“Courtney—”
“Don’t tell me he’s dead,” she refuted in a strangled whisper. “I refuse to accept that.” Two tears slid down her cheeks. “I can’t explain it, but while I realize up here”—she touched her brow—“the implausibility of what I’m saying, in here”—she lay her palm over her heart—“I believe otherwise.” Valiantly, she struggled for control. “So let’s not discuss it, all right? Let’s speak of something else.”
With a wordless nod, Slayde snapped the watch case shut and replaced it in the drawer. “The timepiece is exquisite. Your mother had exceptional taste.” A heartbeat of a pause. “And an exceptional daughter.”
Warm color tinged Courtney’s cheeks. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” Unsettled by his own sense of imbalance, Slayde sought a safer ground. “Tell me, why did you hate sailing? Was it the lack of privacy?”
Courtney shook her head, capturing a tear with the tip of her tongue. “No. I had all the privacy I wished for. In fact, I spent long hours alone in my cabin. Only Papa visited me there. The men were given strict orders—by Papa—never to enter my quarters.”
“I don’t blame him. A beautiful woman, together with a shipload of men? Were I your father, I’d have locked you in.”
A twinge of amusement. “I was hardly compromised. The men treated me with the utmost respect. After all, my father was their captain.”
“Where did your ship journey?”
“To the Colonies. We carried furniture and other English goods to New York and Boston.”
“Did you dislike visiting the Colonies?”
“Actually, I found them quite fascinating. Why?”
“I was only wondering if perhaps that was the reason you disliked your trips aboard the Isobel.”
“No, it wasn’t.”
“Very well, then; was it the food you so detested?”
Courtney’s lips curved. “In truth, the meals served at Madame La Salle’s Boarding School were far more apt to cause fatal illness than those served aboard the Isobel. I also had less privacy, more restrictions, and far more unsavory companions at school than at sea. No, ’twas none of those things that deterred me.”
“I’m mystified, then. What caused you to loathe sea travel?”
“The fact that the moment the ship left the wharf, I became violently seasick and remained so for the duration of each and every trip. Which, incidentally, is why I spent so much time in my cabin. ’Tis difficult to walk about the deck with your head in a chamber pot.”
Laughter rumbled in Slayde’s chest. “I should think it would be.”
“I truly hoped I’d outgrow the weakness with time,” Courtney murmured ruefully. “But after twenty years, that possibility seems unlikely.”
“Twenty. Is that how old you’re turning next month?”
“Yes.”
The lighthearted moment vanished as ugly memories lanced Slayde’s heart like a knife. “I was only a year older than that when my parents died.”
Tilting back her head, Courtney studied his expression. Then, tentatively, she reached up, her fingers brushing his jaw. “I can’t begin to imagine how agonizing that must have been. At least I was spared seeing Papa—” She broke off, drew a sharp, unsteady breath.
“I was the one who found them,” Slayde replied tonelessly. “I returned to Pembourne late that night. I knew something was amiss when I found the front door slightly ajar. They were in the library on the floor. They’d been run through by a sword. The whole area surrounding them was covered in blood. No matter how many years go by, I’ll never forget that image. It’s ingrained in my mind forever.”
“The authorities never unearthed the murderer?”
“They stopped looking as swiftly as they possibly could. Officially, the crime was declared the unfortunate result of a burglary, since the strongbox containing my mother’s jewels was missing. That was the official report. The truth is another story entirely.” Seeing Courtney’s puzzled expression, he stated flatly, “To be blunt, Bow Street was terrified. Lest your father have neglected to mention it, the world believed—believes,” Slayde amended in a bitter tone, “that the Huntleys are condemned to an eternity of hell. A hell spawned by some bizarre, nonexistent curse, one that is perpetuated by the very greed of those who seek its source.”
“The black diamond.”
“Yes. The black diamond.”
“Slayde—” Courtney’s voice was soft, her fingers gentle on his face. “You’ve understood—and eased—my pain. Let me ease yours. Share it with me.”
