Thief of Hearts (3 page)

She slipped her arms into the sleeves of her linen cambric nightdress and pulled it over her head. The gown was long-sleeved, high-necked, and very full. But she was naked underneath, and she'd never in her life felt so defenseless. Would Nicholas hurt her? Not deliberately, she was sure. But there was a medical book in her father's library, hidden in an obscure alcove on a top shelf, and she'd long ago devoured every word in it that related even remotely to human reproduction. It said that men derived pleasure from coupling and women did not. In fact, it stated explicitly that for a woman to experience passion during intercourse was a disturbing abnormality that ought not to be left untreated.

She could grasp the rudiments of the act well enough to understand why it might be painful; it was this unspoken insinuation that it was also degrading that puzzled and distressed her. A great deal of money had been lavished on her education and it had not gone to waste: she was intelligent, accomplished, and most important, a proper young lady. It could never have been said that in her entire life she had behaved toward the opposite sex with anything but irreproachable propriety. Yet on the seven occasions when Nicholas had kissed her during their six-month-long engagement, not once had she felt degraded.

She reached for her dressing gown at the moment Nicholas called to her, with a flattering touch of real impatience this time, "Anna, must I come in there and get you?"

"No, I'm…"

"Now, who in the world?"

She heard it at the same time he did, a brisk knock at the outer door. Padding to the bedroom door, she opened it a crack and peeped out. Who could it possibly be? Aiden again? Neil, playing a trick?

She saw her husband take a startled step back as a tall man in a mask shoved his way inside the cottage. "Who are you?" Nicholas had time to ask. Anna threw the door open wide. She saw no weapon, but an instinct made her scream. The man hoisted his arm high and slashed it down in a fast chopping arc. She screamed again, clutching at her hair. Nicholas made a sighing sound, then dropped to his knees and toppled over backwards.

The thick black hilt of a knife jutted from the center of his chest.

Primitive fear rooted her in place, her back pressed against the wall. Her breath caught in the top of her lungs and her throat closed in impotent panic, choking off more screams. The masked man peered at her, she could see his eyes behind two slits in the brown wool that covered his face. Time stopped. His gloved hands clenched and unclenched; she could sense his uncertainty as clearly as if he'd spoken it. At last a noise in the open door released them from their staring, speechless trance, and he whirled away from her.

"Bloody 'ell!" shouted a giant of a man in a checked coat.

The murderer backed slowly toward the fireplace, and Anna saw his purpose just before he reached down and seized the iron poker. The giant advanced on him, huge fists raised, no fear in his wide, vacant face. He stopped four feet away. The masked man glanced at the open door, feinted toward it, then abruptly lunged with the poker, landing a stunning blow to the big man's collarbone and making him stagger. The murderer scurried around him.

Anna saw that he was going to escape. Without a thought, she stumbled between him and the door. The poker jerked high in the air again and she cried out, flinging up her hands. Too late! She heard a rush of air and felt a crushing impact against her temple. Blinding light, as if her head were blowing up. A stench like burning in her nostrils. Then nothing.

Rain thudded in solid, heavy drops against the porthole glass, blearing the already-obscure view of churning whitecaps, black troughs of water, and bilious sky. The oil lamp that swung overhead from a hook barely illuminated the cabin, although it was midday. The room contained only one cot, a chair, and a small wooden chest. A woman lay on the cot; small and frail-looking, she appeared to be sleeping. A man leaned against the porthole. With hands stuffed into the pockets of his pinstriped frock coat, he stared out at the gray, liquid vista without seeing.

His pleasantly ordinary face was pale, unshaven, and marked with lines of distress. He wore his black hair parted in the middle, his graying sidewhiskers short and neat. He turned at a sound from the bed; but the sleeper had only sighed, and slept on. His troubled brown eyes softened as he watched her. With a quick shake of the head, Aiden O'Dunne dropped his gaze and trod softly past the cot to the other side of the cabin.

Two trunks rested on the floor at opposite sides of the door. He opened one, saw the feminine apparel inside, and immediately closed it. He went to the other. Working swiftly, he searched the contents with dogged thoroughness, even testing the satin lining at the bottom for loose stitches. Among the clothes and toiletries were two small books, both guides for travelers to the Continent. He shook them lightly by their spines, but nothing fluttered from their pages. He thumbed through them rapidly. The second,
An Englishman's Guide to Rome
, had pen notations jotted on the inside back cover. O'Dunne scanned the markings, then slowly stood up.

He carried the book to the chair beside the bed and dropped down into it. His face was grim, his mild eyes bleak with worry. After a moment he put his head in his hands and stared between his shoes at the floor.

There was a rattle at the door, and O'Dunne sprang up from his chair at the moment it opened. A tall, stoop-shouldered man swayed with the motion of the ship for a minute in the threshold, then moved inside and shut the door behind him. "Find something?"

O'Dunne started to shake his head, making a deprecatory gesture at the book he still held in his hand. "It's nothing, just some…"

"Let me see."

He hesitated a fraction of a second, then handed the book to the other man. "It's some scribblings, probably just…"

"This is it." Roger Dietz leaned against the door and stared hard at the hand-written message on the inside back cover. "Exactly what we've been looking for." When he glanced up, his faded gray eyes glittered with excitement. "This is it."

