How To Vex A Viscount (35 page)

The ledge widened to only about a foot, but it seemed luxurious after the narrow lip she’d just traversed. Daisy looked down the ledge and was surprised to find that there was an opening. From across the chasm, it appeared as a long crack in a single wall of rock, but now she could see it was two rocks of identical colour and texture. One of them was behind the other, leaving a gap of eight or ten inches. If she turned sideways, she might squeeze through.

“There’s a way through,” she called over her shoulder. “Very narrow and dark. I can’t go without a light.”

“Now’s your opportunity, Rutland.” Sir Alistair levelled his pistol on his forearm and aimed the barrel squarely at Lucian. “Take the lady a torch.”

“He’s going to do it one-handed?” Brumley asked, contributing to the conversation for the first time.

“Unless you’d like to go in his stead,” Sir Alistair snapped, then turned back to scowl at Lucian. “Get moving.”

Daisy shuffled back to the narrow ledge she’d just travelled. “Don’t look down, Lucian. Just a few steps and you can hand me the torch.”

She leaned out as far as she dared and extended her arm to him.

“Stay back,” he ordered sharply; then he softened his tone. “I can’t concentrate if you’re hanging off the edge like that.”

She nodded and straightened, sidestepping to make room for him once he made it across. She had to remind herself to breathe as he eased his large frame over the limited space, holding the torch in his left hand and leading with his right.

He made sure his feet were solidly planted before he advanced his hand, skimming the surface of the rock, seeking a finger-hold. He swung at one point, hanging on to a root and lifting both his feet in the centre.

Daisy felt as though she’d aged a decade by the time he joined her on the far ledge. He pulled her close and gave her a quick kiss.

“You haven’t answered my inelegant proposal yet.”

“And I won’t until we’re clear of this and in daylight again,” she said.

“Tease.”

“‘Pleasure deferred is pleasure enhanced,’” she said, quoting Blanche.

“Then let’s see about that treasure,” he said, his dark eyes glinting with excitement. A pistol was trained on them, but Lucian was still on the trail of a dream.

“Wait,” Sir Alistair called across to them. “Brumley, get over there with them.”

“Me? Why?”

“If there’s a way through the rock, there may also be a way out, you idiot. They could collect the treasure and slip out the back door while we’re standing around in the dark holding our own cocks.” He strode over and took Brumley’s torch from him. “Get going.”

Lord Brumley looked as if he’d just swallowed a bite of herring that had turned, but he did as he was bidden.

“All right, Fitzhugh,” he said. “But when this is all over, King James is going to hear about your high-handedness. That’s all I’ve got to say.”

“Squawk all ye like then. At least we’ll have a sovereign who speaks our language. Now move.”

Brumley scuttled to the ledge with a whimper.

Lucian held his torch higher, so Lord Brumley could see the space he was about to travel.

“Take it slowly,” Lucian said. “There’s a soft spot about halfway across. You’ll feel it give a bit, but keep a good hold on that root and bear up your weight.”

Now Daisy could see why her foot had slipped that one time. The dirt beneath her had given way. Lucian had avoided the spot by swinging himself over it.

“I don’t think this is a good idea,” Brumley said.

“I didn’t sign ye on to do any thinking,” Alistair said. “Get on wi’ ye!”

Lord Brumley started along the ledge, his breathing noisy and labored. When he reached the centre of the span, the dirt beneath his feet crumbled. He screamed like a woman, clinging one-handed to the root, feet scrabbling to gain purchase on the sheer face of the remaining rock.

“Swing your legs up, man,” Lucian said as he handed the torch to Daisy and took a step back out onto the narrow lip. He curled the fingers of his right hand over a protruding rock and extended his left to the flailing Lord Brumley. “Give me your other hand.”

Brumley tried, twisting and wailing, his legs bucking wildly. Then, with a sickening crunch, the root cracked and ripped from the rock. Lord Brumley plummeted downward, his screams reverberating. Then the horrible sound stopped suddenly, his long wail a thread snipped off by a giant’s scissors.

“Wanting is ever so much more pleasurable than having. It is the difference between fancy and cold truth. As long as I desire, I may indulge my whimsy. Having crushes all hope of imagination.”

