As the two heads nodded
their answer, she grunted and said, "Good! Come with me!"
Warily Tamara and Adam
followed her away from the camp and down a narrow dirt road. It was well known
that this winding path led to the earl of Mount's estate, but they wondered
what Reina intended to do. Gypsies were not welcomed at the homes of the
respectable, especially not at the elegant houses of the wealthy and aristocratic
members of English society. And the house, appearing at the end of a tree-lined
lane, was imposing enough to give most people pause.
Made of weathered gray
stone, it was built on massive lines. Flanked as it was by two ivy-covered
turrets, it was not surprising that Mountacre was frequently referred to as
"the castle." It certainly appeared like one to Adam and Tamara as
they followed timidly in Reina's wake, skirting the neatly kept lawns and
meticulously tended flower beds that bordered the house.
Expecting to be led around
to the back of the house, they were nearly dumbfounded when Reina purposefully
strode up the wide front steps and lifted the polished brass knocker.
A very correct, uniformed
butler opened the door at Reina's imperious rap. For a moment he stared at them
in lofty disdain. Then as the full import hit him—that these nasty, dirty
creatures that camped brazenly in the meadow were actually demanding
entrance—he took an involuntary step backwards. Outraged by such a shameless
action, he was about to slam the door in their faces when by chance his gaze
fell upon Tamara's interested face, and a gasp of astonishment escaped him.
Seeing his reaction and
guessing its cause, Reina asked dryly, "Now will you take us to the
earl?"
He still might have turned
them away, but fate in the guise of the earl himself took a hand. It was his
voice calling irritably, "Who is it, Bekins? For God's sake don't keep
them standing in the doorway," that made the butler usher the three into
the hall.
Adam and Tamara stood very
close to one another, looking curiously about them at the sumptuous house.
Golden framed mirrors lined the walls, a crystal chandelier hung overhead, and
beneath their feet the white marble floor glistened like newly fallen snow. Standing
at the base of a gracefully curving staircase was a very fashionably attired
gentleman and lady. A younger man, with a sardonic face, was crossing the hall
to join them, but at the sight of the gypsies, he stopped suddenly, a flash of
what could have been fear flickering in his cold gray eyes. The two on the
staircase remained motionless. The woman's hand was resting on the man's sleeve
and it appeared that they had just descended and were on their way into one of
the other rooms.
The older man, his face
wrinkled attractively with age and his blue-black hair liberally sprinkled with
silver could only be the earl of Mount, Lord Tremayne. The woman, looking
delightful in a soft muslin gown of rose- pink, although much younger than he,
was obviously his wife, the Lady Tremayne. The younger man was apparently
either a guest or a relative.
Tamara regarded them with
only tepid interest, but as the earl's face took on a scowl of displeasure at
the sight of the unkempt trio cluttering up his hallway, her own small features
unconsciously mimicked his and she glowered back fiercely.
But Adam suffered a shock
at the vision of the slender, blue-eyed woman at the earl's side. Prompted by a
feeling of familiarity, he took a hesitant step forward, frowning in puzzlement.
And Lady Tremayne, staring at him like one transfixed, whitened visibly, her
hand clutching frantically at her husband's sleeve.
The earl glanced at her in
surprise, but her gaze was swinging in agonizing disbelief from the tall youth
in front of her to the tangled-haired girl standing next to him. His eyes
followed the direction of his wife's, and his expression became one of frank
incredulity when he looked fully at the two children.
"What the devil. . .
." he exclaimed. Then his voice trailed off into silence as he scrutinized
Tamara. His breath caught painfully in his throat as Tamara's violet eyes
plunged into his, eyes as violet as his own. Like one in a daze he stared into
those tilted eyes and dimly, as if from a great distance, he heard the old
woman say, "Here is your daughter Catherine, m'lord, who we have named
Tamara.
And your stepson, Adam.
They have grown
annoying, and I am too old to fight with the tantrums of the young. Take
them!"
