Andrea Kane (24 page)

“I did. I enjoyed the utter solitude of being on my skiff.”

“And now?”

“Now?” He shrugged. “Mostly I travel as a passenger, to conduct business.”

“And to escape, just as you did then.”

His handsome features hardened. “Ofttimes escape is essential.”

“Other times it’s impossible.”

Silence.

“Will you tell me what you learned in London?” Courtney asked, wisely changing the subject.

“Not much. From the inquiries I made, no questionable shipments to any large European port have been arranged, nor have any large sums been reportedly deposited or transferred. Of course, that doesn’t mean either of those two events didn’t occur. My contacts can’t ascertain the private dealings of every bank in London or the cargo of every vessel entering or leaving the city’s docks. Still, instinct tells me that had the black diamond been shipped from England, word would have leaked out. Between the huge sum involved and the age-old legend, ’tis too fascinating an occurrence to have transpired without a shred of gossip being spread.”

“What about the duke’s solicitor and banker?”

“Ostensibly, they did nothing other than meet with other prominent businessmen who are in London for the Season.”

Courtney chewed her lip thoughtfully. “Slayde, you yourself alerted Morland to the fact that you were delving into his activities. Is it possible he was aware you’d followed his colleagues to London and advised them to await your departure before taking action?”

“I suppose. In truth, it’s difficult for me to attribute such cunning to a weak drunkard like Morland. Then, again, he’s no longer the man I recall. And he is Chilton’s son.” Slayde gave a frustrated shake of his head. “Honestly, Courtney, I just don’t know.”

“What about Oridge?”

“Ah, Oridge. He’s the only one who’s managed to yield some results. We went our separate ways once we reached London, then met at an out-of-the-way pub on the day I left for Pembourne. According to his sources, a few disreputable men matching the descriptions you’d given him were seen peddling silver near London Bridge.”

“When was this?” Courtney demanded. “Is Mr. Oridge certain the men were Armon’s crew?”

“Two days before Oridge’s arrival, and yes. He confirmed it several times over. Which means his theory was right; Armon’s men didn’t immediately flee the country. Conceivably, they could still be in England or, at worst, they’ve traveled a short distance. Either way, Oridge will find them—and their ship. Of that, I have no doubt. The question is, what peace will that bring you? Who of your father’s crew might those filthy pirates have allowed to live?”

“I’ve asked myself those same questions, especially with regard to Lexley.” Courtney swallowed past the lump in her throat. “And the answers will doubtless be painful. But I must face them nonetheless.”

“I know.” Slayde stared out over the gently rolling waters. “In addition to the avenues my investigators are pursuing, I still want to check out that unsavory merchant, Grimes, to see if he was the contact Armon was en route to on the night he was killed. After you and I return from this excursion, I intend to head back to Dartmouth. Perhaps Grimes has slithered his way home from wherever the hell he was. If he knows anything, I’ll
urge
him to cooperate.”

Courtney’s insides surged, whether in reaction to their conversation or as the onset of her customary seasickness, she wasn’t certain. “I think I’d best go below,” she said shakily, her voice as unsteady as her stomach.

Slayde cast a swift glance at her. “Do you need my help?”

“No.” She was already on her way. “I just hope you had the good sense to provide a chamber pot in the cabin.”

The next hour was one Courtney would have liked to forget—just as she’d liked to forget the dozens of other times she’d spent crouched on a cabin floor heaving until her muscles ached. She was thankful she’d eaten very little the previous night, although her body seemed not to care, protesting the motion of the ship with wrenching spasms that went on long after her stomach was empty.

At last, the torment ended and she collapsed in an exhausted heap, too spent to even attempt sitting up. As if from a distance, she heard Slayde come in, and she murmured gratefully when he carried her to the berth, gently wiping her face and neck with a cool cloth.

“Rest,” he urged softly.

“But I have to…direct our way.” She felt as weak as a rag doll.

“You will. Soon. For a while, I’ll head in the general direction the
Isobel
would have taken—toward the Colonies. I’ll awaken you when I need you.”

“Slayde?” Courtney’s eyes drifted shut.

“Hum?”

“Thank you.” With that, she slept.

She jolted awake, a shaft of sunlight reminding her that the afternoon was well under way and her input would be needed in order to reach their destination. On wobbly legs, she arose, sagging with relief when she spied the basin of water Slayde had left. She drank and washed, then crept from the cabin and climbed topside, rejoining Slayde at the helm.

