The Pirate's Widow (11 page)

  
“Sir Thomas is proposing to that ‘dreadful
Jenkins’ woman as we speak,” Flora informed her.

  
“What!”
 
Venetia pushed her maid aside and rose, the sweeping skirts of her
ruffled dressing gown swirling about her.
 
“What are you talking about?”

  
“They left me here and went on.
 
Sir Thomas said he had a question to ask
her.”

  
“Good God!
 
We’re lost! Lost!”
 
She sank,
trembling, into an armchair.
 
“And it’s
all your fault, my girl!”

  
“My fault!”

 
“If you hadn’t spent your time—.”
 
She looked at her maid.
 
“That will be all, Sawyer, you may go.”
 
She waited until the woman had left the room
and went on, her voice a low snarl.
 
“If
you hadn’t spent your time playing the harlot with that filthy hermit, you
might have lured Sir Thomas away from that slut.”

  
“I love Walter,” Flora declared
defiantly.
 
“And he loves me.”

  
“Ah, that’s lovely.”
 
Venetia’s smile was tinged with malice.
 
“I hope you will be very happy together in
whatever cave you decide to make your home because once Caroline Jenkins is
ruling this particular roost, you’ll be out on your ear, you fool, and me
beside you.”

  
“I hate you!” Flora cried.
 
“Why can you not see that Sir Thomas does not
love me?”

  
“Love?
 
What is this foolish fascination you have with love?
 
Marriages among the upper classes are not
made for love.
 
Do you think I loved your
father, or he me?
 
It was a sensible
arrangement just as your stepping into your late sister’s shoes as mistress of
Sedgewyck Manor is a sensible arrangement.
 
And it would have happened by now, I’ve no doubt, but for the arrival of
that black-haired strumpet.
 
Well, let
her have her evening of triumph.
 
The
game is not over until the Reverend pronounces them man and wife and I shan’t
give up before then.
 
And neither
will
you, my girl, if you want to keep a roof over your
head!”

  
Flora slammed out of her mother’s room,
tears stinging her eyes.
 
She knew her
maid was waiting to help her prepare for bed, but she couldn’t face lying in
that dark, cavernous room torn between the dread of seeing Caroline Jenkins
installed as mistress of Sedgewyck Manor and the prospect of giving up all hope
of love to make a sensible marriage if Sir Thomas could somehow be persuaded to
offer for her hand.

  
She went downstairs through the silent,
darkened manor.
 
In the corridor between
the servants’ hall and the kitchens she could hear the housekeeper snoring
through the door of her rooms.
 
Just
inside the back door, she took up a lantern and lit it then let herself
outside.

  
On the road to St. Swithin, Sir Thomas
turned to Callie.
 
“My dear,” he said,
smiling, and she could smell the stale wine on his breath.
 
“I think you know what it is I want to ask
you.”

  
“Perhaps we should wait until another time,
Sir Thomas; I fear the wine at dinner has gone to our heads.”

  
“Not the wine, dearest Caroline, but your
beauty, and my desire.”

  
“Sir Thomas . . .”

  
“You know my wishes,” he went on, “I want to
make you my lady wife, mistress of Sedgewyck Manor, surely a dazzling prospect
for you.”

  
“Dazzling,” she repeated dully.

  
“Then you will accept my offer?”

 
“No, Sir Thomas, I will not.”

  
“Splendid!
 
I knew I should not ask in vain and . . .” He stared at her in the dim
light of the coach.
 
“What was that?”

  
“I said no, Sir Thomas, I will not be your
wife.”

  
“What is this folly?
 
Do you have any notion of the honor I am
doing you?
 
I assure you were I to go to
London during the Season looking for a bride, I should have my choice of any
number of girls and all, may I inform you, of better pedigree and greater
fortune than yourself.”

  
“Well, then, perhaps that is what you should
do.”

  
“You impertinent bitch!” he snarled.
 
“For months you have kept me waiting, have
accepted my gifts, my attention, and now you tell me you will give nothing in
return?”

  
“I did not want your gifts or your
attention, Sir Thomas, and, had I known there was a price upon them, I would
certainly have cast good manners to the wind and refused both.”

  
“By God I will not be treated this way!
 
The time has come to pay your reckoning,
madam, and if you disdain the marriage bed then I’ll have you without it!”

  
“You will not!”
 
Callie pounded on the side of the coach.
 
“Stop the coach!
 
Do you hear me?
 
Let me out!”

  
“He takes orders from no one but me,” Sir
Thomas said with a laugh.
 

  
He reached out and seized the ruffled edge
of Callie’s pink brocade bodice.
 
With a
yank he tore it open, the tiny pearl buttons scattering over the tufted leather
seat and the floor.

His
rough hands tore aside the lacy chemise that covered her breasts above the edge
of her corset.
 
Callie cried out as he
buried his face in the pale, soft skin, his teeth grazing her nipple.

  
“Let me go, you bastard!” she screamed.
 
“I’ll kill you if you don’t let me out!”

