The Windflower (46 page)

"I mentioned earlier that I had something I needed to show you," Eremuth commented, opening the pouch's thong bindings.

"Bills advertising for my capture, didn't you say?" Morgan asked blandly.

In front of Merry's eyes the world froze, remained that way for a silent moment, and then leaped into a wild somersault. Morgan's black gaze whipped her face and then returned with an interested smile to Eremuth, who was speaking.

" . . we decided that it would be best if you saw them yourself, Devon. What makes these bills different is not only that they are illustrated, but that they are done so with enormous skill. Furthermore, there are likenesses of others on the
Black Joke
as well as of Rand Morgan. And of three of our most effective agents in the Washing-ton area. Yes! You may well look surprised. In fact, we were astonished. But, frankly, what disturbed us most was to find your portrait in the group, Devon. I can hardly convey the degree of alarm we felt when we realized that you were operating in the United States with such a risk of exposure! If you had been seen by anyone familiar with the poster, they would have hanged you and asked questions later. Well, that's neither here nor there," he said, handing the sheaf of papers to Morgan. "It was only good fortune that we were able to put our hands on them. A loyalist assistant in the printer's office notified our people, and the bills were ultimately smuggled into Canada. . . . Well, Captain Morgan, what do you think?"

"But they're charming," Morgan said. "Here's one I find particularly taking." He read, "Pirate known as Cat. Wanted for piracy, brigandage, kidnapping, rapine, and mayhem. Fifty dollars reward."

Merry's insides were a house of cards, falling, falling as Cat got up and strolled toward Morgan.

Malevolently grinning, Morgan read on, "Age seventeen, eighteen, or thereabouts. Tall. Slender build. Very pale. Well-favored." Morgan handed the sheet to Cat. "They certainly want a lot for fifty dollars."

It was impossible to guess what Cat was thinking as he studied the paper, gave it back to Morgan, and said, "It's nice to be wanted."

"Have you noted the style of the artist? Highly distinctive, wouldn't you say? One would know it immediately if one ever saw it on another occasion." Eremuth transferred the pages to Devon, saying, "What do you think?"

Perhaps there had been some clue for Devon in Morgan's grin or in Cat's expressionless assessment. Perhaps as Devon withdrew his hands from her and slowly sat up he knew already. The long shapely hands received the drawings. Golden eyes skimmed over the pictures as he quickly studied one after another, taking no greater interest in his own portrait than in the others. They were distinctive, as the British officer had said. Trapped between Devon's Fingers as alike and yet as individual as a row of apples were face after face from Merry's unmistakable hand. There, minimally altered by the careful printing process, Merry saw her own firm varied pencil strokes, her distinctive cross-hatching, her reed pen detailing. They might well have carried her signature. The only surprise for Merry, seeing the pictures after so long an interval, was how childish and inaccurate had been her insights. She had made Morgan humorlessly satanic, devoid of the more suave menaces. Cat's sketch was of a youthful Norse raider who was incapable of conceding to his softer impulses. And Devon—she couldn't then, nor could she now capture that natural wealth of perfect male contours and radiant flesh hues that hid a unique and complex character.

Merry's heart had begun a double-headed beat, an intense
ba-bang, ba-bang
that reverberated through her lungs. Though her skin surfaces were numb, she knew that she must have lost color. She felt Cat's gaze as a firm and sustaining grip as she heard Prufrock say, "Our artist is obviously an older man. Extensive training, I should guess, probably in Italy. Talented fellow. Pity. We've orders to short-cut his career.''

"Kill him, do we mean?" questioned Morgan in an emotionless tone.

"Regrettably," Eremuth assented unhappily. "If the artist was less talented, if the subjects were chosen with less discretion, then we could afford to be merciful." Addressing himself to Devon, he said, "As you've pointed out so aptly in your reports, our intelligence network is poor. You, I believe, used a stronger word. Since so many on the
Black Joke
were subjects, we had hopes that you would have some idea who might have done them. Could you put your hands on the artist?"

A warm wind sucked the cold sweat beads on her palms and licked at her bodice, cupping the fabric into her breasts and midriff. Wisps of hair irritated her temples. Acid fluids ate the surface of her eyes. Time moved heavily, the seconds rising to collapse awkwardly, like a warped cartwheel. Her self-control was stretched to its ultimate limit before Devon stood in an even flood of motion.

"I'll take care of it," he said.

