Nicola Cornick, Margaret McPhee, et al (4 page)

Kestrel raised his brows. ‘Are you going to?’

‘Yes, I think I am. I like my way of life too much to give up
now.’

Kestrel grimaced. ‘Think about it before you turn us down. It’s a
good offer. If you refuse, then Spencer will cut you loose and in the end you
will surely hang.’

‘Despite my service to the Crown over the years?’

‘Despite that.’ Kestrel nodded towards the brandy bottle.
‘Officially you are outside the law, de Lancey.’

‘You drink my brandy,’ Daniel said. ‘You
order
my brandy.’
All the same, he knew Justin was right. In his dealings with spies and
smugglers and criminals he had, inevitably, blurred the line. If he refused to
conform now, to come into port and accept his barony, he knew the government
would deny he had ever worked for them—and he could not prove it. He would be
cast adrift.

‘I do drink your brandy,’ Justin Kestrel agreed. ‘I am a
hypocrite. I like your brandy. I like you, de Lancey. Too much to see you hang.
Think of your sister if you won’t do it for any other reason.’

That, Daniel thought, was below the belt. If anything was likely
to sway him it was the thought of all that Rebecca had suffered for him in the
past. But now she was settled with Lucas and their growing family. Would his
return add so much to her happiness? He knew that the answer was probably that
it would. He knew it, but then he thought of the stifling tedium of life on
land and he shook his head. He could never go back to that now.

‘It is too late. The answer is no.’

Justin Kestrel’s expression was impassive. ‘I am sorry for it,
but I am not surprised.’ He held out a hand to shake Daniel’s one last time.
‘You are on your own then, de Lancey. Goodnight.’

After he had gone, Daniel lay down in his bunk with his hands
behind his head and thought about Justin Kestrel’s offer. He cared nothing for
having a title, and he had thought that he would care nothing for the estates,
but conscience, which had hardly troubled him these ten years past, stirred
uncomfortably, reminding him of all the people whose livelihoods depended on
him now. He could not simply neglect his estates and let them go to ruin,
taking people’s future with them. With the title came
responsibilities—responsibilities he did not want to be burdened with. Was that
not what he had always done, now he came to think of it? Had he not run from
those who depended on him? Run from his duty? He had preferred the reckless
excitement of the hunt to facing up to his responsibilities at home.

He thought of Lucinda, waiting for him in vain all those years
and telling him in no uncertain terms that very night that the love that had
been between them was long gone, even if they both knew that the flame of their
wild passion was scarcely extinguished. If there had been a way back from
that…But there was not. There was no way back to the past. He knew that. Nor
could he see himself settling to the life of village squire. But he would write
to Rebecca and see if there was a way she might help the people of Allandale on
his behalf.

And tomorrow he would take the
Defiance
out to sea and
outrun his memories. He would hunt down John Norton. And he would make sure
that he never saw Lucinda again. This time he would make sure that he forgot
her.

‘L
ADIES
, ladies,’ the Duchess of Kestrel said
reproachfully. ‘Your concentration is wandering today.’ She closed her copy of
King
John
and placed it on a side table. ‘I know that Shakespeare’s histories
may not be the most romantically engaging of his works,’ she added, with a
slight smile in Eustacia Saltire’s direction, ‘but I thought it was the type of
improving
book that would suit our little reading group. My dear Mrs
Melville—’ here Lucinda jumped guiltily ‘—pray tell me, what do you think of
the piece?’

Lucinda gulped. She had not been thinking about Shakespeare’s
King
John
for the past ten minutes, for her thoughts had been occupied by a far
more compelling character—that of Daniel de Lancey. Truth to tell, she had been
thinking about him from the moment she had left him the previous night until
she had fallen into a restless sleep at about three in the morning. Then she
had dreamed about him: disturbing, passionate, heated dreams, full of
half-remembered desire that even now caused her limbs to tingle and a burning
and undeniable ache to fill her.

She realised that Sally Kestrel was still looking at her, a
flicker of concern in her very green eyes.

‘You look a little too warm, Mrs Melville,’ she murmured. ‘Are
you sure you are not running a temperature? Have you taken a chill, perhaps?’

