Three Heroes (85 page)

“Lucky you didn’t get her with child,” Race said.

“Very, though I was too callow to give it thought then. Astonishing to think about, having a ten-year-old child.”

Children.

He’d never thought of children, though he’d assumed they would follow marriage. Now, however, he could almost picture them. Sons at Somerford, playing in the woods and valley as he, Van, and Hawk had played. Daughters too, perhaps, enjoying the freedom Susan had enjoyed...

He realized the children in his mind were his and Susan’s, the daughters slim, agile, and adventurous.

Friendship.

What mad fool had talked about friendship?

“A ten-year-old,” he said again, grieving a little for that nonexistent child.

“And a half dozen others by now, no doubt,” Race teased.

Con splashed him, too lazy to have even a playful fight over it.

How strange life was, though. Paths taken, often for little reason, and others left behind.

He’d joined the army at Hawk’s suggestion. Hawk had wanted to escape his unhappy family. He’d suggested that Van and Con join with him. Still raw from Susan, Con had agreed. He had been a second son who needed a profession, and one that would keep him far away from Crag Wyvern and Susan Kerslake seemed ideal.

Van had been an only son like Hawk, but with a loving family. He’d had more of a struggle, but he’d always been wild, and eventually his parents had let him go.

So they’d made plans to buy commissions in the same cavalry regiment, but in the end, Con had chosen the infantry. If he was going to do this, he was going to do it properly, and the infantry were the meat of the British army, where steadiness and discipline were key.

He’d served his country, mostly in ways he could be proud of, but all the same, his reasons for joining the army had been rooted in cowardice. It had been a way to avoid future visits to Crag Wyvern.

Over the years he’d come to see that as stupid, to think that there had been nothing to fear.

Now he knew otherwise.

Three days, and they’d exploded into that kiss.

It was more a sizzling blur now than a memory. It had overtaken him like a fever or a storm, and if it hadn

’t been for Race he’d have claimed her there on the stone-flagged floor.

If she’d let him.

Would she have been able to stop him?

Yes, he had to believe that, or he had indeed become the dragon.

He looked up at the damn rapacious dragon, then down at the one on his chest. At least it was just coiled there breathing fire.

“Dammit,” he said. “Tattooing should be illegal.”

Race opened his eyes, rolling his head sideways to look.

“It’s rather a fine specimen.”

“But permanent.”

“Quite a few men in the regiment got a tattoo after seeing yours.”

“Damned fools.”

“Thought of it myself, but could never decide what would be most suitable.”

“An angel, according to Susan.”

A deep bracket dug into Race’s cheek as he smiled. “Then I should have a contrast.”

“A devil?”

“Doesn’t appeal.” He looked like a beautiful, decadent angel, his blond hair curling around his face. “Are you jealous of me and the angelic Susan?”

“Not if you’re both behaving like angels,” Con said.

“Angels being pure spirits, without carnal inclinations?”

“Precisely.”

“I don’t think either of us is an angel, then.”

“Precisely.”

Race laughed softly. “What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know.”

Had he acted the dragon in the dungeon? Con wondered. Had he forced that kiss on her?

She hadn’t struggled until the end, but she hadn’t touched him, either. Even in the fever he’d noticed that.

He hadn’t touched her at first except for his lips, as if that would keep him safe, though in the end he hadn’t been able to resist.

But she had.

Burning inside him like a twisted blade was uncertainty—had she hated every minute? Had she submitted out of fear?

Or worse, had she submitted because his first suspicions had been right and she still wanted above all to be Countess of Wyvern?

Out on the cliffs he’d been sure that wasn’t the case.

Back inside Crag Wyvern suspicion stirred.

Race waved his arms, creating sinuous snakes in the water. “Did you see Miss Kerslake’s face when she saw the gold?” he asked.

Con looked at him. “No.”

Race’s slight smile was angelic—if one remembered that the devil was a fallen angel. “She was devastated. She wanted that money.”

It hit Con as a new betrayal. He could think back and see Susan staggering forward from the door to look down at the gold. Race was right. She’d been sallow with shock.

“Have you seen any evidence of her searching this place?” Race asked.

