Impulsively, Aurora leaned forward, seizing Courtney’s hand. “Perhaps we can have a small celebration of our own. Here, at Pembourne. That is, if you choose to stay with us. Please, Courtney—may I call you Courtney?” She paused only to inhale, not to await Courtney’s ensuing nod. “And you must call me Aurora. Please stay. I know Slayde can be aloof and difficult, but he’s scarcely home. And the servants, for the most part, keep to themselves, except when they’re checking up on me, of course—which they’re far less apt to do if I have a companion to keep me from straying off Pembourne’s grounds. So you’ll be allowed as much or as little freedom as you wish. I shan’t invade your privacy, or your grief. But Courtney—” Another breath. “Sometimes grief is better shared. Else it grows larger rather than smaller. My brother is a perfect example of that. He keeps everything to himself. Thus, he’s alone. And lonely, whether he chooses to realize it or not. Well, I won’t let that happen to me. Nor to you, if you’ll accept my friendship.” A dimple appeared in each of Aurora’s cheeks. “Let’s see,” she mused aloud, “we’re about the same size, so buying a wardrobe won’t be necessary. You’ll simply wear all of my clothes—beginning next week, when you’re up and about. Shortly thereafter, you’ll be ready for long strolls. I have just the place for us to visit. ’Tis my favorite spot in all the world, and the ideal site for your birthday celebration. I’ll take you there, introduce you to the most fascinating and caring man. His stories are mesmerizing, and the view from his window spectacular—the very cliffs and water you’ve dreamed of.” Aurora’s grip tightened. “Say you’ll stay.”
Grief temporarily supplanted by awe, Courtney stared at Aurora, touched by her generosity, wondering if Aurora knew just how contagious her enthusiasm was—and how healing.
Unexpected tears filled Courtney’s eyes. “Do you know, Aurora,” she managed, intentionally using the given name she’d been requested to, “I never realized until this minute just how bereft I was of friendship. I’d be honored to strive to earn yours.” A shaky smile. “Yes, I’ll stay. And, yes, please call me Courtney. And, yes, I’d love to visit your lighthouse.”
Joy—followed by surprise. “Slayde told you about the Windmouth lighthouse?”
“Not by name, no. Only that you’re drawn to it, time and again.”
“That’s all he could tell you. ’Tis all he knows, or rather, all he chooses to know,” Aurora added with a resigned sigh. “The lighthouse is an adventurer’s dream and a wanderer’s haven. Mr. Scollard, its keeper, is my dearest friend. He’s a prophet and a genius. Nothing he says, or relays, is without meaning—if the listener is shrewd enough to search for it. I remember the very first story he told me. I was five years old. ’Twas about a smuggler who transported a chest of jewels to England with the intention of burying it in a forsaken cave at Cornwall. But before he could reach land, his ship was dashed on the rocks, and the jewels were forever lost at sea. Sometimes, late at night, you can still see the gems sparkling across the waters of the Channel. And—”
“That’s enough, Aurora.”
Slayde loomed in the doorway, his expression as dark as his tone. “I said you could meet our guest, not wear her out. You’ll have plenty of time to regale her with Mr. Scollard’s nonsensical yarns—if she still chooses to stay at Pembourne. A quarter hour with you might very well have altered her decision.”
“Not at all,” Courtney inserted. “If anything, it’s reinforced it.” She smiled at Aurora. “I look forward to hearing more. And to meeting Mr. Scollard—not once, but countless times.”
A dazzling grin lit Aurora’s face. “Cook will bake a splendid cake when your birthday arrives. We’ll take it with us to the lighthouse. Maybe Elinore can join us there. Oh! You asked who she was. Elinore is the Viscountess Stanwyk. She lives in Teignmouth, less than two miles from here. She was Mama’s dearest friend. But don’t let her age fool you; she’s as vibrant as a young girl. In fact, she’s the one with whom I spent this past week in London. Tomorrow, after you’ve rested, I’ll tell you all about our adventures there. The important thing is, I’m sure Elinore will be delighted to partake in our birthday celebration. As will Mr. Scollard. And who knows? Perhaps he can tell you something wonderful about your future.”