‘I…no, I do not believe so.’ Lucinda struggled to push away the
mental images of herself entwined in naked consummation with Daniel. She felt
hot and bothered and aroused. She had prided herself on her cool common sense
for years, and now she realised that she was afire with lust—and for a man she
did not even like any more. It was maddening. It made her furious. And it was
typical of Daniel de Lancey that he could do this to her.

‘I do find the room rather stuffy,’ she excused. ‘I think I shall
take a walk down to the cove and take some fresh air.’ She turned to Eustacia.
‘Would you care to join me, Stacey?’

Miss Saltire, a lively brunette, looked glum.

‘For my part I would adore it, Mrs Melville, but Mama has
forbidden me to go out whilst the weather is so inclement. She thinks that I
might turn my ankle or catch an infection of the lungs or ruin my looks with
frostbite.’

Lucinda caught the Duchess of Kestrel’s eye. ‘Dear Letitia is
very careful,’ the Duchess observed wryly. ‘Perhaps if you took the gig, Mrs
Melville, then the groom could drive and Stacey could wrap up in warm
blankets?’

Stacey looked even gloomier. ‘It is a capital plan, cousin, but
Mama would not approve. She fears a carriage accident in icy weather.’

Lucinda nodded. She understood Mrs Saltire’s concerns. There were
so many things to be afraid of in her world, especially when Eustacia was her
only defence against penurious old age. Lucinda knew that Mrs Saltire could not
bear for Stacey to lose her looks or run off with an unsuitable man, or do
anything that might risk their futures. But she also saw the slump of Stacey’s
shoulders, and wished that Mrs Saltire might allow her daughter a little more
latitude—or Stacey would rebel with the very behaviour her mother dreaded.

She went up to her room to wrap up warmly and fetch bonnet and
gloves. Although it was not much past two in the afternoon, the sun was already
beginning to sink in the west as she made her way along the track that led from
Kestrel Court down to the cove. The path plunged deep into the pinewoods and
the air was fresh with the sharp scent and loud with the song of the birds.
Lucinda walked quickly, glad to feel the crisp chill of the breeze on her face.
She had been active all her life, loving to walk and ride, and sometimes the
determined staidness of life in the Saltire household chafed at her. Out here,
in the open air, she felt a lift of spirits.

She had gone only a little way along the track when she heard the
sound of hoofbeats and, turning the corner, espied Owen Chance on his bay mare,
making his slow way towards her from the direction of the cove. Remembering the
events of the previous night Lucinda immediately felt guilty for her part in
helping Daniel evade capture. She liked Owen Chance. It was a pity that
instinct and an older loyalty had set her against him.

There was a deep frown on Owen Chance’s forehead. The sort of
frown, Lucinda thought, that a man might well wear when he had failed to
capture a notorious pirate. Nevertheless, his expression lightened when he saw
her, and he reined in, removing his hat and bowing with a flourish.

‘Good afternoon, Mrs Melville! I trust you are well?’ He looked
around. ‘Miss Saltire does not accompany you on your walk?’

Lucinda smiled at the transparency of his interest. It was clear
that the poor man was as besotted with Stacey’s dark prettiness as she was
taken with his charm and dashing character. It was only a shame that the whole
affair could come to nothing.

‘Not today, I fear,’ she said, and saw his handsome face fall
with disappointment. ‘I am going to the cove,’ she continued, with determined
cheerfulness. ‘Are you travelling from that direction, sir?’

Owen Chance frowned again. ‘I am, ma’am, but I would urge you
against such a walk today. It will be dark within a couple of hours, and there
is talk of the smugglers being out tonight. If you could take word back to
Kestrel Court and ask them to lock all the doors safely at dusk…?’

Lucinda’s heart jumped. Could the smugglers be Daniel’s men? She
had no illusions, and knew that Daniel’s shady business would necessarily
involve him in smuggling as well as piracy and goodness only knew what other
nefarious activities. And Chance had almost caught him the previous night. If
he planned a trap tonight then he might achieve what he had singularly failed
to do before and take Daniel prisoner. She could not, for the life of her,
repress the flicker of apprehension that ran through her body at the thought.

