Captain's Bride (27 page)

“How are you doing in school?” Nicholas asked.
“Excelling as usual, I’m sure. You know how proud I am of you,
Brad.”

“I’m doing just fine. Mother’s fine—if you’re
interested. It’s you I’m worried about.”

“Me! Why would you be worried about me?”

“You’re right, of course,” Brad said, not meaning a
word of it. “You’re much too much of a cad to worry about.” He
forced a tight smile he didn’t feel. “I hear you’ve been whoring
over half the Caribbean.”

Nicholas laughed bitterly, a harsh, grating sound
like nothing Brad had heard. “For a while,” Nicholas said. “Not
lately. I’m afraid my interest in the fairer sex has waned.”

Brad took a sip of his brandy, seeking the relaxing
warmth, and a bit of courage. He noticed his brother stared back
into the flames. “I read about the shipwreck,” Brad said, easing
into the subject he’d come to discuss.

Nicholas turned toward him. “As you can see, I
survived.”

“Yes.” Brad tapped his forefinger against his glass.
“That young woman you were stranded with—Gloria Summerfield, wasn’t
it? She certainly set the tongues to wagging. She must have been
some piece of work for you to treat her as you did.” He chuckled
softly, hoping to spark some emotion from the man in front of the
fire. “I felt sure, her being Julian’s daughter and all, you’d have
married her.”

Nicholas’s features grew taut, the fire casting
shadows into the hollows of his cheeks, making them look almost
sinister.

“But then, of course, you’ve never made any secret of
the way you feel about marriage.”

Nicholas didn’t answer, just stared into the flames.
“The girl was shunned from polite society here in New York, you
know. They called her ‘the captain’s tart.’
Tart.
Such a
cruel word to use on a young girl.”

Nicholas tensed. Brad noticed the rapid pulse beating
at the base of his brother’s throat.

“She finally moved to Boston,” Brad pressed.
“Probably to protect the child.”

Nicholas’s head snapped up. “What child?”

“Most people don’t know about that. Going to
Harvard,

I got wind of it and made a point to find out, since
the child is yours.”

“Mine! Don’t be absurd.”

“Ah. Then she
is
a tart, as they say.”

Nicholas stiffened, anger boiling to the surface.
“Stay out of this, Brad. This is none of your concern.”

“It’s probably just as well you didn’t marry her.
After the way she came right out and claimed that Negro half
brother of hers. Nathan, was it? Seems there was some trouble on
the plantation. Something about returning him to the fields, so she
spirited him away. She’s got courage, I’ll say that for her. The
brother goes to school here in the city. Studying to be a botanist,
of all things.”

The glass in Nicholas’s hand shattered into a
thousand glistening shards, the amber liquid pooling on the carpet
at his feet. He didn’t know he was bleeding until Brad leaped from
the sofa and gripped his hand.

“My God, man!” Brad pulled his kerchief from his
waistcoat pocket and wrapped it around his brother’s fingers. “What
did you think?”

Nicholas stared at him, speechless. His face looked
pale, and his mind seemed far away. He glanced at Brad, saw his
concern, read the question on his face that still hung in the air.
When he finally spoke, his tone sounded flat, lifeless, dead.

“I thought Nathan was her lover. That she loved him
and not me. That she’d tricked me and deceived me. That she was
just like all the other women I’d known.”

“But she wasn’t.”

“No.”

“You’ve made a mistake,” Brad said. “Sooner or later
it happens to us all.”

Nicholas shook his head, his face more ashen than
before. “It was more than just a mistake. Glory was the best thing
that ever happened to me, and I destroyed her.” Brad laid a gentle
hand on his shoulder. “There’s still time, Nicholas.”

Nicholas didn’t look up. A fine sheen of perspiration
dotted his forehead, and his hand shook where he braced it against
his knee. “She’ll never forgive me, Brad.”

“You can’t be sure of that. Besides, there’s the
child to think of. The child is yours, too.”

“I don’t know, Brad. I’ve made such a mess of
things.” Nicholas stood up, the bloody kerchief falling to the
Tartan carpet. He didn’t bother to pick it up.

“The girl needs you, Nicholas,” Brad said softly.

Nicholas turned to face him, his mouth hard, as if
the decision he was about to make would change the course of his
life.

