Dark Before the Rising Sun (39 page)

For a few more minutes, the small group stood around the table admiring their dinner. It was that stillness and the tantalizing odors coming from the tabletop that drew the attention of a green-eyed feline. With purposeful stealth, Jamaica slowly approached the table, sinuously winding his way through the forest of legs blocking his path. He leaped to the table, his quarry one of those buttered shrimps that had been tempting him for the past half hour. What met his startled eyes, however, was hardly the succulent, bite-sized morsel he had been anticipating. Instead, a vicious-looking beast crouched, guarding the table, its beady eyes glowing red.

Jamaica arched his back, his fur standing on end as he faced the miserable-looking creature with the slimy green scales.

“Good Lord, what was that?” Alastair demanded as he heard a strange hissing at his elbow, and although he was crazed to even think such a thing, he nonetheless risked a quick glance at the green dragon that was supposed to be his dinner, expecting to see it slithering off the table, its tail swishing angrily.

“Jamaica!” Conny squealed as the tabby took a swing at the dragon's pointed snout.

Dora watched in dismay as the cat hooked a slice of cucumber to his curved claw, his expression of surprise surpassing Dora's as he stared down at the limp thing clinging to his paw.

Sam's rumbling laugh filled the room. Dora looked as if she had sat on a mouse, she was that startled. But she was no more surprised than the cat. His tail was puffed up and rigid, spitting a final, insulting hiss at his cowed adversary, Jamaica leaped off the table across Kirby's small shoulders, which seemed to cause Sam Lascombe no end of amusement.

* * *

Bishop's Grave Inn was silent and dark when Dante let himself out the door some five hours later. He had left Rhea sleeping soundly, her face partly hidden by the wild disorder of her hair. Their son slept peacefully in his cradle beside the bed. The fire in the hearth had burned down to glowing coals but still gave off comforting warmth.

Dante made his way stealthily to the stables, the silvered light shining down from the myriad stars guiding his step across the darkened yard. In the twinkling of an eye, he opened the stable door and disappeared inside. Speaking in low, gentle tones, he made his way to his horse, slipped the bridle over the chestnut's neck, and saddled him.

Leading him by the reins, Dante left the stables, where only the curious neighing of one of the horses indicated a disturbance. Dante glanced back at the dark inn. No light shone in any window. Mounting quietly, he walked the chestnut along the narrow, rutted track winding toward Merdraco.

The only sound was that of the restless sea.

The dark towers rose up before Dante as he sent his horse up the path to the top of the cliff. An owl hooted, followed by the eerie sound of flapping wings. Then all was silent again. Dante dismounted, the leather of his stirrups creaking softly. He looped the reins over the jagged edge of one of the large stones scattered across the courtyard of the castle, then unhooked from his saddle a lantern he had borrowed from the stables. His step light against the paving stones, he walked to the gaping entrance of one of the towers. He paused for a moment, staring up into the surrounding darkness, then entered.

Enshrouded in darkness, Dante stood where he was, listening. Then there was a striking sound, followed by a spark, then a pale, flickering light filled the small area, lighting Dante's way to the first, narrow step of the stairs that spiraled into the tower above.

Slowly, the lantern's yellowish light casting strange shadows that grew and shrank along the walls, Dante climbed upward, his every step placed carefully, for the stones were slippery with dampness and mold. Two of the three floors inside the tower had long before rotted out, so he didn't even pause before the openings leading to those levels. He crept ever higher until reaching the third floor of the tower. He hoped it was intact. For one thing, the old marquis had insisted on keeping it repaired. But it wasn't that alone which made Dante guess that the floor still could bear the weight of a man; it was the suspicion that the smuggling gang had been using the tower to signal their ships lying offshore.

There was no ghost haunting Merdraco.

Dante glanced around the third-floor room. A grim smile curved his lips as he stared at the discarded rum bottles thrown across the floor and the rumpled pile of blankets spread across one of the stone seats flanking the deep window embrasure. The nights could be cold when a man was standing watch.

After glancing around again, Dante left the room and walked past the opening to the wall walk, the only remaining section of fortified wall which connected the two towers. He climbed higher until he reached the top of the turret. From there he had an unobstructed view of the whole length of coastline.