She cleared her throat. ‘How vastly frightening,’ she said,
hearing the false brightness in her own voice and hoping that Owen Chance would
ascribe it to excitement rather than nervousness. ‘I expect they are a desperate
bunch?’

‘Criminals,’ Chance said contemptuously. ‘They deserve to hang.’

Lucinda’s heart battered against her ribs. ‘I am sure you are
correct,’ she said. ‘There was once an infamous privateer in these parts, was
there not? I suppose he is long gone, though.’

‘You suppose incorrectly,’ Owen Chance said. His voice was cold.
‘He still smuggles with the worst of them, and spies for France. It will be my
great pleasure to bring him to justice.’

The cold crept along Lucinda’s neck and slithered down her spine.
Surely he must be speaking of Daniel? Could it be true? She could hardly
condone smuggling, for it was against the law—even if half the gentry in the
county turned a blind eye and Justin Kestrel himself cheerfully admitted to
buying French brandy. But spying for the French was another matter. Had Daniel
turned traitor during the long years of the war? Was it all a matter of money
to him, and patriotism counted for nothing? She felt sick even to think of it.

‘I think I will go back, as you suggest, sir,’ she said, aware
that her voice was not quite steady. ‘And I will warn them up at the house.
Good wishes for your hunting.’

Chance touched his hat and cantered away up the path, and Lucinda
stood for a moment alone beneath the pines. She did not wish to return yet to
the stuffiness of the overheated house. Owen Chance’s words had disturbed her
deeply. She could not believe that it was true. Yet what was it that Daniel had
said the previous night?

‘We both made our choices…Mine to be wild and irresponsible…’

But a traitor? She did not want to believe it of him. And yet she
did not know the man he had become. He might well consider that his country’s
secrets were just commodities to sell, like brandy or French lace.

In her agitation she realised that she had left the main path and
plunged off down a narrow track to the right. It forced its way through the
trees, downwards towards the river. No doubt in summer it was completely
impassable, but now the grasses and bracken underfoot had died back a little,
and Lucinda thought that if she followed the path down to the water’s edge she
could walk back to Kestrel Court that way. She knew there was a very pretty
trail that followed the course of the stream until it reached the gardens.

Nettles brushed Lucinda’s skirts, and thorns clutched at her as
she passed. Overhead the chatter of the birds had died away, and the pale
winter light barely penetrated, but then she caught the flash of water ahead of
her. The trees were thinning now, and suddenly she was on the edge of Kestrel
Creek, with the water still and dark before her. She had come out further along
the stream than she had intended, almost out in the bay—precisely where she had
promised Owen Chance she would not walk. She had better turn for home at once.

The tide was ebbing. An oystercatcher pattered across the mud,
leaving little footprints, then, as it saw her, it rose into the air, giving
its piping call.

Lucinda smiled and wrapped her cloak more closely around her
against the salty breeze. She could taste the tang of the sea here, but she
knew she should not linger.

She went on, coming to a place where there was a sharp turn in
the creek, and then she stopped, drawing back instinctively into the trees. The
creek had widened into a deep pool and there, beneath the overhanging trees,
hidden from the open river and the sea beyond, lay a ship at anchor. Lucinda’s
breath caught painfully in her throat as she took in the snarling dragon
figurehead on the prow and the name:
Defiance
.

All night she had lain awake, knowing that Daniel was nearby,
imagining his ship riding at anchor out in the bay, perhaps, but never thinking
that he was so close by, in this hidden mooring deep in Kestrel Creek. Suddenly
the truth of his identity and his whole way of life hit her anew with the force
of a blow. He was a criminal, a wanted man, very likely a traitor. The Daniel
de Lancey she had known was gone for ever. There was nothing for her here.

She turned to go, stumbling over tree roots in her haste, and in
the same moment a figure stepped out onto the path before her and a sack, thick
and suffocating, was thrown over her head. She struggled, felt her arms
pinioned to her sides, and then she was picked up as easily as though she were
a sack of flour, thrown over the man’s shoulder, and carried off.