C Harris - When maidens mourn

`He'll also tell you that I can catch a will-o-the-wisp out of the air and hear the whispers of the dead. But just between you and me, I wouldn't be believing everything he says.'

Sebastian wandered the room, his gaze drifting over the low-beamed rafters, the massive old stone fireplace, and broad hearth. `I've heard it said you won this place at the roll of the dice or that you killed a man for it. Which was it?'

Knox set the bottle and two glasses on the counter beside the Baker. `Like I said, you don't want to be believing everything you hear about me.'

`I also hear you were at Corunna. Lieutenant Arceneaux was at Corunna, as well. Is that where you met him?'

`I never met your Lieutenant Arceneaux, God rest his soul.' Knox poured brandy into the two glasses and tucked the bottle away. `Here. Have a drink.'

`Thank you, but no.'

Knox laughed. `What do you think, then? That I'm trying to do away with you?' He pushed both glasses across the bar. `There. You choose one; I'll drink the other. Will that allay your superstitions?'

Moving deliberately, Sebastian came to select one of the glasses of amber liquid.

His yellow eyes gleaming, Knox lifted the other to his lips and drank deeply. `There. Now, shall we wait to see if I drop to the floor and start thrashing about in my death throes?' He took another sip, this time letting the brandy roll around on his tongue. `It's good stuff, this. Comes from a château just outside Angoulème.'

`And how did it make its way into your cellars?'

Knox smiled. `Would you have me believe you've no French brandy in your cellars, then?'

`Arceneaux hailed from Saint-Malo, another wine region. He told me once his father owned a vineyard. Perhaps that's how you met him.'

Knox was no longer smiling. `I told you. I never met him.'

`I'll figure it out eventually, you know.'

`When you do, come back. But as it is, you've nothing against me but conjecture.'

`So sure?'

`If you had anything you thought might begin to pass as proof, I'd be down at Bow Street right now, talking to the magistrates. Not to you.'

`Thanks for the brandy.' Sebastian set his glass on the bar and turned toward the street.

`You're forgetting your rifle,' Knox called after him.

`Keep it. You might need it again.'

The tavern owner laughed, his voice ringing out loud and clear.

`You remember how I told you my father was a cavalry officer?'

Sebastian paused with one hand on the doorjamb to look back at him.

Knox still stood behind the bar. `Well, I lied. My mother never knew for certain which of the three bastards she lay with had planted me in her belly. She was a young barmaid named Nellie, you see, at the Crown and Thorn, in Ludlow. According to the woman who raised me, Nellie said her baby's da could've been either an English lord, a Welsh captain, or a Gypsy stableboy. If she'd lived long enough, she might have recognized my actual sire in me as I grew. But she died when I was still only a wee babe.'

Sebastian's skin felt hot; the abrasions on his face stung. And yet he knew the strangest sensation, as if he were somehow apart from himself, a disinterested observer of what was being said.

Knox said, `I saw the Earl of Hendon in Grosvenor Square the other day. He looks nothing like me. But then, it occurs to me, he don't look anything like you, either. Now, does he?'

Sebastian opened the door and walked out into the warm, wind-tossed night.

The storm broke shortly before dawn, with great sheets of rain hurled through the streets by a howling wind and thunder that rattled the glass in the windowpanes with all the savage power of an artillery barrage.

Sebastian stood on the terrace at the rear of his Brook Street house, his outstretched arms braced against the stone balustrade overlooking the garden. He had his eyes closed, his head tipped back as he let the rain wash over him.

When he was a very little boy, his mother used to take him for walks in the rain. Sometimes in the summer, if it was warm, she'd let him out without his cap. The rain would plaster his hair to his head and run off the tip of his nose. He'd try to catch the drops with his tongue, and she wouldn't scold him, not even when he waded and splashed through every puddle he could find, squealing as the water shot out from beneath his stomping feet.

But his favorite walks were those they took in the rain in Cornwall, when the fierce winds of a storm would lash the coast and she'd bundle him up and take him with her out to the cliffs. Together they would stand side by side, mesmerized by the power of the wind and the fury of the waves battering the rocks with an awe-inspiring roar. She'd shout, `Oh, Sebastian; feel that! Isn't it glorious?' And the wind would slam into her, rocking her back a step, and she'd laugh and fling wide her arms and close her eyes, surrendering to the sheer exhilaration of the moment.

So lost was he in the past that he failed to mark the opening of the door behind him. It was some other sense entirely that brought him the sudden certainty that he was no longer alone.

`Devlin?'

He turned to find Hero standing in the doorway. She still wore the ivory gown with the dusky pink ribbons, and he wondered if she had awakened and dressed to come in search of him, or if she had not yet made it to her bed.

He had stripped off his torn, blood-soaked coat and waistcoat, but he still wore his ruined shirt, his collar askew. `My God,' she said, her eyes widening when she saw him. `You're covered in blood.'

`It's not mine. Philippe Arceneaux is dead.'

`Did you kill him?'

`Why would I kill him? I liked him.'

She walked out into the rain, the big drops making dark splotches on the fine silk of her dress as she reached up to touch his cheek.

`You're hurt.'

`Just scratched.'

`What happened?'

`Whoever killed Arceneaux shot him from a distance of three hundred yards. In the dark.'

`Who can shoot accurately at such a distance?'

`A Bishopsgate tavern owner and ex-rifleman named Jamie Knox, for one.'

`Why would a tavern owner want to kill Arceneaux?'

`I don't know.' He stared out over the wind-tossed garden, a jagged flash of lightning splitting the sky. The rain poured about them. `There's too much I don't know. And because of it, people keep dying.'

`It's not your fault. You're doing everything you can.'

He looked at her again. `It's not enough.'

She shook her head, an odd smile hovering about her lips. In the darkness, her eyes had a strange, almost luminous quality. The rain ran down her cheeks, dripped off the ends of her wet hair, soaked the bodice of her gown so that her high, round breasts showed clearly through the thin silk of her gown.

His voice hoarse, he said, `You're ruining your dress. You need to go inside.'

`So do you.'

Neither of them moved.

Slowly, she slipped her hand behind his neck, her thumb flicking across his throat in a soft caress, her gaze tangling with his. Then, her eyes wide-open, she tilted her head and touched her lips to his.

He opened his mouth to her, drank deeply of her kiss, swept his hands up her back. He felt her tremble. But before he could pull her to him, she slipped away from him.

She paused at the door to look back. He saw a succession of raw, naked emotions flash across her face - guilt and regret and a fierce, hopeless kind of longing. She said, `When this is all over, we need to begin again.'

The rain pounded down on him, the wind billowing his wet, bloodstained shirt and plastering his hair to his head. He was aware of the lateness of the hour, the fullness of her lips, the unexpected raw wanting that surged through him for this woman who was his wife, the mother of his unborn child and his enemy's daughter.