Suzanne Robinson (29 page)

“Sergeant, take the men back to the ship.”

He turned then and ran up the beach after Pen.

Jean-Paul dismissed his serving man and tugged on the sweeping folds of silk that covered his shoulders. The man had brought the news that Mistress Fairfax had returned. Mistress Fairfax—
Dieu
, how he longed to slit her throat for her interference.

He’d slept late, exhausted by his flight across England. His own rage at Mistress Fairfax and Morgan St. John had wakened him. The night had been filled with nightmares of the ruin of one of his most elegant designs. From the top of the wall at Beaumaris he’d witnessed the defeat of Danseur. What a waste.

Padding across the chamber, he sat at a desk, took out a sheet of paper, and found a quill. His fingertips slid down the length of the feather as he gazed out the window in thought. He couldn’t decide which he hated most, St. John or his mad bitch.

Their names had joined several others on a list he’d finally decided to commit to paper. He would send it to Mazarin along with the news of his half sister’s capture. Mazarin would be desolate and enraged at the news.

A small, mean smile crossed Jean-Paul’s lips at the thought. He might be able to turn this calamity to his advantage, for Mazarin was his sister’s lover and would crave vengeance upon those who mishandled her. He
was in the Netherlands at the moment, causing havoc for the mighty King of Spain.

However, Jean-Paul was sure that after this latest setback, the cardinal would agree to recalling Mazarin and sending him to England. Certain of his other plans had been more successful. He didn’t want Montfort or any of his band to interfere in these as they had in the past few months.

He trailed the feather across his palm, then dipped the quill in the inkwell and began to write to the Sieur de Mazarin. He progressed from the doleful announcement to a description of Danseur’s wounding and capture. Jean-Paul sighed, for Danseur, who really should have been called Danseuse were it not for the need for secrecy, had been most useful. No doubt by now she was on her way to London, the Tower, to be tortured for information and executed. His pen progressed to a list of those responsible for her downfall.

Here Jean-Paul paused. It would be as well to include everyone. As long as he was coming, Mazarin might as well attend to the whole lot.

He began with Cecil and Lord Montfort. Then came Blade Fitzstephen and that bastard Lord Derry. No, Derry was Viscount Moorefield now. Jean-Paul carefully traced out the letters of the title in his Italianate script before listing Morgan’s name. He added the name of Penelope Fairfax, blew on the damp ink, and finished by writing Baron Rochefort’s name at the bottom.

Once finished, he sealed the letter. As he pressed his signet ring into the wax, he glanced out the window again, for it had suddenly grown dark. Across the successive courtyards, over the tops of the forest trees, a rumbling mass of clouds tumbled toward him. A thunderclap shook the window in its frame. Wind
rushed into the room, picked up the flowing silk of his robe, and billowed it out behind him.

Jean-Paul rose and shut the window. Below, he saw Ponder Cutwell scurry, grunting, across the flagstones in the direction of Margery’s pen. He tapped the letter against his palm thoughtfully.

The fool had provided a useful refuge when he’d first left France on his commission. If Much Cutwell hadn’t been compromised, he would have let Ponder be, but now—now the oaf presented a danger. He would have to be dispatched. But not immediately.

Noting the way the thunderclouds blotted out all light, Jean-Paul sighed and returned to bed. He needed to retrieve a parcel from its hiding place before he attended to Mistress Fairfax and left the island. When he’d first arrived, he’d concealed certain valuables from Ponder’s curious gaze. It was time they were unearthed. But if he had to wait out the storm, he would do it in bed.

Her eyes watered from the severity of the wind. Pen snatched up hunks of skirt and stomped down the path to Highcliffe. She had begun to lose mastery of herself the moment she distinguished Morgan from the rest of the men in that boat.

It had been as if she were seeing him for the first time, for indeed, for the first time he had dressed in his own clothing. He wore blue-black damask slashed at the chest and sleeves to reveal gold beneath. He sat at the prow of the boat, taller than the rest of the men, hand clamped on a sword that hung from his left hip.

Although clouds obscured the sun, he seemed to shine with the richness of his attire, from the patterned damask to the black fur that lined his cloak. Heedless
of the damage to his black kid boots, he’d jumped out of the boat and stalked toward her, the wind whipping his cloak back to reveal the damascene ornamentation on his sword hilt.

