Dark Before the Rising Sun (27 page)

“Can we eat this one, Mama?” Andrew asked as his small finger tentatively touched a shell that resembled a flattened Banbury cake.

“'Twould be a bit dry, I am afraid,” Dante advised. He noticed the duchess picking up the shell that curved to a point in a winding fashion and had deep ridges with spines, and he said, “Hold it to your ear, Your Grace, and you will hear the song of the sea.”

Sabrina listened, but there was a doubting expression in her eyes until suddenly they grew as round and full of wonder as her children's did when she held the shell cupped to each of their ears in turn, their squeals of delight nearly drowning out the sound.

“Thank you, 'tis a wonderful gift, and one I shall always cherish,” she told him. Tilting her head sideways as she stared up at him, she asked, “And what manner of man are you, Dante Leighton?” Here was a man who had gambled away his inheritance, ruined his reputation, and even been accused of murder. Yet here also was a man who had found the strength to begin again, possessed the tenderness to save a stray cat, and to make an orphan boy his legal ward.

Dante met her curious gaze steadily. “I am the man who wed your daughter and who will make her happy. I admit that in the past I have done many things I am not proud of, but never will I betray the love which Rhea, for some reason, has decided to give me.”

“I do not think it strange that Rhea loves you, now that I have finally met you,” the duchess commented, for the man could charm the devil himself. “Now, please sit down, or I shall be forced to think you are feverish. Then I shall have to call Rawley, and instead of a snifter of brandy, you will find yourself sipping some of Mrs. Taylor's Special Treat,” the duchess threatened, laughing as the man who had struck fear into the hearts of many a seaman sat down hastily.

And it was upon this casual and friendly scene that Lucien and Rhea Claire entered, each with a slightly different reaction.

“Mama? Dante?” Rhea said, glancing in wonderment between the two smiling people.

“My dear, please join us. I was about to offer Dante another brandy,” the duchess responded, realizing that the duke had not missed her use of their son-in-law's given name. “Lucien? You will join us too?” she questioned, her eyes almost challenging him to decline the invitation.

With a shrug, Lucien sat down beside his wife. Rhea sat down in one of the wing chairs next to Dante.

“You have had a pleasant talk?” Rhea asked, still feeling some nervous apprehension. If her mother and Dante had taken a dislike to one another, as had her father and her husband, then she would not have known what to do. Her place was by her husband's side now, and her loyalty was his.

“Indeed we have, my dear,” the duchess responded, and Rhea sighed softly. “In fact, I have been hearing about some of your husband's more daring exploits. It has been quite fascinating, for you know I have always enjoyed a bit of adventure and derring-do,” she added with a smile as she met the duke's startled gaze. “But, of course, being a respectable lady, I have never partaken of disreputable activities.”

“'Tis a pity, Rina, that you did not give in to those tendencies,” Lucien commented while he filled his son-in-law's glass, then poured himself a brandy, thinking he would have need of another one himself as he sat down, preparing to engage in polite conversation with a man he once wanted to kill. “I imagine you would have been quite skillful at breaking the law, my dear.”

“Lucien, really.” The duchess laughed nervously, thinking she would have to bridle her tongue lest she bait him too far. He was not in a teasing mood as he sat there staring musingly into his brandy.

“My mother and father are always jesting in this manner, and none of us has ever understood the reason why,” Rhea explained.

“What has them so conveniently occupied?” the duke demanded as he caught sight of his youngest offspring at play in the center of the carpet.

“Plunder from the sea,” the duchess said, laughing at his mystified expression.

“Conny and I collected quite a few shells on the beach while we were waiting for the treasure to be found,” Rhea confided impulsively as she remembered those warm, somnolent days under the palms. “These were a gift from Dante, were they not?” Rhea asked. “You must have him show you the contents of the sea chest he has aboard the
Sea Dragon
, for it is full of amazing artifacts he has retrieved from sunken ships. He even has a crystal decanter that some Spanish governor used—before his ship went down in a storm, that is,” Rhea declared.

