Fire Raven (2 page)

S
EVERAL WEEKS LATER, ON
the Continent, the Frenchman relayed the success of his journey to another. He saw the woman seated before the blazing hearth listened without comment, but as he continued the tale, her gloved hands clenched in her lap. She wore a rich gown of tawny velvet, long sleeves slashed to show cloth-of-gold inserts, the hem and neckline trimmed with pearls. Her garb was beautiful, the height of Paris fashion.

Her face remained averted while he relayed his news, but he heard her soft intake of breath when he described the fire.

“Are you certain the ship was destroyed?” Her voice was low and throaty, as enticing as her generous display of snow-white cleavage. He licked his lips at the sight and sound.

“
Oui
. I waited just long enough to watch the
Fiach Teine
and her dead crew sink beneath the cold black waves.”

She shivered. He knew it was from excitement, rather than horror. “At last!” she whispered, her husky voice trembling. “At long last I have found a way to revenge myself upon those who ruined my life.”

She looked at him directly then. Pale blue eyes gleamed above the yellow silk facial veil covering the rest of her face. “When Slade Tanner gets word of his precious daughter’s death, he will doubtless be prostrate with grief. We must strike again, Adrien, while the iron is still hot.”

“As you wish,” he said. He could deny her nothing. He adored this woman, the only family he might claim. Long ago, an English cur named Slade Tanner had stolen this lady’s famous beauty, and hence her life. She had been banished to France, poor creature, to live in penury for years, but in compensation, she had raised Adrien with a thirst for vengeance, nourished him on the heady milk of revenge.

He sensed her smile, though he saw only the faintest outline of her lips through the opaque veil.

“’Twill be so easy,” she whispered. “So easy to destroy Slade’s life as he did mine; to take from him everything he holds dear and to make the rest of his days a living hell.”

“You have already begun,” Adrien reminded her.

“Aye.” There was bitter satisfaction in her husky voice. “So I have. I could not have done it without you,
ma doux
.” The smile reached her eyes this time, and her gaze visibly softened on him. Adrien felt a familiar frisson of anticipation and stepped forward to stroke her hair. Once, she told him, her hair had been silvery as the moon, the envy of all Englishwomen. Now it was pure white, another lingering legacy of Tanner’s evil act.

Suddenly a vision of hair dark as night crept across his mind. Green eyes, the color of the Irish sea she sailed. Those damned eyes! Sea-green, tinged with blue foam. He had planned to kill the Englishman’s daughter without a qualm. Kat Tanner was too much a woman to be so lightly dismissed, however. Adrien felt a fleeting regret. Too late. She was gone forever. Only one possession remained to him now. Or was he the possession, in truth?

He bent and fervently pressed his lips to Gillian’s pale hair. Her quick intake of breath excited them both. They were in each other’s blood, in more ways than one.

“You know I would do anything for you,
ma chère
Gillian,” he whispered in her ear, emboldening himself to caress her half-bared breasts.

“
Oui
, my darling boy.” She reached up to stroke Adrien’s face. Her gaze was both wicked and inviting. “Aye, little brother, I know.”

Chapter One

“E
ASY, BOY
.”

Morgan Trelane calmed the fractious black as he rode the stallion down the rocky slope to the seashore. The sound of his voice soothed the blooded animal. Idris responded with alacrity when Morgan pressed his heels to the horse’s ebony flanks.

Soon they were galloping along the Welsh coastline, Morgan’s wool mandilion snapping behind him in the breeze. It was still cold in the early spring, and he was glad he’d taken the short cloak at the last minute. He clamped his thighs against the saddle, letting the exhilaration of the wild ride wash over him as the horse’s hooves sprayed sand in every direction. Idris thundered across the low plateau, extending his neck for more speed.