That familiar wall went up. “That won’t be necessary. My parents were killed over a decade ago. I’ve long since come to grips with the pain.”
“Have you?”
Their gazes locked—and the wall toppled.
“My great-grandfather and Geoffrey Bencroft were partners in a joint venture.” Slayde was astounded to hear the story emerge from his lips. “Their quest was to locate the world’s largest black diamond, stolen centuries earlier from a sacred temple in India and never recovered. Once it was found, their intentions were to deliver the gem to a Russian prince who was offering an outrageous fortune in exchange for the diamond. Dozens of mercenaries had already tried—and failed—to find the stone. My great-grandfather and the late duke were determined to succeed, and they agreed that after they had, they would divide the fortune equally. The only dark cloud threatening their crusade was the mythical curse accompanying the stone, a curse that, according to legend, went ‘He with a black heart who touches the jewel will reap eternal wealth, while becoming the carrion upon whom, for all eternity, others will feed.’ ”
Courtney shivered. “How menacing. Papa never relayed the exact wording of the curse. All he told me was that your great-grandfather supposedly returned to England without the Duke of Morland, but with the stone. And that your family has endured the consequences of the curse ever since.”
“I don’t believe in curses,” Slayde bit out. “Only in those who perpetuate them, and those who effect them by virtue of their greed.”
“You think whoever killed your parents wanted the diamond for the wealth they’d derive from it?”
“Of course. ’Twas no secret that the jewel is worth a king’s ransom. Nor that my great-grandfather was the last known man to possess it, and that he never delivered it to the Russian prince. The mystery was, where did he hide the stone? That, no one knew. So, for four generations, thieves and barbarians have done all they could—including commit murder—to uncover the whereabouts of the wretched gem.”
“Did your great-grandfather die before he could tell anyone the truth?”
“Yes. According to my father, he died less than a week after returning to England.”
“How?” Courtney murmured. “How did he die?”
“He was dashed on the rocks at the foot of Dartmouth Cliffs.”
Courtney tensed, and Slayde anticipated her next question even as she uttered it. “Was he … alone?”
“If you mean, was he pushed, no one knows. There were no witnesses.” Unconsciously, Slayde tightened his arms about Courtney. “Each successive generation of Huntleys has endured bloodshed. We’ve also enjoyed a sizable, ever-increasing fortune. So, according to those who believe in myths, the curse has come to pass.”
“But two days ago, you turned the black diamond over to that despicable pirate, so the curse should end for you.”
“Should it? Not when the true curse is the hatred spawned generations ago and furthered by the Bencrofts. Trust me, Courtney, that hatred will never end.”
“ ‘He with a black heart…’ ” she recited thoughtfully. “The Bencrofts think of your great-grandfather as such for deceiving Geoffrey Bencroft and disappearing with the stone.”
“Yes. And they despise us because of it. You see, from the moment the diamond left Geoffrey’s hands, the Bencroft fortune began dissipating. Each successive loss they suffered heightened their resentment. And there wasn’t a bloody th
ing we could do to alter that. True, my great-grandfather cheated Geoffrey out of his half of the diamond’s worth. But he also never sold the stone or reaped any actual profits, so after his death, we had no tangible fortune to share with the Bencrofts. Further, we couldn’t turn the stone over to them even if we’d wished to; we hadn’t a clue where it was hidden. Consequently, we had no way of righting his wrong.”
“And they didn’t accept that as truth?”
“Not for a minute. And any hope my family had of appeasing their hatred was quickly snuffed out. Less than a fortnight after my great-grandfather’s demise, word reached England that Geoffrey Bencroft had succumbed to a fever and died on his journey home. From that moment on, the Bencrofts’ enmity intensified to the point of obsession—violent obsession. Of course, at the heart of that obsession lay Geoffrey’s son, Chilton, the new Duke of Morland. New to his title, but not his role,” Slayde clarified. “Chilton had been the acting head of his family for years, running the estates and businesses while his father gallivanted about the globe. By the time Geoffrey died, Chilton’s reputation amongst members of the ton was notorious. He was ruthless in his dealings—and the Huntleys became his prime target. He used every opportunity to malign our name and thwart our business ventures. It maddened him beyond reason when each attempt not only failed, but resulted in further gains for us and more abject poverty for them.