“I would not have thought you would have time or inclination for collecting, Lord Jacqobi,” Lucien murmured.

“It all depends on
what
I am collecting, Your Grace,” Dante responded, unwilling to allow the duke to rile him. He realized that he had a long way to go before Lucien Dominick would accept him as a son-in-law.

Lucien's sherry-colored eyes lingered on his daughter's figure. Soon she would be showing her pregnancy, and he wanted nothing to disturb her while she was in such a delicate condition. His gaze moved to Dante, and he said, “I have often found that it is far more pleasurable to possess one item of great value than several of lesser quality. Have you not found that to be so?” he asked so softly that Dante almost didn't catch the underlying warning.

Dante held the duke's narrowed gaze. “I am pleased, Your Grace, that we have finally agreed upon something.”

“I have a request to make of you both,” the duchess began, sounding a little shy. She ignored Lucien's darkening expression. “It would mean so much to me if you would agree to repeat your marriage vows in the small chapel here at Camareigh,” the duchess requested. “Lucien does not seem to think it necessary, but I truly believe it would be a very wise move, not only because I could be present this time, but because…well…” She did not continue, as though she found the words too painful.

“Because some people less charitable than yourself might question the legitimacy of our child?” Dante helpfully supplied the reason.

“That is horrible!” Rhea cried, her hand going automatically to her gently rounding stomach. “We were wed in church. It was all quite legal.”

“Although Lucien will not say as much,” the duchess said, “he knows I am right. I know how vicious gossip can become, and because there has already been so much gossip associated with your name, my dear, the fact that you were wed in the Indies will only fuel raging tongues.”

Sabrina glanced at her husband. She knew that he still held hopes of seeing the marriage annulled, and she knew he wanted no part of making it even more binding. But she also knew there was nothing they could do about it.

“I will not stand idly by while our daughter's name is sneered at. I will not see her happiness destroyed by scandalmongering fools,” the duchess declared, her cheeks brightening with anger.

Rhea met Dante's questioning glance and nodded agreement as he said, “We would be honored to
repeat
our vows here at Camareigh. I know that Rhea has always been saddened because you and His Grace were not present at our wedding.” Dante was feeling quite pleased. The second wedding would make virtually impossible any attempt the duke might make to annul their marriage.

“I am so pleased. And I know that the Reverend Smalley will be too, for he was quite disappointed to hear of your marriage. After all, the man christened you, my dear, and I think he always assumed that he would preside over your wedding. He was heartbroken over the whole affair.” The duchess always spoke affectionately of the clergyman who had ministered to the spiritual needs of the Dominick family since the time of the late dowager duchess, who, much to Reverend Smalley's despair, had declared herself in no need of his advice.

“I also intend to throw the grandest ball of the season in order to introduce our son-in-law to society properly and proudly,” the duchess declared. “I shall have no one thinking that we are not pleased with Rhea's husband, or that we are ashamed of her being with child.”

“My dear,” Lucien said with a slight smile curving his hard mouth, “if you think having Rhea and Lord Jacqobi repeat their marriage vows before us and the good reverend will help, then by all means it shall be done. Though I think that a grand ball, with our guests full of food and drink and their senses dulled, will go much further toward silencing gossip.” He realized that he'd never had any choice once Sabrina made up her mind.

The duke got to his feet and poured himself that second brandy. He was thinking exactly what Dante had been thinking. Once Rhea and Dante repeated their vows in the small medieval chapel that had stood witness for countless other Dominick marriages, including his own, there would no longer be any course for the duke except to welcome the captain of the
Sea Dragon
into his family.

Let us forget and forgive injuries.

—Cervantes

The first snowfall had long since melted, and only a small piece of the Yule log remained in the great hearth. As it was every Christmas, it had been burned with ceremonial reverence, the lighting followed by the gaiety of carols and feasting. The holly and mistletoe which had decorated the great hall were gone, removed by maids and footmen while they dusted and cleaned and polished, the servants' energy rivaling the March winds blustering and howling across the hills and rattling the windowpanes.

