The Raider’s Bride Page 3

  The child merely shook out the lace on her petticoats, as unfazed by the vicar's reproach as she had been by Ian's glare.

  "I have a fractious nose," the child proclaimed, staring down that offended feature at Ian. "My mama always said so."

  "Then you can carry your fractious nose off and bury it in your mama's skirts," Ian snapped.

  The child's rosebud lips pressed together, her brows lowering over thickly lashed eyes. "My mama is dead." The words were flung out not in childish grief but rather in the manner of a duelist slapping the face of his enemy with a glove in challenge.

  Ian stiffened as if the child had done just that, a sick sense of regret flooding through him.

  "I'm sorry." He tried to gentle his voice, but the child would have none of it. She continued to scowl back at him, her chin thrust out.

  "I heard Mokey, the groom, say that my mama died in jealous fits. She tried to shoot Mr. Avery, and he wouldn't let her, so she got shot instead. I don't believe Mokey, though," the child said almost to herself. "Mr. Avery wouldn't shoot Mama. He brought me sweetmeats."

  "Merciful heavens." The minister gasped. "How many times have I told you that you must not speak of such ugly things?"

  "It is the truth, isn't it? About my mama? And you and Mrs. Clyvedon are always saying I'll roast in hell if I don't tell the truth."

  The child spoke so calmly that she might have been discussing a play she had seen rather than the murder of her mother—a tragedy of such magnitude that most children would have been in hysterics.

  More unnerved than he cared to admit, Ian scoured his memory for all the mistresses he'd had through the years. More than a few of them had exhibited the type of dangerous temper the child's story seemed to imply.

  Dear God, could this child be his?

  He searched her face for anything familiar—his eyes, Maria Hobart's mouth, Angelica Mardinet's smile—but there was no physical resemblance to Ian or to any of his former lovers.

  He should have been relieved. Instead he merely felt more off-balance.

  And yet there was a certain toughness in the child's face that nudged at Ian's heart. He set the glass on the table and searched for the right words to say. "I'm very sorry about whatever misfortune has befallen you, Miss Lucy, but I cannot see what this could have to do with me."

  Those wide blue eyes leveled at him like the twin barrels of a gun. "You have to take care of me now."

  "Me? Play guardian to a child? Impossible!" Ian's gaze flashed from her to the vicar in disbelief. "Clyvedon, what kind of trick are you trying to play here? I'll not tolerate—"

  "It's not a trick!" Lucy cried, and for the first time, a flicker of something vulnerable entered her eyes. "My mama is dead, and you have to take care of me."

  Ian rounded on the vicar, furious, confused. "You tell me right now what the hell this is about. Who is this child's mother, and what the devil claim does she have on me?"

  The vicar started to loop his arm instinctively about the child's shoulder, but at Lucy's glare he snatched it back as if he feared she'd bite it off. He cleared his throat. "This is Miss Lucy Dubbonet, sir. Your sister Celestia's child."

  "Celestia?" Ian gaped at the little girl, feeling as if his soul had split, plunging him into the dark, cold places inside him. He turned back to the vicar. "What you claim is impossible. My sister couldn't have carried a child. She made certain of—"

  He glanced at the child and bit off the words, but they went on, relentless, in his mind. Celestia had been so frightened by what had happened to her mother that she'd made an old Indian woman deaden her womb when she was just sixteen....

  "I assure you, Miss Lucy is indeed your sister's child," Clyvedon insisted.

  "Well, what about the girl's father, then? The child didn't just appear beneath a cabbage leaf, did she? Believe me, Celestia was not the type to receive the honor of an immaculate conception."

  "Captain Dubbonet's ship was lost off the Gold Coast when the child was five. Your sister, it seems, made haste to get on with her life."

  "My sister was always able to adapt when it came to men." The caustic words slipped out before Ian could stop them.

  "At any rate, sir," Clyvedon rushed on, "I was given the responsibility of taking Miss Lucy away from the home of her mother's... ahem... protector in Jamaica after the unfortunate incident that led to Mrs. Dubonnet's death."

