Till Dawn Tames the Night Read online

  THE CRITICS RAVE ABOUT MEAGAN McKINNEY

  "Phenomenal and talented . . . Meagan McKinney firmly establishes herself as an exceptional storyteller, holding the reader enthralled to the very end."

  —Romantic Times

  "Like all good writers, she has a story to tell and tells it

  well."

  —The Times-Picayune (New Orleans)

  "Exceptional writing in the romantic genre."

  —The Potomac Almanac

  WHEN ANGELS FALL

  "This is the kind of story that makes you cry with happi-

  ness. ... A TRIUMPH!"

  —Romantic Times

  "It's a sign of good writing that the author can make readers cry . . . one of those rare romances that has readers shamelessly shedding tears . . . satisfying in its complexity and the skill with which it reaches the conclusion. You won't want to put down this book until the last page is turned."

  —Gannett News Service

  "Her best yet. Her exuberant sense of wit and style make [this] the perfect valentine."

  —The Times-Picayune (New Orleans)

  "A Victorian valentine."

  —The Litchfield County Times

  "A real page-turner. . . . Strong secondary characters, smooth writing style, and rampaging sexual tension."

  —Rendezvous

  "WHEN ANGELS FALL will bring [McKinney] to the attention of the most discriminating romance readers . . . the quintessential English romance."

  —Lovenotes

  "5 STARS . . . Fairy tales can come true!"

  —Heartland Critiques

  MY WICKED ENCHANTRESS

  "Impossible to put down ... a real page-turner. Ms. McKinney engages your emotions and draws you into a lush, passionate tale. POWERFUL, POIGNANT AND BEAUTIFULLY WRITTEN."

  —Romantic Times

  "Motivating! . . . Readers of historical romance,

  enjoy!"

  —Publishers Weekly

  NO CHOICE BUT SURRENDER

  "Captures your heart with a poignancy reminiscent of Judith McNaught. The perfect book for anyone who adores tender, compassionate love stories ... to be kept and reread time and again."

  —Romantic Times

  "A fine tale of love and revenge."

  —Affaire de Coeur

  "The best of historical romance."

  —Lovenotes

  Also by Meagan McKinney

  My Wicked Enchantress

  No Choice but Surrender

  When Angels Fall

  Published by

  Dell Publishing

  a division of

  Bantam Doubleday Dell Publishing Group, Inc.

  666 Fifth Avenue

  New York, New York 10103

  Copyright © 1991 by Ruth Goodman

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or trans­mitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, includ­ing photo-copying, recording, or by any information storage and re­trieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law.

  The trademark Dell" is registered in the U.S. Patent and

  Trademark Office.

  ISBN: 0-440-20870-X Printed in the

  United States of America

  Published simultaneously in

  Canada May 1991

  CLS 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  For Tommy

  January 1, 1990

  O, hush thee, my babie, the time will soon come,

  When thy sleep shall be broken by trumpet and drum;

  Then hush thee, my darling, take rest while you may,

  For strife comes with manhood, and waking with day.

  —Sir Walter Scott (1771-1832)

  THE PIRATE

  Prologue

  THE HEROINE

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  THE VILLAIN

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  MIRAGE

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty -two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  THE TRUCE

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  THE DRAGON TAMED

  Chapter Thirty-one

  THE

  PIRATE

  He thinks too much. Such men are dangerous.

  —Shakespeare: Julius Caesar

  Prologue

  1818

  London Docks

  There was no revelry at the Green Serpent Yard to­night. Though the rotting tavern was notorious for its bad gin—and even worse company—it was almost al­ways crowded after dark. Its customers were the kind of vermin rarely seen outside of Newgate, and they cared not a whit about the quality of their spirits. But this night, oddly enough, the crowd was sparse.

  Only a subdued little gathering of five men drank in the corner, and they sat hunched together, speaking in whispers. Every now and then one deep in his cups would burst out with a chuckle, but he was soon sobered by his companions' faces. It was clear by their expressions that tonight those who laughed laughed alone.

