Authors: Iris Johansen
“Come along, I’ll walk you down the hill.” Lani took Cassie’s arm and pulled her away from Clara. “I don’t think you’ll need a torch. It will be dawn soon. Are you warmly dressed?”
“Yes.” Lani, as usual, was stepping between them, trying to divert Clara’s venom and Cassie’s rage. Cassie knew Lani was right; she shouldn’t waste her time battling Clara when Papa might be in danger. She pulled away from Lani as soon as they were out on the veranda. “I’m sorry, I’m over it now. I’m just worried about Papa.”
“I’m worried, too,” Lani said gently. “And there’s nothing to be sorry about. I understand.”
Lani always understood. “Go back inside,” Cassie said gruffly. “You’re wearing only your dressing gown, and it’s cool out here.”
Lani nodded. “Go with God, my friend.”
Charles would be no match for this man, Lani thought as she gazed at the face of the Englishman. It had taken only a glance after she had opened the door to his knock to realize that Jared Danemount possessed the cool, deadly confidence she had seen in the finest warriors in her village. She and Cassie had been wise to take extra precautions. “I regret you have come this far for no reason, Your Grace. Charles is not here.”
“And where is he?”
“He took a boat to the island of Maui. There is much to paint there.”
“Indeed?” His expression didn’t change, but she was aware of a slight edge to the silken politeness of
his tone. “I heard he was content to paint here.” His gaze wandered to the trail leading up to Mauna Loa. “Or near the volcano.”
“He’s an artist and they are never content.” She started to close the door. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have duties to perform. Good day, Your Grace.”
“Wait!” He put his foot in the door. “I need to find—”
“Who is this?” Clara demanded as she came toward Lani. “Disturbance after disturbance. Is it another of those heathens?”
She could not have come at a worse time. Lani had hoped to have the Englishman gone before Clara appeared. “No, it’s an Englishman, but he’s going now.”
“Not quite yet.” Danemount threw open the door. “I have a few more questions.” His gaze went to Clara. “I’m Jared Danemount, Duke of Morland. And you are …?”
“I’m Clara Kidman. I’m housekeeper here, and you have no—” She broke off and frowned. “A duke? A British duke? Truly?”
He nodded. “I wish to know the whereabouts of a Monsieur Charles Deville. I understand he has left the island?”
“Of course he’s not left the island,” Clara said. “He’s gone to that volcano again.”
Danemount’s cool glance moved to Lani. He murmured, “Really? I must have misunderstood.”
“But he may be returning soon. A courier from the king came earlier today, and his daughter took the message to him.”
Lani gritted her teeth in sheer exasperation when she saw the flicker of wariness cross Danemount’s face.
“You could wait for him here,” Clara said grudgingly to Lani’s surprise. It was seldom Clara offered hospitality to anyone.
“No, I don’t think I will. My business is of some urgency.” He bowed mockingly to Lani. “Good day, ladies.”
She had to make one last attempt at diverting him. “The mountains can be dangerous for a man alone. You could become lost.”
“I’m not alone. My uncle and a guide are waiting on the trail below.” His lips twisted in a cynical smile. “But my thanks for your concern.”
She watched him go down the veranda steps and then move quickly along the palm-bordered path until he was lost to view.
“This was not a good thing you did,” she muttered.
“It’s only what I’d expect of you,” Clara said. “You tell that heathen who came bursting in here in the middle of the night where Monsieur Deville is to be found, but you lie to a civilized British gentleman.”
“That gentleman may prove—” She broke off as she realized Clara would not listen. Patience, she told herself. She had known the burdens she would face when she had come to this house, and she was determined to bear them with grace. “It was not a good thing,” she repeated as she crossed the veranda.
“Where are you going?”
“To work in my garden.” She needed the soothing balm of delving into the earth, and it was the one pastime to which Clara could not object, since it provided fresh vegetables for the table. “Unless you need me in the house?”
“I’ve told you that you’re not needed here.”
Many times and in the cruelest of fashions. But she
was needed by Charles and Cassie, and she could withstand the old woman’s cuts.
As she knelt before her vegetable patch, she gazed uneasily up at the mountain. It was nearing noon and Cassie had been gone for hours. Had she found Charles yet?
