HF - 03 - The Devil's Own (46 page)

And yet his instincts had not always led him down the path of right. Else why was he here, seeking once again a girl he had cruelly wronged, and could now wrong only some more.

He dismounted, and knocked on the door. St John's was quiet, save for the occasional burst of laughter from the tavern, where, no doubt, they were consigning Kit Hilton to hell for all eternity.

Astrid Christianssen opened the door. 'Kit?' Almost he could read the dismay in her tone, although her face was
indistinct. 'Agrippa? We
had feared for you.'

'We are sound enough, in wind and limb,' Kit said. 'May we come in?'

'Come in? Oh ...'

'You may come in, Kit.' Dag came out of the parlour. 'I thank you.' Kit took off his hat and stepped into the hall. Agrippa at his shoulder.

'What has hap
pened?' Dag asked. 'I have left
Green Grove.'

Astrid frowned at him. 'You have left your wife? And your children?'

'It was a mutual decision, between Marguerite and myself. She feels that I have betrayed her father. Everyone feels that I have betrayed Philip Warner, by not permitting him to get away with fratricide. I am probably the most unpopular man in Antigua at this moment. Do you share that view?'

Dag shook his head. 'No, no we honour what you did, in that respect. And we grieve for the sorrow it has brought upon you. I grieve even more that we cannot offer you a bed for the night.'

'As you see best, Dag. I would like to speak with Lilian.' 'She has retired.'

'And it is scarce an hour since dusk? You are playing the father.'

'And should I not, as she is my daughter?' He sighed. 'Whom you have outraged.'

'And have you, then, taken your stick to her?' Kit asked softly. 'For be sure that I will see her, Dag, and should she be harmed, then will I harm you.'

The Quaker hesitated, glancing at Agrippa. 'Truly, you revert easily enough to the buccaneer, Kit. You'd see mayhem where we have given you a home, Agrippa?'

'I'll not draw against Kit, Dag,' the Negro said. 'I'd beg you not to force that issue.'

'Good evening, Kit,' Lilian said from the foot of the stairs. Her undressing-robe was pulled close across her nightdress.

'I told you ...' Dag began.

'And I wish differently.'

'You are a common slut,' he shouted. 'Your name is bandied

about in this town like a piece of filth. You fill me with disgust every time I look upon you.'

'Then look upon her no more,' Kit said. 'I have come to take her with me.'

'To ... why, sir ...'

'I am appealing to your common sense, Dag. As you say, her name is being used too freely. That was not my doing. It is Marguerite's. But as it has been done, why, nothing we can do will unsay it, except openly to declare ourselves. I have in mind a house down in Falmouth, somewhat removed from the tumults of St John's, where Lilian may live in peace, with me as her protector.'

'Protector?'

'You are still married to Marguerite Warner,' Astrid said. 'How can you gainsay that?'

'I cannot gainsay that. I know what I am asking of Lilian. I would not have done so, had the event not been made public'

'Aye,' Dag said. 'No doubt you can, as always, explain your motives to your own satisfaction. Well, that is not our way. You were no doubt sent by the Lord to try our patience and our spirit, Kit. I hold nothing against you for that. But now you would compound another moral crime on top of your first, just as you have spent your life compounding crime against crime, always in the hope of expiating the original sin. Crimes are not expiated by other crimes, Kit Hilton, but by prayer and resolution, by patience and by good works. You have dragged our daughter's name through the gutter. It will be her punishment, and ours, to live in the gutter for a while. But in time we shall re-emerge from that filthy place, cleaner and better than before. Sure it is that Lilian will not need to crawl from one gutter to the next.'

Kit stared at him, his brows slowly drawing together. 'I respect your morality, Dag, even if I think you set too much store by it. But then, I have no such advantage of faith, in either people or the hereafter. Morality in my world consists of honour and courage; there has never been room for patient resignation. I ask Lilian to let me honour her, as publicly as I may, and I ask her also to show the courage I know she possesses, the courage to take life and circumstances by the throat and say, I will live, and be happy, no matter what the odds against it. These things I ask of her, not you, Dag. And by God, I'll not leave this house until I hear the answer from her own lips.'

Dag turned to look at his daughter. 'You'll be a whore, now and for ever.'

'Oh, Lilian,' Astrid cried. 'You cannot. You ...'

'Will you stop me by force, Father?' Lilian asked, very quietly.

He opened his mouth, glanced at Kit, and closed it again. 'You'll do as you see fit, daughter. But once pass through that door in this man's company, do not seek ever to re-enter.'

'Well, then,' she said. 'It seems I must bid you farewell.'

They rode, four mounted figures under a darkening midnight sky, south for Falmouth. Their clothes were tied to the backs of their horses, and the two men possessed their weapons. They said little. They had hardly exchanged a word since leaving the town. There was too much to be thought about. And perhaps even some things to be anticipated. They were four against the world. The thought made Kit's blood tingle.

Lilian yawned, and swayed in the saddle. 'Should we not rest by the roadside, Kit? It wants another six hours to dawn.'

'But only two to Falmouth,' he said. 'There is a tavern, where we shall find ourselves shelter and comfort. Unless you are truly too tired to continue.'

'No. I will ride. I am but ill-prepared.' She smiled at him. 'I have slept little this last week. There has been too much to keep awake for.'

He reached across to squeeze her hand. 'But from henceforth you will sleep sound every night, Lilian. I give you my word for that.'

'Kit Hilton's woman,' she whispered. 'I want no more than that, Kit. I have wanted no more than that, since the day I met you. in the harbour at St Eustatius.'

'And fool that I was, I looked elsewhere, and became involved in events which were too big for me.'

