Pirate's Bride (Liberty's Ladies) (56 page)

She silently berated herself for her reaction and put on a pleasant smile, but she couldn’t shake her discomfort until she remembered how Thomas had looked as he stood naked on the deck of the
Black Falcon
. Gales of delighted laughter escaped from her, causing Thomas to look askance and Ian to stop eating his custard tart to snicker knowingly.

“Why ever are you two laughing like hyenas?” Thomas asked, seemingly much affronted, and tilted his dark brown hair inquiringly in Ian’s direction.

“Nothing, Thomas, old man,” Ian finally said after his amusement subsided. “A private joke between Bethlyn and me. Now, you never did tell us why you’re here in Philadelphia. And how long do you plan to stay?”

Eversley’s lips curled in disdain, but he quickly smiled. “I wished a trip abroad. Working for the earl keeps me extremely busy, and I suppose the long hours I’ve been working have made me a bit tired. The earl insisted I take an extended holiday, so I chose to visit here. I wanted to check on Lady Bethlyn for her father — to make certain she is being treated well.”

“I assure you, Thomas, that I am well and happy. Please convey my regards to my father when next you see him.” Bethlyn managed to smile politely, but somehow she doubted Thomas’s reason for being in Philadelphia.”

“There is also another reason for my visit,” Thomas offered. “I have come to your fair city to seek my bride.”

“What!” Ian nearly choked on his coffee. “You’re going to get married? Who is the unfortunate woman?”

Thomas grinned a Cheshire-cat grin, ignoring Ian’s slur. “I’m in the marriage market, and I hope to meet all of the eligible young ladies and choose one to return home with me. I trust that the alliance will be satisfactory to the both of us.” He shot a meaningful glance at Bethlyn, one she didn’t fail to miss.

Ian, however, didn’t see the interplay here or notice that Bethlyn’s face flamed a deep shade of crimson. He continued the conversation with Thomas, but for the rest of the meal Bethlyn’s hands trembled. She tried to convince herself that the way Thomas had looked at her meant absolutely nothing. She was a happily married woman for God’s sake. He couldn’t mean to marry her. But no matter how hard she tried to shake the memory of those cold eyes, trained on her face and filled with hidden meanings, she couldn’t.

Finally she managed to convince herself that she was imagining things, because for the rest of the evening, Thomas was most gracious. Before he departed, he kissed her hand in an almost cousinly fashion and told her he would be most grateful if she’d introduce him to some of Philadelphia’s reigning belles. She’d agreed, convinced that he had no hidden motives even if he was the sort of despicable man who profited from transporting women across the seas in one of her father’s ships. However, later that night as she lay in Ian’s arms, she shivered again.

~ ~ ~

Thomas slipped into his bed above Crosskeys Tavern and listened to the sounds in the ale room downstairs. The lone candle on the nightstand illumined his grin as he silently congratulated himself on the story he’d told the Bristons about seeking a wife. The inspiration for such a tale had sprung easily to his lips, but in all truthfulness he hadn’t lied. He did intend to find a wife; in fact, he’d found her already. Bethlyn Briston was going to marry him one day. Of that, he had no doubt. He’d always been a patient man, and this situation would merit a great deal of that virtue.

Bethlyn and Ian loved each other deeply, and he couldn’t help but to be jealous. The arrogant cad was no doubt making love to her at that very moment, and the mental image of their mating caused a tortured groan to escape him as he hardened beneath the thin sheet.

“Just thinking about the damned haughty bitch always does this to me,” he groused aloud and believed he’d have to end his own torture since he hadn’t been able to seek out a prostitute yet. Never in his life had he wanted a woman as much as Bethlyn, and he vowed that when she was his, he’d imprison her in his bed and not let her go until he had slaked his lust. If that was even possible.

He’d just placed his hand beneath the sheet when a no-nonsense knock sounded on his door.

“Who is it?” he called.

“Annabelle Hastings” came the reply.

Having found the door unlocked, Annabelle entered at his summons. Closing the door, she leaned against it, her pale blue eyes taking in the fact that he was already in bed, and from the looks of things beneath the cover, he was in need of a woman’s touch.

