The Black Rose Page 24

  But his smile faded as he thought of the customs inspector scrutinizing Tess's half-clad body, for she would have his shirt and precious little else.

  But there was nothing to be done about that now, and his plan would answer very nicely in every other regard. Yes, soon he would force her hand. Once Hawkins discovered her in that upstairs bedroom, nearly naked, Tess would be compromised beyond any hope of redemption.

  Then the sloe-eyed little hellcat in his bed would have no choice but to accept his offer of marriage.

  "Entertaining guests, were ye, my lord?" The inspector tossed Ravenhurst a leering smile as they neared the first floor landing.

  "You'll answer to the customs inspector at Dover for this, Hawkins," the viscount answered coldly.

  "No law to bar me searching a house where ruffians are sighted. I know a smuggler well enough when I see one!"

  "And I know bilge when I hear it!"

  "Why so testy, my lord? Something upstairs ye'd prefer to hide? Or should I say — someone?"

  They were at the second floor landing. His face shuttered, Dane watched Hawkins grimace as he discovered the door was locked.

  Snarling a curse, the customs officer took a step back and slammed his heel against the door. Wood fragments exploded over the landing; the door flew open with a deafening crack.

  Ravenhurst stood rigid, waiting for Hawkins's growl of fury when he entered the room.

  But no sound came.

  Frowning, the viscount stalked inside. As if in a dream he saw the linens knotted to his bed, the curtains flying at the casement. In disbelief he watched Hawkins cross an empty room, crunching across scattered shards of glass as he made his way to the window.

  They were the only ones there.

  When he pulled his head back inside a moment later, Hawkins began to laugh, a shrill, mocking sound nearly as ugly as his face. "So," he snarled, "it looks like yer bird has flown, Ravenhurst. But not before ye had a regular tussle, from the look of that." As he spoke, Hawkins swept his thumb idly across a thick crimson stain dotting the white cloth. His eyes narrowed. "A virgin, too," he muttered thickly.

  Dane's face darkened. Hardly a virgin. He of all people knew that. First had come the testimony of his own eyes five years ago. Now he had the tangible proof of her body.

  But Hawkins was too busy to notice Ravenhurst's abstraction. The inspector's foot prodded a large piece of shattered glass. Frowning, he bent down, reaching for something just beneath the corner of the bed. "Appears she left something behind," he muttered, lifting a carved tortoise-shell hairpin from the floor.

  A look of cunning crossed his face as he held the ornament out to Dane. "Must have been quite a fight. But then I like a woman with a bit of spirit, myself." His glittering eyes probed Dane's angry face, and a moment later harsh laughter exploded through the room. "Bloody stunned, that's what ye look, Ravenhurst! Outfoxed ye, did the wench? Aye, who'd have thought of her climbing out a window? Perhaps she didn't care for your performance."

  Dane's eyes smoldered. A blinding wave of fury swept over him. Unconsciously his fingers tightened on the carved piece of tortoiseshell.

  With a tiny crack, the fragile ornament snapped under the pressure of his grip.

  Damn her! But he'd get her back, Ravenhurst swore. And when he did —

  Belatedly he realized Hawkins was speaking to him.

  "Don't bother to see me out, yer lordship. Reckon I can find my way well enough. Aye, just like she did." His harsh laughter echoed down the corridor.

  For long moments Ravenhurst stood in the middle of his bedroom, staring down at the scattered glass fragments glittering on the floor.

  How had she managed it? His thoughts awhirl, he stalked to the open window. On the ground far below he saw one of his boots lying heel up in the mud.

  Blindly he stared down at that mud-spattered piece of leather.

  The stubborn little bitch! Yes, she was damned clever, he'd grant her that much. She must have been desperate indeed to attempt such a descent. The end of the sheets stopped at least — his eyes narrowed, judging the distance — twenty feet above the ground.

  Grim-faced, Ravenhurst pulled in the makeshift rope and slammed the window shut, oblivious to the way the glass pane rattled dangerously at the force of his blow.

