“Torie, I’m thirsty.” Damaris was tugging on her riding skirt.
“Why? Has he tired of you already? Does Elaine know and want you out of Drago Hall? Are you pregnant?”
“I haven’t done anything. He is the one.”
“Torie, what’s the matter? David’s yelling.”
“Hush, love. David—”
“Good-bye, Victoria. If only . . . Oh, the devil. Find another witless fellow to cozen.”
He dug his heels into his stallion’s sides. Victoria stood swaying slightly and watched him gallop erratically through the maple trees.
“Where’s David going?”
“Away, Damie. Yes, away.” She turned slowly, took the child’s hand, and walked to the edge of the pond. The water looked appealing, dark green and endlessly calm. It was also only two feet deep, she thought, and began to laugh at herself. She was more of a fool than David.
“Why are you laughing, Torie?”
“Laughing? Is that what I was doing? Well, I suppose there is really nothing else to do.”
3
It is easy to be brave from a safe distance.
—AESOP
Victoria fisted her hands, coming fully out of the shadows on the first-floor landing when she heard the lilting strains of a waltz coming from the ballroom below. A small act of defiance. Damien was there, and she was safe, at least until the ball was over. How she wished at that moment that she could have him in her power for but five minutes. Let him plead with her, beg her not to harm him. But it was a fantasy and he would never be in her power; it was not the way the world worked. No, Damien was in the ballroom laughing, dancing, knowing that he had threatened her and lied to David—and not caring.
Damaris, thank the powers, had finally fallen asleep an hour before, and Nanny Black had plaited her wispy gray hair, picked up her Bible, and retired to her own narrow cot. Victoria leaned against the wall, taking the weight from her left leg. Her shoulder touched the edge of a portrait. She turned, startled, to see a long-ago Carstairs in periwig and purple satin holding a dog uglier than Elaine’s pug, Missie. She moved away from the portrait, drew a deep breath, and tried to think clearly, but Damien’s face, his words, his fierce hands, intruded.
Two hours before, he’d caught her just outside her bedchamber. He was dressed in evening clothes and he was smiling at her. A victor’s triumphant smile.
“So, my little Victoria, you’re not coming to the ball?”
She knew she shouldn’t show him her fear, but it was difficult. “No,” she said. “No, I’m not.”
“I daresay Esterbridge isn’t coming either.”
She couldn’t help herself. “You’re a lying bastard, Damien. How could you be so despicable?”
He was still smiling as he stepped toward her, and she quickly jerked sideways. She wasn’t fast enough. He trapped her against the wall, a hand on either side of her face. “No more running, eh? With that leg of yours you’re not fast enough. Now, enough of your missishness, my dear. As for Esterbridge, the thought of that knock-kneed sod bedding you—well, consider that I have done you a favor.”
He lowered his head and his hands came down to grasp her shoulders. “No!” His mouth covered hers and her cry was buried in her throat. She felt his tongue stabbing against her closed lips.
He raised his head. His look was determined. “If you lock your door against me again, Victoria, you will regret it.”
“You lied to David. You said horrible things about my mother.”
“Why, yes, I did, didn’t I?”
“Dear God, I hate you. You will not touch me again, Damien.”
“I am touching you right now.” His hands came swiftly down to cup her breasts. “Victoria . . . you’re soft and full. I—”
She twisted wildly. “Let me go.”
Damien stared at her, feeling her trembling fear of him, and felt a surge of desire so strong it shook even him. He easily pictured her naked beneath him, struggling, but for naught, of course. No woman had ever reacted to him as Victoria was doing. It was immensely exciting, this chase, and her capture was inevitable. He said easily now, “At least I am a man, my dear, not a sniveling weakling like Esterbridge. Did I tell you I came upon him one day? Ah, yes, he was mauling a village girl. No finesse at all. Now, I am accounted a good lover. I will teach you things, show you how to please me.”
She stared at him, her eyes dark and frightened in the dim light.
He laughed softly. “Why, my dear Victoria, do you fear me seeing your leg? Is that what this is all about? I shan’t repine, no matter how ugly it is. Indeed, if I am repelled, then you can return to your narrow virginal bed that much sooner. Of course, you won’t be a virgin then, will you?”