  "Well, you can take the girl right back to Jamaica on the next boat," Ian said. "Surely in your travels you must have heard that I am a bachelor of notorious reputation. People from Barbados to Boston know of my tremendous appetites for gambling and drinking and... other sports of a kind that should not be mentioned in a child's hearing."

  Clyvedon all but choked on his embarrassment, but Lucy's gaze sharpened, as if she understood what Ian was hinting at far better than the holy man did.

  Ian felt his own cheekbones heat beneath her too-wise gaze. He grimaced. It had been a hell of a long time since anyone had summoned a blush from the rakehell Blackheath. If Tony were here, he'd have fallen into paroxysms of laughter by now.

  Ian shook himself inwardly. "Mr. Clyvedon, even if I had a more acceptable way of life, it wouldn't change the way I feel about this matter. My sister and I had been estranged for years. Celestia would not have entrusted a worn pair of slippers to me, let alone her child. Surely there must be someone else who can see to Lucy's needs. Someone better suited than I am."

  Clyvedon mopped his jowls with the kerchief. "If there had been anyone else, do you think I'd have come here?"

  "I see. Then perhaps I can help solve this dilemma," Ian suggested. "You could take the child to my uncle Fowler. He's a respectable sort, as far as Blackheaths go. Or my cousin Elisabeth Merriton."

  The vicar tugged at his neckcloth as if it had suddenly grown too tight. "I regret to—to inform you that your uncle broke his neck falling from a horse eight years ago."

  "That was disobliging of him," Ian snorted in disgust. "No doubt Fowler was drunk. The man's horsemanship always was execrable when he was in his cups. What about Elisabeth? Surely she would be a stable influence on the child."

  "The word 'stable' is a particularly... ah, unfortunate choice, sir. You see, Miss Merriton ran off with her papa's postilion and has never been heard from again."

  "Blast it, the girl always did have the most inconvenient weakness for a well-turned thigh." Desperately, Ian named every blood relation he could recall, no matter how remote or removed, while Clyvedon continued to list their unsavory fates.

  At last Ian gave a pithy oath, defeated. By God, the poetic justice that had been served on the Blackheath family might even have been amusing if he had not been faced with the small, increasingly indignant person before him.

  "Everyone else has died," Lucy's voice cut in, as affronted as if they had done so to irritate her on purpose. "I think it was very rude of them to leave me all alone."

  "The Blackheaths always did have abominable manners," Ian muttered. He heaved a deep sigh. "Well, I suppose there is no hope for it, then, Mr. Clyvedon. She will have to go back to the vicarage with you."

  "The—the vicarage?" Clyvedon thrust his hands behind his back, his face mottled red.

  "I won't go back there!" Lucy cried. "You cannot make me!"

  "No!" the vicar shrilled, equally alarmed. "She—she belongs with her own family!"

  "But your home would be the perfect place to raise a child from such a tainted family—far from worldly temptations. Of course I shall give you an earthly reward as well. I'll pay you a fortune—"

  "I would not take that girl back home if you gave me a king's ransom!"

  Ian's eyes glinted with mockery. "Come now, Clyvedon. How much trouble can such a small child be?"

  "Keep her and see for yourself," the vicar challenged, then turned and fled.

  Ian started to hurry after him, but at that instant he glimpsed a flurry of rose-pink skirts. A small hand seemed to bump accidentally into a table, sending it flying agains
t Ian's legs.

  Never in his life had Ian been caught so unawares. But between the effects of the brandy and his own confusion over Clyvedon's reaction, he stumbled. Pain jolted up Ian's shins and slammed into his elbows as he crashed to the floor. He rolled to his side in an effort to regain his feet, but he could already hear the vicar's carriage thundering away at a pace that would have challenged Tony's matched bays.

  "Son of a bitch!" Ian shouted. "Priam! Damn it, somebody stop that accursed—"

  But his words were cut off by the slam of the door. Lucy braced her back against it, her face fiercer than any Ian had seen across a dueling field. "I won't go with him!"

  "You can't stay here!" Ian bellowed. "Didn't you hear a word I said?"

  "Yes. You don't want me!" The words were so cold that Ian stilled, his gaze locked on the child's face. "Well, I don't want you either."

