Dark Before the Rising Sun (9 page)

“And who was this ancestor? An exemplary fellow, no doubt?” His attention centered on unfastening the buttons of his breeches, he did not catch the devilish glint in Rhea's eyes.

“Actually, he was a bit of a scoundrel.”

Dante glanced up in surprise. “Indeed?”

“Hmmmm, 'fraid so,” Rhea answered, her lips quivering as she tried to keep a straight face. “He was a privateer, but I suspect he sailed with the silent good wishes of Elizabeth I.”

Dante's buckskin breeches landed with a soft thud atop Rhea's gown and petticoats. His turned-inside-out stockings and upended boots were scattered across the room.

“A privateer?” he repeated thoughtfully, not at all displeased. “Then it goes without saying that he was a scoundrel.”

“From the look of him in the painting, I always thought he could have charmed the devil himself,” Rhea continued, not quite so relaxed as she gazed at the masculine beauty of Dante's naked body. He came toward the bed and stood before her. “I wondered why you seemed so familiar to me when I first saw you aboard the
Sea Dragon
,” she continued. “Physically you do not resemble him at all, except perhaps in the leanness of build, but, well…” Rhea's voice trailed away as her confusion increased. She looked down at the golden strand she'd been twirling around her hand.

“Please, continue. You have piqued my curiosity,” Dante murmured softly. Then the bed sagged as he sat down.

“'Twas just a certain arrogance about him, and perhaps that look of challenge in his eyes. I always used to feel a bit of a shiver when I walked past him, as if he might reach out of the painting and grab hold of me. And whenever I looked up into his dark eyes, I felt as if he somehow knew exactly what I was thinking and feeling. I suppose I was intrigued by the fearless daring of the man who had led an adventurer's life sailing the seas. When I came to know you,” Rhea continued slowly, her voice growing husky, “you seemed the embodiment, at least in spirit, of my buccaneer ancestor.”

Dante's arms encircled her as he enfolded her against his chest. A moment later her chemise floated to the floor, and then there was the comforting warmth of his body next to hers and his mouth pressing against her mouth.

“Forget about your man of the portrait. Feel me. I am flesh and blood. He cannot reach out for you, Rhea. He cannot hold you, and caress you, and kiss you until you ache with desire. Kiss me, Rhea,” he whispered against her rosy lips, his tongue tasting freely of hers. “No painted image can love you as I do.”

Rhea's fingers slid through the tangle of curling hair covering possessively over the sleek muscles of his wide chest. She reveled in the hardness of his body and in the way his hands moved over her, molding her to him in such a manner that she felt she no longer had an existence separate from his. She shivered when his tongue licked against a hardening nipple and his hands gently cupped her breasts as he buried his face against their softness. Rhea entwined her fingers through his thick chestnut hair, its smooth vibrancy curling beneath her touch.

His hands caressed her waist, then the slight curving of hip and across the tautness of her stomach. They moved slowly along her slender thighs, exploring the delicate inner areas that were so sensitive to his touch.

Her hair spilled across the pillows like golden honey as she lay beneath him and stared up into the pale grayness of his eyes, the thick fringe of dark lashes masking their burning brightness. Then her own lids closed as his thighs pressed against hers, parting them. And then he was a part of her. His hips moved against her, and her response joined his. The pressure building gradually within her increased with the pulsating rhythm of his body until, arching against his hardness, she cried out with the exquisite pleasure which always came with his lovemaking. It left her breathlessly weak and trembling, yet with a fulfillment that no other pleasure could bring.

“Never, never, will I lose you,” Dante vowed softly, but his words were inaudible to Rhea. She lay with her cheek pressed against the warm dampness of his chest, and the strong, steady beat of his heart was the only sound she heard. Resting contentedly within the circle of his arms, she took comfort from the gentle strength surrounding her.

Lingeringly, Dante pressed his lips against the pale transparency of her temple while carefully smoothing back a softly waving curl. Her golden head fell backward to fit snugly in the curve of his neck and shoulder. He closed his eyes, the sound of her quiet breathing filling him. And at last he was content to sleep, knowing that she would still be lying beside him when he awoke.

And when Dante did awaken several hours later, the pale sunlight of dawn was filtering through the small, dust-stained panes of the mullioned windows. The fire, which had burned so brightly the night before, lay in ashes.

Dante stared down at Rhea, who slept so peacefully beside him, the warmth of her body like a burning brand against his flesh. The golden sheen of her hair spreading across the pillows reminded Dante of the late-afternoon sunlight of autumn. Her delicate profile was etched against the deep bronze of his shoulder, and instinctively Dante started to reach out and touch the gentle curve of her mouth. Her dreams were sweet, he thought, and rather wistfully hoped that they were of him.

Dante resisted the temptation to awaken her, and carefully climbed from the bed. He could not resist gazing for a moment at the unadorned beauty of her body as she lay naked against the silk coverlet. She looked so ethereal, so pure and enchanting a vision, that he could scarcely believe she was the same warm-blooded woman he had held in his arms the night before. Where was the temptress who had responded to his lovemaking with such wild abandon?

