Chapter 11

T he square containing the MacFarlane town house was quiet. Early morning languor hovered over the empty, cobbled streets as sunlight warmed the broad back of a dray horse standing in its traces. Later, housemaids would venture out to scrub stairs and run errands, but now, at seven o'clock, they kept to quieter pursuits so as not to rouse masters and mistresses who had taken to their beds only a few hours earlier.

Thomas vaulted over the stone wall encircling the town house's back garden and landed on the privy roof. From there he jumped lightly to the path leading through the garden and looked with satisfaction at the back of the house. True to the pattern three days of reconnaissance had made known to him, the library window stood open. He looked up. Overhead the draperies in Fia's boudoir fluttered in the window.

He needed to keep Fia out of town until James was safely aboard the Sea Witch . He'd planned carefully, from the man waiting at the end of the alley with the closed carriage, to the notes he'd left Carr and James claiming he'd gone to France to purchase merchandise.

Of course, when Thomas returned Carr would realize he had not bought any cargo and had no intention of scuttling his ship. Carr would then inform the authorities of Thomas's status as an illegally returned deportee and Thomas would flee—leaving behind the dream he'd worked so hard to realize, the dream of reclaiming Maiden's Blush from the ashes to which Carr had consigned her.

He did not regret his decision. He owed James Barton a few dreams and more. Besides, even if Thomas could not supervise the restoration himself, he could still find a way back now and then. And if he never felt the joy of one final homecoming, well, he'd still have the satisfaction of knowing that his clan had returned to McClairen's Isle.

No, he did not regret his decision. But that didn't make this, his proposed course, any more palatable. He'd never in his life mistreated a woman. And yet, in a few minutes he would abduct a woman from her home and keep her against her will.

He took a deep breath, placed his hands on the library windowsill, and pushed himself up and over, dropping noiselessly to the carpet inside.

"I say, most of Fia's friends use the front door."

He froze. The accent was undoubtedly Scottish, adolescent, and male. He turned.

A young man, even younger than Pip, sat in an armchair. In his lap was an open book. He regarded Thomas with dark, thoughtful eyes beneath a tousled fringe of brown hair.

Who the hell was this?

Thomas arranged a smile. "I admit, I didn't expect to find anyone here. Who are you?"

The boy closed the book on his finger. "I believe that is my line, sir."

Gads, but the boy had panache. His self-containment, the slight dryness of his tone reminded Thomas of someone. No nervous fiddling, an exceptionally calm, direct—The boy reminded him of Fia. Impossible for them to be related. Except for a likeness of expression, there was no other resemblance.

"You're not MacFarlane's boy, are you?" Thomas asked.

The boy's watchful air dissipated slightly. "You have the better of me, sir," he said.

Thomas broadened his grin, thinking. He needed to come up with a reasonable explanation for having entered through the library window, though surely a boy raised under Fia's care would be used to the sudden, unheralded arrival of strange men. "I am a friend of your stepmama."

"I never call her ‘mama.' I call her Fia. She's only six years older than me, you know," the boy said, a defensive note creeping into his voice.

God spare him, yet another of Fia's conquests!

"It would be absurd for me to call her ‘mother,' " the boy went on, before adding thoughtfully, "though Cora calls her ‘mama' sometimes, but only to tease her."

"Tease her?" The notion of anyone "teasing" Fia was so outlandish that for a moment Thomas forgot himself. "Who is Cora that she teases Fia?"

"My younger sister. Horrible younger sister. Twits Fia something terrible. Not that I don't empathize. Fia is such an easy mark, don't you think?"

Thomas glanced about, nonplussed, half expecting to discover this Cora in some other chair. Fia an easy mark? An object of childish torment?

"Oh, don't worry." The boy had read his mind. "Cora is away at school. In Devon. The far side of Devon," he emphasized with unmistakable relish.

"I see." But he didn't. He should be upstairs, tying a scarf around Fia's lovely mouth in preparation for tossing her over his shoulder and making off with her. Instead, he was chatting up a boy.

The lad stood up and nodded in courtly fashion. "I am Kay Antoine MacFarlane."

