The Magnificent Rogue

O
N THE
R
UN
C
OUNTDOWN
B
LIND
A
LLEY
F
IRESTORM
F
ATAL
T
IDE
D
EAD
A
IM
N
O
O
NE TO
T
RUST
B
ODY OF
L
IES
F
INAL
T
ARGET
T
HE
S
EARCH
T
HE
K
ILLING
G
AME
T
HE
F
ACE OF
D
ECEPTION
A
ND
T
HEN
Y
OU
D
IE
L
ONG
A
FTER
M
IDNIGHT
T
HE
U
GLY
D
UCKLING
L
ION’S
B
RIDE
D
ARK
R
IDER
M
IDNIGHT
W
ARRIOR
T
HE
B
ELOVED
S
COUNDREL
T
HE
M
AGNIFICENT
R
OGUE
T
HE
T
IGER
P
RINCE
L
AST
B
RIDGE
H
OME
T
HE
G
OLDEN
B
ARBARIAN
R
EAP THE
W
IND
S
TORM
W
INDS
T
HE
W
IND
D
ANCER

January 29, 1587
Sheffield, England

M
ermaid!

Kate bolted upright in bed, chest rising and falling as she tried to still the panic tearing through her.

Had she screamed out the word? Dear God, let it not have happened. Yet her throat felt so raw, she knew she had betrayed herself.

She scrambled back against the headboard, wiping the tears from her cheeks as her gaze fixed fearfully on the door.

If she had screamed, they would soon come. She would hear the footsteps, and then the door would open.…

No sound yet. Perhaps she had not cried out, and if she had, maybe she had not awakened them. Perhaps God would be merciful, and she would be allowed to—

Footsteps.

Her eyes shut as terror closed around her. She braced herself, trying to smother the fear. She would not let them see her weakness, she thought fiercely. They would deny it, but she knew they liked to see her afraid. It was a weapon in the battle they waged against her. She was not usually so lacking in strength, but after the dream she always felt so frightened and lost that—

“Ah, my child. The dream again?”

Her lids flicked open, and she saw Sebastian Landfield standing in the doorway, illuminated by the single candle in the pewter holder he carried. His nightshirt and frayed gray robe clung to his thin body, making it appear frail. His rumpled white hair formed a shining halo about his lined face, and his gray eyes glittered with moisture as he looked at her. “I prayed it would not come. How it hurts me to see you suffer.”

“I’m not suffering.” She couldn’t resist the small defiance, though she knew she would pay for it.

He came forward to stand beside her bed and put the candle on the nightstand. “How can you say that when you woke us from deep sleep with your torment?” He reached out and gently touched a lock of hair on her forehead. “And, look, your thrashing about has loosened your hair from your nightcap.”

Blast it, she should have remembered to put on the cap. She carefully avoided darting a guilty glance at the despised night bonnet she had tossed impatiently on the bedside table before she went to sleep.

Sebastian’s glance shifted to the cap. “It appears suspiciously tidy for having undergone such punishment, doesn’t it?” He looked back at her. “But I know you would not have disobeyed me and left your hair unconfined. You have been so good of late.”

She quickly changed the subject. “I’m sorry I disturbed you, sir. I would not have—”

“It is no disturbance to be called to my duty,” he interrupted. “It is God’s will. His fingers traced the path of tears down her cheek. “Though Martha was not overpleased to have her rest broken.”

She wished he would not caress her cheek with those long, cold fingers. It seemed he was touching her more of late. She turned her head to avoid it. “I will give her my apologies. Where is she?”

“She will be here soon.” He smiled sadly. “And I think you know where I had to send her.”

To the top drawer of the cabinet in the scullery downstairs.

Kate shivered as she visualized Sebastian’s stocky wife moving down the steps, a grim smile of pleasure on her face.

“Martha thinks you’re too old to be having these dreams,” Sebastian said softly. “She believes it’s only pretense, that you woke us out of spite.”

She looked at him in bewilderment. “Why would I be so stupid as to do such a thing?”

“Oh, I do not think you would. Martha is not always clever about people.” His hand moved down to caress her throat. “And sixteen is not such a great age. There is still time to chasten and form you. Now why do you suppose you had the dream tonight?”

She didn’t answer.

“Silence? Meekness is a virtue, but I don’t think this lack of words is caused by meekness. Tell me of the dream. Was it the same?”

He knew it was always the same. She had cursed herself a hundred times for telling him about the mermaid, but she had only been a child when the dream started. She had not realized how powerful a weapon it would prove to him.

“Tell me,” he repeated softly. “You know it is for the best. Confess your sin, my child.”

She could lie to him and tell him the dream was not about the mermaid. He might believe her.

Anger flared through her. She would
not
lie. It wasn’t fair.
He
wasn’t fair. “You’re wrong. It wasn’t a sin.” Her voice trembled with rage. “It was only a dream. How could a dream be a sin?”

“Ah, here it comes,” he murmured. “Those golden eyes are blazing at me. All my efforts these long years, and you’ve learned so little. You pretend docility, but no matter how I try to tame your bold ways, there comes a time when you turn and rend me.”

“Because it’s not true! I did not sin.” Did he think
she didn’t know the difference? Sin was what she felt when she wanted to pull his hair out and kick his chicken-thin legs. Sin was what she felt when rage blackened within her at one of Martha’s spiteful remarks.

“I’ve explained all this to you before,” he said patiently. “Your soul flies free when you slumber and wallows in corruption. Why do you not understand?” He leaned forward, his eyes glittering with the fanaticism of his conviction. “You know how sinful you are. How could you not be depraved? You’re the seed of a libertine planted in the womb of the greatest harlot born to man. The only way you may be saved from eternal damnation is through me. Now, confess. You dreamed of the mermaid?”

The resistance suddenly seeped out of her. It would do no good to deny it, she thought wearily. “Yes.”

He relaxed slightly. “Very good. Now we must determine what led to this sin.” His gaze narrowed on her face. “What did you do today?”

“I studied with Master Gywnth. I helped madam make candles.”

“Is that all?”

She bit her lower lip. “After I finished my chores, I went for a ride on Caird.”

“Ah. To the village?”

“No, the path through the forest.” Memories flowed back to her, soothing her: cool, verdant foliage, the smell of earth dampened from the recent rains, the smooth slide of Caird’s muscles beneath her, the velvet feel of his muzzle beneath her palm as she had patted him while leading him to the brook to drink.

“You would not tell me an untruth? You spoke to no one?”

“No one.” She met his gaze and burst out, “No one, I tell you. Even if I had gone to the village, you know they will not speak to me. Not since you—”

“Then it must have been the ride itself.” He frowned. “I never approved of letting you learn to ride. Such freedom is not good for one as weak in spirit as you. It encourages all sorts of—”