Romancing the Rogue (69 page)

Constance looked up at Percy then and froze, her tear-stained face puffy and red. “He jumped in front of me. He saved my life,” she cried.

Stunned, Percy felt a mix of disgust for himself and his desire to hate the man. Yes. He’d seen Guffald move in front of her. Cursed him for doing what he should have done. But the last minute effort didn’t account for the man kidnapping his wife, betraying his country and Nelson’s Tea. And yet, he owed the man everything. Everything! Damn his eyes!

“What will become of him?” She reached up and stretched out her hand toward Percy.

He moved forward, hesitant to touch her, afraid he was having an illusion, that she wasn’t real, that the blood-stained creases in her knuckles were from her blood and not Guffald’s. He’d done this to her. He was responsible for making her relive her nightmares.

She followed his gaze. “Henry’s blood, not mine,” she assured him.

Her words offered no relief. He watched as she doctored the captain, unsure how it was she’d survived, how it was he’d been blessed not to be mourning over her body now as she did for Guffald.

“Your quick thinking has surely saved his life, my gel,” he said with a nod to the tourniquet.

Constance’s red-rimmed eyes met and locked onto his. The heartache he saw reflected there tore at his soul. His heart sank. She would never forgive him. How could he blame her? It was too much to ask, when he couldn’t forgive himself.

“So much loss. My mother. Your sister,” she cried. “Guffald.”

He nodded. “Constance. The Caddock. If I’d only known…”

She closed her eyes and then opened them, inhaling deeply. Sorrow reflected in her face. “Someday, I shall be able to speak of it.”

“And now?” he asked, fearing her answer.

“What am I to do, Your Grace?” she asked. “I am in love.”

In love? With Guffald? Rightly so, the man had saved her life. Had she gone willingly with him to the Stockton? His heart plummeted into his abdomen. “Listen to your heart,” he said. “Follow it.”

“I am in love with
two
men.”

Percy blinked. Two? Now that wasn’t what he expected to hear. His gaze fell to the man at their feet. How he hated Henry all the more. “Whatever shall you do?” he inquired, certain he would rather see her happy than forced to live a life she despised. After all she’d been through, he intended to make sure she wanted for nothing ever again, that she didn’t have to sail to Spain or anywhere else to find happiness.

“Come closer, Your Grace.”

He took a knee. She lifted her hand to gently rub the blood off of his face. With one touch, she had the power to disarm him. But then again, his heart was open now, his body eager for what she would never willingly give him. He closed his eyes, relishing her touch, putting it to memory. He inhaled her scent — roses, lavender, and a hint of despair. The moment cut him more deeply than Burton’s tirade on his family.

“I shall love them both,” she admitted.

“Both?” Had the woman gone daft? Perhaps the traumatic events in the cabin had sent her over the edge. Did she propose to entertain a lover and a husband? By all that was holy, what was she suggesting? She was a married woman. He’d be damned if he’d step aside to share her — with anyone. He’d spent too much time sharing her with a pirate as it was.

The look on his face must have jolted her back to reality. “Silly man! What shall I call you? Thomas or Percy?”

Percy’s eyes widened as understanding dawned. She meant him, his two identities. What she proposed was positively scandalous — enticing. “Percy,” he said, “but only in public.”

“And what shall I call you in private?”

“Thomas.” He winked. “When we make love.”

She lowered her eyelashes seductively. “Are you suggesting that I love a duke by day and a rogue by night?”

He arched a brow. Was it too much to hope for? He answered honestly, “I’m asking you to love two men who share one heart.”

Their gazes locked. “And what is in your heart?” she asked.

His heart? It was a miracle the organ still operated after the emotional trauma she’d put him through. He had to admit, it swelled, beat harder, louder, more true than it ever had before. Percy reached for Constance and drew her close. He tilted her head, bringing her lips inches away from his. “I love you, Constance. I love you more than life itself.”

“You do?” she asked, incredulous.

“We do,” he answered. “Both of us are most definitively yours, my gel.”

She grabbed his hand and placed it over her slightly swelling stomach. “His as well?”

“His too.”

As he laid his hand on Constance’s stomach, all the hatred he’d kept close to his heart dissipated. Consumed with an urge to kiss his beautiful wife, Percy’s lips sought Constance’s most urgently. It no longer mattered where they had been, where they were, or what they’d been through. He no longer needed vengeance as a means to live.
His heart now belonged to his wife, his child. And offering Constance a rogue by night for the rest of his life was bound to be his greatest pleasure.

About the Author

Katherine Bone
has been passionate about all things historical since she was an Army brat traveling all over the world. Initially, she dreamed of being an artist, but when she met and fell in love with Prince Charming, her own dashing Lieutenant vowing duty, honor, and country, she found herself saying, “I do.” Whisked away to Army bases, castles, battlegrounds, and cathedrals, where tales of swashbuckling adventure filled the lonely gaps when the Army called Charming away, Katherine’s imagination took flight. No longer nomadic, she calls the south home and spends most of her time daydreaming about Charming and heroes of yesteryear.

Katherine would love to hear from you!

Website

by Patricia Kiyono

Dedication

For Ken and Rose. Thanks so much for inviting us to experience the beautiful beaches and the excitement of the Boardwalk at Wildwood, and for helping with research for this story!

Charlie Brannigan
shivered
and pulled the collar of his coat tighter. The action chilled his gloveless hands
,
and he spent a moment wondering whether
or not
to put his hand
s
back in his pocket
s
, leaving his neck and chest open to the elements. His mother had knitted a scarf for him at Christmas time, but he
’
d left it at home. Maybe his parents
were
right
—
he acted before thinking things through.