"Uh, Donne. Thomas Donne." Thomas glanced at the door leading into the hall. A maid was bound to show up soon.

"Honored, sir."

"Likewise, Lord MacFarlane."

The adult veneer fell away and the boy grinned, his expression open and spontaneous in a manner Fia's could never be. "Just ‘Kay,' sir. 'Twas an honorary title my father held and one I don't pine after. Being MacFarlane of Bramble House is enough for me."

Thomas found himself liking the boy and damning Carr for cheating such a decent lad out of his rightful home. The thought led back to his reason for being there.

"Well, Kay MacFarlane of Bramble House, I'd best be on my way before we attract one of the servants."

"And what way is that, Mr. Donne?" The guarded quality reentered his eyes.

Thomas held his hands out, palm up. "There's this little bet Fia and I have made. I claimed I could enter her house and take the bouquet from the upstairs vase"— God, let there be a vase in the upstairs hall —"and that no one would see me, including Fia." He shook his head ruefully. "Wouldn't she love to know that I'd no sooner entered the house than was discovered by you?"

The boy's lips quirked in amusement. "Aye. Fia crows somethin' awful when she wins, don't she?"

Crowing? Laughing? True, he'd heard Fia laugh many times—derisively, cruelly, scornfully—but never with the uncomplicated delight this boy was speaking about.

"We lads must stick together, don't you think?"

Kay studied him. "Perhaps."

"Come now, Kay. Fia's too used to winning. It's time we poor frail males had the upper hand, isn't it?"

The boy nodded, the hovering smile just waiting to be born.

"So what say you just go on doing what you were doing. Reading, was it? Something grand, I hope."

"The Iliad."

"Ah! Nothing grander. You just read on—only do so in your own room, Kay. That way, you won't have to answer any hard questions later when Fia's discovered she's lost our bet." He winked at the boy.

"I suppose I could go to the kitchen.…"

"The kitchen it is!" Thomas said, clapping Kay companionably on the back and feeling utterly despicable. "Go on. There'd be no living with her if she never lost, would there?"

It tipped the scales in Thomas's favor. The boy nodded in commiseration. "You have the right of it there, sir."

Thomas laughed and swung his arm about the boy's bony shoulders, shepherding him to the door. Once there, he glanced both ways before giving him a little shove into the corridor.

Kay was halfway down the hall before he looked back. "How long do I have to stay in there?"

"Oh, a quarter hour," Thomas answered casually, "mayhap a bit longer, just to be sure. You know, in case I dodge into some room to wait for a maid or a footman to pass."

The boy nodded. A minute later the servants' door swung shut behind him. The smile vanished from Thomas's face as he took the stairs to the second level. He remembered which room was Fia's. He pushed it open and entered quickly, soundlessly shutting it behind him.

He looked around, spying the arched entrance that led from the boudoir to the bedchamber. He padded across the floor and peered in, fully expecting to see Fia asleep in her bed, unwillingly anticipating the picture she would make with her black hair flowing over white linen and her skin dewy with sleep.

She was not in the bed.

He peered around the corner. She was sitting with her feet tucked up beneath her in a wingback chair, a piece of needlework on her lap. Needlework! And she was wearing a simple yellow day-gown, the neckline modest, the sleeves trimmed with treble bands of white lace. The fresh color of it became her as much as her usual dramatic palette of black and white, though in a subtler manner, setting her skin to glow softly and the rippling black of her hair to shining.

She looked up. For a second her gorgeous eyes darkened, turning the brilliant blue dusky, like wood violet in shadow.

"Captain Donne." She showed only slight concern at his appearance, employing that unearthly trick she had of smoothing her features to impenetrable stillness. "To what do I owe this honor?"

He moved quickly across the room, seizing her upper arm and pulling her to her feet. The needlework fell to the floor. Her brow puckered in extreme distaste, echoing his own.

"I would dislike hurting you, Fia," he spoke softly, "but I swear if you raise your voice I will render you unconscious."

She pulled her arm free, stepping back and challenging him with a scornful look. "I have no intention of raising my voice. What are you doing here?"

