In a Pirate's Arms Page 30

  “Good night, leannan,” she whispered, and the door closed at last behind him.

  The candle flame flickered, and then burned steadily. He was gone, and the kitchen suddenly seemed large, echoing. Empty. Quickly she bent to snuff the flame, and made her way through the darkened house to her room. He was gone, but he would be back. She knew that now, and if she still didn’t quite believe his story, still didn’t quite trust him, her heart felt otherwise. Her heart knew only that she felt alive again, as she hadn’t in nearly a year, and it didn’t count the cost. But she would have to.

  Wondering yet again at her judgment in men, Rebecca slipped into her room, padding across to the window and searching the street in vain for a sign of him. First a pirate, and now a spy. Her pirate. She wouldn’t, she realized as she climbed at last into bed, have him any other way.

  The British legation was in an uproar. How the devil, Sir Augustus wanted to know, had an intruder gained access to the building, let alone that particular office? And did they have any idea yet what he’d sought, or who, for that matter, it had been? The questions were asked and repeated, through that night and the day that followed, and the person who should have known the answers, didn’t. Lieutenant Dee, in charge of security for the legation, had no more knowledge than anyone else. Only suspicions.

  “I tell you, I know who it is, sir,” he said, standing stiff at attention in Sir Augustus’s office. “Marcus Brand.”

  “And have you proof to back that up?” Sir Augustus snapped. The effects of a night with very little sleep showed in his weary face and the slump of his shoulders, but his eyes were keen and sharp as he sat at his desk, glaring up at Dee. “Mr. Brand has proven to be a good friend to us.”

  “And a good source of information,” St. John said, quietly, from his chair across the room. “We’ve need of men like him.”

  “With all due respects, sirs, he’s not what he appears,” Dee said, hiding his scorn. Diplomats were duplicitous, so steeped in evasions and half-truths that they could no longer spot reality.

  Sir Augustus signed and leaned back in his chair. “If that is so, who is he, then?”

  “The Raven.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “So you’ve said before,” St. John put in. “Beside the fact that the Raven is dead, you’ve no proof of that, either.”

  “I have indications.” Dee stared straight ahead. “I’ve looked into his background—”

  “By whose leave?” Sir Augustus said, sharply.

  “By yours, sir.” Dee’s voice held mild surprise. “As I do with every stranger who enters the legation. It is my duty.” Sir Augustus grunted, and so Dee went on. “There have been times when he’s been missing from Baltimore for months at a stretch, and no one knows where he goes.”

  “Hardly criminal.”

  “He is the exact image of the Raven,” Dee plowed on, and fingered the scar on his cheek, until he remembered his duty and snapped to attention. “Remember, I had an encounter with him.”

  “It is not enough.” Sir Augustus rose, slapping his hands down on his desk. “Not to accuse someone who has caused us no harm, and who, God help us, is a connection of an earl. And I do not understand why you are accusing your own cousin of such a thing. No,” he went on, holding up his hand as Dee began to protest. “Find proof the Americans lied about the Raven’s death, find someone who can verify his identity—do any of those, and then we’ll see. Until you do, you will not harass Mr. Brand.” He looked at Dee from under lowered brows. “I trust I make myself clear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. You are dismissed.”

  “Sir.” Dee saluted smartly and left the room, his face impassive. Only his eyes, gleaming with anticipation, gave him away. Find someone who knew the Raven’s identity? He could do that, and more. He could find someone to lead him directly to the Raven. Rebecca Talbot.

  Word of the incident at the British legation spread quickly through the city, and speculation as to the identity of the intruder was widespread. Just as widespread were the opinions, with the Americans being gleeful at England’s embarrassment, while those who favored England thundered that such acts of espionage between two countries ostensibly at peace were unconscionable. Sir Augustus had protested the incident to James Monroe, the Secretary of State, to no avail. Barring the capture of the intruder, the incident was being explained as a simple burglary, though nothing had been taken.

