Raven's Vow

“Shall I find him a home?” Raven asked, wondering what her ladyship would do with a donkey in Mayfair.

“You think she’ll forget him?” the groom asked, not bothering to look up from his examination. “You think she bought him on impulse and will forget him before she gets home?” The rude sound that followed was indicative of his opinion of what Raven had suggested about the girl.

“Then she won’t?” Raven asked, the slight smile again marking the hard mouth.

“If I don’t have him back in the stables and these injuries tended to by the time she returns, she’ll serve my head to the old man with his supper.”

“The old man?” Fear stirred suddenly in Raven’s gut.

“Montfort,” the groom informed him, as if, that said, there was no other explanation needed. He moved to the other side of the donkey to run skilled hands over the protruding ribs and to pick up a trembling foreleg to examine an untreated cut.

“Montfort,” Raven repeated, feeling like Echo.

“The Duke of Montfort,” the groom said, glancing up at last to assess a man who was so ignorant as not to recognize that particular name. “The Devil Duke, they call him. Not out loud, of course,” he said, remembering his employer’s temper. The sobriquet was well earned and well deserved.

“Who is she?” the American asked, his gaze moving back to the street down which the girl had disappeared.

“The Devil’s Daughter,” Jem said, noticing for the first time the style of the foreign gentleman’s hair. The groom’s eyebrows climbed slightly, but it was not his place to question his betters. “Lady Catherine Montfort. The Duke of Montfort’s only heir.”

“Thank you,” Raven said, and reaching into his waistcoat pocket, he flicked a coin to the groom. The man smiled his thanks and then turned back to his careful survey of the donkey.

John Raven crossed the street and, taking the narrow stairs two at a time, retraced his path to Reynolds’s office. The old man looked up from his notations in a leatherbound ledger.

“Lady Catherine Montfort,” John Raven said, his wide shoulders filling the doorway.

“Montfort?” the banker repeated, wondering again, as he had when he’d first met the American, if he were more than merely eccentric.

“Is Lady Catherine Montfort angelic enough for our purposes?” Raven asked calmly.

The old man stared blankly for a moment, wondering how his client had come up with that name.

“Is she?” Raven prompted, knowing that the banker’s reply really didn’t matter. The die had been cast in the middle of a crowded London street, but at least Reynolds’s approval would provide an acceptable excuse.

“Catherine Montfort is bloody well the entire seraphic choir,” the old man acknowledged truthfully. He watched the smile that touched the American’s mouth again deepen the indentions at the corners. “But I’m afraid that the Montforts—”

“You said one only had to offer enough money.”

“Montfort’s one of the few men in London evenyou couldn’t buy. And I must tell you…” The banker’s voice trailed off. He really hated to offend the man, but he knew that the duke would never accept John Raven as a suitor for his daughter’s hand. His only daughter. His only surviving child and heir. Reynolds’s mind having dealt too long with the prospects of profit, he briefly allowed himself to consider those combined fortunes being handled by his bank. And why not? Was his not the oldest financial establishment in the city? The bank had financed the East India Company’s venture into the Russian market in the sixteenth century. He cleared the tempting visions from his mind and shook his head regretfully.

“He’ll never allow you to even present your suit. Forget Catherine Montfort, John. You’ll never convince her father, and I must warn you that it would be dangerous even to try. Montfort’s as proud, cold-blooded and arrogant as any of the old aristocrats. His was a generation that made its own rules—whatever they wanted, whether legal or moral, they took, consequences be damned. There’s nothing you can do to win Montfort’s daughter. You have nothing to offer the girl that she doesn’t already have.”

The blue eyes rested on the seamed face of the old man a moment, their farseeing gaze untroubled by the obstacles Reynolds had just thrown in his path.

John Raven had believed he had come to London to make money. The call had been so strong that he had left India in the middle of an incredibly successful mining venture. His intuition had directed his journey to this city as surely as it had previously drawn him to Delhi, leaving the profitable exporting business he’d founded in New York to be run by his assistants. Wherever there was money to be made, John Raven could sense it. He could feel it moving in his hands as clearly as he had felt the reality of the rubies and sapphires he’d mined in India. He thought he had been drawn to England by the growth of the mining industry and the possibilities offered by the new developments in the locomotive.

