Pirate's Golden Promise (25 page)

He bowed to her, then sat on the sand, apparently deep in thought.

She shielded her face with her hand. Her purple-and-pink flowered gown gently billowed about her legs. “How are you this afternoon, sir?” she asked him. “It seems I see more of you than Captain Morgan,”

The man had the good grace to flush. “Aye, ma'am, you do.”

“Following the captain's orders, hmm?”

“Aye.”

“Henry must be quite fearful I shall try to run away from him.”

“Don't know that, ma'am.”

“Well, when you see Captain Morgan tonight, and I'm certain you shall, inform him that if I could get off this blasted island, I would! Good day to you, sir.”

Wynter returned to the house without a backward glance.

A puzzling thing happened later that afternoon when a messenger delivered a note to Wynter from Lady Modyford. Wynter couldn't believe that in her hands was an invitation to tea at Kingshouse. She wanted to decline the invitation but thought better of it, so she dressed in a becoming pink silk gown with two large roses holding up the overskirt to reveal an underskirt of frothy white lace. Then Selma pulled up her hair and decorated the curls with fluffy, pink feathers.

To her aggravation, the apple-cheeked man followed on horseback behind the carriage. But she didn't think about him as her thoughts were centered on the tea invitation.

“How lovely to see you,” Lady Modyford greeted her upon her arrival. Wynter found her smile to be artificial because it didn't reach her eyes. Instead the woman's gaze raked over her and made her uncomfortable. Why had Lady Modyford invited her to tea when clearly she didn't like her?

The answer came moments later when Lady Modyford entered the parlor with Wynter following. A tea tray had been set up on a small table, surrounded by four chairs, and in one of the chairs sat a woman with auburn hair, pulled severely back and held in place by a black ribbon which matched her riding outfit.

The woman's green eyes quickly surveyed Wynter, and Wynter was aware of the contrast they made—she so bright and fluffy-looking, this woman so dark and appraising.

Lady Modyford backed away, and Wynter didn't miss the double-edged look she threw her. She seemed as delighted as a Roman feeding a Christian martyr to the lions. Then she slipped through the doorway and was gone, leaving a baffled Wynter alone with the woman.

“Lady Modyford failed to introduce us. I'm Lady Wynter McChesney.”

“I know, my dear. It was really quite ill-mannered of her, but the woman thrives on obnoxious behavior and adores stirring things up.” She waved a hand at the tea tray. “Would you care for some tea?”

“Thank you, I would.” Wynter sat down when the woman inclined her head. They sipped their tea in silence. The whole time the dark clad woman assessed her, until Wynter had had enough of her probing looks.

“Am I mistaken in assuming that I've been invited here for a special purpose?” Wynter asked. “If so, please tell me now. I'm suddenly very tired.”

“Does your pregnancy cause you to tire easily?”

Wynter didn't hide her shock. “How do you know about that?” she asked through pale lips.

“I have my sources, my dear. Is the child my husband's?”

“Your husband's?” Suddenly a flash of insight hit Wynter like a bolt from the summer sky. This woman was Henry's wife, Elizabeth, the sequestered spouse who preferred her country home and horses to the bawdy life on Port Royal. Wynter rose quickly, knocking over her cup of tea and spilling it on her new gown.

“Oh, dear. Your lovely dress will be ruined. I'll call a servant.”

“No,” Wynter said and took a napkin to daub the wet material. “That isn't necessary. I don't care about the gown anyway. You see, your husband purchased it for me, and I don't care about anything he may buy for me, nor do I care for him.” She looked up at Elizabeth. “In fact, I hate him, and if this child were his, I'd get rid of it somehow.”

“I don't believe you'd do that, because I am quite intuitive about people and believe that you love life too much to deny someone else theirs. But I do believe you hate my husband. The question is, why are you his mistress?”

“I'm not, really.” Wynter sat back down, wishing to confide in Elizabeth. “He has been much too busy the last few days to bother returning at night.”

