Till Dawn Tames the Night (16 page)

"I'll treat you with deference. This was Napoleon's finest." He put the tumbler right before her. "Come along,
Aurore
,
my prim little maiden. If these spirits won't affect you, then you have nothing to be afraid of. Take them."

"I don't want—" she protested, but before the words were out, he took one of her hands down from her chest and wrapped it around the tumbler. She watched while he eased himself down on the couch once more.

"What is going on aboard this ship?" she asked as soon as he was next to her. In her haste to seek some answers, she ignored the fact that her shoulder was bared when one side of her dress fell to her elbow.
"Why all these plans to kidnap me when I don't know a thing about this Star of
Aran
?"

He crossed his arms over his massive chest and studied her as if she were some delicate, delicious prey. The creamy skin of her collarbone seemed to draw his gaze like a jackal's.

"I'll tell you everything you want to know," he said slowly. "But first let me again remind you of your need to cooperate." His gaze flicked over the tumbler in her hand. "I told you to drink that. When your glass is emptied, we'll begin."

She stared down at the tumbler in her hand. What she should do was toss its contents right in his handsome face. But an action like that would only delay their conversation further, and she wanted to know what was going on, and as quickly as she could.

With a passionate hostility for him growing in her breast, she took the brandy in one defiant gulp. The fire it ignited in her throat almost suffocated her, and she spent the next entire minute suppressing a violent cough in the most discreet, ladylike manner she could. But when she had finally collected herself, she slammed the tumbler down on the table next to her and faced him, her eyes demanding answers.

"More?" He held out the decanter, the shadow of a smile crossing his lips.

"No," she said in a hoarse whisper.

He smirked and poured himself a drink. Stretching out, his long form took up most of the couch, and she was forced back against one scroll arm. Cast in her tiny section of the couch, she was sure she had never been abused by anyone as she had been abused by him, and yet, too, no matter how she wished to deny it, she was sure no one had ever intrigued her as he did. Even now, with his one arm lolling over the back of the couch and the other resting on his torso, he had to be truly the most magnificent creature she had ever seen. His hair, long, dark, and gleaming, made her almost ache to reach out and touch it, to see if those curls could possibly be as heavy and thick as they looked. His chest, covered with a fine mist of perspiration, made her wonder if it would feel cool to the touch or, instead, warm and hairy and slick. She studied his profile next. For a baseborn criminal, he possessed a strong jaw, a classic Roman nose, and a star-
tlingly
patrician brow. If she didn't know better, she would have thought him bred
to
much higher concerns.

Certainly, if he bowed at all to society's fashions, he could easily be mistaken for one of the gentry. Perhaps even a peer.

"Have some more," he suddenly said and leaned toward her with the decanter. She was about to refuse when his leg brushed intimately against her. Even that slight touch unnerved her. It conjured up that dream she had had of him—and all the uncontrollable feelings she'd felt while having it. Now she was this man's prisoner. And what he wanted from her, she didn't even know yet.

Numbly she looked down at the full glass being thrust into her hand. Though it had been torturous going down, the drink had made her feel braver by half. She had already lost one battle of wills to this man, but she was nowhere near to surrendering the war; she needed all the courage she could get. She took another sip and spent another moment choking discreetly into the back of her hand.

"What do you want, then?" she finally asked, ready for the answers.

"I want to know where the Star is, Miss Dayne.
The Star of
Aran
.
If you tell me that, you can go free."

"What is it?" she whispered.

"It's an emerald—as big as your fist. Your father stole it from the Viscount Blackwell—"

"My father!
He did no such thing!" she gasped, shocked at his words. Her father was no thief. Though her memories of him were few, her father was a kind man, a man who had taught her nursery rhymes and given her jewelry. Such a generous, noble soul couldn't possibly be a criminal too. This pirate was grievously in error.

"You don't like that, do you, me besmirching your father's character?" He smirked. "Isaac was right again. He said you'd have a difficult time believing it."

"My father didn't do such things, I tell you. You're mistaken." She glared at him.

"But he did do it. He stole that emerald,
then
put you out of harm's way in that almshouse. So where did he take it,
Aurore
?
Do you know?"

"The Home was not an almshouse, and my father did not steal. You're mistaken."

He suddenly grew impatient. He took her jaw and forced her to stare up at him. "We can quit this playacting of gentility, Miss Dayne. You're the product of a thief and an actress-
cww
-prostitute. The only reason you and your father have the same last name is because he did not object to your using it. It has nothing to do with your legitimacy."

Her face turned dead white. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying that you, my dear
proper
Miss Dayne, are a bastard."

She tore from his hold, nearly choking on her denial. "I won't hear such lies!"

He turned deadly serious. "They're not lies. I'm telling you the truth. Your mother was an actress in a halfpenny-theater in
Bethnal
Green, and she died giving birth to you, her only child. Your father raised you and probably even regarded you with some affection before he stole that emerald and took off for parts unknown, leaving you at that orphanage. What I want to know is
,
where did your father say he took the emerald?"

Aurora hardly heard him. She couldn't believe what he was saying. Her entire being rebelled at it. She was not some bastard whelped in the back of a dingy theater. She was the proud daughter of—?

The picture was blank. There were no faces of her parents for her to remember, nothing except the vague impression of a man who could have been anyone: rich man, poor man, beggar man,
thief
.

