Love Me With Fury (9 page)

Spencer generously and selfishly allowed Will to believe he would eventually settle down at Farrington Manor. The time to inform the gradually weakening old man of his intention to live in America could come much later. This peaceful and relaxing atmosphere was too fragile and delightful to shatter so quickly. Besides, he had two years to fulfill his promise!

As Spencer lay in his bed in his old room, memories of a tawny-haired, golden-skinned female with emerald eyes came to lie beside him. He was aroused by simply remembering their splendid moments by the pond and by calling her enchanting face to mind. Who was this angelic witch who had made such a vivid and unforgettable impression upon him? Who was this mere slip of a budding beauty who caused all others to fade from thought and to dull in appearance? Why had she taken the time and courage to minister to his injury after causing it? The thought of never having her again bothered him more than he cared to admit. Why worry, she would be back at his side very soon, willing or not! he smugly decided in the darkness of his room.

He mused over his earlier talk with Will. He had subtly questioned his grandfather about a certain peasant girl with locks of spun gold and silver, eyes of leaf green, skin of warmest and tastiest taffy, and with the name of Angelique. Will had never seen or heard of any such female. He had grinned that knowing and mocking way of his and playfully teased Spencer about
the smoldering lights which had filled his eyes and the softened inflection of his tone as he had spoken of her. Will wasn’t a man easily fooled; he had quickly realized that some pretty young thing had captured his grandson’s eye, had even jested about capturing his heart!

Yet even at this very moment, Will was speculating about this pleasing mystery. What else could explain Spencer’s sudden agreement to marriage? Spencer had labelled her a peasant girl or a servant. Naturally Lord Spencer Farrington could never wed such a lowly creature; but this beauty had encouraged domestic desires within his grandson. If she could be located, she could make him an excellent paramour.

Will wondered if this unknown girl was as drawn to his grandson as he so obviously was to her. He laughed at his foolishness. Of course, what woman with any intelligence and clear eyes wouldn’t be! If she were unique enough to catch Spencer’s eye and affections, it was a shame her breeding didn’t match his. Thankfully Spencer had a dutiful head upon his shoulders!

For the next three days, both men avidly searched for the identity and whereabouts of this elusive goddess who had successfully vanished into oblivion. On Spencer’s last night in England, he was forced to give up his futile hunt for the evasive Angelique. Evidently she was lost to him forever. He could almost believe she had been an illusion if it hadn’t been for that painful lump upon his head. But who could honestly say where reality and magic separated?
Where did one leave off and the other begin? Perhaps she really had been a mischievous naiad, he mused to ease his intense yearnings to know who and where she was. Yet, he was also infuriated and troubled by her disappearance.

Was she perhaps in danger? Why had she fled to some other haven which he could not find? Was she cunningly avoiding him? Why had he allowed that tempting sorceress to get under his hide? Why was he giving her a second thought? Second thought! he exploded mentally; it was more like ten thousand thoughts! Damn her! Where was she? Who was she? Was she simply afraid to confront him or to allow him to find her? How could she vanish without a clue? Who could say, perhaps one day she would magically and unexpectedly sail into his seafaring life again. If so, she wouldn’t get away so easily!

Since Spencer would be sailing with the pre dawn tide, he bid his cherished grandfather farewell until next year and went to sleep upon his ship; the disguised
Black Mist,
terror of the open sea when it came to British ships. Humor flooded his mind as he realized the very scourge which they feverishly and frantically sought had been docked under their aristocratic noses for nearly two weeks! But what Englishman would suspect the trusty British privateer
Wandering Siren
was in truth the American privateer
Black Mist?
He had given them no reason to suspect him. He laughed at their carelessness and stupidity.

The last words from Will’s lips had been a promise to continue his own search for this mystery girl who
had claimed so much of Spencer’s time, energy, and interest. For some ridiculous reason, Spencer had not discouraged him. Spencer wondered if he only wished for her to learn his true identity as a punishment or was there more to it? He concluded she was gone for good.

How? Where? No one he had questioned had even heard of such a unique female! How could that be possible? A woman of her overwhelming beauty couldn’t remain hidden! Was she perhaps the private property of some wealthy nobleman? Was she perhaps the bastard daughter of one? But what of her innocence? If such was the case, what would this protector do to her upon discovery of her defilement by some stranger? Would he even believe her declaration of innocence? Would he inflict some terrible punishment upon her lovely body? Such perilous contemplations worried him, annoyed him.

“You shouldn’t have deserted me, Angelique,” he mused to himself. “I might have taken you to America with me. How very foolish you were, my dear. May the winds cease to blow the day you can forget me.”