Should anyone be signaling to a ship out at sea, he had a very good chance of spotting it, Dante thought as he leaned against one of the low embrasures and stared out into that mysterious blackness. Far below him, the tide crashed against the rocky shore, sending spindrift floating into the cool night air. Dante breathed deeply of the sea he had come to love and once again he could hear the loud flapping of the
Sea Dragon
's square sails. He longed to feel the salt spray against his face while the deck slanted beneath his feet and the little brig's bowsprit swung toward a new course.

Dante shook his head. That belonged to his past. Now he must channel all his energies into building Merdraco again. Dante glanced away from the sea, staring instead at the dark shadows that were Merdraco. Soon, he promised, the house would light the black skies with a thousand candles, and the sound of voices would drift with the winds.

As Dante, master of that abandoned house, and of a castle in ruins, stood silhouetted against the night skies, his gaze traveled along the coastline to where a stone house sat silent in the pervading darkness. Seawyck Manor was the home of Lady Bess Seacombe. Despite himself, he couldn't help but wonder how the years had treated his lover. Had they been kind? Or had time ravaged the beauty that once held him spellbound?

It was while Dante stared in that direction that a flash of light caught his eye. Then there was another flash, and that was followed by three more flashes. Dante smiled. He had been expecting as much. He continued to watch, but this time looking out to sea, and he caught the flashing of yet another lantern's light. That signal was a reverse of the other, with three flashes followed by two.

He had seen Sam Lascombe's nervousness as Sam listened with increasing anxiety to the chiming of the clock. And because it was the first moonless night following a storm, Dante had figured on that night being the one when the Sons of Belial would land a cargo of contraband. He suspected that Bishop's Creek, a safe deep-water cove with no hidden shoals or reefs, often saw contraband beached on its shore. But Dante had further figured that Sam Lascombe would somehow manage to get a message to the smugglers not to land their contraband in Bishop's Creek. Sam was no fool, and knowing that he had a former smuggler sleeping under his roof, and, that that man hated Jack Shelby, he wouldn't risk a chance encounter between the two men.

The lantern held in front of him, Dante quickly descended the spiraling steps, halting at the bottom to douse the light before he stepped out into the night.

* * *

Rhea sighed sleepily and, rolling over, reached out for Dante, but there was only a cold emptiness where his warmth should have been. She sat up and stared into the dark room.

“Dante?” she called out softly, wondering what had awakened her. Fumbling, she managed to light a candle. Glancing down at the cradle beside the bed, she saw that her son was curled up, fast asleep. “Having the sweetest of dreams,” Rhea murmured as she reached out and tucked the soft, downy blanket closer about his tiny shoulders.

Throwing back the quilted coverlet, Rhea swung her legs from the cocoon of warmth beneath the blankets, hopping when her bare feet came in contact with the cold floor. She shivered, trying to remember where she had left her wrapper. As she caught sight of it, she noticed something else.

Dante's dressing gown was still beside hers. Quickly she looked for his boots, for he had left them standing at the foot of the bed. They were gone. Standing on one foot, she rubbed her other one against the back of her calf, trying to warm it while she wondered where he was. He had gotten dressed, but why?

Where could he be? She slipped into her wrapper and absentmindedly tied the sash around her waist. Reaching behind her neck, she pulled the thick waves of hair free of her collar, allowing the long, golden length to fall over one shoulder, where the ends curled down to her hip.

Taking the candlestick with her, Rhea made her way from the bedchamber. She paused before the door where Conny and Robin were sharing a room, and she carefully opened the door. Holding the candlestick before her, she peered into the room. Both Conny and Robin were asleep.

She walked to the head of the staircase, nearly dropping the brass candlestick when the clock chimed. It was close to dawn. She was debating whether to continue downstairs or return to her room, when she heard muffled voices coming from behind the closed doors of the taproom below.

With a sigh of relief, Rhea walked more quickly down the stairs, her step certain as she followed the sound of voices. She thought she might even get herself a cup of tea, now that she was up. Apparently she wasn't the only one who couldn't sleep, she was thinking as she opened the taproom door.

Hell's broken loose.

