Blackthorne. Ruth Langan
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discovered that he’d merely hidden all the pain and fury. And now the feelings seethed and bubbled just below the surface, threatening to erupt for the slightest reason, catching him by surprise.
His gaze swept the nearby graves. His parents, resting side by side. His young bride, so beautiful, so vital. He knelt beside the freshly dug mound. And now this dear old man, who had taken in his two grandsons after the untimely death of their parents and had raised them with discipline and love.
How had it all gone so wrong?
Perhaps the Stamfords had been born under some sort of curse. Or a dark cloud, which would always blot out the sunshine. It seemed the only explanation.
In Jamaica the paper-skinned, blackbird-eyed old woman had looked into her crystal and had told him to beware.
“There is one who wants what is yours. Not just your fortune,” she had warned, “but everything you hold dear.”
He’d managed a bitter laugh. “That may have been true at one time. Now I value nothing in life, except a ship under my feet and a moonless night in which to ply my trade for His Majesty.” His remark had been tossed carelessly, causing the old woman’s tone to frost over.
“You think to bury your heart so deeply it cannot be broken again. But you are wrong, my young friend. You are fooling only yourself. One day you will step out of the darkness. But only you can find the pathway back to the light.”
“No, old woman. It is you who are wrong. You see, I much prefer the darkness.”
He had tossed her a coin as carelessly as he had tossed his casual remarks. But her words had remained with him. And haunted him still.
He studied the marker over his wife’s grave. With her he had been, in those first heady months, deliriously happy. What made it even more perfect was the fact that his grandfather and his younger brother adored her as much as he. Their family had seemed, in that brief time, to have reached a pinnacle of happiness.
And then it had all come crashing down. At first he’d been unwilling to admit the truth, even to himself. But then, as she had become more distant and more riddled with guilt, there had been no room left for denial. Antonia had been unfaithful. The rumors and whispers of a secret lover were rampant. Even young Bennett was suspect, though Quenton adamantly refused to dignify such a suspicion.
Even now it wasn’t anger or jealousy he felt whenever he looked at Bennett; it was shame. Shame that his brother had been there in his stead. And pity, for what the once young, handsome Bennett had become. A hard, cold knot of pity that ate at Quenton’s soul. The sight of all that suffering and torment was tearing him apart.
Their loving family had been shattered beyond repair by grief and scandal and despair. Despite what the old woman had said, he could see no way back to the light.
He shivered and glanced up. Two figures strolling across a moor caught his eye. Even from this distance he could see the shiny blue-black cap of hair on the boy, and the wind-tossed curls of the nursemaid.
If he were to leave now, he could avoid running into them. That was his first thought. He had steadfastly ignored Olivia St. John since the night he had kissed her. But something made him stay where he was. Perhaps it was curiosity over the wild gesturing of the boy, as he pointed to something in the long grass. Or perhaps it was the way the young woman knelt down and guided the boy’s hand to whatever had taken cover. Quenton remained very still, watching and listening.
Their voices carried on the breeze. The boy’s soft, musical; hers low, cultured, with a gentle laugh that touched a chord deep inside him.
“It is a baby bird. See, his mother hovers nearby, scolding us. She was probably giving him a flying lesson when he fell to the ground.”
“May I keep him?”
“Oh no, Liat. That wouldn’t be right. He needs his mother. She’s the only one who can properly feed him and teach him the things he needs to learn to survive on his own.”
“May I hold him?”
“No, dear. His poor mother is nearly mad with worry. Listen to her heartbreaking cries.”
The boy glanced up at the bird that was circling their heads.
“Let’s leave him now, so his mother can sit beside him and satisfy herself that he’s unharmed. Come. I’ll race you to that rock.” Olivia caught up the hem of her skirt and started running.
Liat followed suit.
Olivia slowed her pace to give her young charge a chance to pass her. He touched a hand to the stone and turned to her in triumph. “I beat you.”
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