The Raider’s Bride Read online

  "Have what, for God's sake?"

  She licked her lips, as if they were suddenly dry, her gaze flitting about the room like a damned butterfly. "The doll... I believe that... that Lucy..."

  "Hellfire and damnation, woman! Just look me in the eye and say whatever it is you came to say so I can get you the blazes out of here and deal with Lucy's latest disaster!"

  Her face went scarlet, her chin jutting up. "I'm trying to! But it's difficult to concentrate with you standing there, all bare!"

  "Bare?" At that moment Ian became excruciatingly aware of a breeze ruffling his shirt, the coolness of a draft wisping over the heated skin of his chest where his clothes gaped open. He didn't so much as look down, but he was furious with himself for the instinctive urge he felt to grab the edges of his shirt and clutch them together.

  Damn the woman! She made him feel as if he were sixteen again, caught swimming at the lake in nothing but his skin.

  Disgusted, he scowled. "Mrs. d'Autrecourt, I didn't invite you here, so you can hardly expect to find me dressed for company. And truth to tell, I've had about enough of your holier-than-thou attitude about everything from the way I handle my niece to my choice of attire. If you must know, Lucy cut all the fastenings off my clothes. I suppose I should be glad she didn't carry her vengeance a bit further and snip up all the cloth as well."

  "I—I see," she stammered. There was something innocent about the tentative sound of her voice and the becoming blush stealing along those delicate cheekbones. It made Ian feel jaded, wicked, as if he'd set out to make her uncomfortable on purpose.

  The sensation made him furious.

  He planted his hands on his hips, his eyes lit with a kind of fierce defiance. "Come now, madam. It's not as if you are some prim virgin to be shocked by a glimpse of a man's skin. You're a widowed woman. You've seen a man's chest before, I would imagine. And I'll be damned if I'm going to make a fool of myself by clutching my clothes together like a raw lad."

  Emily tried to drag her gaze away, but in all her life, she had never seen a masculine chest like the one displayed so boldly before her.

  His posture was rigid, tugging the linen of his shirt even farther apart, the white of the shirt accenting the hard, sun-bronzed plane it revealed. A gilding of crisp, dark hair webbed those sharply delineated muscles, glimmering in the candlelight.

  Shadows pooled soft as velvet among the corded muscles of his throat and the dip above his collarbone. A crescent of deep brown nipple was just visible along the edge of white linen, while the vee of tanned flesh arrowing down toward his belly stirred in Emily a horrifying curiosity as to what lay beyond, in that velvety shadow.

  You've seen a man's chest before—Blackheath's words mocked her.

  True, she had caught rare glimpses of Alexander's chest, smooth and pale, without the dark mat of hair that gilded Blackheath's own.

  Her husband might have had a fine chest, but it wasn't anything Emily could attest to. For in spite of four years of marriage and the baby that had been born of their union, she had never once seen her husband shirtless. She had only touched him, with almost agonizing shyness, through the fabric of his modest nightshirt.

  Emily swallowed hard as she stared at Blackheath's blatantly sensual features, certain that this man would not take his wife by lifting only the hem of her night shift. Nor would he lavish apologies on her after he had spent his seed inside her.

  No, a man like Ian Blackheath would demand far wilder pleasures. A dark, searing intensity Emily knew she couldn't even hope to guess.

  "You were saying something about the doll, Mrs. d'Autrecourt," Blackheath prodded in measured accents.

  Emily shook herself inwardly, her mind filling with far more imminent dangers than the power of Ian Blackheath's virility.

  "The doll is gone."

  "Is that all?" Ian gave a derisive snort. "Considering everything else that has gone on of late, you'll forgive me if I don't go into apoplexy."

  Emily felt her cheeks burn. "I'm all but certain that Lucy has... taken it."

  "You mean the girl stole it? You needn't look so nervous about making an outright accusation. Nothing that child does could surprise me." Blackheath raked his hand back through that thick, dark hair. The contrast between his strong fingers and the silky tresses made Emily's pulse leap. She saw his fingers snag in the black ribbon that held it in a neat queue. With an oath, he yanked the bit of silk free, his hair flowing loose about his neck.