"How can you be so sure? It's abbreviated, cryptic, it could mean anything."

"Don't be stupid, it couldn't be any plainer." Dietz's craggy face softened. "Sorry. I know he was your friend and this is hard for you. But there's no doubt."

There was a low moan from the bed, and O'Dunne broke in hotly, "Never mind that, she needs a doctor! You've already as good as kidnapped her. If anything happens to…"

"She'll be all right, O'Dunne, I've told you. She'll regain full consciousness any time now."

"That's what you said hours ago. She hasn't a strong constitution to begin with, and this storm isn't doing her any good. If it gets worse…"

"Go up on deck," Dietz interrupted crisply. "You need some fresh air. Or else see to the prisoner give Flowers a break. Mrs. Balfour will be fine. I've had some experience—"

"Aiden?" Anna tried to lift her head from the pillow, failed, and put a shaky hand over her eyes to shield them from the dim lantern light. "Are you here?"

O'Dunne hurried to the cot and perched gingerly on its edge. "I'm here, my dear. How do you feel? You're going to be fine now."

The light didn't seem quite so piercing. She pulled her hand away and squinted up at him. "What's happened, what is this place? Is it a boat?" She knew it was, but how could it be?

A man she'd never seen before loomed up behind Aiden's shoulder. "You're on a government-requisitioned sailing ship, Mrs. Balfour, en route to France," he said.

None of those words made any sense; they sounded like gibberish. She gazed blankly at the stranger for a few more seconds, then back at Aiden.

He took one of her hands. "Do you remember what happened?"

She closed her eyes in fierce concentration; then her face cleared and she smiled sweetly. "I'm married. Where's Nicholas?" Aiden paled and looked away. Her smile wavered. "What's happened? I don't remember. What's wrong with me?"

"Anna…"

"Your husband is dead, ma'am," the stranger said quietly. "He was stabbed to death by the same man who knocked you unconscious."

She felt no despair, only bewilderment and disbelief, and yet tears sprang to her eyes. "No," she said positively, pushing back with her elbows to sit up straighter. "Nicholas? Oh no, that can't—Aiden? Who is this man? What's happened?"

O'Dunne's face was grim and miserable. "I'm so sorry, my dear, but it's true. Nick's been killed."

She tried to laugh, then clutched at her temples when a shocking spasm of pain sliced through her brain like a dull razor. If only she could think! "I don't believe you," she said. "Why are you saying that? Where is he?"

"Listen to me." Aiden pressed her back to the pillow and she lay with her eyes tightly closed, hating and dreading the sad, gentle sound of his voice. "Nicholas is dead. I'm so very sorry. You were married two days ago. Do you remember? Afterward, you went to Nick's friend's cottage. A man came. He wore a mask. He killed Nick and he tried to kill you. You've been unconscious since then."

Nicholas, dead. Dead. She covered her face with her hands, pressed them against her eye sockets. If it was true, she wanted to be dead too. She muttered thick, garbled words of grief and denial into her palms as her mind teetered between incredulity and anguish.

"One of my men was outside, ma'am, watching the house. He tried to stop it but he was too late. The killer left his mark on him, too."

She dragged her hands away, and both men flinched at the sight of her face. She couldn't speak at all now; her enormous eyes asked the question.

"My name is Roger Dietz. I'm employed in a confidential capacity in the Ministry. We've had your husband under surveillance for six months because we—"

"Dietz, for God's sake—"

"Because," the tall man continued steadily, "we suspected him of selling Jourdaine-built ships to the American Confederacy."

Gibberish again. Her head was splitting. "Selling Jourdaine ships… to the Confederacy." She swallowed. "I don't understand." Tears trickled down her cheeks.

"Do you have to go into this now? She's ill, she needs to rest. I won't let you do this."

Dietz sighed, half in sympathy, half in exasperation. "Very well. I'll spell Flowers with the prisoner for a while." He braced one arm against the wall as the ship gave a sudden lurch. "I'm very sorry for all this, Mrs. Balfour," he said, sounding uncomfortable. He looked as if he might say more, but the moment passed and he only cleared his throat and muttered, "I'll come back in a little while," before he turned and left the cabin.

Selling Jourdaine ships to the Confederacy
, Anna's brain repeated as she stared past Aiden at the closed door. Nicholas? What nonsense. It was false and absurd, an impossibility, and so must his "death" be. All of it must be a mistake. "Aiden," she said hastily, batting away a cup he was holding toward her, "this is insane, Nicholas isn't dead. Something's wrong, you've misinterpreted it, he can't possibly—"

"It's true, Anna. It's true."

His conviction infuriated her. "Damn you, did you see his body?"

He shut his eyes and nodded, and all the fight went out of her. A merciful emptiness descended. Minutes passed. She was dimly conscious that Aiden still sat beside her, that the sea was growing rougher. Once he spoke, urging her to eat. The very thought brought her to the brink of nausea. He held a cup to her lips again and said something in his stem, lawyer's voice; she gave up and swallowed a mouthful of cold, bitter tea, shuddering afterward.