" 'Pon my word, lad," insisted Prufrock. "Your orders to return to England come directly from Whitehall. No one intends you to trouble yourself in the matter. If you'll but give us a name—"

Devon slapped the papers into Eremuth's open hand. "Have I indicated that I'd relish an extended debate? Leave this to me."

Heaving himself to his feet, clapping speckles of sand from his clothing, Prufrock said good-humoredly, "If that's how you'll have it, then. As far as debating goes, you're the last soul alive I'd have one with. Likely I'd end up with my brain bent in more knots than a Chinese puzzle. You were always too clever for me by half, and well you know it."

The pulse in Merry's ears had become so loud that she could hardly follow their final exchanges and the round of amiable pleasantries and expressions of good will that passed between the men. Prufrock began to amble toward the longboat, the brightly uniformed British boy at his side. Eremuth would have followed, but Devon halted him with a gesture. When Prufrock was too far down the beach to hear him, Devon said, "Were you able to find out for me if Granville sponsored a girl to travel with him on the
GuinevereV

"Yes." Eremuth's hand raked his sandy hair and settled on his hat "I'm afraid I have precious little information about her, however. It was difficult to discover anything without drawing attention to the inquiry, and you had specifically requested that I exercise extreme discretion."

"1 appreciate that, Richard," Devon said. "Thank you. What did you learn?"

"You were correct. Granville did sponsor a girl named Merry to sail on the
Guinevere.
I couldn't find out her family name, but one of the clerks recollected that her New York address was given to be the same as Granville's. It seems that— Devon! I can see this is not welcome news to you. I'm sorry."

"It's of no moment. Please go on. It seems that?"

"It seems that the young woman was a
ckere amie
of Granville's," Captain Eremuth said frankly.

"How do you know?"

Eremuth's dark-red flush became evident even in the sparse light. "There was some comment among the dockhands on the evening the young woman boarded the
Guinevere.
A rare piece of goods, I believe, was the assessment quoted me, though apparently her countenance bespoke the innocent. Anyway, Granville was quite friendly with a few of these dockmen, so that later when he came to board, they were able to induce him to confide his connection with the girl."

"Richard. Be blunt."

"Bluntly then." Eremuth's blush spread to his hairline. "Granville told them that appearing the innocent was the girl's most highly developed accomplishment save for—for—" He glanced at Merry. "Devon, there's a jest involved that I would be loath to repeat in front of any young female, regardless of her status."

Slipping an affectionate arm around Eremuth's stiff shoulders, Devon began to walk with him toward the beach. During the whole course of their conversation he had not once looked at Merry. The strains of his voice, detached and cheerful, streamed back to her on the night breeze: "Heavenly days then, let's get out of mixed company so you can tell me about it. . . ."

Everything she saw dissolved before Merry like a melting waxwork. For some time she felt and saw nothing. When her senses awoke again, it was to the tough security of Cat's arms. His words were a soft streak of sound to her ears.

"Merry, listen! Don't fight me, Merry. I want you to come with me. Quickly! Merry, can you hear me?"

"Yes. I— Cat!" Long bleeding scratches were dark runners on his forearms. Staring at them confusedly, she asked, "Did I do that?"

"My fault. I put my hands on you too quickly," he said, dragging her to her feet. "Come now."

Her body seemed unable to obey his dictates. She hung back, trying to sharpen the hazy images in her brain. "How long have I— How long has Devon been gone?"

"A few minutes. Christ. Your skin is as cold as a hatchet. Merry, you've got to let me get you away from here before—"

"Before Devon comes back?"

Moving silently, Devon stepped from blank shadow into the smoky edges of the firelight. His strikingly perfect features were relaxed, his stance as easy as his voice had been. He was even smiling, a faintly sugared curve of the lips that made his eyes shine like warm, glittering crystals. Merry had almost forgotten that smile. She had not seen it since the morning after she had accidentally destroyed Michael Granville's letters in her first attempt to escape. His face might as well have been a beautiful mask, with the soul stripped from it. There was no limit to the price Merry would have paid in this world or the next to be able to obliterate the sleeping damnation from his gaze.

Cat said, "She's tired. I want to take her—"

"If you have that inclination," Devon said, his tone serene, "then you're welcome to take her after I have."

In the loaded silence Merry felt her slamming heart labor, shuddering like a dry bellows. Her fingers found and tightened on Cat's arm. Devon still had not looked directly at her.

