Black Falcon's Lady (Celtic Rogues Book 1) (38 page)

"I love him!"

"Love him? The spawn of some cursed cotter with nothing but a mud shack to dwell in?"

‘”The son of the rightful Earl of Nightwylde.'' Maryssa saw her father flinch as she spun to face him, the terror that had crushed her in its grip bursting into fury and hate as feral as that of a wild thing defending its mate. "Aye, Father, I know the truth. You stole Tade's birthright, tried to crush his father, a man you once called friend. And if I lived with Tade in nothing but one tiny room, I'd be richer than I've ever been weighed down with the wealth you stole."

"Close your mouth, girl!" Bainbridge roared, advancing on her in white-fisted fury. "Close it or, before God, I'll beat you until—"

"Do it! Beat me!" Maryssa challenged, eyes flashing, jaw clenched. “It would be the first honest emotion you've ever shown me! You've hated me from the time I was a babe, loathed me, locked me out of your life, your heart. But Tade gave me all that he was. He made me feel for the first time in my life that I was more than just some gawky, shy burden to be endured by those around me."

Even through her blinding anger and fear, she could see a long-buried pain streak across her father's stunned features, the flicker of an emotion she couldn't name. But the words he spat out were harsh, laced with hate. "He planted a bastard in your belly."

"Aye! And I thank God for it with every breath I draw!"

Even in the gray shadows she saw her father's hand flash up and arc toward her, but she flinched not at all, glaring at him, defiant and strong as his palm cracked into her cheek.

"I'll shelter no bastard bred of a Kilcannon!" Bainbridge raged. "I'll cast it to the poorhouse! I'll—"

"If you dare so much as touch my babe, I'll drive a knife into your heart." Maryssa met his gaze, her voice more promise than threat. "Never in all my life have you purported to love me. Not once when I was a child—when I needed you, reached out to you—were you there. I always thought it was I who was lacking, that you saw something horrible within me, that I was ugly, bad, awkward. But I'm not a terrified child anymore, Father. Now I know it is you who are twisted, not I. And finally I can admit that I hate you for the years I spent aching for your love. I hate you now, and I always will."

Her father's face washed gray, and despite the raw fury slashed across his mouth, she could see the barest shade of uncertainty in his dull eyes before he hardened them again into loathing. "Well, now you'll have good reason to despise me, girl!" he said. "You'll stay in this room until your peasant lover lies dead. Then, if he'll have you, you'll wed Ascot."

"I'll follow Tade to the gallows first."

She struggled to keep the horror and helplessness from engulfing her, fought to keep the memory of Dallywoulde's eager face at bay, but it seemed to jeer at her from every corner, drooling for Tade's blood.

Her father stalked to the door, one beefy white hand clenching upon the latch. "Nay, daughter, you'll not follow Kilcannon to the gallows, but you may well wish you had. You'll do as I bid you or I'll make the weeks you were barred in here seem like heaven. I want nothing but to be rid of you—never to suffer looking at your face again, Mary."

Maryssa started at the sound of her mother's name, and her chin rose, defiant and proud, braced by the courage and kindness Tade's memories had brought to the image of the mother she'd never known. "You can't terrorize me any more than you could my mother."

"Terrorize her? Sweet God, I loved her and she betrayed me—took the side of a cursed Kilcannon against me. Damn you, wench, you'll not scream at me from Mary's face." He took a step toward her, fists clenched, teeth bared. He stopped. "Nay, you'll be gone from my sight soon enough. Gone. Ascot will see to that. He vowed he'd take you away."

"You can't lock me in your cursed prison any longer, Father. Tade freed me.”

"Your Kilcannon scum will do nothing to free you once he's in his grave. And if the cursed bastard is right in what he claims, if a thousand like him rise from Donegal's dust, not one will be able to reach you here."

The door crashed shut, the sound echoing despair through Maryssa's heart as she heard the bolt slam home.

She felt tears burn at her eyelids, felt desperation ripping away the strength that had stayed her. But she forced the raging of fear down, her jaw clenching. She would not crumble; she would not wilt into wailings and mournings while Dallywoulde and her father murdered Tade and, perhaps later, her child. This time she would fight for her own, find a way to rob death of its due. If she could just find some way to escape, to wrest Tade from the cells of Newgate.

The moonlight streamed through the closed window, its silvery rays ribboning a path into the night. Maryssa's hands clenched in the white satin of her skirts, a wild hope burgeoning within her.
Even here in England I have heard the legends your ignorant Irish barbarians weave about you
, Dallywoulde had jeered. Sorcerers' tales, Maryssa thought, her hands shaking, tales of magic that might well fill a simple of mind with witless fears.

