by Andrea Kane
"Please, lend me a vessel. I'll return it, I swear. But I must…"
The effects of her taxing flurry of activity and her vehement shakes of the head struck all at once. Wildly, the room began to spin, her limbs turning to water, pain lancing through her skull in quick, sharp bites. She knew she was going to faint, just as she knew—somewhere in the far reaches of her mind—that Slayde was going to catch her.
A flash of darkness; a brief snatch of time. Then she was on the bed, and Slayde was pressing a cool compress to her forehead.
"All right?" he murmured.
Her lashes fluttered, then lifted. "All right," she managed gratefully, feeling the room right itself as Slayde applied the cool cloth to her neck and wrists. "I'm sorry. 'Tis just that—"
"You needn't explain. Or apologize." His hard hand closed around her trembling one. "Helplessness is a terrible feeling. How well I know that. But Courtney…" He tipped up her chin. "You must be realistic. You're too weak to sail. You haven't a clue about where to search for this pirate or his ship." A weighted pause before Slayde pressed on, almost as if he was forcing the words to emerge. "And the odds that your father survived the Channel—bound, gagged, and weighted down—are nil. So stop torturing yourself with the notion that you should be doing something to recover him."
Her heart wrenched, logic combating hope, causing it to flicker and ebb. "The watch moved today," she whispered. "That, and my dream—couldn't they be signs?"
"They are signs—signs that you're mourning a terrible loss and want desperately to undo it."
"But the watch…?"
"That was a mechanism, not a miracle." A spasm of pain crossed Slayde's face. "I wish I could make it otherwise."
His strangled tone penetrated Courtney's grief, and she scrutinized his face, realizing that he was enduring his own inner turmoil, berating himself for failing to resolve things today. "Slayde." She lay her palm against his jaw. "Thank you for going to Morland. It must have been terribly difficult for you. I know you did it, at least in part, for me. You'll never know how grateful I am."
"Grateful for what? I went to get the name and whereabouts of the man who killed your father. I came away with nothing. Damnit." Slayde's fist struck the mattress. "I never expected Morland to be sober, much less vital. He hasn't been either in over a dozen years—ever since his son died."
"He had a son?"
"Two. Hubert was the elder. He died of a fever while attending Oxford. Morland, of course, blames the Huntleys and that blasted curse—yet another misfortune he holds against us. In any case, Morland's never recovered from Hugh's death."
"What about his other son?"
"Julian? He's a year younger than Hugh. He and Morland are about as compatible as a fox and a hen. Morland believes in home and hearth; Julian believes in challenge and adventure. The one thing Morland doesn't believe in is compromise. So the two of them went their separate ways long ago. From what I recall, Julian hasn't been home in over five years."
"He's been abroad all this time?"
"No, he shows up in England for a Season now and again—between exploits. But he doesn't visit Morland Manor. Nor does his father send for him."
"The duke sounds like a very inflexible man."
"He's a black-hearted bastard. Not as cruel as his father was, but nearly."
Courtney's fingers drifted lightly over Slayde's jaw. "Confronting the duke—just seeing him after all this time—must have been dreadful for you. Especially given your suspicions that he was connected with your parents' murders."
An excruciating silence. "It was hell," Slayde admitted at last in a rough, gravelly voice. "All the images came pouring back, as vivid as if they'd just occurred. It's been years since that nightmare happened; I really thought I'd put it behind me. But I haven't."
"You don't ever put something like that behind you, Slayde. You simply tuck it away, and pray each time that it doesn't resurface until you've gathered enough strength to face it again. And you say a prayer that maybe, just maybe, each 'next time' will hurt a little bit less."
A trace of awe softened Slayde's expression. "You're extraordinary, do you know that? Here you are, suffering an unbearable loss, but rather than seeking comfort, you're attempting to comfort me."
"Were my attempts successful?" she whispered.
"That's the most astounding part of all—yes."
"I'm glad. You're a wonderful man, Slayde. You've spent your whole life being strong for others. 'Tis about time you allowed someone to be strong for you. Thank you for letting me be that someone—even for a fleeting moment."
"Courtney." Slayde's knuckles grazed her cheek, his fingers sifting through the loose strands of her hair. His eyes darkened from silver to slate, and Courtney knew—probably before he did—that he was going to kiss her. She watched an internal battle wage across his face, and her heart skipped a beat as he relented, lowering his head to hers.
Tenderly, her hand slipped to his nape, telling him without words what she wanted, urging his mouth down to hers.
Their lips met, clung—and all resistance shattered. It was just as it had been last night: deep, consuming; even daylight's clarity was unable to mute the maelstrom of emotions they evoked in each other.
With rough desperation, Slayde's mouth seized hers, circling once, twice—hardening abruptly as he sought a deeper joining, urged her to accept the penetration of his tongue.
She opened to him with the same pure joy she'd felt last night, only this time without the safety of darkness to retreat behind when the madness subsided. She was rewarded with a harsh, inarticulate sound as Slayde's tongue mated with hers, his hands cradling her head as if to soften the voracity of his kiss.