"Look."
Cat's voice had studied hues of cool derision. "If the question is whether or not you're going to dismember her, it seems to me that-—"

Devon interrupted. "The question
isn't
whether or not I'm going to dismember her. The question is merely into how many pieces."

"Would you let me finish a blasted sentence?" Cat asked. "For the world's greatest disciple of eternal moderation you're making quite a display. I realize you've known more and cleverer hypocrites than I have, but on the slight chance that, God forbid, you might be wrong, why don't you think about this overnight? There's time enough in the morning if you want to be a bastard."

Finally Merry felt the brutal attack of Devon's brilliant eyes as they found and held hers. Slowly he walked forward until they were so close that she absorbed the heat from his body. His gaze held her numbly silent as he brought a hand to her throat, closing with elaborate gentleness upon the fragile cords, the frightened, pulsing fibers. Experienced fingers discovered and lay, barely pressing, against the nerves and arteries that carried her life.

Cat knocked Devon's hand away from her with a fist. "Oh, stop it, will you, you bloody viper?" Cat said with grinding anger. "What will that prove?"

"I thought you wanted me to demonstrate moderation," Devon said softly. "Why do you worry? She's got more defenses than wolf bitch."

"How pleased you must be," Cat said. "What a bloody relief. Just when you were running out of room to move, you've found a reason not to admit you love her.''

Close as she was to Devon, Merry saw the spare widening of his eyes, the snapped breath, the startled tightening of his lips as the shaft went home. Emotion sprang like a sea wave in his eyes and then vanished entirely.

"Oh, my . . ." Laughter stirred in Devon's eyes above the fury. "Drag out the siege engine. We're getting lethal. Is it love that makes me want her? Have I been in love with all the others, then?"

"Bless my soul," Cat said scathingly. "What's changed? Only a while ago you told me she was more."

"More irritation. More trouble. And bloody less satisfaction. I want to talk to her. After that you can do what you like with the remains." Devon glanced to the side, where Morgan reclined non-committally on a boulder. "Call him off, Rand."

Obediently Morgan said, "Cat." Then, after the single word engendered no response, "That's enough, babe. Come here."

Cat turned to Morgan with a lazy grace that was almost feline, his braid twitching as though it had life. In a voice that prickled Merry's nape hair, Cat said, "You're part of my universe, Rand. Not the center of it."

Amusement minced lightly through the occult blackness of Morgan's eyes. "There's a trick to this, my pretty ones. One must learn to court sentiment delicately. The pair of you fuck it to death." The small German pistol cupped in his hand seemed to have appeared there by some deadly sorcery. The barrel was aimed at Merry. "I'll make this much easier. If one of you doesn't back away quickly from that girl, I'm going to put a bullet in her." Morgan cocked the pistol. To Merry he said very gently, "Stand still, my dear. We'll try not to make this fatal."

Both men knew Morgan would pull the trigger if one of them didn't concede, but it was Cat who moved swiftly backward, putting ten feet between himself and Merry before Morgan finished speaking. There Cat stopped, breathing deeply to keep his voice under control.

"If we're going to play Wisdom of Solomon," he snapped, "someone ought to remind the potentate that according to the biblical corollary, I should win."

"We have a new version," Morgan said. "The winner is the one who wants the girl even with a bullet in her."

She heard the rustle of blood on its vein-passage through her ears as Devon's abrupt hand gesture directed her to precede him to the path. On the whole of the walk to the villa he neither spoke nor touched her. The island filled her senses with unnatural intensity. From the black flirting vegetation she almost felt the scrape of crowded stems. It hurt her eyes to watch the fireflies as they drifted in upward curves and disappeared again like twinkling fairies. The night song of the forest was a symphony in crescendo. She could hear the ruin of each withered leaf crushed under her feet, the clatter of displaced gravel, the sharp sigh of the fabric of her gown as it rubbed into her thighs. Noises, sights, and smells were a battering intrusion upon her raw nerves.

Inside the villa he led her through the empty, echoing halls to her bedroom. He motioned her to enter and came in after, shoving the door shut behind him.

Only the wan oblongs of moonlight that washed through her open windows saved her room from total darkness. Fear and the quick, strenuous uphill climb had taxed her strength. The heavy arhythmia of her breathing mixed with the low sounds of his sure motions as he lit the candle beside her bed and then lit the wall sconces with their brilliant mirror backing. Clear topaz light flickered over her bed sheets where a hairbrush and the crumpled bedgown lay as she had hastily discarded them. Her book lay open on a small table nearby. A slow gust ruffled the pages, making a nervous, papery murmur. Devon snapped the book closed and turned to face her.

