The Black Rose

  * * *

  The Black Rose

  Christina Skye

  * * *

  Contents

  Prologue

  PART ONE

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  PART TWO

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Epilogue

  Author's Note

  Glossary of Breton Words

  Copyright

  * * *

  To Christopher and Christian,

  heroes both,

  for your inspiration and encouragement,

  and of course,

  for first discovering Tess's secret passage

  * * *

  A Smuggler's Song

  If you wake at midnight, and hear a horse's feet,

  Don't go drawing back the blind, or looking in the street.

  Them that asks no questions isn't told a lie.

  Watch the wall, my darling, while the Gentlemen go by!

  — Rudyard Kipling

  Prologue

  Laces for a lady; letters for a spy.

  — Rudyard Kipling

  London, England

  April 1810

  The candles on the carved mahogany side table sputtered, their flickering dance reflected in a nearby set of crystal decanter and glasses. On the bed beside the table faint shadows danced across the snowy sheets, where two bodies moved, intertwined in the grip of passion.

  By God, she was beautiful! the man thought, his eyes lingering on the voluptuous curve of breast and thigh spread for his sensual appreciation.

  With cool deliberation he ran his hand across the taut nipples and lush breasts, smiling slightly as the woman beneath him shivered and arched her back. Yes, Danielle must be as near to perfection as a female could come, Dane St. Pierre, the fourth Viscount Ravenhurst decided, sliding his fingers lower to trace the hollow below his mistress's navel.

  His lapis eyes narrowed. Slowly he grazed the blond tangle at the crown of her thighs.

  Suddenly Lord Ravenhurst's bronzed face hardened. He fought down the image of a different pair of arms, of dancing eyes and lilting laughter.

  Forget her, damn it! She was a lying schemer, an angel with a whore's heart. No one knew that better than he. He should consider himself lucky that he'd discovered the truth about her in time!

  Growling a savage curse, Ravenhurst pulled his lush bed companion closer, then rolled onto his back. His eyes flickered over her face as he drew her willing body down to receive his hard shaft.

  Discovering that she was wet and eager for him.

  And that he was, as always, totally dead inside.

  "Oh yes, Dane. Please! Now — take me now." His mistress's green eyes closed and she moved urgently against his thighs. Faint beads of sweat hung across her brow.

  His face hard, Ravenhurst moved to comply. After all, he thought grimly, one did not disappoint a lady. Especially when she was as beautiful and provocative as Danielle was. "With the greatest pleasure, my dear."

  Upward he drove, timing his powerful thrusts to coincide with her wild downward arch. Above him his mistress began to pant, her breath torn by jerky sobs.

  A vein throbbed at Ravenhurst's temple. Desire began to crest through his veins. Groaning hoarsely, he slipped his hand between their straining bodies.

  His mistress threw back her head, crying out in wild abandon at the fierce pleasure of his touch. When she collapsed onto his chest a moment later, the viscount turned swiftly, rolling onto his side to find his own release.

  There he found the oblivion he sought, welcoming the savage flames that blazed for an instant then exploded into darkness and primal silence.

  And there, Ravenhurst discovered, as always, that oblivion was not enough.

  Not nearly enough.

  Even before his ragged breathing had begun to still, he pulled away from Danielle's inert form and sat back against the cold headboard, his midnight eyes hard and unreadable.

  The candles flickered. In the neighboring room a clock chimed quietly. On the wall, Dane watched the dancing shadows take on fanciful shapes.

  Angry clouds.

  Lashing waves.

  Swift schooners with black sails.

  Suddenly he was awash in memories. His hands clenched convulsively as he heard the masts collapse about him. Overhead, ten-pound shells shrieked across the port bow, while smoke poured from decks aflame. Grim-faced, Ravenhurst fought for balance, feeling pain rip through him as two hundred pounds of smoking cable plunged to the deck and tethered his wrists and arms to the fallen mast.

  On the crisp sheets his fingers splayed open, white with strain. Once more he was carried back in time to that furious struggle to hack himself free of the deadly cables before they swept him overboard.

  Again and again he lashed out, the knife slipping on his own blood. Halfway through the burning coils, the blade snapped. Just then a fierce gust of wind drove over the bow, filling the fallen sails and jerking him across the deck, where he was slammed nearly insensible against the port railing.

  With a savage curse the viscount jerked upright. Sweat dotted his forehead and his broad, fur-matted chest. The smell and taste and feel of war at sea washed over him.

  Trafalgar. Copenhagen. Corunna. Over and yet never over. Ignored but not forgotten.

  Behind him the woman with jaded eyes frowned. Once again the dark dreams, Danielle thought bitterly. Par Dieu, she did not wish to lose her handsome viscount! He was a fierce, stormy lover and his nightmares only fed the dark flames of his passion.

  Yes, he pleasured her as no man had ever pleasured his woman. And Danielle ought to know, given her extensive experience in such matters.

  Yet even in the midst of savage, reckless coupling, he was gone from her, his mind somewhere apart while his powerful body found its release. She was too experienced a woman not to recognize that.