  Two days after the incident, two days after Marcus had come to her, Rebecca set out alone to do the day’s marketing, since Ruth had taken an ague and was bedridden. Summer was upon them, and in her long-sleeved gown of tan broadcloth she was already uncomfortably warm. If she could she would discard the hated bonnet and gloves, but always she was conscious of a need to be on her best behavior. Except that, lately, the rewards for that no longer mattered so much. There was no joy in it, not when compared to the thrill of Marcus’s illicit, and exciting, kisses.

  A noise behind her, as of a footfall, made her look back as she turned from High Street onto Bridge Street, where the shops were located, but she saw no one. Frowning, she continued on. Odd, but she’d had the strange feeling the last few days of being observed, an almost palpable sensations of eyes watching her every move. Once or twice she had even caught a glimpse of someone from her bedroom window, but always, he melted into the shadows beneath the trees opposite, before she could identify him. It made her uneasy. Who could be following her, and why?

  She forgot her concerns for a while in the butcher shop, where she spent some time selecting a choice bit of beef for dinner. Likely it would aggravate Father’s gout, but he was in such a testy mood lately that she was doing all she could to appease him. Not that she expected gratitude from him anymore, but having him calm made her life easier. Like every other British sympathizer in the city, he was in arms about the intrusion at the mission. On a more personal level, he no longer received visits from friends and associates as he had. Not since he’d made his outlandish proposal for revolution.

  There was something else, though, something she couldn’t quite put her finger on. Sometimes she would look up to see him watching her, a speculative gleam in his eyes. It was all very odd, the silent follower, her father’s behavior. At the center of it, she was certain, was Marcus. No wonder if she felt so uneasy.

  The cut of beef at last selected, she instructed the butcher to deliver it to her home. That errand done, she stepped out into the street, in time to see a man wearing a familiar red uniform turn quickly away from the tiny-paned shop window. Incredulity rose within her, and with it, dread, forming a thick lump in her throat. Was Dee following her? “Lieutenant Dee?” she said, gathering her courage. “Is that you?”

  He turned. “Miss Talbot,” he said, bowing correctly, but his gaze, as always, traveled over her in a way that made her skin crawl. “How do you today?”

  It was too much: the scene with Marcus and her own uncertainties; the unseen watcher; her father’s behavior. Now this, and her feeling that he had been watching her through the shop window. “Have you been following me?” she demanded.

  “I?” He seemed surprised, but his eyes were sharp and knowing. “Why would I do such a thing? Though I must admit”—his smile twisted into a leer—“that if I did I would have a most enjoyable view.”

  Rebecca drew herself up to her full height. “You are insulting, sir.”

  “My apologies.” He bowed again. “I did not mean to be.”

  Rebecca compressed her lips. She had never liked the lieutenant, with his fanatic’s eyes and his knowing leer; nor did she trust him. “If you are doing so, please cease at once. I do not like it.”

  “Rebecca, Rebecca.” He shook his head, smiling. “You should be complimented. You are a most attractive woman.”

  “Nevertheless, sir, I would appreciate it if you would leave me alone.”

  “So that you can go to the Raven?”

  She stopped, the lump in her throat increasing. He couldn’t kn
ow anything. “The Raven is dead,” she said, her voice muffled, in what she hoped he would take as grief.

  “All the more reason, my dear, for you to welcome my attentions.”

  She sensed, rather than heard, him come up behind her, felt it in the way her skin tightened and crawled. “Thank you, sir, but I think not.”

  “He won’t marry you, you know,” he said, abruptly.

  “I beg your pardon.”

  “The Raven. Marcus Brand, or whatever he calls himself these days.”

  It was exactly her fear, but she had more pride than to show it. “I do not know why you continue to insist that Mr. Brand is the Raven, since everyone knows the Raven is dead. And his interest in me is hardly any of your concern.”

  “Oh, but it is, Rebecca.” He was close behind her again, and she glanced wildly around, hoping someone would come to her aid. “Because you are mine—”

  “I am not.”

  “—and because he is a spy.”

  She spun around, and her shock was not feigned. “A spy!”

