmering facets. "Finally. After all these years, justice is served."

  * * *

  The clip-clop of horses' hooves permeated Courtney's consciousness, rousing her from half-slumber. Eyes flickering open, she took in the pale glints of dawn as they tentatively brushed the room. Her first thought was that it was far too early for those on land to be traveling.

  Her second thought was that it was Slayde, leaving for Morland.

  Automatically, she pushed herself up to a sitting position, relieved when her head and ribs retaliated with only a mild protest. Moving aside the bedcovers, she eased herself to her feet. Her legs wobbled but held. She took one step, then another, making her way over to the window and peering out.

  The phaeton had rounded the drive and was traversing lush acres of greenery, heading away from the manor, its sole occupant the powerful man holding the reins.

  Slayde.

  Leaning against the wall, Courtney watched him until he disappeared from view, fervently wishing she were going with him to confront Lawrence Bencroft—her injuries be damned.

  Hands balling into fists, Courtney said a silent prayer that Slayde would learn something, that his trip to Morland would yield results. That, upon his return, they'd be one step closer to finding the pirate who'd seized her father's ship, and one step closer to peace and resolution.

  Unsteadily, she made her way back to the bed, lifting her father's timepiece from the drawer and clasping it in her hands. Was it madness to believe he was alive? Or, if not madness, then irrational faith? Last night, the idea had seemed so plausible. But today, in the cold light of day, the events of last night were distant and dreamlike.

  All the events of last night.

  Propping up her pillows, Courtney leaned back, her fingertips brushing her lips as mists of memory laced her thoughts. Pensively, she reflected on those unexpected moments in Slayde's arms.

  Unexpected, but unsurprising, given the intensity of the conversation that had preceded them, the revelations and emotions that had been roused.

  What was surprising was how natural it had felt—being close to Slayde, having his mouth touch hers, teach hers, take hers. She, whose romantic ideals, transient life, and protective father had precluded even the most innocent of courtships, had welcomed a man to her bed and participated in the most exquisite awakening of the senses imaginable.

  She was overreacting, she reminded herself silently. After all, it had been only a kiss, not a coupling. Then again, perhaps that made it all the more poignant, her heart argued back. True, nothing had happened, and yet … it had felt so incredibly right, having him beside her, sharing their pain, their pasts, and ultimately their embrace.

  With a pang of emptiness, Courtney contemplated the man whose teachings had spawned her overreaction: her father. 'Twas he who'd assured her, time and again, that her heart was meant to be awakened but once, that her tremendous capacity to love was destined for but one—the right one. She was meant for a man who needed her as much as she did him, one whom destiny would bring into her life when the time was right.

  Had that time just arrived? Or was last night merely a case of one human being reaching out to another? Papa, she mourned silently, how can I recognize that man without you here to guide me?

  Her throat tight with unshed tears, Courtney gazed down at her father's timepiece, torn by grief and confusion. It was the same confusion she'd seen mirrored in Slayde's eyes, not during their kiss, but after. He'd been as affected as she. And given her newly acquired knowledge of his past, she understood why. Emotional involvement was not something Slayde would permit. What was it Aurora had said? He keeps everything to himself Thus, he's alone. And lonely, whether he chooses to realize it or not.

  But last night he hadn't kept everything to himself. He'd opened up to her, discussed his grief in a way that both startled and unnerved him. And, in the process, he'd discovered something about himself he hadn't known existed and didn't intend to tolerate: vulnerability. So he'd done the safe thing, the only thing he could—he'd retreated.

  The creak of the bedchamber door interrupted her musings.

  "Courtney? Are you all right?" Aurora poked her head in, relief flooding her face as she saw Courtney reclining against the pillows. "I was on my way to the lighthouse. I heard shuffling noises from your room and thought you might be in pain."

  "Thank you." Once again, Courtney felt deeply touched by Aurora's concern. "I'm fine. What you heard was my feeble attempt to move about. I crept to the window and back, which is as much as I'm able to do. 'Tis so frustrating—" She broke off.

  "I understand. Confinement is dreadful." Aurora crossed over and perched on a chair. "Had I known you were awake, I would have visited earlier. I thought only the servants were up."

  "Earlier?" Courtney blinked. "It can't be much past dawn. What time do you generally arise?"

  A grin. "I have little patience for sleep. Shocking, isn't it? For a noblewoman to loathe her rest?"

  Courtney grinned back. "No more shocking than a sea captain's daughter who loathes the sea." She arched a brow. "Am I to presume that your friend the lighthouse keeper also awakens at first light? You did say you were on your way there."

  "Truthfully, I don't think Mr. Scollard ever sleeps. In fact, 'tis difficult to imagine his having a home—other than the Windmouth Lighthouse. All the times I've burst in, uninv
ited, he's always been at his post. And I've done that frequently, at hours ranging from dawn 'til midnight."

  "I don't doubt that you have." Courtney bit back laughter. "This Mr. Scollard sounds fascinating."

  Aurora leaned forward. "I believe he has the ability to see things most of us do not. 'Tis a gift; call it insight, wisdom, or something more. Whichever it is, it's astounding. I can't wait for you to meet him."

  "Nor can I." Courtney sighed in exasperation. "I feel so miserably helpless—for many reasons. I need to be up and about."

  "And you will be. By week's end, you'll be strolling with me to the lighthouse, you'll see." Aurora glanced up, the sound of clinking china announcing Matilda's imminent arrival with Courtney's breakfast. "What if I asked Matilda to serve my breakfast up here as well? That way we'd be able to continue our chat. Or did you wish to be alone?"