The Devil's Necklace (6 page)

She arched a brow. “And what might that be?”

“From now on we dispense with formalities, at least while we are alone. You will call me Ethan, as you did this afternoon. And I will call you Grace.” As
he
had done that afternoon. Her skin prickled with
heat at the memory of the fiery kisses they had shared. Even now, she found the recollection disturbing. There was something about Ethan Sharpe, something that attracted her as no man ever had.

The thought was as dangerous as it was intriguing. But then, Grace had never been afraid of danger.

“I suppose, considering I would not be standing here now if it weren’t for you, there is no longer a need for us to be formal.” And in truth, she had begun to think of him that way, as Ethan, not Captain Sharpe.

His eyes ran over her, came to rest on the soft swells of her breasts above the neckline of sapphire silk. Inside the bodice, her nipples tightened. She caught a glimpse of hunger before his gaze became shuttered once more.

“Would you like a glass of sherry?”

“Thank you, yes.” Anything that might help defuse these odd sensations just looking at him stirred in her body. She watched him walk over to the sideboard and pour the amber liquid into a glass for her, then a brandy for himself. The cuff of his white shirt appeared beneath the sleeve of his coat as he returned and handed her the drink.

Grace took a sip, praying it would help dissolve her building nerves. She didn’t know exactly what was happening, but she had a feeling she was experiencing her first physical desire for a man.

“As I said before, you look exceptionally lovely this evening, yet something seems to be missing.” He set down his brandy glass, walked over to a small ornately carved silver box on the top of the Queen Anne table, and opened the lid. When he turned, her beautiful pearl-and-diamond necklace dangled from his long dark fingers.

“The gown needs something. I think these will do.” He moved behind her, draped the necklace round her neck
and fastened the clasp. His fingers brushed her nape, lingered a moment, and tiny goose bumps appeared on her skin.

As he stepped back to look at her, she reached up to touch the pearls, testing their smoothness, their familiar warmth as they absorbed the heat of her body.

“Yes…” he said, “much better.”

Her fingers traced the facets of the glittering diamonds, the single stones set between each of the pearls. There was something about the necklace, something strangely comforting in wearing it around her neck. And yet she knew the disturbing legend that accompanied the jewelry.

“They’re quite magnificent,” he continued. “A gift, you said.” A faint edge crept into his voice. “From Forsythe?”

She shook her head. “They came from my dearest chum. We went to academy together. She hoped it would bring me good fortune. There is a legend about it, you see. Perhaps you would like to hear it.”

“I would, indeed.” He took a sip of brandy, his manner once more relaxed. He led her over to the dark green brocade sofa and both of them sat down.

Grace fingered the pearls. “The necklace—the Bride’s Necklace, it is called—was commissioned in the thirteenth century by a wealthy lord named Fallon. It was a gift for the woman he loved. The pearls were sent to his bride to be worn on the day they were wed. But that fateful day, on his way to the ceremony, Lord Fallon was set upon by brigands and he and his men were killed. When his bride, Lady Ariana, heard the news, she was so distraught she climbed the castle parapet and leaped to her death.”

“Not a pleasant tale.”

“She died wearing the necklace. It was later discovered she was
enceinte.
”

He sipped his drink. “And the legend that follows?”

“It is said that whoever shall own the necklace will receive great happiness—but only if his heart is pure. If not, great tragedy will befall him.”

One of his black eyebrows went up. “You own the neck lace. You believe your heart is pure?”

Except for a few of the impure thoughts she had been entertaining that evening. “I hope that it is. Though I am certain you would disagree.”

He studied her with speculation, but made no further comment. “It’s getting late. Perhaps we should dine.”

Maintaining his polite facade, he helped her up from the sofa. Grace pasted on an equally polite veneer and let him guide her over to the table.

They supped on a table covered with fine white linen, ate off gold-rimmed porcelain plates, and drank expensive champagne. The conversation returned to less volatile subjects and little by little, both of them relaxed. They talked about his ship, obviously his most prized possession, and about her interest in astronomy.

“I have a friend named Mary who shares my passion,” she told him. “We met in school. One of the teachers sparked our interest in the constellations and helped us learn about them. Mary lives in the country. It is far easier to observe the night sky from her house than it is in the city. Of course out here, the sky seems to go on forever and the stars are like diamonds spread out on a cloak of black velvet.”

“They’re beautiful out here, aren’t they?” But he was looking at her as if the stars were in her eyes and not the sky, and her stomach floated up beneath her ribs.

The hours passed swiftly and she had to admit she
enjoyed herself. Ethan Sharpe, she discovered, could be quite a charming man.