—the journal of Blanche La Tour

CHAPTER FORTY

Daisy bit her lip to keep from crying out. Lord Brumley may have wished them ill, but he was obviously a coward at heart. She shoved aside the image of his horror-stricken face. In the years to come, it would probably haunt her nightmares, but she couldn’t dwell on it now.

The tiniest candle of sympathy glowed in her heart. No one deserved to die so horribly, alone in the dark.

“Well, don’t just stand there,” Sir Alistair barked at them. “See what’s beyond yon rock.”

“Let me go first,” Lucian said.

“No, it’s too narrow here to switch places. Just raise the torch a bit so I can see.”

Daisy turned and eased herself through the stone crevice as Lucian followed close behind. After a couple feet, the space opened into a large chamber.

When Daisy’s family had found the pirate’s gold, they’d stumbled upon a partially submerged sea cave. A smuggler’s hole, Mr Meriwether named it. There, they’d discovered several large chests deposited haphazardly, with golden doubloons spilling onto the dirt, winking like fallen stars.

Now Lucian’s torchlight illuminated dozens and dozens of small crates stacked in ranks, all very methodical and organized.

The difference between a steward of Rome and a crew of pirates,
she thought with a smile.

Lucian stood transfixed. Only his torch moved, lighting the chamber from one end to the other. The entire space was crammed with crates.

“Oh, Lucian,” Daisy said, clasping his free hand. “We’ve found it.”

“Now let’s see if we can discover a way to keep it,” he said grimly.

Daisy dropped to her knees before the first chest, so giddy with excitement she’d almost forgotten Sir Alistair and his pistol. “One thing at a time. Don’t you want to see it?”

He chuckled. “I’ve seen it in my mind so often, I almost don’t need to, but since you insist.”

He knelt beside her and used his knife to pry open the crate. The wood was so rotted with age, it fairly crumbled under the pressure. He lifted the lid and the contents glinted whitely in the torchlight.

“What’s this?” He reached in and grabbed a handful, crushing it in his grip. The tiny grains trickled between his fingers and drained back into the crate, like sand in an hourglass.

“Oh.” A downward spiral in Daisy’s belly made her feel sick. “I’d forgotten. But it makes perfect sense. Of course.”

Lucian tried another crate. The same crystalline whiteness leered up at him. By the time they’d opened a sixth chest with the same result, tears trembled on Daisy’s lashes. She felt Lucian’s despair, sharp as a blade to her heart.

He drew a deep breath and picked up one of the open chests. “Let’s show Sir Alistair his treasure. By God, he can have it, and welcome.”

Daisy led the way again, carrying the torch this time, while Lucian lifted the open crate over his head to squeeze through the crevice.

“You found it?” Alistair called across to them.

“Here it is,” Lucian said. “Choke on it.”

He dumped the entire contents into the abyss.

“Are you mad?” Sir Alistair exclaimed. “What are you doing?”

“It’s salt,” Daisy explained, her tone laced with misery. “In our excitement over a treasure, we all forgot that in ancient times, the Roman legionnaires, especially those at the far reaches of the empire, were sometimes paid in salt.”

“Salarium,”
Sir Alistair said woodenly.

“Exactly. Hence the expression ‘worth his salt,’” she babbled, taking comfort in academia. “Difficult to come by. Easy to trade with the locals. I’m surprised that, as head of the Society of Antiquaries, you neglected to consider this possibility.”

“No!” Sir Alistair shouted. “There must be something else. Go back and search again.”

A clatter and scuffle erupted behind him, and Sir Alistair turned to see who was making his way down the passage. Whoever it was had taken a tumble in the dark and ruined any hope of stealth.

Daisy peered into the blackness, trying to make out the identity of the man silhouetted against the distant opening. He was picking himself up from a rather nasty fall, dusting off his clothing and mumbling curses.

“It’s my father,” Lucian said softly. Then he raised his voice. “Take care, sir. Fitzhugh is armed.”

“I know.” Lucian’s father stepped into the torchlight. His frock coat was torn and covered in dirt. A bloody brown patch was spreading on one knee of his breeches. “I armed him myself.” He nodded to Fitzhugh. “I couldn’t wait outside a moment longer. There’s no one following, so I had to come in and see how things are progressing here.” Then he turned back to Lucian. “Now be a good lad and do as Sir Alistair asks. Go look again or I might just have to shoot your lovely assistant. Miss Clavenhook, is it?”