“Not half as much as I need her,” he finally said.
Then he smiled, that one small gesture making him look vulnerable,
as Brad had never seen him before. Nicholas laid a hand on Brad’s
shoulder, and the two men walked to the door.

“Thank you, Brad. For everything. You’re the best
friend a man could have.” He hugged his stepbrother briefly. “Now,
if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got some packing to do.” He flashed a
second wide smile, this one determined, like the Nicholas that Brad
had always known. “I’ll be leaving on the morrow. It seems I have
some unfinished business in Boston.”

As Christmas approached, Glory felt some of her old
spirit returning. George McMillan was a constant fixture around the
brownstone. Glory found she enjoyed his easy charm and
intelligence. He challenged her in a way no man ever had. He cared
about her opinions, considered her his equal. More and more he had
involved her in the workings of the Underground Railroad until,
inevitably, he had shown up the week before Christmas with a young
black couple in tow.

“Do you think your aunt would let them stay in the
basement for a few days? There are jobs waiting for them in Canada,
but they need a few days’ rest.”

“Bring them into the salon, George. I’ll speak to
Aunt Flo.” Actually, she already had. Her aunt had agreed to assist
in any way she could. Glory suspected the old woman hoped that by
helping others, Glory would be able to forget her own dismal
circumstances.

Returning moments later, Glory introduced herself,
and the young black couple did the same. Their names were Jackson
and Belin.

“Short for Belinda,” the pretty dark-skinned woman
said. She clutched her brawny husband’s arm and looked up at him,
the love in her eyes intensified by a smile of trust and
admiration. The warm look he gave her in return, mixed with a hint
of desire, stirred such poignant memories Glory had to turn
away.

“We’s mighty grateful, missus,” the big Negro said.
“My wife and me, we done had a terrible time gettin’ this far. But
ever’ hard day was worth it. Even the air in the North smells
free.”

Glory smiled and patted his arm. “Come on. You’ll be
sleeping in the basement. We’ve been expecting someone to come
along sooner or later.” They made their way down the narrow passage
to the room below. “I’ll be back in a while with your supper.
There’s a nice big bed and plenty of blankets.” She smiled
knowingly at the young people, so much in love. “I think you’ll
find it cozy.”

Belin gripped Glory’s hand and brought it to her
generous lips. “Thank you, missus. Me an’ Jackson ain’t never gonna
forget you and the others.”

“We’re happy to help. Now get some rest. I’ll see you
in the morning.” When she reached the top of the stairs, George
stood waiting, a look of quiet admiration on his face.

“You know the danger you’re getting into,” he warned
for the tenth time. Though northern sentiment ran toward the
abolition of slavery, the New England Anti-Slavery Society had been
attacked on numerous occasions. Their members had been beaten,
their newspaper burned, and several meetings broken up.

“I can’t stay neutral any longer. My brother is part
Negro. How can I believe in an institution that would enslave a man
like him?”

“You’re an incredible woman, Glory.”

She laid a slender hand against his cheek. “And
you’re a good man, George.”

The young black couple left two days before
Christmas. No longer fearful of discovery, Glory finally allowed
herself to relax and enjoy the holidays. She was over six months
along in her pregnancy, her belly round and protruding, though she
carried little extra weight anywhere else. The baby moved often,
and Glory already loved her precious little burden. Secretly she
hoped it would be a boy, a son as handsome as his father.

Again she reminded herself she no longer cared for
Nicholas Blackwell. It was impossible to love someone who had
treated her so cruelly. The man she loved had merely been an
illusion. The man who had left her a ruined woman was the real
Nicholas Blackwell, a hard, conscienceless man who used women for
his pleasure, then tossed them away as if they were nothing more
than the merest of trinkets. The knowledge gave her little comfort
on the lonely winter nights.

Determined not to burden Aunt Flo with her troubles
any more than she already had, Glory helped her aunt decorate the
house. There was holly and mistletoe to gather, strings of
cranberries and popcorn to sew, and a wreath to make for the door.
George brought over a huge pine tree and they decorated it on
Christmas Eve.

In concession to the holidays, she chose a dark gray
velvet gown with a high waistline to accommodate her roundness and
sleeves that were full above the elbow, then fitted below. She wore
the dark clothes not only in honor of her father, but now for her
imaginary husband as well. With Nicholas gone from her life, she
felt almost as if it were true.

