The Night the Stars Fell

by Kingston, Christina

• ISBN13: 9780515130416
• ISBN10: 0515130419
• Format: Paperback
• Copyright: 2001-04-01
• Publisher: Jove

Summary

A fearless young chatelaine and a fearsome colonel find unexpected passion -- and dangerous secrets -- that could tear their lives apart.

Excerpts

Chapter One

In spite of the urgent reason for his journey, Chalfont Blysdale, Sixth Earl of Blythingdale, was bored. Forced inactivity had always bored him, and right now he had nothing to do but sit in this blasted carriage. He yawned. Out of habit, he put a long-fingered hand up in front of his mouth to conceal his yawn even though he was alone. Then he grinned and yawned again without that automatic gesture of a well-bred, well-reared gentleman. His strong white teeth glinted in the dim light from the interior carriage lamps.

    With a deep sigh, he lifted his long, doeskin-clad legs and rested his boots on the velvet-covered seat of the wide bench opposite him. He should have ridden his stallion. From the sound of the wind, whistling over the noise made by the jingling harness and pounding hooves of his horses, this journey would have been considerably more exciting astride a highly strung bit of blood. Unfortunately, his favorite mount was miles behind him, tied to the rear of the carriage bringing his luggage.

    Griswold, formerly his batman, now his valet and right-hand man, was in charge of that carriage, as it held, in addition to Blysdale's clothing, a small armory. When Bly found the men he sought, he intended to be ready to defend or avenge them, whichever the situation called for.

    For just a minute, he considered riding one of his carriage horses. Every horse in all of his stables was trained to ride as well as drive, even his racehorses, who hated to pull anything. Of course, it would hardly put him in good standing with his coachman if he were to decide to ride one of the team at this point.

    So Blysdale tried to make himself content to be inside the carriage and safely out of the worsening weather, but it wasn't easy. Bly was by nature a restless man. Leisure seemed to avoid him like the plague, and that was a circumstance that he'd never regretted. He much preferred an active life.

    Until a month ago, his life had run smoothly--for his life at least. He'd gone to London for a card party with friends and attended the races at Newmarket with them. Together the six of them had foiled a kidnapping and apprehended a murderer, and he'd capped the adventure by being best man at his friend Taskford's rather unusual wedding.

    It had been a full and pleasant enough schedule, but when it was over, disaster had struck. Now, two of the men who'd shared that adventure had disappeared. Two good friends, and there weren't many men Blysdale would call friends.

    Mathers and Smythe had last been seen in this very neighborhood. Their coachman had been found murdered near here. Blysdale was here to set the score straight--one way or the other. Until he reached the coast there was nothing he could do about it, no matter how infuriated he might be by the situation, so he sought refuge for his temporarily impotent rage in boredom.

    Bly knew himself well enough to be aware that inactivity always put in him the foulest of moods. He also knew that it wasn't a good thing for anyone to encounter him when he was feeling this way. He recognized that something lived just under the surface in him--something savage that crouched and waited with sharpened claws. Something that was always alert ... and certainly never bored. Right now it waited impatiently to be loosed against the men who'd captured his friends and killed their coachman. It was to be in position to let loose that beast that, last week, he'd written and forced an invitation to stay at the home of one of his junior officers, Josh Clifton--an annoyingly dashing out-and-outer who'd lately become a marquess.

    According to his spies, young Clifton was even trying his hand at smuggling now, rather than attending to the business of running his sprawling estate here on the coast. Blysdale smiled mirthlessly. He'd be willing to bet that his letter had scared the young pup blue. So what. He couldn't care less whether or not Josh Clifton was smuggling wines and laces over from France. The war was over, and the money France made selling contraband to English smugglers no longer bought guns to kill English soldiers, so it was no longer his concern. He wasn't a blasted revenue officer. In fact, if he thought about Clifton's smuggling at all, it was merely to remind himself that the brandy at Cliffside was likely to be Napoleon's best.

    Suddenly, there was a cry in the night. "Stand and deliver!" rang out above the howling of the wind.

    "Whoa! Whoa, boys!" His coachman threw on the brake. The vehicle rocked violently to a halt. The horses stood trembling in their traces. Bly, who'd braced himself the instant he heard the shout, was not moved.