“Bah! She’s no Clavenhook,” Sir Alistair said. “Remember, I told you—she’s Daisy Drake. But if there’s any shooting to be done, it’s Rutland who deserves a dose of lead for dragging us all on this wild-goose chase.”

Fitzhugh raised his pistol to menace them once more.

“That’s my son!” Lord Montford shouted, and lunged at Sir Alistair, who dropped his torch, but not his weapon.

The sharp report of a pistol echoed, beating a furious tattoo throughout the cave. The ball ricocheted off the rock face next to Daisy’s head. She would have crouched, but there was so little room. The acrid stench of powder filled the cavern.

“I didn’t mean to fire. I wasn’t going to—Stop, I say! No!” The earl and the knight wrestled with each other near the edge of the pit. Another long wail pierced the dark as Sir Alistair Fitzhugh fell headlong into the chasm.

Daisy feared she might be sick, but this was no time to indulge her belly. Lucian didn’t need her to have an attack of the vapours. He needed her to be strong.

Lord Montford stared down into the deep hole, as if puzzled by what had just happened. Then his face contorted in a mask of rage and he glared at Daisy.

“Just look what you made me do. A curse on all Drakes,” he yelled, and raised his pistol.

“No!” Lucian bellowed, and shoved Daisy so hard against the rock face she saw stars over his shoulder. He covered her with his body, his back to his father.

A strange sound, like a small explosion, pierced their ears. They flinched in unison. And waited. There was a soft gurgle and a thud. Then silence reigned for the space of several heartbeats.

Daisy shifted to peek under Lucian’s outstretched arm. Lord Montford’s form lay in a disordered heap, still as stone, on the far side of the pit. A shiny bit of metal protruded from one eye, and a dark stain spread under his head.

“Oh, Lucian. Your father . . .”

Lucian eased himself off her and peered across the precipice. “The barrel exploded,” he said softly. “The pistol must have become plugged with dirt when he fell on the way into the cave.”

She wanted to say something, to tell him how she ached for him, but no words would form in her mouth. She couldn’t even touch him. Lucian’s father was dead because of her. How could he ever bear to look at her again?

And even worse, how were they to escape their little oubliette now that the Jacobites and Lucian’s father were all dead? There was no way to scuttle around the narrow path, since Lord Brumley had taken such a large section down with him.

But before she could find a way to express her sorrow and voice her concern, she saw another wavering torch. Two figures were creeping toward them in the dark, one tall and well-made and the other squat and tottering.

“Who goes there?” Lucian shouted.

“Who’s asking?” came the sharp reply.

“It’s Mr Meriwether,” Daisy said to Lucian before raising her voice to ask, “Is Uncle Gabriel with you?”

“Aye, lass.” The sound of the rumbling baritone of the man who’d guarded her childhood sent relief flooding her veins. The pair came into the range of her torch, and she saw them clearly. Concern, relief and anger were etched on their dear, familiar faces.

Gabriel glared at Lucian. It was the look that had sent the fear of God into pirates and honest seamen alike when Daisy’s uncle had sailed the Spanish Main as the Cornish Dragon. To his credit, Lucian didn’t flinch. He returned Gabriel Drake’s intense gaze, and for a moment, Daisy feared they’d burn holes in each other.

“You’ve put my niece in harm’s way,” Uncle Gabriel said.

“She came willingly,” Lucian returned.

Why didn’t he tell her uncle how he’d sheltered her with his own body when his father intended to put a pistol ball through her? How he’d protected her at every turn?

How he loved her?

“Did ye find another treasure, Miss Daisy?” Meriwether asked in an attempt to lighten the mood.

“No, Meri. Not this time,” she said with a sigh. “And I’m sorry to say several men are dead because of this mythical treasure. Lord Brumley, Sir Alistair Fitzhugh and . . . Lord Montford.”

“We’ll sort that out later,” Uncle Gabriel said gruffly as he slid a loop of rope from his shoulder. “For now, I’m taking you home.”

“To love is to risk all. Yet we do it without a second’s thought because the heart knows no other course.”

—the journal of Blanche La Tour

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

Daisy picked up the queen’s rook and considered a sweeping move across the chessboard. Then she thought better of it and replaced the piece in the same square. Isabella was a serious chess player. No doubt the rook was what she was expecting, given Daisy’s usual reckless performance.