Her future.
Courtney felt the constriction in her chest return.
“Say good night, Aurora,” Slayde commanded. “Miss Johnston is exhausted. Matilda is on her way up to change our guest’s bandages and bring her some supper. Then she must sleep. You’ll visit again tomorrow.”
“Of course.” Aurora rose. “Sleep well, Courtney.” She paused, her buoyancy vanishing in the wake of solemn perception. “The grief will subside,” she vowed, squeezing Courtney’s hand. “And remember—you’re not alone.”
Courtney’s lips trembled. “Thank you, Aurora. I’ll keep reminding myself of that.”
The grandfather clock struck midnight.
In his study, Slayde poured another brandy and paced restlessly about the room.
He’d closeted himself here to plan tomorrow’s unscheduled confrontation with Morland.
Instead, he’d done nothing but think of Courtney.
There was something poignantly moving about her, something that touched a chord inside him, resonated through him like a melody he’d never heard yet somehow recognized. He’d felt it when he watched her sleep, then again when she’d been chatting with Aurora and her spirit had shown signs of revival. It was separate and apart from her beauty, even from her inner strength. The former elicited attraction; the latter, admiration. This was something different. And he was damned if he understood it.
One thing he did understand, and that was Courtney’s need to strike back, to punish the bastard who’d killed her father. The more Slayde pondered the facts, the more convinced he was that the pirate in question had not worked alone. Somewhere out there was an accomplice—or, more likely, an employer—who’d paid to have the black diamond seized.
Seized—or from the viewpoint of Morland’s warped mind, restored. That unstable lowlife had never ceased to believe that the jewel rightfully belonged in the hands of the Bencrofts. So if he was at the helm, it was not only to reap the wealth afforded by the black diamond, but to undo sixty years of what his distorted mind perceived as heinous injustice.
If he was at the helm.
But who else would have been twisted enough to invent Aurora’s kidnapping?
Tossing off his drink, Slayde contemplated the forthcoming altercation. Confronting Morland was going to be ugly. The man was a weakling, a drunk, and a liar. He was also bitter and vindictive, hating the Huntleys with every fiber of his being. Clearly, whether he was guilty or not, he’d deny everything and throw Slayde off his estate.
Unless Slayde arrived with ammunition.
Ammunition in the form of concrete proof or, at the very least, powerful enough implications to make the duke lose his shaky composure and—given the combined effects of constantly consumed liquor and the pressure—to incriminate himself.
Raking a hand through his hair, Slayde considered that prospect. He’d have to acquire some information before bursting into Morland’s home and accusing him of theft, blackmail, and, indirectly, murder. He’d visit a few of the duke’s colleagues, learn a little about what the fool had been up to over the past fortnight, whom he’d seen and where he’d been.
Then Slayde would go for the kill. Through skill and cunning, he just might succeed in prodding Morland into talking a bit too much and divulging some condemning detail, after which he would ascertain the name and whereabouts of the pirate who’d killed Courtney’s father and exact the revenge she sought.
As well as a semblance of his own.
The abhorrent events—and unanswered questions—of ten years past unfolded in Slayde’s mind once more, in vivid, excruciating detail.
His parents, lying in pools of blood on the marble floor. The terrified servants, all shaking their heads, swearing they’d seen and heard nothing. The
authorities, after weeks of futile investigation, shrugging their shoulders and abandoning their search for the murderer. And the odious, though unproven, possibility that Chilton Bencroft, Geoffrey’s son and Lawrence’s father, had ordered the monstrous execution, exacting the most horrible, fatal kind of revenge.
Lord, how Slayde wished he’d reached the bastard in time to learn the truth, to choke it out of him, if need be. But the old man had died a month later, succumbing to a longstanding weakness of the heart.
And the truth had died with him.
Perhaps, through Courtney, Slayde was being given another chance to see that justice was served. Tomorrow’s excursion would tell.
With a weary sigh, Slayde turned down the lamp and headed for bed.
The second floor was silent.