Cassie did not find her father until nearly twilight. He had painted the place he called Pelée’s Breath so often, she had not thought he would return to do another picture. Yet there he was, standing at his easel, on the highest plateau overlooking those barren foothills where clouds of steam drifted like phantom snakes from the jet-black earth.
“Papa!” Cassie waved before carefully traversing the rocky incline leading to the plateau. It was always slippery both on this incline and on the foothills themselves. The black lava was constantly coated with the moisture from the steam that rose from between the cracks in the earth. Since the first time her father had brought her here as a small child, she had been frightened of the strangeness of the place. The seething silence broken only by wind and the hiss of escaping steam had seemed more threatening than the red-orange molten fire in the heart of the volcano. She had always thought it odd that her father, who was nervous of even touching Kapu’s mane, was comfortable in this eerie place. As she reached the top of the plateau she said, “I need to talk to you.”
“Good afternoon, Cassie,” her father replied abstractedly. “I’ll be with you shortly. I just have to complete this shading on the lava rock. Do you see how it glows with the steam? It’s really quite—”
“Did the messenger reach you?”
“Messenger?” His gaze never left the canvas. “Did you send one? I don’t believe that—”
“King Kamehameha sent a message. Someone wants to find you. An Englishman.”
Her father’s brush stopped in midmotion. “An Englishman?”
“The king said he doubted the man was a threat, but that you should know he had told him of the cottage and that you often painted near the volcano.”
He stared straight ahead. “His name?”
“Danemount.”
Her father’s eyes closed. “Dear God,” he whispered.
She need no longer wonder if Danemount was the threat. Her father was terrified. She had not seen him really afraid since that day they had left Marseilles. She took a step forward. “Why is he looking for you?”
His eyes opened. “To kill me,” he said dully. “He wants to kill me.”
“But why?”
“The hand of
le bon dieu
,” he muttered. “I always knew it would come. God’s will.”
“It’s not God’s will,” she said fiercely. “What are you talking about? God would not condone this man murdering you.”
“God’s will,” he repeated. Then he shook his head as if to clear it. “I don’t want to die, Cassie. I’ve done bad things, but I’m not a bad man. I don’t deserve to die.”
“Of course you don’t. And you could not have done anything very wrong. We’ll go down and face the Englishman and tell him—”
“No!” He whirled so quickly that he knocked the easel over. “How can I face him? What would I say to
him? It wasn’t my fault. Raoul told me that nothing would happen, and I believed him. At least I think I believed him. Raoul was always so certain about everything, and I was never certain about anything. Yes, it’s Raoul’s fault.”
Raoul. He had called the man who had come to the ship that day Raoul. Cassie frowned in bewilderment. “Then we’ll tell the Englishman that whatever happened, the blame is not yours.”
“He wouldn’t believe me. Not without proof. He wouldn’t listen to me. Why do you think I ran away? It was the uncle who was making inquiries, but I knew the cub would come after me. I remember his eyes … burning, glaring at me.” He picked up the half-finished painting and started down the incline, stumbling in his hurry. “I have to get away. I have to hide. I knew he’d come.…”
Cassie ran after him. “But where are you going?”
He stopped in midstride and looked around him dazedly. “I don’t know. There has to be someplace.…”
“If you think there’s danger, go to King Kamehameha. He’ll protect you. This Englishman is nothing to him.”
“Perhaps,” he muttered. “I don’t know. I can’t seem to think.”
And if he continued to blunder around in this state, Danemount would be here before she could get her father to safety.
She took his arm and shook it. “
I
know. Listen to me. Go to the king and tell him this Englishman is a danger to you. He’ll send his warriors to rid you of him.”
“I couldn’t do that. I won’t have his blood on my hands, too.”
Too?
A chill rushing through her, she asked, “Would you rather it be your blood spilled? I’ll kill him myself before I see that happen.”
For an instant the fear left his expression, and a faint smile lit his face. “My fierce Cassie.” He reached out and gently touched her cheek. “You’re the best part of me, you know. But I can’t remember ever being as true and loyal and brave. I’ve not been a good father, but I’ve always loved you.”