“One month before my parents’ deaths, Chilton’s mind snapped. He and his only son Lawrence—the current Duke of Morland—forced their way into Pembourne and invaded my father’s study. Lawrence hung back, enraged but willing—no, more than willing, grateful—to leave the verbal assault to his father, while he himself tossed off a bottle of madeira and paced sullenly about the room. In contrast, Chilton raved like a madman, shouting accusations about how my family had destroyed the Bencrofts and how it was time for him to even the score, to make the Huntleys pay. The servants and I threw them out. But I remember Chilton’s expression vividly: there was murder in his eyes.”
“You think he—or they—killed your parents?”
“Just Chilton,” Slayde corrected. “And, yes, I do—although the authorities were never able to prove it. As for Lawrence, he’s too weak to kill anyone, although Lord knows, the intensity of his hatred is more than sufficient to incite murder. And he’s certainly clever enough to manage it—when he’s sober. But he isn’t strong enough to wield the weapon; he’d sooner hire another to do it for him, someone like the bastard who seized your father’s ship. Now that is the type of method Lawrence would employ. In fact, the more I consider it, the more convinced I am that he is the orchestrator of that entire plot. Tomorrow, I intend to learn the truth. And when I do, a segment of justice will have been served. Generations of Bencrofts may have gone unpunished, but the current Duke of Morland will pay—he and his pirate conspirator.”
Slayde felt a tremor run through Courtney’s body. Blinking, he jerked back to the present, staring down at her face and seeing tears gather in her eyes.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured, his thumbs capturing the moisture as it trickled down her cheeks. “I don’t know what possessed me. The last thing I wanted was to frighten you with my family history.”
“I asked for the details,” she managed to choke out. “And you didn’t frighten me. At least no more than I already was. All you did was make me aware of the extent of your hardships. Dear God, Slayde, you’ve endured so much—far more than I.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Yesterday, you said you would undo my loss if you could. Well, right now, all I wish is that I could undo yours.”
The earnest proclamation of empathy was the last reaction Slayde had expected and the most impacting one he’d ever endured. Although he’d never discussed his family history before tonight, he was nonetheless acutely aware of the ugly speculation the Huntley name inspired. In the past, those with whom he associated fell into one of three categories: the few who were blessedly ignorant, the handful who were perversely intrigued, and the predominant group, who were altogether terrified—of the Huntleys and their demonic curse.
Not so Courtney. Here she was, gazing up at him with a wealth of hurt in her eyes—hurt not for herself, but for him. She wanted to undo his suffering, to eradicate his pain. And why? Simply because she cared.
Something profound moved in Slayde’s chest, soothing his remembered anguish in a rush of warmth. “That’s the most selfless offer I’ve ever received,” he heard himself mutter, realizing even as he said it that it was true. “Thank you, sweetheart.”
The endearment, uttered in a tender, husky voice, was more intimate than a caress…and just as pivotal, given the heightened emotion spawned by the past few minutes.
An invisible barrier was traversed.
Their gazes met and held, Courtney’s eyes widening as awareness flickered in the sea-green depths, her lips parting as if in question—and invitation.
Slayde’s heart began slamming against his ribs, a compulsion like none he’d ever experienced propelling him forward. Acting on that compulsion—and on a pure instinct he’d never known he possessed—he lowered his head and captured her mouth under his.
The world shifted—permanently.
It was Slayde’s first coherent thought as he tasted her, molded the delicate contours of her lips to his, warmed and stilled her trembling with his mouth. She tensed, quivered, then melted against him, her small fists knotting in his shirt, her soul seeking whatever replenishment he could offer.
He offered—but was it for her sake, or his?