Now he knew that his arrival in London had had nothing whatsoever to do with that.What you need is a wife, Oliver Reynolds had told him, almost exactly the words his grandmother had said to him when he had last seen her more than five years ago. He wondered how many prayers had accompanied the sacred white cedar smoke directed to the AllSpirit in the intervening years. And with amusement Raven found himself wondering if, in one of her dream trances, his grandmother could possibly have envisioned anyone like Lady Catherine Montfort.

Chapter One

“Ididn’t come out to be pawed. I came for a breath of air that wasn’t contaminated by a hundred perspiring bodies wearing too much perfume,” Catherine Montfort said, wondering why the lovemaking of this extremely handsome and highly acceptable suitor left her so cold. She moved out of the attempted embrace of her escort, who released her with a small laugh.

The Viscount Amberton watched as Catherine leaned gracefully against the stone railing of the balcony. He knew she was as unmindful of the nearly priceless material of her gown as if she had been wearing sackcloth. Of course, none of the tedious hours of beading that had gone into its creation had been performed by her hands. She propped her chin on fingers covered in the finest kid and stared out into the darkness that hid the garden.

“Admit it, Cat. You’re bored. Too many ballrooms. Too many dinner parties attended by the same people. Too many suitors declaiming their undying love. Why don’t you name the lucky man and put them all out of their misery?” the viscount suggested.

Since Amberton was well aware that he held the inside track, with the duke, certainly, if not with the daughter, he was becoming increasingly impatient with Catherine’s refusal to accept the necessity of matrimony. Especially when he considered all the diligent toadying to the old man it had taken to acquire that inside track. The viscount was not nearly so impatient as his creditors were, however. The only reason they had held both their tongues and his bills was that they, too, were well aware of how this game was played. The faintest hint that Lord Amberton needed Montfort’s money, and he’d never see a guinea of it.

“All ofthem?” she questioned mockingly, slanting a quick smile at him over her shoulder.

“All of us, then,” he conceded. “You know my heart’s yours. It always has been. You are very well aware of that fact.”

“But the problem is inmy heart,” Catherine said softly.

“Not being in love is not generally considered to be a hindrance to marriage,” he assured her. Indeed, they both knew how rare a love match was in their circle.

“I keep thinking there must be a man who won’t bore me to tears after the first month.”

“You’re such a wonderfully spoiled chit, my dear. There are worse things than boredom,” Gerald suggested lightly, knowing she wouldn’t understand just now the truth of his statement. But she would. One day soon she most certainly would. Then she might long for boredom, Gerald thought with a touch of malicious humor.

“I doubt it,” she said, but she smiled again.

“You’re eighteen, at the end of your second season. The Duke of Montfort’s only child, and he wants a grandson. He’s not going to wait much longer.”

“I know.” She’d heard the same arguments all too often, from both Amberton and her father. She had begun to be afraid the duke would brush aside the promise he’d made two years ago to consider her wishes in the selection of her husband.

There was no need to base that decision solely on the amount of the marriage settlements. And no one unsuitable by birth would be so absurd as to offer for Montfort’s only daughter, so her father had seen no reason not to give her the assurance for which she had so charmingly begged. But now he was growing impatient. Her refusal to choose was becoming a source of discord in what had always been, despite the duke’s notoriously volatile temperament, a loving relationship.

“Give in gracefully before you’re left with no choice at all,” Gerald suggested smoothly.And before I’m clapped into Newgate, he thought bitterly.

“Give in,” she repeated, with her own touch of bitterness. “Always to be at someone else’s command. Forever hemmed in by his wishes and desires. Governed by his—”

Amberton’s laugh interrupted her litany of complaints. “And you, of course, believe that you should be the exception to those restrictions, allowed to make your own decisions.”

“To a certain degree. Why not? I’ve not made so many errors in judgment that I must always be constrained to accept a husband’s guidance in every decision,” she argued.

