The Return of the Prodigal. Кейси Майклс

of what was supposed to be a group of unarmed merchant ships, it was to find that he was outmanned, outnumbered. And worse, he’d been tricked into attacking English ships. He lost almost everything, but he survived.”

      “Only to return to his island home to find your maman dead. Everyone dead. A slaughter that left no man, woman or child alive. Even the animals—nothing breathed on our island. And all the booty, all your papa would take to England to begin a new life, now in the bowels of his partner’s ships. I watched from the trees, keeping you silent in my arms, while Geoffrey Baskin raped your mother for refusing him, for spitting in his face, for cutting him with the knife she had hidden beneath her skirts. Twice he raped her, on the sand, in front of everyone, and then he turned her over to his men. In my dreams, I still hear Marguerite’s screams. I could do nothing, child, Odette’s evil paralyzing me. It was all I could do to pray, invoke the good loa to keep you shielded from her eyes, for your papa would need you in his sorrow.”

      Lisette blinked back tears for the mother she’d never known. “I thank you for that, Loringa. I know we have our differences, but I thank you for that. I only wish Papa could have kept me with him.”

      “To live like him, branded a pirate, forced to flee the hangman? The nuns kept you safe, and your papa hunted Geoffrey Baskin and his traitorous crew, seeking vengeance. But it was not to be. He learned that Baskin and both his ships, overburdened by the weight of so much treasure, had floundered in a storm, that God had meted out His own justice. How your father hated God for taking his revenge from him. I despaired of your papa then, that he would destroy himself, but there was still you, his Marguerite’s child, and he would rebuild, find another way to fortune.”

      “Helping Bonaparte, taking sides against the England that would have sentenced him to hang if they’d found him,” Lisette said, glancing at the clock on the mantel, knowing it was time she went to Rian Becket, led him away on a moonlit path of lies. “The same England he wanted to return to two years ago and longs to return to now, to live in the open at last. He says I’m to have a Season, but that is probably impossible now, after what I’ve done. But I don’t care.”

      “A discussion for another day. Your papa, he always has his reasons, and he has always planned to return to England, no longer a fugitive, with or without you, foolish girl. But now this Becket, this man Odette protects, this man who could know Geoffrey Baskin? I am right, I know I am, and your father will at last get his revenge.”

      “As will I,” Lisette said fervently as Loringa once more pushed herself up from the chair and left the bedchamber without another word.

      Lisette sat down on the edge of the bed, her eyes dry now, her resolve strengthened. Geoffrey Baskin and his crew of murderers had taken her mother from her, had nearly destroyed her father, had stolen so many years of her life. Nothing she did now, to help her papa find this man, would be too much for her. Nothing.

      Especially now.

      How much did she believe in Loringa and her Voodoo? That was a question she didn’t want to ask herself, didn’t want to answer. Just as she was now going to keep a secret from the woman, and from her papa, who wouldn’t allow her to leave here tonight if she told him what she now knew for certain.

      Lisette sighed, got up from the bed, and opened the bottom drawer of the bureau, extracting the small velvet pouch she’d hidden there along with Rian Becket’s other few possessions she’d taken from him that first night he had been brought to the manor house. His belt buckle, his gold epaulets, the coins she’d found in his bloodied purse. She plucked at the strings until the pouch opened, and then dumped its contents on the bedspread.

      She reached into the pocket of her cloak, at last giving in to her excitement, her fear; her hands trembling, her breathing ragged, painful.

      And laid the gad’s twin beside it…

      WHEN THE DOOR to his bedchamber finally opened some ten minutes after two o’clock in the morning, Rian was there to grab Lisette by the elbow and pull her quickly into the room, shutting the door behind her.

      “You’re late,” he told her once he’d kissed her roughly, released her. “I was about to come hunting you.”

      Lisette put up her hand, stroked his cheek. “Such impatience. I had to wait until the house was quiet. Cook was fussing about in the kitchens, demanding my help as she prepares vegetables for the Comte’s return. Word was sent ahead. He arrives as early as tomorrow, so we have almost left it too late. You feel feverish. Are you certain you can walk to the place where I have decided to rent the coach? It is a distance of at least two miles across the fields.”

      Rian knew he was far from well, but he didn’t need to hear Lisette say so. “I’ll be fine. What’s that?”

      “This?” She held up the small portmanteau. “You expect me to travel without fresh linen? Without tooth powder? I think not, Rian Becket. I have provided for you as well.”

      “Yes, you have. I hope the Comte wasn’t too fond of these breeches. Give me that.”

      She held the portmanteau away from him. “Don’t worry, Rian Becket, I will carry it. But you, the man, should take charge of this, yes? There will be less questions that way.”

      He watched as she reached into the pocket of her cloak and extracted a small bag. It was heavy with coins as she placed it in his hand. “Your Comte may not come after us in particular, Lisette, but he might be tempted to retrieve his coins. Do they hang thieves in France?”

      She shrugged. “Madame Guillotine, I would suppose. Every village still has her. Much neater, or so I’ve heard it told. But he will not find us, not if we move quickly. Where is the cloak I brought you this morning?”

      “On the bed, beneath the covers, in case anyone decided to come check on me,” Rian told her, and then watched as she uncovered the thing and brought it to him. “And the food, Lisette. It’s wrapped inside a pillowcase and in the drawer beside the bed.”

      “You make a very good conspirator, Rian Becket,” Lisette told him, retracing her steps and returning with the pillowcase. She opened the portmanteau and shoved the case inside, redid the straps. “And now, if there is nothing else, I suggest we use the front stairs, to avoid any of the servants who might still be awake.”

      “Leaving by the front door? That’s daring. And a good suggestion, if you have the key.”

      She smiled and pulled a large iron key from that same pocket in her cloak. “It hangs on a nail with all the others, on a board just outside the kitchens. Or it did, until I plucked it up. Are you frightened, Rian? I’m frightened. What will they do if they catch us?”

      Rian had thought about that for most of the day, and didn’t much care for any of the answers that had occurred to him. Mostly, having poured his daily draught of medicine into the top of his boot as he’d distracted Lisette by asking her if she heard carriage wheels outside the window, he felt alert, much more awake than he had in weeks. If the fever was also back, that was a small price to pay to feel more in control of himself.

      He’d have no more of draughts, of vile-tasting medicines, for now. Time enough for both once he and Lisette were safely at Becket Hall, and Odette was fussing over him like a hen with one chick.

      He was glad he was going home, after avoiding even the thought of his return for so long. His brothers, his sisters. Ainsley and Jacko and all the others. Yes, they’d fuss over him and make him uncomfortable, they’d look at him with sympathy in their eyes. But they could all move beyond that, someday.

      But now was not the time to feel nostalgic. It was time now to ask himself some very important questions.

      Why had he been brought here from the battlefield he felt certain had been many miles away? Lisette’s answer, that it was a matter of ransom, didn’t seem logical to him, not when his thinking was clearer.

      Who, precisely, was the Comte Beltrane?

      Was it happenstance that Lisette