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“He was dashed on the rocks at the foot of Dartmouth Cliffs.”
Courtney tensed, and Slayde anticipated her next question even as she uttered it. “Was he … alone?”
“If you mean, was he pushed, no one knows. There were no witnesses.” Unconsciously, Slayde tightened his arms about Courtney. “Each successive generation of Huntleys has endured bloodshed. We’ve also enjoyed a sizable, ever-increasing fortune. So, according to those who believe in myths, the curse has come to pass.”
“But two days ago, you turned the black diamond over to that despicable pirate, so the curse should end for you.”
“Should it? Not when the true curse is the hatred spawned generations ago and furthered by the Bencrofts. Trust me, Courtney, that hatred will never end.”
“ ‘He with a black heart…’ ” she recited thoughtfully. “The Bencrofts think of your great-grandfather as such for deceiving Geoffrey Bencroft and disappearing with the stone.”
“Yes. And they despise us because of it. You see, from the moment the diamond left Geoffrey’s hands, the Bencroft fortune began dissipating. Each successive loss they suffered heightened their resentment. And there wasn’t a bloody th
ing we could do to alter that. True, my great-grandfather cheated Geoffrey out of his half of the diamond’s worth. But he also never sold the stone or reaped any actual profits, so after his death, we had no tangible fortune to share with the Bencrofts. Further, we couldn’t turn the stone over to them even if we’d wished to; we hadn’t a clue where it was hidden. Consequently, we had no way of righting his wrong.”
“And they didn’t accept that as truth?”
“Not for a minute. And any hope my family had of appeasing their hatred was quickly snuffed out. Less than a fortnight after my great-grandfather’s demise, word reached England that Geoffrey Bencroft had succumbed to a fever and died on his journey home. From that moment on, the Bencrofts’ enmity intensified to the point of obsession—violent obsession. Of course, at the heart of that obsession lay Geoffrey’s son, Chilton, the new Duke of Morland. New to his title, but not his role,” Slayde clarified. “Chilton had been the acting head of his family for years, running the estates and businesses while his father gallivanted about the globe. By the time Geoffrey died, Chilton’s reputation amongst members of the ton was notorious. He was ruthless in his dealings—and the Huntleys became his prime target. He used every opportunity to malign our name and thwart our business ventures. It maddened him beyond reason when each attempt not only failed, but resulted in further gains for us and more abject poverty for them.
“One month before my parents’ deaths, Chilton’s mind snapped. He and his only son Lawrence—the current Duke of Morland—forced their way into Pembourne and invaded my father’s study. Lawrence hung back, enraged but willing—no, more than willing, grateful—to leave the verbal assault to his father, while he himself tossed off a bottle of madeira and paced sullenly about the room. In contrast, Chilton raved like a madman, shouting accusations about how my family had destroyed the Bencrofts and how it was time for him to even the score, to make the Huntleys pay. The servants and I threw them out. But I remember Chilton’s expression vividly: there was murder in his eyes.”
“You think he—or they—killed your parents?”
“Just Chilton,” Slayde corrected. “And, yes, I do—although the authorities were never able to prove it. As for Lawrence, he’s too weak to kill anyone, although Lord knows, the intensity of his hatred is more than sufficient to incite murder. And he’s certainly clever enough to manage it—when he’s sober. But he isn’t strong enough to wield the weapon; he’d sooner hire another to do it for him, someone like the bastard who seized your father’s ship. Now that is the type of method Lawrence would employ. In fact, the more I consider it, the more convinced I am that he is the orchestrator of that entire plot. Tomorrow, I intend to learn the truth. And when I do, a segment of justice will have been served. Generations of Bencrofts may have gone unpunished, but the current Duke of Morland will pay—he and his pirate conspirator.”
Slayde felt a tremor run through Courtney’s body. Blinking, he jerked back to the present, staring down at her face and seeing tears gather in her eyes.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured, his thumbs capturing the moisture as it trickled down her cheeks. “I don’t know what possessed me. The last thing I wanted was to frighten you with my family history.”
“I asked for the details,” she managed to choke out. “And you didn’t frighten me. At least no more than I already was. All you did was make me aware of the extent of your hardships. Dear God, Slayde, you’ve endured so much—far more than I.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Yesterday, you said you would undo my loss if you could. Well, right now, all I wish is that I could undo yours.”
The earnest proclamation of empathy was the last reaction Slayde had expected and the most impacting one he’d ever endured. Although he’d never discussed his family history before tonight, he was nonetheless acutely aware of the ugly speculation the Huntley name inspired. In the past, those with whom he associated fell into one of three categories: the few who were blessedly ignorant, the handful who were perversely intrigued, and the predominant group, who were altogether terrified—of the Huntleys and their demonic curse.
Not so Courtney. Here she was, gazing up at him with a wealth of hurt in her eyes—hurt not for herself, but for him. She wanted to undo his suffering, to eradicate his pain. And why? Simply because she cared.
Something profound moved in Slayde’s chest, soothing his remembered anguish in a rush of warmth. “That’s the most selfless offer I’ve ever received,” he heard himself mutter, realizing even as he said it that it was true. “Thank you, sweetheart.”
The endearment, uttered in a tender, husky voice, was more intimate than a caress…and just as pivotal, given the heightened emotion spawned by the past few minutes.
An invisible barrier was traversed.
Their gazes met and held, Courtney’s eyes widening as awareness flickered in the sea-green depths, her lips parting as if in question—and invitation.
Slayde’s heart began slamming against his ribs, a compulsion like none he’d ever experienced propelling him forward. Acting on that compulsion—and on a pure instinct he’d never known he possessed—he lowered his head and captured her mouth under his.
The world shifted—permanently.
It was Slayde’s first coherent thought as he tasted her, molded the delicate contours of her lips to his, warmed and stilled her trembling with his mouth. She tensed, quivered, then melted against him, her small fists knotting in his shirt, her soul seeking whatever replenishment he could offer.
He offered—but was it for her sake, or his?
The question vanished, unanswered, lost beneath the extraordinary feeling building between them. Slayde slid down on the bed, twisted about until Courtney lay supine, caged between the strong columns of his arms. Tangling his hands in her hair, he fused their mouths, deepening the kiss with equal measures of need and restraint. Her injuries, his dazed mind cautioned. Don’t forget her injuries.
Courtney herself had forgotten them.
Lost to the moment, she welcomed the miracle of their kiss as a wondrous balm to her agony and a startling awakening of her senses. Like a tantalizing aroma, it assuaged one need, slowly kindled another. “Slayde,” she heard herself whisper. “Hold me.”
He shuddered, his arms contracting around her with a will all their own. Parting her lips, his tongue took hers, caressing it in a way that made tremors of sensation shiver down her spine. She complied with his unspoken request, opening her mouth wider, deepening his presence as their tongues tasted, touched, melded, and withdrew, only to begin again.