He took a deep breath. "I may couch this in the form of a request, but make no mistake, Fia, it is not a request. It is a statement."

One dark, wing-shaped brow rose. "Pray continue."

"Will you come with me?"

The humor Kay had described flickered to life in her extraordinary eyes. "Where to? Oxford Street to visit that new French mercer? Or Covent Garden—though, I daresay, the fruits have been picked over by now. Perhaps you've in mind an excursion to—"

"I am taking you out of London."

Her humor faded. "I see. For how long?"

"An extended period of time."

Did her alabaster skin pale? He thought so, and he noticed for the first time that she wore no cosmetics this morning. The paints and perfumes and salves that created the Black Diamond no longer concealed her.

Why, in all the saints' names, had she ever covered such flesh with dross powder and paint? The tint of her skin was warm and translucent, as delicately shaded as the pink pearls he'd once purchased on an uncharted South Pacific island.

"Then this is an abduction."

"Yes."

She gave a businesslike little nod. "I see. And do I have any say in this? Of course not"—she shook her head at her own stupidity—"if I had a say, and I said yes, this would be an elopement, not an abduction. Semantics are so very important, don't you think?"

She was purposefully trying to overset him. He'd seen her do it to a dozen men over the past weeks, catch them with false candor that concealed more than it elucidated.

She moved closer, too close. She did nothing obvious as she had when disguised at Portmann's masque. She did not touch him, though his body stiffened in anticipation and his skin prickled with a phantom sensation of her hand on his chest.

"So little confidence, Captain. Has it not occurred to you that I might not be adverse to going with you?" she purred, a faint tantalizing smile playing about the corners of her lush lips. "Why don't you simply ask me?"

He caught himself just in time. She would say no and laugh. He saw it in the hard bright eyes that refuted the softness of her mouth.

When he didn't answer, a shadow of doubt dented her composure—slight but there. She'd expected him to ask her; she did not know how to take his refusal.

"Ah well, then," she said. "If you'll be seated, I shall gather a few things and we'll get started."

At his start of surprise she regained her mastery of the situation, bright and sharp and clean as a razor's wounding. "Why … you don't imagine this is my first abduction, do you?"

A trilling little laugh. "Oh, heavens no! I count it an utterly wasted Season if I am not abducted at least once. Though"—her voice turned reproachful—"most of my abductors at least do me the favor of telling me how long I can expect to be gone.

"I mean, a schedule would be so helpful. I could then decide whether to cancel that new dress I ordered—not much sense in having an especial gown made for the Bennetts' fete if I'm not going to be here, is there? And then the wine merchant should be notified to stop delivery for …" Her pause invited disclosure, but when he said nothing she went on in open exasperation. "However long.

"Added to which, I was to interview for a new housekeeper this week, meet with the hair stylist, Monsieur Gerard—you realize that if I simply do not show up for my appointment with him I may as well just kiss good-bye any future hopes he will arrange my hair—plus all the other mundane items of daily life that even an abduction cannot gainsay."

She sighed resignedly. "I suppose not telling me how long you plan to keep me makes it more romantic for you?"

Her words snapped the immobility holding him silent. "This is not a romantic tryst!"

She blinked at his angry tone. "Apparently not." Her eyes suddenly widened. "Rape, then?" she whispered.

"God's teeth, no!" he thundered.

"Oh. Good. What exactly is it, then? I do hope you haven't any wrongheaded notion that you might hold me for ransom? Because I assure you no one will pay a penny for my return."

He did not miss the small, unwilling note of bitterness beneath the amusement, but he was too furious, stung far more deeply than he would have imagined possible that she could think him capable of rape, to pay it heed.

"I very much doubt that, milady," he snarled. "But no, I do not seek ransom for your return. Now, do not ask anything else, for I will not answer. I will only say to you that no harm will come to you as a result of this … this …"

"Abduction?" she supplied.

"Abduction," he agreed tersely. "In time, you will be returned unharmed."

"Do you promise?" Until that moment he had not a clue that his proposed kidnapping had afforded her more than a ripple of concern. Now he saw that, for all her bravado, she felt vulnerable.

