Suzanne Robinson (28 page)

Pen stared at the cross in horrified fascination. He held it out to her, but when she touched it, evil crawled up her hand, spiderlike, and she jerked her fingers back as if burned.

“I can’t,” she said. “It’s Jean-Paul’s, is it not? To touch it is to bathe in corruption and evil.”

“Ah, yes,” Christian said as he stored the cross in a pouch on his belt. “Morgan mentioned your power. But I can’t help wishing you could manage it. Just to see if we could track the bastard with it.”

“I would end in madness and you would be no better off.” Pen sighed. “I can be of no help to you.”

“Yes, Morgan told me of the dagger, but you can help me. My dear raven is of no use to me as he is, all snorting rage and passion, but he won’t admit that he craves you. Now, don’t interrupt. I’ve a stratagem to work upon him.”

Christian patted the pouch that held the cross. “You sail to Penance Isle. I’ll tell him when you’ve set sail that I let you go knowing that Jean-Paul fled to the island for refuge.”

“Blessed saints, no.”

“He will chase after you like a hound after a bitch. He’ll perform the labors of Hercules to get to you.”

“He will come for the priest, not for me. But he’ll find out he’s been deceived. I want no part of this foolish design.”

“Come, Mistress Fairfax, don’t let a moment’s anger ruin your heart’s future.”

Pen stood and faced Christian. “Upon mine honor, I have no love left in my heart for Morgan St. John. Do me the courtesy of believing what I tell you, my lord.”

“Are you certain?”

“Unsurpassed certain.”

Shaking his head, Christian bowed over her hand.

Pen almost smiled at him. “You’ve a kind heart, my lord, and for your good wishes I am obliged to you. You’ve tried to quicken my dead heart with hope. And though the effort came to naught, I will always remember you for it.”

“In time you may reconsider.”

“No, my lord. I’ll not risk letting him hurt me again, for if he did, I don’t think I would survive the pain.”

Several days after he’d nearly bedded Pen, Morgan was dressing in his chamber. He hadn’t seen Pen at all. When he wasn’t sleeping, he caught himself listening for the sound of her footstep outside his door. Each time someone entered, he glanced up expecting Pen.

Each time, he’d been wrong. Rochefort had assigned the scullery boy to serve him, for Pen no longer took an interest in his welfare. Instead of soft, cool hands and a perilous bright smile, he got a runny nose and pigeon-toed feet that stumbled over each other.

He spent much of his time furious at her and yet listening for her. Now he’d decided that he couldn’t
bear this chamber. A walk was what he needed. And he’d take care not to go near Pen’s chamber. Of course, he didn’t know where it was, so he might come upon her by chance.

Pulling his belt tight, he grimaced as he strained his shoulder. It was healing well, but not because of that loathsome pig poultice. Morgan glanced up as Christian came into the room bearing two cups of hot cider.

“Good morrow, raven.” He handed Morgan one of the cups. “Well rested from your labors at tearing innocent maids’ hearts in two, I see.”

“She sent you to plead with me no doubt.”

Christian leaned on the fireplace mantel, sipped his drink, and gave Morgan a wicked smile. “Have I ever pleaded with you?”

Morgan shrugged and set his cup aside while he drew on his boots.

“Go to Hades, Christian. You’ve been trying to reconcile me with her from the first.”

“True, but much as I might desire to play Eros, even I can’t do it if the lady vanishes.”

Tugging at a boot top, Morgan paused. “What mean you?”

“She’s bolted. Gathered up her flock of crackbrains and sailed off to that island of hers. A pity, too, for she amuses. Yes, she amuses and yet defies sanity. ‘A bird full sweet/ For me full meet …’ ”

Morgan swooped down and grabbed his sheathed sword from the bed. “You guard your tongue, Christian de Rivers.”

Christian spread his arms wide, grinning.

“Peace, raven, peace. She’ll trouble you no more.” He eyed Morgan as he drank. “No more pig stealing, no more concealing nets to trap Ponder Cutwell, no more getting tossed down wells or slapped with pig
poultices. No more merriment at all. You may bask in an utter lack of mirth for the rest of your days.”

“Go fu—”

Christian clicked the tongue against the roof of his mouth and wagged a finger at Morgan.

“For shame. How can you be so discourteous after all my years of fostering? Have I not sheltered you and drawn you into manhood?”