  
“A woman’s threats are like music to my
ears,” he told her, his fingers working at the buttons of his breeches.
 
“Let us see if we can put that insolent mouth
to better use.”

  
His hand closed about the back of her head
and forced it down.
 
His erection jutted
up from the black satin of his breeches.
 
In desperation, Callie seized it with one hand
while the other drew the knife from the waistband of her skirt.

  
Sir Thomas felt the prick of the knife’s
point against the throbbing flesh of his manhood.
 
He released his hold on her head.
 
“What are you . . .?”

  
“Let me out of here, you evil bastard or
I’ll cut it off now.”

  
“You wouldn’t dare!”

  
Her only reply was to jab the needle-sharp
point into his flesh drawing a swelling bead of blood.
 
Sir Thomas pounded on the wall of the
coach.
 
“Stop!
 
Stop now!”

  
Before the coach could roll to a stop,
Callie was out the door and off into the darkness of the dunes surrounding St.
Swithin.

  
“You’ll regret this, you whore!” Sir Thomas
shouted after her.
 
“By all that’s holy,
you will regret this!”

  
By the dim light of the swaying lantern in
her hand, Flora made her way across the garden behind Sedgewyck Manor and
plunged into the dark forest.
 
She could
hear animals in the darkness, rustling the undergrowth, calling to one another,
but she went on.

 
“Walter?” she called as she neared the
entrance to his cave.
 
“Walter, please,
it is Flora.”

  
“Flora?”
 
The rough-hewn door Sir Thomas had reluctantly fitted across the
entrance of the cave to keep out the winter cold, opened and Walter stood
there.
 
“Flora, what are you doing here
in the middle of the night?”

  
“I had to come,” she told him, dropping the
lantern and launching herself into his arms.
 
“Mama will not give up her scheming to marry me to Sir Thomas but I will
not, cannot, marry him.”

  
“You would be a great lady,” Walter pointed
out.
 
“Mistress of Sedgewyck Manor, queen
of the county.”

  
“You sound like her,” Flora pouted.
 
“I will not marry him.
 
I do not love him.”

  
“Well, marriages among the gentry . . .”

  
“Hush, Walter, I do not love him because I
love you!”

  
“Flora . . .”

 
“And you love me, Walter, I know you do.
 
I know you haven’t said so because I am a
lady and far above you.
 
But it doesn’t
matter, don’t you see?
 
We can run away,
be together, and raise our child— “

  
“Child?” Walter croaked.

  
“Yes,” Flora simpered.
 
“I am with child, Walter, I am certain of
it.
 
No one else knows but I wanted to
tell you.
 
Isn’t it wonderful?”

  
Walter smiled.
 
“That is wonderful news, my love,” he
said.
 
“Wonderful.
 
And you are right, we have plans to
make.
 
But for now, I must insist you go
back to the manor and to your bed.
 
This
night air is not good for you or our little one.”

  
“But we will make our plans soon, will we
not?”

  
“Very soon,” he promised.
 
He picked up the fallen lantern.
 
“Come now, I will see you back to the manor.”

Chapter Eleven

  
Callie clutched at the ragged edges of her
bodice as she stumbled along the road that would take her around St. Swithin
without the necessity of passing through the village.
 
When she was certain Sir Thomas would not
come back to find her, she sank down onto a stone outcropping at the road’s
edge.
 
Now that she was alone and safe
from Sir Thomas’ assault, a trembling overtook her.
 
She stood but her knees felt week and she
wondered how she would ever make it to Hyacinth Cottage on the far side of the
village.

  
There was an alternative, she realized.
 
Could she?
 
What would she say?
 
It didn’t
matter, she told herself.
 
She was too
tired and too upset to care.

  
Making her way down to the beach, she
followed the shoreline to the tiny hut that was Finn’s home.
 
She had never been there but Jem had pointed
it out one day when they were walking.
 

  
“Finn?”
 
She pounded with the heel of her hand on the door, weathered and worn smooth
from years of salt spray and sunshine.
 
She could hear Cyrus barking and then the reassuring sound of Finn’s
deep voice telling him to be quiet.

  
He opened the door.
 
His eyes were heavy and his hair mussed; it
was obvious she had awakened him.
 
“Callie?”
 
He stared at her, his gaze taking in her
disheveled hair and torn gown.
 
“Come
in.
 
What happened?”

  
He sat her down at the little table near the
front window and poured her a glass of wine.
 
Haltingly, she told him of the night’s events and his face flushed with
rage.

  
“I’ll kill him!” he growled, reaching for
the long pistol lying on a brass-bound trunk near the door.
 
“By God, I’ll kill him now!”

  
“No!”
 
Callie rose and caught at his arm as he would have left the hut.
 
“I won’t have you hang for my sake!”

  
Finn stared at her for a long moment before
laying the pistol aside.
 
He ran his
fingers through his thick dark hair.
 
“I
cannot bear that he laid his hands on you!
 
What he tried to do . . .”

  
“He did not succeed,” she assured him.
 
“I am no blushing miss, Finn, had he not seen
reason, I would have gelded him like a wayward stallion.”