"I promise."

"Well"—she turned from him before he could gauge her reaction; her skirts belled gently as she moved away—"if you'll indulge me a few minutes?"

She crossed to a painted chest at the foot of her bed and tossed up the lid. A moment later she'd hauled out a large leather portmanteau and opened the clasp. "Hm." She bent over, rummaging within. "Chemise, corset, echelles , two underskirts …"

He stared. "You have a portmanteau ready?"

She nodded without bothering to look at him. "And a small trunk," she said, pointing vaguely in the direction of the closed armoire. A brass-bound traveling trunk rested beside it. "For a few gowns. Can you carry it or would you rather drive round to the back and I can have one of the footman take it down?"

He crossed the room in a few strides. She must be mocking him. But a glance revealed a neatly packed portmanteau filled with delicate, lacy … things.

She shut the bag and straightened. "Well?"

With a strangled sound he lifted the valise and stalked over to seize the brass handle of the trunk. He hefted it to his shoulder and turned. She was waiting by the door.

"Do not attempt to raise an alarm, madam."

"And miss discovering for what reason besides seduction or monetary gain a gentleman"—the emphasis on the word was slight but ironic—"performs an abduction? I daresay not! Come, the maids will be working in the front rooms yet. We can leave through the kitchen."

Thomas thought of Kay. "No. The library."

She shrugged and reached for the door handle.

"Wait."

She turned a questioning look on him.

"You will write a note, telling your family that you have decided to accept an offer to tour the continent."

Her brows climbed in surprise.

"I would not want them worried."

He expected her to mock his concern for her stepson but, after a short pause, she only said, "As you will," and brushed by him.

At her writing desk she pulled a thick piece of paper from a stack. She scrawled a few appropriate lines and folded the paper in half. On the outside she wrote "For Kay." She left it atop the table and returned to his side.

"Satisfied?"

"Yes." He reached past her and opened the door, making sure the outside corridor was empty before motioning her ahead of him.

Tensely he followed her down the stairs, the valise thumping soundlessly against his thigh and the edge of the trunk biting into his neck. He fully expected her to break into a run at any moment and, fool that he was, he'd ensured that he would be able to do nothing to stop her.

Part of him wished she would, wished she would suddenly lift her skirt and flee, freeing him from this mad plan. She did not.

Another part of him was glad.

At two o'clock the same afternoon, James Barton was heading for the MacFarlane town house. He'd made arrangements with Fia to go driving in St. James Park. He would then take the opportunity to tell her that he was leaving in a few weeks. At the same time he would make an ostentatious show of presenting her with a pair of spectacular diamond ear-bobs. They had belonged to Amelia. Amelia would approve, he thought with a sad smile. She and Fia had maintained a sporadic but affectionate correspondence until Amelia's death.

It had been to Amelia that Fia had given her invaluable aid seven years ago.

James and Amelia had arrived in London fresh from the colonies. He had been flush with pride, his pockets filled with the income of his shipping company's first successes, and avid to introduce his lovely wife to society. They had been taken up by people who brought them to Wanton's Blush.

There, he'd come to the attention of the Earl of Carr. Urbane, articulate, witty, and self-assured, the earl had cultivated their association, flattered James, but mostly encouraged his gambling.

In a week the profits James had earned during the past year disappeared. Frightened and uncertain of where to turn or how to tell Amelia, he'd taken to the gaming tables with increasing desperation. Soon he owed more than he owned.

That was when Carr had requested a private interview. He proposed that James "do him a favor" and in return Carr would see that his gambling debts were paid. The nature of this favor was never spelled out, but James knew with certainty that it would be questionable. He'd asked for a day to consider it, which Carr, with a knowing smile, had granted.

Finally, he'd confessed to his bemused and horrified wife. For some reason she in turn had confided in Carr's preternaturally self-possessed daughter. What transpired between them remained their secret forever. He knew only that Fia gave Amelia a cameo. A gorgeous diamond-studded piece of jewelry. Given. Freely. Without condition.