Courtney needed no softening. Unfurling like a flower to sunlight, she sought more of the magic, wrapping her arms about Slayde's neck, her tongue returning his caresses, entwining with his.
Slayde shuddered, a new tautness pervading his body, one Courtney found unfamiliar but wildly exciting. His hand shifted, moved beneath her wrapper, and her breath caught as he cupped her breast, his thumb tracing the nipple through the fine silk of her nightrail.
"Slayde." She uttered his name on a shiver, stirring restlessly beneath a flicker of white-hot sensation. Her nipple hardened, throbbed, awakened to a touch it had never experienced but nonetheless knew. Slayde's thumb circled, paused, brushed the aching tip until she whimpered. Again and again, he repeated the heated caress, each time more intimately, his urgency a palpable entity that blazed through her like fireworks.
A groan vibrated in Slayde's chest, and his fingers swept over the curves of her body, his touch unbearably erotic, even with the layer of silk between them. His hand was shaking when it returned to her breast, this time easing not merely beneath the wrapper but beneath the nightrail as well.
Courtney cried out at the sensation of his warm palm on her naked flesh. Unconsciously, she arched upward, pressing her breast more completely into his hand, melting as he began caressing her in the same exquisite ways he had before, only now with nothing between them.
The kiss burned out of control, Slayde's mouth devouring hers with a hungry rhythm that matched the strokes of his fingertips. On and on it went, a heart-stopping eternity elapsing, interrupted by nothing save their pounding hearts and escalating desire.
By the time Slayde tore himself away, forcibly lifting his body from hers, his breathing was ragged, and Courtney was trembling so badly she was grateful to be lying down. Her knees would never have supported her.
"God," Slayde rasped, not even pretending to deny the magnitude of what had just happened. His lids were hooded as he stared down at her, his eyes a glittering silver, alight with awe. "Courtney … I…"
"Don't." Courtney could scarcely speak. Instead, she pressed her fingers to his lips, tracing the lingering warmth of their kiss. "Words like I'm sorry or this should never have happened would be too painful to hear."
Mutely, he nodded.
"Just answer one qu
estion for me, and we'll never speak of this again," Courtney continued, searching his face. "What I felt—the intensity, the wonder—did you feel it, too?"
Slayde swallowed, then kissed her fingertips before easing them away. "Yes, Courtney. I felt it, too."
"Good."
"No. Not good."
A tremulous smile curved Courtney's lips. "We weren't going to speak of it again, remember?"
"We also weren't going to repeat it."
"That, my lord, was your vow, not mine."
Exhaling sharply, Slayde scowled, preoccupied by his own troubled thoughts. "Promise me you won't do anything as stupid as you did just before you fainted," he said abruptly. "Promise me you'll stay put, let your body heal."
All levity having vanished, Courtney shook her head. "I can't promise you that. I can't simply sit by and let that animal get away with what he did to Papa."
Slayde's scowl deepened at her reply. "Before I returned to Pembourne, I made one other stop. I hired an investigator. He and his associate will scrutinize Morland Manor twenty-four hours a day—unless Bencroft leaves the estate, in which case they'll follow him wherever he goes, report back on whomever he meets. Between their efforts and mine, we'll unearth that bloody pirate, I promise you."
"If he's Morland's accomplice," Courtney amended softly. "Slayde, your decision to hire an investigator was both sound and incredibly generous, and I thank you for it. But what you've just described fails to take one thing into account: what if Morland is innocent? What if, despite your gut instincts, he's not involved in the theft of the black diamond? You yourself said that dozens of others have tried, and failed, to spirit the stone away. What if, this particular time, it was another person who orchestrated the theft? Then you're watching the wrong man while the real criminal walks free. Please. Put your personal feelings aside long enough to be objective."
Thoughtfully, Slayde weighed the credibility of Courtney's words. "All right," he conceded at last. "I see your point. Although my convictions haven't lessened," he added quickly. "So far as I'm concerned, Morland is guilty."
"I understand. But if he's not…"
"Very well, if he's not…" Slayde paused, an idea sparking in his eyes. "What if I were to travel to London, seek out Bow Street
and ask them to track down that pirate? I'm willing to bet he's still on English soil. Think about it. He'd never leave the country until he'd turned over the diamond and extracted his payment. In order to accomplish that, he'd have to first sail from our meeting place on the Channel to shore, then make the transaction—not to mention the fact that he'd need time to reclaim his own ship and transport his crew and whatever cargo he pilfered from the Isobel to his vessel. All those tasks together would consume at least several days. Which means he's probably still in England. And who better to unearth him than Bow Street
?" Slayde gave a decisive nod. "I'll ride to London first thing tomorrow and supply them with your excellent physical description of the culprit. They can begin at once. This way, if Morland really is innocent, we'll have professionals conducting an investigation that's separate and apart from him, one that should yield results whether or not he's involved. Would those steps be enough to keep you from dashing off and worsening your wounds?"