When he’d reached her, she had noticed a gold ring bearing an emerald-cut onyx bezel. Upon the bezel had been mounted a heraldic device, a raven addorsed so that it was shown in profile with its wings spread back to back. She had taken in the way he wore his cloak thrown back over one shoulder, the angle of his sword worn so that it slanted behind him toward his right leg, the uncommon richness of leather—and realized what she should have known long before.

Tristan wasn’t just a nobleman, he was a polished, well-bred aristocrat who could duel to the death with calm while wearing silk and jewels. He wore black damask and gold braid the way gentlemen wore wool.

They had argued, and all the while she’d been thinking to herself. This man belongs in a palace, not in my keep with the holes in its roof. The gold and black ring had gleamed at her, and, beneath her anger and hurt, a little voice said,
He’s too far above you
,
too wondrous
.

She wanted to crumple and slither away in the face of this man who looked more like a prince than any royal portrait she’d ever seen. Even while he angered her, a feeling of unworthiness grew and grew until she’d clamped down on it out of desperation. She clung to her wrath and hurt.

Now she wanted only to hide away in her chamber and regain that blessed tranquility that came with the absence of feeling. She strained to direct her attention to his sins. Tenacious in his anger, he still blamed her for their misunderstandings and yet dared to look at her with a disconcerting lust. He played the disdainful
nobleman well and treated her like some mixture of harpy and convenient bawd. Humiliated anew, she barely heard shouts of derision behind her. Dibbler and the others were taunting Morgan and his men.

Pen hurried away from the cliffs. She’d left without glancing back to see how he’d taken her dismissal. Her life would now be devoted to making true her claim that she no longer wanted him. After all, she had a castle to run and servitors for whom to care—great responsibilities. She wanted no damascened nobleman.

“Penelope Grace Fairfax!”

She stumbled over a rut in the path at the sound of Morgan’s voice. She felt a sting in her ankle. Wincing, she stooped and gripped it. She hobbled around to face the cliff. Morgan was striding toward her. Dibbler, Sniggs, and Erbut rushed to meet him.

As she glared at Morgan, Dibbler lunged with his pike. Morgan paused. His arm shot out to knock the weapon aside. His hand slid down the shaft, gripped and yanked it from Dibbler’s grasp. He swerved, pike in hand, and brought the weapon up to meet a swipe from Erbut’s pike.

Making a sound that was part annoyance, part sneer, Morgan flicked the pike on end and jabbed it into Erbut’s stomach. Without breaking his movement, he spun, aimed at the approaching Dibbler, and cracked the staff against the man’s head. Dibbler made a croaking sound. His legs folded beneath him, and he dropped to the ground.

Morgan didn’t wait to see him fall. He whirled around and swiped at the gathering Highcliffers, making a half circle with the tip of the pike. Sniggs scrambled out of reach only to lose his footing and land on his arse. Morgan was upon him at once. He bent, snatched the serpent dagger from where it had been stuffed into
Sniggs’s belt, and cuffed the man when he protested. The dagger vanished into Morgan’s boot.

At Morgan’s order, Turnip hauled Sniggs out of danger. The rest of their fellows scuttled out of the way as well. Morgan snarled at them, meeting each of their gazes with his own in expression of his mastery. All avoided challenging that stare.

All except Pen. When he turned his glare upon her, Pen sniffed, turned on her good leg, and limped on her way. She hadn’t gone far, when she heard the crunch of boots. She felt him grasp her arm. Jerking free, she whipped around and faced him. Morgan had that glittering smile on his face again, that smile that said he was thinking of how he could make her moan with pleasure and was considering doing it right then. She could tell that he’d discard his rich furs and leather in moments.

“Pen Fairfax, you’re an obdurate and most tasty little liar.”

She tried to laugh, but her voice sounded so shrill and hollow. “Upon mine honor, you’re making a direful spectacle for all to see. I marvel that you don’t shrink at revealing your conceit to all and sundry.”

“I know women, Pen Fairfax, and I know you. I’d wager my London town house I haunt your dreams as you haunt mine.”

“You don’t.”