“Hello,” she greeted him, grateful to see the water was calmer.

His head jerked about, his eyes narrowing on her face. “I was just about to check on you. How do you feel?”

“Better.” A rueful smile. “As I said, I’m not much of a seafarer, although I’ve never before been quite
this
sick—not to the point where I fell into a dead sleep after being ill.”

“You’ve never before been recovering from severe injuries, body depletion, emotional turmoil, and physical fatigue,” he reminded her darkly. “Perhaps that had something to do with your reaction.”

“Perhaps.” She peered out to sea, trying to get her bearings. “What time is it?”

“A little past one. We’re lucky; the winds are with us and we’ve gone a lot farther than I anticipated.” Slayde rubbed his jaw. “You said the
Isobel
was three days out of port when Armon overtook you. How much of that time were you sailing along at a rapid pace?”

“If you’re asking what portion of those days were spent in open waters, not very much. ’Twas foggy when we left London. Halfway down the Thames, the winds turned against us. I recall Papa having a difficult time navigating the Downs, trying to avoid the Goodwin Sands. It wasn’t until we’d cleared the Strait of Dover that we began picking up speed.”

“The Goodwins can impede the very best of sailors. However, in this case, the fact that it inhibited the
Isobel
’s progress works in our favor. That, together with Devonshire’s western location and the beneficial winds now propelling us, convinces me we have very little westerly distance to cover before we reach the spot where your ship was attacked.”

“Yes, I can see you’re heading almost due south,” Courtney murmured thoughtfully. “I only pray my recollections come through when I most need them.”

Even as she spoke, Mr. Scollard’s voice sounded from somewhere inside her.
Your memory will prevail, Courtney. Now call upon your strength. And remember to listen with your heart. It won’t fail you.

Three hours later, Mr. Scollard’s prophecy was confirmed.

The waters had grown rough over the past few miles. Now, harsh waves pounded at the ketch, rolling it from side to side, yet Courtney’s stomach went oddly and abruptly still. With a hoarse cry, she flew to the railing, her heart threatening to pound its way out of her chest. “Papa,” she whispered, staring into the inky depths of the Channel. She groped for her timepiece and clutched it, seeing fragments of a vision unfold in her mind’s eye: Armon boarding with his crew, Lexley fighting valiantly for his captain, her father, bound and gagged, weighted down, dragged toward…

“Papa,” she whispered again, hearing his scream, feeling his fear as he struck the water and went down. “Oh, God—Papa.”

A sudden wind whipped about her, reached inside her with an icy chill that had little to do with the temperature.

Slayde abandoned the helm, came to stand beside her. “This is the spot.” It was a statement, not a question.

“Yes.” She swallowed, pain lancing through her like a knife as she focused on the eddying waves. “The currents are strong.”

“Very strong.” Slayde’s fingers closed around hers.

“I knew they were,” she whispered. “But somehow I remembered them rushing in the opposite direction—toward England rather than away. Had that been the case, Papa might have been hauled closer to shore. As it is…” She squeezed her eyes shut, feeling her father’s presence in her heart, her soul—but nowhere she could touch. “He’s not here,” she stated simply, her lashes lifting. Reverently, she cradled the timepiece in her hands. “We can go back.”

Courtney didn’t speak the whole way home, nor did she cry. She simply stood on deck, feeling naught but a vast swell of emptiness and a profound sense of isolation. It was over. She’d made the trip, sought her answers, and excruciating though they might be, found them.

Later, she’d feel. But for now, there was nothing.

She blinked in surprise when twinkling lights came into view, alerting her to the fact that not only had night fallen, but their ship was nearing land.

“Where are we?” she managed, her voice sounding thin to her own ears.

“Cornwall.” Slayde veered the ketch inland. “It’s after midnight. We’ll spend the night at an inn and go on to Pembourne at dawn.”

Dazed, she glanced up at him. “Why?” Even as the word left her lips, she visualized the worried, well-meaning homecoming that awaited them. “Never mind,” she countered hastily. “An inn would be fine.”

She went through the motions, helping Slayde bring in the ketch, then accompanying him to a small local inn, where he took two adjoining rooms. She bid him good night, not even noting her surroundings as she woodenly undressed down to her chemise, sinking into the bed in the hopes that it would warm the chill permeating her body.

