Petals on the River (103 page)

and more comprehensive.
 
His workmen had gone home, and the O'Hearns,

Nola, and Mary Margaret had left with them, the latter to be escorted to

her home, while their other guests would stay with Ramsey. Only Bess and

Gage's immediate family now occupied the cabin.
 
His father had retired

to the loft, Bess was in the kitchen preparing bread and victuals for

the morrow, and Shemaine was giving Andrew a bath. For one last time

before the day came to an end, he wanted to walk the deck again and see

everything bathed in the rosy glow of early dusk.
 
With that time

approaching, he was feeling strangely elated and yet a bit torn and

somber deep within himself.

In the coming months he would see the vessel sail away, and he likened

it to losing an old friend that he had coddled and nurtured for the last

eight or nine years.
 
Beginning all over again would be a challenge, but

having a ship of his own making and design sailing the seas would be

like having the wind at his back.
 
The refreshing zephyrs of success

would push him ever onward toward greater challenges. Difficulties would

not seem so impossible to surmount, coins would not be so hard to come

by.
 
People would not scoff at his ideas or be so quick to condemn him

for a fool.
 
His father might even come to seek his advice or join him

in his efforts.

The elder had recently mentioned that he had been thinking of selling

everything he owned in England and returning to the colonies to live in

the surrounding area.
 
After all, Gage's sire had informed him with a

chuckle, Andrew needed a grandfather living within visiting distance,

and now, with another grandchild on the way, his possessions in England

didn't hold his heart as solidly as his family did.
 
And then, of

course, there was his new friend, Mary Margaret McGee, who, he now

realized, was just as much of an avid cardplayer as he was.

William also predicted that the O'Hearns would eventually come around

once their trepidations about Gage's character were put to rest.

Gage was not entirely hopeful of that event coming to pass.
 
After all,

a whole year and more had gone by, and nothing new had come to light

that would exonerate him of Victoria' s murder in people's minds.

Perhaps her death had been an accident after all, and there was no

killer to be found.
 
Over the years, would he cease to be plagued by the

suspicions of the townspeople?

Doubtful, Gage mentally sighed.
 
For years to come, visitors like

Maurice du Mercer would hear lurid accounts of his "awful" temper and

condemn him without a fair hearing.
 
Perhaps Maurice would even come

back on the morrow and demand satisfaction in a duel, having been

spurred to action by some fabricated "proof" which Mrs.
 
Pettycomb or

one of her old cronies had concocted.
 
The Marquess had said he would

not rest until he found a definite answer to Gage's guilt or innocence.

In the face of such a warning, Gage realized his own limitations with a

pistol.
 
He was an exceptionally good shot with a rifle or a smaller

firearm, but he was considerably less experienced at turning and firing.

It was highly feasible that he would be killed and all the aspiMtions he

had dared to envision would never really come to fruition.

Gage locked his hands behind him and wandered leisurely toward the prow.

No one had ever accepted the fact that he had loved Victoria.

He had worked diligently to give her everything that a wife could want

in a home, and she had always been so excited, so very grateful and

pleased with his gifts, that he had labored that much harder to gratify

her smallest desire.
 
Mrs.
 
Pettycomb and some of the other townspeople

had wrongly interpreted his work habits as a selfish quest to fulfill

his own ambitions.
 
But they had been wrong.

Victoria's death had haunted him mercilessly in the months immediately

following the event.
 
He had often found himself waking in the middle of

the night from frantic dreams in which he had seen himself reaching out

desperately to catch her as she tumbled from the prow.
 
But he had

always failed.
 
During the long, exhausting daylight hours of his

bereavement, he had chided himself relentlessly for having left Victoria

alone.
 
For some inexplicable reason, he felt as if he had let her down.

Yet that day had been no different from others, for they had often

ventured out together to the partially finished deck of his ship and had

shared dreams of how it would be once his vessel was sold.
 
Neither of

them had ever suspected that she wouldn't be with him when that day

arrived.
 
They had been too busy enjoying life and their love for one

another.

In degrees of love, Gage had to admit that his feelings for Shemaine had

transcended those which he had once felt for Victoria.
 
It seemed

impossible, and yet he was convinced it was true.
 
As Victoria's

husband, he had once been led to think that no other woman would be

capable of taking her place in his heart.
 
