by Andrea Kane
"At the time, I thought so," Lexley muttered brokenly. "Maybe it was just wishful thinking. But it was the only way I could try to save him. Heaven help me, it wasn't enough."
Slayde inhaled sharply, asking the crucial question that had gnawed at him for over a week. "Before Armon forced you to thrust Arthur off the Isobel, did you manage to loosen his gag? His bonds? Did you somehow find a way to increase your captain's chances of survival?"
Lexley stared. "How did you know?"
"God, then it's true." Hope and triumph converged, pounded through Slayde's blood. "I knew—or rather, suspected—because Courtney's memories include hearing her father scream as he went over. No gagged man can scream loud enough to be heard a deck below."
"I loosened the gag just before we reached the rail. Armon was a dozen feet away. I turned my back on him while I maneuvered the captain to the side, positioned myself so Armon was unable to see what I was doing. I worked my blade from my pocket and slashed the bonds at Captain Johnston's wrists and the rope tying the weighted sack to his thigh. The end of that rope I shoved into his hand, where he clutched it low and against him so it would appear to Armon that it was still fastened to his leg. The bastard got only a brief view because, a split second later, I thrust Captain Johnston over the edge. I knew his chances were slim. He would have had to unbind his own ankles—I didn't dare risk taking the extra time to do so for fear of alerting Armon—and then battle that rough section of the Channel. But he was an incredibly strong swimmer and, with the currents in his favor, I prayed he could make it to shore. It appears my prayers were for naught."
"Did you say the currents were with him?" Slayde demanded. "I don't understand. Courtney and I sailed in those currents. They were powerful as hell, nearly dragging us out to sea."
"They're always fierce, almost impossible to navigate. But sometimes they change direction and surge inland. That was the case the day Captain Johnston went down."
"When we revisited the area, Courtney said she thought that the current on that awful day had been running in the opposite direction to what we saw—but then she assumed she was mistaken."
"Probably, she doesn't know the current can reverse. Courtney wasn't what you would call an avid sailor, m'lord. She rarely spent much time topside—only enough to know the route, not the more intricate challenges we encountered."
Slayde gripped the bedpost so tightly his knuckles turned white. "You're telling me those waters were moving in the opposite direction that day?"
Another nod.
"Then he could be alive." Slayde's eyes narrowed. "Courtney's father could very well be alive."
"No, m'lord." Lexley shook his head emphatically. "If I believed that, I'd be crawling my way along the Cornish coastline, searching. But I don't. Because if Captain Johnston was alive, he would have found his way to Courtney."
"Not if he was injured. Or ill. Or even unconscious. Hell, following such a furious bout with the seas, he could be any of those things."
"But if he'd been found, wouldn't his rescue have been reported?"
"Reported where? To whom? If Johnston was coherent, he would have realized the Isobel must have been destroyed. As for Courtney, the last he saw her, she was being held prisoner. He doubtless believed the worst. And that's assuming he was lucid. What if he wasn't? What if he was unable to identify himself? How would his rescuers know where to take him or whom to contact?"
"M'lord—" Lexley's hands balled into fists, refusing to allow hope for what he feared to be virtually impossible. "I want to believe this as much as you do. But if nothing's been reported, isn't it more likely the captain drowned?"
Slayde shook his head. "I don't think so. The currents were too strong for him to have sunk without the weight of that sack dragging him down. He must have been washed ashore. And if he were already dead when that happened, I would have received word. You see, I sent messages to every coastal clergyman I could think of. Had a drowned man been found washed ashore, one of those clergymen would have been notified, after which he would have notified me."
Promise flared in Lexley's eyes. "That makes sense." He sat up, his exhaustion forgotten. "Could this truly be possible? Do you honestly believe Captain Johnston is—might be—alive?"
A month ago, Slayde's reply would have been an unconditional no.
But now?
Solemnly, Slayde pondered Courtney's dreams, the periodic advances of her timepiece, the intensity of her faith, a faith that had been shattered by misleading currents too convincing to ignore.
Someone who looks but can't see… But now he sees…
Confidently, Slayde nodded. "Do I believe Johnston could be alive?" he repeated, the answer as clear as the vision he now possessed. "Yes. And I know just where to go to find out."
* * *
Chapter 16
« ^ »
Aurora gasped, all the color draining from her face as she examined the diagram Slayde had given her. "Someone at Pembourne is involved? My God." She sank into a chair. "Whoever penned this aided Armon not only with blackmail and theft, but with murder. They killed Mama and Papa."
"And they'll pay for it." Courtney lay a comforting hand on Aurora's shoulder. "Their crimes won't go unpunished."
"Nor will their intended crimes," Slayde added bitterly. Seeing Aurora's questioning look, he expounded, his face tight with remembered rage. "Whoever's orchestrating this scheme obviously believes Courtney to be a threat. When she and I left for London last week, we stopped in Somerset for the night. The moment Courtney alit from the carriage, a masked rider appeared out of nowhere and fired a shot at her. But for the grace of God…"
"No. Oh, Courtney." Aurora grasped her friend's hand, as if to assure herself that Courtney were unharmed. "Thank heavens he missed you."
