The Raider’s Bride Read online

  She grasped the bell pull again and yanked, but at that moment the door swung open. A servant in white and gold livery stared down his nose at her in regal disdain. "May I help you, miss?" His gaze skimmed with obvious disinterest over her threadbare cloak, her face half hidden by a faded hood.

  "Tulbridge?" she queried softly, drawing the hood back from her rain-soaked curls. "It's me. Emily Rose."

  Recognition flickered in the man's eyes. Quicksilver flashes of disbelief and sympathy flared in his expression, but he quelled them instantly, schooling his features into the bland expression of a well-trained servant. "I regret to inform you that the duke and duchess are presently engaged in a house party, miss, and are not receiving uninvited guests."

  "If you will let me come in and wait in an anteroom, I'll—"

  "If you waited a hundred years, they would not receive you, madam," Tulbridge said, the chill in his accents only a little forced. "You are not welcome on these premises."

  "Tulbridge, please! It's Lord Alexander. He—"

  "Lord Alexander is dead to his family. Good day, madam." He started to close the door, but Emily darted into the opening, blocking it, half afraid the servant would summarily shove her out.

  "He's alive and you know it! So does his father. But unless His Grace helps us, his son might be lost to him forever! Tulbridge, have pity, for God's sake. You carried Alexander on your shoulders when he was a boy! You mended his kites and—"

  The sound of laughter echoed from deep inside the house. Music from the pianoforte rippled out from a distant room—an indifferent player, savaging the instrument that had been Alexander's most cherished treasure.

  Anguish shot through Emily as she remembered Alexander's music filling these halls.

  "Miss Emily, you must go," Tulbridge insisted urgently. "If anything, His Grace's heart has grown harder against Lord Alex over the years. The duke is a proud man. An unforgiving one."

  "I don't care if he casts my soul into hell! He can't let Alexander die!" Desperate, Emily darted past the butler. She scooped up her threadbare skirts as she ran through the halls she'd traipsed in her childhood, the horrified servant in hot pursuit. But panic made her feet swift. That and the knowledge that the lives of the only two people she had ever loved teetered in the balance.

  She barely avoided Tulbridge's hand as she burst through the door to the music room. The melody ended on a discordant note, cries of surprise, gasps of shock and outrage, rose from the guests who were gathered to worship at the feet of the powerful duke of Avonstea.

  Emily was almost blinded by the glitter of jewels, the shimmer of candlelight upon oceans of satin. A dozen faces stared at her, their lead-painted skin white like haughty masks. Emily caught a glimpse of the duchess, still beautiful and aloof against the backdrop of other familiar faces from what seemed a lifetime ago. But Emily's gaze locked on the man enthroned upon a velvet chair. A fortune in diamonds shimmered like crystals of ice upon the winter white of his clothes, his eyes glacial above the sneering line of his mouth.

  It had been four years since Emily had stood in the presence of the duke of Avonstea, a trembling girl of sixteen with eighteen-year-old Alexander at her side. If she and Alexander had been able to gaze into a magic crystal, to see the future that day, would they have succumbed to the duke's furious demands for an annulment? Would they ever have dared to go to London to seek their fortune?

  They had been so innocent then. So naive. But the duke had known. He had known that they were nothing but belligerent children, stumbling into the jaws of a reality far harsher than anything they could have imagined.

  How he must have laughed inside when Alexander claimed he would support Emily with his music. That he would be as famous as the prodigy Mozart someday. He was far more suited to being a composer than to playing the role of a nobleman's younger son, doomed to take the army commission that his father intended to buy for him.

  Alexander had sounded so brave as he had defied his father that Emily had believed with all her heart that everything would be all right.

  "What is the meaning of this?" the duke's sharp demand splintered her memories as he rose to his feet. "How dare you come here!" It was the tone he used to terrorize those of lower standing than himself, the tone that had once made Emily's knees quake. But she had faced things that were far more terrifying than the duke of Avonstea these past four years.

  Lifting her chin, she crossed the room to where he stood.

  "Your son is sick. He may be dying."

