Island of the Swans (28 page)

“Really, Jane, I hardly think it suitable to venture an opinion on a subject you know virtually nothing about, nor rely on the views of others equally uninformed.”

“But
you
described to me how much more profitable the timber on the estates near Kinrara would be, if only you could log a greater part of the year!” protested Jane, her eyes on the ingenious model in front of them. “Don’t you think—”

“I
think
you should stop prattling on in such a boring fashion, and that we should return to our seats,” the duke interrupted sharply, drawing back the curtain and stalking out into the night air.

Jane quickly nodded her thanks to Andrew Gibb and followed the duke outside, hurrying to catch up to him before he joined the throng out front who were still staring in awe at the mechanical display.

“Alex, for pity’s sake, what’s the matter?” she demanded, her own temper starting to rise.

“As you are my future duchess,” he said in low clipped tones, “may I suggest you not shame the House of Gordon by quoting opinions offered by your former lover!”

Jane stared at him, dumbfounded. A scarlet flush began spreading up to her cheeks where the diamond earrings glittered, like her flashing eyes.

“Firstly,” she hissed, teeth clenched, “as I have already said, you must cease at once this talk of duchesses. Secondly, yes, indeed, a number of my opinions are founded on conversations with Thomas Fraser. May I remind you his family’s lands lay hard by Gordon territory, m’lord,” she continued acidly, “so he had goodly knowledge of such problems of drought and the accompanying hardship. And thirdly,
Your Grace
, you are quite mistaken if you think your gift of sparkling gems gives you the right to speak to me abusively, as you have!” she concluded furiously, unfastening one ear fob with shaking fingers.

Alex captured her hand in his before she could completely remove the earring. “Please, Jane, don’t do that,” Alexander said with quiet intensity. You have a right to be angry… I’m… I’m sorry.”

With a gentle touch, he refastened the piece of jewelry to her ear. Then, without warning, he crushed her against him in a fierce embrace that spoke wordlessly of his jealousy even of the dead and his growing desire to possess her affections and her body. He buried his face in her fragrant hair and pressed her unyielding form close to him.

“’Tis as my
wife
, I long for you,” he whispered hoarsely. “Can’t you see that, lass? Thomas is dead… and I’m—”

He ceased speaking and showered her face and neck with impassioned kisses. At first, she remained frozen in his arms. Then, despite her anger, his lips began to evoke small, cunning currents of excitement that spread throughout her body.

Jane pushed against Alex’s plum silk chest, struggling to fend off the onslaught of powerful feelings provoked by such skilled lovemaking as the duke displayed. For a few moments, she felt she must be drowning. Then the memory of Thomas and the sheer physical presence of Alexander merged into a passionate blur of sensation.

At length, the duke released her and took a step back, his eyes boring into hers with a look of undisguised triumph.

“It seems her nibs might quite like some of the duties attendant on becoming my duchess,” he said languidly, pressing his crested ring once more into the valley between her breasts. “I believe we shall both delight in discovering which of those obligations you enjoy most.”

Thirteen

J
ULY
1767

T
HE HUMID AIR PRESSING DOWN ON THE WHEAT FIELDS MANTLED
the Tidewater region of Maryland like a hot, damp cloth. As the July heat engulfed Antrim Hall, Thomas Fraser reluctantly agreed with Arabella Delaney that he was not yet sufficiently recovered in time to sail home with his regiment. Lingering headaches continued to plague him, as did a persistent throbbing in his arm where fragments of lead still pierced his flesh, and flare-ups of his wounds’ infections brought on fevers just when he thought he was cured.

As he’d slowly regained some of his former stamina, Arabella had been an attentive nurse and had insisted on leisurely early morning rides to strengthen Thomas’s legs. By nine o’clock, the two of them would take refuge under the cool eaves of the old summerhouse, a sort of eight-sided hideaway nestled in the shade of a giant cluster of oaks. Arabella’s personal maid, Mehitabel, stocked the little house each morning with hot coffee, fresh biscuits, and a delicious variety of cheeses for their enjoyment. After the midday meal and his nap, Thomas would help Arabella sort out the figures scratched into the plantation ledgers. Or they would simply talk.

“Mehitabel has taken a mighty strong liking to you, Thomas,” Arabella said suddenly one August morning over coffee in the summerhouse soon after Thomas declared himself finally well enough to begin his journey homeward. “She declared just yesterday that thinks we’d make a good match, you and I,” she continued lightly. “I suspect she has some silly notion of us running Antrim Hall together.”

Thomas frowned slightly and set down his coffee cup.

“But doesn’t she know I’ll be leaving for Philadelphia on Friday?” he said, reluctant to bring up the difficult subject of his departure.

Arabella shrugged and remained silent for a moment.

“Like most women, she has her dreams,” she said finally, brushing a wisp of coal black hair from her damp forehead. She leaned forward a degree. “We
are
good together, Thomas… you do see that, don’t you?” she asked, her blue eyes smoky and full of promise. “We could make all this work, you and I,” she added softly, her fingers now caressing the linen shirt covering the jagged scar on his upper arm. “If we can just dispense with Beven’s interference and put a rein on his gambling with my inheritance, we could turn Antrim Hall into one of the wealthiest plantations in Maryland! It’s been so wonderful having you here… having your help. I’d grown so weary of constantly fighting with Beven and shouldering the responsibility for this place and all the people depending on its survival.”

He had never seen Arabella so unguarded, so willing to reveal herself. Although she had been warmhearted and generous during his long stay, she’d disclosed little of her past, especially the period before her marriage to her late husband, Hugh Delaney. Now, he sensed what she was leading up to, and he wasn’t looking forward to hearing it.