It was a genesis, a time of new life, new beginnings.

The untarnished gold of daffodils and the bright green buds unfurling on the bough were a harbinger of spring, and soon the hills and meadows would be covered in a profusion of wildflowers, daisies and cow parsley, spots of white among the blues, lilacs, and pinks of speedwell, columbine and lords-and-ladies.

Dante, standing in solitude before one of the mullioned windows, caught the flash of a blackbird's wing. The wind carried it toward a copse of greenwood on the far side of the small lake where the medieval chapel stood in seclusion, surrounded by ancient cedar. Under that barrel-vaulted roof, with a pale, winter sunlight shining down through the small stained-glass windows, he and Rhea Claire had repeated their marriage vows. Crowded together in the ornately carved Jacobean stalls had been the somber members of the Dominick and Fletcher families, their faces only a blur to Dante as he claimed Rhea as his wife once more. He repeated without hesitation the words spoken so solemnly by Reverend Smalley. Standing beneath the hooded pulpit in his black cassock and bands, the reverend had looked like an ancient mystic, the shadowy light of the altar candles flickering eerily across his wizened features.

* * *

The former captain of the
Sea Dragon
, whose daring had never faltered when he faced cannon fire, was running a shaking hand through his already disorderly curls. Dante was frightened, frightened in a way he had never been frightened before, and there was nothing he could do about it.

For the thousandth time, he glanced up in the direction of the bedchamber decorated in delicate shades of blue, yellow, and silver, where the tall windows, draped in pale blue damask, overlooked the gardens below. Rhea Claire lay in the canopied bed giving birth to the fruit of their passion. Dante swallowed something lodged painfully in his throat as he remembered her agonized cries of that morning, when the pains had first racked her. Despite her brave smiles, her eyes were shadowed to a dark purple and a cold sweat beaded her pale brow.

He had been sent from the room, his worried questions going unanswered as Rawley and the duchess hurried to Rhea's bedside, closing the door firmly in his face. Dante took a hefty swig of brandy from the glass he had already emptied far too often. Feeling its warmth spread through his chilled body, he cursed himself for ever having laid a hand on one inch of that sweet-scented flesh.

Dante looked away from the distant hills, where the sun was falling like molten gold, and eyed the other occupants of the room in curious reflection. They no longer seemed strangers to him. Indeed, he had come to consider them his family. And now they were sharing with him the burden of waiting, and feeling all the fear he was feeling.

And as Dante stared at this newfound family of his, he thought back over the past few months and how, despite himself, he had come to like these people, even to cherish their friendship. It had been a new experience for Dante to share his feelings. He had never had the companionship of brothers and sisters, or ever known that special relationship which usually existed between most fathers and sons.

But the situation had not changed overnight, for their suspicion of him had been deeply rooted and, even he admitted, well-founded. But with the duchess's help, and her warmth toward him, their antagonism had gradually changed to a genuine effort at making him feel welcomed at Camareigh. He had suddenly found himself included in conversations, sometimes even the center of attention, especially among the younger members of the family, as he recounted many of his dangerous adventures as a privateer captain.

Dante's gaze lingered for a moment on the Fletcher family, who had arrived the night before, Lady Mary having had another one of her visions. He supposed Sir Terence had become used to it over the years, but it still gave Dante an edgy feeling to think that this woman could actually see the future. As he stared at her sitting so calmly by the fire, her slim fingers busy with her needle and thread, he found himself feeling almost irritated with her, for Lady Mary looked as if all she had to worry about was dropping a stitch. He hadn't enough faith yet in her gift to relax and understand why she was unconcerned.

