Dark Rider by Iris Johansen Read Free Book Online Page A

find—”
    “Who is this?” Clara demanded as she came toward Lani. “Disturbance after disturbance. Is it another of those heathens?”
    She could not have come at a worse time. Lani had hoped to have the Englishman gone before Clara appeared. “No, it’s an Englishman, but he’s going now.”
    “Not quite yet.” Danemount threw open the door. “I have a few more questions.” His gaze went to Clara. “I’m Jared Danemount, Duke of Morland. And you are …?”
    “I’m Clara Kidman. I’m housekeeper here, and you have no—” She broke off and frowned. “A duke? A British duke? Truly?”
    He nodded. “I wish to know the whereabouts of a Monsieur Charles Deville. I understand he has left the island?”
    “Of course he’s not left the island,” Clara said. “He’s gone to that volcano again.”
    Danemount’s cool glance moved to Lani. He murmured, “Really? I must have misunderstood.”
    “But he may be returning soon. A courier from the king came earlier today, and his daughter took the message to him.”
    Lani gritted her teeth in sheer exasperation when she saw the flicker of wariness cross Danemount’s face.
    “You could wait for him here,” Clara said grudgingly to Lani’s surprise. It was seldom Clara offered hospitality to anyone.
    “No, I don’t think I will. My business is of some urgency.” He bowed mockingly to Lani. “Good day, ladies.”
    She had to make one last attempt at diverting him. “The mountains can be dangerous for a man alone. You could become lost.”
    “I’m not alone. My uncle and a guide are waiting on the trail below.” His lips twisted in a cynical smile. “But my thanks for your concern.”
    She watched him go down the veranda steps and then move quickly along the palm-bordered path until he was lost to view.
    “This was not a good thing you did,” she muttered.
    “It’s only what I’d expect of you,” Clara said. “You tell that heathen who came bursting in here in the middle of the night where Monsieur Deville is to be found, but you lie to a civilized British gentleman.”
    “That gentleman may prove—” She broke off as she realized Clara would not listen. Patience, she told herself. She had known the burdens she would face when she had come to this house, and she was determined to bear them with grace. “It was not a good thing,” she repeated as she crossed the veranda.
    “Where are you going?”
    “To work in my garden.” She needed the soothing balm of delving into the earth, and it was the one pastime to which Clara could not object, since it provided fresh vegetables for the table. “Unless you need me in the house?”
    “I’ve told you that you’re not needed here.”
    Many times and in the cruelest of fashions. But shewas needed by Charles and Cassie, and she could withstand the old woman’s cuts.
    As she knelt before her vegetable patch, she gazed uneasily up at the mountain. It was nearing noon and Cassie had been gone for hours. Had she found Charles yet?
    Cassie did not find her father until nearly twilight. He had painted the place he called Pelée’s Breath so often, she had not thought he would return to do another picture. Yet there he was, standing at his easel, on the highest plateau overlooking those barren foothills where clouds of steam drifted like phantom snakes from the jet-black earth.
    “Papa!” Cassie waved before carefully traversing the rocky incline leading to the plateau. It was always slippery both on this incline and on the foothills themselves. The black lava was constantly coated with the moisture from the steam that rose from between the cracks in the earth. Since the first time her father had brought her here as a small child, she had been frightened of the strangeness of the place. The seething silence broken only by wind and the hiss of escaping steam had seemed more threatening than the red-orange molten fire in the heart of the volcano. She had always thought it odd that her father, who was