The Far Horizon Read online

  As betrothal celebrations went, it was surely one of the most lavish Bella had ever seen or even imagined. All for a chit of thirteen who would likely whine on the morrow because some trifling detail had been forgotten.

  "The lengths some people will travel in order to see their ugly ducklings wed and gone from the roost."

  The murmur came from over her shoulder but Bella gave no outward indication of hearing. Inwardly she recoiled at the sound of her brother Liam's voice, having not had any contact with him for the better part of eight months.

  She risked a glance to confirm it was, indeed, the brother she had last seen wearing a leather mask and aiming a pistol between her eyes. He stood partially concealed under a stone archway, his arms crossed over his chest, his feathered pillow cap on a haughty tilt. He was dressed appropriately for the occasion in an emerald velvet doublet, but a closer inspection showed frayed seams and ill-fitting shoulders. His boots were scuffed, his hair was tied back in a greasy knot.

  She wondered who he had killed and robbed of their clothing in an attempt to blend in with the crowd.

  "What are you doing here?" she asked, her lips barely moving.

  "Watching your back, as always, little sister."

  "My back is fine."

  "As is your front, though I dare say you should have a care your titties don't pop out if you bend over."

  She turned her head and looked at him directly. Liam’s features were dark and craggy, so much like their father it stirred up more memories she preferred not to think about. His eyes were the same unusual shade of violet-blue as hers but that was where their resemblance ended. His nose was long and thin, and had been broken more times than even he could probably recall. Although he was only two years older, his drinking and nocturnal lifestyle gave him the haggard appearance of a man twice his age.

  "What are you doing here?"

  "Seeing to the family interests, of course." His thin lips twisted to the side. "You've already made one wasted choice on your own, dear sister. Your late husband hardly turned out to be what one would call a money tree."

  "Perhaps I did not marry him for his money."

  Liam chuckled. "And perhaps the sun does not rise in the east every day."

  Bella turned to watch the milling crowds again. "How did you find me?"

  "It was not easy, I grant you, not since you learned how to walk and talk and look like one of these fancy bitches." He glanced disdainfully into the great hall. "And me, I don't usually ask the identity of the marks I stop on the roadsides. In truth, I almost didn't recognize you all primped and preened. Dimcock misses you, by the way. He caterwauls like someone who has lost his one true love."

  Bella closed her eyes slowly, and when she lifted the crescents of sable-black lashes again, the triangles of blue and violet had crystallized to ice shards. "I suspect the only thing Dimcock misses is the coin I brought him."

  "Well, that too," Liam admitted with a chuckle. "But really, dear sister, did you think you'd get away from him so easily? From us? From your family?"

  "You and I might share the same father," she said through her teeth. "But we were never a family."

  "And have you done any better with Lord Harper's kin? Have they placed your portrait in the gallery with the rest of their nearest and dearest?"

  His sarcasm deepened her anger. She had squandered fourteen utterly boring months with a husband who was so smitten and so grateful each time she let him climb over her that he wept... wept, for pity's sake... during the few thrusts it took him to arch and bleat out his pleasure.

  Unfortunately he had not spit enough seed inside her to produce an heir, so the bulk of his vast estate, upon his death, had gone to a nephew. A nephew who had barely waited until his uncle was planted in the ground before rushing to claim his inheritance. Bella had found herself ousted from the manor and relegated to a tiny rowhouse in Londontown with a yearly stipend that would barely cover the cost of a crust of bread in the mornings.

  In the end, she'd had to fall back on the skills her father had taught her, otherwise she would have found herself selling apples on a street corner. Or worse, crawling back to Dimcock.

  Bella's thoughts stopped spinning around and came to a dead halt as she turned again and stared openly at Liam. "Is that why you are here? You think I have money? Well I hate to disappoint you, brother dearest, but I have nothing. If you found out who my husband was, you must also have found out that he left me penniless. Even if I did have two damned pennies to rub together, do you honestly think I would squander them on a lying, cheating, murderous footpad like yourself?"

  Liam's jaw tightened. "I think you should keep your voice down, little sister, or some of these fine, bejewelled heifers might find out you're not the sweet widow of genteel birth that you purport to be."

  "It might be worth it to see you thrown in chains and dragged off to a much deserved hangman's noose."

  "A fate I'd endure gladly in place of the one Dimcock bestows on them who run off with over a thousand pounds of his money."

  "A thou--?" Her eyes flew wide. "Are you mad? Is he mad? I ran away with nothing but the clothes on my back—and those dearly paid for a hundred times over."

  Liam shrugged. "Not what he says."

  "Not what he says? And since when do you believe a black-hearted spider over your own family?"

  The slight pleasure it gave her to spit his previous words at him faded when she read the expression on his face and saw the way he was studiously avoiding her gaze.

  "It was you," she said slowly. "You took his money...and did what with it? Gambled? Tossed it away on the dice?"

  He did not even have the good grace to look embarrassed. He merely shrugged again and offered up a smirk. "I figured you were long gone, maybe even dead, so where was the harm in blaming you?"

  Bella was so furious she could not fashion an answer, not without screaming and drawing unwanted attention.