—Robert Greene

Wiping the back of his hand across his lips, Jack Shelby lowered the tankard of ale, his eyes widening in wonder at the vision standing in the doorway. Clad in a rose silk dressing gown, her hair cascading over her shoulder like molten gold, she was the most exquisitely beautiful woman he had ever gazed upon.

Rhea stood absolutely still, her eyes mesmerized by the group of rough-looking men gathered close to the warmth of the fire in the hearth, their hands cupped around tall tankards. The flames seemed to be reflected a thousandfold in the gleaming of pewter and brass filling the shelves behind the bar. Several large oaken casks had already been tapped, their contents filling those tankards.

The scene was not at all what she had been expecting. She was further surprised not to see Sam Lascombe serving the group that had obviously just reached the inn. Many were still bundled up in coats, their boots coated in mud. Indeed, they had tracked up Mrs. Lascombe's spotless floor.

“Well, by all that's holy, what have we here?” Shelby demanded as he walked toward the slight figure wrapped in rose silk and standing so still in the opened doorway. “Did ol' Sam get rid of that sour-faced wife? Are ye keepin' him company now, lass? Sam mustn't be the fool I've been thinkin' him. Of course, he's more fool than I thought if he let ye get out of his bed on a cold morn like this,” the leader of the Sons of Belial commented, to the appreciation of his men. “Maybe he sent ye down here as a peace offerin' for sendin' me that harebrained message? Hasn't he learned yet that no one in this land can raise a hand against me?” Shelby's hard eyes rested on the slim, ivory throat of Rhea Claire Leighton, Marchioness of Jacqobi and wife of the man he had sworn to kill.

“Come on, lass. Come to Jack. What's ye name, then? Somethin' sweet and pretty, I reckon, eh?” he said with a leering grin. His yellow eyes roved over her with insulting appraisal.

Rhea eyed the big-shouldered man with rapidly increasing distaste. She did not bother to hide her abhorrence, much to Shelby's amusement. He liked a woman with some fight in her, and this little golden-haired lass seemed spirited.

That this man was Jack Shelby, the leader of the Sons of Belial, or that these men were the smugglers who had destroyed Merdraco never occurred to Rhea. Thinking herself safe in Bishop's Grave Inn, her family around her, it never entered her mind that she was in any danger. So, with a complete lack of concern, she spun on her heel and turned to leave the room.

Her second mistake was turning her back on Jack Shelby. Her first mistake had been entering the taproom.

A large hand clamped her shoulder and spun her back around, and she found herself staring up into the coarse-featured, laughing face of a man who knew no kindness. “Uppity, aren't ye?”

“Let go my shoulder,” Rhea spoke in a soft yet commanding voice, and her carefully enunciated words told Shelby that she was a lady.

“My
pardon
, m'lady,” he said sarcastically. “Ye be a guest here, then? Should've known Sam couldn't get somethin' as sweet as ye in his bed,” Shelby said with a laugh. But his eyes said that Jack Shelby could.

“Think ye'd have more luck, Jack?” a thin-faced man goaded, his eyes darting between the two people in anticipation.

“Luck?” Shelby roared, his gaze searching out the man who had asked the question. “Jack Shelby takes what he wants. There's no luck to it,” he said, his grin widening as he saw the startled look of fear in Rhea's eyes. “Heard of me, have ye?”

Rhea swallowed hard. Even shivering with cold and fear in the hold of the
London Lady
, she had not known such terror as this.

“I think she likes ye, Jack,” someone called. “She's not strugglin'.”

“Speechless with awe in your presence, Jack.”

“More like she's too scared to move,” someone else suggested.

“Aye, but she's a beauty. Such bonny eyes,” Shelby murmured, “I'll be damned if they ain't as purple as violets. To be sure, I've never seen such a color,” he breathed. “Betcha all the lads wanted a tumble with ye, m'lady?” he asked, his fingers tightening painfully on Rhea's shoulder.

“Release me this instant,” Rhea said, her voice quivering with anger and humiliation.

“Ah, m'lady. No kind words for Jack Shelby?” he demanded, then before Rhea could stop him, he grabbed her hand and was staring down at her wedding ring. “A married woman. Didn't think ye'd be stayin' a maiden for long, not with that golden hair and soft white skin. Ye smell real sweet too,” he said softly, for her fragrance had intensified with her fear.