She turned to her armoire, ripped it open, riffled through the garments until she found a black silk mourning gown. Aye, she thought with a wellspring of hope as she rushed to her sewing basket. There might be a chance, one chance to spare Tade the horror Dallywoulde had in store for him, if she possessed the courage and the wit.

A hundred more the like of me will rise up to fight you
... She could still hear Tade's words. Nay, she thought, resolve surging within her. One. Only one. Pray God, it is enough.

T
he snow beasts were warring
, their icy claws slashing at the midnight sky, wailing, shrieking in outrage as they snarled about the streets of London. Maryssa struggled to warm her numbed fingers beneath the black cape. The rough breeches and muslin shirt chafed her skin as she peered at the imposing gray hulk of Newgate jail through slits in the hood she had fashioned five days before at Carradown.

It had all seemed so simple then as she had stitched silver talons into the silk, constructing the guise she prayed would fool the dull turnkeys within Newgate's walls. Aye, even when she had risked all, lowering herself the perilous distance to the ground below her window, then ridden the endless, frigid miles to the city, she had nearly felt as though she wore, in truth, the magical cloak the plain folk claimed the Falcon possessed.

But now, confronted with the stark danger of Newgate, she could scarce believe she had been fool enough to think this escapade had any chance of success. And with each chiming of the distant bells ringing the hour, she grew more certain that somewhere on the road from Carradown a rider thundered in pursuit of her, a rider with fanatical eyes set deep in the face of a specter.

She shivered, glancing into the empty darkness behind her. The hours it had taken her to prepare for this raid, to secure the things she needed to make it work, had snatched away precious time; her escape from her prison room had surely been discovered by now, and Dallywoulde would need little thought to discern where she had gone.

But the time spent in the planning had been vital, and now, confronted with the huge stone jail, she wished she had taken longer to put her plan into motion. Nervous fingers trailed to the brace of pistols she had secured at her side, the memory of the dingy shop in which she had bartered her jewels for these disreputable weapons intruding upon her. The moneylender had regarded her with such ferret-eyed suspicion that she had not dared ask him to show her how to use the weapons. Then the intrusion of a bandy-legged sergeant into the shop had made Maryssa flee with all haste.

She worried her lower lip, her eyes skimming the barred windows that glared down from the stark walls. Now she regretted the fear that had catapulted her from the moneylender's side, wishing she had braved the soldier's curiosity in the hope of learning how to load and fire the pistols. But it was too late.

She compressed her lips, rubbing her clammy palms on the ragged breeches she had purchased with her bent shilling. All England had been buzzing about the capture of the Black Falcon, taking delight in spinning ever more fantastical tales about bargains with the Dark One and deeds that Satan himself would have been hard pressed to match. If she could just evoke some of the mystique that surrounded the Black Falcon and play upon the fears of the guards in the night's eerie grasp, she would not need to prove her menace by firing the pistols.

Dredging up her courage, she drew the weapon, clutching it in one sweating hand. Her observation of the jailer’s routine told her that the guard would change in a few hours. Jailers who spent hours within the sinister corridors, hearing the cries of those incarcerated within, would be weary of their watch by now and could be lulled, Maryssa prayed, into growing lax in their vigil.

If she could just stun those guards, terrify them, by rising before them like one of the devil's own, her plan might have a chance.

Quickly, stealthily, Maryssa hastened to the debtors' door, playing over and over in her mind the ruse she had devised to gain her entry to the prison.

With the distinctive pounding she had heard during her vigil outside Newgate the night before, she cracked the toe of one boot into the doorway, mimicking the impatience of the burly watchman who had dragged a pickpocket to the gates last evening. She listened, seconds stretching to infinity, pulse thundering, knees quaking, as she waited for some sign that a guard had heard her. She had just raised her foot to crack it again into the heavy panel when she heard a muffled grousing within, followed by a thud, as if someone had collided with the door.

Drawing farther into the shadows, Maryssa kicked the panel yet again, harder, more insistently.

"Weepin' Jesus, be that ye, Guildford?" A bleary voice rose above the scraping of the latch.

Maryssa dared not reply for fear of alerting the fractious guard, so in answer she drew back her foot and kicked the door with all the force she possessed.

"Hellfire and damnation, Guildford, I vow ye got less patience than "Ripper a-whorin'! Gi' me a cursed chance t' get the blasted door open. That right nice brigand, Kilcannon, been treatin' us all t' barrels o' port an' me hands be shaky as a doxy's at payin' time."

