Velvet Chains (Historical Romance) (8 page)

"Yes, as a matter of fact I do. I have a plantation in Virginia."

"I have read about Virginia. It is lovely, is it not?"

"I think so, my lady. I would compare it to your English countryside."

"You have been to England?"

"Yes, on several occasions. My mother was from England, and I attended Eton with Edmund."

Suddenly Season realized that it was improper for her to be alone with Lucas Carrington. She remembered Edmund's warning and knew she was committing a serious breach of etiquette. She did not want to start tongues wagging about her here in the Colonies.

"I must go," she said, rising to her feet.

"Must you leave?" Lucas asked, standing up and towering above her.

"Yes, I'm sure it isn't proper for us to be seen together. It wouldn't be wise to start tongues to wagging. Gossip can be very cruel." Season lowered her head so she wouldn't have to look into those disturbing, golden eyes. When she looked up, she saw amusement behind his lowered lashes.

"Have you found that to be so, my lady?"

"Yes, of course ... I mean I have seldom been alone with a man. ... I didn't have too many gentlemen callers since I lived in the country."

Season was startled when Lucas Carrington took her hand, and she could feel her face flush. The strong charge of electricity that flowed between them upset Season.

"Maidenly blushes become you, my lady," he said in a deep voice.

"Insolence doesn't become you, sir," she chided, jerking her hand from his grip.

Deep laughter filled the room. "Tell me, underneath all that powder on your head, is your hair perchance red as your temper would indicate, or is it a brilliant golden color?"

"You go too far, sir! If you are representative of the men from the Colonies, then I can well do without your acquaintance. I can tell you didn't benefit by your education at Eton." Season's temper was rising by degrees.

Still he seemed amused by her. "It's true, I have not the pretty manners of your English-bred gentlemen, but take heart; you will find I am not the rule, but the exception. My fellow countrymen would be able to hold their own with a beautiful lady, such as yourself." A smile played on his sensuous lips, and his golden eyes sparkled with mirth.

Season gathered up her gown and brushed past Lucas Carrington. "I will bid you good-bye, sir."

His laughter followed her out the room.

When she reached the ballroom, Season searched the crowd for Colonel Tibbs. The whole evening had gone from bad to worse as far as she was concerned. She was to marry a man who was insulting and who couldn't keep his hands off her, and she wondered what she had ever seen in Lucas Carrington. She was aware that he had been talking down to her with hidden remarks and innuendos. He was an egotist and a scoundrel, and it had been apparent that he did not think much of her.

At last she spied Colonel Tibbs and headed in his direction. When she reached his side, he was deep in conversation with another officer, so she waited, not wanting to interrupt them.

"Did I hear you say The Raven was sighted last night?" Colonel Tibbs asked.

"Yes. He was spotted near the docks by two of my men," the other officer confirmed.

"Good Lord, he grows bolder with time. I assume he made his escape as he always does?"

"Yes, I'm afraid so. My men gave chase, but The Raven seemed to disappear into thin air."

"Of whom do you speak?" Season asked, interested.

"No one you need concern yourself with, my lady," Colonel Tibbs assured her.

"You spoke of a Raven, but I gather you weren't speaking of a bird," Season said, refusing to be put off.

"That's true," Edmund stated, coming up beside Season and giving her a slight smile. "The Raven is a great irritant to us. He sneaks about in the shadows, and it is said he sails on a phantom ship called the Andromeda."

By now Sir Henry Clinton had joined the group as had several of the ladies. "The Raven is more than an irritant to the crown, Edmund," Sir Henry declared in his boisterous voice. "He seems to be in two places at once. Somehow he always knows how to strike at us where he can do the most harm."

"Is he a pirate?" Season asked, her eyes wide.

"He is a pirate, a traitor, and many other names I could never say in front of a lady," the general replied.

"What does he do?" Season pressed.