“Yes, I'm aware of that,” Elizabeth said slowly and went to the window to gaze out at the view. “He sleeps here but not with me. To be honest, Henry isn't pleased that I am here. I showed up quite unannounced. No one but Lady Modyford expected me, but then I wouldn't have come at all if it hadn't been for her message that a beautiful young woman was Henry's mistress. She said he was quite smitten with you. I usually pay little heed to Henry's indiscretions, but she assured me that you weren't like his other women and wouldn't be easily discarded. I love him, my dear. He's the only man I shall ever love, but I know that since I prefer a life of solitude, and Henry doesn't, that we're ill suited. So I hold onto him anyway I can. I want you to know that I shall always remain his wife, and now, having met you, I approve of his choice of mistress.”

“I don't want to be his mistress! If there were a way to avoid my fate, I would.”

Elizabeth smiled. “I think you're a very resourceful young lady. I have faith that in time the solution shall come to you.”

Wynter rose from the chair. “Does Henry know of my visit?”

“No, I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't mention it to him. I hate to ruffle his feathers. He is such a vain peacock at times, but he's mine, and I'd be lost without him.”

Wynter wanted to tell Elizabeth that Henry wasn't really hers, not when he chased after other women and broke her heart. Instead she held out her hand to her and smiled gently. “I intend to leave Port Royal eventually and be with the man I truly love. I wish the same happiness for you.”

“Thank you, my dear. I have one last thing to say to you. Please don't break Henry's heart too badly. I can't stand for him to be hurt.”

Wynter couldn't fathom Elizabeth Morgan, nor did she want to understand how she could love a man as cruel as Morgan.

She hadn't expected to see Henry at all that night, but as luck would have it, he showed up just as supper was being served. Throughout the meal of pork and rice, he talked as if they were on the best of terms, but she could tell from the way he appraised her and practically salivated in his plate that she was what he had come to taste.

Though Wynter had eaten little all day because of the heat and the pregnancy, she found she was quite starved. Despite Henry's leers, she ate heartily. She found pregnancy to be a strange phenomenon. One hour she could barely swallow a piece of milk toast, the next hour she could devour a full meal. After supper was ended and the evening progressed with Henry touching her cheek, holding her around the waist as they sat together on the divan and then leading her into the bedroom, her stomach bolted on her like a skittish horse.

Henry had just sat down to pull off his boots when she ran to the chamber pot and was wretchedly sick.

He ordered Selma into the room to help Wynter clean herself up, but when he returned and Wynter was in bed, looking paler than the pillow behind her, he stopped.

“So you really are sick.”

She weakly lifted her head. “Of course I'm really sick. Do you think I take delight in retching?”

“I'm not certain of what lengths you'll go to keep me out of your bed, Wynter.”

“Do be quiet, Henry,” she said, sensing a change in his attitude which gave her hope that he wouldn't touch her. “I feel utterly sick and am having a child, you know.”

She heard him sigh. “How could I forget? But I've sent for a physician. He'll arrive shortly.” He turned to leave the room, and looked back at her, a warning in his tone. “And you better be ill, my dear. I won't take it lightly to be duped.”

When she heard the click of the lock, she poked her tongue out as she had done years ago to Lucy, or to Debra when her back was turned. At that moment she wished to be at McChesney Manor again, a child once more with her father to love her. Or to be a woman with Cort on Santa Margarita. But none of it was going to happen. She was stuck on Port Royal with a despicable man, and she could do nothing about it.

Or could she? Elizabeth had said she'd find a solution.

She realized that Morgan was concerned about her health. Though she was pregnant, he had wanted to make love to her until she was too ill. The sickish feeling that had clawed at her stomach was now gone, and she felt quite well, the normal rose tint to her cheeks returning. A plan formed in her mind, a plan which would work, but she had to think it out fully. She knew the doctor would be arriving shortly, and she didn't want to take the chance that she'd look too healthy when he arrived. So she got up and went to the dressing table and used a tiny bit of ceruse on each cheek. She'd never used the white concoction before, but the dressmaker had insisted that she add it to her purchases as all fashionable ladies used it.

“And am I not a fashionable lady?” Wynter asked her reflection, her spirits rising.