He never understood why. As far as he knew, Fia Merrick had never exhibited such magnanimity before nor was she to do so again. But then, he never pretended to understand that enigmatic woman. The idea of taking valuable property from a child offended every ideal James held dear. But eventually, Amelia had convinced him to accept it. The proceeds had been nearly enough to cover his debts. Paying off the rest of his notes had taken him a full year.

Eventually he had come to appreciate the extent of the debt he owed Fia Merrick. The rumors surrounding Carr exceeded James's original fears. The Earl of Carr was a pitiless puppeteer who extracted an ever growing price from victims.

Then, this spring, James had arrived in London and received a note from Fia. He'd gone to her immediately. When he heard her story he vowed to aid her in any manner he could, agreeing to her proposed plan without hesitation. If he had any regret, it was only that he could not explain his actions to Thomas Donne.

He halted the carriage before Fia's residence and climbed down. A footman opened the door and bade him enter. Kay, Fia's stepson, was in the hall. He greeted James with a look of surprise.

"Captain Barton, I'm afraid if you are looking for Lady Fia you are in for a disappointment. She's gone."

"Oh?"

"She's on a trip to the continent." The boy smiled. "Shopping."

James frowned.

"I am so sorry," Kay said politely. "I would have expected she would have told you, as one of her dearest friends, but from what her note says I gather her decision to leave was somewhat impromptu."

There was something wrong here. Why would Fia leave the country now, especially without leaving him an explanation? "Left a note, did she?"

"Yes." Kay nodded. "Gunna delivered it to me."

"Gunna didn't go with her?"

"No." Kay smiled wryly. "And she isn't at all pleased about it. Been grumbling all day about Lady Fia's strong-willed ways. I believe"—he leaned in confidingly—"that they had something of a set-to about it."

"I see." He made his voice unconcerned, not wanting to alarm the boy.

"It isn't only you she's neglected to remember," the boy offered as a salve to what he assumed was James's wounded pride.

"Really?" James asked, slightly amused in spite of his concern. "Who else has our Lady Fia left wanting?"

The boy colored. "Oh! I daresay it's not the same thing at all. There was a gentleman here this morning; he'd made a wager with Fia and now it looks like it may be some time before he's able to collect his winnings."

"A wager?" James murmured distractedly, his thoughts racing to account for Fia's sudden absence. "Who was this gentleman?"

"A Mr.… Donne."

Apprehension touched James's spine.

"Do you think there's something amiss, sir?" A note of alarm had entered Kay's voice.

"Oh, no. Not at all. I know Captain Donne quite well. I was just wondering whether he'd won his bet."

The boy relaxed. "I couldn't say, sir. Gunna didn't mention him."

"I see," James said. "I'd best be getting on, then. I'm sure Lady Fia will have written me a note and I've only to return home to find it. Thank you."

He bade Kay good-bye and took his leave. At the curb, he mounted the carriage thoughtfully. He disliked Thomas and Fia disappearing on the same day. He disliked even more that Thomas had told Kay that he and Fia were engaged in a friendly contest, for though assuredly they were in contest, he doubted the term "friendly" in any way applied.

Most of all, he disliked that Thomas had taken the Alba Star out of dry dock before the work on her was complete, leaving James a note claiming he'd been contracted to pick up some cargo in France and paid a princely sum to do it if he left at once.

But then, Gunna, who had been Fia's dragonlike guardian for as long as James had known them, had spoken to Fia about her shopping trip. She and Fia had even had something of a quarrel about it.

The thought did not bring him much comfort. There was too much coincidental here. Though what he could do about it he was at a loss to think. He would soon have to ship out of London harbor. What with last year's disaster, their shipping company could ill afford any delays or setbacks. He was duty and honor bound to follow through on his promise to Thomas.

He would simply have to wait here in London until he shipped out, hoping Carr took the bait he and Fia had dangled before him. To leave now, following after Fia or Thomas, would destroy all their carefully laid groundwork.

No—he sighed, snapping the leads smartly and maneuvering the horse into the traffic—he could do nothing to either support or disprove his suspicions regarding Thomas and Fia.

But he might know people who could.