She was so entrancingly lovely. And, strangely enough, she was his. But suddenly, on a dark feeling of despair and jealousy, Dante began to wonder how he could possibly hold on to her. She said she loved him, but what of those words she had so innocently spoken last night, when she said he reminded her of a man in a portrait which had fascinated her for years?

Fascination? Perhaps that was all that she really felt for him. What did she know of love? He knew he had taken unfair advantage her inexperience and first tentative steps into womanhood. He had tantalized and enticed her, making her vibrantly aware of emotions she had never suspected she possessed. Perhaps any other man could have elicited a similar response. So why should he think himself special, indispensable to her happiness?

What they had shared, that all-consuming passion, had been theirs for so short a duration that he found himself questioning its chances of surviving. Had those feelings even had a chance to become love? Once back with her family and friends, would her desire for him fade? Would she wish she'd never met him once a younger and more socially acceptable man entered her life?

And what of her family? Until he had come into her life, they had been her whole existence. He would be a stranger to them, an outsider, an intruder. Would they resent him? Would they try to turn Rhea against him? How could the brief interlude they had shared possibly withstand the influence of those deep family relationships?

Dante resettled the coverlet across Rhea's shoulders. “Little daffadilly,” he spoke softly. “Have I already lost you?” Jamaica, who lay curled on the foot of the bed, cocked an ear and opened an eye at the sound of his master's voice. But when no other words followed, he stretched with lazy contentment and resumed his feline dreaming.

Suddenly the chill of early morning touched Dante's bare flesh. He slipped on his morning gown, tying the silk sash around his waist as he walked over to the table and the correspondence he had left there.

Dante glanced back at the bed, at the sleeping figure snuggled deep beneath the warmth of the quilts. With a newfound purpose, he took quill in hand and addressed the envelope he had sealed the night before.

For a long moment Dante stared down at the address he had written, the address which had become so familiar to him over the years:

Sir Jacob Weare

Sevenoaks House

Westlea Abbot

Devonshire

Without hesitation, Dante placed the letter upright against the silver inkstand, knowing that the letter would be posted by Kirby later in the day. But even Dante, who had thoughtfully planned out every move he was making, did not fully realize how far-reaching the repercussions of that letter would be once it was in the possession of a certain gentleman in Westlea Abbot.

A thousand ages in Thy sight

Are like an evening gone;

Short as the watch that ends the night

Before the rising sun.

—Isaac Watts

Eight bells would have chimed the hour and the changing of the watch aboard HMS
Hindrance
, a revenue cutter stationed in Bristol Channel. Patrolling a wild stretch of Devonshire coastline, it had been her duty to prevent smugglers from landing their contraband cargoes; untaxed spirits, tea, tobacco, silks, and scents deprived the Crown of much-needed revenue. But the secret coves, where during dark nights gangs of well-armed men waited with nervous impatience, were far too many. The Crown had not been able to halt the inland journey of the contraband. And because the riding officers were far too few, the tubs and bales and cases ended up stashed in neighboring farmhouses, barns, and inns. Or, perhaps, even sequestered in the sacred confines of a church cellar, along with the vicar's complimentary cask of brandy.

But on this day, the pale light of dawn showed the King's colors which had been hoisted before the warning shot had been fired at the smuggling lugger, now hanging in tatters. The roar of cannon fire which had followed was now silenced by the sea crashing across the splintered decks of a once proud ship, now foundering on the rocks. Most of her crew, those who had not been washed overboard and drowned, had abandoned ship.

She had been a good ship, served by a good captain and crew. Perhaps too good, she had been betrayed. Her course had been marked out in advance by an unfriendly hand and, her fate sealed, she had valiantly faced doom on the rocks of an inhospitable shore.

Cold and angry, the sea heaved and rolled and lifted HMS
Hindrance
on the foaming crest of a wave rising toward shore, only to toss her down against the rocks yet again and again. Her canvas was in shreds and her mainmast had split and disappeared into the sea.

Against the gray, dawning light, the dark outline of the sheer cliffs could be seen climbing ever upward toward the heavens. And rising even higher atop the summit were the dark, solitary towers. From those towers the shining beacon of light had lured HMS
Hindrance
toward the razor-edged reefs lurking just beneath the surface of a sullen sea.

At the base of the steep cliffs was a narrow crescent of sandy beach, a haven against the hungry grasp of the sea. And for those few desperate men who had managed to survive the sinking of their ship, it was their one hope of escaping the fierce undertow of the breakers crashing against the rocks. But the weakened and battered seamen who staggered ashore found no safe haven upon that isolated stretch of beach. Instead, they were met by the smuggling gang, armed with bludgeons and knives. The gang accomplished what the sea had not.

And as the sun rose high above the dark towers silhouetted against the morning sky, the infamy which had left bodies half buried in the sea-swept sands or floating out on the current toward a watery grave, was exposed to the damning light of day.

Dead men tell no tales. But if the captain of HMS
Hindrance
could have moved his salt-encrusted, swollen lips, or raised a bloodied finger, he would have identified his murderer. In naming the traitor, he would have told a sad tale of how a ship and crew had come to be no more.