  "Lucy, you must try to understand," Ian began, feeling an unaccustomed twinge of guilt. "It's not possible for me to keep you. I have very important business to attend to." He raked his hand back through his hair. "I can't have a child underfoot."

  Those blue eyes were merciless, spearing him with hate and just a hint of fear. "My mama said you were the wickedest man in the whole world. She despised you, and I do too."

  "At the moment I don't have a particularly high opinion of myself." Ian sagged until one shoulder rested against the settee, his hand rubbing at his throbbing head. "Oh, what the devil. It's too late to do anything about this mess now. I suppose you'll have to stay here, at least until some other arrangement can be made."

  Lucy said nothing. She just stood there, rigid, the tiniest quiver in her lips.

  Ian winced at a sharp pang of guilt.

  "We'll make the best of it, shall we?" He made a feeble attempt to cajole her. "We'll have a holiday before I find a nice school to send you to, with lots of other girls."

  "I don't like other girls. They don't do what I tell them to and don't 'preciate my dresses enough. But I guess that won't matter, because I don't have any dresses anymore. You made Mr. Clyvedon run away with my trunks."

  Ian bit off a curse. "You mean that imbecile dumped you on my doorstep without so much as a nightgown? What the devil am I supposed to do? Dress you in sackcloth?"

  "If you try it, I shall tear them into rags and smear soot on my cheeks. And I'll tell everyone that my wicked uncle threw away my gowns!"

  "Bloody hell!" Ian clutched his throbbing head between his hands. "I'll get you some other dresses!"

  "It'll be very 'spensive. I like lots and lots of lace." Her shrewdness made Ian wonder if there was more of Celestia in this daughter than he had first believed.

  "Fine." He surrendered. "I'll buy you oceans of lace if that will make you happy."

  The hard triumph in Lucy's eyes seemed out of place in such a little face. She pressed her rosebud lips together, a certain wistfulness clinging about her features. Ian barely caught her whisper as she turned away.

  "I am never happy."

  * * *

  The chimes of the clock as it marked the hour of four seemed to drive white-hot nails into Ian's skull.

  Exhausted, frustrated, and feeling the full effects of his encounter with the brandy decanter, he made his way through the corridors of Blackheath Hall, a single candle clenched in one hand.

  The whole house was blanketed in the eerie silence of a battlefield after combat was done. The servants were probably cowering in their beds, still shaken by the uproar of the past five hours, while Tony, unforgivably amused by the night's proceedings, had tarried about the plantation house, drinking Ian's wine and laughing that unholy laugh until it had grown too late for him to leave at all.

  It had been the night from hell. Ian could only be glad that it was almost daybreak.

  But that would hardly be the end of this disaster.

  He could scarcely expect Lucy Dubbonet to vanish the way his throbbing head and churning stomach would the next morning. He could hardly fling her out the door the way he would Tony Gray once dawn arrived.

  No, come morning Lucy would still be there, demanding to be dealt with, muddying up his infernal life. Sweet Jesus, what he wouldn't give to face more mundane problems—a simple sword fight or an exchange with pistols—a slash to the shoulder or thigh, a pistol ball that failed to pierce a vital organ. Something he could stitch up and poultice and summarily dismiss.

  But there would be no easy escape from this night's disaster, no simple solution to the dilemma of Miss Lucy Dubbonet.

  Ian was surprised to find himself hesitating outside the doorway of the gold room, his devilishly handsome features more wary than they had been when he faced a regiment of soldiers. The child was inside, asleep in the amber-velvet splendor of the huge tester bed.

  Ian stepped into the room and looked down at her—a surprisingly tiny figure curled up on the tumbled sheets, her gold curls tossed across the pillow. The Mechlin lace collar of Ian's finest shirt was fastened beneath her chin in lieu of a night shift, the child's fingers knotted in the delicate web that tumbled down her chest.

  He couldn't suppress a rueful smile as he remembered the fuss the little hellion had kicked up when faced with the indignity of wearing a man's shirt to bed. Only when Ian had remembered her penchant for lace and fished this one from beneath his valet's horrified gaze had she quieted.

  She had taken the garment as if it were her due—no gratitude, no flicker of pleasure in her eyes. Just a hard satisfaction as she went regally to bed.