  "I suppose you've since told him I'm alive."

  "In truth, it weren't me who told him. It were old Billy Bodd. He was riding with me that night we stopped your husband's coach on the moor road. Took him a few days to get sober enough to put yer fancified face with a name, and when he did, Dimcock was none too pleased with me for not owning up first. Busted my nose and three ribs. I pissed blood for a fortnight."

  "And so now you expect me to reward you for your loyalty and suffering?"

  Liam leaned in, close enough she could smell the rot of his teeth. "I could've told him where you lived. Only reason he didn't kill me was because Billy didn't know the old bastard's name nor how to find you again, so aye, I kept that little secret to myself. Some sympathy and a dram of appreciation might not be amiss."

  Bella clenched her fists by her sides. "Allow me to clarify this in my own mind. You steal a thousand pounds from a madman who likes to have his victims sliced into tiny pieces before he kills them. Then you blame the theft on me, presuming me to be too dead to deny it. Then six years later you stop our coach, stick a pistol in my face, and threaten to kill both my husband and I if we do not hand over our valuables. How much did you take that night, by the way? Five pounds? And now, with my husband dead and my pockets empty, you ask for my sympathy and appreciation for you not telling Dimcock where he could find me so he could dispatch Lugo with his filleting knife?"

  "I'm here giving you fair warning, am I not?"

  "Yes, and you still haven't told me why."

  "I've been watching you. I saw you pinch the pretties you have in your skirt pocket, so I wouldn't be looking down your nose at me, Bella Baker. I warrant you've got more tucked away somewheres, like a squirrel hiding its nuts. Give me what I need to get out of London and make a fresh start for myself and you'll never have to see me again."

  Bella narrowed her eyes. "I'll give you nothing," she said, keeping her voice low. "If you've come here expecting me to save you from whatever trouble you find yourself in... you are to be sorely disappointed."

  Liam's expressio
n darkened. "Not as disappointed as you will be if you play high and mighty with me, missy. Dimcock knows you're in the game again. He knows you went to see the old shylock last week, who gave you near five hundred pounds for the trinkets you sold him. He wants me to bring you home again, Bella. You or his money, whichever comes willingly."

  "You can tell Dimcock to go straight to hell."

  Liam chuckled. "And didn't I tell him that was exactly what you would say."

  Bella made a soft hissing sound through her teeth to silence him as two women strolled through the doorway. She bowed her head for a polite greeting and exchanged a pasted-on smile with them, but inside she was seething.

  When the ladies passed she had a chance to glance beside her again, but the niche was empty. She turned quickly, scanning the corridor behind her but like the roach he was, Liam had scurried away into deeper shadows.

  "Bastard," she muttered.

  She should have known her past would catch up with her eventually. Nothing in London society, upper or lower, remained secret for very long. It was true she had run away from Dimcock's crew, and after six years, she'd hoped he had forgotten about her. Or died. Men in his profession did not reach ripe old ages. They were either killed by rival thieves or by one their own who sought to usurp their power.

  She blew out a breath and unclenched her fists but it took a full minute to calm the wild beating of her heart. While a thousand thoughts whirled around her head, she cast an irritated eye around the great hall. The men suddenly looked as gaudy and whorish as the women, and the women, whose husbands were all old and wrinkled and smelled as putrid as their belches, fawned and simpered and fluttered a hand to their plumped-up bosoms hoping some courtly young stud would take them behind the curtain wall and lift their skirts.

  Bella had striven so desperately to better herself, to be able to move amongst these people without them looking at her like she was something they had to scrape off their boots. She had thought marriage to one of their kind would have accomplished that. Once free of Dimcock's hold, she had studied hard how to speak and walk and carry herself like one of them... but she was not one of them and never would be.

  She had to get out of this place. The hall was stuffy from too many bodies, too much perfume, too much heat and smoke from the myriad candles. There were supposed to be fireworks at midnight but she had no desire to wait until then. Liam had, indeed, given her fair warning. She must now return home, pack up what few belongings she had of any worth, and run again. She could visit the shylock in the morning and together with her pickings from tonight, the small hoard she had saved would provide enough to get her far, far away. Perhaps somewhere in Italy or France where Peter Dimcock's reptilian fingers could never reach.

  Bella felt the scratching across the nape of her neck again and focussed her wits to seek the source. Expecting to see Liam staring back at her from across the hall or up in the minstrel's gallery, she was not certain whether to be relieved or simply more aggravated when she saw that she was being boldly inspected head to toe by a complete stranger… a stranger who looked as common as a chimney sweep.

  Beneath a stained and much-abused hat, his red hair was unfettered and spread in thick waves across inordinately well-muscled shoulders. The plain leather doublet he wore was unfashionably dull in such illustrious surroundings, as were the tall, cuffed boots that did not have so much as a wooden heel. He was deeply tanned, so much so that she guessed he was recently come from a much warmer, sunnier climate.

  That did not excuse his boldness and Bella was peeved enough to stare right back. When his eyes finished assessing the half-moons of her breasts and rose to meet hers, she gave him a look that told him: not even if you were the last man left alive in all of England. For added measure, it was accompanied by a raking glance downward toward his crotch and a smirk that suggested she had inspected all of his attributes and found him sadly lacking.