She found herself smiling at something he said and took another drink of expensive French champagne. “I suppose this is plunder?” She held up the crystal goblet, her gaze on the bubbles rising in the glass.

“Actually, it is.” He lifted his glass and flashed one of his rare, unguarded smiles. It was so beautiful it left her breathless. “I took it off a French brigantine and for that I enjoy it all the more.” His eyes slid down to her breasts and she couldn’t miss the hunger. Her heartbeat increased and her stomach fluttered and she thought that perhaps she was beginning to understand a little of what he felt.

“To pleasure,” he said softly.

She could almost feel where his hot gaze touched. “To life… Thank you for sparing mine.”

Ethan smiled, clinked his glass against hers, and both of them drank deeply.

One of the cook’s helpers, neatly dressed in dark breeches, a white shirt and a dark brown jacket, arrived to remove their dishes. He cleared away the last of a sophisticated meal of filet of freshly caught fish sautéed in butter and wine, scalloped potatoes, a mélange of seasoned vegetables, and camembert cheese and lemon tarts for dessert.

Grace had savored each bite. She couldn’t help wondering at her host’s elegant tastes, and what kind of man Ethan Sharpe really was.

Scarcely just a pirate. He was a man of intelligence and charm who wore a gentleman’s clothes with the same ease as those of a sea captain.

Who was he? She wondered if she would ever find out.

“It’s getting late,” he said. “I’ll walk you back to the cabin.”

Grace nodded. The evening had been long, occasionally tense and sometimes even taxing. She needed to escape Ethan’s overpowering presence and the mix of emotions he stirred. They strolled along the deck, her arm laced with his, until one of the crew stepped out of the main hatch way in front of them.

“Evenin’, Capt’n Sharpe…miss.”

“Mr. Cox,” Ethan returned the greeting.

The second mate moved out of the way so that they might pass. Though Cox was always polite, there was something about him that made her uneasy. His eyes briefly touched her, roamed over her gown and the pearls at her throat, then he ducked his head, made a polite bow and moved away.

Ethan paid the man no heed. His attention remained fixed on her as he walked her to the ladder leading down to his cabin. In the dimly lit passage outside the door, he paused.

“I enjoyed the evening, Grace, very much. I hope you did, as well.”

She couldn’t deny it. She couldn’t remember a more interesting evening than the one she’d just had. “Yes…thank you for inviting me.”

He touched her cheek, bent his head and very softly kissed her. Her hands came up, fluttered helplessly for a moment, then flattened against his chest. Beneath his coat, she felt his muscles tighten. He deepened the kiss, drawing her closer against him, and she felt the hard length of his arousal.

She should have been frightened, and part of her was. He was still her enemy, the man determined to see her cast into prison. Another part reveled in the heat he stirred, the desire she had never experienced with another man.

“Invite me in,” he whispered softly, enticingly. “Let me make love to you.”

Her stomach contracted. It was one thing to experience physical desire. The notion of actually giving him her innocence, allowing him to make love to her, was another matter entirely.

Grace shook her head, feeling the unexpected burn of tears and an odd stab of regret. “I can’t. Please, Ethan. I’m not ready for that.” Why didn’t she just tell him no? That she had no interest in his lovemaking? She wasn’t his wife and she didn’t belong in his bed.

Instead, when he kissed her again, for an instant she pressed herself against him. She breathed in the scent of salt spray and man and tasted the depth of his hunger. An answering need arose, so strong she had to force herself to pull away.

“Thank you again…Captain Sharpe.”

His smile turned hard at her obvious attempt to put distance between them. “My pleasure…Miss Chastain.”

She started to turn and go into the room, but he caught her wrist. Turning her back to him, he reached for the clasp on the necklace.

“I’ll just take these.” He unfastened the clasp and the pearls slid into his palm. “For now…just for safekeeping.” He tucked the pearls into the pocket of his silver-threaded waistcoat, turned and walked away.

Grace stepped into the cabin and closed the door, wondering if later that night he would occupy his side of the bed. She wondered if he would try to make love to her.

And what she would do if he did.

Ethan spent the night on the sofa in the salon, his make shift berth more than a foot too short for him, worse
even than the bunk in Angus’s cabin. Still, he didn’t dare return to his own.

Today he had saved Grace’s life and something indefinable had changed between them. For the past few nights, he had lain beside her, torturing himself with her nearness, aching with lust for her. Tonight he thought that if he went to her bed, perhaps he could have her, but something held him back.