He shook his head to clear it of such wistful speculations. It never once entered Spencer’s mind to seek out a wealthy, single lady who lived within twenty miles of his family’s estates! He had wisely questioned the Hampton fieldhands about a certain peasant girl. Naturally no one realized he was actually referring to their young mistress, assuming he already knew her. He covered a lengthy distance in all four directions
without any success.

Not once had Spencer recalled the scrawny, blond lass who had been only ten years old when he had left home to seek his fame and fortune in America. Why should he remember the two people who had inherited his neighbor’s estate? He had met the father Lord Charles Hampton only a few times on subsequent visits. He had paid little attention to the skinny tomboy who was always racing off in one direction or another in pursuit of some impish adventure. Of course he had met the young Lady Hampton many times when she had come home to visit his parents so long ago.

Nor had Sir William Farrington considered Lady Alexandria Hampton to be his grandson’s dream-girl. After all, Spencer had called her a commoner. Had Spencer agreed to meet this unusual lady more recently as Will had urged and pleaded several times, the truth would have come to light. Even though Will spoke of joining the two estates, Spencer had no interest in that “spoiled brat” on the adjoining estate, not with Angelique around somewhere. Will fretted over the loss of such a refined prospect. Even if his secret talks with Lord Hampton succeeded, how could either of them postpone an arranged marriage for a year or so as Spencer had indicated he wanted? What a predicament! Will had decided Alexandria Hampton was the perfect mate for Spencer. But how could he convince the reluctant and obstinate Spencer of that fact? His only hope lay in the fact revealed to him by Lord Hampton himself; Alexandria didn’t wish to
marry anyone anytime soon. Who knew what difference a year could make in both of them? If he could locate this Angelique and offer her to Spencer as his mistress, could he be convinced to marry Alexandria? Since they were both so much alike and neither desired marriage, they seemed a perfect match! If only Spencer could see and meet her…

When the first streaks of dawn’s gray light touched the English countryside, a frigate in full sails could be seen moving against the distant horizon, her mizzenmast catching the first breeze of this new day. Spencer watched the
Moon Maiden
capture the wind with her three wings of white and dig her wooden heels into the foamy cobalt waters on her voyage to America.

He chuckled to himself. Old Burns surely had them all fooled. Spencer, too, called out his brisk orders and set his own ship upon a different course. He headed his three-masted frigate southward, while the
Moon Maiden
headed almost straight into the northeasterly winds, listing slightly to the leeward side. He absently observed the other ship until she was lost in the early morning mist, having no known reason to pursue her. His boots firmly planted upon the rolling deck of his forecastle, Captain Joshua Steele issued crisp and lucid commands to his loyal crew.

The
Moon Maiden
sailed on toward Philadelphia, carrying the very treasure which Spencer had been eagerly and vainly seeking for the past few days…

* * *

Alex strolled along the polished wooden deck upon the arm of Captain Burns. The air was becoming cooler and brisker as they headed toward their destination. Perhaps the spring weather in northern America was different from her homeland. Dread and apprehension washed over her as she glued her watery eyes to the distant skyline. America for a month or so…

Alex was pleasantly surprised at her early attainment of her “sea legs,” as Captain Burns described it. He proudly and cheerfully labelled her a natural-born sailor in body and spirit. While her dear maid and chaperon Tessa lay deathly ill in their adjoining cabins, Alex was thrilled by the intoxicating beauty and vastness of the watery world which totally surrounded them. The sea was relatively calm and the wind was utterly invigorating.

The previous nights had revealed a breathtaking view of starry skies and silvery full moons. A sense of adventure and independence sang within her veins. This trip was just what she needed. Thankfully, Captain Burns had ordered an earlier sailing date. In the beginning, she had adopted an artificial air of great excitement about this visit to her uncle, a feigned exuberance which she now truly felt. She had clung to the house and to her room following that fateful day at the pond with Stephen, pretending to prepare for this journey. She had feared discovery by that strange demigod who had descended upon her so mysteriously and unexpectedly. Once out of her homeland, she would be safe and free, no more Stephen or wanton temptation.

That time had been well spent, for they had
departed sooner than previously planned. She had faithfully promised her father to conduct herself as a lady for the entire duration of this trip. She had also promised to consent to marriage upon her return home, but not until she had inspected his selection of suitors! He, too, had readily agreed with a sly grin.