Abruptly, the stallion veered away from the waves rushing in about his ankles, and bugled in alarm. Morgan fought for control. Despite his efforts, the black reared up and pawed the air.
Horses are as unpredictable as women
, Morgan thought wryly. He gathered the animal up. After several minutes of alternate coaxing and scolding, Idris was calm enough for Morgan to dismount and make sure the horse hadn’t injured himself.

“What spooked you, boy? The water?” Morgan knelt and examined each of his steed’s trembling legs in turn. One was twisted, perhaps, but not broken. He let out a sigh as he straightened up again. Out of the question for him to ride the animal now. It was a good five leagues back to Falcon’s Lair.

Absently patting his stallion’s sweaty neck, he glanced out over the water. Today the Irish Sea seemed moodier than usual, slate-gray foam rushing up to curl with a hiss around his riding boots. His attention focused on several wooden boards being dashed against some shoreline rocks. His gaze narrowed as he recognized several kegs bobbing along in nearby tidal pools. Had there been a recent shipwreck?

It would not be the first time. Cardigan Bay was dangerous even during mild weather, and the coastline looked deceptively benign. As local fisherman knew, however, deep waters became shallow in a second, and hidden rocks could pierce a ship’s hull like parchment in the wrong tide.

Idris shifted restively again and pawed the sand. Morgan retrieved the reins to walk his mount back home. He stiffened and froze. He was sure he’d heard a slight moan.

He knew it wasn’t the wind or water. He’d lived beside the tempestuous sea long enough to know her every sigh and sound, as one lover might recognize another. He pivoted, noticing Idris’s ears also flattened back against his head at the noise.

“Whoa, boy.” Morgan rolled a sizable rock over the stallion’s reins, pinning him to the sand. He got out of the way of the prancing hooves. “I think I’ll just take a look around for your spook.”

There was a lightness to Morgan’s step. It disappeared when he caught sight of a boot sticking out from behind a lichen-covered boulder. Curiously enough, his first reaction was outrage. He lived alone by choice and necessity, and the thought of finding anyone on his private shore — shipwrecked sailor or not — made him angry.

After the briefest of hesitations, he approached the boot and the body belonging to it.

His gaze traveled up a pair of legs. Pale white flesh gleamed under the late afternoon sun where the seaman’s canvas trews were torn. Long, bloody gashes adorned two tanned arms splayed across the victim’s face. Morgan felt a pang of pity.

If God was merciful, the ill-starred sailor was long dead. Even as he thought this, the lad stirred. Again Morgan heard a pained moan. A flicker of indecision gripped him.

Damme! The tide was coming in. Slowly but surely, the advancing waves rolled up against the shore, this last one just reaching the tips of the boy’s boots. Morgan cursed again as he knelt and scooped a hand under the lad’s shoulders. Why, the stripling barely weighed anything. He rose, cradling the injured youth in his arms.

His eyes widened. His burden’s hair unfurled to reach the sand. His surprised gaze dropped to the white shirt gaping at the sailor’s neck. He had an unobstructed view of two creamy-pale mounds rising and falling with each breath. No lad this!

Framed between those enticing peaks, lay a magnificent golden amulet. It was a primitive, pagan thing, Morgan noted, etched with what appeared to be ancient symbols and a flying bird of some sort. The metal cast a warm hue on the young woman’s skin, painting it a rich red-gold beneath the sunlight.

He was startled to find his traitorous body responding to the unfamiliar feel of a woman in his arms. He carried her a few more paces to the shelter of some nearby trees and knelt there, supporting her with one arm behind her shoulders as he unfastened his wool mandilion with the other. He wrapped it snugly about her.

Her cracked lips moved. Dark crescents of lashes trembled upon her cheeks. Morgan gently lowered her head to the ground, felt the damp tendrils of her hair slide like watered silk through his fingers. He wondered how her mane might look, dry and spread out on the sand. Magnificent, no doubt, the hue of a raven’s wing, with the texture of spun silk.

