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“Maybe for the reason he gave you—to reclaim whatever’s left.”
“Which is nothing, according to him.”
“He didn’t react at all when you mentioned that pirate, or Papa?”
Slayde’s lips thinned into a grim line. “Only by gloating.”
“Then we’re right back where we started.” Even as she gave voice to the untenable truth, an emotional dam—too overpowering to keep intact—burst inside her. Ignoring the warning twinges that accompanied her actions, she vaulted to her feet, crossing over to the wardrobe and pulling out one of the gowns Aurora had provided. “I can’t wait another minute.”
Slayde was beside her in a heartbeat. “What in God’s name do you think you’re doing?”
Gripping a blue day dress, Courtney turned, regarding Slayde with anguished determination. “What I should have done from the onset: go to search for Papa—and that filthy pirate who hurt him.”
“Courtney.” Slayde’s hands were gentle on her shoulders. “You’re going nowhere. You can scarcely stand up, much less leave Pembourne.”
“I’ll manage. Anything is better than this inactivity. I can’t lie here, doing nothing, for another minute.” She punctuated her words with adamant shakes of her head, fighting back tears of anger and frustration. “Don’t you understand? I’m wasting time. If Papa is still alive, he needs me. I can’t just lie in bed, day after day, waiting for some miraculous occurrence to resolve things. I’ve got to do something—now.” She clutched Slayde’s waistcoat.
“Please, lend me a vessel. I’ll return it, I swear. But I must…”
The effects of her taxing flurry of activity and her vehement shakes of the head struck all at once. Wildly, the room began to spin, her limbs turning to water, pain lancing through her skull in quick, sharp bites. She knew she was going to faint, just as she knew—somewhere in the far reaches of her mind—that Slayde was going to catch her.
A flash of darkness; a brief snatch of time. Then she was on the bed, and Slayde was pressing a cool compress to her forehead.
“All right?” he murmured.
Her lashes fluttered, then lifted. “All right,” she managed gratefully, feeling the room right itself as Slayde applied the cool cloth to her neck and wrists. “I’m sorry. ’Tis just that—”
“You needn’t explain. Or apologize.” His hard hand closed around her trembling one. “Helplessness is a terrible feeling. How well I know that. But Courtney…” He tipped up her chin. “You must be realistic. You’re too weak to sail. You haven’t a clue about where to search for this pirate or his ship.” A weighted pause before Slayde pressed on, almost as if he was forcing the words to emerge. “And the odds that your father survived the Channel—bound, gagged, and weighted down—are nil. So stop torturing yourself with the notion that you should be doing something to recover him.”
Her heart wrenched, logic combatting hope, causing it to flicker and ebb. “The watch moved today,” she whispered. “That, and my dream—couldn’t they be signs?”
“They are signs—signs that you’re mourning a terrible loss and want desperately to undo it.”
“But the watch…?”
“That was a mechanism, not a miracle.” A spasm of pain crossed Slayde’s face. “I wish I could make it otherwise.”
His strangled tone penetrated Courtney’s grief, and she scrutinized his face, realizing that he was enduring his own inner turmoil, berating himself for failing to resolve things today. “Slayde.” She lay her palm against his jaw. “Thank you for going to Morland. It must have been terribly difficult for you. I know you did it, at least in part, for me. You’ll never know how grateful I am.”
“Grateful for what? I went to get the name and whereabouts of the man who killed your father. I came away with nothing. Damnit.” Slayde’s fist struck the mattress. “I never expected Morland to be sober, much less vital. He hasn’t been either in over a dozen years—ever since his son died.”
“He had a son?”
“Two. Hubert was the elder. He died of a fever while attending Oxford, Morland, of course, blames the Huntleys and that blasted curse—yet another misfortune he holds against us. In any case, Morland’s never recovered from Hugh’s death.”
“What about his other son?”
“Julian? He’s a year younger than Hugh. He and Morland are about as compatible as a fox and a hen. Morland believes in home and hearth; Julian believes in challenge and adventure. The one thing Morland doesn’t believe in is compromise. So the two of them went their separate ways long ago. From what I recall, Julian hasn’t been home in over five years.”
“He’s been abroad all this time?”
“No, he shows up in England for a Season now and again—between exploits. But he doesn’t visit Morland Manor. Nor does his father send for him.”
“The duke sounds like a very inflexible man.”
“He’s a black-hearted bastard. Not as cruel as his father was, but nearly.”
Courtney’s fingers drifted lightly over Slayde’s jaw. “Confronting the duke—just seeing him after all this time—must have been dreadful for you. Especially given your suspicions that he was connected with your parents’ murders.”