  Most men would have been shocked enough or embarrassed enough to turn away. Instead, the stranger tipped his head to the side and she could swear he chuckled. Only then did Bella take note of the other four men who stood with him. Three she recognized from previous encounters. They were the king's advisors, nobles who invested crown monies heavily in shipping and trade. The fourth was richly dressed and had been identified to her earlier as the Duke of Harrow.

  Despite the fact her troubles with Liam and Dimcock were still very much on her mind, her eyebrow lifted and she took a second look at the tall stranger, realizing at once who he must be. There had been a good deal of excitement earlier over the arrival of an infamous sea captain. He had been whisked away into a private meeting with Lord Parker Seville and Bella had not yet caught a glimpse of him... until now. Dante, was his name. Captain Jonas Dante.

  All of London had been abuzz for years over the feats of daring-do credited to the legendary Dante family. There were two sons and a daughter who, along with their notorious father, plagued and harassed the shipping lanes of the Spanish Main and kept the penny news sheets filled with breathtaking exploits of dashing pirates and privateers.

  It was rumoured that the Dante clan had amassed an inestimable fortune in Spanish treasure. Bella’s practised eye went to the jewelled salamander pinned to the band of Dante's hat. It was crusted with so many emeralds the pads of her fingertips tingled with interest. The brooch alone was easily worth a hundred times the sum of the petty trinkets that now resided deep in the secret pocket of her skirt. Old habits, fueled by a new sense of desperation, took over at once. Her expression turned thoughtful as she found herself staring into the tiger-gold eyes again.

  ~~

  On the far side of the great hall, Jonas Dante chuckled to himself. He had noted the sudden change in the beauty's demeanor and could easily guess the reason why. He had seen her gaze flick to his four companions and had seen the flash of recognition startle her lashes wider. So now she knew who he was. Her cheeks would turn rosy and those luscious little breasts would rise with fast, shallow breaths. She would anxiously search the faces nearby to see if there was someone who could arrange an introduction then she would cross the room like a daring minx and present herself for his consideration.

  To his mild surprise, however, her gaze only held a moment before she turned and made her way along the outer perimeter of the room away from where he was standing. She made no effort to play coy, nor did her demeanor suggest she was inviting anyone to follow. When she turned and disappeared beneath stone archway, she did so without a backward glance.

  Jonas craned his neck to see over the milling crowd, but the wench was gone. Without troubling to excuse himself, he maneuvered his way across the room, his attention fixed on the archway. When he arrived he saw there were two tall recessed doors that opened onto a wide terrace.

  He followed his quarry and felt the smallest pang of disappointment when he saw her standing at the balustrade a dozen paces away, her face turned up into the night sky.

  The minx's invitation had simply been delivered with more subtlety than others he had encountered.

  His disappointment was fleeting, however, as he smiled and strolled forward. Her profile was exquisite and, visceral thoughts aside, he wished he had his charcoals and paper in front of him. Having served a ten year apprenticeship on board his mother's ship, the Black Swan, he had not only acquired her talent for chart-making, but he could sketch a likeness of a face that almost came alive on the page. It would have pleased him to draw a portrait of this beauty, for her skin was fair and flawless, verging on incandescent beneath the spill of moonlight. There was not enough light to distinguish the color of her eyes, but her mouth was full and lushly shaped.

  The rest of her did not bring about thoughts of monkhood either. Her waist was slender; her breasts were pushed up by the stomacher, but not so much so that they looked painfully swollen and about to burst over the edge. Two neat handfuls, his experienced eye told him, with succulent pink tips he could tease with his tongue into tight little peaks.

&nbs
p; She might have been carved from the same marble that fashioned the Greek figures that decorated the balustrade surrounding the terrace, for she did not move so much as an eyelash as he approached. Something out in the garden appeared to be holding her attention, and as Jonas came within arm's reach, he deliberately scraped a boot on the ground to warn of his presence.

  She ignored him magnificently.

  So magnificently that he veered with the next step, continuing on past where she stood to make his way nonchalantly toward the wide sweep of stairs at the far end of the terrace. As he strolled, he too studied the garden, the nearby tower of trees, the shimmering reflection of the moon in the standing pool. When he arrived at the end of the terrace, he stopped to lean against the stone rail and with a feigned stretch, turned and offered his most disarming smile.

  She was gone.

  Swivelling fully around, he was just in time to see the swishing silk of her gown drag gracefully back through the open doors. He made a low rumbling sound in his throat and debated simply carrying on down the stairs and around to where the carriages waited. He was in no mood for games, not unless he was the one playing them.

  He glanced again... pondering... the stairs or the girl.

  Chapter Two

  Bella had heard the not-so-subtle scrape of Dante's boot over the stone and she had followed his progress as he walked past and crossed to the far side of the terrace. He had a forthright gait, one that came, she presumed, from constantly walking on rolling decks. The fact he could not even trouble himself enough to dress for a courtly occasion bespoke of an arrogance that she lacked the energy or interest to deal with this night, despite the lure of the emerald brooch.