Oblivious to the woman who lay sleeping by his
side, Jason Savage crossed his hands behind his head and stared up at the
rough-hewn wooden beams above him, his thoughts far away from this, the best
room the Inn of the White Horse had to offer.
Davalos.
He said the name softly to
himself, feeling again the shock of recognition he had felt earlier this
evening when he had glanced up and there, just beyond the main room of the inn,
he had seen his one-time boyhood friend. That Davalos had not expected to see Jason
was obvious from the start he gave, his Spanish black eyes widening in dismayed
surprise, and the haste with which he had plunged outside. Jason had risen to
follow him, still not quite able to believe that it was indeed Bias Davalos.
After all, Virginia was a long way from Spanish New Orleans, and Davalos was an
officer in the Spanish army—that fact alone should have precluded his sudden
appearance in American Virginia.
Frowning in the darkness of
the room, Jason admitted it was an accident that he had decided to stay
overnight at the inn instead of returning to Greenwood, his father's estate,
this evening. His horse had thrown a shoe and Annie, the woman who lay at his
side had proved to be as accommodating as he remembered. Dusk had been falling
by the time the new shoe was in place and rather than face the fifteen mile
journey in the cold and the dark to his father's home, he had sent a message on
to his father that he would be delayed and would not arrive until morning. And
there was the knowledge that Annie was waiting for him. So, if things had been
different, he would not have been at the inn and would not have seen Davalos.
Knowing sleep was
impossible, Jason
rose
from the warm quilts of the bed
and with that jungle-cat grace peculiarly his own, he stalked naked to the
wooden- shuttered window. Undaunted by the chill of the night air, he threw
open the shutters and leaned his arms on the sill, staring out at the
landscape.
The moonlight filtering in
made him an arresting study of silver and black. His black hair appeared silver
in the deceiving rays of the moon; the green of his eyes was shuttered and
dark; his nose, the high cheek bones and the frankly sensuous mouth were bathed
in silver; his chin and the hollows of his cheeks were in stark black, making
his face at once handsome and yet unyielding and harsh in the waning moonlight.
The corded muscles of his arms stood out, the moonlight caressing the gold and
emerald band that encircled one arm, and the fine black hair of his chest
stirred lightly as a faint breeze blew in from outside.
Jason, lost in his
thoughts, was unaware of the coolness that swept into the room. Still frowning,
he wondered again of Davalos's presence. It could have been coincidence, he
thought slowly, but somehow he doubted it. There was some sixth sense that
warned him of danger, and he wondered suddenly, bleakly, if Nolan had experienced
the same feeling of unease before he had left on that last fatal trip to the
Palo Duro Canyon. For a moment Jason's finely cut mouth twisted in half-healed
pain as he remembered that Nolan was dead—dead by Davalos's hand.
Oh, Jesus, he thought
angrily, you fool, let it be. Nolan was a man, and he'd known the risks. But
stubbornly, Jason's mind wouldn't let it rest, seeming to take perverse delight
in reminding him of the ugly incident, almost enjoying the hurt it created.
Nolan was dead—as were all
the men who had accompanied him
On
the journey,
except one. And that one survivor had recently returned to tell a tale of
betrayal and horror—a tale that was vehemently denied by the Spanish government
in New Orleans. But Jason believed it—he knew Davalos and knew what Davalos was
capable of.
Jason's fist
clenched,
and he cursed the fate that had arranged that he
be gone from the country when Nolan had left New Orleans. But it did him little
good—he was honest enough to admit that he and Blood Drinker would not have
been part of Nolan's expedition under any circumstance. And even if he had
been in New Orleans, he would not have known soon enough that Davalos had
cleverly convinced the governor that Nolan was actually a spy, that Nolan meant
trouble; nor would he have known when Davalos and his troop of hardened
soldiers had departed to stop, at all cost, the American Nolan's further
penetration into Spanish territory.
Davalos knew that Nolan was
Jason's good friend— and that would have given Davalos reason enough to hate
the man. Even so, Jason could not convince himself that it had been merely to
get back at himself that Davalos had gone after Nolan. There had to be another
reason. Unconsciously, his hand touched the gold and emerald band on his arm.