Lying on the uncomfortable sofa, if he closed his eyes he could see her standing near the rail, beautiful and defiant, her fiery hair whipping around her face. Sensing his anger, she had moved away from him, a few unconscious steps, then been helplessly washed into the sea.

It was a moment that burned crystal clear in his mind, the sharp stab of fear, the absolute terror that she would drown in the raging waters. Nothing could have kept him from going in after her.
She is mine,
the insane thought had occurred.
I can’t let her die.

Afterward, with Grace once more safely aboard, he had said a silent prayer of thanks that he had been able to save her.

Even then, he had never thought to allow her into his inner sanctum—she was a criminal, after all—yet he found himself inviting her to supper. The hours had been far more pleasant than he had imagined, a lively discussion of sailing and the sea, along with a bit of science. She was smart and full of life and he wanted her with a passion he hadn’t known he had.

He told himself that tonight he would have her. He would walk her down to his cabin, kiss her into submission and press her to give in to his wishes. Remembering her earlier responses, he’d believed that she would agree.

According to plan, he had kissed her in the corridor
out side his cabin and then pressed his suit. But the look in her eyes, the innocent sweetness of her refusal, made anything less than obeying her wishes impossible for him to do.

Ethan sat up on the sofa, damning himself and women in general. He hadn’t pressed her because he didn’t want to destroy her trust. Why that seemed important, he couldn’t imagine. Still, he wouldn’t make love to her unless she invited him into her bed.

Christ.

She had aided the escape of a traitor. The man was responsible for the loss of his ship, his crew and a year of his life. He had brought her aboard to make her pay.

He must be losing his mind.

“A
ny word of your cousin?” Victoria Easton, countess of Brant, walked up behind her husband, who sat behind the wide mahogany desk in his study.

Cord turned a little, looked over his shoulder and smiled. “Colonel Pendleton says the mission shouldn’t take all that long. He thinks Ethan will be back in London by the end of the month.”

Tory blushed. Cord was tall and handsome, broad-shouldered and square-jawed with a hard, muscular body. All she had to do was look at the man and her thoughts started wandering toward the bedroom. She forced her mind to focus on the discussion at hand.

“According to the colonel, this will be your cousin’s last assignment. Do you think Captain Sharpe will miss the sea very much?”

She barely knew Ethan Sharpe though she had been aboard the ship that had sailed to France to rescue him from prison. During the single occasion Cord’s family had all been together to celebrate his return, she had thought him cold and distant, but Cord said he had not always been that way.

“The sea has always been Ethan’s life,” Cord replied, “but he is resigned to assuming his duties as marquess. I think part of him is looking forward to the challenge.”

“Do you think he’ll enter the marriage mart? It is, after all, his duty to produce an heir.”

“Eventually, he’ll have to, but not right away.” Cord reached up and tugged a strand of her thick chestnut hair. She was small, but a little less slender now that she was four months gone with child. He turned around in his chair, pulled her down on his lap and kissed her.

“What is this sudden interest in Ethan?”

“Sarah dropped by. She is beginning to worry. You know how she is.” Sarah was Ethan’s sister, the Viscountess Aimes. Along with Cord, Sarah had been a driving force in bringing her brother safely home from France.

“There is no reason for her to worry. Harmon Jeffries has fled. The man is no longer in a position to give away secrets—or sell them, as the case may be. Ethan will complete his mission and return safely home.”

“With the viscount removed from the government, I suppose the voyage will be safer.”

“Which brings me to a question I’ve been meaning to ask. Recently it occurred to me that it was extremely co incidental for your friend, Grace, to decide to visit a relative in the north so shortly after Lord Forsythe’s escape.”

Tory gave him her innocent, wide-eyed expression. “Darling, surely you’re not implying that Grace had anything to do with it?”

“Don’t give me that look. Tell me Grace Chastain was in no way involved in the viscount’s escape.”

“Why ever would you think she was?”

“Because, as we both know, the man is her father. Perhaps—”

“That is a secret, Cord! You promised never to mention it.”

“I am only saying—”

“You are accusing Grace of aiding a man convicted of being a traitor—though of course he did continue to proclaim his innocence right up until the last.”

“Yes, and he would be dead right now—hanged by the neck—if someone hadn’t helped him breach the walls of Newgate prison. And we both know how reckless Grace can be.”

“Well, she certainly wouldn’t—”

“Wouldn’t she? If you were in her position, you would certainly consider it.”

Nervous at the direction the conversation was taking, Tory slid her arms around his neck and leaned into his chest, which pressed her full breasts nicely against him.

“You are trying to distract me, you little witch.”

“Is it working?” She knew it was. As she settled a little deeper on his lap, she could feel his arousal.