Slayde rounded the landing, grateful that Aurora had finally retired for the night and that the servants had followed suit. He felt the need for solitude, and thankfully, all of Pembourne was deep in slumber.
A choked sound refuted that notion, reaching Slayde’s ears and stopping him in his tracks. Straining, he listened, wondering if it had been his imagination.
No, there it was again. Someone was crying. And, judging by the direction of the sound, that someone was Courtney.
All thoughts of solitude having vanished, Slayde retraced his steps, turning the door handle without pausing to knock.
Shadows washed the room, broken only by the dim glow of a single lamp. It was enough. Slayde could easily discern Courtney’s slight form, huddled in the center of the bed, weeping as if her heart would break.
“Courtney?” He shut the door, crossing over.
Her head came up, and she stared at him, her eyes damp pools of jade. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t mean to awaken anyone.”
“You didn’t. I was already awake.” The agony on her face was unbearable and, without thinking, Slayde perched on her bedside, reached out for her.
She went into his arms with a heartbreaking whimper, burying her face against his shirt as harsh sobs wracked her body.
“Shhh…it’s not the wounds, is it?”
“No.”
“I thought not.” Tenderly, he stroked her hair, his lips brushing the satiny tresses.
“It was…a dream.”
Slayde could well imagine what, or whom, she’d dreamed of. “It’s all right. You’re awake now.”
“I wish I weren’t,” she wept. “Oh, God, I’m trying so hard to be strong, but I’m just not sure that I can be, nor that I even want to be. I’m sorry…I don’t mean to sound childish and irrational. I can’t seem to help myself.”
“You’re neither irrational nor childish.” His palm caressed her back, feeling her agitated tremors even through the thin barrier of her nightrail. “You’ve endured a brutal shock, not only to your body, but to your life. You must give yourself time to heal.”
“And what if I can’t heal?”
“You will.”
“I don’t think so. My dream…” With a shaky sigh, Courtney drew back, gazing up at Slayde with haunted eyes. “What would you say if I told you I think Papa’s alive—that he didn’t drown when he went overboard? Would you think I was mad?”
“I’d think you were mourning. Denial is part of that process.”
“No. My dream was too real.” She dashed away her tears. “He was calling out to me. Not in a spiritual sense, but in an actual one. He was reassuring me that he lived.”
“You’re emotionally drained and physically depleted. Not to mention the fact that you have a concussion, which very often jumbles thoughts. Believe me, you’re not mad. You’re perfectly normal.”
“Am I?” Her breath came in sharp pants, and when Slayde eased her toward the pillows, she clutched at his shirt, terror slashing her delicate features. “Talk to me,” she pleaded softly. “Stay with me. Just for a while. Don’t leave me alone with this horrible, gripping emptiness.”
“I won’t,” he promised, reversing his motion and bringing her against him. “I’ll stay as long as you need me. I wasn’t leaving. I was just helping you to lie back and rest.”
“I don’t want to lie back—or to rest. I want to talk. Please.”
How well he understood. “By all means.” Shifting a bit, Slayde eased her onto her side, cushioning her head in the crook of his arm. Then, he stretched out beside her, his back propped against the headboard. “How’s that?”
A deep, contented sigh. “Thank you.”
“My pleasure. Would you like a fire?”
“No. I’m fine—as long as I’m not alone.”
“You’re not. I’m right here.” He waited until his words had sunk in and he felt the panic ease from her muscles. Then he sought to distract her. “Did I hear Aurora mention something about your birthday being imminent?”
A tentative nod. “Next month.” She swallowed. “Papa’s gift was to be a puppy.”
“Any specific kind of puppy?”
“No. Just one who needed me—and, of course, one who was a natural sailor.”
“As you are, I presume.”
An ironic sound escaped Courtney’s lips. “I? Hardly. I dreaded every moment of our journeys. That’s why the second part of Papa’s gift meant so much. He planned to spend one full week with me. On land. Funny—” Her voice quavered. “At the time, it seemed too short an interval. Now, one week seems like the most priceless of gifts.”