    A holdup? Surely this was an odd place for one. Blysdale checked the small pistol strapped to his right forearm. Could this be what had happened to his comrades, Mathers and Smythe? Was he about to lay his hands on the man or men who could tell him their fate? His eyes hardened as he waited for the next development.

    It wasn't long in coming. The door of the carriage was yanked open, and he saw a slender figure framed against the blustery night. The spymaster in him leapt to the fore. By the dim lights of the carriage lamps, he studied the highwayman. Unfortunately, there was nothing to see but a pair of fine eyes. Greenish, he thought--it was damned hard to tell in the dim light--and the skin around them was smooth. A youth, obviously. Sizing the lad up, he decided that, robber or no robber, he wasn't vicious. His eyes were too clear.

    Those eyes, calm and watchful, regarded him alertly. There was intelligence in them.

    Bly smiled. Above all things, he prized intelligence. Prized it even more than courage. Brutes could act courageously by reflex. He'd seen that time and again on the battlefield. Intelligent men overcame fear by an act of will, and that he could admire.

    He felt his curiosity building. All pretense of boredom retreated into the cave where it belonged in the back of his mind. Blysdale was interested to see just what this young man was up to.

    No highwayman in his right mind would choose to ply his trade on this lightly trafficked road. So ... what was the boy after?

    Gesturing him out of the coach, the muffled youth pointed to the side of the road. Obligingly, Blysdale followed the unspoken order because it amused him. Trained as he was, he could easily overcome his erstwhile robber if necessary. Chalfont Blysdale possessed abilities lesser men could only wonder about, and the highwayman had already let him get too close. Far too close.

    To vanquish the youth, Blysdale would need neither the small pistol in his right sleeve nor the slender blade that lay snug against his forearm in his left. Even without these traditional articles of mayhem, Blysdale was a dangerous man.

    He'd passed the robber meekly because he wanted to know what the devil the young highwayman was after. With a subtle gesture he kept his coachman from interfering.

    The youth proceeded to enter and search the confines of the coach with a single gloved hand, holding his pistol firmly in the other and still keeping his eyes fixed on Blysdale. Bly, in turn, kept his gaze on the searcher. There was not a great deal for him to see. Therefore, he particularly noted the excellent quality of the young man's boots. They were of the finest, most supple leather, and they fitted the slender calves they adorned snugly from knee to toe. They were boots made by a master, without a doubt. From them, it would seem that highway robbery paid this gentleman very well despite the lack of regular road traffic in this particular area.

    Frustratingly, there was nothing else for Bly to learn about his assailant, thanks to the black cloak that fell from shoulder to heel. That made Blysdale even more curious.

    Finally, the highwayman signaled to him with a slight movement of his pistol that he was to reenter the traveling coach. Keeping his weapon trained on his victim, the youth backed away and remounted his handsome all-black stallion with remarkable grace.

    Blysdale watched the horseman intently. Too bad the hands were covered, gloved in rich, supple leather, for a great deal could be learned about a man by studying his hands. Bly's disappointment at not being able to see more was acute. He decided he'd just have to content himself with the fact that the hand that held the cocked pistol pointing at his heart was steady.

    Nevertheless, he was disappointed by this lack of clues. He kept his gaze fixed on the highwayman's face. It irritated Bly that the narrow strip of smooth, fair skin with its pair of intriguing eyes was all that he could see of the well-muffled would-be robber.

    The highwayman's eyes widened slightly at the intensity of his victim's gaze. His hand tightened on his reins. A brief hesitation, then he spun his horse on its haunches and was away. He'd disappeared into the night before the smile that came to Chalfont Blysdale's firm lips had finished curving them. Lord Blysdale was no longer bored.

    Deep in the woods only half a mile away, Lady Katherine drew rein. Here in the shelter of the majestic oaks of the home woods, the sea winds were kept at bay and it was almost silent in the clearing. Only the very tops of the trees sighed in the wind that came in from the sea.

    She sat very straight and very still for a long moment. Then she pulled the silk scarf down from covering the lower half of her face and sighed. Sliding from the saddle, she spoke fondly to her mount, "Thank you again, Star. You were wonderful to be so steady in all this wind."

    The great horse nickered softly.