“I… I’d like to marry you, Lieutenant Fraser,” she said softly, biting her lower lip. “I find, much to my surprise… I am quite partial to you, Thomas.” She lowered her eyes to avoid his gaze, and her black lashes cast a crescent shadow on her cheek, moist from the sultry heat.

Thomas parted his lips to speak, and then remained silent. He didn’t trust himself to say anything because of his own confused emotions.

“’Tis not an offer to be sniffed at!” She laughed nervously. “In Scotland, with my holdings, I’d probably be a baroness…” Arabella stared at Thomas with her mysterious eyes. “Are you shocked I make myself so plain?”

“No…” Thomas replied, “not shocked, really… just sad.” He took her chin gently in his fingers. “You’re a fine, fair lass, Arabella O’Brien Delaney, and I owe you my life, but I told you from the first… my heart is claimed by another, and I must hold to that.” At the sound of these words, Arabella looked crestfallen. Thomas shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Arabella, lass,” he added, “I truly care for your future and your happiness… but I can’t accept your generous proposal.”

“’Tis not generous
enough
, I see!” she replied icily.

Arabella stood up from the table abruptly and walked to the summer-house windows, now shuttered against the heat. She felt Thomas’s bewildered eyes on her back, which only intensified her feelings of humiliation. What had begun as a calculated plan to extricate herself from her current predicament with Beven had unexpectedly resulted in her falling in love. Here, she had offered him everything she had, and he had spurned her best offer.

“I’m sorry, Arabella… truly sorry,” Thomas said quietly. He approached her from behind and put his arms around her waist, kissing her lightly on top of her head, as if she were a little girl. “If another world didn’t wait for me across the sea…” he said softly, his words trailing off.

Her shoulders began to quiver.

“Sweetheart—” Thomas said helplessly.

“Don’t call me that!” she cried, pulling away from him. “I’m not your sweetheart! Your
sweetheart
is in Scotland!”

“
Arabella
,” Thomas said urgently, turning her around and cupping her face in his large hands. A few silent tears spilled from her eyes and rolled down her cheeks. “I should have known we couldna live in the same house so long—and keep from carin’ in the end,” he added sorrowfully. “I’m sorry, lass…”

“You’re just sorry I’m not a baronet’s daughter!” she wept. “You’re sorry I’m simply the daughter of a drunken Irish rotter and the widow of a fool! Well, I’ll tell you something,
Lieutenant
Fraser…” she said, an hysterical timbre edging into her voice. “
Your people at home think you’re dead!
”

“Arabella… please… you’re as fine a woman as any man could desire, lass. I
told
you about Jane Maxwell and our plans for the future. And I’ve also a duty to my regiment.”

Once more, Thomas reached for her comfortingly, but she fought against him, pounding his chest.

“They don’t
expect
you!” she cried. “
No one
expects you ever to come home!” She pulled herself free of his embrace and flattened her back against the shuttered casement. “
You’re dead to them
!” she shouted. “Don’t you understand?
You’re dead!
But you’re alive
to me
! I washed your naked body, Thomas Fraser. I cleaned your
wounds
! I have given you your
life
, damn you, and I need you more than
they
do!”

The silence between them deepened as Thomas stood, staring at her, gripped by a sudden dread. The thin scar on his cheek had blanched white against the natural ruddiness lately restored to his Celtic complexion, and the gash on his arm began to throb painfully.

“What do you mean, they don’t expect me?” he asked, a dangerous edge creeping into his voice. “Why would they think me dead when I sent Captain Maxwell and Jane letters telling them I had survived?”

A look of fear flickered across Arabella’s face. She turned away from him, staring unseeingly through the slits in the wooden shutters.

“Beven was drunk and lost the note you wrote to Captain Maxwell on the
Victory.
”

“
What!
” growled Thomas. “Why didn’t you tell me of this?”

“I—I just found out,” mumbled Arabella, continuing to stare through the shutters.

“You’re lying!” Thomas shouted, grabbing Arabella by her arm and forcing her to look at him directly. “You would have told me or sent another missive.”

Arabella stared down at the hem of her riding habit.

“So,” he said menacingly, “I’ve just been waiting to be plucked, have I, all these weeks! I’ve paid m’way here nicely, haven’t I? A plantation overseer during the day and someone you planned to service your lust at night… is that it, lassie?” He pushed her away from him to keep from striking her. “
Slut!
” he spat. “Where’s my letter to Jane Maxwell?”

Arabella remained silent, tears streaking her cheeks. Thomas cursed and strode out the door of the summerhouse. He leapt onto the back of the gray stallion tied next to Arabella’s mare, and within minutes, had galloped up the hill to the barn where he tossed the reins to a startled stable boy. As he strode toward the house, he could hear the sound of Kerry Girl’s hooves pounding on the turf behind him.

Inside Antrim Hall, Thomas turned purposefully into the chamber where Arabella’s delicately carved secretary stood next to a fanlight window. He yanked open each desk drawer in rapid succession, riffling through its contents in search of incriminating evidence. Arabella ran into the room, panting.

“What are you doing?” she begged. “Stop it!
Stop it!
” she screamed, as he inspected the contents of each drawer before flinging it across the room.

In a burst of fury, Thomas splintered the wood, forcing the bottom drawer open, and pulled out the heavy account books. One by one, he slammed them on the floor. Beneath the last ledger, Thomas discovered a rosewood letter box with the initials
A O’ B D
inlaid in dark mahogany on the top. Inside the box lay a thick missive addressed in his hand to
Jane Maxwell, Hyndford Close, Edinburgh.
It was the same letter he had written in early June, on the day he was first able to sit up in bed.

“You didn’t send it… you didn’t
send
it,
bitch
!” he shouted, his face crimson with rage.

Arabella’s voice sounded as faint as the breeze rustling through the massive oaks down by the summerhouse.