  If he had looked like a master seducer moments before, he now looked like some pagan god, the fall of chestnut hair trailing down to his shoulder blades in a glossy mane.

  Emily struggled to maintain some sort of hold on her rioting senses. "Mr. Blackheath, I must have that doll."

  "Well, I sure as hell don't have it, and knowing Lucy, I assume she tossed it down the well with all my buttons!"

  Emily paled at the suggestion that the child might have disposed of it. "No. She wanted that doll to love. She must have hidden it somewhere."

  "And just where do you suppose she hid it? Under her bonnet? I was with her during the entire drive to the plantation, and I saw absolutely nothing that resembled a doll! Furthermore, if the child had brought it here, I imagine she would have wanted to play with it, wouldn't you?"

  "I suppose," Emily said, the sick feeling inside her intensifying. "But she would have played secretly, so you wouldn't discover what she'd done and take the doll away."

  "Perhaps." Blackheath seemed to consider that notion. "Still, if Lucy was playing with this doll she supposedly wanted so badly, Mrs. d'Autrecourt, when do you think she would have had time to wreak so much havoc about this house? It takes a great amount of time to do the kind of damage she's done this afternoon and evening."

  The logic in his arguments made Emily's knees shake with alarm. She raised one hand to her throat. "That doll has to be here. You don't understand," she said in a quavering voice.

  "It's only a doll," Blackheath's voice held a sudden tinge of gentleness. "You have half a dozen others scattered about the shop. I'll be happy to pay for your inconvenience."

  Emily knit her fingers together, clenching them hard against the bubble of panic building inside her. She stole a glance at Ian Blackheath's hard-angled face and saw again that vague stirring of confusion in those incredibly blue eyes, felt again the prickle of foreboding.

  God in heaven, what could she say? He'd think her mad if she continued to argue about the doll. Worse, he might come to suspect... Suspect what? she thought wildly. That the prim little London seamstress was really an English spy?

  Still, she had to do something....

  She seized upon the only thing she could think of. "Mr. Blackheath, I know you think the doll is of small importance."

  "That's true enough, in light of everything else."

  "However, I doubt you were amused at what happened to your... clothing." Emily cursed her eyes for straying again to that deliciously masculine chest. "Nor," she said with a little croak, "can I imagine that Mr. Gray is particularly pleased about having his horse's tail shorn."

  "You're bloody right about that, madam."

  "If you want Lucy to stop doing things like this, you are going to have to take the child in hand."

  Ian gave an eloquent grimace. "If I remember correctly, I was doing just that when you arrived. You seemed to take exception to it."

  Emily's chin tipped up. "I hardly believe giving way to your own temper is going to help Lucy learn to control hers. If I were you, I would make the child accountable for her mischief. If she cuts off the buttons on a waistcoat, make her sit and sew them back on. If she clips the tails of the horses, let her be responsible for some of their care."

  "Lucy neck deep in dirty straw? Now that is a pleasant thought."

  "And," Emily plunged on, "if she takes something that belongs to someone else, make her return it."

  "A lovely theory, Madam Philosopher," Blackheath saluted her. "Tell me, just exactly how you propose I do al
l this? Half of my servants are threatening to quit. The other half are cowering in corners, afraid of drawing Lucy's attention. I ordered one of the housemaids to watch her, and you can see exactly what a wonderful job she did at the task. Of course, it probably wasn't the poor girl's fault. I assume we'll find her locked up in the icehouse, or somewhere equally appealing, before the night is out. Now, unless you are willing to take the child in hand yourself, Mrs. d'Autrecourt, I suggest you mind your own infernal business."

  He was flinging out the words like a gauntlet—one he knew she would never pick up. Emily stared into those thunderous blue eyes and felt a hard tug deep inside her, in places she hadn't even known existed.

  She was frightened, terribly frightened—by the recklessness in him, the intensity that seemed to pulse like blue flame.

  But even more terrifying was that slight edge of weariness in his stunningly blue gaze. The hint of self-blame that clung about those full lips.

  Why did she suddenly suspect that Ian Blackheath was every bit as angry and hurt as his niece?