  As the minutes ticked by, they nervously watched the door as if they were waiting for the Devil himself to ap­pear. When still no one came, they seemed to lose an­other bit of their nerve, but as if to silence their dread, they downed their gin in huge burning gulps, then wiped their mouths on their shirtsleeves and ordered more.

  Fear was everywhere in the Yard tonight. Not only was it seen in the faces of the men and heard in the chilling clink of pewter mugs, it was as overwhelming a stench as the unwashed bodies that filled the tavern or the soiled straw that covered the floor. Even the rats seemed to sense what was in the air. At regular intervals they ap­peared from their dingy nooks to see what the silence was about. Rising to their hind feet, they sniffed, then pru­dently disappeared back into their holes.

  "Wha' if he don't believe us, Murdoch? Wha' if he kills us all? I know we're in this fer the gold, but they say Vashon'd just as soon kill a bloke as ta look at him." An aged man in the group spoke up. "Though I've lived a good long time, I just don't know if'n I'm ready ta go tonight. . . ."

  "And what about that dragon?" another man whined to their leader. "I've heard it gives him mystical powers! I've heard stories about that pirate that'd scare the vir­ginity out of a nun!"

  "We're fools to be here! He'll not want our informa­tion! He's slit more throats than I can count!" Made brave by gin, this man slammed his fist on the board.

  "Than ye can count? Than ye can count?" Their leader, Murdoch, a scurrilous-looking man of fifty, finally stood up. "Ye stupid yellow dogs! Ye canna count ta three!" In disgust he glanced over his lackeys and angrily announced, "I need no cowards this night! Whoever canna find the courage ta stay, then take yer leave and be gone! But dinna be thinkin' ye're due any gold fer yer troubles!" With that he lifted the plank table and shoved it to the floor. Glass shattered and the board split.

  After that violent outburst, the minions abruptly ceased their complaints. Outraged, the barkeep started from his corner, but wh
en Murdoch turned his gaze to him, the man stopped dead in his tracks.

  "If ye want ta see the morrow, jack, ye'd best stay out o' this." Murdoch opened his coat and the dull glint of a pistol showed at the waist of his breeches.

  Without further prompting, the barkeep decided to re­tire. He skittered from the room and dashed for his quar­ters.

  "Now," Murdoch said, turning back to his men, "who is ta stay an' who is ta go?"

  "The only way we'll be going is with Vashon's knife in our gut." One of the men lifted his head. His pale blue eyes stared vacantly past his leader. A mad smile curled his lips, and he began to laugh. "So I guess we'll be stay­ing!"

  "That's right," Murdoch pronounced, easing back to the bench. He warily eyed the crazed young man, then kicked a broken bottle of gin out of his way. He was just about to send one of the men to get another round when a shadow fell across him. He glanced up and met with his nemesis.

  "V-Vashon," he choked out, scrambling to his feet. Im­mediately his minions did likewise, and with slackened jaws they stared at the demon before them. He had taken them all by surprise, and if they had been frightened waiting for him, now that he was here, they were terri­fied.

  Cringing, they watched him step forward. Though Vashon's attire—a dark blue frock coat and pale buck­skin breeches—was restrained and costly, it was clear this man was bad company. He towered over the lot of them by at least a head. Yet his great height wasn't what sent fear crawling down every spine. Nor was it his well-muscled form. It was his expression.

  Vashon's face was handsome, uncommonly handsome, but it was as hard and merciless as a Spartan's. Written deep into his eyes seemed to be the knowledge that he found the world to be an ugly place. And in his world, his wretched place devoid of beauty or peace, he looked as if he'd developed a great capacity for destruction. By just one glance it was easy to believe this man would do what he needed to, no matter how wrong, no matter how bru­tal. He seemed to wear his past in his eyes almost as he wore the pistol in his belt. It was hard not to further the comparison by wondering if this man, like the pistol, wasn't just as quick, explosive. And deadly.