Perhaps her father was right after all. Perhaps it was time for her to cast away silly dreams of knights and romantic love. Perhaps it was time to settle down and to begin a life of her own and a family…

But if such facts were true, then why did she feel so sad, so threatened, so utterly miserable? If the marriage bed—that facet she had feared and dreaded—was anything like her experience with Stephen, could it be all bad? What if she could find some vital man with similar looks and qualities, but minus his dark and forbidding nature? Did another such man exist? She feared Stephen was one of a kind!

She gradually comprehended that such an idea was too good to be true. How could any mortal man possess both looks and a valiant character? It seemed to her from past experiences that men either had hints of one or of the other. But never had she met any man with with a pleasing supply of both. That is, if she didn’t count Stephen!

Stephen…Stephen who? Where had he come from? Where had he gone? What did it even matter now? She was half an ocean away from him. Perhaps he had only been an unhappily married man who was seeking an afternoon of carnal pleasures. No doubt he had mistaken her for some country lass, a defenseless
woman with whom he could have his lecherous way. Envy and wild jealousy stormed her mind and heart. He was certainly old enough to be married, wed and to have perpetuated little Stephens! What could be worse than to be in love with a married man!

She grinned in wicked pleasure, contemplating his surprise upon awakening from her stunning blow. A prickling of fear and anxiety tugged at her. What if he had been injured badly? What if he had later died from that injury? What if he had been unable to seek help? She had been too frightened to risk going back to the pond to see if he had recovered and left. In spite of his vile treatment, she prayed for his survival. She resolved to return to the pond when she went home. She could only hope she would not find his body still there. To ease her guilt and tension, she had to learn his fate and identity…

She gazed up at the round yellow moon overhead and sadly murmured, “America for a month…Oh, Stephen, please be all right…”

While several hundred miles southeastward, another pair of dreamy eyes was watching that same moon and whispering softly, “Spain, then home… Virginia at last…Farewell, my enchanting siren, until we meet again…”

“0 brave new world
that has such people in’t.”
—
The Tempest,
William Shakespeare

A voice full of confidence and pride shouted, “Strike the Union Jack! Hoist the Spanish flag! Pile all canvas! George, check the mizzenmast! She looks to tangle! Danny, bring ‘er around to 40° yaw! Then, hold her steady as she goes; give’er her leeway!” The deep tone could be heard over the snapping and popping of the white wings above them, the crashing of the mighty waves against the hull and the gusty breeze which filled those awesome sails to take them into the Spanish port. “Tim, stow those hawzers! Harley, check the mainsail knot on the bowsprit; her shape’s changing!”

Spencer’s proud gaze lazily eased over the stirring sight before it. His crew of one hundred seventeen men was skillful and loyal. He couldn’t have located a more qualified, steady-handed wheelman than Danny if he had searched the world over. As for his good friend and first mate Andrew Pennington—Andy was his bright, brave right-hand man. After this present trouble was settled, Andy would become the new captain of the
Black Mist,
while Spencer returned to
Great Britain to honor his promise to Will. Naturally his ship would require a new coat of paint and a new name; her reputation and colors were too well known for private business. Once Spencer’s personal life and family duty were realized, he could then decide whether or not to return to his ship and the carefree life of the sea. Two more measly years of freedom, excitement, and happiness!

He shuddered in repulsion. Matrimony? Horse feathers! He focused his sights and attention upon his ship. She was a beauty. She was sleek and swift; she responded to his commands with grace and promptness. Her aura was majestic and proud. She, along with her crew and captain, demanded recognition and respect. Her decks were always scrubbed and polished; her sails boasted care and attention. Her crew was cheerful and responsive, both to her and her intrepid captain. No scar from any past battle marred her sides or decks. Like a special lady, she was loved and pampered and she was a compelling and intoxicating sight to behold.

Normally painted black to conceal herself at evening tide when she did most of her work, she now displayed a swatch of blood red around her entire hull with designs of white waves as a disguise. The black coverings for the white sails had been taken down and stowed out of sight. Spencer frowned in annoyance, wishing his beloved ship was not colored up like some brazen harlot! “Soon, my love, you will be your old self again,” he softly crooned to her as if she were indeed some female lover. “Once we leave Spain, you
can become your mysterious, elusive lady self again.”

Those lazy thoughts called another one to mind: the mythical legend of the black mist. He humorously pondered the days of yore when seamen actually took stock in such legends and tall tales; even now many still believed and feared them. To this very day, no man had ever seen Circe, sea-sirens, mermaids, sea monsters, or the black mist; yet many drunken, terrified weaklings claimed they had. Spencer chuckled at the recall of such foolish rantings. If such things existed, he would have glimpsed at least one by now in all his countless journeys.