  She wanted to run, wanted to flee. Instead she met his gaze with a calm she didn't feel.

  "All right, Mr. Blackheath. As long as I can travel to my shop when I need to, and as long as you give me complete control over the child, I'll do it."

  If she had poleaxed Ian Blackheath the man couldn't have looked more stunned. "You'll what?"

  "I'll be Lucy's governess until you can find someone more suitable, or until you send her away to school."

  "You can't be serious. I wasn't! I..."

  "You have a better solution?"

  "No!" Blackheath said with almost comical haste. "I just can't believe that—that, knowing Lucy the way you do, you'd be willing to watch her. Flavia mentioned that you were indentured. I'd be happy to buy your papers, whatever the cost. God knows it would be worth it."

  The thought of being owned by Ian Blackheath stirred up a dizzying torrent of fear and of something deeper. It made Emily's blood heat, her hands tremble with what could only have been dread.

  "No, no. That will not be necessary. My employer and I have a flexible agreement. As long as I keep up with my stitchery here, I'm sure he'll have no objection. I was going to hire another girl, anyway."

  "No! I won't have her!" The fierce cry from the other side of the study door made both adults wheel around to see Lucy pushing the panel wide. It was evident from the look on her face that she had heard every word they'd said. "Go away, lady! Go back to your ugly little shop with your ugly little dresses and leave me alone!"

  "Blast it, girl," Ian roared, his features white, more agitated than the occasion warranted. "What the devil are you doing?"

  "Creeping around," Lucy said. "Listening at doors. It's one of my favorite games, and I'm most accomplished at it! I'm a liar, too! A good one! She was stupid enough to believe me.”

  "Is this what your mother taught you? Listening at doors?" Ian demanded. "Snooping about? Damn you, did no one ever warn you that it's dangerous to pry where you don't belong?"

  Emily stared at him, astonished.

  "How else can I find out people's secrets and make them do what I want them to?" Lucy flung back.

  Something dangerous flashed across Blackheath's face.

  "I won't tolerate that kind of behavior here, Lucy. I'm warning you." His voice held a low note of threat that most brave men would have run from.

  Lucy Dubbonet only met him glare for glare, her little brows a slash over eyes simmering with challenge. "I'm warning you!" she said. "I won't have this lady near me! She wants to be mean to me, and you're going to let her!"

  "Believe me, at the moment you are far safer with her than with me."

  "No! I won't have her! And I won't give her the doll back! Not ever! I don't care what you do to me! I won't!"

  Emily felt a swift stab of relief at the knowledge that the child had used the word "won't." She must have the plaything tucked away somewhere. Somewhere safe. Surely Emily could find it.

  Even so, her heart went out to the little girl who suddenly appeared so pale and exhausted.

  "Lucy, we have plenty of time to discuss the doll later," Emily put in, her voice firm yet soothing. "You've had a very big day."

  "Don't pretend to be nice to me! I know what you're thinking! You think I am spoiled! And vexatious! And you want to be sneaky and make me think you like me."

  "There are things about you that I admire very much. You are a very brave little girl. And resourceful."

  "Stop saying that! You just want me to like you, so you can get me to tell you what you want to know! But then you'll go away, and you won't care about me anymore."

  There was enough truth in the child's words to make Emily flinch inside.

  "Lucy, we are more alike than you know," Emily said softly.

  "We're not at all alike! I'm pretty and you... you look all prim and perfect. I'm very, very bad. Nobody likes me because I'm the most irksome child ever born!"

  Emily winced, knowing that those were not Lucy's words. They were echoes from someone else, someone who had hurt the child far more deeply than even Lucy knew. Emily looked into the child's eyes, fighting the urge to smooth a hand over her curls, knowing instinctively that the child would reject any show of empathy. "I am certain you have to work hard to be irksome. It must get very tiring."

  Lucy's eyes grew round in astonishment. But the child was not accustomed to anyone slipping past her guard. Emily could see her grope inwardly for yet another verbal weapon.

  Lucy turned to Ian, a light far too old for her years shining in her eyes. "You can't fool me, either! I know why you want her to stay! You'd lock me right up in my room forever and ever and not care about me at all! You just want her here so you can bed her!"