Dante had come to respect and like her husband, the retired general, even though Dante knew the man had been prepared to dislike him at first. Now they found much to talk about, and he knew that Sir Terence held no grudge against him. Even James, the lad who had very nearly killed him, had forgotten his embarrassment and joined his brothers and sisters in questioning Dante about his life aboard ship.

Francis, Rhea's brother and only a year younger than she, had been more difficult to win over. He had presented Dante with a haughtily lifted cold shoulder for several months. But he had been no match for Dante's charm, and was usually found elbow to elbow with his cousins Ewan and George as they tried to beat Dante at cards.

Dante also found himself liking Richard and Sarah Verrick, whom he knew MacDonald would have approved—and not only because of the red hair Richard had inherited from that clan chieftain MacDonald thought so highly of. Richard was an intelligent young man, with a deep sensitivity for the Highlands, where he made his home.

Thus far, Robin Dominick was Dante's only failure. He never had expected to receive a hand in friendship from Lucien Dominick, who still maintained a frigid politeness where his son-in-law was concerned, but he had hoped to persuade Robin that he was not quite the ogre he had been purported to be. He supposed that part of the difficulty was the strained relationship between Robin and Conny, neither lad believing in forgiving and forgetting an injury. It hadn't helped matters that both were constantly demanding attention from Rhea, each feeling that the other might usurp his place in Rhea's heart. The rivalry became more bitter as the days went by.

Dante had had no small amount of trouble with Conny as well, for the lad found it difficult to assume his new role as the ward of the Marquis of Jacqobi. He resisted joining in the Dominick family's activities, preferring to eat in the kitchen, or with Kirby, who, although a wealthy man, said he was certainly too old to change his ways, and would take his meals in his room, where he could remain aloof from both master and servant. Dante had told the little steward that he no longer expected Kirby to serve him, but Kirby, standing as tall as he could, declared with wounded dignity that, despite his wealth, it was his honor and duty to serve the Marquis of Jacqobi. One day soon, when his arthritic joints and rheumatic eyes failed him, perhaps he would consider training a young man for the privilege of serving the Leighton family. Then, with his lordship's permission, and God willing, he would live out his days in a small cottage on the estate.

Conny was young enough to learn the ways of a well-bred gentleman, and since the lad had become his ward, Dante intended to see that Conny never had reason to be ashamed of himself or to bring disgrace on his name through ignorance. When the duke and duchess invited the former cabin boy to dine with their family, Dante insisted Conny accept, telling him that, as his ward, Dante would expect the same obedience he had maintained while serving aboard ship.

“Is she goin' to die, Cap'n?” Conny demanded just then, startling Dante. Standing beside his captain, his small shoulders slumped dejectedly, he eyed the man who had always been able to give him a straight answer. “Is she?”

Dante gazed helplessly down at that dark head and wondered what he could possibly say.

“Of course she isn't,” Lady Mary said softly, her dove-gray eyes full of compassionate understanding. “First pregnancies always seem the most difficult, but Rhea Claire is young and healthy and wants this child very much. You must be patient,” Lady Mary said in her always soothing voice.

“She
will
be all right, won't she?” Dante asked her, but he was asking for more than mere reassurance, and Lady Mary knew it.

She smiled slightly, and Dante was reminded again of the woman's serene beauty. Although her face was Madonna-like in its purity of line, it was the gentle spirit of the woman more than anything else that made her so beautiful.

“I do not always understand what I have seen in a vision,” Lady Mary began, her smile widening as Conny's mouth dropped open, “therefore I prefer to keep them to myself, unless telling about a vision is necessary in order to help someone.”

“You
have
seen something, then?” Dante demanded, his lips whitening.

Lady Mary's smile faded and she reached out and touched Dante's clenched fist. “You must learn to have more faith, Dante,” she said, and her eyes suddenly seemed silvered with mystery. Dante felt a slight shiver going through him as he wondered what she might be seeing.

“Now is not the time,” she said softly, her head tilted slightly, as though she were listening to something. “But someday I shall tell you of my vision of wild thyme and blackthorn, and of clouds edged in sungold. And I will tell you about the sun and the moon and the sea.”