"In the past six months, The Raven has been responsible for taking five of our merchant ships which were loaded with uniforms and badly needed supplies. He is a most unscrupulous villain," Sir Henry declared.

"Do you know who he is?" Season's curiosity was aroused.

"No," replied Colonel Tibbs. "Whoever knows his identity, isn't telling it. He wears a black hood which hides his true face.

"That's correct," agreed Sir Henry, "but I have high hopes that we will soon capture the traitor. Only this afternoon my men arrested a man called Silas Dunsberry. It is thought that this man knows the true identity of The Raven."

Lucas Carrington joined the group and his eyes locked with his cousin Edmund's.

"Who knows, perhaps I am this villain you speak of," Edmund said, a grim expression on his face.

"Most unlikely, Edmund," Sir Henry retorted. "You wouldn't then have so much time to spend in the company of ladies. ..." Sir Henry's voice trailed off as he realized his remarks were most unseemly. He cleared his throat as Season sent Edmund a scalding glance.

Suddenly Season had had enough of this ball. All she wanted to do was leave. "I wonder if you would mind taking me home, Colonel Tibbs? I seem to be frightfully weary," she stated to her escort.

Sir Henry summoned a lackey and sent him to fetch Lady Season's wrap. "I wish you farewell, my lady," the general said gallantly. "I take ship tomorrow," he added, taking her proffered hand and raising it to his lips. "I will hope to see you at a later date—perhaps, at your wedding."

Season raised her eyes to see Lucas Carrington staring at her with something akin to hatred burning in his golden gaze. His glance sent shivers down her spine, and she looked quickly away. She wasn't even aware that Edmund stood beside her until he reached for her hand.

"I will call on you tomorrow morning, if that is agreeable to you," Edmund said, taking Season's cape and placing it about her shoulders. Season knew it was no accident that his hand brushed against her breast.

"I'm sorry, but I plan to sleep quite late tomorrow," she replied, scalding him with her green gaze.

Edmund's eyes narrowed and he took her by the arm, steering her toward the door and out of earshot of the others. "Very well, Season, I will see you after luncheon."

"No, that will not do. I promised Mrs. Tibbs I would spend the afternoon with her—she hasn't been feeling well." Season raised her chin and challenged Edmund with her eyes.

By now they had been joined by Colonel Tibbs, and Edmund turned to him. "Do you think it would be possible for your wife to forego the pleasure of Season's company tomorrow, so she and I could become better acquainted?"

"Oh, to be sure. I will speak to Edna about it when I arrive home."

Season knew she was trapped. Realizing that she could no longer object without causing a scene, she relented. "I will expect you after luncheon, then Edmund."

Her words were sweetly spoken, but Edmund could read the defiance in her glance.

He smiled slightly, but his blue eyes were as cold as ice. "I look forward to tomorrow." With a curt bow he turned and walked away.

On the coach ride home, Season had many things to ponder. Tonight she had met a man who was handsome enough to make a young girl's heart soar on the wings of love. Yes, Lucas Carrington could fulfill her maidenly dreams, except that he was arrogant and opinionated, and he caused Season's temper to rise. Furthermore, she had discovered that her intended husband, Edmund Kensworthy, didn't hold her in the highest regard.

The two men were nothing alike, and yet each had touched her life in a different way. Season was discovering that it wasn't much fun to be the daughter of a duke. Perhaps, had she come from humble parentage, she would have been allowed to fall in love and marry the man of her choice.

Season's first week in America was drawing to a close. So far it had been disappointing in every respect. If only Edmund had not turned out to be her intended bridegroom... if Lucas Carrington had been her betrothed . . . What a promise of pleasure and fulfillment his golden eyes had offered her tonight, but why had they turned so cold by the end of the evening?

Season turned to Colonel Tibbs. "Tell me, Colonel, is Lucas Carrington married?"

"No, my lady. It is said that no woman can tie him down, though if rumor is to be believed, many have tried."