It didn’t.

Pressing her face into the pillow, Courtney, willed herself to cry. Anything would be better than this hollow ache. It was unbearable.

The adjoining door opened, then shut. She didn’t have to look to know it was Slayde. The bed gave beneath his weight as he sat beside her. “Courtney.” He smoothed her hair from her brow. “Don’t be afraid. The emptiness is part of the loss. It won’t last forever.”

“Won’t it?” She raised up on her elbows, searching his face. “It has with you.”

Agony slashed across his features. “You’re wrong.”

“I hope so.” She drew a shuddering breath. “I don’t think I can bear to live this way—so hollow, so cold.”

He reached for her, drew her into his arms. “You’re not cold, sweetheart. And you won’t stay hollow.”

Desperation seized her and cried out for relief. “Slayde, I can’t endure this,” she said in a broken whisper. “Make the emptiness go away.”

His silver eyes darkened with suppressed emotion. “I wish to God I could.” His lips brushed her cheeks, the bridge of her nose. “I’d absorb the pain and the cold, fill every shred of emptiness, if I could. But trust me. You’re far too extraordinary, too warm and giving, to remain hollow. In time, your very nature will fill the emptiness.” A fervent pause. “Just as it’s filled mine.”

Courtney blinked, a tinge of joy seeping through the void, wrought by something more potent than the emptiness. Never had she expected Slayde to make such an admission, one that, for him, was akin to an admission that he needed her. That, combined with his declaration last week…

“Slayde,” she murmured, voicing the question that had plagued her since she’d visited his chambers. “The night before you left Pembourne, you said you loved me. Did you mean it?”

He never averted his gaze. “I meant it.”

“Then say it again. If it’s possible for my love to fill your emptiness, perhaps yours can fill mine.”

Tenderly, Slayde framed her face between his palms. “I love you,” he stated simply. “Your pain is mine.”

Tears dampened Courtney’s lashes. “Stay with me. Don’t go.”

“I won’t.”

“I need you.”

A harsh tremor ran through him. “I need you, too.”

Slowly, their gazes met…and locked. Silent seconds ticked by as the full impact of what was happening, where they now hovered, sank in.

Without a trace of doubt, Courtney reached up, untying Slayde’s cravat and shoving it away. She leaned forward, kissed the hollow at the base of his throat. “Make love to me,” she breathed.

“No.” The word vibrated against her lips, more surrender than refusal. Fervently, he battled the inevitable, tugging her away, even as his fingers tangled in her hair, tilted her face toward his. “Courtney…no,” he refuted hoarsely, his body trembling, his stare fixed on her mouth.

“Yes.” Courtney’s arms entwined about his neck. “Oh—yes.”

Slayde’s mouth was on hers before she’d finished speaking, the struggle lost beneath the powerful feelings that surged between them, commanded him to take what was already his.

Her lips parted, welcoming what was already hers.

And the world exploded.

The kiss was frantic, urgent, pain and emptiness melding, clamoring to be assuaged by something far more potent. Slayde pressed Courtney back against the pillows, devouring her mouth with an unappeasable hunger.

“I’ve dreamed of you every night, burned for you every day,” he muttered. “God, I want you more than I want to breathe.”

“I want you, too.” She was equally urgent, bringing him closer, her fists knotting in the folds of his coat and attempting to push it aside. “So much that I ache with it.”

Slayde responded to her unspoken plea without pause or question. Impatiently, he shrugged out of his coat, nearly tearing his shirt and waistcoat in his haste to remove them. Bare-chested, he brought his torso back to Courtney’s.

They both moaned at the contact, a sensation too unbearable to withstand—even through the barrier of her chemise.

“More. I need more of you.” Planting burning kisses down her neck and throat, Slayde made quick work of her undergarment, untying the ribbons and dragging it away, flinging it to the floor. “You’re so bloody beautiful,” he rasped, his lips discovering all he’d been denying himself for weeks. “God, so beautiful.”

Courtney cried out when his lips surrounded her nipple. Heat poured through her in drenching waves, singeing her blood and filling every empty niche inside her. Her hands came up to cradle Slayde’s head, to prevent him from stopping the wondrous havoc he was wreaking on her senses.