“And if youhave made errors, your father has been remarkably willing, and certainly more than able, to extricate you from situations that were, perhaps, not in your own best interests. Such as a certain clandestine journey to the Border.”

Catherine had been only sixteen, and the fortune hunter who had arranged that elopement had been handsome and charming enough to turn older and wiser heads. However, his carefully selected target had been, almost from his arrival in London, the Duke of Montfort’s daughter.

“Don’t,” she ordered softly, her humiliation over the incident still acutely painful. “I shouldn’t have told you about that. And you promised never to repeat it.”

“Your secrets are safe with me, my dear. Especially if you agree to favor my suit,” he suggested truthfully, smiling at her. “Then I’d have a vested interest in protecting your reputation.”

“Such as it is,” she finished for him. “Blackmail, Gerald?”

“Not in the least. Simply another heartfelt avowal from quite your oldest suitor.”

“Oldest?” she repeated, laughing, relieved to be back on the familiar ground of flirtation. “You’ve forgotten Ridgecourt.”

“Then earliest, my love. I think you know that we’d rub along together very well. And I promise to permit a certain amount of freedom. Not, I’m afraid, that I’m willing to give you as long a tether as your father has allowed.”

“Tether!” she echoed despairingly. “Oh, God, Gerald, that’s just the sort of thing I’m talking about.”

“Simply a figure of speech, my dear. There’s really no need to pounce on every idiom as if I’m trying to imprison you.”

“That’s exactly how Ido imagine marriage. I’m already surrounded by enough restrictions to enclose an army. Don’t ride too fast. Don’t dance with the same gentleman more than once. It’s not seemly for unmarried females to wear that color or this style. God, I’m so sick of it all. Even my father has lately taken to issuing dark warnings about my being left languishing on the shelf, despite the fact that he’s received at least three offers in the last week.”

Eventually, the viscount knew, she would have to succumb. Everyone did. And Amberton intended to be prominently at hand, conveniently under her father’s nose and eminently suitable, when she did. But she had damn well better hurry. He had heard the wolf howling at his door too often to have any peace of mind.

“There is a solution,” Gerald reminded her.

“Marriage. To exchange one prison for another. To give another person the right to correct, criticize and chastise. Do you know, Gerald, that there are men who beat their wives if they don’t obey them in every instance? How would I know—”

He held up his hand, palm out, and vowed, “I shall never beat you, Cat. There are better ways to achieve control over a recalcitrant wife than violence. Far more pleasant ways.” There were methods that he’d be delighted to demonstrate to this girl, who was seriously endangering his plans with her stubbornness.

“Really?” she said with a touch of haughtiness, disliking the suggestive undertone of that declaration.

“Marry me, my sweet, and I shall be delighted to demonstrate the controlling power of love.”

“No,” she said simply, returning to the contemplation of the garden that stretched below her in the darkness. “I don’t want to get married. To anyone.”

“But eventually—” he began.

“Not tonight, please. I don’t want to think about that tonight. Go away, Gerald. Let me just enjoy being alone. I have a feeling that the days when I control my own destiny are dwindling, which makes each more precious. My days of freedom may be numbered, but I’m not at your beck and call yet. Nor any man’s. Not yet,” she said with an almost fierce resignation.

Amberton watched the slight heave of the slender shoulders as she took a deep breath, but smiling still, he obeyed.

Let her enjoy the illusion that she had some choice in the matter as long as she was able, he thought. The Season was coming to an end, and her days of freedomwere certainly numbered. Like it or not, Catherine Montfort would have to choose, forced to that decision by the demands of her father and of society. Amberton knew that there was not another of her suitors who enjoyed the rapport he had so carefully cultivated. Soon she, and more importantly her fortune, would be under his control, and there were a few lessons that he would delight in teaching Catherine Montfort, proud and stubborn as she was.

With Gerald’s departure, only the calm of the night sounds and the drifting music from the ballroom surrounded her. Propping both elbows on the stone railing, she interlaced her fingers under her chin and sighed again.

