The Black Diamond

  Stone blinked. "Hell, Merlin, that could describe thirty men."

  "No. It couldn't. When I say old, I mean extremely old, not fifty or sixty. More like eighty, even a few years past, but with a quick mind and a great memory—one that's filled with stories of the sea."

  "That old, huh?" A thoughtful frown. "Now that ye mention it, there was this fellow—I think his name's Barnes. He was in a couple of the pubs I checked out in Fowey—the Brine and the Cove—drinkin' and chortlin' about his days at sea. I didn't give him a second thought, not until ye just said what you did. To tell ye the truth, I was too busy findin' out if anyone had seen Macall to pay attention to much else. But this Barnes fellow was real old, like the age ye're describin'. And real friendly to everyone, like he's a regular customer there." Stone frowned. "I don't think he's trouble, if that's why yer lookin' for him."

  "It's not." Julian straightened, his gaze fixed on Stone's face. "Describe him."

  "Like I said, I wasn't watchin' him too close. Let's see. Gray hair—what was left of it anyway. Stooped shoulders—hell, he was old as the hills. Whiskers. A scratchy voice. That's all I remember."

  "It's enough." Julian rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Fowey—one port west of here. That would explain why I've never met him. I know the two pubs you're referring to, although I've never frequented either one. The Brine is on the wharf, and the Cove is about a mile farther along the riverbank."

  "Yeah. And ye might not go in 'em, but Macall does—him and his sword. He's been in each of those places three or four times, gettin' drunk and askin' about ye. So stay the hell away from there, Merlin. Ye'd be lookin' for trouble."

  "No, I'll be looking for Barnes. Macall's the one who's looking for trouble." Julian glanced over at Aurora who had gone sheet white, and scowled. "You'll have to excuse us, Stone," he said abruptly. "My wife looks tired from our journey. I think I'll escort her upstairs. Besides, our business is concluded—for now."

  "Sure." Stone appeared distinctly unconvinced, but said nothing further. "I'll be on my way. No need for Daniels to show me out." He hesitated, glancing quickly at Aurora. "Remember what I said, Merlin. Macall's after ye—and he's got more ammunition now. Don't let him use it." With that, Stone took his leave.

  "Aurora?" Julian walked over, tipped up her chin. "Are you all right?"

  "I thought I'd be fine," she managed. "But the idea of that animal hurting you…" She inhaled sharply. "Am I the ammunition Stone was referring to?"

  "That's immaterial. None of this should worry you. I'll be fine, and so will you. I'll see to it."

  "You're a man, Julian, not a god. How can you be so sure?"

  "Because I am." A corner of his mouth lifted. "What do you mean, I'm not a god? I thought you'd likened me to a pagan god."

  "Damn you, Julian." Aurora's hand balled into a fist, struck her husband's shoulder. "Stop being so glib, so arrogant. We're talking about your life, not a game."

  "I know." Julian sobered, bringing Aurora's fist to his lips. "I've been trying to tell you that from the onset. You weren't listening."

  "It didn't seem real."

  "So we are." His breath brushed her knuckles. "But it is. Still, there's no need to dwell on the unlikely. I've survived for years. I intend to keep doing so. As for you, you need never worry. I vowed to keep you safe—and I shall."

  "Who are you reassuring, me or yourself?" Aurora demanded, an emotional dam bursting inside her. "You've made that same vow repeatedly since the day you asked for my hand—almost as if you need to convince yourself of its validity. Why? I never doubted your word, nor have you ever fallen short in your efforts to keep me safe. Or is it not me you're thinking of, not my situation that's prompting your self-doubt? Is it someone else, someone you believe you failed adequately to protect? If so, I can only assume that someone is Hugh." Aurora felt Julian tense, but she pressed on nonetheless, her fingers caressing his clenched jaw. "Julian, you didn't forsake your brother. You did keep him safe, in all the ways you conceivably could. You offered him the shelter of your friendship, your respect, and your decency—in a family where only greed and self-serving hatred existed. You'd have gladly offered him your life if it was within your power to do so. But it wasn't. Some forces are simply too great to surmount even for an infallible protector such as yourself. Frailty of the body is one of those forces, tragically, the one that determined Hugh's fate. He was sick, Julian, too sick and weak to persevere. That was an indisputable fact, one that was not within your power to change. So you must stop blaming yourself. Whatever and whoever is in your power to safeguard, you do—me, your servants, the treasures you've recovered, and the victims you've saved. And, yes, Hugh, as well—his principles, his compassion, his spirit. True, there will always be some objectives too great to realize, even for you, some elements of fate that are out of your hands. But Julian, that doesn't make you weak, it makes you human."

  A muscle worked at Julian's throat.

  "As for you," Aurora continued, "your future, your fate—I won't let you walk into danger as if your life doesn't matter. It does—to me." To her astonishment, hot tears sprang to her eyes, trickled down her cheeks. "Julian, I love you." She swallowed. "And I need you."

  "I need you, too—now." Emotion flickered wildly in Julian's eyes, turned his voice to gravel. Abruptly he turned, kicking the door shut and throwing the bolt before sweeping Aurora into his arms, carrying her to the sofa.