"Uncover yourself for me," he said.

She stood, not moving, staring down into the loose cup of her knit lingers, aware of the slight expansion of her chest that came with each irregular inhalation.

"Didn't you hear me, daffodil? Undress. There's no need to be embarrassed. Just do the same things for me that you would for Michael."

Rather vaguely she said, "Michael?"

His hands shot out and jerked her to his body, so she could feel each rise and shallow, each plane of his ribs, and his tight stomach, and hips. He smelled sweet and sandy, his breath was faintly aromatized with wine. The smile had vanished.

"Michael
Granville,
you glib slut," he said. "Granville. Do you forget the name so quickly? Why should you forget when you know him so well—every last unholy inch? The games are over between us, queen of the angels. How you've held yourself back. This time I want you to show me. I want fireworks, sweet virtue . . . Roman candles, skyrockets, Catherine wheels. ..."

The steady pressure of his body against her chest was as acute as a blow, and her restricted breathing came fast and without depth, searing the moisture from her throat and chattering teeth. Under his savage fingers her arms felt as though white-hot lead had been driven into her flesh.

Once she whispered his name as he lowered her to the bed, pressing her lightly into the down mattress. His hands had moved to her shoulders, his thumbs playing back and forth over her naked collarbone. His knees held one of her upper legs in a warm cradle, and as he leaned forward to take her lips her softness and hidden nerves experienced the nuzzle of his hard thigh, and she strained to escape it, turning her head into the glistening rose-gold web of her curls.

Devon's fingers, searching within the soft filaments of her hair, were able to find and capture her chin, dragging her face to him until he could cover her lips in a moist kiss that sent flame ripping through her body. His soft motions grew longer, deeper, more lavishly beguiling, until she was damp and helpless, no longer struggling against the demands of his lower body, but needing to dissolve into him.

Her love-desire for him carried to the moment when he shifted his weight and began to smooth her skirt up. Shame grew in the void of his withdrawn kindness; the floral scented night air felt like lye on her exposed thighs. Covering her blood-suffused cheeks with trembling and suddenly rigid fingers, she whispered, "Devon, the candles . . . please, can you put them out first. ..."

There was a shocking quiet in the room as he stopped moving. He seemed almost to have stopped breathing. With her hips pinned to the bed between his knees, he took her wrists in his hands and dragged them away from her face. One of his hands was large enough to hold both her wrists; with the other he began to stir back the dewed hair tangles that clung to her lips and eyelashes and cheeks.

"Open your eyes, Merry."

Her sluggishly functioning brain was slow to obey him.

"Look at me!
Now,
angel. I can reconcile myself to the queasy certainty of having spent three months coaching a whore in the more trifling preliminaries of lovemaking, but I warn you, don't continue these piteous displays of virtuous hand wringing."

He dropped her hands, limp and half-bloodless from the violence of his grip, her palms creamy white as they nested in the ruby tones of her swirling curls. Slowly, beginning at the inner curve of her elbow, he trailed his finger along the buried blue path of her vein. Reaching her wrist, he curved his fingers around it and carried the small freckled hand to his mouth, pressing a lightly sensual kiss to each swelling surface of her palm, and then, spreading her thumb and forefinger, on the tender, unveiled flesh. As he loosed her hand he said, "Merry . . . What a foolish mistake for you. All I needed was your honesty." His hands curved into her palms, separating and linking their fingers, pushing her hands deeply into the billowing mattress. "Transform for me, Windflower. Show me what you really are." He lifted their mated hands, brushing her cheekbones with the side of his finger. Softly he said, "What's this? I hope these aren't tears, sapphire eyes?"

"No. I've given that up." Her voice quivered like a guttering lamp. Then, rather limply, "Would it interrupt your agenda of torture if I were to blow my nose?"

"Not at all. I can adjust to anything." He released her hands and tossed her a corner of the sheet. "Think of the bedclothes as one big hankie." Hostile shell-gold eyes watched as she snuffled dolefully into the bed linen. "You haven't done much talking up to now," he observed.

The urge was overwhelming to throw herself against his chest, to weep, to tell him everything, to beg him to believe her. But to do so in his present mood would be to invite a death sentence for Carl and Jason. Perhaps. Always perhaps. Only one thing was obvious. His clemency was less to be hoped for at this moment than at any time in the past.