"He didn't miss me for lack of skill," Courtney said softly. "Were it not for Slayde…" A shiver of remembered fear. "Your brother saved my life—again. He knocked me out of the way just in time."
"It had to be Morland." Aurora was on her feet again. "Your threats terrified him. He hadn't a clue they were contrived. He must have followed you here, then from Pembourne to Somerset—and tried to silence you."
"My theory exactly." For the third time in a quarter hour, Slayde glanced at the tightly locked sitting room door. "Let's keep our voices down. As Oridge reminded us, we haven't a clue who penned that sketch. Until we do, no one must be privy to our conversations."
"We have to unearth the traitor at Pembourne." Aurora's whisper was fierce, her expression murderous. "Then he can lead us to Morland."
"We spent the entire carriage ride home trying to do just that," Courtney said with a restless sweep of her palm. "We came up with nothing. That, of course, must change at once."
"Without question," Aurora concurred. "We'll think of a plan immediately."
Despite the gravity of the situation, a faint smile flickered across Slayde's face. "Not only are you both reckless and inventive, you're also impatient and strong-willed. I shudder to think what my life will be like with the two of you."
"Slayde," Aurora put in, unsmiling, "is there anything else you haven't told me?"
Slayde's amusement vanished, and he glanced at Courtney, who gave him an encouraging nod. "Only one thing more," he admitted quietly. "A truth I kept from you from the start—not because I didn't trust you, Aurora, but because I was desperate to protect you." A resigned sigh. "However, as Courtney finally managed to convince me, you're entitled to know."
"Know what?"
"The black diamond, the one I gave Armon—it was a fake. I paid a jeweler to craft it. I've never so much as seen the real black diamond. But I was terrified that your kidnappers would kill you if I didn't produce something. So I did."
Aurora sucked in her breath. "Why would you keep something of that magnitude from me?"
"Because you believe in that absurd, monstrous curse. I hoped my deception would afford you peace of mind. As it turns out, that peace of mind was shattered anyway."
"I see." Aurora shook her head, trying to absorb the ramifications of what Slayde had disclosed. "Right now, my feelings about the black diamond, its curse on the Huntleys—even my reaction to your deceiving me—are secondary. More important is the fact that given what you've just told me, Morland obviously still has the stone. If he'd tried to sell it or restore it to Russia, someone would have discovered it was a fake. Further, that explains why the letters we printed in the Times upset him so. We must have thwarted whatever plans he had."
"I agree wholeheartedly," Slayde replied. "'Tis time to discern Lawrence Bencroft's plans and his state of mind. Hence, I intend to return his visit—today. I mean to find out exactly why he came to Pembourne, whether his intoxicated state was a one-time event or a reversion to his years as a drunken sot and what he's been up to. After that, I mean to seek out Rayburn and hear from his lips whether Morland left his estate the night Courtney was assailed."
"And then?" Aurora pressed.
"And then we'll see if we have enough incriminating facts to undo Morland on our own, or if we need the help of his Pembourne accomplice." Extracting his timepiece, Slayde glanced at the hour. "Speaking of which, we're due in my study in twenty minutes for a meeting with Oridge. He'll want that list specifying all the servants who have been with us at least ten years."
"I'll help you compile it," Aurora declared at once.
"Good; then it will be ready when he is. After we mull over the possibilities, I'll leave for Morland. Incidentally, if you and Courtney become overeager during my absence and decide to take matters into your own hands—don't. Oridge has been instructed to adhere himself to you like a second skin until my return. I assume neither of you objects?"
Aurora arched a brow. "And if we did?"
"Then I'd remind you that while I'm just learning how to need and love, I've long since mastered the art of protecting those I care for." Slayde's jaw set. "Don't test me, Aurora. You won't win."
"Slayde," Courtney interceded, with a brief shake of her head at Aurora, "we won't leave Pembourne or do anything foolish. But that doesn't preclude our withdrawing behind closed doors, trying to conjure up a plan to unmask the traitor at Pembourne. Surely you wouldn't deny us that?"
A slow, indrawn breath. "No. I suppose I wouldn't. Nor would you listen to me if I did."
"That's true." Courtney's eyes sparkled. "On the other hand, Mr. Oridge's job will be infinitely easier if Aurora and I spend the afternoon together in one room. Just think: rather than dashing about the grounds, begging Cutterton for assistance, Oridge will only have to post himself outside one door and perform his sentry duty until your return. He can even alert us if, for any reason, our voices become discernible and need to be lowered." A beatific smile. "Now, doesn't that make sense?"
Slayde eyed her warily. "Unfortunately, yes—it does." A speculative pause. "I'm not sure why, but you always seem to bring me around to your way of thinking, even when I have no intentions of being swayed."
"Yes, I do, don't I?"
A scowl. "Aurora's defiance I can handle, and combat, but your … your…"
"Persuasiveness?" Courtney suggested. "Logic? Wisdom?" She crossed the room, laying her palm against Slayde's jaw. "Or perhaps it's just an ability that stems from loving someone the way I love you."