He had played upon those irrational fears and superstitions when he had named his ship after the most frightening legend of all. He frequently went out of his way to increase his foes’ fear and to further that legend to his own advantage. Whenever a dense gray mist was sighted, he would use its cover to lie in wait for an unsuspecting enemy ship who failed to observe his black ship which vanished before that stygian backdrop. When that ship was within range, he would suddenly swoop down upon her, catching her by complete surprise, appearing out of nowhere, easily conquering her, then vanishing back into the protective covering of moonless night.

He had become so skilled at this cunning ploy that most ships would instantly give quarter, knowing a fierce battle would be futile and would leave them helplessly stranded in mid-ocean. This crafty ploy and his infamous reputation prevented a great deal of bloodshed and destruction, for Spencer’s main purpose
was to confiscate messages and supplies between Great Britain and her accomplices on American soil. As he stood there in the moonlight with the gentle breeze caressing his bronzed face, that legend ran through his dreamy mind.

In times long past when the face of the mighty ocean was dotted with the wooden ships of good and evil, a powerful goddess watched over her watery world and gave her aid to those deserving ships and captains who found love and favor in her starry eyes and who were in grave danger of destruction by the forces of greed. It was said that when a ship and her captain proved worthy of survival and success in her eyes, she protected them with veils of misty, night-black hair. For when such a worthy ship was set upon by those who would plunder and dishonor her, this benevolent goddess removed the silvery pins from her midnight mane and trailed it over the chosen ship, concealing her from view.

To the eyes of evil, those stygian tresses appeared as some mysterious and deadly black mist. No one knew where it came from; no one knew to where it vanished. But once that magical black mist had lifted, one ship sailed on in safety while the other one lay forever lost within some shadowy realm of magical nothingness. The goddess then replaced her silvery pins and once more the sky was clear and the sea was tranqil.

If that legend were true, it could explain that odd mist which seemed to magically and mysteriously appear when he had great need of it! For once again forces of greed and evil were drifting upon the face of the sea, endangering the ships and lives of a newly born nation. Had this promising land mutely cried out for her help? Had she actually heard them and was she taking note of at least one certain, brave ship which bears the name of her legend? Strange, it did seem to be present each time he was in danger. Stranger still, no other ship seemed capable of using it safely. Was it merely his own keen instincts and talents, or was there more to it?

He laughed at such ridiculous speculations. Yet, another inexplicable mystery invaded his mind: Angelique. Like the curious black mist, she had come in secret, offering no clue as to where she came from or to where she vanished, disappearing just as mysteriously without a trace…It was utterly impossible that Angel had truly been the black mist goddess who had decided to finally make her face known to him! Had she, like Zeus, come to Earth to mate with a mortal of her choice? Why hadn’t he been able to locate her? Why had no one ever seen or heard of her? Why was she unknown and unseen by all human eyes except his?

He instantly scolded himself, “Stow it, Spencer, old boy! You’re sounding as crazy as the rest of them! The legend is pure fantasy, but Angelique is very real.” Somewhere she was alive and undoubtedly laughing at him. One day, he would find her!

He threw back his head and inhaled deeply, savoring the smell of the ocean. That never-ending feeling of freedom and excitement coursed through his veins like molten lava. After two weeks on dry land, it felt exhilarating to have his feet planted upon the deck of his powerful frigate, soon to be sailing homeward.

The wind whipped through his sable hair; seaspray drifted into his smiling face, leaving a salty reminder of its presence. He absorbed the crisp fragrance which was the sea’s alone. The heady song of the open water and harmonious melody of daring adventure called out to him. Braced against the rolling of the awesome sea, he refused to deliberate further upon the breathtaking girl who had entered his life one sunlit day, only to leave it that same glorious afternoon. Already they were miles and miles apart…perhaps even a lifetime by now. At a running speed of thirteen knots, the distance between them was steadily widening with each hour. She was somewhere in Great Britain; soon, he would be in America. Well underway to Spain, he finally left the forecastle to get some much needed rest.

About mid-morning that following day, Spencer went to his cabin to withdraw the papers for which he had risked his life, fortune, and name. He studied the pages and notes carefully and intently. His blue eyes widened in shock; his jaw dropped and tensed. Viewing the incredible facts and figures upon those sheets of paper, he hurried top-side and called out new orders to his crew. He commanded a faster pace if at all possible.

Distressed by the reports which were now hidden in his cabin, he debated the necessity of his voyage to Spain. Which destination was more vital, more pressing? He furiously cursed the girl who had caused him to delay; he berated and lambasted the lovely female who had taken his mind from his critical mission. While that monumental file had rested in the secret compartment of his sea trunk, he had been racing across the British countryside in search of an elusive angel. So much for being the benevolent sea goddess! If he ever got his hands upon her tawny throat, he would strangle her!