'Too big for you, Kit? That I deny. There is no man will not honour your courage in denouncing Philip Warner's crime, when thev give themselves time to consider the event.'

'Pray God you are right.' Not a man. But what of a woman? And then, what terrible thoughts were those, to have while riding in the company of yet another woman, who, like the first, was giving everything she possessed into his care. But Christ, Marguerite, all the memory of her, that glorious animal sexuality which shrouded so much beauty, that confident laughter, that arrogant awareness of herself as a person and as a power, that aura in which she moved. And she was the mother of his children.

Almost he wanted to weep. And then he whipped their horses into a faster trot. Marguerite could only be lost in the softness of Lilian's arms.

And these were not for the taking, that night. She was asleep in the saddle when they rode into Falmouth, and banged on the door of the inn, to get an irate innkeeper out of bed, to watch his anger change to fear as he discovered the identity of his visitor. Beds and rooms were hastily made available, and in one of these Kit placed his mistress. She wore a grey gown, and her hat was tied firmly under her chin. He removed the hat, and took off her boots, to marvel at the straight slender toes, so white, so perfectly shaped. Now she smiled in her sleep, and sighed. She was his. He could undress her completely. Indeed, he should do that, for she did not possess so many clothes that she could afford to sleep in her gown. But he did not dare touch her. To touch her, while she slept, to strip her while she slept, to love her while she slept, was to conjure up too many visions from the past. And here was one vision he did not dare risk losing.

He bade Agrippa and Abigail good night, and slept in the chair, removing only his own boots and weapons and hat. He snuffed the candle, and leaned his head, and stared into the darkness. He felt the emptiness which comes after battle. For ten days he had charged forward at the head of his mental troops, first of all in rising above the catastrophe of the French and Indian invasion, then in recruiting and preparing the expedition, then on his march into the interior of Dominica, and since then in his attack upon Philip Warner. Culminating in his assault upon the Christianssens themselves. Why, Daniel Parke would be proud of him, for that was how that wild-eyed Virginian lived every moment of ev
ery day of every y
ear.

And where was he now, Kit wondered. By God, what would he give to have Daniel Parke standing beside him, laughing at opposition, careless of life or fame in the pursuit of his own ambitions.

There was a dream. And now he must awake into reality. He had done the right thing, by Lilian. He was sure of this, as he must be sure of this. But in doing that, he had burned his last bridge. Marguerite had tossed the girl in his face, as a man might toss a glove. And he had picked it up. She would not forgive. And he would not have her forgive, ever, for that would be to betray Lilian, in turn.

And now, too, his last friends in St John's were his most bitter enemies. When Kit Hilton fell, as fall he must, eventually, with a bullet in his gut or a sword thrust through his heart, there would be only three mourners.

He slept, uneasily, and awoke with a start, at the touch of a hand on his arm. She stood beside his chair, looking down on him. He gazed at a vision, for now she was rested, and she had washed her face to remove the dust of the journey and the tears of her quarrel with her family. And she had undressed, and waited. How tall she was, and how slender. Her height seemed increased by the long, straight golden hair which drifted past her shoulders almost to her thighs, a finespun web of purest delight.

It occurred to him with a thrill of surprise that he had never actually looked at her body before. They had shared but one brief hour together, and then it had been in the dark. He had felt, and he had inhaled, her loveliness, but he had not been able to see it, at his leisure. Now she waited, on his leisure; long, long legs, lightly muscled and therefore thin; narrow hips, almost a youth's hips, surely never meant for child-bearing; a flat, scantily forested belly stretching up to a clearly marked rib-cage and narrow shoulders, from which came the small, up-tilted breasts of an utter virgin, in thought and in deed, for twenty-six years.

And then the face, which matched the body, in its natural solemnity, yet in the suggestion of calm pleasure which lay behind the mask. The face he knew. The face he had always wanted to possess. And the face displayed all the promise of the body.

'I do believe,' she said softly, 'that you have forgotten how we came to be here.'

He shook his head. 'I am but marvelling that a man of my character and my past should be so fortunate.'

'Fortune generally comes to those who deserve it,' she said. 'I would not have had you sleep in a chair.'

'And I would not have had you disturbed.' His arms went round her waist and he drew her down to his lap. His fingers explored the firm texture of her skin, dry where Marguerite's had ever been damp; cool where Marguerite's had ever been warm. And yet she knew passion. He remembered that she had known passion before, and now she knew it again, anxiously and eagerly. Her lips sought his, and her mouth was wide open. Here were none of the extravagant gestures and movements of Marguerite, and yet because of this the intimacies she sought, the intimacies she permitted, the way she inhaled whenever he would cup her breasts, to grow into his hand, the way she would spread her legs, slowly and yet insistently whenever his fingers slid lower than her ribs, the soft sighs with which she reached orgasm, so contrasted to the tumultuous groans of Marguerite, all filled him with an immense satisfaction, where in Marguerite's arms all had been temporary, a mere passage on the road to the next set to, where morning had been no more than the prelude to lunch, and afternoon no more than the overture to the night, and the night itself no more than the hallway which led to the awakening in the dawn. Marguerite had consumed. Lilian gave only peace. And where even the quiescent moments, with Marguerite, had had their fingers always busy, here there was time to talk, and think.

'You have not asked me how we shall live.' He lay on his belly, across the bed, chin on his hands, gazing through the window at the brilliant sunlight, hearing the distant rumble of the surf.

She brushed her hair, standing before the spotted mirror. She used long, slow strokes, turning her head and drooping her shoulder to allow the passage of her hand and her arm. 'I do not care how we shall live.'