Slayde swallowed, emotion darkening his eyes. "Perhaps." He turned his lips into her palm. "In which case I'll learn to live with it."
* * *
The lighthouse was quiet when Slayde arrived two hours later. Awkwardly, he knocked, wondering if Scollard was even here during the afternoons and, if so, if he would welcome Slayde's visit.
"Ah, Lord Pembourne. You've arrived. Excellent."
Whipping about, Slayde stared at the elderly man who'd come up behind him.
"Forgive me. Did I startle you?" Mr. Scollard inclined his head. "You could have gone in and waited for me in the sitting room. I was just examining the area above the strip, away from where the tide waters strike the shore. An excellent location for a cottage." He reached past Slayde and opened the door. "Come in."
Slayde complied, feeling as off balance as if he'd been struck. "You were expecting me?"
"Of course." Scollard scratched his chin thoughtfully. "There was something I wanted to do … what was it?" An exasperated shrug. "No matter. It'll come to me. In the meantime, I'll make some tea. You haven't much time and we have a great deal to discuss. Incidentally, I'm relieved you left Oridge to oversee the ladies. He'll station himself right outside Rory's door and at the same time be able to review that list and keep an eye out for suspicious behavior. He'll even find a minute or two to chat with Lexley." The lighthouse keeper scowled. "It's Courtney I'm worried about, but for this one afternoon, she'll be safe, and after today, you won't be leaving her alone … ah!" he exclaimed, his eyes lighting up.
"That's what I wanted to do—offer my congratulations. You're a lucky man. Then again, Courtney is equally lucky. Two halves of what will soon be a far greater whole. I'm delighted. I can hardly wait to see what a beautiful bride she'll make." A curious glance. "I'll get that tea. You'll need at least two cups; your mouth's been hanging open so long it must be parched."
Slayde snapped it shut. "I… How do you know… Never mind." He dropped into a chair. "Please accept my apologies. This is all very new to me."
"No apologies are necessary," Mr. Scollard assured him. "Even Rory, who's been privy to my insights for years and who's far more open to the intangible than you, occasionally has difficulty accepting that which clearly is. As for this being very new to you, I know that only too well—and I'm as relieved by your transformation as I am proud. For a while there, I feared you might never find your way."
"Find my way?" Slayde asked with a faint smile. "Or see clearly enough to discern it?"
"Both. You'd wandered too far to realize you were lost, much less to distinguish your path home."
A harsh, indrawn breath. "How many times have we met?" Slayde managed. "Twice? Three times? And glimpsed each other perhaps a dozen times more? How is it you know me so well?" He shook his head in wonder. "Or is that one of those questions Courtney claims you won't answer?"
Mr. Scollard gave a profound sigh. "Won't? Perhaps can't is a better choice of words. No gift comes without its price. Mine is that I cannot envision at will, or block out what I'd rather not see." His probing stare met Slayde's. "I've prayed with all my heart to foresee your solution, yet I see only bits of it."
"I'll take those bits—gladly. Whatever you can offer me."
"So be it. The tea." Mr. Scollard vanished, only to return minutes later with a pot and two cups. "Rory says you don't much care for tea. So I've laced it with brandy. I considered doing that with Courtney, but she'd be either foxed or asleep after one cup. So I refrained."
Chuckling, Slayde accepted the proffered cup. "You're right."
Mr. Scollard seated himself across from Slayde, waiting only until his guest had downed several gulps of tea. "Ask," he urged simply. "I'll gift you with all I can."
Lowering his cup, Slayde got right to the point. "Is Courtney's father alive?"
"Ah, Courtney asked me much the same question. She asked if her father was gone. I told her he was gone from her eyes and ears but never from her mind and heart."
"That means only that he's elsewhere, not that he's dead."
A triumphant gleam lit Scollard's eyes. "Good for you. Courtney can't understand as such—not yet. And while it's true Lexley divulged his heroic acts to you, it was you who approached him."
"Why didn't you tell Courtney what Lexley had done?"
"I didn't know. Probably because Courtney wasn't ready to hear. I told her all that was in my power to grasp, explained that there are some ties that can be broken, others that cannot—and that it was up to her to discern the difference."
"Knowing Courtney, she must have assumed you were referring to spiritual ties."
A smile. "You know your betrothed well. In any case, I clarified
the point as best I was able, reassuring her that if memories can't be silenced, spiritual bonds can't be broken, while physical bonds can. That if, however, was Courtney's dilemma. She couldn't recall what was never hers to know. Awareness of the Channel's currents was precluded by her perpetual seasickness. Therefore, her faith was splintered."
"Faith that was perpetuated by vivid dreams and a broken timepiece that moved at will."
"Ah, the timepiece. A remarkable treasure. A thwarted ship; a lighthouse that beckons. Like an ailing man struggling to heal, and the quiet inlet that houses him. Yes, Courtney's mother gave her husband the perfect wedding gift. As you'll give to your wife." A faraway gleam. "Precisely what she's prayed for, in fact."