  "This is not the kind of need I meant," Aurora protested, shaking her head.

  "I know." Julian grasped handfuls of her gown, dragging them up in hard, purposeful motions. "But this is the kind I can silence along with all your fears, your doubts, your worries. This is the way I can combat your pain, fill all your emptiness."

  "And yours?" Aurora asked softly, searching his face.

  "Yes," he admitted hoarsely. "And mine." He lowered her to the cushions, crumpling her gown about her waist, his fingers lingering briefly on her naked thighs before shifting to tear at the buttons of his breeches. "Don't turn me away."

  "I couldn't," Aurora whispered, her heart in her eyes.

  Julian drew a harsh breath—then expelled it. "I don't think I can wait."

  "Then don't." She opened her arms to him.

  He made love to her like a wild man, driving himself into her with a hammering need and a frenzied hunger he could neither curb nor fathom. He shouted her name when he climaxed, flooding her with his seed even as he absorbed her exquisite spasms of completion.

  Afterward he lay on her, in her, more overcome by what had just happened than he'd been by all his enemies combined. The melding of their passion with the emotional words that had preceded it was more than he could bear.

  He took slow, steadying breaths, his heart racing—and not only from the unimaginable intensity of his climax.

  Long minutes passed.

  Aurora's slow, even breathing told Julian she was asleep. Slowly he eased himself to his elbows, gazing into her beautiful face, her damp lashes fanning her cheeks like spikes of red-gold flame.

  God help him, he was in over his head.

  What had begun as an exciting adventure—passion and purpose necessitating an enticing, crucial union—had in a matter of days escalated into something much greater, something he'd never fathomed in his wildest dreams.

  His wife was in love with him.

  Just reflecting on Aurora's declaration made Julian's chest tighten, made a shambles of all the ludicrous denials he'd silently issued with regard to his own detachment. It was absurd to pretend nothing was changed, that Aurora's profession—while heartfelt and moving—altered nothing, deepened nothing, ignited nothing.

  He'd be a liar and a fool.

  Slowly Julian's hand came up, his knuckles caressing the smooth contour of his wife's cheek. The truth was, he wanted those words—and the emotion that spawned them. He relished the fact that Aurora had given him her heart, reveled in hearing her speak the words aloud. Even his body reacted fiercely, erupting more powerfull
y each time she gave voice to her feelings.

  So much for his rationalization that the dynamic sexual pull between them was rooted in something purely physical—that Aurora's fiery spirit and beauty alone were responsible for arousing this unprecedented and insatiable craving inside him.

  Clearly it was much more.

  Sexual desire, no matter how intense, couldn't explain the tenderness he felt as he watched her discover the world, taste her first adventure, her first triumph, her first passion. Nor could it explain his own growing need to share her life and to have her share his, to keep her beside him every second—including instances when he'd never before allowed his domain to be invaded, much less invited someone to invade it: meetings with Stone, expeditions to uncover his prizes, gleanings into his past.

  Lord help him, he'd even discussed Hugh with her, something he'd never felt compelled to do with anyone, partly because it hurt too bloody much and partly because he'd never found anyone to whom he wanted to divulge something so personal. Physical intimacy was one thing, emotional intimacy another.

  Although with Aurora both were beyond comprehension.

  She'd even made walking into Morland Manor bearable. From this point on, whenever he reflected on the mausoleum in which he'd grown up, the house that until now had signified naught but emptiness and pain, he would envision not the angry battles with his father, but the enthralling moments in Aurora's arms.

  Moments during which she'd told him she loved him.

  He didn't doubt that it was true. Especially after what had just transpired in this room—not their lovemaking, but the fervent discourse Aurora had delivered just prior to it. The poignant way she'd confronted his self-censure, urging him to accept Hugh's death, to let go of a past he couldn't change—and all because she wanted him to attain a peace that had until now eluded him. Her insight into his thoughts, his motivations, was staggering—even he himself had never realized just how deeply Hugh's death had impacted his outlook, the choices he'd made, the intensity of his commitment to those for whom he felt responsible.

  She wanted him safe … no, she'd ordered him to be safe, in the way only Aurora had of doing. And she'd made no effort to conceal why. It was because she loved him, needed him. She'd admitted it without the slightest hesitation, offered him the kind of emotional openness he'd never believed possible.

  But then, this was Aurora—utterly and refreshingly forthright, vibrant, impetuous. And so bloody passionate she scalded him down to his soul.

  In over his head? Hell, he was drowning.

  Julian's hand fell away from Aurora's cheek, his mind racing with the implications of all he'd just contemplated.

  It was time to stop running, to stop dismissing his feelings for Aurora as the natural consequence of an ever-burgeoning passion, to stop fearing the ramifications of what already was.

  The truth was staring him straight in the face. He'd fallen in love with his wife.

  The realization was startling, even though on some peripheral level he'd known it—battled it—for days. He who needed no one, relied upon no one, shared his life with no one, had lost his heart to his bride.