  His hands clenched, he swung about and stamped downstairs to search the rear yard.

  Knowing he would find nothing.

  Knowing she was gone, that she had escaped his net once more, and was probably laughing at him even now.

  * * * * *

  As it happened, Tess was much closer at that moment than Ravenhurst imagined. Laughter was the farthest thing from her mind, however, as she crouched in the closet, breathlessly listening to the muffled thud of his bare feet upon the stairs.

  But it had worked! Just like Hawkins, her cursed captor had accepted the evidence of the empty room. Ah, yes, men might be long on bluster and bravado, but it was the women who had the real intellect!

  When the steps died away, she uncurled slowly and crept to the window, keeping well out of sight. Her lips curved in triumph as she watched Ravenhurst's tall form pace toward the back of the walled garden.

  She did not wait to see more. The long hem of his shirt billowing out behind her, she spun about and ran for the stairs.

  * * * * *

  Seated in a gaudy silk armchair beside a bow window overlooking Watchbell Street, Mrs. Hermione Tredwell was making a desultory attempt to complete a complicated needlepoint design of a Madonna and child.

  Without warning her needle slipped, pricking her finger. She snapped a curse beneath her breath, then glanced about quickly, reassured to see that that silly creature, Alicia Crabtree, was out of earshot.

  Frowning with annoyance, she flung down the raggedly worked square of fabric and strode to the window.

  Suddenly her beady eyes narrowed; her hard features froze in an expression of ludicrous disbelief. With a sharp cry she pressed forward, her fierce curiosity rewarded by stabbing pain when her nose collided with the glass.

  "A — Alicia!" she gasped, pressing her fingers to her massive, quivering bosom. "My hartshorn! Immediately!"

  * * * * *

  On the opposite side of the street, Amos Hawkins sat alone at a table before the grimy window of the Three Herrings, draining his second tankard of ale.

  His thick lips curled in satisfaction as he recalled the bloody viscount's look of fury when he realized his pigeon had flown.

  But who was she? the inspector wondered, his beady eyes narrowing. The new serving maid at the Dog and Duck? Someone at the Angel, perhaps? Not Lucy, he was sure of that, for he had sampled her wares himself on several occasions and could personally attest to her being long past maidenhood.

  Idly he glanced outside, watching a pair of dragoons swagger down the street. Suddenly he jerked forward in his chair, spilling his ale in his haste to get closer to the window.

  Slim ivory thighs flashed by, scarce concealed beneath a trailing white shirt.

  A woman's thighs, by God! Damned luscious ones at that!

  Then she was gone, disappearing around the corner before Hawkins had time for a closer look.

  For a moment he did not move, frozen in that awkward, crouching posture, disbelief written across his ruddy face.

  Then he stumbled to his feet, kicking over the heavy chair in his haste to reach the door.

  * * * * *

  Viscount Ravenhurst smothered a curse. There was no one in the garden, just as he had known there would be no one. His mouth flattened to a hard line as he stalked back toward the house. At the rear door he halted, feeling a cold gust of wind whip down the hall.

  Frowning, he strode along the corridor toward the open door at the front of the townhouse.

  There he froze, his long fingers curled around the door frame. And there, for the first time in his life, Dane St. Pierre, the fourth Viscount Ravenhurst, found himself speechless, treated to the unforgettable sight of slim femal
e legs flashing down the middle of Watchbell Street.

  Naked legs. With his own linen shirt the sole garment covering the soft feminine curves above.

  His throat went dry. A vein began to pulse at his temple. Stunned, he watched Tess Leighton dart over the cobblestones and stumble into hiding behind a yew hedge when two drunken dragoons lurched out of the Three Herrings.

  Bloody blazing hell! She must have been hiding in his room all along, just waiting for him to leave — in the closet, perhaps, or under the bed.

  And now she had the unbelievable audacity to run through the heart of Rye, clad in nothing but his shirt! It seemed once more he had underestimated her.

  His eyes narrowed on the bush where she hid. Those twigs must be hurting her bare legs a great deal, Ravenhurst thought, smiling grimly.