Dante frowned. Although sincerely fond of the woman, he was beginning to think her deft. But just then the double doors of the private drawing room opened, and the duchess came rushing in, her face pale and drawn. Lucien reached her first, taking her in his arms as she swayed. She leaned against his body, drawing strength from his touch.

“Rhea?”

Sabrina looked up from her husband's shoulder and managed a tired smile. “Rhea is fine. And you, Dante Leighton, are the proud father of a very noisy son.”

* * *

Reverend Smalley found himself back behind the pulpit, sooner than propriety dictated, for the christening of Christopher Dominick Leighton, Earl of Sandrake and first grandchild of the Duke and Duchess of Camareigh. Kit, as he had already been nicknamed, was a beautiful baby, with thick chestnut curls covering his small head, and a lusty cry that reverberated throughout the small chapel, causing the good reverend to wince. He couldn't even hear himself speaking.

His duty done, the reverend was pleased to return to the great house, Lord Sandrake's outraged cries not nearly so piercing in the high-ceilinged entrance hall or the charming Chinese Room. The reverend was not displeased when the young lord's mother excused herself and took the demanding Kit for his feeding. The reverend was then able to sip his sherry in peace while considering the prospect of an early retirement.

Disengaging himself from conversation, Dante followed Rhea and caught up with her by the stairs. He took their son from her arms. Holding the now quiet baby easily with one arm, he held out his other for Rhea. Together they climbed the grand staircase.

“Did I thank you for our son?” he asked, his eyes lingering on the tiny profile just visible inside the lamb's-wool blanket.

“Many times, my lord,” Rhea responded.

“And did I tell you how breathtakingly beautiful you are?”

“Many times, my lord,” Rhea said, and smiled.

“And did I tell you how happy you have made me?” he asked.

“With much frequency, m'lord,” she answered, her smile widening.

“And did I tell you how much I love you?” he queried further.

Rhea's eyes lowered. “Many, many times, m'lord, although 'twould be far more believable if you showed me,” she said, startling him with the provocative statement. It had indeed been quite a few months since they had made love.

Dante glanced over at her, noting her fiery cheeks. “Aye, m'lady. 'Twould seem as if I do too much talking.”

“Aye, m'lord,” she agreed, coming to a stop, out of habit, as they passed beneath the portrait of the Elizabethan.

“He must be jealous,” Dante said as he eyed the adventurer of old, then glanced down at their son.

“No, I think he would be pleased,” Rhea disagreed. Silently she bid farewell to her young girl's fantasy, her eyes lingering on her husband's beloved profile as they walked on down the gallery. They paused before another painting, this time because Dante wanted to.

“You seem fascinated by that portrait,” Rhea commented, thinking how many things in her life had changed since the day her family stood for the portrait.

Dante smiled, his eyes on the painted violet eyes of the Duchess of Camareigh, before moving to stare lovingly at Rhea's image. “Someday I shall tell you about a young man's dream, and how all that he had wished for has come true and then some. I have no regrets about anything I have done, Rhea,” he said with tantalizing obliqueness. Smiling down at her puzzled expression, he continued along the gallery.

Rhea laughed, nodding toward their son. “'Twould be a little late now to have any regrets, m'lord. Now you have a wife and son to support.”

Standing before the windows of their room, Dante gazed out on the terraced gardens, past the clipped yew hedges and the roses and the lily pond, toward the open parkland in the distance. He sighed. Seldom had he known such peace. He understood why Rhea loved Camareigh so. Hearing her soft voice behind him, he turned around, staring at her while she sang to their son. Her golden head was bent low over the chestnut head of the baby suckling at her breast. His small hands were kneading against her while he received the nourishment from her body. Perhaps he was even aware of the loving strength surrounding him.

“And did I thank you for naming him Christopher?” Dante asked. “I was surprised.”