  The child's blunt words made Emily's face flame with humiliation, her heart twisting in sympathy for the little girl whose innocence had been stripped away.

  "You want to take her to bed with you and make those 'sgusting sounds like my mama's lovers did every night! But she won't dress up in Roman gauze and play conqueror the way that other woman in the shop wanted to do. She's a lady, all proper and pinch-nosed. She probably never even had a lover before."

  "Lucy!" Ian bellowed. "Stop it at once."

  "It's true!" the child snapped back at him. "I saw the way you were looking at her in that shop! Your eyes were practically popping out of your head."

  "You're imagining things!" There was an edge to Blackheath's voice, but as Emily stared at him, she saw a dark flush spread onto those sharply drawn cheekbones, saw his fists clench. Her own cheeks burned.

  "I'm not imagining things! I saw hundreds of men—hundreds and hundreds and hundreds—look at my mama like that! They would come with flowers and sweetmeats, and she would laugh at them. I laughed too. I laughed and laughed!" Her voice broke on a sob. "I'll laugh at you, too, when I find out your secrets! I'll tell everyone that you're lying with her! Everyone! And they'll believe me! Because... because I'm a... a most accomplished liar!" The child turned and ran out the door.

  For long minutes Ian and Emily stood in suffocating silence. And Emily was surprised when she saw him pace to the window and stare out into the night, a rare vulnerability shadowing his fallen-angel features.

  "Maybe your staying here isn't such an inspired idea after all," Blackheath said quietly. "The child is right about one thing. If she chose to spread gossip regarding the two of us... well, let's just say she wouldn't have to work very hard to make people believe that I'd taken you to my bed."

  Just those words spoken in that smoky voice were enough to make Emily's hands shake.

  He grimaced. "I have the very devil of a reputation."

  "I suppose it would be hard not to, when you run about publicizing the fact that you are hosting house parties where the guests run about dressed in nothing but gauze."

  There was the slightest ironic curve to the corners of his lips. "People do tend to take offense at my little entertainments."


  "Mr. Blackheath, I learned a long time ago that if people choose to talk, you can't stop them. And that they are far more interested in spreading juicy lies than in telling the truth. As for Lucy's assumptions about what our relationship might be, I think it best if you understand something right away: I have absolutely no interest in going to any man's... bed. Ever again."

  Blackheath's eyes darkened, and he reached out to trail those long fingers down the curve of her cheek. The contact was strangely tender, making little frissons of sensation sizzle beneath Emily's skin. "That would be a tragic waste, Emily Rose," he said softly, his eyes heating up. "Did you love him so much?"

  "Him?"

  "Your husband."

  She couldn't seem to breathe as his gaze traveled to her trembling lips and clung there.

  "I could make you forget him."

  "I don't want to forget."

  "Don't you?" The words were a murmur deep in his chest.

  Emily stared into those vivid blue eyes, spellbound, unable to keep herself from wondering what it would be like if Ian Blackheath drew just a little closer. If he tipped up her chin and touched her lips with that arrogant mouth that had given so many other women pleasure.

  Just the thought of his other lovers made her flatten one hand against his chest as if to hold him at bay. But her palm came in contact with hot satin skin, rippling muscle, the prickly silk mat of hair covering Blackheath's bare chest.

  "If that is an effort on your part to make me not want you, it was a drastic tactical error, Emily Rose." Something flickered in his eyes, driving the vulnerability from his gaze, replacing it with wariness and a blatant sensuality that stunned her.

  She started to snatch her hand away, but Ian caught her wrist, holding her splayed fingers against the unsteady beat of his heart.

  She wanted to run away from this man who so stirred her, away from the child who tore at her heart. But she was helpless. She dared not leave, for that would mean abandoning both Lucy and herself to the mercy of Atwood's superiors.

  "Please, Mr. Blackheath," she said softly, "don't."

  "Ian," he urged her in that silky-hot voice. "Call me Ian." His other hand swept up to trace the lower curve of her lip. "I'm a dangerous man, Emily. Dangerous. You would do well to remember that."