“I’ll kill you, Damien.”
He laughed, enjoying the wild excitement pounding through him. “Do try, little Victoria. I shall enjoy your efforts.”
There came the sound of male footsteps. Damien slowly took two steps back. “Tonight, Victoria. Tonight I will come to you. Ah, good evening, Ligger. What is it you want?”
“Her ladyship sent me to find you, my lord.”
Damien merely nodded. “Later, my dear,” he said softly, only for her hearing.
She was afraid to look at Ligger. Had he truly come with a message from Elaine? Finally she looked up. Ligger’s expression was wooden, his rheumy eyes unblinking, but he didn’t move from his position until the baron had turned on his heel and walked away.
Ligger merely nodded, then slowly shook his head. He said very quietly, his voice emotionless, “You’d best not be alone, Miss Victoria.” He followed in the direction of the baron.
Victoria opened her eyes and shook herself. The waltz was over and the orchestra was now playing a country dance. I am not helpless, she thought. I must act. I cannot let this continue. She pushed off against the wall and strode to her bedchamber. There was only one choice, she knew.
She quickly stuffed clothes and underthings into her sturdy valise, the one she’d brought with her five years before. Suddenly she stopped cold. She had no money. She wouldn’t survive a day without money. She thought of Damien’s study, a large airy room filled with fine Spanish leather furnishings, the one room in Drago Hall that was his own private lair. Even Elaine didn’t venture into his study without his permission. He would have a strongbox there, in his big mahogany desk.
But where to stay tonight? Where would she be safe from him? She smiled. She would sleep in the nursery. Beside Damie, with Nanny Black just beyond a thin partition, her ubiquitous Bible beside her bed. And she’d be gone before dawn tomorrow.
But where?
Victoria straightened over her valise. That, she decided, she would consider before she fell asleep.
She carried her valise and cloak to the nursery. No one saw her. If Damien came to her bedchamber tonight, and she knew that he would, he would find her gone. What would he do? He would not, she guessed, try to drag her out of the nursery, even if he discovered her there. Even Baron Drago could not go that far.
She wrapped herself in her cloak and pressed against the edge of Damie’s small bed. The child’s even breathing calmed her.
She slept in spurts and roused herself at four o’clock in the morning. Upon jerking awake, her first thought was of Damien. What had he done when he’d found her gone? She shivered. It was cold, the air damp. She kissed Damie’s soft cheek, tucked her securely in a cocoon of blankets, and left the nursery. She crept down the stairs, feeling her way, for it was dark as a pit. She lit her candle only when she had firmly closed Damien’s study door.
In the bottom drawer of his desk, she found the strongbox. She had no qualms about forcing the lock with a hairpin. It came open, and she calmly counted out twenty pounds. There, she thought. It wasn’t really stealing; after all, she’d been Damaris’ nursemaid since the child had been born. She would return the money after she’d found a position.
She was quietly and intently replacing the strongbox when she chanced
to see a pile of letters tied in a black ribbon. The top one wasn’t folded properly, and she saw her name—Miss Victoria Abermarle—in a sentence written in black ink in a small cramped hand. Frowning, she pulled it out and smoothed it on the desktop. She sat in Damien’s chair and brought the candle closer. It was a letter to Damien from a solicitor, Mr. Abner Westover. She read it slowly, then read it again with a growing sense of unreality.
She finished it a third time, and tucked it neatly back into the pile with the others. My God, she thought, this was incredible. At least now she knew exactly where she was going. London. To Mr. Abner Westover.
She realized her hand was shaking, not from fear, but from pure, clean rage. The bastard.
Rafael mounted his new stallion, Gadfly, that he’d purchased the day before from Viscount Newton, and clicked the white-stockinged bay forward. The stallion was strong, a good sixteen hands high, and was sweet-tempered to boot. Rafael didn’t know if he could handle a stallion that was a devil, and he hadn’t been stupid enough to try. His legs were used to the rolling deck of the Seawitch, not clamping about the belly of a horse.
“Let’s go, boy,” he said near Gadfly’s twitching ear. “It’s to London we’re going.” Rafael had bidden goodbye to his crew earlier, and to Hero, of course, his scruffy savior.