“Dammit, yes, it’s working.”

Tory laughed as he scooped her up in his arms.

“Perhaps a little distraction will do both of us some good. In a short while, we’ll have the baby to consider.”

“The doctor says we can make love till just before my confinement.”

“Yes, well, doctors aren’t always correct and I am not about to take chances.” He bent his head and very soundly kissed her. “In the meantime, however, I plan to enjoy you every chance I get.”

Tory just smiled. She had successfully sidetracked her husband from a subject she didn’t want him to explore. From the moment of Lord Forsythe’s escape, she had been certain Grace was behind the deed. For her best friend’s sake, she hoped Grace was comfortably established in
Lady Humphrey’s distant abode and that by the time she returned to London, the incident would mostly be forgotten.

Tory thought of the necklace, the gift she had given her dearest friend. Surely it would bring good fortune to Grace as it had to her.

She wasn’t the least bit worried, she told herself. Not at all. Grace was always one to land on her feet. But the fierce search for Lord Forsythe continued, the magistrates using every available source to discover where he was and who might be responsible for his escape.

Tory shivered in her husband’s arms as he carried her up the stairs, and said a silent prayer for Grace.

Matilda Crenshaw, Baroness Humphrey, sat in the sitting room of her upstairs bedchamber suite at Humphrey Hall. Like the rest of the house, the room was a little frayed, the damask curtains somewhat faded, as was the fringe on the sofa. But Lady Humphrey liked it that way. She often felt a bit frayed herself.

A few feet away, her longtime friend, Elvira Tweed, widow of the late Sir Henry Tweed, perched on a tapestry chair, her needlework forgotten in her pudgy lap. Their concern this day was for Lady Humphrey’s great-niece, Grace Chastain.

“Nasty business,” Lady Tweed said with several clucks and a shake of her gray-haired head. “I still cannot credit those fools in London actually believing Lord Forsythe could possibly be a traitor. Why, your nephew has always been ridiculously patriotic.”

“And loyal to a fault,” Lady Humphrey added firmly, thinking of the ten-year-old boy she had taken in when his parents died and raised as her own. “Not always so
stead fast to his wife, poor dear, but then men are like that, are they not?”

“My Henry strayed from the path but once. He found himself sleeping down the hall for nearly a year, but the lesson was well learned. I don’t believe he was ever unfaithful again.”

“This daughter of Harmon’s, Grace Chastain—born on the wrong side of the blanket though she was—he always thought a good deal of her. Kept track of her over the years. Wrote me several letters about her. I think he liked her pluck.” She cocked a gray eyebrow at her friend. “His own brood is rather a dull lot, don’t you think? Though I shall deny I ever said so.”

“Lord Forsythe’s other children take after their mother, poor darlings.” Elvira picked up her needlework, but didn’t seem interested in actually taking a stitch. “I do hope the gel is all right.” There were no secrets between the two women. They had shared each other’s lives for more than fifty years, shared the happy days and the heartbreak. They were steadfast friends and nothing that happened in the in sane world around them could shock them any longer.

Matilda sighed. “God only knows what may have happened to her.” Last week, a sea captain named Chambers had appeared at her door with Grace’s trunks and her lady’s maid, a girl named Phoebe Bloom. He said he regretted that Grace wasn’t with them and relayed a tale of her abduction from his ship, the
Lady Anne.
A man named Ethan Sharpe, captain of the
Sea Devil,
had said that Grace was wanted for questioning in a matter of national security.

Which could only mean that somehow she had been connected to Harmon’s escape.

“I wonder if she is back in London,” Elvira said.

Matilda worried that she might be. “God’s breath, even now, my great-niece could be languishing in prison for the brave deed she has done.”

“You dare not pursue the matter, Matilda,” Elvira warned. “If you do, you will be putting both Grace and Harmon in even graver danger. The girl should probably have sought aid somewhere else. Now Captain Chambers knows her destination and someone might put two and two together. Should the connection be made between Grace and Lord Forsythe—” She clucked and shook her head.

“I live a quiet life miles away from London. Harmon has been gone from this house for more than twenty years and few people ever really knew of our kinship. No one is going to connect anything. And Grace had nowhere else to go.”

Elvira absently shifted the embroidery in her lap. “Let us hope you are right.”

“I am always right.” Matilda had yet to hear from her beloved nephew, but she was certain that sooner or later she would. Harmon wasn’t a traitor. He wouldn’t have fled to France. She prayed that wherever he was, he was safe.

And that Grace Chastain could somehow sway the man who had taken her, Captain Sharpe, from his determined course of action, and instead persuade him to bring her to Scarborough and give her into Matilda’s care where she would be safe.