Maryssa caught her lips between her teeth, struck by the absurdity of the guard's prattle, praying that in a few hours' time she would be caught in Tade's arms, laughing over the turnkey's antics. But whatever vague stirring of amusement she had felt vanished as she heard the latch scrape free. Catching her breath, she squared her shoulders, praying that the padding she had sewn into the cape would dupe the guard into thinking her own slender form was that of a daunting, broad-chested highwayman.

The door crashed wide to reveal a spindly grasshopper of a man garbed in a waistcoat she recognized as Tade's. The brass buttons stretched past the guard's knobby knees, and the rich garment looked absurd against his coarse gray homespun jerkin as he raised a candle aloft, blinking owlishly into the night.

"Guildford?" he bellowed, staggering a few steps from the door. "Guildford, Gor plague ye," the turnkey swore, stalking a score of paces away from the door, his eyes sweeping the night.

Maryssa wasted not a second listening to the guard's black curses. Heart in her throat, she slipped soundlessly behind him and hurried to hide herself in the dark corridor beyond. She drew back into the shadows, the plan she had forged the night before shifting in her mind, changing as she watched the straggle-haired turnkey stagger around, then stomp back in through the open door. She’d meant to take a hostage, force the unfortunate to lead her to Tade. But if she could disappear into the inky darkness and keep the guard from seeing her, was it possible this man would return to Tade’s cell without being coerced?

"Cursed brats," the guard muttered, grasping at the latch. "Thinkin' they can make fool o' Hezekiah Blount! Take 'em o'er me knee, I will. Thrash 'em wi' a hick'ry stick if I get me hands on their backsides."

Maryssa held her breath, not daring to blink as Hezekiah fastened the door. The wavering light from his candle writhed drunkenly across the walls, the circling glow dripping down upon the hem of Maryssa's cape. But the disgruntled Hezekiah seemed in no mood to waste time searching the quiet halls. He puffed out his skinny chest, spit into one grimy palm, and raked his stubby fingers through the tangled mass of his hair as if to smooth it.

"Most like Prunelley herself is what's sendin' 'em, checkin't' see if I'm of a truth at me labors. Blast the wench, she should know that, wi' a right-fine catch th' like o' the Black Falcon wi'in the walls, I'd not be wastin' me night a-dallyin'. I got more 'portant 'fairs t' tend t' than the way Merdyce Runneymead be fillin' out 'er garters."

Maryssa held her breath as Hezekiah wobbled, then reached out to steady himself, one hand but an arm's length from where she stood.

"Nay," the guard continued, "Hezekiah Blount got 'portant matters t' tend t'. Got fin' out how that devil Kilcannon be colorin' 'is cards."

The turnkey lurched forward, winding his way down the corridor, the pathetic moans of those attempting sleep within the debtors' ward a stark contrast to the jaunty little guard's grumblings. Cautiously Maryssa clung to the darkness outside the ring of light from his candle, watching his every footfall in an effort to keep from tripping over anything that lay upon the floor, or making some noise that would bestir Hezekiah from his mutterings.

As the turnkey made his way deeper into Newgate's walls, Maryssa battled the sensation that she was being swallowed by the darkness, terror that at any moment another guard would rise out of the shadows making her scarce able to draw breath.

But aside from the groans of prisoners half-asleep and the scratchings and scurryings of rats along the walls, Maryssa heard nothing, saw nothing, until Hezekiah stumbled up the stone steps that led away from the wretchedness of the debtors' jail and into the cleaner quarters that housed prisoners with coin enough to buy a few comforts. The Master Side, this was called, and as Maryssa crept through the corridor behind Hezekiah, she breathed a prayer of thanks that Tade had been confined here rather than in the vermin-infested hell below.

She started, nearly tripping over the hem of her cloak as a ripple of masculine laughter spilled out into the quiet hallway, the sound strained, aye, but recognizable as the rakehell, reckless amusement of Tade Kilcannon.

A spate of good-natured curses erupted from behind an iron-bound door, the laughter swelling as Hezekiah pulled on the iron handle. Maryssa caught her breath, stunned at her good fortune as the portal swung wide, unhampered by lock or bolt.

"Gor's blood, the scurvy bastard did it again, 'Zekiah!" A blurred voice rumbled from the slice of room visible beyond the door. "Beggin' yer pardon, Tade, lad, but it be a good thing yer t' dangle this week, 'er I vow I'd be payin' off this night's wagers fer the rest o' me days!"