His words sounded terrifyingly final. “Don’t be foolish. You’ve been a very good father.”
He shook his head. “It was always too much trouble. I should have—” He broke off and went rigid. “What is that?”
She had heard it, too. The sharp sound of boots on the rocky path. It could not be the king’s messenger; the islanders did not wear footwear. They both turned to look down the path.
No one appeared to be in sight, but in the half darkness Cassie wasn’t sure she would be able to discern anyone. The steam was now a thick mist that glowed malignant yellow-purple in the dusk. Her hand tightened on her father’s arm. “Listen to me,” she spoke quickly, forcefully. “Climb back up the plateau and go down the other side. Then cut across the mountain and circle back when you reach the shore. I’ll go down and try to lead him away from you. In the darkness he’ll think I’m you.”
“No!”
“I’ll be safe. Would this Danemount kill an innocent woman?”
“I know little about— I don’t think— No.”
“Then go to Kamehameha. I’ll come to you there tomorrow and we’ll make plans.”
The sound of booted footsteps on stone came again, closer.
“Hurry!” She grabbed the canvas from him and deliberately threw it down to the left of the path.
“What are you doing? My painting …”
“You can paint other pictures. We need to leave a trail.” She pushed him toward the plateau. “Go!” She jumped over the painting and began to half run, half slide down the steam-coated lava rocks.
His hoarse exclamation echoed loudly in the eerie silence. Glancing back over her shoulder a few minutes later, she saw to her relief that he had almost reached the plateau again. She had feared he would follow her. The next moment he was lost to view.
The footsteps were even closer now, coming from just beyond the mist at the foot of the hill. If the Englishman had heard Papa’s exclamation, all the better. Between the vapor and the twilight she would be only a shadow to any pursuer and could easily be mistaken for her father. She had only to give him a quarter of an hour’s head start, and they would never catch him before he reached the king.
She left the path and carefully began winding her way through the cracks spouting vapor. She heard a cry from behind her. Her heart leaped as panic soared through her. She had been seen!
Stupid response. She had wanted to be seen. She glanced behind her but could discern only three dark, phantomlike silhouettes on the trail. Good. She must look the same to them. Her pace quickened.
“Deville!” The Englishman’s voice carried across the barren rocks like the horn of Gabriel. “Stop, goddammit!”
She didn’t look around as she moved along the side of mountain.
Darkness, falling fast.
Steam writhing and hissing from the cracks around her.
The rocky path steeper and more slippery.
The crunch of footsteps behind her.
Hurry. Keep moving
.
She could barely see in the dimness. Was that another fissure ahead?
A sudden burst of steam exploded from the ground in front of her!
She cried out and instinctively jerked back. Dear God, too slippery …
She was losing her footing.
Falling!
She reached out and tried to catch her balance as she rolled down the rocky incline, trying desperately to dig her nails into the hard rock.
Blackness.
“He’s down!” Exhilaration surging through Jared, he moved quickly over the black rocks toward the slumped figure at the bottom of the hill. After all the years of tracking and hunting he had the bastard. “By God, we’ve got him!”
“Be careful,” Bradford called as he followed at a slower pace. “Or you’ll end up down there on those rocks beside him.”
“Lakoa, light that torch,” Jared ordered the native guide. He drew his knife as he approached the fallen man. Deville was still, but that didn’t mean he was not dangerous. Desperate men were always a threat.
“Jared, wait,” Bradford told him. “I think—”
Jared had already stopped a few yards from Deville.
Only it wasn’t Deville. It was a girl, her dark hair
loose and covering her face, her black serge riding habit torn.
“Is it the daughter?” Bradford asked as he and Lakoa reached Jared.
“Who the hell else could it be?” Sharp disappointment mixed with concern as Jared fell to his knees beside the still figure. Instead of Deville, he might have succeeded in murdering a girl. “Dammit, I called out his name. She must have known it was he we were after.”
“I suppose Deville is long gone,” Bradford murmured. “She kept us following her for over twenty minutes.”
The girl moaned and restlessly moved her head.
At least she was alive, Jared realized with relief. He pushed aside the hair covering her face.
He went still.