She moved forward, a knowing smirk on her face which caused Thomas to snap, “What in blazes do you want?”

“Don’t act testy,” she chided. “I might change my mind and decide not to … ah … help you with your problem.” Her gaze lingered on the evident bulge which the sheet barely concealed.

Thomas’s eyes flared with ill-concealed lust, and he nodded. Annabelle flashed him a beguiling smile and quickly threw off her fashionable and expensive dress, leaving it on the floor beside the bed. When she was completely and beautifully naked, her long silver hair curling to her waist and hanging like gossamer across her small breasts, she slipped beneath the sheet.

Her hand immediately found his warm, pulsing shaft, large with desire. “Oh, Thomas,” she moaned, “I had no idea you were so well endowed.”

Pulling away the sheet, he pushed her downward. “Pleasure me, wench, in the way only a whore can.”

Annabelle licked her lips almost like a starving person who awaits a feast. “You know, of course, that in my mind you aren’t the man I’m making love to.”

“I know,” he said, and watched her lower her head to him, her hair a bright shiny curtain across his thighs. “In the dark all women are the same.” But he meant to say that in the dark, he could better imagine that Bethlyn was the woman who now worked her magic on him.

With that, he blew out the candle.

~ ~ ~

 “Mavis, little Marc is the most beautiful baby I’ve ever seen. He has your eyes, and Marc’s nose. But he would have to be beautiful, because you and Marc are two of the most perfect-looking people.” Bethlyn placed her finger in the baby’s fist, feeling the child’s strength as he closed his tiny hand. She’d arrived two hours ago and still sat in the rocking chair, holding this precious little bundle. It seemed she couldn’t stop staring at him.

“Well, you should be here at two in the morning when that most perfect baby wakes and wants to eat,” Mavis grumbled good-naturedly, slowly moving around the bedroom. The baby was three weeks old, but Mavis still hadn’t recovered completely from the long, arduous birth. As if to prove her point, Baby Marc began to fuss and root at Bethlyn’s breast. “You better hand him to me,” Mavis said, and laughed. “I don’t think you have what your godson requires.”

Reluctantly Bethlyn handed him to his mother, giving Mavis her seat. She watched in fascination as the baby suckled at his mother’s breast. A large sob welled within her at the sweet sight and sounds the infant made. Never had she seen anything so beautiful, but the baby reminded her of her own inability to conceive. At that moment she doubted she’d ever have a child. Mavis read her thought.

“You’ll bear a beautiful and healthy child one day, Bethlyn.”

Bethlyn shook her head, her fingers dashing away a lone tear in the corner of her eye. “I doubt it. I fear I’m barren and will never bear a child for Ian. I want to have our baby so much that I ache.”

“Perhaps if you stop thinking about it and trying so hard to conceive a baby, you’ll become pregnant.”

“It seems a baby is all I ever think about,” Bethlyn said, overwhelmed by her own hopelessness.

“Then find something else to dwell on. I guarantee that when you do, you’ll find yourself pregnant.”

“I wish it were that simple.”

An hour later Bethlyn headed for Edgecomb, but before leaving the city, she stopped at a dressmaker’s shop to order a christening gown for little Marc in honor of the christening which was to take place in two weeks. She was so happy that Mavis and Marc wanted her and Ian to be the baby’s godparents. She consoled herself with the thought that even if she never had children, Baby Marc would be the recipient of all of her maternal devotion.

Upon leaving the dress shop, she saw a group of people assembled at a bakery across the street. The citizens grumbled and some raised their fists when the baker, a stooped old man named Mr. Clement, appeared at the window and lowered a curtain.

“Now ain’t he the high and mighty Tory,” a man in the crowd shouted. “We ought to smash his shop to bits for charging so much for a loaf of bread.”

“Yeah,” another man cried. “I bet there ain’t a wheat shortage at all. The blasted king lovers just want us poor people to pay their prices.”