Unbelievingly she heard behind her the sound of a pair of hands slowly clapping. She turned to see a tall figure standing in the shadows at the edge of the balcony.

“Bravo,” the intruder said softly. “A remarkable declaration of independence. I applaud the sentiment, even if I doubt the possibility of your success in carrying it out.”

“How long have you been there?” she demanded.

“I believe you were being pawed. And objecting to it.”

“How dare you!”

“I didn’t. That was Gerald.”

“You were listening to a very private and personal conversation. You, sir, are obviously no gentleman.”

“Obviously,” he said agreeably.

Now that she was over her immediate shock, she had begun to notice details of his appearance. He was far taller than any of the men she knew—over six feet tall. Several inches over, she accurately guessed. And very broad shouldered. Massive, really.

As he moved into the light from the windows, she became aware of bronzed skin stretched tautly over high cheekbones and lean, smoothly shaved cheeks. Dear God, she thought in disbelief, it was the man who had bought the donkey. The man with the eyes—crystal blue and piercing, set like jewels among the uncompromisingly strong angles of his dark face.

She swallowed suddenly, fascinated again by his sheer foreignness. No fashionable cut scattered curls over the high forehead. His black hair was pulled straight back and tied at his nape, the severity of the style emphasizing the spare planes of his face and the strong nose.

She realized that she had been staring. Angry with her display of near country simplicity and still embarrassed at having been caught in such a compromising situation, she turned back to the railing, trying to regain her composure.

The silence stretched, only the muffled strains of the music invading the quietness. She had expected some reaction—an apology for his intrusion, a reminder that they’d met before and that she was in his debt, something. He was certainly not responding as Amberton or any of her other courtiers would have reacted to her very deliberate lack of attention.

Almost against her will, she turned back to face him. He was standing exactly as he had been before, watching her with those strangely luminescent eyes. Those damnably beautiful eyes. Even as she thought it, she wondered what was happening to her. She was surely sophisticated enough not to fall tongue-tied at the feet of a stranger because he had blue eyes.

“I’d like to talk to you,” he said. The accent was marked, and she wondered why she hadn’t been aware of it when he’d spoken from the shadows. Probably because she’d been too mortified by the idea that he’d witnessed Amberton’s attempted lovemaking.

“If I don’t want to talk to Gerald, who is a very old friend, it should be obvious that I don’t wish to talk to you.”

“I’m not Gerald,” he said, unmoving.

“I beg your pardon?” She had gaped at him like the veriest schoolroom miss. Yet she didn’t intend to be treated like one.

“I’m not Gerald,” he repeated obligingly.

“I know what you said. I didn’t mean that I didn’t hear you. I meant…”

He waited politely for her explanation. His hands were relaxed at his sides; his face perfectly composed.

“I meant I don’t knowwhy you said that—that you’re not Gerald. Obviously you’re not Lord Amberton.”

“My name is Raven,” he said calmly.

“Mr. Raven,” she said sweetly, acknowledging the information. Raven? What kind of name was Raven?

Raven inclined his head, not the least bit taken in by her politeness. She was certain by now to be wishing him in Hades.

“Go away,” she responded, turning once more to the railing.

Behind her she heard his soft laughter. He was laughing at her. Whoever he was—whatever he was.

“I’m not accustomed to gentlemen who refuse to do as they’ve been requested,” she said with frigid politeness.

“I didn’t imagine you were,” he said reasonably. “However, I have some business to discuss with you. I believe that this is an opportunity I may not be offered again.”

She could still hear the amusement in the deep voice.

“Business?” she repeated, turning once more to face him. “I assure you that I do not discussbusiness with strange men.”

“But I’m not a stranger. We’ve met before. I thought you might remember.”

“Of course I remember. I believe that Idid thank you for the donkey. And now, I really must insist that I be left alone. If you would be so kind.” She didn’t understand why she was trying to drive him away. She was honest enough to admit that his image had intruded frequently in her brain during the days since their first encounter. She had even envisioned meeting him again, but not while baring her soul on a dark and isolated balcony where no well-brought-up young lady should be found.