“You’re worse than Pen,” Morgan said through gritted teeth. “I remember once you left me at the mercy of a passel of drunken louts at the Bald Pelican after telling them I was a tax collector. I near got my head broken.”

Christian waved his hand. “Merely a test of your fighting skills.”

“Ha!”

Donning his sword, Morgan walked away from Christian on his way out of the room.

“Are you not interested in the progress of our search for Jean-Paul?”

Morgan turned. “What news?”

“Rochefort has had word that the priest has left England.”

“When?”

“Oh, certainly before Mistress Fairfax sailed.” Christian stared into his cider.

Walking slowly back to stand before Christian, Morgan scoured his mentor with his gaze.

“What has Pen to do with it?”

“Oh, naught.”

“Jesu give me patience.” Morgan drew closer. “I know you. You have that pleased-viper look, so spit out your venom.”

Christian gazed at the ceiling, then smiled at Morgan as he sipped his drink. “That fever has slowed your wits
or you would have understood me from the first.” He set his cup on the mantel. “Mistress Penelope has fled from you, but a far more deadly creature awaits her on Penance Isle.”

“Sodding bastard, you let her leave knowing he was going there!”

Morgan lunged at Christian, drawing his sword, but Christian was ready for him. He leapt forward and knocked the sword out of Morgan’s hand while drawing a dagger. Morgan jumped at him, but came up short when the tip of the dagger touched him beneath his chin. He froze, breathing hard.

Christian laughed. “Such fury from a man who vows he cares naught for Mistress Fairfax.” His smile vanished and he squinted at Morgan. “I suggest, my sweet raven, that you waste no time avenging yourself upon me and ride hard for the coast.”

Morgan jerked his head aside, cursing. Christian chuckled again and sheathed his dagger.

“You did this apurpose,” Morgan said, “to make me go after the priest. You knew I wouldn’t go near Pen unless you forced me. God’s breath, Christian, I think you’d sleep with the devil if it would serve the queen and the kingdom.”

Without waiting for a reply, Morgan turned on his heel and headed out of the room.

Christian laughed. “Fare you well, raven. Your horse is saddled and waiting in the courtyard along with a few of my men.”

Morgan climbed down the ship’s ladder and stepped into the boat carrying five of his men. They had reached Penance Isle just after sunrise. He settled at the prow while two more boats loaded men. Early morning mist
obscured the island, but he could see the battlements of Highcliffe arching out of a sea of white vapor.

In the distance he could hear the crash of the surf, an indistinct, watery shattering. For a moment he thought he heard that strange murmuring. He went still and searched the mists and the tops of Highcliffe’s towers that floated amid the whiteness.

Nothing. Odd how he hadn’t heard it in England, only here, on the island—Pen’s island. No doubt the trouble with his hearing was due to his ordeal in the shipwreck. He disregarded it, for he had far more urgent concerns.

He’d had almost a week to agonize over Pen’s safety while he rode west and then sailed for the island. Never had he experienced a terror so great as when he imagined careless Pen stumbling upon that spawn of the unholy, Jean-Paul. His agony became physical. He prowled the deck, endlessly raging against the crew, the captain, the winds.

Only in the last few hours had it occurred to him that Pen might have hoped he would follow her. Mayhap she’d even thought he would so fear for her that he would forget her faithlessness, forget that she’d almost betrayed England. She was reckless enough to do such a thing. But he wasn’t fool enough to trust her a second time.

His rage festered, kept alive fed by suspicion and by old hurts. Yet, despite his anger, he couldn’t make his body stop craving her, which made him all the more furious. Only the night before, he’d dreamt a vision so real that he could have sworn he felt himself inside her, clasped in moist warmth, his back and buttocks raked by her nails.

Morgan felt his unruly self stir at the recollection. Then he remembered how, despite his love, when he’d
been so confused and alone, Pen had chosen to believe Jean-Paul rather than trust him. God, after she turned on him, he’d almost lost faith in his own worth. The boat rocked on a wave, and he nearly bit the inside of his cheek as he set his jaw and pushed away the memory.

The mists cleared, but as they neared the island his anger could have boiled the sea into steam. He stood up, gazing at the clear space between the rocks. While he watched, Pen walked around one of them. Under her cloak she wore a loose kirtle and gown of bronze-colored wool that made her appear to be part of the fabric of the island, at once of the earth and the sea. She paused in the gap between the rocks, waiting.