Many in the crowd agreed, and Bethlyn, who had stopped to watch some distance from where her carriage waited, hoped that no violence would ensue. She’d patronized Mr. Clement’s bakery often, and she knew that he was a kindly old man who had probably given many of these people credit over the years, never expecting the bills to be paid during hard times. Now, because there was a shortage of wheat, the populace blamed him for his loyalty to the English government, instead of realizing that the war was the cause of lack of bread. Even at Edgecomb they were forced to do without many things which had been in abundance during the British occupation.

“Come on, let’s storm him!” came a cry from a bedraggled-looking man who stood near Bethlyn.

She didn’t know why she interfered at that point, but she couldn’t stand the thought of Mr. Clement being hurt.

“Wait!” she screamed loud enough to be heard above the din. “Please don’t harm that poor old man. He has done nothing.”

At first she wondered if anyone had heard her at all, but suddenly the silence dimmed and became almost churchlike, and all eyes turned to her.

The man who had ordered the storming peered at her and said, “Just who are you, missy?”

Bethlyn didn’t care for the tone of his voice, and she squared her shoulders. “I’m Bethlyn Briston.”

Her name apparently didn’t mean anything to him or to some of the others, but a shrill female voice shouted from somewhere within the crowd, “That’s a Tory bitch! She’s married to a loyalist, and look at her, lording it all over us in her fancy gowns. Ain’t she the one to open her mouth to protect her own kind.”

“By God, you’re right,” the man agreed with the woman, and the others nodded their heads, their faces wreathed in hatred.

All Bethlyn could think as the people in the crowd progressed upon her was that she would soon be lying on this street, probably torn and bleeding — perhaps dead, She’d never see Ian again, would never have a child. The thoughts whirled in her mind, but it seemed that the hardened hate-filled faces and bodies approached her in slow motion. Yet she couldn’t move, so overcome by fear. From the corner of her eye, she saw her driver’s frantic face, then arm movements as he flagged down a soldier who approached on a horse. Then she saw nothing else but towering bodies as the crowd of people surged towards her like a plague of black locusts.

Their breaths were hot on her face, and clawing fingers dug into her flesh as they pulled her forward into the street. She expected to be mauled then, but with her fear came a surge of anger, and she struck out at the people nearest to her, but to no avail. Someone grabbed her by the arms and held her, yet she kicked out, determined not to be a docile victim. She’d fight to the death.

Then, like a deafening peal of thunder, a gunshot exploded above their heads. Immediately all turned, rage and terror in their eyes to behold the angry visage of the man whom Washington had placed in charge of the military government. His prancing stallion broke into the crowd, and instantly soldiers on horses surrounded the throng with raised muskets.

The man’s assessing eyes in his pockmarked face took in the situation. Glancing about the populace, he sneered, “Have you all become such rabble that you’d attack a defenseless woman on the street?”

“But, but, sir,” a male voice began to explain, “she be a Tory. “

“So? You’re a colonial. Do you see her holding any of you down, showing no mercy for your fears? Release her,” he ordered the man who held her. “And all of you go home; otherwise, I’ll arrest each and every one of you.”

With little care for her person, the man behind her let her go, and she crumpled to the ground like a dead weight.

As the crowd dispersed, there was great deal of muttering and head shaking.

Bethlyn’s driver suddenly appeared by her side and helped her up. “Oh, Mrs. Briston, are you all right?” he asked in a quivering voice.

She could barely speak, because she wasn’t all right, and the man on horseback seemed to realize this. Sliding from the horse, he limped a bit as he came towards her and took her arm. “Madam, you’re deathly pale. May I escort you home?”

“I … I…” There was her stutter again, and she couldn’t form any words; she didn’t know what to say anyway, so overcome by fear that she was in a state of shock.

Without hesitation, he ordered one of the soldiers to tie his horse behind the Briston carriage and for the driver to start for home after he helped her into the vehicle. Sitting across from her, he pulled the shades for privacy and watched her in the semidarkness for any signs of collapse.

None came. When they were very near to Edgecomb, Bethlyn sighed and composed herself. She was safe now, no need to be frightened, when she suddenly remembered the soldier sitting across from her. The man had saved her life.