  "I have other sons." Avonstea flicked open his snuffbox and held a pinch to one classically shaped nostril. "Tulbridge, you will take this... person... from my presence and fling her into the street where she belongs."

  "Listen to me!" Emily turned to plead with the duchess. "You are the woman who bore Alexander, who felt his life in your womb. Can you sit there now and let him die? He is in a coach outside, sick with fever. He needs a doctor. Decent food. He needs a bed to warm him."

  "As I remember, he had no need for my support," the duke put in. "The fool was going to provide such necessities by assaulting the ears of unsuspecting idiots with those ridiculous tunes he was constantly scribbling."

  "He needs you now, Your Grace. Desperately. He's beyond hope. They will hurl him into Newgate. He'll die there!"

  "Ah, I see. And you would prefer that he die here? Save yourself the cost of his burial?"

  "I say, Avonstea!" the blustering sound of a man Emily recognized as Sir Jedediah Whitley intruded. "That's a bit outrageous even for you! The boy—"

  "He's no boy, as he so loftily informed me after he wedded and bedded this ungrateful fortune seeker." Avonstea turned back to Emily, and she could see the pleasure in his eyes, knew that he'd been anticipating this very scene for four long years. He was savoring his triumph even now.

  The knowledge drove a hard wedge of anger into Emily's chest. She faced him squarely. "If you leave Alexander to die, his death will be on your soul. You will never be able to cleanse the stain away."

  "My soul? You are the one who killed him, madam, the day you entangled him in your web. To think I harbored you upon this estate. The vicar's daughter, a prim, wide-eyed innocent. I can only be grateful that your parents had the wisdom to disown you for the evil you had done."

  Emily met the hatred in those cold eyes and saw Avonstea's fiendish pleasure. The duke was hungry for complete victory. If it would save Alexander's life and the life of their daughter, Emily would give it to him.

  With a force of will she hadn't known she possessed, she battled back hatred, battled back pride, and crossed to stand before him. Her nails dug deep into her palms as she slowly sank to her knees. "Please, Your Grace. I beg you. Help him. Help our little girl."

  A flutter of gasps and murmurs went through the assembled guests. Disapproval was now aimed not at the bedraggled girl who had flung herself into the room but at the cold man standing before her.

  "A child?" the duke demanded. "There is a child?"

  "Yes, Your Grace. Alexander's daughter. Your granddaughter. She is only three years old. So tiny. So helpless. She has done nothing to deserve your hatred."

  "Avonstea, by God, man, how can you cast your own flesh and blood aside like this?" Whitley demanded. "I swear, I can't bear it! Scowl at me if you wish, sir, but I'll not stand by and see a babe cast to the wolves—nay, nor Alexander. He was a good boy, except for wasting himself on this girl. If you'll not live up to your responsibilities—"

  "You forget yourself, Whitley." Avonstea's voice slid slivers of ice beneath Emily's skin.

  There was a rustle of silk as the duchess rose and glided to her husband's side. If possible, the woman's eyes were filled with even deeper hatred than her husband's as she stared into Emily's face. A hatred caused by the fact that the duchess truly had loved Alexander in her way, and Emily had stolen him from her.

  "I'll not have it bruited about England that the d'Autrecourts let those of their own blood die," the duchess said, her nos
trils flaring as if Emily were something foul, impure. "Tulbridge, you will escort Lord Alexander upstairs at once. Put him in one of the rear rooms in the old part of the house. And as for the child, put her in the care of one of the housemaids."

  Relief and gratitude swept through Emily. Tears welled up in her eyes. "Thank you, Your Grace."

  "You may thank me by removing yourself from my presence."

  "Of course. I'll help Tulbridge get Alexander settled—"

  "You misunderstand me. I will not have it said that the d'Autrecourts allow their blood kin to die. But you are nothing to me. Less than nothing."

  Emily struggled to her feet, her whole body trembling. Surely the duchess couldn't mean to separate Emily from the rest of her little family? Any woman who had lain with a man, who had borne a child, could not be so heartless.