By the time Dr. Hughes was admitted to the room, Wynter lay abed in seeming distress and unusually pale. Luckily for Wynter, the doctor entered alone for his examination and was rather myopic. He squinted at her.

“You're a very sick-looking lady,” he said. “And pregnant, too, from what Captain Morgan told me.”

“Oh, please, sir,” she said and added a tremble to her voice, “don't fault me for my sin. Captain Morgan is quite overpowering.”

Dr. Hughes sat down and took her hand, concern on his face for her. “You mean the bugger had his way with you?”

“My condition speaks for the fact, sir.” She broke into tears and the doctor held her against him. He handed her a kerchief to dry her eyes. When she decided she'd convinced him well enough, she said, “He doesn't realize how ill I feel all the time, how very weak I am. I worry so that I shall lose my child, and I do want this baby no matter who the father is … or how this new life came to be. I fear that if Captain Morgan doesn't contain his ardor, I shall miscarry. My mother died giving birth to me, Dr. Hughes. I'd hate to suffer the same fate.”

Half-truths, but Dr. Hughes didn't know this. He had always thought Henry Morgan was a swaggering blackguard who courted the governor and seduced the women of Port Royal. Well, enough was enough. This fragile, beautiful creature mustn't endure Morgan's lust any longer, he decided.

He patted her hand. “Never you worry. I'll handle Morgan for you. He won't be warming this bed for quite some time.”

“Thank you, doctor. I'm grateful to you. You've saved my child's life.”

After the doctor left the room, Wynter heard the mix of the two men's voices in the parlor. Then the slam of the front door. Silence.

Then, “Damn it to hell, wench!”

The front door was yanked open again and slammed with such a bang the house shook.

It was after she heard the squeaking of the carriage wheels as Henry's vehicle headed back to Kingshouse that Wynter began to laugh until huge tears of relief rolled down her cheeks.

Now that Henry no longer saw fit to bother her, Wynter decided that Port Royal was really quite lovely. Each morning upon waking she was greeted by a brilliant azure sky and a turquoise sea. As had become her habit the last few weeks, she walked on the beach before the sun was high in the heavens, collecting seashells. Behind her was always her shadow, John Esquemeling. Finally one morning, as gray clouds gathered on the horizon, she'd had enough.

She whipped around to face him and said with hands on hips, “Sir, if you must follow after me like an obedient puppy, I suggest we both may benefit by your accompanying me on my walk instead of skulking at a distance. I'm quite unnerved by your eyes upon my back.”

The man doffed his cap, looking uncomfortable. “Captain Morgan wants to see to your safety. He chose me from the other members of the crew because he knows you'll be in no danger from me.”

“Don't you find women attractive?”

“Aye, I do.” Esquemeling looked uneasy. “It's just that the captain doesn't think a man who'd rather write than chase skirts is much of a threat.”

“Morgan would think that,” she said and considered the youngish man who seemed to be rather shy and ill at ease. She decided that if he was going to be her constant shadow, they'd better be friends. She held out her hand to him. “I'm very pleased to know that such a learned gentleman is my protector.”

Esquemeling took her outstretched hand, seemingly flustered, but he flashed her a shy smile. “Thank you, ma'am. I mean no harm.”

“I'm sure you don't,” she said, and he fell into step beside her. Wynter walked with bare feet across the sand, retrieving pebbles and tossing them into the sea. “Tell me, what do you write, sir?”

Twisting his cap in his hands, he grinned sheepishly. “Stories about my adventures, mostly about Captain Morgan. Please don't tell him; I don't think he'd be too keen on the idea. For all Captain Morgan's bravado, he's a private person.”

“Do you like him?”

Esquemeling shot her a look out of the corner of his eye. “Sometimes I think he's the bravest man I've ever known, other times I think he's a coward for killing like he does. I was along on the Cuban expedition. It was really my first big battle, but the agony the prisoners endured, and the women, when he raided the island—” He glanced away. “Suffice it to say that he wasn't as gentle with them as he is with you.”

She nodded her understanding. “You're a kind and considerate man, sir. I should like to have you as a friend. It's very lonely here sometimes.”