He grimaced and closed his eyes, banishing the forbidden image. When he looked at her again, he forced himself to concentrate more objectively upon her features. Her tanned face and arms perplexed him. Surely she had not been lying unconscious on his beach long enough to be browned by the sun. He rode here every day, and he was certain he would have seen her before this.

He knew she would die without his help. Perchance too quickly, Morgan realized, if he left her much longer to the mercy of the cold wind and the incoming waves. There was no question about it — it was simply too dangerous to move her without a wagon. He must return to the keep, and send several of his staff back to bring her to shelter. He dare not take the chance of her awaking and seeing him instead.

She moaned. Morgan stiffened, prepared to depart. Then he saw a single tear seep from beneath her closed lashes. This moved him more than the finding of her washed up, nearly dead, upon his shore.

She never opened her eyes. Instead, she whispered something. He was forced to bend close to catch the word.

“Uisce.”

Morgan recognized the Gaelic word for water. She repeated it several times, and he felt helpless to console her.

“Soon,” he said. The deep rumble of his voice seemed to comfort her. “Rest now.” He tugged the cloak higher about her face, shielding her eyes from sight of him if she should open them.

“Rory?” she asked faintly, coining around now. She used the word as a proper name. “’Tis you?”

“Nay.” Morgan laid a broad hand upon her glistening dark head and felt himself tremble at the action. Touching her at all distracted him. His breathing quickened when she spoke again.

“Who, then?”

“Morgan,” he said. He sounded hoarse. It occurred to him that he rarely offered his Christian name to anyone.

“Oh.” The tiny word accepted him, as Morgan knew she never would, if she knew anything of the man behind the name. He rose to his feet, studying the woman curled in his cloak.

Morgan’s fingers rose to touch the mark covering the left half of his face. The crescent moon on his face had labeled him doomed from birth, but in the ultimate jest, God had seen fit to make the other side perfect. Viewed from the right side alone, Morgan was handsome enough. He had inherited the lustrous, wavy black hair of his Spanish mother, though it was ironic she had taken one look at her infant son and hurled herself from Falcon’s Lair’s seaside precipice on the same midwinter night he was born.

Morgan’s jaw clenched. Better he should have gone with his mother. Because of this damned devil’s mark, the locals dubbed him Satan’s Son.
Oh, himself? He bears the devil’s mark, did ye nae ken?
they eagerly informed those passing through the village. Mayhap Lady Elena had consorted with Satan and so produced this son; a man who was fair on the right side, tragically demonic on the left. Quite understandable, local gossips reasoned, that poor Lady Trelane had killed herself rather than live with such shame upon her mortal soul.

On and on the stories went. As a lad, Morgan came to resent his father, as well. Rhys Trelane ignored the stares and whispers whenever they rode through the village. Rhys had accepted his son. But in Morgan’s opinion, his father went too far. Rhys had acted as if his son’s blemished face didn’t exist, daring others to remark upon it. Lord Trelane had boasted of the fact that his only child excelled at hawking, horsemanship, and running the estate.

All those things were important, of course, for they served to occupy Morgan’s mind during those painful, early years. His father was dead now; Falcon’s Lair was his sole burden and responsibility. The ancient keep took a great deal of time and effort on his part to maintain. By absorbing himself in his inheritance, Morgan sometimes forgot the jarring reality of his face.

Seeing another person, a stranger, brought all the memories flooding back with a painful rush. How the village girls shrieked and scattered whenever he rode through town. The children’s mocking, sing-song taunts. The way their parents hastily crossed themselves, making the sign of the Evil Eye whenever they saw or spoke about Lord Trelane.

Morgan rarely went to town anymore. He sent his servants instead: a small, handpicked lot who had been loyal to his father and asked to stay on. He treated them generously, feeling somehow obliged to pay more by virtue of the fact that they must look at him each day.

He turned from the young woman and went to retrieve Idris. It was a long journey back to Falcon’s Lair, and he wanted to arrive at the keep before dusk.