Nolan had worn the twin and
though Nolan's body and personal effects had been returned, there had been no
gold band. For a minute Jason considered that fact. Davalos was greedy, and the
lone survivor had stated that Nolan had been alive when they had surrendered to
the Spanish troop. The official report claimed that Nolan had been killed
resisting, but Jason's informant had shaken his head violently at this, saying
that no one had been killed in the exchange of shots and that Nolan had agreed
to a surrender only after Davalos had offered them safe conduct to the border.
Jason smiled grimly in the moonlight. Davalos had broken his word. The men had
been taken and tortured, and the last time the lone survivor had seen Nolan he
was heavily manacled and chained, being led away for further questioning by
Davalos— Davalos alone.
Jason sighed, his face
clearly unhappy. Upon his return to New Orleans, he learned that Davalos had
been the one to go after Nolan and for that reason
only,
he had challenged Davalos to a duel. But, unfortunately, Jason remembered
Davalos when they had been friends, and so when the moment came to thrust his
sword deep into Davalos, he stayed his hand and instead scarred him for
life—his blade slicing an ugly stroke across Davalos's forehead and eyebrow. Of
course
then
he hadn't known all the facts.
Angry and sick with the
thoughts that kept winding and twisting in his mind, Jason turned away from the
window and walked quickly back to the bed. His body, cool from the night air,
gave a sudden chill in the woman as he slid in beside her. Sleepily she turned
in his direction and murmured, "Jason?"
Suddenly very wide awake
and aware of other passions, Jason laughed low in his throat, more a growl
than a laugh, and gently nuzzled her ear. "Annie, Annie, love, wake
up."
Annie awoke slowly, only
half conscious of the warm kisses being pressed to her throat and ear, but when
Jason's mouth found hers, sleep fled, and eagerly her body pressed against his
hard length. Jason gave a small groan of satisfaction as her hand found him,
and with quickening passion, he explored her soft body. Gently he caressed
Annie's silken flesh until she was moaning for him to take her. Then swiftly he
covered her body with his and slid deep between her opening legs. Urgently he
drove into her, forcing her to move with him as his body possessed hers, taking
them both over the edge of physical satisfaction.
Replete, his body at rest,
and his mind firmly turned away from unpleasant thoughts, Jason gathered Annie
to him, and together they fell asleep.
When he awoke, the pale
November sun was shining in through the open window. Annie stirred in his arms,
and a moment later she woke.
Jason was once again
nibbling her ear, but almost angrily she pushed him aside. "You!"
she muttered half teasingly, half angrily. "It's late, Jason, and I'll
lose my work, if I lay here much longer with you."
Regretfully Jason let her
slip from the bed. She glanced back at him, thinking it was unfair that any one
man should have such charm and be so handsome. With his black hair tousled, his
green eyes gleaming between astonishingly long lashes, and a smile on his
mouth that would turn a woman's heart right over, Annie admitted to
herself
that he was a man most women wanted and few could
forget. Remembering the feel of that long, hard body on hers and thinking of
his mouth tasting hers, Annie wished she could climb right back into bed. But
below she could hear the owner of the inn bellowing her name, and he would only
allow Jason, good customer or not, so much of her time. Almost sadly she
dressed,
then
dropped a brief kiss on Jason's mouth
before departing.
Jason wasted little time
once Annie was gone. With quick, impatient movements, he dressed and, not
waiting for breakfast, was on the road in a matter of minutes. He had almost
forgotten Davalos, but riding towards Greenwood, his thoughts once again were
taken up with the Spaniard. And for the first time, he wondered if there was a
connection between his visits to Jefferson at Monticello and Davalos's
unexpected appearance in Virginia.
Spain was very jumpy at the
moment—it was possible that Davalos's presence was due to political matters and
had nothing to do with personal affairs. Jason didn't quite believe it, but
when he saw Jefferson this afternoon, he would acquaint him with the fact that
Davalos was in the area. What Jefferson wanted done about it could be discussed
then. And knowing he must change before traveling to Monticello, he kicked his
horse into a smart trot, his thoughts already leaping ahead to the meeting that
afternoon.