“You’ll be careful,” Rollo said.
“No more brandy,” Flash added, trying to pet a struggling Hero.
Rafael merely grinned. “Keep the repairs going,” he said. “I’ll be in touch as soon as I can.” He absently rubbed Hero’s chin. “Keep our Romeo here safe. I don’t want him to be a dog’s sport.”
“Ha,” said Flash. “I pity any beast who’d take him on.”
Rafael grinned as he remembered Flash’s further descriptions of Hero, his temperament, his morals, and his character. Hero the Plague was his favorite epithet. He sighed, gently tugging on Gadfly’s reins to turn him onto the left-branching road out of Falmouth. He didn’t want to go to London. He didn’t particularly want to see Lord Walton. He wanted nothing more to do with any of it, now that they had seen fit to dismiss him. Well, that wasn’t really what had happened, he admitted grudgingly. It was simply that he’d ridden on the edge too long and had been found out. It was bound to happen, and it had. At least he was still whole-hide. He wondered, though, very often, what he was going to do with himself now. Something that mattered, something that would make him content.
He would be riding quite close to Drago Hall. The temptation was great, but even as he smelled the familiar sea air and took in the countryside, he knew it wouldn’t be wise to stop. Not yet.
He would return and then he would remain.
He reached Truro by noon and stopped at one of his favorite inns, the Pengally. He wasn’t at all surprised to be greeted by the host, Tom Growan, as Lord Drago. So, he thought, even though five years had passed, he and his brother still looked alike. He had halfway hoped that Damien would have gained flesh, gone bald, lost a tooth or two. He laughed at himself. He corrected Growan.
“Master Rafael? By all that’s holy, is it really ye, lad?”
“Aye, Tom, it’s really me, the black sheep.”
“Nay, boy, don’t prattle like that. Come along, and the missis will feed ye up right and proper.”
The missis fed him and hovered. All the while, Tom questioned him, as bold as brass, no reticence at all in Cornishmen.
“I have business in London, Tom, but I’ll return shortly. Aye, I’ll build my own place. Er, how is the baron?”
Tom merely shrugged. “About the same as ever, I suppose. Don’t see him all that often, not anymore.”
Tom talked on, but Rafael didn’t glean any satisfying information. He took his leave and rode out of Truro, heading east. He would ride within miles of Drago Hall. He felt something deep stir inside him as he neared St. Austell. Boyhood memories flooded him. Most of them good until he remembered his sixteenth year.
The year he’d realized his twin hated him. The year his twin had proved his hatred.
God, Rafael thought, and spurred the tireless Gadfly forward. He rode hard until he reached Lostwithiel, and stopped there for the night at the Bodwin Inn. There was no lovely barmaid there, but there was stargazy pie, a treat he hadn’t enjoyed for years. But he found that the pilchards, with their heads poking out of the crust, took him aback for a moment. He’d become a faintheart, he thought, and shoved a particularly loathsome pilchard head beneath the crust. He took to his bed early. Tomorrow he would ride until he dropped.
He left early the next morning and didn’t stop until he’d reached Liskeard. Gadfly was sweating and blowing hard. He didn’t want to change horses so it meant a good rest for Gadfly. He spent several hours exploring the old town with its Norman towers and ancient cobbled streets. Later he swung Gadfly toward the sheltered south coast, remarking the palm trees, the balmy breezes, and thinking of the similarity to the Virgin Islands.
It was almost nine o’clock in the evening and he was nearing Axmouth. The night was cloudy, with but a sliver of moon, and very warm for the end of September. It was a night for smugglers, he thought, grinning to himself. He wasn’t tired and decided to push on. The curiosity from his youth brought him to a sheltered cove just south of Axmouth. He dismounted and quietly tethered Gadfly to a palm tree. Soon enough he heard voices, low yet perfectly distinct. He smiled, staying perfectly still, listening.
“Eh, a good haul, Toby.”
Brandy, no doubt, Rafael thought, peering through the thick bushes toward the beach. Excellent, very expensive French brandy. He wasn’t stupid; he made himself as invisible as he could and made not a single sound. Smugglers were a funny lot. If threatened, they were violent. He had no intention of announcing his presence.