  "Vashon," Murdoch quavered, "I canna thank ye enough fer comin'. I dinna know if ye would come. . . ."

  "We've come. So tell me your information."

  At the plural reference, Murdoch looked to the door. A burly pirate stood there. He appeared to have twice Vashon's years, but even though his hair was gray and his gut had expanded with age, he looked quite capable of using the pistol he had aimed right at Murdoch's head.

  Murdoch turned his eyes back to Vashon. He gulped. "W-w-would ye be havin' a drink with us, guv'-nor . . . ?"

  "I want your information. Now."

  With those words, all the men held their breath, save the speaker and the man behind him holding the pistol. Even the mad henchman with the pale blue eyes quit smiling. It was obvious it wouldn't do to try this Vashon's patience.

  Murdoch gulped again and summoned his courage. His voice took on an imploring tone. "I hate ta inconve­nience ye, Vashon, even ta be thinkin' such things, but there is the matter o' price?"

  "I'll determine if what you have is worth paying for." Vashon crossed his arms and leaned against the wall. He looked down upon Murdoch and his cohorts as if they were no better than a pack of mangy curs. His stare un-glued Murdoch altogether.

  "I'll tell ye then," Murdoch conceded hastily. " 'Tis no problem at all. Because, ye see, guv'nor, I know ye'll pay. Ye're a man after me own heart. I admire ye. I trust ye—"

  "Get on with it," Vashon demanded, obviously dis­gusted by Murdoch's bootlicking.

  "O' course, o'course, guv'nor!" Murdoch rattled. "I canna wait ta tell ye, for what I know'll be worth more ta ye than all yer gold!"

  "Your note said something about the Star of Aran. What do you know about the emerald?"

  "I know where 'tis."

  Vashon stiffened. His gaze burned into Murdoch. Deadly quiet, he said, "If you know where the Star is, why aren't you going after it?"

  "We-e-ell, 'tis a bit more complicated than that. . . ."

  Straightening, Vashon abruptly motioned to his man. "Isaac, let's quit these lying fools."

  "Wait!" Murdoch cried, following him to the door. "All right! All right! I dinna know where the jewel is! But I know where the viscount is lookin', and I know how much you hate the Viscount Blackwell!"

  Vashon turned and grabbed Murdoch by his jacket. This mere gesture sent two of Murdoch's frightened men scurrying for the door. With his eyes nearly bulging from their sockets, Murdoch watched a portion of his salvation run bowlegged out into the night.

  "I know all about Josiah Peterborough," Vashon calmly informed him, all the while pressing him against the wall, "and I know where he is looking. But the Star's not in Ireland. So he and you are wasting time." The pirate released him. Terrified, Murdoch slid to the floor like a rag doll.

  Vashon turned to go, and with him went Murdoch's hope for gold. Desperate, he scrambled to his feet and grasped the pirate's sleeve.

  "But now Blackwell is searchin' elsewhere! He's searchin' for the gel an' only I know where she is!"

  With that statement, Vashon paused. Coolly he turned back. "You know where she is?"

  "The viscount got a clue the gel might be in London. So he's been all o'er trying ta dig her up. He's told every­one about her an' the locket she'd be wearing. Brightson here"—Murdoch nodded to one of his remaining cohorts —"he saw a gel with that same locket an' followed her home. We was going ta give Peterborough the informa­tion, 'til we decided ye hated him so much ye'd probably pay more."

  Vashon's eyes narrowed. "What does the viscount plan to do with this girl once he finds her—if he finds her? As I recall, she was only four when her father died. What could she remember about the Star?"