  
“Aye,” Finn agreed, some of the anger
draining from his face, “I believe you would have.

I’ll
wager it was a shock to that strutting buffoon to find a knife against his
prick.”

  
“He did seem a bit startled,” she admitted.

  
Finn chuckled.
 
“My wild pirate lass.
 
By God, you’re a feisty woman.
 
But now, what should we do tonight?
 
Do you want me to take you home?”

  
“Could I stay here with you until morning?”
she asked.

  
“Aye, you’re welcome to stay here.”

  
“Will you maid me?
 
I cannot unlace this corset by myself.”

  
She pulled off the tattered remnants of her
bodice and let her skirt fall to the floor in a pink brocade puddle.
 
Her petticoats followed and Finn’s big
fingers made surprisingly short work of the knotted laces of her corset.
 
When she turned toward him, the wide neck of
her chemise slipped from her shoulder exposing one creamy breast.

  
Finn’s eyes narrowed as he saw the bruises
made by Sir Thomas’ teeth that ringed her rosebud nipple.
 

  
“The bastard,” he breathed, as Callie pulled
her chemise back into place.

  
“Forget him, Finn,” Callie entreated, her
hand cupping his face.
 
“I’m tired, so
tired, please, all I want is sleep.”

  
They climbed into Finn’s bed, the ropes
groaning beneath their weight.

  
“I’ve longed to find you here, Callie
Llewellyn,” Finn admitted, pulling her to him so her head rested on the rough
cloth of his nightshirt, “but not like this.
 
Not when you’re running from another man’s viciousness.”

  
“And I’ve longed to be with you, Finn,”
Callie admitted, “but for now just hold me and let me feel safe in your arms.”

*
   
*
   
*
   
*

 
The sun was rising over the sea when Callie
awoke.
 
She felt the bed give as Finn
climbed out.

  
“Don’t go,” she said softly, turning over
and holding out a hand to him as he stood beside the bed.
 
“Come back.”

  
“I’m not made of stone, Callie,” he said.

  
“I don’t ask you to be.
 
Come back, Finn.”

  
He pulled the nightshirt over his head and
slid back into the bed.
 
Callie pulled
her own chemise over her head and dropped it over the side of the bed.

  
“Are you certain?” he asked.

 
“Very certain,” she replied, her hand
caressing his chest where the muscles were covered with a light coating of dark
hair.

  
Finn’s big, calloused hands slid over her
skin, savoring the softness of her.
 
Her
black hair, the pins Gemma had so carefully placed there long lost, spilled
over the pillows and gleamed in the dawn’s light peeking through the windows.

  
Callie abandoned herself to him, to his
touches, his kisses, and the soft caress of his hands, his lips, and his
tongue.
 
His tenderness, his tenderness,
banished the ugliness of Sir Thomas’ assault and filled her with nothing but
pleasure and desire for this man who had brought love back into her life.

  
At Sedgewyck Manor, it soon became apparent
that Sir Thomas was in a foul humor.
 
Word passed through the servants’ hall to tread lightly when they had to
come in contact with him.

  
“Can it be?” Venetia wondered aloud when she
and Flora had excused themselves from his taciturn presence over the breakfast
table and retired to the boudoir.
 
“Can
it really be that she’s refused him?”

  
“Why would she?
 
Surely she’d like to be a great lady,
mistress of a beautiful estate, wife of a rich, titled man.”

  
“Perhaps not,” Venetia countered.
 
“After all, you are willing to throw it away
for the love of a hermit.”

  
Flora said nothing.
 
She would not reveal to her mother that she
had visited Walter the night before and that they were going to be together no
matter her mother’s wishes.
 
She excused
herself and left the boudoir, determined to formulate the plans for her
departure with Walter as soon as possible.

  
Eager to plan her future, Flora let herself
out into the garden.
 
Lifting her skirts,
she ran along the graveled paths, ignoring the gardeners who paused in their
labors and bowed to her, tugging their forelocks.

  
She retraced her steps of the night before
remembering how gallantly Walter had escorted her through the night-dark woods
to the very edge of the moonlit garden.
 
He had taken her in his arms and kissed her so sweetly; it was a
promise, that kiss, she told herself as she plunged into the woods and ran along
the path toward the cave.
 
It was a
promise of a future together when the two of them would raise the child they
had created together out of their love.

  
“Walter?” she cried as she pushed open the
door.
 
“Walter, we have to make our
plans.
 
I think Caroline Jenkins has
rejected Sir Thomas’ proposal and if she has, my mother will redouble her
efforts to marry me to him.
 
We must go
as soon as we can or she will try to trap me into . . .”

  
She stopped and looked around.
 
The already sparsely furnished cave was empty
save for a few sticks of furniture.
 
There was nothing of Walter left; his clothes, his carvings,
nothing.
  
The remnants of a meager
breakfast lay on the table where he had apparently eaten before leaving.

  
“Walter,” Flora breathed.
 
“Oh no, Walter, you would not do this to me .
. .”