  Her beautiful brow knit. Hadn't Moreton told her just last week that she was perfection itself? Yes, and that to die in her arms was to be reborn in paradise?

  But it was far more than money that attached Danielle to this man, though she was careful never to let Ravenhurst know that. Such an admission would have spelled the death of their comfortable arrangement, for the viscount had made it all too clear that emotional attachments were to have no place in their relationship.

  Danielle's tongue traced her rouged lips. She would catch him, she vowed. If she could not do it, no woman could. With a secret smile she began to stroke Dane's tense back and then reached up to massage the rigid muscles
at his neck. He was a hero, after all. Perhaps all heroes had their nightmares. But Danielle did not dwell on the thought. She was far too practical to concern herself with idle speculations for long.

  "What a fierce lover you are, my hungry panther," she whispered. "When you fill me with your shaft, I lose my breath — my very life. Such a wild hero," she whispered huskily. "Every inch rock hard. Dieu, but I cannot seem to get enough of you!" He would like that, Danielle thought. Men always liked to be praised in such things. And what good fortune for women like her that their wives were too stupid to know this.

  The man beside her stiffened, his face twisting into a grimace.

  Hero.

  His mouth flattened to an angry line.

  With fluid grace he rolled over and slipped from the sheets, frowning at the clothes scattered in a crazy line between bedpost and door. Oblivious to his nakedness, he strode to the side table and poured himself a glass of brandy.

  For a long time he stared down at the amber spirits. "As I've told you before, Danielle, I am no hero," he said harshly. "Nelson was a hero. Collingwood, in his own quiet way, was a hero, but I am no more than a —"

  What he would have said next was cut short by harsh pounding from the doorway two flights below. Anxious voices rose and fell on the quiet night air. The door banged shut. More tense words.

  Something about that voice ...

  Ravenhurst stiffened and then jerked a silk dressing gown around his long, hard body. Stony-faced, he threw open the door.

  "Oh, yer lordship, I didn't mean to —" The maid's dark eyes flickered over the broad chest exposed beneath his gown. Abruptly she looked away, her cheeks stained with color.

  "Well, what's all the commotion about?" Ravenhurst demanded impatiently. His new title sat heavily on him, and he had not yet had time to grow comfortable with being called "your lordship." "Have the French finally invaded?" he asked mockingly.

  "No, yer lordship," the girl explained nervously. " 'Tis a gem'mum below wot demands to see ye. Come 'ammerin' at the door, 'e did, nor wouldn't give 'is name proper-like, no matter 'ow 'ard I asked. Said as 'ow I was to tell yer lordship" — the girl frowned, trying to recall the exact words of the message — " 'time to strike yer colors and clear the decks.' Leastways, that's near as I recollect."

  Dane's black eyebrows tightened into a scowl as he jerked the belt of his dressing gown about his lean waist. "Did the bastard, now? We'll bloody see about that!"

  Ravenhurst strode out into the hall and down the stairs, his long legs taking the steps three at a time. His face was a dark mask when he threw open the door to the little drawing room at the rear of the house he maintained for his mistress.

  A tall man exquisitely dressed in crimson coat and silver brocade waistcoat sat near the window, nursing a glass of brandy. His piercing turquoise eyes crinkled with humor as Dane pounded through the door.

  "Ah, Ravenhurst, here you are at last," the uninvited guest drawled, placing his glass on the table at his side. "Desolated to make you, er, strike your colors at such a time," he murmured, his wicked smile revealing not the slightest hint of regret.

  But that title, the Earl of Morland thought. How odd it sounded!

  "Captain St. Pierre" had suited his friend's hard countenance infinitely better.

  "Tony! What the hell ..." Ravenhurst gave a snort of disgust as he noted his friend's negligent ease.

  Anthony Langford, Lord Morland, pursed his lips and shook his head disapprovingly. "Not done, you know. You've created quite a bloody stir in Whitehall, my friend. It seems the Admiralty has grown tired of having their emissaries thrown out upon their ears. So the Old Man paid me a rare visit to enlist my help." Morland smiled faintly. "I tried to resist, but you know how obdurate he can be. Which is how in due course I found myself deputed an emissary, in the assumption — erroneous I fear, judging by your stormy look — that you wouldn't throw an old friend out into the street." One fair eyebrow rose in a questioning slant. "You wouldn't, would you?"

  Dane smothered a curse as he studied the man sitting entirely at ease in Dane's most comfortable chair, finishing a glass of his best brandy. They had met in the nightmare retreat at Corunna, when Dane arrived with the transport fleet to meet the retreating army. It had only been a matter of months since Ravenhurst had last seen his unflappable friend.

  But it seemed like an eternity. Until this moment, the viscount had not realized just how much he'd missed Morland's irreverent wit.

  Ravenhurst's eyes flickered to the cane at his friend's feet. "What's all this?"

  For a moment Morland's face darkened, and then his eyes lit with their customary good humor. "Oh, no wounds earned in the service of King and country, more's the pity. Damned stupid accident with a new hunter, nothing more. I was saddened to hear about your — losses," Morland added, wanting to have the words spoken and done with.