    She slipped her arms around his neck and laid her cheek against its satin warmth. "There was nothing to find in that coach, either, and I had such high hopes. That gentleman was the first person we've held up who even came close to looking as if he might be a clever jewel thief."

    She pulled away and stroked the horse's neck. She put her disappointment in the form of a question to her horse. "Do you think we will ever come up with proof of Hal's innocence?"

    Star blew gently down his nostrils, then gave her shoulder a light shove.

    His mistress smiled. "Was that to offer me comfort, or to tell me you're anxious to get back to your stall?"

    An eager whicker sounded at the mention of his stall .

    Kate gave him a gentle shove and chided, "All right, I get the point. You want that boot blacking washed off your forehead so you can be left in peace with your hay, don't you?" She swung easily back into the saddle, catching the off stirrup on the toe of her right boot and thrusting her foot home even as the huge stallion started off. "I suppose all you can think of now is that you want what's left of the night to sleep."

    Star flicked an ear back at her to signify that he heard, then turned it forward again as he concentrated on where he was going.

    Bent low on his neck to avoid the low-hanging branches she knew were over the path, Kate sent him trotting down a dim trail toward home. There was nothing she didn't know about these woods. As a little girl she'd run wild in them, playing with imaginary friends and trying to tame the forest creatures. Back then, she had claimed the woods as her very own, and now, only Lady Katherine of Cliffside had the courage to enter them at night. They were, thanks to her efforts, rumored to be haunted.

    Even Josh and Hal, her two usually intrepid older brothers, gave the forest a wide berth after the sun had set. To her utter delight, they said they felt as if they were being watched by hostile eyes when they ventured into the deep shadows of the ancient trees.

    Kate chuckled. She'd "haunted" these woods with wild cries and gruesome moans for years. What had started as a child's petty revenge for her older brothers' indifference had turned into an adult woman's cheerful joke. The happy result was that now she had her beloved forest all to herself.

    She was careful to maintain the illusion, too. If ever one of the family remarked on her seeming lack of sleep, Kate was quick to use the forest to explain it away. Her reply--"I couldn't sleep because of all the awful cries coming from the home wood. Didn't any of you hear them?"--served to keep the dark reputation of the wooded area intact.

    Lately that had become a matter of grave importance. Twice she'd been pursued after stopping a coach. Once she would have been caught if she hadn't had the woods to hide in.

    Thinking of that, Kate was glad that the man she'd just held up hadn't had a riding horse with him. Somehow she knew he'd have used it to pursue her. Those piercing eyes of his told her he'd not have given up easily, either. She felt certain he wasn't the sort of man to be put off by stories of ghosts and demons, even if he'd chanced to hear them, and she had no doubt that he'd have chased her into the woods. Yes, and if she didn't know the forest paths better than anyone alive, he might have caught her, too!

    A little shiver passed through her. A premonition? She wondered at it. She wondered, too, what was it about that particular man that caused such an odd reaction in her.

    He wore arrogance like a cloak, and Kate detested any arrogance but her own. And he wasn't handsome. He was too dangerous looking to be. His aquiline nose and lean features gave his face an ever-watchful expression, like that of a hawk. The black of his hair and his swarthy complexion might emphasize the bright blue of his eyes to a startling degree, but they made him appear sinister, as well. She was at a loss to explain why she felt a strange ... she couldn't put a word to it, because she refused to call it attraction....

    She gave herself a mental shake. "Call it uneasiness, then, and be glad that you'll never have to face him again." She said that aloud, then wondered if unease were indeed what she had felt--all that she had felt.

    It wasn't, but she shrugged off that admission. After all, what did it matter if the man fascinated her? She'd never see him again. Like the proverbial ships in the night, they had passed, caught a glimpse of each other, then gone on. The man was just another traveler on his way to one of the ports farther down the coast--and that was certainly fine with her.

    The blazing intelligence she'd seen in those piercing blue eyes would have made her afraid of discovery if she thought she might ever encounter him again. Since discovery could lead to a hangman's noose, it was certainly better that she not see him again. Far better.

    Resolutely putting the elegant man out of her mind, Kate rode on. After all, she had more than enough to handle when it came to men just now.

    With two brothers who were determined to get themselves hanged and an ever-present and very insistent suitor whom she absolutely detested, Kate didn't need any additional problems!

Copyright © 2001 Christina Strong. All rights reserved.