Read Online Come the Night (The Dangerous Delameres - Book 1) by Christina Skye - Free Book Online
Authors: Christina Skye
Tags: Romance
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his nonsense and eccentricities. He had known every vine and branch growing on these hills, and he had loved every one of them.
Now she knew the grim truth: both of her parents had been killed, murdered by criminals who needed William St. Clair’s help in some sort of illicit scheme. The thought was nearly too much for Silver to bear. She brushed away a tear. Now she would have a chance to prove her suspicions. Maybe she and Bram could find the formula for Millefleurs, locate her parents’ murderers, and—
A creak came from the far wall of the workroom. Quickly she shoved the box down into its hiding place, replaced the piece of slate and slid the desk back over it.
Then Silver screamed.
Something hurtled toward her, shattering the wall of glass. She saw a brick with a piece of paper wrapped around it.
The message was short and ugly.
The boy is next.
~ ~ ~
Blackwood inched his horse along the dark ridge overlooking the heath. At the top he halted and opened the leather satchel slung across his saddle.
By the light of the moon the highwayman skimmed the naval dispatch he had taken from Lord Renwick’s carriage.
Frowning, he scanned the terse lines of numbers indicating latitudes and longitudes of the various trading vessels and passenger ships active in the Channel and farther south off France and Spain. There was nothing earthshaking in the information. Outwardly at least, it was a routine list of shipping facts.
But something about those numbers nagged at the highwayman. Something that was not quite as it should be. He knew that water well, of course. Five years ago he had tasted its brine and shivered in its frigid swells. Most of the numbers marked locations off the coast of Spain and Portugal and a few farther south near the mouth of the Mediterranean.
Yes, there was something there all right, something that pricked at dark memories, but try as he might, Blackwood couldn’t put his finger on what it was.
Grimly, he shoved the papers back into the satchel, then ran a gloved hand along Diablo’s gleaming neck.
The pain in his chest had stilled to a throb. He had stanched the blood with a handkerchief and sent Jonas on to deposit Renwick’s carriage in the main street of Kingsdon Cross. Someone would be sent to search for the travelers once the carriage was found, and until then, the lord and his ladies could amuse themselves as they saw fit.
Diablo’s head rose. The black horse gave a restless whinny.
Cursing softly, the highwayman tugged off his mask, letting the cool wind rake his cheeks. Off to the east the sky was tinged with gray and above him the stars were starting to fade. In an hour it would be dawn.
Dawn. One more day of bitterness and regret. One more day without hope. One more day that brought him no closer to his goal of revenge. The tall figure cursed, then spurred his horse forward.
He knew he should go home.
He knew he should give up his dangerous masquerade and ride hell for leather toward Waldon Hall and the safety its palatial rooms offered.
But he didn’t. Instead the highwayman turned south. He studied the dark hills, thinking about innocence and youth and a woman with green-gold eyes and lips like crimson silk.
A woman who was bound to bring him nothing but trouble. Yes, he had to forget her.
With a raw curse Blackwood turned Diablo away toward Kingsdon Cross. There were other kinds of women, after all, women who understood colder, darker pleasures. That was all a highwayman deserved.
He would drive her from his mind the hard way. The cold way.
The only way he knew how.
~ ~ ~
The Green Man was just the way it always was — smoky, smelly, and cheap.
In the past Blackwood had always like it that way. No one asked questions, faces were kept hidden, and the clink of gold guineas was the only sound that mattered. On his infrequent visits he had passed himself off as a half-pay soldier down on his luck, and no one had ever questioned his story.
But tonight he felt
Now she knew the grim truth: both of her parents had been killed, murdered by criminals who needed William St. Clair’s help in some sort of illicit scheme. The thought was nearly too much for Silver to bear. She brushed away a tear. Now she would have a chance to prove her suspicions. Maybe she and Bram could find the formula for Millefleurs, locate her parents’ murderers, and—
A creak came from the far wall of the workroom. Quickly she shoved the box down into its hiding place, replaced the piece of slate and slid the desk back over it.
Then Silver screamed.
Something hurtled toward her, shattering the wall of glass. She saw a brick with a piece of paper wrapped around it.
The message was short and ugly.
The boy is next.
~ ~ ~
Blackwood inched his horse along the dark ridge overlooking the heath. At the top he halted and opened the leather satchel slung across his saddle.
By the light of the moon the highwayman skimmed the naval dispatch he had taken from Lord Renwick’s carriage.
Frowning, he scanned the terse lines of numbers indicating latitudes and longitudes of the various trading vessels and passenger ships active in the Channel and farther south off France and Spain. There was nothing earthshaking in the information. Outwardly at least, it was a routine list of shipping facts.
But something about those numbers nagged at the highwayman. Something that was not quite as it should be. He knew that water well, of course. Five years ago he had tasted its brine and shivered in its frigid swells. Most of the numbers marked locations off the coast of Spain and Portugal and a few farther south near the mouth of the Mediterranean.
Yes, there was something there all right, something that pricked at dark memories, but try as he might, Blackwood couldn’t put his finger on what it was.
Grimly, he shoved the papers back into the satchel, then ran a gloved hand along Diablo’s gleaming neck.
The pain in his chest had stilled to a throb. He had stanched the blood with a handkerchief and sent Jonas on to deposit Renwick’s carriage in the main street of Kingsdon Cross. Someone would be sent to search for the travelers once the carriage was found, and until then, the lord and his ladies could amuse themselves as they saw fit.
Diablo’s head rose. The black horse gave a restless whinny.
Cursing softly, the highwayman tugged off his mask, letting the cool wind rake his cheeks. Off to the east the sky was tinged with gray and above him the stars were starting to fade. In an hour it would be dawn.
Dawn. One more day of bitterness and regret. One more day without hope. One more day that brought him no closer to his goal of revenge. The tall figure cursed, then spurred his horse forward.
He knew he should go home.
He knew he should give up his dangerous masquerade and ride hell for leather toward Waldon Hall and the safety its palatial rooms offered.
But he didn’t. Instead the highwayman turned south. He studied the dark hills, thinking about innocence and youth and a woman with green-gold eyes and lips like crimson silk.
A woman who was bound to bring him nothing but trouble. Yes, he had to forget her.
With a raw curse Blackwood turned Diablo away toward Kingsdon Cross. There were other kinds of women, after all, women who understood colder, darker pleasures. That was all a highwayman deserved.
He would drive her from his mind the hard way. The cold way.
The only way he knew how.
~ ~ ~
The Green Man was just the way it always was — smoky, smelly, and cheap.
In the past Blackwood had always like it that way. No one asked questions, faces were kept hidden, and the clink of gold guineas was the only sound that mattered. On his infrequent visits he had passed himself off as a half-pay soldier down on his luck, and no one had ever questioned his story.
But tonight he felt
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