  “Yes. A spy. He thinks he’s clever, but I know.” He grinned, and not for the first time she noted how crooked and yellowed his teeth were. “He’ll be arrested very soon, Rebecca, and then where will you be? Much better if you choose me.”

  Arrested. Her stomach churned. Marcus, arrested. If his identity were discovered, he would be hanged. Dear God, she couldn’t allow it. No matter what else lay between them, she suddenly had no doubts that he had told the truth the other evening. He was who he said, and he had behaved as he had for the sake of his country. And he had come to her, trusting her with his life. Pride swelled through her, for the work he did, for his trust in her. “I find this a distasteful conversation, sir. You will excuse me—what on earth?”

  The stage from Washington City, driven at breakneck pace, careened over the bridge spanning Rock Creek, swaying as it turned onto Bridge street, and stopped before Suter’s Tavern. The driver jumped down, shouting and waving his arms wildly. “A madman,” Dee said.

  “Can you hear what he’s saying?” Rebecca asked, the tension between them forgotten for the moment.

  “No, he’s—listen!” He went very still, and now Rebecca could hear the words, too. The words all of Washington City had been awaiting, but which still came as a surprise.

  “It’s happened,” she said, stepping away from Dee, her enemy now in more ways than one. “The President has asked Congress to declare war on England.”

  Rebecca hurried through the darkened streets, cloak pulled closely about her in spite of the warm evening. It wasn’t safe to be out after sunset, and if she were noticed and recognized, her already damaged reputation would take a fatal blow. None of that stopped her. She had to get to Marcus, to warn him, before it was too late.

  It had been a difficult day. The news that the President had addressed Congress had stunned the city, though everyone had expected it. Nearly everyone. Ezra had gone into a rage when he’d heard the news, ranting about the stupidity of such an act and what it would do to his business. In his anger he’d struck out at the closest target. Rebecca considered herself lucky to have escaped with just a glancing blow to the side of her head. Only liberal helpings of wine had calmed him, sending him at last into a stupor from which she hoped he wouldn’t emerge until the morning.

  Ahead the street ended at the bluff above the river. Scattered lights glimmered on the Virginia shore, while even at this distance the toneless, musical clink of boats moving at anchor reached her. Otherwise, it was quiet, since term had ended at the nearby college, and no one else was about. Rebecca stopped a moment, glancing back, but she saw no one, heard no footsteps. By slipping out the back gate she had, she thought, managed to elude any pursuer. She was now nearly to her destination.

  The realization brought her up short, her stomach quivering with nerves and fear and anticipation. The Sally house, where Marcus lodged. She stood on the brick sidewalk beneath the elm trees, gazing up at the house, tall, of brick, with a dormered third story. Now that she was here, what would she do? Panic had sent her here, the terror that he would be arrested for his activities intensified by the day’s events. She had to warn him. Staring at the darkened house, though, she hadn’t a clue how.

  Footsteps rang out on the pavement. In the still night air they resounded like pistol shots, seeming to come from nowhere, and everywhere. She shrank back against a tree, panic bubbling within her again, and it was only by an act of will that she stayed quiet, hidden. There! A man striding along, across the street, there—and in an instant, Rebecca was out of her hiding place and scurrying across the cobbled street. She knew that walk, knew the shape of that body as intimately as she did her own. “Marcus,” she gasped.

  He whirled to face her, dropping into a crouch, and the walking stick he usually held so negligently was suddenly thrust outward. From its base protruded a wicked-looking blade, gleaming even in the dim light. Rebecca stopped dead. This was not Marcus Brand, gentleman merchant, she confronted. This was the Raven.

  Marcus recovered first, springing the last few steps to where she stood, swaying, in the street. “Rebecca.” His voice was low, harsh, as he caught her about the waist. “What the devil are you doing here?”

  Relief made her giddy. “I had to see you,” she gasped, her voice high and uneven. “I had to tell you—”

  “Hush.” He glanced quickly around, alert, wary, and abruptly she remembered the danger he stood in. The danger they both were in. “Not here.”