They were heading into port, or at least heading into the cove near the small seaside village of Fenning-On-Quay, just west of the eastern tip of England near Penzance. The westernmost tip of France lay directly across the channel. In the afternoons and sometimes at night,
Ethan had allowed Grace to use the ship’s sextant to do a bit of amateur navigation.

From her crude calculations, she’d believed that for a while they had been sailing just off the coast of France. She wasn’t sure what information the captain was collecting, but she thought that once they resupplied, he might be sailing even farther south, round the tip of land at Brest, searching the waters along the French coast. Grace just hoped the ship continued along its present path away from London.

But there were dangers here, too.

Seated on the berth in her cabin, she sighed. She hadn’t forgotten the supper she had shared with the captain in his private salon—or the heated kisses. She hadn’t forgotten how hard it had been not to welcome his advances, invite him in and let him make love to her.

If she stayed on board the ship, he might well return her to London. If she stayed, she might well wind up in his bed.

Grace glanced out the windows across the stern. The stop at Fenning-On-Quay could be the last she saw of English shores before he turned the ship round and headed back to the city, her last chance to escape the captain’s plans for her—whatever they might be—and yet remain on British soil.

She had to leave. She couldn’t simply stand back and let him do with her as he wished. The question was—how to get off the ship?

Peering out the row of windows above the berth in his cabin, Grace watched Ethan depart with Angus McShane in one of two wooden dinghies headed for shore. The second mate, Willard Cox, was in charge of the ship until the men returned. Only a skeleton crew remained aboard with him.

Alone in the cabin, Grace watched the boats grow smaller as the men rowed toward their destination. The cove near Fenning-On-Quay was deep, so the ship had been able to anchor closer to shore than it had before.

Grace found herself smiling. Safe haven wasn’t all that far away and she had the advantage of being a woman. Ethan Sharpe had no idea she knew how to swim—she certainly hadn’t acquitted herself very well the last time she went in the water.

But during the years she and her friend, Victoria Temple, had attended Mrs. Thornhill’s Private Academy, the two of them had often sneaked down to the river, where, with a bit of cajoling, a couple of village boys had taught them to swim.

Grace gauged the distance to shore. If she entered the water in just her chemise and one of the captain’s shirts, she could make it. But what would she do once she reached land? She would need clothing, and money enough to take care of herself until she could find someplace safe and some sort of work.

She spent the next fifteen minutes searching the cabin, hoping the captain might have a small purse of coins lying about, but couldn’t find a single farthing. Perhaps in his salon she would find what she needed.

She checked the passage, saw that no one was around, and headed for the ladder. On deck, she spotted the sailor called Long-boned Ned, but he was busy mending a sail and it was easy enough to slip past him.

The salon door wasn’t locked. She entered unnoticed and began a quiet search. There were charts of the French and Spanish coastlines spread open on Ethan’s desk, next to a compass and an hourglass. A lovely walnut box held a brace of pistols. She closed the lid, suddenly thinking of another carved box.

She moved toward the Queen Anne table and opened the lid of the ornate silver box on top. On a bed of royal blue satin, the Bride’s Necklace gleamed up at her. Grace scooped it up and slid the pearls into the pocket of her gray muslin skirt.

Once Tory had been forced to sell the necklace so that she and her sister might escape their stepfather’s cruelty. If Grace had to sell it to save herself, that is what she would do.

Making her way back down to the cabin, she retrieved her aqua silk gown, removed her muslin skirt and blouse and rolled them all up inside her cloak, then bundled the items together and wrapped them in the captain’s wet-weather oilskin coat, hoping they would stay dry and afloat.

The necklace she clasped around her neck, the only safe place she could think of to put it.

She surveyed the windows above the bed but they weren’t large enough for her to fit through. Slipping one of Ethan’s shirts on over her chemise, she headed for the door, praying no one would see her, and made her way quietly down the passage.

The rigging clattered and clanked as the ship rolled gently in the sea and she could hear men’s voices up on the bow of the ship, singing a bawdy sea shanty. No one else seemed to be around. Grace looked both ways and stepped up on deck.

“Well, well, well, what do you suppose we have here?” Willard Cox rounded the corner at exactly the wrong moment. He took in her attire—or lack of it—and his thick fingers clamped round her wrist, hauling her toward him. “Now, just where is it you think you’re goin’?” His black eyes raked her, fastened on the necklace at her throat. “And dressed as you are, in no more than a shirt and a
set of pretties. You can’t be thinkin’ of tryin’ to get to shore?”