Season felt relief wash over her, although she wondered why she should care whether or not Mr. Carrington was married. Most probably she would never see him again.

Stop it, she chided herself. Lucas Carrington isn't for you. Stop being a dreamer and face facts. Edmund Kensworthy is your chosen bridegroom, and this time you will obey your father's wishes. Still, she felt wretched knowing that before the month was out she would be Edmund's wife.

6

Season sat before the vanity while Molly draped a white cloth about her shoulders. Her eyelids were heavy as she watched her maid unpin her hair and brush the powder from her golden tresses. Season coughed and held her nose as the thin white powder filtered through the air, threatening to choke her.

"I liked it much better when we lived at Chatsworth and I didn't have to bother with powdering my hair, Molly," Season exclaimed, her eyes stinging from the flying particles.

"Now, my lady, you mustn't mind the powder. It's the fashion, and you no longer live in the country," her maid reminded her.

"I still think it a frivolous waste of time," Season stated, covering her eyes with her hands.

"Do you know what my mother told me was the beginning of ladies powdering their hair?" Molly asked, in a jovial mood.

Season covered a yawn. "No," she said, wincing in pain as Molly brushed a tangle from her hair.

"She told me the style must have gotten its start when some lady of quality didn't like the color of her hair and wanted all other ladies to look as dowdy as she did."

Season smiled at Molly in the mirror. "Your mother was a wise woman. It could be that there is some truth to that statement."

Molly held the hairbrush suspended while she studied her lady's face. "What was your cousin, Edmund Kensworthy, like? Was he handsome?"

Season's eyes locked with Molly's, and the maid could read unhappiness and disillusionment in her glance. "I cannot say that I like him overmuch. He reminds me of a younger version of Lord Ransford." Season hadn't meant to be so blunt, but she had always felt close to Molly. In the past she had confided many things to her maid. "Perhaps I am being unfair to Edmund. He would be considered handsome ... I suppose."

"You may not like Mr. Edmund, but something or someone has put the blush to your cheeks," Molly observed with her usual uncanny perceptiveness. Molly removed the white cloth from Season's shoulders, taking care not to spill any of the powder on the floor, all the while eying her young mistress.

"It was the cold night air that put the color in my cheeks, Molly, nothing more."

"Hmm, I wonder?" the maid said, grinning.

Season stood up, allowing her maid to unfasten her laces so she could breathe more freely. Next, layer after layer of delicately embroidered petticoats were removed, then the two whalebone rings. Season pulled a white lace nightdress over her head and slipped between the bed covers.

Clamping her hands about her legs, she bit her lower lip reflectively. "Molly, do you believe that there is such a thing as instant love?"

The maid, who had been putting Season's clothing away, paused to look at her lady. "I suspect there might be something akin to instant lust, but I don't know about the love part. To my way of thinking a woman can be as happy with one man as another—long as he don't beat her and is good to her."

"Have you ever seen a man with golden eyes?" Season asked dreamily.

Molly walked over to the bed and peered at Season intently. "I once saw a bird with golden eyes, but never a man. Why do you ask?"

"No reason. I was just curious, that's all." Season lay back against a fluffy pillow. "Gold is a strange color for eyes, is it not?" she reflected.

"Who are you talking about, my lady?" Molly asked suspiciously. I hope it's your cousin who has brought that dreamy expression to your face, but something tells me it ain't."

"No it isn't Edmund. Molly, I met the most extraordinary man tonight. His hair was as black as midnight—he had broad shoulders and was extremely tall. His golden eyes seemed to look deep inside me to some secret place that I never knew existed."

Molly sat down on the edge of the bed and took Season's hand. "Oh, my lady, this cannot be. This man is not for you. Who is he?"

"A planter from Virginia."

"A Colonist!" Molly said, her voice filled with horror as if Season had just announced that the man had the plague. "You could never marry a common man, your father would never allow it."