“Your husband upstairs? No doubt fast asleep dreamin' about ye, but ye don't think he would be missin, ye, d'ye, if ye stayed down here for an hour or two with Jack Shelby? Reckon I could be teachin' a lady like yourself what 'tis like to be with a real man, a man who knows how to sweat—not a sweet-scented fop who needs help to get out of his breeches. Ye'd not be disappointed, m'lady,” he said, his eyes lingering on her delicate-shaped lips. He knew a sudden longing to feel their softness beneath his.

“You will be grievously mistaken should you think my husband a lily-livered milksop. And, if I were you,” Rhea spoke bravely, “I would not give him another reason to send you into hell, where you should be suffering eternal damnation right now.”

Shelby looked as if he'd been poleaxed. Rhea, herself, was just as surprised by the audacity of her reply. As if she were standing outside herself, she had suddenly heard herself speaking bravely.

Suddenly Shelby's deep laugh filled the room. It helped to relieve some of the tension. His men had been sitting in awed silence, for none of them would have had the nerve to say such a thing to Shelby, though many would have given their right arms to do so.

His head thrown back with laughter, the broad, muscular column of his throat looked like a tree trunk, while his big chest barreled out from his narrow waist and hips. Rhea was suddenly aware of the rampant maleness of him. He was like some rutting stag, and Rhea felt an instinctual awareness of danger that was as old as mankind itself.

She began to struggle, fighting desperately to free herself. Her violet eyes betrayed her as she stared up into that hard face, for Shelby became aware of her fear of his masculinity. It heightened his desire.

“By God, but ye'll be mine before this night is ended, m'lady,” he swore, his arms sliding around Rhea's slender waist. With no effort at all, he lifted her clear of the floor and held her high above his head.

Shelby's triumphant laughter filled the room, drowning out Rhea's cry. He was master here. What he wanted, he took. Used to having absolute power over cowed villagers and frightened farmers, he had forgotten that there might be others of power and position of their own, others who would not be cowed.

And so the all-powerful Jack Shelby was indeed surprised to hear a voice ordering him to release the woman, or die.

Rhea knew that voice only too well, and she became even more fearful.

Shelby lowered Rhea to the floor but kept an imprisoning hand clasped to her shoulder. His eyes grew wide with wonder as he stared at the man standing in the doorway. The man was holding a pistol centered on Shelby's big barrel chest.

The smuggler nearly choked. “Good Lord! Is
this
your husband?” he demanded incredulously.

“I shall not tell you again to release her,” Francis spoke calmly, his blue-gray eyes narrowed with deadly intent.

“He's but a babe. Ye don't mean to tell me that ye be wed to this bratling? No wonder ye still have such an innocent look about ye,” Shelby laughed, and his men joined in, looking forward to a good fight.

“
Francis
, please, you don't know what you are doing. Go and get Dan—” Rhea began, then stopped, afraid to reveal Dante's presence at the inn.

“Francis, is it, now?” Shelby mimicked. “Why, what a sweet name, and for such a sweet nestling. Be a good lad, now, and go back to bed, or ol' Jack will have to put ye there himself,” he baited the younger man. “But if ye don't mind, I'll be keepin' the lady with me for a while longer. And I promise ye, lad, she'll be far more woman than she is now when she returns to ye. Ye really should be thankin' me, lad.”

Shelby could not be blamed for underestimating the young gentleman standing there facing him. Dressed in a nightshirt hastily stuffed into his breeches, bare feet and legs showing beneath, his golden hair ruffled from sleep, he didn't look at all formidable. But Shelby also didn't know that this was Lucien Dominick's son and that he was accosting the young man's sister.

Francis cocked the pistol, its distinctive sound banishing laughter from the room. “Come here, Rhea.”

Rhea tried to draw away from the big hand holding her close against Shelby's chest, but she couldn't move.

“I am Francis Dominick, Marquis of Chardinall,” Francis spoke proudly. “I thought to introduce myself to you only because I would not like to send a man to his grave without a proper introduction,” Francis stated with a cold detachment that would have made the duke proud. It certainly made Rhea see her brother in a different light.