  The viscount's back stiffened. Dark tendrils of pain gripped his heart. Everyone said it would get better. So, why did it still seem like yesterday?

  "I lost my own brother last year, you know," Morland said quietly. Not the same, of course, but ..."

  Ravenhurst's lapis eyes sharpened, studying his friend's face. For the first time he noticed the traces of pain that Morland, too, tried to conceal.

  Dane grimaced, refusing to allow sympathy to cloud his judgment. Friend or no friend, Morland had come from the Admiralty, and there could be nothing good in that.

  With a careless shrug he turned and strode to a campaign chest before the far window. After pouring himself a liberal amount of brandy, he swung across the room with the long, fluid gait that had allowed him to stand a quarterdeck in any sort of weather.

  Smiling grimly, he dropped into the chair opposite his friend and raised his glass. "Since it appears you've already helped yourself to my best brandy, I shan't offer you any more. So here's a toast instead. To a lasting peace and may it come soon."

  Morland raised his glass in acknowledgment. They drank in silence, each falling into his own thoughts. And dark thoughts they were, heavy with the memory of friends fallen, of horrors seen and never forgotten.

  After a long while Morland looked up, scanning Ravenhurst's face. " 'Tis peace, in a manner of speaking, that I've come to see you about tonight, Ravenhurst. Your wounds must be nearly healed by now, my friend. The wine and women are all very well, of course, but there comes a time when one must get back to the business of real life."

  Dane returned his guest's gaze, his angular bronze face carefully devoid of expression. So this was to be the prologue, was it?

  "You don't mean to make this any easier for me, do you?" Morland asked dryly.

  A muscle flashed at Dane's jaw. He glared at the earl over the rim of his glass. No, by God, he didn't!

  "Very well, since it looks as if I may soon become the fourth messenger to be thrown out into the street, I shall proceed directly to the point. The Old Man has stumbled onto something — something of crucial importance to the outcome of this wretched war."

  "No more, Tony," Ravenhurst growled. "I don't want to have to throw you out too!"

  Morland simply ignored him. "You are familiar with the area around Rye and Winchelsea, are you not? As I recall, you spent some time there before you went to join Nelson's fleet."

  A flash of pain darkened Ravenhurst's face, and he continued to stare stonily at his friend. "What if I did? What bloody concern can that be of the Admiralty's?" Abruptly he tossed down the rest of his brandy, then moved to pour himself another. "Unless the Old Man has now vowed to clear the Channel coast of smugglers." His words were faintly slurred, and his fingers shook slightly on the crystal decanter.

  Interesting, Morland thought, his blue eyes narrowing. Very interesting. "There are smugglers working that whole stretch of coast, of course. Bloody trade's endemic to the area. But the Admiralty's after bigger fish this time — and far more than smuggling. The Old Man's discovered that someone in the area is funnelling gold and military secrets to Napoleon.
It looks like the Fox is our man."

  Dane frowned, studying the brandy in his glass. Everyone knew of the Romney Fox, of course. Women whispered his name like a prayer, and the damned scoundrel was toasted in public houses from Dover to Brighton. Maybe even here in London, Dane thought cynically. Yet the notorious smuggler remained as much a phantom as the eerie lights said to dance over the Romney Marsh on moonless lights.

  "Go on," Ravenhurst said flatly. His face was unreadable.

  "He's using a ruined estate near Winchelsea, on the Sussex coast." Morland's voice dropped, carefully casual. "But perhaps you know the place."

  "I doubt it. I was there for only a short time. As the Admiralty must certainly know," he added acidly.

  Morland ignored the irritation in his friend's voice. "A great wreck of a place in the hills southwest of Rye, overlooking that whole stretch of coast as well as the marsh to the east. Been in the Leighton family for generations, so I understand, along with a very fine old inn in Rye itself. Fairleigh, I believe the place is called."

  Fairleigh. A manor house in a sad state of decline, adjoined by a crumbling medieval ruin with sweeping parapets and crazy, twisting steps. Everything from Fairlight to Dungeness could be seen from the top of those walls. A lonely place, haunted by sad ghosts and a mournful wind.

  Oh yes, I know the place, Dane thought harshly. The perfect place for a smuggler's tryst. The perfect spot to launch a fast cutter with a cargo of gold guineas bound for Napoleon.

  And every word passed, every guinea traded meant another English soldier would die.

  But Ravenhurst's chiseled features held no trace of these thoughts. "I don't believe I recognize the name," he lied coolly, swirling the brandy about in his glass. "Fairleigh, you say?"

  "That's the place. There is absolutely no doubt that secrets are being passed. The Admiralty leaked a few on purpose just to be certain, and the information reached Paris in two days." Morland paused, tapping his cane thoughtfully with his forefinger. "The Admiralty sent an agent to investigate, of course. Several, in fact. Two months ago the last one washed up in Fairleigh Cove — with his throat slit."