  "Please, Your Grace. My husband is sick. And my daughter... we have never been apart. Have mercy."

  Disgust curled that haughty mouth. "I will serve you up the same brand of mercy you showed to me the day you robbed me of my son."

  "No! How can I leave them?"

  "What can you give them, now, Emily Rose," the woman sneered, "except a pauper's grave? I can only hope that you end in one yourself."

  The room blurred before Emily's eyes, the faces distorting into sickening masks around her. The horror and disgust, the anger and righteous indignation, of the crowd were all overset by the repulsive hunger for gossip that Emily had seen so often before in the haut ton.

  Slowly Emily turned, struggling to keep her knees from buckling as she made her way out of the room. Tulbridge shut the door behind her, and she sagged against it, raising her shaking hands to her face.

  "Miss Emily," the butler said hesitantly, "I—"

  "You must not tell Lord Alexander," she said in a tremulous voice. "You mustn't tell him that I... I have to leave."

  "But, Miss—"

  "Tulbridge, he'd never stay if he knew the truth," she said fiercely. "And if he doesn't stay, he'll die. Her Grace is right. There is nothing I can give him now. Nothing I can give my daughter."

  "But what about you? Where will you go? What will you do?"

  "It doesn't matter, Tulbridge. Don't you see?" She swallowed hard. "Come, now. We need to get Alexander warm. And you... you need to meet Mistress Jenny."

  She murmured words of comfort as Tulbridge lifted Alexander's fever-racked body from the coach. She soothed her little daughter as she cradled Jenny in her arms.

  "Mama, I'm frightened," the child snuffled against Emily's breasts. "Don't like this place. Bad lion got teeth. Eat Jenny all up!"

  "Hush, moppet. It's only made of brass. Your papa and I used to play on it when we were small." The words raked Emily's throat, leaving it raw. She couldn't start to cry. Couldn't let Jenny see the anguish she felt. Oh, God, how could she leave her?

  "I want to go back to my house. I want my pretty flowers an' Papa's pianoforte. I want you to sing my Night Song."

  It was as if Emily's heart was being ripped from her breast. Every night since Jenny had first been laid in her arms, she had sung for the child the melody that had been Alexander's gift to her. The melody that had always broken Emily's heart with its poignancy and longing. Never once had Alexander played it for anyone else's ears. Never once had it been sung by anyone other than Emily.

  Even when things had been darkest, the Night Song had been a haunting treasure.

  "You will have to sing it to yourself tonight, my angel," Emily said. "Can you do that for me?"

  "No! You sing!" Jenny's lower lip quivered.

  "I have to go away for a little while, Jenny. Only for a little while. You'll have to sing the night song yourself until I return."

  "No!" The little one's voice fractured on a sob. "Stay with me. I'm scared, Mama!"

  Emily stroked the child's curls with fierce protectiveness. "Everything will be all right. You are going to stay with your grandmama and grandpapa until Papa gets well."

  "No! No! Let me stay with you!"

  "But how will Papa get better without your smiles to bring him sunshine?" Emily forced the words through a throat swollen with misery as she carried the little girl up the wide steps to where a housemaid was waiting. The woman's cheeks were tear-streaked, her kind eyes giving Emily some vague comfort.

  "Take care of her for me," Emily couldn't stop the sob that rose in her throat. "Oh, God, she's so little..."

  "I will, ma'am. I've three children of my own, I do. 'Tis a sinful wicked thing the d'Autrecourts be doing to you."

  "Jenny, I'll come back for you. When Papa is well, I'll come back." Emily pressed a final desperate kiss against Jenny's cheek then began the agonizing task of peeling those clinging arms away from her neck.

  The child screamed, kicked, her little fingers clawing for purchase about her mother. But the housemaid got hold of her and pulled her away.

  "Poor lamb, poor little lamb," she cooed as the child shrieked with terror.

  Emily pressed her hand against her mouth and ran down the rain-slicked stairs. Sobbing, she ran past the rickety coach and along the road where she and Alexander had played as children, sobbing, certain that no greater agony could ever befall her.