Francis's words had at least the effect of sobering the Sons of Belial. A titled gentleman was not the same as a frightened farmer. And these blue bloods could draw the notice of the authorities, something they would prefer not to have happen.

Shelby, however, continued to eye the young gentleman with insulting disdain. His big hands slid down to Rhea's waist and he pulled her directly in front of him, using her slender body as a shield. “Ye think your aim is good enough not to hit the lady? And even if ye get lucky and shoot me, laddie, there be close to twenty men behind me. They won't take kindly to seein' Jack Shelby shot down in cold blood,” he challenged.

Francis's eyes widened slightly as he realized who the brute was. He knew a moment's confusion, for the man had suddenly become more than just a lout accosting his sister.

Shelby, who had lived by instinct all his life, sensed the momentary hesitation, and with a deceptively casual movement, slid his fingers inside the loose sleeve of his frock coat and grabbed the cold hilt of his knife.

Rhea felt the movement and glanced down just in time to see the flash of metal in his hand, and she screamed.

Francis's index finger jerked on the trigger. The roar of the pistol was deafening as the powder exploded in a bright flash. The air was heavy with the odor of sulfur, and for a moment there was utter silence.

Rhea's scream shattered that when she saw Francis's figure crumpled next to the door, the hilt of the knife protruding from his shoulder. Shelby smothered her cry with his hand as he stared at the young gentleman who had threatened him, a grin of satisfaction spreading across his face as he saw the blood staining the lad's shirtfront.

“Ye all saw it. The lad tried to kill me,” Shelby said conversationally. “Pity if he doesn't survive the wound. Might even become delirious and wander off in the darkness. Might even fall to his death from the cliff. His young wife here might run after him and he might drag her with him over the cliff,” Shelby speculated sadly.

Shelby glanced back at his men, signaling to them to lend him a hand. But they were staring beyond him to the door. Thinking the wounded whelp was stirring, Shelby turned back toward the door, his grin still wide.

He felt a tightening of his muscles, however, as he stared at the shadowy figure in the doorway, for he sensed danger in the stranger standing there so silently.

“If ye're wise, gent, ye'll be on your way. And ye'll be forgettin' what ye've seen in here,” Jack advised the cloaked figure.

“And if you are wise, you will release the lady this instant,” the steely voice ordered. And just so the gentleman was not underestimated, he cocked his two pistols warningly.

“Either ye be a fool, or ye don't know who ye be talkin' to,” Shelby said, still smiling.

“Oh, but I do know exactly who I am talking to, and I would most sincerely advise you to release the lady, for she is
my
wife, and I will not have your filth touching her,” the man replied, and taking a step forward, he moved into the light, revealing the features of Dante Leighton, master of Merdraco, for the first time.

To say that Shelby was staggered would be an understatement. The man was stunned speechless. Had he been staring at the devil himself, he could not have been more surprised. And because his mind was reeling under the revelation of the stranger's identity, his grip eased for just a second. It was enough for Rhea to free herself.

So relieved and thankful was she to see Dante's beloved face that Rhea nearly tripped as she rushed to his side, hot tears streaming down her cheeks. Then she slipped behind Dante and dropped to her knees beside her wounded brother.

“You do remember me, do you not?” Dante asked the silent, grim-visaged Jack Shelby.

Shelby spat on the floor between them, his face suffused with bottled-up rage. “Damn your black soul to hell!”

“You may rest assured that I'll be waiting there for you, Shelby,” Dante promised, his pale gray eyes glowing.

Jack Shelby looked possessed. His eyes were bulging and saliva drooled from his lips as he stared at the man he believed had murdered his daughter and who now stood so arrogantly before him. But even with half his senses, Shelby could see that this man was not the dissolute young lord who had turned tail and run.

The man standing before him was a dangerous man. Shelby could see that in the deadliness of those expressionless eyes and the way Dante Leighton stood there, waiting, showing no emotion, though he must have felt violent rage. Shelby actually knew a moment's fear, something he had not felt in many years. Suddenly Shelby understood that his adversary wanted him to make a move, wanted to be able to put a hole through his heart. Dante Leighton was hell-bent on revenge, and nothing would satisfy him except the sight of his enemy fallen at his feet.