She closed her eyes. No, it could not be true. She remembered as a young girl Mrs. Bluefield reciting a line of a poem to her the one and only time she had ever summoned the courage to ask about her parents.

Oh hush thee, my
babie
,
thy sire was a knight,

Thy mother a lady, both lovely and bright.

It had been the best thing to say. All her life Aurora had ached to believe those words, and by saying them, Mrs. Bluefield had given her the courage to believe they were true. She'd worked extra hard on her manners, her decorum, her studies, all in the secret hope that one magical day the knight and the lady would arrive to retrieve her. And all the lonely years she'd spent as an orphan would be proclaimed a terrible mistake.

. . .
thy
sire was a knight,

Thy mother a lady, both lovely and bright.

Irrational tears sprang to her eyes. She quickly turned away so that he wouldn't see them. She knew she was not the only child Mrs. Bluefield had recited the poem to. Even she herself, once a teacher, had used the line to answer some of her children's questions about their backgrounds. All of them had wanted to believe the rhyme. And for none of them, not even
herself
, was it true.

"You're a wretch to be telling me these shameful lies," she said, her voice shaking with emotion.

"It's time this superior facade of yours came tumbling down."

"If I'm superior, it's because I have some honor and righteousness of spirit." She whipped around and faced him, her fury momentarily unleashed. "Unlike you, who couldn't look a snake in the
eye!
"

He paused, as if her anger surprised him, then he laughed mockingly. "Still the rigid little ice maiden, I see. Remind me, Aurora, when we reach the heat of the Caribbean, to chill my wine next to you."

She shot him a nasty glance.

He sobered. His face suddenly went rock hard. "Now I want to get back to business. Where is the Star?"

"Even if this vile accusation were true about my father, I was hardly more than a babe when I last saw him. How could I know where this Star is?"

"He taught you that nursery rhyme. He told you where it was in those silly lines. So where is the Star? Tell me and you'll be free."

She looked at him for a moment, pushing her hurt far down inside her to a place no one else could see. She could feel the spirits taking their effect, and she was glad for their release. Though her thoughts became more muddled, the liquor helped her better disregard his threatening proximity. "My father did not steal that emerald. I'll never believe it."

"Well, you must. Michael Dayne was indeed a thief, and a good one at that."

She grew quiet. She wished she had some proof of her father's good character in order to show Vashon he was wrong, but she had nothing. Only her lizard locket, which he had already tried to convince her had belonged to someone else. "Do you really know about my father?" she asked in a pitiful whisper, suddenly feeling a crack in the brittle shell she kept placed around her.

"Yes." He watched her.

"Then where is he now? Is he still alive?" Her eyes glistened with hope. She didn't want to believe Vashon knew anything about her dear father, but after all the years of loneliness, of having no connection to anyone on this earth, she'd certainly take a father who was a thief over no father at all.

"It's unlikely," he answered slowly, his eyes searching her face. "He hasn't been heard of since he abandoned you at that orphanage."

Her gaze dropped to the floor. She couldn't bear for him to see her disappointment. "You know nothing about him, but you accuse him of being a thief. Where is your proof?" she demanded, trying to cover up her vulnerability. "You dishonor my father and yet you have no proof."

Without warning, his hand slid to her throat. She shivered from the warmth of his fingers tracing over her pulse. Reverently, he picked up the lizard-shaped locket that hung around her neck.

"This is how I know," he said in a hushed tone, his gaze locking on the lizard. "This pendant was made for Lady Blackwell for the day she married. It's well known that your father stole it from her husband. It identifies you as Michael
Dayne's
daughter more eloquently than this," he touched a lock of her hair. "Your father, I'm told, had the same color hair."

"There are others who possess this hair color," she reminded him.

"But there's only one pendant. I told you that the first time we spoke."

"So you say my father's nursery rhyme tells where this emerald is?"

"Yes. I'm sure of it. The clues are there." He let the necklace fall.

Slowly her hand crept to her throat. As was her habit she fingered the locket, but this time her reaction wasn't out of nervousness. Now it was out of protection. With a slow sureness, she began to realize that she had a tool to use against this man. She wouldn't believe the wretched thing he was saying about her parents. But above all else he seemed to want this emerald, and if by some chance it was true that the whereabouts of this jewel were hidden in the words of the nursery rhyme,
then
she would see to it he never deciphered it. For she and she alone knew that the rhyme had another verse.
A second verse that was engraved inside her locket.

"Tell me everything you remember about your father. We can begin there," he said.

She swallowed. She had to keep the locket from him. But for now, as long as he and everyone else thought her lizard was merely a pendant, she was safe. "I'd like some more brandy," she said.

His brow lifted at this request. Silently he complied.

When her glass was filled once more, she groped for some appropriate answers. She knew she had to tell him enough to satisfy him, without telling him too much. In the meantime, it was best to keep her knowledge of the rhyme to herself. She'd save that as a bargaining chip, particularly if circumstances worsened. She took a sip of the brandy and glanced at him. She hated to even speculate how much worse things could get.

"I don't remember anything about my father," she began, unable not to add, "
except
, of course, he was
most
noble. But in any case, my memories of my father won't find you the emerald. It's obvious this jewel is in Ireland. By its name it belongs to the
Aran
Isles.
Though I know not which one."

"The Star came from there, that's true. But it's not there now. I've looked.
Others have looked,"
he added enigmatically.

"But if you're hoping to find the location through the rhyme, the rhyme makes no sense. How can you hope to decipher it?"