"I'm sorry," she said gruffly, sensing within herself the crumbling ruin of her unnatural passivity. Her voice was disappointingly the same as it was always; not the richly beatific voice of a martyr, but young and rather soggy and typically ineloquent. She couldn't keep herself from chattering out, "But being ravished and called bad names doesn't bring out my talkative side. All I have to say is that I'm innocent but since denials are only likely to incite you to greater violence, I hardly think it would behoove me to—"

"My, my," he said in a satiny voice. "We did have something to say, didn't we? So you didn't draw those pictures, then?"

A pause. Then she said, "Oh, why don't you toss me off a cliff and have done with it?"

"In this part of the world," he said, "we only sacrifice virgins. Tell me about the drawings. Who paid you for them?"

A longer pause.

"There are men on the
Joke
who'd garrote you if they knew about this little indiscretion of yours, my pet. Tell me about the pictures."

"There's nothing to tell. I did them after I saw you in the tavern. Morgan was cutting off fingers. Cat said he wanted to slit my throat. And you—you—"

"Yes?"

"You unnerved me. You still unnerve me. I can't tell you more than that. You wouldn't listen if I did. No matter what 1 do, you'll think it's a defense: if I talk, if I don't talk. If I cry, if I don't cry. Whatever I say will be a lie to you." Her voice had degenerated to a tear-choked whisper and then finally to damp gasps as she said, "I don't think I deserve to be raped."

He stared at her, all emotion concealed behind his wide-set, opaque eyes. Abruptly he released her. She watched him face toward the wall, his hands braced against the freshly painted plaster. He was standing quite still, with one knee slightly flexed, and there was a barely visible tension across his shoulders, as though there were some powerful thing inside him that he was trying to bring under control.

From that position he said, "I'll never let you go back to him. Never."

Tears of angry frustration dribbled into the front of her dress as she sat up. "I don't want to go back to Michael Granville. So what," she said desperately,
"are
you going to do with me?"

He turned slowly toward her, his eyes as severely bright as fire embers. "Why, what else can I do, Merry flower? I'm going to take you to England as a prisoner of war."

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Falmouth, Cornwall, September 1814.

To Merry, standing beside Cat on a Falmouth jetty, England was a rain-drenched waterfront. Tall row houses shimmered in a haze upon a terraced hillside; whitewash and dun stone among the choppy shag of shrubs and grasses. From a victualer's shop abutting the dock area came the smoky tang of frying sprat and the laughter of young apprentices as they teased each other over breakfast. Early as it was, the town was wide awake. Wet flagstones rang under the stout wheels of lumbering carrier's wagons and the lighter carts that drew produce to the market gardeners, the butchers, the hotels. Undaunted by the drizzle, women were outside sweeping the slick sand from their doorsteps and taking a shovel to the offal that had gathered from yesterday's traffic on the shining cobbles before their houses.

More than three hundred great ships bobbed like floating gulls in the vast bay, while sturdy punts streamed busily between them and the wharf on a hundred separate errands. An oyster-catcher caught Merry's attention, a black and white dart in a silver heaven. She followed its flight until it passed over a mail packet making a slow departure under sticky sails, passing within hailing distance of where the
Black Joke
rode at anchor.

From where Merry stood, the
Joke
appeared to be one more innocuous vessel, nodding under the stern gaze of Pendennis Castle. Passing in a skiff under the
Joke's
bowsprit not half an hour ago, she had seen the bright flare of the colors of Great Britain flapping proudly over the ship, and the fresh painted name on the prow. The
Eagle,
it had said. There was no clue to the casual onlooker that this was a pirate ship turned privateer with a rich load of spoils lashed in her hold awaiting division with the crown, and a dark-eyed boy wearing chains in the fo'c'sle.

It had not been a particularly pleasant voyage. Raven had been incarcerated about a week ago, following an incident with Devon that no one would talk to her about beyond admitting that yes, it had been something to do with her, but she'd better keep her oar out of it anyway. Late that night she had heard Morgan's quiet voice in the passageway outside her door.

"Yes, Tom, I'm aware of that, but this way at least he can't get into trouble. Much as he's made a nuisance of himself lately, I don't want to whip the child a second time. I know Raven is frightened for the girl, but I doubt Devon's temper could support another one of Raven's fits of weeping."

"And Cat?" The voice belonged to Thomas Valentine.

"Cat, thank God, is not a fool. He'll do as he's told."

Valentine said something in a low tone that made Morgan laugh.