“Yes,” Con said flatly, refusing to show how much it hurt. “Of course, that’s why she’s here playing housekeeper. It’s hardly her calling in life.”

Friends.

Friends did not steal from each other.

Criminal on her father’s side. Whore on her mother’s.

He stood, and water streamed back into the bath. “Blood will out.” He forced himself to speak lightly. “It should be interesting to see what she’ll do now.”

“Try to seduce you, perhaps,” Race said with a beatific grin. “Yet more theatrical entertainment!”

In preference to bloody murder, Con climbed out of the bath and wrapped one of the huge linen towels around himself. Normally he emerged from a bath feeling relaxed and soothed, but not this one.

He stalked into the bedchamber, where Diego awaited, politely bland, a clean nightshirt in hand. Con kept the towel. Despite everything, the thought of Susan seducing him had him hard.

Lady Anne.

He pulled Lady Anne up in his mind like a shield. Her sweet smile, her gentle blue eyes, her easy conversation about light topics, or more earnest talk of serious causes—education and the plight of the elderly poor.

What charitable causes did Susan support? All her efforts were lavished on a bunch of thieves and murderers.

Even for her elderly poor, Lady Anne wouldn’t steal. She wouldn’t involve herself in smuggling, not even to fund a hundred schools. She certainly wouldn’t invite a worthless officer to her bed on a whim.

Race emerged from the bathroom, also wrapped in a towel, looking very like an effete angel.

A dangerous misapprehension.

How extraordinarily difficult it was to know what people were really like.

“That bath disgorges through a gargoyle?” Race said.

“Apparently.”

“Let’s go out to watch.”

“Watch water? The deadly tedium of Crag Wyvern has struck already, has it?”

“Perhaps I simply want to get outside.”

Race’s words hit home, but Con said, “It’s dark.”

“Not entirely. The sun’s down, but there’s still light.”

Yes. In this case, Race’s instincts were sound. “Clothes,” he said to Diego, flinging off the towel. Race grinned and went off to dress. Con wondered what would happen if he met a maid on his way.

He suspected Race would be delayed.

Sensible Diego brought just drawers, breeches, and a shirt. Con dressed quickly, then pulled on his boots. “Watch from one of the arrow slits and I’ll wave when we’re in position. Then pull the plug. And ring the bell, I suppose.”

“Si, señor.”

Con smiled as he left. Diego lapsed into Spanish when Con did something boyish. It seemed to indicate that he was pleased.

Boyish. How long since he’d felt a touch of the boy?

Mere hours. In the garden, pelted by cool spray. Susan laughing ...

Damn her.

He collected Race, obviously uninterrupted by rapacious females, and led the way outside.

The sun was down, but pink streaks still shot through a vast shell of pearly gray sky, and light danced on the water, turning it into a blushing opal. The fishing boats were in now, but a mass of screaming gulls circled Dragon’s Cove. Doubtless some fishermen were gutting their catch and tossing the scraps to the birds.

It was deeply beautiful and wholesome. And Crag Wyvern deliberately shut this kind of vision off. The garden was lovely, but it was inside and, in a way, artificial. The outer world was blocked off and could begin to disappear even from memory. The old earl had had a fear of the outdoors. No wonder he’d gone mad.

Yet Susan had chosen the Crag for many years, first as secretary, then as housekeeper. No wonder she’

d become a conscienceless thief.

A breeze danced up, chilly in his still-damp hair, but alive and free. Even the scrubby headland had its charms, scattered with wildflowers. When he looked away from the sea, the Devon countryside spread in shades of green and brown from woodlands, hedges, and fields, dotted with church spires, each marking a village, a community.

“A sweet place,” Race said. “Shame about the house.”

“You think I should have it torn down?”

“It’s a tempting notion.”

“Indeed. But then I’d have to build something else, and even with that gold, I can’t afford it.”

“You could invest in smuggling.”

“No. Come on.” He led the way around to the north of the house.

This was the bleakest face of Crag Wyvern. All four walls of the house were the same flat stone broken only by the arrow-slit windows, but the north always looked grimmest. Perhaps it was the almost perpetual lack of sun. Could dark gather in stones like damp and moss?