  More startling still was the fact that as he now confronted the reality of his feelings, he found himself accepting them with astonishing ease—at least with regard to the relinquishing of his emotional freedom. Probably because when it came to Aurora, what he'd be relinquishing paled in comparison to what he'd be gaining. His breathtaking bride had totally reshaped and redefined his views of passion and marriage, offering him a union that was exquisitely unconventional and far superior to anything he'd ever anticipated, much less witnessed in others. Love with her would doubtless be the same. Having Aurora by his side would renew his excitement, his sense of adventure. For, as they traveled the world together, he'd be seeing it all for the first time—through his bride's exuberant eyes.

  Yes, loving Aurora would give him a real reason to sail off on new ventures. But more significant, for the first time in his life it would give him a real reason to come home.

  A muscle worked in Julian's jaw. The whole idea of being in love with his wife would be downright captivating were it not for the more sobering aspect, the one Aurora herself had touched on during her impassioned speech—and the one that had compelled him to battle his feelings for her.

  Safeguarding lives was something he took very seriously. That task was difficult enough when those involved were emotional strangers. But when they were his brother, and now his wife, it became infinitely more critical, his sense of responsibility intensifying to vast proportions.

  He'd been fully aware of all that the day he asked Slayde for Aurora's hand; and he'd accepted his new obligations the day he slipped a wedding ring on her finger. She'd become his that day, and he would protect her life with his own.

  Then it had been critical.

  Now it was essential.

  Because now he was in love with her, transforming his task from a fierce responsibility to an emotional necessity. And that rendered him susceptible, vulnerable, giving his enemies—and Aurora's—a sharp edge.

  So be it, Julian thought, determination pulsing through his veins. He'd sharpen his wits, heighten his resolve to shield Aurora from harm. And he would shield her from harm, come hell or high water. But he wouldn't—couldn't—stop loving her. What's more, he didn't want to. Loving her felt more right than all his triumphant adventures combined.

  He had to tell her.

  Tenderly he brushed a strand of hair from her forehead, lowered his mouth to hers. He would awaken her, make love to her, whisper his newly discovered feelings as she shattered in his arms…

  The grandfather clock in the hall chimed six.

  Julian frowned, jolted back to a less-pleasant but all too crucial reality. The night was upon them. He glanced toward the window, noting that the winter sky was already dark. They'd have to hurry if they wanted to reach Fowey, check out both taverns Stone had mentioned, and still hope to find Barnes. Given the sailor's advanced age, he would probably leave his fellow seamen and go home to bed at a reasonable hour.

  Finding him was vital.

  Just as vital was getting Aurora in and out of those seedy pubs as quickly as possible. The later the hour became, the greater was their chance of running into trouble.

  And of running into Macall.

  Soberly Julian gazed down at his wife, Stone's warning resounding through his head. Remember what I said, Merlin. Macall's after ye—and he's got more ammunition now. With that, Stone had paused, glanced at Aurora. Don't let him use it.

  Stone didn't know just how accurate an assessment he'd made.

  A near-violent surge of protectiveness shot through Julian, followed by a jolt of rage. Let that filthy bastard Macall try to hurt his wife. If he so much as touched her, he'd be dead before he blinked.

  Sucking in his breath, Julian shelved his grand emotional proclamation for later, kissing Aurora again, this time purposefully rather than seductively. "Sweetheart, wake up."

  She sighed, mumbling something unintelligible as she unconsciously lifted her face to receive his kiss.

  "Soleil," he breathed into her lips. "It's time. We've got to dress, gulp down a hasty dinner, and ride to Fowey all within the hour."

  Aurora's eyes snapped open. "I fell asleep," she announced.

  A corner of his mouth lifted. "Yes, I know."

  "Ummm, you feel good," Aurora murmured, wrapping her arms about Julian's neck, lifting her lower body to his.

  "Do that again and we'll never find Barnes," he warned, fighting the urge to answer her body's invitation with his own.

  Aurora stilled, moaning a protest. "What a wretched ultimatum."

  "Not an ultimatum, soleil." He threaded his fingers through her hair. "Only a delay."

  "I hate waiting."

  "I know." He chuckled, tracing the curve of her lips. "When it comes to you, so do I."

  "Very well. If we must go, we must go." She hesitated, fully awake now. "Julian, wi
ll you give some thought to what I said before?"

  "Oh, I already have." He withdrew from her reluctantly, kneeling to adjust her disheveled gown. "The whole time you were asleep." He smoothed her skirts back into place. "We'll talk later, after tonight's adventure is over."

  "All right." Aurora searched his face as if seeking an answer she sensed hovered just beneath the surface. Her gaze dropped and fell on her rumpled gown, and abruptly her thoughts veered off in another direction. "I can't go out wearing this," she muttered, examining the gown's ripped layers and muddied hem.

  "No, you can't." Julian's eyes twinkled as he refastened his breeches—which looked equally as pathetic as his wife's gown. "That's why I woke you. If we hurry, we'll have time for a quick bath and a change of clothes. I'll have Gin arrange for both. All we have to do is slip upstairs to our rooms."