“I have a proposition to offer you,” Raven said, completely unperturbed by her repeated attempts to dismiss him.

She turned back to face him, appalled beyond words, feeling her skin flush hotly. He had witnessed Gerald’s very improper embrace and apparently believed that she would entertain…

“My father will have you horsewhipped,” she threatened.

The line of his lips tilted upward at the corners. “Notthat kind of proposition,” Raven corrected. “And I’m shocked that a gently reared young woman would believe that I’m about to offer her carte blanche. Iam surprised at you.” He made a smalltsking sound, shaking his head. The anger he’d felt watching the blond Englishman hold her was beginning to dissipate. She was obviously not the kind of flirt he’d feared when he’d followed the pair from the crowded ballroom.

“What do you want? Please state yourbusiness and then go away,” Catherine ordered. “You have the manners of a barbarian.”

“American,” he admitted pleasantly, knowing that she was probably correct—at least by her standards.

“Ah,” she said, giving him a mocking smile of agreement. “That explains so much.” American. No wonder he was unusual.

“I hope so,” Raven replied graciously, as if there had been no trace of sarcasm in her reply. “I’m not very familiar with the apparently intricate courtship rituals of your circle. So forgive me if I fail to say all that’s proper. I’m a man who believes in cutting to the heart. I’d like you to marry me.”

Despite her genuine sophistication, Catherine’s mouth dropped open slightly. She made a small strangled sound and then, controlling her shock, began to laugh, in honest amusement that he should believe he could appear out of the shadows—a stranger with all the panache of a red Indian and the physical presence of a prizefighter—and offer her marriage.

Raven made no outward reaction to her amusement. He hadn’t expected her to laugh, despite the fact that she knew nothing about him. Few people ever laughed at John Raven. If nothing else, his sheer size was too intimidating. But, he remembered, Reynoldshad tried to warn him.

The American waited with only a calm patience evident in his features. Eventually her laughter began to sound a little forced, even to her own ears, and she allowed it to die away.

His lips lifted slightly in what she was beginning to recognize as his version of a smile. A mocking smile.

“I’m glad I’ve amused you. I imagine you haven’t found an occasion for such a prolonged bout of laughter in months.”

“Youare amusing,” she taunted, knowing he’d seen through her. Could he possibly realize how he’d affected her at their first meeting? She forced sarcasm into her voice. “I can’t tell you how deliciously ridiculous I find you. And your suit. Quite the most unconventional suitor I’ve ever had, I assure you.”

“At least I’m not boring you,” he suggested softly.

She realized with surprise that he wasn’t. She was not— definitely not—bored and had not been for the last few moments.

“There are worse things than boredom,” she retorted mockingly, unconscious that she was repeating Amberton’s statement, which John Raven, of course, had certainly overheard.

“I doubt it,” he responded, exactly as she had. “At least we agree on something.”

“I would imagine that’s the only thing we are ever likely to agree on,” she said, opening her fan and moving it gracefully.

His eyes watched the play of her hands a moment and then lifted to study her features. He’d never seen a woman as beautiful. Despite her coloring, there was no scattering of freckles across the small, elegant nose. The long lashes that surrounded the russet eyes were much darker than the auburn hair. Almost certainly artificially darkened, he realized in amusement.

Catherine was glad of the covering darkness that hid the slight flush she could feel suffusing her skin at his prolonged examination. Her acknowledged beauty, which had been her heritage from her mother, had attracted the usual masculine attention, but he was tracing each individual element of her face as if he were trying to memorize them.

“And I believe there are other, more important considerations about which we are in agreement,” he said finally, the piercing crystal gaze moving back to meet her eyes.

“Such as?” she asked indifferently.

“Such as the idea that a woman need not be at the beck and call of her husband. That she should enjoy a great deal of personal freedom. With a few necessary limitations, of course.”

You have nothing to offer the girl that she doesn’t already have, Reynolds had told him, but Catherine Montfort herself had given him a key, an inducement that might tempt her to consider his proposal. She had said that she wanted freedom, and perhaps, if he promised her that…