  Looking as if he'd just escaped execution, Murdoch nervously hitched up his breeches and offered, "I dinna know wha' she remembers, guv'nor, but I do know Blackwell wants her. An' when he finds her, he plans ta kidnap her. An' surely ye know he ain't much above tor­ture ta git what he wants. Ask old Danny here. He used ta work fer him." Murdoch motioned to the man with the pale blue eyes, who sent them a mad little smile only to turn his interest to his thumb.

  "He plans to kidnap her then?" Vashon mused.

  "Aye, an' as I see it, once Blackwell gits his paws on her, she ain't gonna be much use ta anyone else, tha's fer sure."

  "Where is this girl?"

  "She's in London."

  The ominous pirate thought about this for a moment. Vashon looked as if he didn't quite believe Murdoch. His expression almost sent Murdoch scrambling for the cor­ner.

  "Go on."

  Relief washed over Murdoch's features. "There now! I knew when we got this information that ye'd be wantin' it! An' old Peterborough can just go ta the Devil, said I!" Anxious to please, and even more anxious to save himself from bodily harm, Murdoch wiped off a bench with his coat sleeve. He then offered the seat to Vashon. "Can I get you to rest, guv'nor? There ain't no need to—"

  "I said, go on."

  Murdoch blanched and looked up at the pirate's tall, unyielding figure. He couldn't get his next words out fast enough. "She's at an almshouse, right here in London— grew up there, I heard tell."

  "What else."

  "We-e-ell . . ." Murdoch hesitated. It was obvious that as much as he loved his life, he loved gold more. Using the last remnants of his courage, he stuttered, "I—

  I hate to mention this, guv'nor, but th-there is the small detail of payment. . . ."

  "Continue, I said."

  He eyed Vashon uneasily. "The almshouse is called The Phipps-Bluefield Home for Little Wanderers. 'Tis be­tween the docks and Goodman's Fields in Whitechapel. She works there now, helping the other poor lads and lassies, but we've heard tell that she's lookin' fer a new position. The owner's jus' died—or somethin' of that sort."

  "Do you have her name?"

  Murdoch nodded.

  "Th
en what is it? Tell me her name and I'll know you have the right girl."

  Hoping to end this night still possessing his life, but perhaps a little richer, Murdoch whispered, "I canna quite recall, guv'nor, but perhaps a wee bit of gold might—"

  Without warning, Vashon grabbed Murdoch's soiled collar. His cohorts gasped in horror as the pirate forcibly pulled him up to his eye level. When Murdoch squealed like a stuck pig, Vashon said, "Tell me her name, you ass, otherwise you shall sorely regret summoning me here."

  "Her name's Aurora! Aurora Dayne!" Murdoch choked.

  Vashon released his hold. Murdoch stumbled to the dirty floor, coughing and rubbing his neck. The pirate studied him for a moment. He reached inside his great­coat, and Murdoch's eyes widened with terror. The men started scrambling for cover, but Vashon only produced a bag full of coins.

  "Correct answer, idiot."

  With a cynically handsome smile, Vashon thumped the bag down on the floor beside Murdoch. Then, to every­one's relief, he said, "Now, tell me more. . . ."

  The Phipps-Bluefield Home

  for Little Wanderers

  Aurora wiped a small patch of soot from her garret win­dow and looked out at the London rooftops. It was time to leave, and though she had yearned for this moment for over a year, now that it was here she felt overwhelmed by it.

  "I wish you weren't leaving," a girl's voice murmured behind her.

  Aurora turned and gave the girl a small reassuring smile. "If I weren't going, Faith, you would not be blessed with my room."

  The girl Faith looked around the tiny room. The floor, though bare, was swept and waxed; the walls were still white from their last whitewashing. The blankets were a bit worn and patched, but still the bed was freshly made and tightly tucked. Aurora could see the girl was pleased.

  "Oh, I don't want you to go . . . but I do cherish the thought of my own room!" Faith burst out.

  Aurora laughed. "I understand completely. I remem­ber what a palace this little room was compared to sleep­ing downstairs with the children."