The question vanished, unanswered, lost beneath the extraordinary feeling building between them. Slayde slid down on the bed, twisted about until Courtney lay supine, caged between the strong columns of his arms. Tangling his hands in her hair, he fused their mouths, deepening the kiss with equal measures of need and restraint. Her injuries, his dazed mind cautioned. Don’t forget her injuries.
Courtney herself had forgotten them.
Lost to the moment, she welcomed the miracle of their kiss as a wondrous balm to her agony and a startling awakening of her senses. Like a tantalizing aroma, it assuaged one need, slowly kindled another. “Slayde,” she heard herself whisper. “Hold me.”
He shuddered, his arms contracting around her with a will all their own. Parting her lips, his tongue took hers, caressing it in a way that made tremors of sensation shiver down her spine. She complied with his unspoken request, opening her mouth wider, deepening his presence as their tongues tasted, touched, melded, and withdrew, only to begin again.
Time ceased to exist, seconds blending into minutes, minutes converging into an immeasurable eternity. Courtney’s fingers relaxed, her palms opening, gliding up Slayde’s shirt to the breadth of his shoulders, her arms entwining about his neck. In turn, he lowered himself until his shirt just brushed the soft swell of her breasts, balancing himself on his elbows so as to carefully avoid her ribs. His own hands, unable to remain still, roamed up and down the silken skin of her arms, her shoulders, her neck, savoring the quivers of response his touch evoked.
“Courtney.” He said her name in a reverent whisper, his lips leaving hers to feather across her cheeks, his tongue absorbing the tears still glistening there. He kissed her nose, her lids, the corners of her mouth, before returning to her lips, brushing them in a slow, eloquent wisp of motion. “Don’t cry.”
“I won’t,” she promised, her voice breathless, swamped in sensation.
Her innocence, her honesty, intensified Slayde’s rampaging emotions almost beyond bearing. With a strangled groan, he buried his lips in hers once more, tugging her closer, giving in a way he’d never given, taking in a way he’d never longed to take.
Later, looking back on this unprecedented madness, Slayde wondered what would have happened had Courtney not, at that precise moment, winced with pain. But she did—and the motion was like a slap to his unfocused senses.
“Courtney?” He raised up, searched her face. “Is it your ribs or your head?”
>
“My ribs.” Her lids lifted, her eyes still dazed with wonder. “ ’Twas only a sting. I’m fine. Truly.” Hesitantly, her fingertips brushed Slayde’s mouth, and she gazed up at him as if to verify the events of the past few minutes. “Did this really just happen?”
He felt as incredulous as she. “I think it did, yes.” He inhaled shakily, lowering himself beside her, drawing her closer until her head was tucked beneath his chin. “I should apologize.”
“Don’t.”
“Are you all right?”
Courtney nodded. “A bit dizzy, but fine. More than fine, actually. I feel as if I’m floating. What’s more, I’m not at all sure I want to descend to the ground. Or to reality, for that matter. I’d rather stay on this extraordinary cloud you’ve given me.”
What in God’s name was he allowing to happen? “Courtney—”
“I must sound absurd,” she interrupted self-consciously. “ ’Tis just that this was my first kiss. And while I’ve ofttimes tried to imagine what it would be like, nothing prepared me for the deep, sweeping magic—” She broke off, and Slayde could feel her face flame against his throat. “Did you ever notice that in the darkness you can say things you could never say in the light? ’Tis almost as if time is suspended until dawn.”
Slayde swallowed, staring at the ceiling. “That applies not only to words, but to actions as well.”
“Yes, I suppose it does.”
The hurt in her voice tore at his heart, but he was helpless to alleviate it. Still reeling from his own unfathomable behavior, he saw that one thing was glaringly obvious; he had to leave her—now—before things got out of hand. Courtney Johnston was a beautiful, unspoiled young woman who was alone, vulnerable, and untouched, not only physically, but emotionally as well. Despite the severity of her personal loss, her exposure to the world and all its ugliness was nil. He could not, would not, immerse her in the hell that was intrinsically tied to his life as a Huntley—despite the staggering feelings she inspired in him.