“My Gawd, Bobby, did ye hear that?”
Rafael blinked. He’d made no noise.
“By all that’s holy, ’tis a female. Up there, Bobby. Hey, wait, ye!”
A female? What female would be out here?
He heard a scream, then sounds of a scuffle. He sighed deeply.
“Hold still, missy. Gawd, she’s a beauty, Toby. Just look at that pretty face.”
“Aye, she is. Guess we’ll have to take her to the Bishop. He’ll want her, that’s for sure.”
“But—”
“Shut yer trap, Bobby. She ain’t for the likes of ye. A proper little lady, she be. Why be ye here, missy?”
“Please, let me go. Who are you?”
“Now, that be right funny, missy. Just who do ye believe us to be? Frogs mybe?”
“We hopped right over the Channel, that’s what ye believe?”
“I saw the lights and thought perhaps I was near Axmouth. I didn’t know . . . are you smugglers?”
“The missy’s got a rare wit, Toby. Aye, rare. It’s a pity.”
Rafael gently pulled his pistol from his belt. He walked quietly toward the furiously struggling female and the two smugglers. He’d heard of the Bishop. The man was a mystery, for no one knew his identity, and he’d been in charge for so many years now that Rafael had assumed he was long dead. He thought with a twisted smile that if the girl was as pretty as the men thought, the old Bishop just might adopt her. Surely he was too old now for much more.
“Ye be sure she’s alone, Toby?”
“No,” Rafael said very firmly, “she’s not alone. She’s with me. Let her go, lads.”
Victoria abruptly shut her mouth, relief flooding through her. The man Toby loosed his hold on her and she stomped on his foot with all her strength. He yowled and let her go. She stumbled to the ground and lay there panting.
“Now, boys, I suggest that you take yourselves off to the Bishop with your booty. Surely there’s no reason to upset him and tell him about this little mix-up. She shouldn’t be here, and I promise you she won’t be here again. It’s obvious she knows nothing about you, and I promise you she’ll say nothing about any of this.”
“And who be ye?” Bobby demanded, his wits gath
ered again. He bent as evil an eye as he could manage at the tall man who held the gleaming pistol.
Rafael stepped closer into the light cast by the single lantern.
“Gawd, it’s the bloody baron. Ain’t it, Toby?”
My twin again, Rafael thought. So they were afraid of him, were they? “Go along with you now. You’re safe enough, at least if you obey me.”
Victoria felt her blood run cold. All her efforts, all for naught. He’d found her. He’d saved her. What to do? She came up to her knees, staring toward Damien. He wasn’t dressed as he usually was. He looked as much a smuggler as the two villains who’d grabbed her, in his long black cloak and gloved hands.
“Lookee, Baron, we have no bone with ye, but this girl here—”
“I know her,” Rafael said with great untruth. “She won’t say a word. Now, go. You have much to do, I imagine.”
Still they hesitated, and Rafael stood quietly waiting for them to finish. “Don’t you trust a Cornishman, lads?”
“Aye, oh, aye,” said Toby. “Come on, Bobby, leave the baron be.”
Victoria watched them disappear into the shadows, their lantern swinging between them. She leapt to her feet. Unfortunately, her leg, weary from the hours of walking and the scuffle, crumpled beneath her. She fell to her knees, swallowing the moan of pain from the cramping muscles.
“Are you all right?”
Damien’s voice, sounding concerned. Dear God, he was coming to her.
She screamed at him, “Stop! I won’t come with you, do you understand me? I won’t.”
She forced herself to rise, grabbed her now very dusty valise, and ran. Pain from her leg sang through her body, making her gasp, but she didn’t slow.
“For God’s sake, I won’t hurt you.” Bloody chit, he’d saved her, and here she was trying to escape him.
Rafael was tempted to let her go. She was probably here to meet her lover and had stumbled onto the smugglers. She was clumsily running, limping badly. obviously she’d hurt herself.
“Stop being a fool,” he shouted after her.
Victoria turned suddenly to see if he was gaining on her, and her leg collapsed. She fell on her face against the weedy ground. She lay there listening, knowing it was all over for her now. He was coming closer.