The words were defiant, but her voice shook. He wasn’t touching her, but that smile, the way he stood with his black-clad legs planted apart so that she was reminded of how they felt against her, the very power of him routed her. He began to speak again in a rough voice that made her want to run from him for fear of crumbling at his feet.

“Come, mistress mine, admit what I already know.
After all, since we’ve been apart, you torture me with visitations in my dreams that leave me increased and surging until I think I shall roar myself into madness for lack of relief.”

Dear God, she was growing redder than a rosebud. How could she let him whip her into this furor of craving and fear?

Morgan took her hand and kissed it, molding his lips to the back of her hand. “The least you could do is atone for your sins against me. What’s past is unchangeable, but my anger might be assuaged by a little pleasure. Come. You want to beg me for forgiveness with your body. I can see it in your eyes.”

Pen yanked her hand free again. This man had taken her trust and love and dropped it down a garderobe. As the wind swirled about her, she flattened her hands against her skirts and lifted her brows at Morgan.

“Verily, sirrah, if you suffer from such curious imaginings, they are of your own making, not mine. All I will say is that I had nothing to do with Lord Montfort’s plans to lure you here. Go back.”

It would be easier to defy him if she didn’t have to look at blue-black damask that brought out the inky depths of his hair. Dear Lord, she’d given him her father’s old clothes. When he regained his memory, he must have been offended upon beholding the faded garments in which she’d dressed him.

She turned away from him once again. Her ankle felt much better, and she began to walk without limping. But as she did so, a gust of wind hit her in the back. It was so powerful that it nearly shoved her to the ground.

She threw out her arms and stumbled, driven by the force of the wind and its suddenness. She would have fallen had Morgan not grabbed her and pulled
her to his body. Shielding her with his greater height and bulk, he wrapped his arms around her and braced himself against the furor as the wind sliced and ripped at them.

A shout from Erbut drew their attention. Morgan turned, and Pen nearly choked as she faced into the wind.

“Curse it,” Morgan said. “You’ve distracted me, and now we’re caught.”

He swirled his cloak around her. Never had she been wrapped in anything so warm or so soft. It smelled of the exotic spices in which it had been packed.

With Morgan’s help, she trudged against the force of the wind to join the others. Erbut pointed out to sea. Off the coast, Morgan’s ship had set sail and was rounding the tip of the island, running ahead of the storm that was almost upon them. A line of blue-gray haze that was rain ran toward Penance, and thunder announced its arrival.

“Everyone take shelter!” Morgan shouted.

He slipped his arm around Pen’s waist and guided her back down the path to the castle. Dust picked up by gusts hit her face and stung. Her hair whipped wildly, and she felt the first drops of rain coming sideways.

The wind veered, changed direction, and whipped back and forth. Then the hair on the back of her neck prickled and stood up. She looked up at Morgan in alarm. He grabbed her wrist and bolted.

“Run!” he bellowed.

Legs churning, she flew after him down the path. Behind her she heard a sudden crack and explosion that seemed to pierce her eardrums. Morgan didn’t stop, but hurled himself and her across the drawbridge and into the bailey.

So quickly did he run that Pen lost all hope of catching her breath. Her surroundings blurred until he slowed at last. They stopped as the rain hit, soaking them in moments. She had no chance to rest, however, for Morgan picked her up and ran up the stairs to the keep, not stopping until they reached the well room.

Wet to her skin, Pen felt a jar as Morgan set her on her feet. She wobbled, but he caught her, then pulled her against his chest. Unable to catch her breath, she lay her cheek against his doublet and gulped in air.

As her legs weaved, her hands fastened on his forearms. He supported her without effort. For a moment she was too muddled to think of anything but how comforting his strength was. Around them servants and Dibbler’s company trudged in, weary and dazed. Twistle stalked past, sputtering and vowed to brew a hot posset for everyone—except Morgan.

The sound of Twistle’s hate-filled voice disturbed Pen. She drew back, afraid that her dependence upon him had misled Morgan. She straightened her spine, stepped away from him, and sneezed.

“I could have escaped the storm on my own, my lord.”

“You’d be a smoldering heap of ashes if I hadn’t saved you from that lightning,” he said as he shoved his wet hair back from his forehead.

“Mayhap we wouldn’t have had a storm if it hadn’t been for your foul presence,” Pen snarled.