Slayde felt a wave of compassion—and a surge of confusion. “If you dreaded your journeys, why in God’s name did you go? Surely your father didn’t insist that you remain—”
“He didn’t,” she interrupted. “Papa never knew of my feelings. No one did. In fact, you’re the first person I’ve ever told. Had I confessed the truth to Papa, one of two things would have happened: either he would have given up the sea, which I couldn’t abide—’twas his life—or he’d have restored me to boarding school, which would have been akin to thrashing me. I’d spent months pleading with him to withdraw me and equally as many months upending the school so they were more than happy to comply.”
Slayde’s lips twitched. “It sounds like you were a terror.”
“I was.” He felt her smile faintly against his shirt. “Trust me, Aurora is a lamb in comparison.”
“What a harrowing thought.” Slayde’s brows knit. “When we first spoke of your father, you referred to the Isobel in affectionate terms—as your home.”
“It was. Because Papa was there. But every night, I prayed for the impossible: that he would tire of the sea on his own and choose for us to settle down. To make a real home, together.”
“I see.” Slayde stared off into space, wondering why he, the most circumspect of men, was asking so many intrusive questions, and more importantly, why he felt compelled to know as much as he could about his beautiful houseguest. “Is your mother alive?”
“No. Mama died just after I was born. I never knew her. But I knew a great deal about her. Papa spoke of her constantly: her beauty, her warm-hearted nature, her enthusiasm for life. Of course, he was more than a bit subjective. He adored her.”
“Did she live near the docks? Is that where they met?”
A soft breath of laughter. “She lived in a mansion. They met when Papa’s ship was docked and Mama happened to be strolling near the water’s edge. Mama’s parents were blue bloods—titled and affluent. Needless to say, they were less than thrilled with her choice of husbands. But it didn’t matter, not to her or to Papa. They were very much in love. The fact that she was an aristocrat and Papa a sea captain mattered not a whit. Eventually, their devotion triumphed. They procured her parents’ blessing and were married that very week.” Courtney rose up, inclining her head in question. “Do you recall the timepiece you rescued? The one you placed in the nightstand drawer?”
Slayde nodded. “I remember.”
“It’s the finest of captain’s watches. And Papa’s most treasured memory of Mama. She gave it to him as a wedding gift, a symbol of
their lives and their love. Not only is the craftsmanship exquisite, the scene within—” Courtney broke off, her eyes widening eagerly. “Would you like to see it? Really see it, in detail?”
The glow on her face was worth the cost of a dozen timepieces combined. “Yes, I would. Very much.”
Gingerly, Courtney twisted about and extracted the piece of silver with a familiarity that made Slayde suspect she’d done this repeatedly over the past two days. “I realize you must already have glanced at it,” she said, “but ’tis far too beautiful for a cursory look.” Lovingly, she caressed the gleaming case, extending the watch for Slayde’s perusal.
He took it, noting the intricacy of the pattern etched on the outside. “It’s lovely.”
“Open it,” Courtney urged. “Hold it to the lamp so you can see the scene inside.”
Slayde complied, studying the enchanting picture that greeted him.
A solitary ship graced the center of the watch’s face. The vessel appeared to be paused on a course to the lighthouse depicted on the right—no, not paused—unmoving. Cushioned by peaceful sea waters, the ship remained as it was, halted midway to its destination, suspended in time.
“According to Papa, Mama claimed he was the ship and she, the lighthouse,” Courtney elaborated, her voice choked. “That’s because, until a few days past, the picture moved. The lighthouse beam appeared, beckoning, and the ship sailed toward it, hastening toward its welcoming light just as Papa always did to Mama. He took the watch with him wherever he traveled, kept it with him all these years—even after she died. It was his way of having Mama beside him, always.” A shuddering breath. “He gave me the timepiece just before he was forced overboard, told me to keep it as a memory of them both. I clutched it long after that animal locked me in my cabin. I was afraid to open the case, because I knew what I would find. At last, I relented, needing to see I was wrong—only to discover I was right. Just as I dreaded, the watch had stopped.” Hollow emptiness returned to Courtney’s eyes. “It won’t start again until Papa is home where he belongs.”