Her presence condemned her in his eyes. She had expected him to fear for her and thus to forgive. The boat slid ashore, and Morgan leapt into the surf. He could see Pen waiting for him, her hands folded in front of her. She made no effort to call to him. She didn’t try to meet him.

Behind him, to the east, inky clouds popped over the horizon and tumbled toward the island. Morgan’s cloak skimmed the water as he stalked up to Pen, planted his hands on his hips, and glared at her. The surf hissed about them as if his anger were turning it to steam.

Pen spoke before he could begin his tirade. “Go back. He’s not here.”

“This is a useless machination, Penelope Grace Fairfax. Even love sickness doesn’t excuse you. I am here only to hunt the priest, so there’s no use hoping—what say you?”

Pen hadn’t moved. “I said, go back. The priest isn’t here. I told Lord Montfort not to play this game, but it seems he’s done so against my wishes.”

“Are you saying Christian told you to return to Penance,
into Jean-Paul’s path? Come now, my pretty mischief. He’s played a few evil tricks, but never any so evil as those you’ve served to me. And he wouldn’t endanger a woman.”

The rage that had simmered inside him combined with the knowledge that all the time he’d been worried about her safety, she’d been sitting in her castle, warm and comfortable.

“God’s blood,” he said. “I didn’t want to come here, and the only reason I have is to find the priest. Belabor me not with tales of Christian’s designs. You should at least have enough honesty to own your sins. A few more won’t matter, nor will a few less make me forgive what you’ve done.”

Lifting one brow, Pen remained motionless as the wind increased and cavorted through her hair. “Perchance I should explain something to you. Despite your notion that God has blessed all women by sending you to them, you’re mistaken if you think I number among your idolaters any longer.”

He lost all hope of governing his anger, but even as he felt his rage erupt, his body began to betray him. Her breasts rose and fell as her breathing quickened, and his gaze strayed to them. He took a step that brought him within whispering distance of her. He gave her an evil smile that contained anger as well as lust when she stood her ground rather than skitter backward. He would jolt her from aloofness. He lowered his voice, knowing that his breath brushed her cheek.

“Have you dreamt of me as I have of you?” She wouldn’t look at him, the little coward, but he’d made her blush. “I remember things well now, especially how you shivered when I kissed your inner thighs, and how your mouth feels on me.”

She retreated several quick steps then, and he grinned as he heard her suppressed gasp.

“I remember,” he said, “how you begged me to forgive you, to bestow my favor upon you.”

“Remember it well,” Pen replied with a lift of her head. “For I doubt you’ll ever hear such words again, and assuredly not from me. I’m sorry, my lord. There’s no one here who cares to worship at your feet. Go back to your ship. If I cared what happened to you, I’d hope you fall overboard and sink to the deepest chasm beneath the sea.”

She turned then, and without another glance at him walked between the two rocks toward the cliffs. Morgan stared after her. Had Christian deceived him, or had Pen? Jesu, sometimes there wasn’t much difference between the two.

He heard a bark of laughter and glanced up at the cliffside. Ranged along it, sniggering and whispering, were most of Highcliffe’s inhabitants. Morgan gave them a disgusted look. She’d brought them along to witness his dismissal, like some craven unworthy to kiss her toes. His gaze darted to Pen’s retreating back, and he tracked her withdrawal. While he watched her, he forgot the noise on the cliffs, for he was trying to fight off the maddening concoction of fury and desire. He hadn’t considered that Pen wasn’t the only one who succumbed to arousal when they came close.

Morgan’s gaze never left Pen’s slight figure. It would be only what she deserved if he left her to her own devices and Jean-Paul really had come back to Penance. God’s toes, he wanted to sail away this very moment, but he also wanted to toss Penelope Fairfax into the surf and watch her sputter and spew seawater.

He turned his back on Pen’s retreating figure, then stopped. He had to search the island for Jean-Paul even
if Pen had been telling the truth. Also, if he stayed, he could accomplish two things—assure himself that the priest wasn’t here, and drink a goblet full of the sacramental wine of vengeance. He thought for a while, and as he did, a smile returned to his lips, a smile Derry had often compared to that of the devil when counting sins.

Above him he could hear Twistle taunting his men. He heard a muffled sound behind him. Turning, he saw his sergeant at arms shaking his fist at the cook. Then he glanced back at Pen, who was climbing the terraced stair. He misliked so many witnesses to what he was going to do to her. His men could wait elsewhere until he needed them.