After a supper of roast duckling stuffed with
cornbread and pecan dressing, Glory, George, and Aunt Flo returned
to the salon. Glory sat in a delicately carved mahogany chair,
sipping from a mug of hot cocoa while George hung the last few
paper ornaments on the tree. Snowflakes, the first fall of the
season, layered the sill outside the window, and carolers strolled
the cobblestone streets, their voices ringing with Christmas cheer.
George looked handsome in his velvet-collared burgundy tailcoat.
The few strands of silver that streaked his light brown hair
glistened in the flickering firelight. The room smelled of cinnamon
and fruitcake. After hanging the last of the paper ornaments they’d
made, George moved to Glory’s side, but spoke to Flo.

He seemed nervous and more than a little distracted,
and Glory wondered why.

“Florence, I’ve been trying to find a way to say this
all evening. Since you’re Gloria’s closest living relative, I
suppose I should ask your permission first. But I’d rather just
give Glory this.” He reached into the pocket of his waistcoat and
pulled out a small velvet box.

Looking up at him, Glory accepted the box with a
trembling hand. When she opened the lid, a delicate diamond and
sapphire ring glistened against its bed of muted white satin.

“I know it’s too soon after your husband’s death to
propose marriage,” he said, sounding more than a little uneasy.
“Until the time is right, I ask that you accept this ring as a
token of our friendship—and a promise to at least consider my offer
when it comes.”

Glory’s eyes welled with tears. She looked up at him,
her vision blurred, but only moved her head from side to side. She
handed back the box. “There’s so much you don’t know.”

“It doesn’t matter,” he said vehemently. “I love you.
If Florence thinks I’m suitable, I want you for my wife.”

“I’m afraid that’s quite impossible,” said a deep
male voice from the doorway. Jeremy stood in front of the man,
chest high, trying to block his entrance to the room.

“Nicholas!” Glory gasped, but the word came out in a
breathless whisper.

“I told him he couldn’t come in,” Jeremy said. “I
tried to make him wait.”

“It’s all right, Jeremy,” Florence soothed from her
place on the tapestry sofa. “I’ve been expecting Captain
Black-well.”

“Who is this man, Glory?” George stood in front of
her, demanding an explanation.

Glory couldn’t speak. Her eyes were locked on the
tall dark figure in the doorway. He was dressed elegantly in a
black frock coat, pleated white shirt, and snowy white stock that
made his tanned skin look even darker. He stood rigid, imposing,
just the way she remembered him. Only his face had changed. Tiny
lines creased his brow, and his mouth seemed softer, almost
vulnerable somehow. His eyes rested on her face as if she were the
only person in the room.

“Glory?” George McMillan gripped her icy hands. “Are
you all right? Is this man a friend of yours?”

Glory licked her lips, suddenly dry. It was all she
could do to concentrate on George’s words. Then in her womb, the
baby kicked, a reminder of all that Nicholas had done, and Glory’s
amazement settled to a cold dark rage.

“Captain Blackwell . . . I believe that’s how I’m to
address you, isn’t it?” She held herself erect, her chin defiant.
“Captain Blackwell is an acquaintance, nothing more.”

“Why don’t you come in, Captain?” Florence said. “I’m
Gloria’s aunt Florence. This is George McMillan.” Neither man
extended his hand. The air crackled with tension.

“Now that you’ve so rudely intruded, Captain
Black-well,” George said, “would you mind telling me why Mrs.
Hatteras and I should not marry?”

“George, please,” Glory pleaded. “I’ll explain
everything later.”

“I’ll be happy to explain everything now,” Nicholas
said in his most arrogant tone. “Mrs.
Hatteras
can’t marry
you because she’s going to marry me.”

“What?” Glory leaped to her feet. “Have you lost your
mind? You don’t even like me. Why on earth would you wan’t to marry
me?”

“Glory dear,” her aunt interceded. “Please don’t
upset yourself. Think of the child.”

Florence turned to George, who hovered over Glory
protectively. “George, I think it would be best if you left us
alone. There are some things we need to discuss.” George turned to
Glory. “Is that what you want?”