He had honestly, deeply, and

truly loved her.
 
And yet here he was, totally enamored with his young

wife.

Sometimes the joy of his love for Shemaine bubbled up within him until

he was nigh giddy.
 
Whenever they came together in the intimate rites of

love, he felt as eager and excited as an untried youth with his first

conquest.
 
Each night when he lay in her arms, he marveled at the

overwhelming tenderness and devotion that throbbed in his heart for her.

What had happened to him since that fateful day of Victoria's death? Had

his remembrance of his love for her only been befogged or diminished by

the passage of time?
 
Or was he now able to see himself in a whole

different light, like the ship he had designed?

Did Shemaine really know how much he loved her and how his heart seemed

to beat entirely for her?
 
If Maurice managed to kill him, could she, in

the weeks, months or even years to come, be deluded into thinking that

he might have eventually killed her in a fit of temper, just as Roxanne

had predicted?

Heaven forbid, not that!
 
His mind groaned.
 
Just let her go on

believing in me!
 
If I must die, don't let her love die with me!

An almost imperceptible creaking of timbers at the top of the building

slip made Gage look around expectantly.
 
Shemaine had told him that as

soon as she finished bathing Andrew and took him upstairs for William to

read him a story, she would come out and join him on the deck of his

ship.
 
But the hulking form that stood there was not his lovely

Shemaine.

Jacob Potts leered at him as he aimed a pistol directly at Gage's chest.

"Now I have ye," the sailor boasted.
 
"Morrisa said I should kill ye

first so's ye wouldn't come after us once I did away with Sh'maine.

Makes me sorry I didn't think o' the idea meself afore ye shot a hole

through me."

Gage realized he was utterly defenseless.
 
He had no weapon.
 
He wasn't

even close enough to Potts to launch himself forward against the man and

take him down.
 
All he could hope to do was to gain time until

circumstances could be turned in his favor.
 
"You must be aware that my

men and I have been searching the woods for you, so if you kill me .
 
.

.
 
and Shemaine .
 
.
 
.
 
my workmen will have a good idea who did the

deed."

"I don't know no such thing," Potts snarled back.
 
"I aren't been out

here since that day ye shot me." He snorted derisively.
 
"Morrisa made

me stay way after ye paid her a visit an' threatened ta come for us if'n

we hurt Sh'maine gain.
 
I wasn't skeered o' ye, but she sure was.
 
O'

course, Freida tellin' her ye'd kilt yer first wife might've had

somethin' ta do with that."

Gage passed his gaze contemptuously over the hulking man.
 
"I can see

that you've recovered well enough."

"Aye, but it took a while, blast ye!
 
Too bad the li'l bogtrotter is so

tough or I might've killed her that day.
 
Her death would've given me

somethin' ta soothe the hurt o' me wound."

"Shemaine has never done you any harm," Gage reasoned.
 
"Why are you so

intent on killing her?"

"For one thing, I owe it ta the li'l snip.
 
I promised her, ye see. That

day she left the London Pride, I swore ta have me revenge on her, an' I

always keep me word ta me foes." Potts lifted his massive shoulders

briefly.
 
"Now at least there's a goodly reward in doin' way with her.

Pays me for waitin', so ta speak."

"Who has offered such a reward?" Gage couldn't imagine Roxanne having

enough coins to interest Potts or Morrisa.
 
Even deducting what she had

to give Freida, the harlot probably earned more in a week than Roxanne

could put together in a whole year cleaning and cooking for her father.

"Don't know, but Morrisa does, an' she aren't sayin'."

"Perhaps Morrisa is lying and hoping you'll be shot and killed.
 
I did

say I would kill you the next time I saw you out here.
 
She obviously

doesn't care about that.
 
So why should you believe her?"

Digging into his purse, Potts produced a smooth leather pouch of too

fine a quality to be something the tar would purchase or make. Holding

it aloft, he shook it until the contents jingled.
 
"'Cause for starters,

Morrisa give me this here purse full o' coins.
 
If'n she didn't think

I'd be comin' back, she'd the'er've given it ta me. She'd'ave only told

me a purse would be waitin' for me."

Gage seemed to consider the man's rationale for a moment, but only to

search out possible avenues of escape.
 
A ruse might be effective in

fooling the dullard.