He would have told of the treachery and betrayal by a fellow officer of the Crown and how, suspecting there was an informant among the troop of dragoons stationed in Westlea Abbot, he had attempted to identify the traitor who had been warning the smugglers. But the fatal mistake the good captain made had been in confiding his suspicions to the wrong man. Too late, he had come to suspect the true villain.

The captain and the man he had so mistakenly trusted, a respected gentleman and a man in a high position of authority, had confronted the officer under suspicion. That officer had broken down and confessed his treachery, then had begged for mercy. With that plea for leniency had come the promise of valuable information concerning the activities of the smugglers. That very eve they were planning to land contraband in Bishop's Creek, he had informed them. Two flashes of light, then three, that was the signal for the all clear. After the tubs had been unloaded, they would most likely have ended up at Bishop's Grave Inn, for Sam Lascombe and the smugglers were as thick as thieves.

Although it was against his better judgment, the captain had been persuaded against informing his superiors of the officer's confession, at least for the time being. The gentleman with him was, after all, the local magistrate. He had advised the utmost discretion. Tomorrow, he said, would be a far better time to send a dispatch. By dawn they would surely have arrested the leaders of the smuggling gang and have clapped the rest in irons. They would be able to report that they had put an end to this looting of the King's coffers.

Unsuspecting, the young captain of HMS
Hindrance
agreed. With the magistrate's assurances that he would personally see the dishonored officer locked up in Westlea Abbot gaol with none the wiser, and then see that his men were at Bishop's Creek at the appointed hour to lend the captain all of the assistance he would need, the captain returned to his ship.

Perhaps he should have been more suspicious of the smuggling lugger when she sailed out of the dark, almost as if she had been waiting for a rendezvous. She had cut across the
Hindrance
's bow, the smugglers calling out abuses and damning his majesty King George and all who served him, as if daring the other ship to give chase.

Thinking the game his, the captain of HMS
Hindrance
ordered his helmsman to steer toward the smuggling lugger. Soon she was close to overtaking the lugger.

The captain had smelled victory in the air, along with the smell of gunpowder which still lingered from the last round of cannon fire which the
Hindrance
had shot across the smuggler's bow. In the distance he had seen the flashing of lights from Bishop's Creek; and instead of the two, followed by three, there had been four flashes of light to end the sequence. That had been his signal that the smugglers had been apprehended, and were now safely in the hands of the authorities.

He had the smuggler at the disadvantage. He had successfully cut off her escape to windward, trapping her between the mouth of the cove and the dragoons on shore. And because of her position, the smuggler was unable to fire her guns, except for small arms, and HMS
Hindrance
was out of range.

Suddenly, however, the smuggling lugger sheered off, her bow turning into the wind. The sudden change in direction caught the captain of the
Hindrance
off guard, for the other captain surely knew that he would fall foul of the
Hindrance
, but before he could give the order to change course and bring the helm alee there was a horrible splintering noise that ripped through the
Hindrance
's hull, bringing her to a shuddering stillness as she struck the reefs.

Like a prophetic sign, the sun brought out of shadow the dark towers on the bluff. Too late, the captain realized that they had not sailed into Bishop's Creek, but had been tricked into the treacherous waters of Dragon's Cove, a place no ship dared venture unless her captain was familiar with the one navigable channel through the reefs.

The narrow channel cut diagonally across the reefs which began to form just within the mouth of the cove; beyond that point there was no deep water for a ship to safely sail, only razor-backed reefs and shallows, and breakers, which rolled toward the bold shore wreathed in white water and mists of sea spray.

With his ship now at the mercy of the pitiless sea, the captain and those few seamen who could swim, or who had managed to grasp hold of a broken piece of mast, struggled ashore. And there, on the wet sands, the captain was met by the very traitor he'd thought locked up in the gaol in Westlea Abbot.

As the captain's glazed eyes stared heavenward, the last sight he caught was one of the dark towers of Merdraco. And out of the shadow of the tower moved a gentleman astride a horse. And in the first light of dawn, the dying captain of HMS
Hindrance
cursed for all eternity the face of the man he had trusted with his life.

* * *

A fortnight later, in a small Welsh village on the far side of the channel, a solitary figure would stand in the burial ground of a simple church of gray stone. Braving the cold west winds blowing in off the channel, he would stare down at the newly turned earth of a grave while the silvery light of a bleak morning filtered through the branches of a cedar grove planted to shield the mourners.

He would glance up and gaze across the turbulent waters, knowing that beyond the swirling clouds hanging low against the horizon was the coast of England. With bowed head, he would stare down at his brother's grave, his eyes watering from the winds blustering around his caped figure. Then, with a last farewell, and a promise to keep, he would walk away slowly.

He would never forget the words chiseled on that cold, silent headstone:

SACRED

TO THE MEMORY OF

BENJAMIN LLOYD

CAPTAIN OF HMS
HINDRANCE

LOVED—HONORED—LAMENTED