  She was a worthy adversary, he had to admit, and far more clever than he had imagined.

  But clever or no, she would soon be his. It was only a question of time.

  * * * * *

  Gasping for air, Tess stumbled down the narrow flagstone alley that bordered the Angel, her bare feet throbbing. Tears blinded her eyes as she clambered up the rear steps to the kitchen.

  When a pale, anxious Hobhouse opened the rear door a moment later, he was, for once in his long career in service, stripped of his customary aplomb.

  "Sweet Jesus Almighty," the usually solemn majordomo breathed when he was finally able to speak, sweeping his stunned gaze from Tess's disheveled auburn curls down to her bare legs and feet. "What in the name of —"

  Abruptly his features hardened, stiffening into a mask of anger. "I'll kill him for you, Miss Tess. I'll kill the bastard for sure — just you say the word! I'd like nothing better, in fact." As he spoke, his huge hands tightened into fists.

  Grimly Tess shook her head, swaying slightly before she caught hold of Hobhouse's outstretched hand. "I think not, Hobhouse. Death is far too good for such a loathsome snake." Her eyes darkened and she stared off into the distance for a moment, her face tight with bitterness. "No, I mean to think of something a great deal more excruciating than simple murder for our viscount."

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Don't think. Don't remember. Slowly Tess climbed the stairs to her room, repeating the words with each step.

  Now is all that matters.

  She tried to tell herself it was true, saying the sentences over and over in her mind.

  Inside at last, she tore at the buttons on her chest with numb fingers, desperate to rip off the garment — his garment — as if the very touch of it seared her skin. When the buttons resisted her bandaged fingers, she sheared them off in one wild stroke and wrenched the shirt from her body. With a choked little sob, she crumbled the white linen into a ball and flung it as far away as she could.

  Even then she felt the touch of him, hard fingers. Rigid, straining arousal. Memories flooded over her, each more cruel than the last.

  His unshaved jaw scraping her thighs.

  His mouth hard and hungry as he explored her body, breaking her to his will, teaching her infinite delight and searing, breathless pleasure.

  Until every nerve screamed, every inch of skin begged for release.

  Tess's fist flew to her trembling lips, and she fought to hold back a ragged sob. To hold back the savage memories that threatened to drown her.

  Thinking of all he had done to her.

  Thinking of exactly what she had begged him to do.

  Madness, just like that night five years ago. Like falling from one nightmare into another. Or being caught helpless in the body of a depraved stranger.

  You, my dear daughter, are a bloody little whore. Just like your cursed mother.

  "No!" Tess cried, locking her hands over her ears, haunted by her father's snarled words even now.

  You throw yourself in front of every man you meet. So why not a man of my choosing, for once?

  Tears slipped from Tess's eyes. Suddenly she was cast back to those bitter weeks five years ago, weeks of torment during which her father had pressed her continuously, threatening her with every sort of punishment if she did not make herself more "amiable" to his house guest.

  For the fat, ruddy-faced Lord Chevington, though nearly her father's age, had won at play too often, and soon held a great many of her father's vowels. Vowels to the tune of five thousand pounds, to be exact.

  For that reason, Edward Leighton had announced coldly, his daughter was to be "attentive" to their visitor's needs.

  Tess had tried. Dear Lord, she had tried, fully intending to comply. But she hadn't really understood what was involved, not at first. Not until the earl had begun probing her breasts with his sweaty fingers, pressing his tongue between her lips.

  White-faced, she had pushed him away and bolted.

  Her father's retaliation had been swift and severe. She was to remain locked in her room, he announced, with no visitors and no food until she relented.

  She had withstood too well, Tess realized now. One week had passed, the servants slipping her a bit of food when they could. Two weeks. Three ...

  Then her father had discovered a new means of attack. Rigid with fury, he had dragged Tess to the stone tunnels beneath the priory and locked her in, leaving her no hope of escape.

  Blindly Tess stared out the window, remembering the terror that had followed.

  No light. No human sounds of any sort deep in the ground.