Season sighed heavily. "This man would never ask me to be his wife, Molly. For some unknown reason he seemed to view me with contempt. I don't know why. At first he was friendly enough, but later on he looked at me with such . . . loathing."

"It's just as well," Molly said, standing up. "It appears to me you had best put this man out of your mind and think more about the man you are to wed. No good can come over mooning after something that can never be."

"It was strange," Season continued, not heeding her maid's warning, "when we first met, it was as if we weren't strangers at all. When he looked at me I felt all funny inside, and it frightened me. His name is Lucas . . . Lucas Carrington, a planter from Virginia."

Molly shook her head. "Uh-huh, I know the feelings you're talking about. If you want my advice, you'll put this Lucifer out of your mind."

"His name is not Lucifer, Molly, it's Lucas—Lucas Carrington."

"Same thing if you ask me. I'm warning you, there ain't no good gonna come out of your thinking about him."

Season looked perplexed. "You are always preaching gloom and doom to me, Molly. I hoped when I told you about Mr. Carrington you would understand my feelings."

"I understand better than you do. It wasn't love that attracted you to that man; it was lust pure and simple— or unpure and not so simple," Molly stated firmly. "I know his kind, and they bed a different woman every night. You are just too young and inexperienced to deal with a man of this cut."

"You haven't met him. How could you sit in judgment of his character?"

"Oh, I know him all right. I have lived twenty years longer than you have, my lady. As me mother would say, I have been around the bush a few times. Heed my words and forget about this man."

"Snuff out the candle, Molly. I don't want to talk to you any longer," Season ordered sourly.

Molly did as she was told, mumbling all the while about some people not wanting to hear good advice.

Season closed her eyes when she heard Molly leave the room. She knew deep inside that much of what Molly had said made sense. Still . . . Lucas Carrington had struck a cord inside her heart that had never been played before.

Season had no way of knowing that at that very moment her future was being taken out of her hands. She was unaware of the dark, cloaked figure that stood beneath her bedroom window and waited for the house to darken.

The Raven had anchored the Andromeda in a secret cove off the New Jersey coast for over two weeks, not daring to bring her into New York harbor because it was bottled up by the British. His ship was very vulnerable to the guns of the British fleet. Only a mission of great importance would have caused him to risk his vessel and the lives of his crew.

Raising his face to the window on the second floor, The Raven watched as the light was extinguished and the room became dark. Quickly, he pulled his dark hood over his head to conceal his identity. After a few moments passed, he placed his foot on the trellis that led to Lady Season Chatworth's bedroom, testing it for sturdiness.

How easy it had been to find out which of the bedrooms Lady Season occupied. He had spent thirty minutes with the upstairs maid, and she had gladly given him all the information he required. He smiled to himself. The maid, Doreen, had been a delight in more ways than one. He had had the added pleasure of bedding the saucy little wench.

The trellis seemed well able to support The Raven's weight so he climbed silently toward his goal. In no time at all he had reached the outside ledge of Lady Chatsworth's window. The window was unlocked so he cautiously slid it upward.

Hearing a noise, The Raven glanced below him and spotted the sentry who was guarding the house. He wasn't worried, however. He had anticipated a guard when such an important guest was staying at the Tibbs's house. He smiled as he watched Doreen make her way toward the unsuspecting man on guard duty. Her hips swayed enticingly and she carried a jug of drugged ale. He laughed silently, thinking the maid would have no trouble distracting the sentry long enough for him to accomplish his mission.

Suddenly Season opened her eyes, fully alert. She could feel a cold draft coming from the open window. She sat up, knowing the window had been closed before she'd drifted off to sleep. She remembered that the Tibbs's maid, Doreen, had come in to make sure it was locked. Season knew it was highly unlikely that Molly had come in and raised the window since it was extremely cold outside.