To Jason, Thomas
Jefferson's library at Monticello was a pleasant place to be—especially on a
cold blustery November afternoon. A fire burned merrily on the brick hearth,
and deep claret-red drapes of fine velvet kept out the icy winds that blew
around the house.
There was no mistaking the
leonine head, the large precise features, nor the hazel eyes set deep under
shaggy eyebrows of the third president of the United States. Jason Savage's
raven black hair was in stark contrast to the whiteness of Jefferson's. They
were both tall men, although Jefferson was more slender than the powerfully
built young man who sat at his ease in the chair before the fire.
At the moment they were
enjoying a snifter of brandy and appeared merely to be relaxing. Jason was the
son of Jefferson's very good friend Guy Savage—Greenwood, Guy's plantation, was
situated only a few miles from Monticello—and through the years Jefferson had
seen Jason grow from a squalling red-faced brat into the loose- limbed,
extremely handsome man that he was now. It was because of this close
association that when Guy had mentioned casually Jason's impending trip to
London, Jefferson had seized upon the opportune sailing as the perfect way in
which to transport several messages that he did not care to send through the
usual channels. From over the rim of his snifter, Jefferson regarded Savage
thoughtfully. He knew more of Jason's ancestry and of Jason the child than he
did of the actual man Jason had grown into. After Jason had returned
unexpectedly from Harrow some ten years ago, he and Guy had fought angrily
over Guy's disposal of a certain female slave—her name just now escaped
Jefferson—and Jason had departed for his grandfather's estates near New
Orleans. And apparently he had remained there except for a few hurried visits
to Greenwood.
Jefferson had never met
Guy's father-in-law, Armand Beauvais, but he sympathized wholeheartedly when
Guy complained bitterly of Jason's preferring his French grandfather and
Beauvais, the New Orleans plantation, to Greenwood. To Jefferson's mind,
Jason's place was with his father.
Nasty
situation,
that
marriage, Jefferson thought gloomily. He could have warned Guy
before he married Angelique Beauvais that these half Spanish-half French,
high-born Creole women were regular spitfires, but unfortunately, Guy had
never asked, and the resulting marriage had been a disaster. Angelique could
not and would not adapt to American ways, and shortly after Jason's birth—the
only good thing to come of the marriage—she had departed for New Orleans,
vowing with a spark of pure temper in her fine emerald eyes that she didn't care
if she never saw either her husband or her son again.
Glancing over at Jason, he
decided that his mother's careless abandonment certainly hadn't hurt—Jason had
grown up to be a mocking, arrogant devil, a gleam of taunting laughter never
far from his emerald eyes. Young Savage was very sure of himself. But then he
had reason to be. The only child of a wealthy Creole mother and a rich,
aristocratic Virginia planter, he'd grown up without questioning his right to
do exactly as he pleased.
A selfish man?
Yes! Not
because he was selfish by nature, but because of the time and environment that
had bred him. To his credit, he was not impressed with his own power or
possessions, nor was he content to waste his days lazily throwing away a
fortune on a Sybaritic existence.
Yet to imply that Jason was
a paragon of diligent virtue would be untrue. He was quite as capable as the
next young man of gaming through the night, losing and winning vast sums of
money in the gambling halls of New Orleans, then sauntering down the street to
whore away the time, until bored and restless, he'd slip deep into Spanish
territory, spending weeks hunting the wild mustangs or trading with the
Comanches for their highly prized spotted ponies before finally returning to
Beauvais.
Yes, Jason Savage was
exactly the sort of man that Jefferson needed—young, intelligent, well-bred,
tough, capable with a blade or pistol, and upon occasion quite, quite ruthless.
There was one other reason that Jefferson needed him—Jason's uncle, Guy's half
brother, was the very powerful and politically discreet duke of Roxbury.