"Blast it," Hezekiah grumbled, rubbing his hand on the elegant waistcoat. "The Falcon's won every stick an' pot I own. I'd wager Prunelly an' the young ones if 'e'd take 'em, but even a man at the gallows' gate'd not wax that foolish."

The spindly guard elbowed his way through the throng of turnkeys who ringed the rough-hewn table in the center of the spotless cell.

"You left the door ajar, 'Zekiah. Aren't you afraid I'll escape?" The familiar deep voice flooded Maryssa with fierce relief, coupled with an urge to jam her cape into Tade's mouth. Fear that his careless words would move the grizzled Blount to slam the cell door rushed through her.

But Hezekiah merely snorted in disgruntled amusement. "If ye can fly from the midst o' half the guards in Newgate, ye deserve yer freedom, Kilcannon," he said, plopping himself down upon a three-legged stool. "Now deal the cursed cards, ye Irish blackguard."

Shaking with relief as the guards' attention returned to the game, Maryssa eased closer to the portal, her gaze searching the cell beyond. Her throat constricted with relief and love, as she peered past the engrossed turnkeys, grimy playing cards clasped in their hands, to where Tade lounged in a chair at the head of the table.

The unruly rosewood-colored waves of his hair were bound back with a leather thong, the rich, dark locks a stark contrast to the planes of his face. He was so pale, lines carved deep in the features that had once been as smooth and untroubled as a babe's. Despite the crook of a smile that played about his lips, the emerald of his eyes held no sparkle and reflected nothing but a weariness, a lurking desperation, and guilt that made Maryssa's throat ache. His fingers curved around a goblet nearly emptied of port, the dozen bottles stacked on the floor by his feet attesting to the amount of revelry with which he had endowed the bluff turnkeys.

"Come, Falcon," a brawny Scotsman burred. "At least gi' a man a chance t' gain back 'is horse. Th' saddle ye can keep, the cinchin' is well nigh worn through, but I got a soft spot in me heart for ol' Torwaddle."

Tade raised his eyes to the florid guard, teeth flashing in a shadow of his accustomed bedeviling grin. "Nay, Campbell. Enough. If I cheat the hangman yet again, I'll need a sturdy mount to hie me to Ireland."

"Blast it, lad, I—"

"Peace, for glory's sake. We've been playing since dusk, and even the lot of you reprobates would not begrudge me one final night's dreams of my lady, would you?"

The men guffawed, throwing down their cards, but in spite of the jesting in Tade's voice, Maryssa detected a shade of sadness and longing within the tones. Tade's bloodshot eyes were fixed on the square of night framed in the barred window, his emerald gaze seeming to envision there something he alone could see.

Her fingers tightened on the pistol, the other hand drawing out the second weapon as the turnkeys started to push themselves up from their seats. She clenched her teeth, knowing it was now or never.

"Hold." She fought to keep her voice gruff, menacing, as she stepped into the doorway, thrusting the brace of pistols from beneath the folds of her cloak. As though all had been yanked by the same thread, a dozen pairs of eyes flashed to the doorway, six mouths gaping open in astonishment as the guards' port-blurred gazes locked upon the black-cloaked figure filling the open doorway.

"What the devil?” Tade bolted from his chair, eyes wide with the dazed confusion of one confronted by a phantom. Had Maryssa not been so terrified, she would have laughed aloud. But she caught a glimpse of one guard reaching for a pistol at his waist, saw his hand freeze in midair as she shifted her own weapon so that it was aimed at his chest.

“That would be most unwise," she rasped out, the sound scraping her throat. "The Black Falcon is not well known for patience."

Hezekiah's eyes nearly popped out of his skull. "Falcon? The Falcon? Who in blazes? Gor damn... Sweet Mary..." He gaped at Tade. "If that—this is you, then who—"

Her gaze flashed back to Tade, seeing that in the moments she had glanced away at the guard, Tade's mouth had widened into a grin. "Must be the devil, 'Zekiah," he said as he snatched a ring of keys from the thong at Campbell's thick waist. "Haven't you heard? I bartered my soul off years ago."

"Kilcannon, ye can't—can't just—"

"Saunter out of my cell beneath your noses?" Tade's laugh rang out as he snatched a stubby candle from the table.

"Watch me, 'Zekiah. Just watch me! But, as a fellow gambler, I'd advise you not to try any heroics. I am personally acquainted with the Falcon's aim, and I assure you it is deadly." Flashing a grin at the gap-mouthed faces of his captors, Tade darted between them, then banged the iron-bound door shut and locked the shock-numbed guards within.