Slipping out of bed, she made her way toward the window, intending to close off the draft. She never made it that far. Suddenly she was engulfed in the folds of a dark cloak, and a hand was clamped over her mouth!

Season twisted and turned, trying to free herself, and finally managed to push the cloak away from her face. She strained her eyes in the darkness trying to see her assailant, but all she could make out was a dark blur. Never in Season's life had she known such fear. Her stomach churned, and her heart pumped at a furious rate. With renewed strength derived from her fear, she kicked and twisted; but the person who held her was of a superior strength.

The gloved hand clamped over her mouth cut off her air supply, and only muffled sounds came from her throat. Suddenly she was clasped tightly against the man's body, and a deep raspy voice spoke next to her ear, sending chills up and down her spine.

"It will do you no good to struggle. If you do as you are told you will not be harmed. Do you understand?"

Season nodded her head. She would agree to anything, if only the man would remove his hand from her mouth so she could breathe.

"I'm going to remove my hand now, but should you make a sound, it will be the last thing you do before you die," said the deep voice. You needn't worry, she thought wildly. She was positive her fear would not allow her to make even the slightest noise.

True to his word, the man removed his hand, and Season took a deep gulp of air into her lungs. Her slight body was trembling so badly that when he released his hold on her she fell to her knees.

Tense moments passed as Season knelt, her head bowed, trying to regain some of her lost courage. Finally she forced herself to look up at the intruder through a curtain of golden hair. She could see nothing but a dark menacing form which seemed more shadow than man.

Season wished she dared to ask the man what he wanted with her, but she was having difficulty finding her voice. At last she managed a painful whisper. "Did you come to rob me?" she managed to ask.

"Silence!" came the raspy reply.

Season complied immediately. She watched the black shadow move across the room, apparently gathering up objects and throwing them onto the bed. The man had come to rob her, she thought with relief. Well he could just take what he wanted, she certainly wasn't about to stop him. Let him take what he would, as long as he didn't harm her.

Standing upon shaky legs, Season leaned against the bedpost for support.

"Not one word, my lady," warned the voice. It was a voice that represented sudden death to her.

Season watched as the man wrapped his bounty in the bed covering and tied it into a bundle. "Are you leaving now?" she dared to ask.

"Yes, my lady," came the reply.

Before Season knew what was happening the man pulled her toward him and tied something about her mouth. She tried to struggle, but soon found the effort to be futile. Deep, menacing laughter rumbled from inside the man's chest as he pulled a cloth over her head, shutting out what little she had been able to see in the darkened room.

When Season felt herself being lifted onto the man's shoulder, she renewed her struggles. He wasn't just going to rob her—he was going to kidnap her! She struggled with every ounce of strength she possessed, but when he whacked her hard across the bottom, she became motionless. Suddenly she couldn't breathe; it seemed as if her air supply had been cut off. She became limp, lost consciousness, and was unaware that she was being carried down the trellis and across the courtyard.

The Raven stepped over the unconscious sentry who was sprawled on the walkway. Doreen stepped out of the shadows and The Raven bent his head to give her a quick kiss.

"Well done, my dear. Go back into the house and tell no one what has occurred. In the morning, pretend ignorance," he said hurriedly.

"Will I see you again?" she asked.

"It wouldn't be beyond the realm of possibility that our paths might cross again," he called over his shoulder.

Doreen watched The Raven disappear amid the night shadows before she turned and quickly made her way into the house. She had met many men in her life, but never one who had given her so much pleasure. She would die rather than betray The Raven. After all I am as good a patriot as anyone, she reckoned.

Seeking the shadows at the side of the long driveway, The Raven spotted the waiting coach. He placed the Lady Chatsworth on the seat and dropped her belongings on the floor. Motioning for the driver to move on, he seated himself in the coach, smiling at a job well done. Reaching out, he pulled his cape from the Lady Chatsworth's head and removed the gag from her mouth. Shaking her gently, he finally succeeded in bringing her around.