To Desire a Devil (2 page)

He didn’t give a damn what they thought. He was too busy containing the shivers of unease that racked his body. He’d not been around so many people in years—seven years to be precise. The noise was loud in his ears--carriages rattling by, people talking and shouting, and the clip-clop of iron-shod horse hooves. The movement of so many bodies dazzled his eyes, making him start at phantom attacks, giving him no place to rest his gaze. He stopped for a moment, trying to get his senses under control, but a passing soldier jostled his shoulder.

He whirled, his knife already drawn, a snarl upon his lips.

The soldier’s eyes widened and he backed away hands raised before turning and running.

“Damned French frog,” someone muttered.

He spun, seeking the speaker, but all that he saw were white faces, hostile or fearful, all of them strange and foreign. Except that wasn’t right. They weren’t foreign and he wasn’t French. He blinked and sheathed his knife, inhaling to steady himself. He was close, so close. He merely needed to contain his demons for a little while longer.

He ducked his head and continued. Months of walking had brought him here, to so-called civilization. He’d lived on what game he could hunt, on what berries and roots he could forage. Had walked through rain and searing heat. Had hidden from Indians and French and those he simply couldn’t identify. He’d stepped out of the woods seven days ago and still wasn’t used to the lack of cover around him.

Yet still he walked. He’d sacrificed too much—blood, people he’d held dear, and his own honor—to get here.

He could smell the salt of the ocean now, along with the stink of rotting fish. In another minute the harbor came into view. Tall ships sat at anchor and he could hear the cries of seagulls. His heart began to beat faster.
So close. So close.

He had no money or influence here. The clothes on his back were ragged, his moccasins were worn, and he was skeletally thin from lack of food and walking. But he would sail on a ship bound for England even if he had to scrub the decks to pay his way.

He was Reynaud St. Aubyn, the Viscount of Hope, and by God or the devil, he was going home.

Two

ACROSS AN OCEAN

The ship rolled violently, tossed by the ocean like a bull flinging off fleas, and Jenkins’ muttered prayers rose into a shriek in the dark.

“Shut yer trap,” Wilton the cook growled.

Jenkins didn’t seem to hear. His voice was high and hysterical now, imploring God, the angels, and various saints to save him from a grave at sea. Reynaud closed his eyes, drawing the filthy blanket over his shoulders as he lay in his swinging hammock. Half the men were weak from a fever, he was damnably cold, and Jenkins’ prayers were truly irritating. The ship might well go to the bottom of the sea in this storm, but he very much doubted God or any saint cared.

A dreadful cracking came from above and the first mate flung open the door. “The main mast is giving way! Everyone on deck!”

Reynaud tumbled from his hammock along with every other man in the room, scrambling to pull on shoes. He headed for the door as Jenkins screamed behind him.

“No, God, no!” Jenkins was shouting. He was a slight man, an American on his way to visit an uncle in London with the vague promise of some type of apprenticeship.

For a moment Reynaud felt sorry for the man.

Then the first mate cuffed Jenkins. “Every bleeding one of you on deck if you want to live to see the dawn!”

Reynaud ran down the passage and out the door to the deck. The night was black with the storm, the only light from the wildly swinging lanterns. He was immediately drenched to the bone by the stinging rain, even as a wave crashed over the bow.

“Frenchie! Give a hand here!” A sailor named Hood bellowed into the wind.

Reynaud stumbled toward him, sliding on the wet deck. Hood was braced, using his entire weight to hold onto a rope attached to the main mast. Reynaud grasped the rope above the other man’s hands and pulled hard.

“Have to take down the sails,” Hood panted, “afore they pull us all into the water!”

Reynaud had signed on in the lowly position of Cook’s helper, but he’d found out that in a crisis everyone helped on a ship. The sails above them were already mostly down, but they’d broken free at one end, whipping in the wind. The mast was tilting dangerously, the push of the flapping sails weighing it down.

The ship rolled, leaning so far over that Reynaud was sure they’d capsize. The fist mate was cursing and cuffing men left and right. “Hold fast! Hold fast you bloody whoresons!” Stinging seawater and rain streamed into his eyes and a shiver racked his frame. Reynaud was suddenly at once freezing cold and burning hot. He gripped the rope, feeling the skin abrading from his palms.

The ship lurched and suddenly righted itself. At the same time there was a terrible wail and Jenkins slid across the deck and tumbled overboard.

For a moment Reynaud merely stared at the place where the man had fallen over.

Then Hood leaned over and bawled in his ear. “Always fancied his smoking pipe.”

Jesus.
He was in a den of thieves. Reynaud concentrated on holding the rope, pulling grimly. He could show no weakness or they’d fall upon him like wolves. He would not let that happen. He’d not succumb to the storm, the fever, or the predators on the ship.

Whatever happened he was making it home.

Three

ENGLAND

London was a brown and gray miasma, Reynaud thought hazily as he glanced over his shoulder and saw the docks. He pulled with all his strength on the rowboat oars, but one still caught and skimmed over the top of the waves.