Courtney resisted the urge to fling her arms about Slayde's neck—partly because it was too soon after the devastating encounter they'd just shared and partly because of the battle she knew was about to ensue. "Those steps would be more than enough. 'Tis a splendid idea. Except for one slight modification. I'm accompanying you to London."
"You're what?" he thundered, looking as if she'd just suggested walking into a lion's den. "Absolutely not."
"Why?"
"Why? Have you any idea how long the carriage ride is from Devonshire to London? How many hours you—and your wounds—would be bounced along bumpy roads?"
"I presume you'd stop overnight at an inn."
"After a full day of travel, and prior to another one, yes."
"Then I'll sleep soundly and recoup my strength."
"No."
"Please, Slayde." She couldn't stop herself; she seized his hands. "I told you, I'm nearly healed. And I've seen many carriages owned by the nobility—I eye them whenever the Isobel is docked—and they're more luxurious and comfortable than this bed. I promise to rest on your cushioned seats throughout the entire trip. As for the uneven roads, at worst they'll cause me a twinge or two. Believe me, the motion will be minor in comparison to that of a storm-tossed sea. And twinges will be heaven compared to seasickness."
"Courtney—"
"Slayde." Her fingers closed around his. "You've confronted your nightmare. Now I must confront mine. Let me come with you."
Her final words found their mark.
For a long moment, Slayde stared down at their clasped hands. Then, he gave a slow, reluctant nod. "All right. 'Tis against my better judgment, but I'd be an utter hypocrite if I refused you. Further, I have the distinct feeling that if I don't relent, you'll find a way to get to London on your own."
"I'm very resourceful," she concurred softly. "Just ask Madame La Salle."
A corner of Slayde's mouth lifted. "And to think I viewed Aurora as difficult."
Courtney smiled. "I warned you."
"Indeed you did. Very well, Miss Johnston. Tomorrow we journey to Bow Street
—both of us."
* * *
As it was, Bow Street
journeyed to them.
Matilda had just finished removing Courtney's last bandage—and delivering her fifth lecture on the dangers of traveling so soon after being injured—when the sound of an approaching carriage reached their ears.
"Isn't it a bit early for visitors?" Courtney inquired.
"Indeed it is." Matilda angled Courtney's chin so she could study her forehead. "Splendid. The gash is nearly healed. Now 'tis only an ugly cut." She paused. "However, your ribs are still tender and you're as weak as a kitten. If you ask me—"
"Who would come to Pembourne before seven A.M.?" Courtney interrupted, walking slowly toward the window.
A shrug. "Probably the Viscountess Stanwyk. She visits Lady Aurora now and again." Matilda sighed deeply. "Very well, if you insist on traveling to London with Lord Pembourne, then I shall accompany you."
"You?" Courtney turned, her brows arching in surprise. "Whatever for?"
It was Matilda's turn to look amazed. "To chaperon you, of course. You can't very well journey alone with the earl. You're a single young lady with a reputation to consider."
"A reputation?" Courtney's shoulders began to shake with laughter. "Oh, Matilda, I have no reputation, nor do I care a whit about one. The sole year I spent as a proper young lady was at a boarding school that would rather endure a plague than readmit me. The remainder of my life, I've been at sea. I'm hardly in danger of being compromised by traveling with Lord Pembourne."
"Still, I'll…"
Strained male voices drifted up through the open window.
"That can't be Lady Stanwyk," Courtney murmured, peering out. "Oh, God." All the color drained from her face. "Matilda, Slayde is talking to a gentleman in uniform. The uniform looks like one of those worn by Bow Street
."
Ignoring her physical discomfort, Courtney gathered up her newly donned skirts and made her way to the door. "I'm going downstairs," she announced in a tone that precluded argument.
"I'll assist you." Matilda scurried to her side.
By the time they reached the foot of the stairs, Slayde and his visitor had entered the manor and were conversing heatedly. Slayde's expression was grim, while the stocky uniformed gentleman looked decidedly uneasy, shifting from one foot to the other and hanging near the entrance like a scared rabbit longing to bolt. Courtney paused, not merely to study the men, but to clutch the banister in an attempt to still her swimming head and trembling limbs.
"Are you all right, Miss Courtney?" Matilda asked with a worried frown.
"Fine, Matilda
. I'm just regathering my strength." Hearing their voices, Slayde glanced up, his dark scowl growing darker. "Courtney."
She braced herself for what she assumed would be an admonishment about overexerting herself.
It never came.
Without another word, Slayde walked rigidly toward them, taking Courtney's arm and nodding a curt dismissal at Matilda. "I'll take over from here."
"Very good, m'lord," the lady's maid replied. "I'll pack Miss Courtney's bag for your trip."
"No. Don't."
Courtney started at the harshness of Slayde's tone. So did Matilda. "But I … that is—"
"Forgive my rudeness, Matilda," Slayde interrupted, clearly trying to make amends, at the same time ending the conversation. "But packing is no longer necessary."