  Only the night sounds. Only the night creatures, with squirming bodies and sharp little jaws.

  Only the spiders ...

  "Dear God," she whispered to the quiet room, swept back to those nightmare days she had spent sealed in darkness. The last trace of color bled from her face. It was all coming back to her now, too clearly, too cruelly.

  Hours had passed, days perhaps. She could not say. Down there time was different, immeasurable. Or perhaps it simply ceased to exist.

  When the brutal stranger who was her father had finally come for Tess, he found her silent and completely withdrawn, safe in that white haven she had made for herself.

  At last she was ready to be compliant, Leighton had thought triumphantly, only to discover to his fury that she was nothing of the sort.

  Then he had smiled, a very cruel sort of smile, which widened as he made her his next warning. Since she would not listen, her dear Ashley would suffer the same treatment next.

  Moments later Leighton had the pleasure of seeing his daughter's face bleed white, her rebellious spirit broken at last. For Ashley, Tess well knew, had not the strength to endure such imprisonment. She had survived, but he never would.

  So she had simply nodded and walked back to the house, her face carefully expressionless, refusing to give her father the added pleasure of seeing her pain.

  And when that night Lord Chevington returned — to share a pleasant little dinner en famille, as her father explained — Tess had forced herself not to recoil from his probing fingers, to smile at his ponderous witticisms.

  The night had dissolved into a long blur. Course upon course, remove after remove had slipped by, and always her father's cold face was before her, smiling thinly, forcing more and more wine upon her.

  That, Tess had accepted willingly, desperate for oblivion, desperate to ignore what she knew was soon to come.

  Until finally the candles began to dance madly and the silver to flash, while the room grew unbearably hot. Suddenly the voices grew distant and muffled, and the room spun around her.

  That was all Tess remembered. Oh yes, fragments occasionally burst from some shadowed corner of her mind, but the details were buried deep, locked away where she could never find them.

  Maybe it was better that way. Maybe it was by her choice that they remained so.

  Tess's eyes fixed on her own ashen reflection in the cheval glass, on the stark terror in her face.

  That night Dane St. Pierre had arranged to wait for her at her mother's white garden, where they often met in those last weeks before he left for Trafalgar. />
  Only her father had made a prior engagement for her, it seemed.

  The next thing Tess remembered was coming awake to the harsh, grating sounds of a quarrel. Her father screaming, Dane white-faced and disbelieving as he stood swaying in the doorway.

  Her trembling hands swept her brow. Dear God, her head throbbed to remember. The pain ... her lover's look of shock and disbelief.

  She could see it all, as if it were yesterday. She would carry the memory to her grave, Tess knew.

  She saw the rest, too, with the keen, slow-moving clarity of a nightmare. After waking, she had sat up, frowning at the chaos around her, then looked down to see Chevington snoring loudly beside her, his fat, naked body sprawled across the blood-flecked sheets.

  Her blood, she realized slowly. Her pain.

  Dazed, she had turned, searching out her lover's eyes, only to recoil from the savagery and loathing she found burning there. When Dane had spun about, white-faced, Tess had not tried to stop him, only watched numbly as he stumbled from the room.

  From the town.

  From her life, forever.

  Or so she had thought. Perhaps she had even hoped it would be so, for to see him again would only open the cruel wounds that could never heal.

  Unmoving, Tess studied the face that looked back at her from the cheval glass, feeling it was someone else's face, someone else's body. Someone shamed beyond redemption.

  The face of a whore — a woman who had betrayed her lover in a way beyond forgiving.

  No amount of explaining could ever change that, and Tess had not had the heart to begin. Somewhere in the long years that followed, she had put it all behind her, or at least buried it so deep that the memories could no longer hurt her.

  Until now, that is. Until the same thing happened again.

  One silver tear slipped from her eye and inched down her cheek, but Tess did not notice. Blindly she stared down at the cuts on her fingers, at the jagged welts on her shoulders and thighs, knowing that the madness of the tunnels had descended upon her once more in Dane's cellar.