“Feelin’ poorly, are ye, Frenchie?” Hood asked with mock solicitude from behind him.

Reynaud ignored him. To rise to the bait would only show weakness and that he could ill-afford. He was nearly there, nearly home. His heart beat in a too-fast flurry, a sign of the illness he’d recovered from only recently. For days he’d lain in his swinging hammock, his hand on his unsheathed knife, hallucinating night attacks. Except when Reynaud had finally felt well enough to rise, Hood had had a new scar on his jaw and one of the other sailors a slash in his sleeve. Not all of the attacks had been nightmares, it seemed.

They docked the rowboat and Reynaud leapt ashore as agilely as he could. His muscles ached, his very bones ached, and he could feel sweat break out along his hairline, but he stood on English soil at last.

“D’you need some help?” Hood asked.

Reynaud shook his head, walking swiftly along the dock. His father’s town house was in the West End of London naturally, and he’d have to get there by foot. He had nothing to his name but the clothes on his back and the knife hanging at his side.

Time wavered and slipped away as he staggered.

When next Reynaud was aware, he realized someone was following him. The area he was in was poor. A beggar lolled in a doorway, watching him as he stumbled past. Was the beggar a lookout? Footsteps rushed toward him and Reynaud whirled, the knife in his hand. He braced his feet wide apart, throwing back his head and snarling. Two youths had been coming toward him, but they faltered, their eyes widening at the look on his face.

“Find some other prey,” Reynaud growled, and they scattered.

The sun was overhead now. Reynaud continued, his feet dragging, his knife in his hand. People he met made a wide berth around him. He walked and walked for hours and then suddenly—miraculously—his father’s house was before him.

He squinted, staring, wondering if he was dreaming. But the door with its brass knocker in the shape of a lion’s head was still there. He hung his knife by his side and mounted the steps of his home. He was breathing heavily, sweat had cooled down his back, and the very door wavered before his eyes.

Reynaud grit his teeth and knocked. He would not collapse now, so close to his goal. Only minutes more and he would see his father. He would be home.

The door opened to reveal the face of a strange butler. The man’s lip curled as he looked Reynaud up and down. He began to shut the door.

Reynaud slammed his palm flat against the door, preventing it from shutting. “I am Reynaud St. Aubyn, Viscount Hope. Show me to my father.”

Thank you to my aunt,
Kay Kerr,
for her help with French phrases—any mistakes are my own; to my agent,
Susannah Taylor
, for her good humor; to my editor,
Amy Pierpont
, for bringing this book together; to the super GCP sales team, including
Bob Levine
; to the wonderful GCP publicity department, including
Melissa Bullock, Anna Balasi,
and
Tanisha Christie
; to the amazing GCP art department, particularly
Diane Luger
; and to my fantastic copy editor,
Carrie Andrews
, for spotting my more embarrassing grammatical whoppers.

Thank you all!

Once upon a time, in a country without a name, a soldier was traveling home from war. He’d marched many miles with three friends,
but at a crossroads, each had chosen a different way and continued on while our soldier had stopped to pick a pebble from
his shoe. Now he sat alone.

The soldier put his shoe back on, but he was not yet interested in continuing his journey. He’d been many years away at war,
and he knew no one waited for him at home. Those who might’ve welcomed his return had long ago died. And if they hadn’t, he
wasn’t sure they would recognize the man he’d become over the years. When a man goes away to war, he never returns the same.
Fear and want, courage and loss, killing and tedium all work on him subtly, minute by minute, day by day, year by year, until
in the end he is entirely changed, a distortion for good or bad of the man he once was.

So our soldier sat on a rock and contemplated these things as the breeze blew coolly against his cheeks. By his side lay a
great sword, and it was in honor of this sword that he was named.

For he was called Longsword….

—from
Longsword

Longsword’s sword was quite extraordinary, for not only was it heavy, sharp, and deadly, but also it could be wielded only
by Longsword himself….

—from
Longsword

L
ONDON
, E
NGLAND

O
CTOBER
1765

Few events are as boring as a political tea. The hostess of such a social affair is often wildly desirous for something—
anything
—to occur at her party so as to make it more exciting.

Although, perhaps a dead man staggering into the tea was a little
too
exciting, Beatrice Corning reflected later.

Up until the dead-man-staggering-in bit, things had gone as usual with the tea party. Which was to say it was crashingly dull.
Beatrice had chosen the blue salon, which was, unsurprisingly, blue. A quiet, restful,
dull
blue. White pilasters lined the walls, rising to the ceiling with discreet little curlicues at their tops. Tables and chairs
were scattered here and there, and an oval table stood at the center of the room with a vase of late Michaelmas daisies. The
refreshments included thinly sliced bread with butter and small, pale pink cakes. Beatrice had argued for the inclusion of
raspberry tarts, thinking that they at least might be
colorful,
but Uncle Reggie—the Earl of Blanchard to everyone else—had balked at the idea.