  She leaned her head against him. “Where, then?”

  “Devil take it.” He frowned up at the Sally house. “My room. But you’ll have to be very quiet. If Mrs. Sally knew—”

  “She’ll be awake.” Rebecca straightened, faced with a new problem. “She’ll be there to see you when you go in.”

  “Devil take it, she will. But I don’t want to leave you out here.” His face thunderous, he gave her a little shake. “What are you doing here? Don’t you know ‘tis dangerous?”

  “There’s more danger to you, Marcus. I saw Lieutenant Dee today, and—”

  “He won’t have you.” Marcus caught her up against him, making her gasp in surprise. “You’re mine.”

  “Well, of course I am.” She stared at him, wide-eyed. “Why in the world would you think otherwise?”

  “Then, what—”

  “He knows who you are. Oh, Marcus, I’ve been so frightened for you.”

  “There’s no need to be, lass. I can handle myself. But, come, we can’t stay here.” He pulled away and caught her hand. “We’ll go into the garden. Quietly, now.” He cast a glance up at the house as he led her past it, into the back. “That woman has the ears of the cat.”

  “Then I shouldn’t stay, if it’ll be a danger to you.”

  “To me!” Hands on her shoulders, he pushed her down onto a bench beneath a latticed trellis, heavy with the scents of roses and honeysuckle. “You’re the one who shouldn’t be abroad—but never mind that. I’ll go in, and then come back for you. Will you be all right here?”

  Rebecca’s pride had returned, along with her composure. “Of course.”

  “Good girl.”

  “I am not a girl, sir. I am a woman.”

  His teeth gleamed in the darkness. “That I know. Now stay here and be quiet. I’ll be back quick as I can.” Bending to drop a brief, possessive kiss on her lips, he turned and strode away, leaving her alone, but not lonely. She had found him again. Brendan, Marcus, the Raven—it mattered not what he called himself. She was his, and, please God, he was hers.

  It seemed an eternity, waiting there in that flower-perfumed arbor, but at last she heard the click of a door latch and the sound of feet, walking softly along the brick path towards her. “It’s best we stay here,” Marcus whispered. “Mrs. Sally is abed, but I doubt she’s asleep yet.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Rebecca said. “I thought I’d never see you in time. Marcus, there’s—mpf!” This as he caught her up in his arms an
d slammed his mouth down on hers. In spite of her fears, in spite of the urgency that had driven her on, she responded, threading her fingers into his hair, moving against him, wanting to be closer, and closer still. When at last he raised his head her lips tingled, her gown was in disarray, and the most intimate parts of her body throbbed from his rough, urgent caresses. She wanted to sing out in gladness, exultation. It had been so long, so long! “Marcus,” she gasped, offering up her lips to him again. “Oh, Marcus.”

  “You’re mine,” he muttered, before ravaging her mouth with his again, before sending his hands on a mission to rove and explore and fondle. “You were made for this.”

  She jerked back. “I was made for more than this, Marcus Brand.”

  “Aye.” His eyes twinkled. “I know that, lass. But you were made for this”—his hands traced a slow path over her breasts—“with me.”

  She was. Oh, she was. Her eyes fluttered shut, her head arched back, and the feelings spiraled within her, the need, the desire, urging her to give into him, now. Only a small voice in her mind remained, to remind her of all this had led to in the past. “Maybe I am.” She pushed at his chest, and, startled, he let her go. “Maybe that is all I’m good for.”

  “Rebecca, I didn’t mean that—”

  “But it’s not what I came for.” She stared at him measuringly. “And the truth is, Marcus, Brendan, whoever you are—the truth is, I don’t trust you.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  For a moment silence rang between them, and then Marcus turned away. “I suppose I don’t blame you for that,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “I’ve done little to earn your trust. Come, sit down.” He gestured towards the bench. “I know you didn’t come here to be ravished.”

  “No, I did not.” She settled herself primly on the bench, arranging the folds of her skirt about her. “I came because I am concerned about your safety.”