  "Is she sleeping?"

  Tony Gray's soft question made Ian turn. Damnation, did the man have to follow him everywhere?

  Ian shrugged. "She appears to be—praise the saints. I was beginning to consider giving her lemonade spiked with rum to knock her out. What's more alarming," he added wryly, "is that my housekeeper was so desperate, I think she was ready to let me." His gaze intensified on the child. "What the devil am I supposed to do with a little girl, Tony?"

  "She's a tiny thing. She can't eat much. As for clothing, I admit she has extravagant tastes, but you're used to that, what with the flock of mistresses you've kept over the years. I imagine you two will get used to each other in time."

  "Surely you can't be suggesting that I keep her? Here, in the middle of this nest of treason?" Ian's fist knotted around the candle. "Even during the brief time she stays, we'll have to make adjustments. No new plans for entertaining the English except in emergencies. There is the shipment of playthings coming up for Chalmers of Boston, and some powder for that Connecticut farmer. Those business dealings will have to go forth as planned."

  "We'll manage. It will be easier than you think."

  Ian gave a bitter laugh. "No self-respecting Blackheath ever did anything the easy way. And from what I see of her temperament, this child is pure Blackheath. Blast her to blazes."

  "She's your sister's child, Ian. You are her only living relative. She needs you." Tony's words twisted inside Ian, releasing something that felt disturbingly like fear.

  "I don't have time to play nursemaid!" Ian objected, taking a step nearer the bed. "I'll have to enroll her in some sort of school as far away from Virginia as possible. Maybe that place your sister went to."

  "Miss Witherton's Academy? It's a fine establishment, but it won't accept any new pupils until the next term begins three months from now."

  "That's not soon enough! There must be some way I can get rid of her immediately!"

  Tony's mouth curled in disgust. "I suppose you could blacken her cheeks and sell her at the next slave auction. Or you could indenture her to some tradesman in town. She could be a milliner's bond servant, stitching from dawn to dusk for her keep."

  "You know that's not what I mean! I have responsibilities, Tony."

  "Of course. To your cause. And that takes precedence over a lone child who has no one in the whole bloody world except you."

  "Don't play at bleeding heart, Tony! It doesn't suit you."

  "I can't help it. Look at
her, Ian. The poor little mite. Orphaned and then dragged here all the way from Jamaica. She must have been so afraid."

  "That child wouldn't be afraid if she were invited to luncheon by a school of sharks!" Ian said, with a grudging admiration for Lucy's stubborn bravado. "At any rate, even if I were sympathetic to her plight, it wouldn't change the fact that it's far too dangerous for her here."

  Ian fell silent for a moment and pressed his fingertips to his throbbing temple. Suddenly he brightened. "Tony, you have numerous acquaintances who are far more respectable than my own. Surely there must be some among them who would love to have a pretty, biddable little girl to keep them company."

  "Biddable?" Tony stifled a chuckle beneath his hand. "You and I may be masters of subterfuge, my friend, but even we couldn't conceal this child's willfulness for more than a heartbeat."

  "What about your sainted Nora? The Mableys have six children already. No one would even notice if we slipped an extra one in amongst 'em."

  "Nora and her mama are off visiting in Charleston. Nora's bosom friend is about to deliver her first babe, and Nora is most anxious to get into practice—" Tony broke off, his cheeks reddening.

  He cleared his throat gruffly. "At any rate, Ian, in spite of what you might believe, children are not interchangeable. I have it on highest authority that Nora's mama counts them up every night at suppertime." The teasing note left Tony's voice, and Ian felt hot irritation at the solemn light that suddenly shone in Gray's eyes. "Ian, for the first time since you bloodied my nose at Hargrove's Boarding School, I'm going to abandon you and force you to cope with a disaster by yourself. It might just be the making of you."

  "I hate it when you play the self-righteous bastard," Ian said with quiet venom.

  The corner of Tony's mouth ticked up in a grin. "Why do you think I do it so often?" he asked, then turned and left the room.

  A drop of hot wax splashed onto Ian's hand from the candle he held, but he barely felt it as he edged closer to the child.