  She had been wrong.

  When she had returned to Avonstea two weeks later, it was to find black wreaths of mourning upon those massive doors.

  Alexander was dead, his tortured soul at peace. But the fever that had carried him away had been a greedy one.

  It had stolen away forever the child who had been Emily's only joy.

  Chapter 4

  Emily struggled to draw back from the yawning chasm of her grief and to return her thoughts to the present. She raised her face from her hands, feeling drained, as she always did when the memories came too strong. Her gaze swept over the tiny shop like that of someone freshly wakened from a nightmare. She touched the tumble of ribbons that littered the floor, and traced trembling fingers over the edge of a crushed bonnet as if to assure herself that they were real.

  It had been five years since she had last stood at the doorway of the ducal seat of Avonstea. Five years since Tulbridge had taken her out to the d'Autrecourt burial grounds to see the graves of her husband and child.

  When he'd finally urged her away, she had wandered blindly, on the very fringes of sanity. She had felt nothing but the tearing jaws of her grief, had struggled merely to exist. She had been lonely. Agonizingly lonely.

  I have no one....

  The words of the child, Lucy, echoed in Emily's head. In the space of an hour the little girl had ripped open the wounds Emily had suffered those many years ago. She had made Emily's own grief pour forth like poison from a festering sore.

  Defenses. There were so many defenses wrapped about the little girl. An unbreachable armor of denial. Emily was certain of it. She was a master at building such defenses of her own.

  There were times when Emily almost believed that she had tucked away the grief, and all she had left was the dull ache in her chest where Jenny had once been.

  She had helped little boys recover the toy boats they'd lost while sailing at Saint James's Park. She had sewn bonnets for little girls and tied the ribbons beneath their chins. She had even managed a stiff smile as she listened to harried mamas complain about the behavior of their children.

  But it was all an illusion. She had known it in her heart. That was why she had fled England. To escape.

  Yet was it possible to make a new beginning when she was really running away? Was it possible to build a new life when all during the voyage from Bristol she had fingered dried rose blossoms that had been taken not from a home place she wanted to remember always but from a tiny grave?

  What had she expected to find here in this strange and foreign land that was so raw and so new?

  Peace?

  The sudden rap upon the door reverberated like cannon fire in the silent room. Emily clambered to her feet and scrubbed at her cheeks with the back of her hand, wiping away the
last traces of her tears.

  Who in heaven’s name could it be?

  She couldn't face anyone right now. She didn't have the fortitude to fend off curious glances or questions designed to determine where her political loyalties lay. She didn't have the energy to explain the total disaster that had befallen her shop.

  But what if it was Ian Blackheath, returning after his search for Lucy? What if he hadn't been able to find the child after all?

  Emily shook back her hair and stiffened her spine as the knocking grew more insistent. She shifted to peek past a display of bonnets in the window, her eyes fixing on the person standing at the door.

  Bright scarlet regimentals were a vivid slash in the tapestry of passersby as the tall dragoon on Emily's doorstep observed the shop with increasing concern.

  Emily's heart plunged to her toes. What was he doing here, striding up to her shop in broad daylight with half of Williamsburg watching?

  Her fingers shaking, she unlatched the door and swung it open. Plumed hat in hand, Captain Reginald Atwood of His Majesty's dragoons met her with his usual winning smile. But as his gaze locked on her face and then on the chaos of the shop, his features twisted with outrage. He charged past her, surveying the damage with a furious protective light in his eyes.

  "My dearest lady! What has happened here?" Atwood demanded, hastily closing the door behind him. "Don't tell me these villainous rebels have discovered your purpose here already? If that bastard Pendragon has dared to attack you—"

  "It is nothing like that, Captain Atwood, I assure you."

  Atwood's shoulders sagged with relief. "Whatever has happened here, I can only be thankful that the latest missive is not due for another week," he said. "The information it contains is vital."

  "The doll dressed in blue satin? A woman delivered it just before the shop closed last evening."

  Atwood blanched. "My God, then—"

  "Don't fear. It's tucked safe beneath the counter."