“It does look remarkably like a stark fortress from out here,” Race said. “Has it ever withstood an attack?”

“Yes, as it happens. During the Civil War. The earls of Wyvern were staunch royalists, and a Parliamentary force marched here but failed to take the place. It was halfhearted, though, in part because my direct ancestor, the then Sir John Somerford, was high in the ranks of Parliament. We’ve tended to take opposite sides all along.”

“Don’t tell me. The Devon Somerfords for Stuart, the Sussex Somerfords for Hanover.”

“And the Devon Somerfords for James the Second, while my branch welcomed William of Orange.”

“They must all be rolling in their graves to see a Sussex Somerford here at last.”

“Quite. Which is why the old earl was obsessed with trying to get an heir.”

“Ah. But I thought he never married.”

“One of the many mysteries of Crag Wyvern. Rumor says that he wanted to try the ladies out first.”

“Don’t we all?”

Con laughed. “This one apparently took the testing seriously.” He told Race the system that Susan had described.

“You do have an interesting family. Did many women accept his invitation?”

“Some, I gather. Doubtless not from the upper classes.”

Race suddenly laughed. “You know, it’s rather like the mythic dragon demanding maidens in tribute!”

“Except that they didn’t have to be maidens, and he paid. The girls were sent home with twenty guineas for their service. Quite a nice dowry in a fanning family.”

“Droit du seigneur as well. What a splendid place!”

Con buffeted him and waved to where Diego was presumably watching.

The bath gargoyle snarled out at them from the middle of the wall, a crested dragon with a long forked tongue. In a moment the bell chimed, and the dragon spouted water. It arced down, silver, but touched with pink by the blushing light, to form glimmering pools and rivulets on the rough ground.

Race applauded, and Con said, “You are easily amused.”

“Probably as well in this place.”

“What? Three days here and you’ve had smuggling, a torture chamber, an energetic piece of destruction, and a treasure trove. Not to mention all those lovely papers to play with. What do you expect for an encore?”

“Some concupiscent nuns at midnight would be nice.”

Con laughed. “You could probably have Diddy if you tried.” Then he winced at the callous words, and remembered Susan’s warning. “Leave the maids alone.”

“I could take offense at that,” Race said quietly.

“I know. I’m sorry. Look, go in, will you? I’m going to stay out here for a while.”

Race—perceptive Race—touched him lightly on the shoulder, and went away.

Con looked again over the land, his land, settling softly into the subtle comforts of evening. Inside Crag Wyvern, it was easy to forget, to become wrapped up in his own twisted problems. Outside, he knew that these farms and villages deserved better than an absentee landlord.

That was all he could offer, however. He truly believed Crag Wyvern could drive him mad, but above all, he couldn’t live near Susan.

She might be a thief. No. She was.

Despite appearances and his instincts, she might be a whore.

She was still the woman who’d lurked in his heart for over a decade, and who could now ignite him with a glance.

And here he was, afraid to return to his own house.

His mind was full of Susan and that kiss, and he wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to think straight again.

He could hardly stay out here, however, and dark was deepening around him, stealing color from sky and land. He retraced his steps and entered the Crag, but not without a shudder.

He went directly to the garden, thinking it would be a haven of sorts, but all he could think of was Susan laughing in the spray. Susan, her damp dress clinging to every delectable curve.

His Susan then.

His Susan on the cliff.

His Susan ...

A maid bustled out of a door, then froze and turned to go back.

“Stop.”

She turned back, eyes wide.

No wonder. He was still in just breeches and an unbuttoned shirt and doubtless looked wild. He walked over to her. “What’s your name?”

She dipped a curtsy. “Ellen, milord.”

She was slight, young, and looked frightened. Perhaps she was a lowly maid who shouldn’t be here. Or perhaps she’d been taught to be afraid of any Earl of Wyvern, especially one who was acting in a strange way.

“Ellen, take a message to Mrs. Kerslake. Tell her I wish to see her in my room.” She wouldn’t come. He knew she wouldn’t. She had to. “Tell her it’s urgent.”

The maid’s eyes widened even more, but without suspicion. “Yes, milord.” She hurried away almost at a run.