He seriously deliberated his two choices. If he had set out for Spain to confer with Joseph Bonaparte immediatley after that file was in his possession, he would be on his way to Virginia and Madison right this moment. If that folder was accurate, which he dreaded it was, America was in deep trouble. It was clear that the British were well aware of the power and hostile intent of the War-Hawks; they were now plotting to be one step ahead of the Americans at all times. What a fool he had been! Careless and selfish! For at this moment, his new country was in greater danger—because of him!

He apprehensively paced the deck in deep and brooding speculation. Spain or America? Since the French Minister Serurier should be reporting to Napoleon within a few weeks, was it truly necessary to take the time to discuss a possible American stronghold at San Augustin? The problem was that America couldn’t risk the British taking possession of a port so
near to them. Spencer wondered if Napoleon knew of the talk in America about going to war with both Britain and France if these conflicts continued. Americans wouldn’t take much more interference in their commerce, especially not the wanton destruction of her ships and goods upon the open seas. Could he convince the French, who held Florida through their grip on Spain, to permit the Americans to protect the properties of both countries?

He sighed in frustration and uncertainty. Florida and Spain were only too conscious of the greed of certain Americans. America’s determination to affix Florida to the United States was no secret. Had Joseph Bonaparte received news of Mathews’s and Smith’s aggressions in Florida only a few weeks past? If so, he wouldn’t be in a cooperative mood. Did Spain also know that Commandant Justo Lopez had recently surrendered Fernandina to Campbell’s flotilla? Had they been alerted to Smith’s march on San Augustin? If so, none of these events would sit well with them.

Hopefully Madison’s prompt reactions would soothe their ruffled feathers. The President had disavowed the hostile actions of those overly zealous colonials. He had immediately ordered the Americans to withdraw and to settle themselves upon nearby Amelia Island to await the results of his talks with Joseph Bonaparte in Spain, Foreign Minister Luis de Onis, and Governor Juan de Estrada.

Spencer laughed bitterly to himself. How could he possibly convince Spain of America’s unselfish, generous proposals when Rhea had forcefully seized
western Florida and had declared her free of Spanish rule? How could the American intention be viewed as friendly and helpful when Mathews, Smith, Campbell, and McIntosh were doing their damnedest to conquer northeastern Florida as well?

Spain should realize that Florida was too distant to be advantageous to her. She had been drained financially by her conflicts; she was being presently ruled by Napoleon’s incompetent brother. Was the entire world going insane? What had happened to peace and prosperity? Too many men from so many lands were out for personal gain and glory. Why was it so impossible for Britain, France, Spain, and America to sit down together and to intelligently work out some peaceful and lasting solution to joint problems which seemed interwoven with each of them? The whole bloody situation was too complicated.

The dazzling sun reflected off the choppy waves, causing Spencer to squint his blue eyes and to furrow his brow. He absently rubbed the smoothness of his neatly shaven face as bits of information jammed the steady flow and progress of logical ideas. He shrugged, making his decision. Spain could wait; those papers could not. With a little more effort and energy, he could settle matters with Luis de Onis and de Estrada. Besides, he hadn’t relished the idea of meeting with that popinjay who sat upon the Spanish throne.

“Ahoy, crew!” he called out from mid-ship. “We sail for home!” he shouted above the roaring elements of nature, bringing cheers from his men. “Bring us
about, Danny! The cross winds are greedy today; strike half-sails on the mizzenmasts! We’re listing too far portside! Strike the Spanish flag, Andy! Hoist the Virginia white; that should bloody well confuse any contemptuous British frigate! George, hold the Grand Union and Jolly Roger in readiness! Let’s see if we can make the shores of Virginia within two weeks,” he encouraged them, knowing it would more likely take three to four weeks.

Within moments, the crew was diligently performing their chores while singing a bawdy ditty. A mirthful grin flickered upon the captain’s face; his eyes twinkled in elation. Feet clad in shiny Hessian boots, he swaggered agilely to the poop deck. Fawn colored breeches clung tightly to his sinewy thighs like a second skin. His white linen shirt was opened half the distance between his throat and waist, full sleeves billowing in the gusty breeze. A silver saber, always present upon his lithe body when at sea, swung from his narrow hips with each nimble movement. A black bandana was secured loosely around his neck, ever ready to be tied into place about his forehead, denying all enemies the identity of the notorious and fearless Captain Joshua Steele, the invincible and puissant pirate who paraded as a patriotic American privateer…