At least he was trying to do something more about the family finances. Since
the
awful stock market crash in
‘
29
,
things had grown steadily worse for the Brannigan family. He
’
d left his career in New York and come home to Anglesea, on the New Jersey shore, and the only job
available
was delivering newspapers in Cape May. But if the rumors were true, more people were returning to the vacation homes on the island
,
and business on the Wildwood Boardwalk had picked up.
Perhaps some of
the wealthy women who had arrived
would like some of his paintings to decorate those homes
.

Seven years ago
,
before the day
the newspapers called Black Tuesday, Charlie had made a decent living
selling
his
art
. But when the economy soured, people stopped buying extras like paintings, and the main gallery displaying his artwork had closed down. Luckily,
he
’
d
managed to get all his work back before the doors had been locked for good.

If his hunch was right, the rich ladies would start walking along the Boardwalk in mid-afternoon.
A
s soon as
he
’
d finished delivering newspapers
, he
’
d packed a basket with several of his small watercolors and attached it to the handlebars of his bicycle. After getting permission, he
’
d set up outside his friend Bernie
’
s ice cream shop
—
an easel and a crude shelf made from a board and a couple of wooden crates borrowed from Bernie
—
and waited for the customers to come along. But they hadn
’
t yet
appeared
.
He had to admit
,
the
late April breezes were
still a bit chilly for strolling on the Boardwalk.

He turned the collar of his coat up around his neck and pulled his cap down as far as it would go.
In his haste to get
t
here
,
he
’d left without bathing and shaving,
b
ut he
hadn
’
t wanted to delay by prettying himself up, as his father would say.

A wind gust blew one of his smaller paintings off its perch and onto the
B
oardwalk.
Charlie
scrambled after it, but a woman bent and picked it up before he could reach it. She studied the scene painted on the tiny canvas
—
a mother robin tending her eggs in her nest.

“
Good morning, ma
’
am. That
’
s one of my best miniatures. If you like it, I
’
d be happy to give you a bargain on it.
”

She
looked up from the painting and met his gaze.
He
blinked, wanting to make sure
he
wasn
’
t imagining the lovely face. Smoky gray eyes, wide and welcoming, in a heart-shaped face, made her look much younger than
t
he clothing and severe hairstyle suggested.

“
This is very lovely, but I
’
m sure I can
’
t afford it,
”
she replied.

“
Oh, I
’
m sure you can,
”
he
hedged.
He
didn
’
t want her to go away
,
so
h
e
named a price about a third of what
he
would normally charge for it.

Her eyes grew wide.
“
How can you afford to sell these at that price? You have to pay for more canvases and
paints
and make a profit.
”

“
I make my own canvases. And I have lots of
paint
. And… if you
want
it, I
’
d like you to have it.
”

She smiled then, and Charlie thought he
’
d never seen such brightness. The glow from her face warmed him
,
and he stopped shivering for a moment.

“
You
’
re so kind. But really, I can
’
t buy this just now. Sometime, when things are better for our family…
”

“
Of course. This will probably still be here. And if it isn
’
t, I
’
ll paint you one just like it.
”

She laughed, and the warmth spread to his toes. He
’
d known beautiful women. Ladies dripping with pearls and diamonds, heiresses and foreign royalty, but none had ever affected him like this.

“
I
’
ll remember that promise. But for now, I
’
ll put this back with your other lovely paintings.
”
She
set the canvas on the shelf
’
s empty spot then
gently touched the two on either side
—
similar paintings with different birds.
“
These three would make a wonderful grouping in a dressing room or waiting room.
”
She turned
and cast
her sunny smile toward him.
“
I
’
m sure you
’
ll sell them soon. I heard business is picking up on the
B
oardwalk.
”

He reached in his pocket and pulled out a calling card. It was an older one from his days in New York with his parents
’
address added in ink.
“
Here
’
s my card. I look forward to see
ing
you again, Miss…
”

“
Sheffield. Rose Sheffield.
”
She
looked down at his card then back up.
“
It was good to meet you, Mr. Brannigan.
”
She
turned then and walked away.

He watched as she made her way down the
B
oardwalk. Rose Sheffield.
What a
lovely
name. She didn
’
t
amble
unhurriedly
like the wealthy ladies who vacationed on the island, but instead she strode
,
each step determined and full of purpose. Her back was ramrod straight, unlike many of the local
women
who seemed to carry the weight of the world on their
shoulders
.
Rose
radiated hope and light and—

“
Excuse me, sir, but how much would you charge for a set of these miniatures?
”

Charlie tore his gaze away and greeted his would-be customer.
His
smile slipped a bit when he saw
she
held the same picture
his
muse had, as well as the coordinating watercolors
Rose
had touched. Somehow it didn
’
t seem right to let the
m
go to someone else, so
he
quoted
a price
four times what
they were
worth
.

T
o his surprise, t
he woman simply nodded, set the
m
down
,
and reached for her purse.

Charlie tried to hide his amazement when
she
pulled out a wad of cash, the likes of which he hadn
’
t seen since his heyday in Manhattan.
She
counted off the bills and handed
over
the sum he had named.

“
These will be perfect for my dressing room,
”
she gushed.
“
I
’
m so glad I stopped to look at your work.
”

“
Er, thank you, ma
’
am,
”
Charlie replied. He pulled out another calling card.
“
Please tell your friends about m
e
. Would you like
your paintings wrapped
?
”

“
Oh no
.
I
’
m going home right now, so they
’
ll be fine in my shopping bag. But thank you for offering. Good day.
”
S
he trotted off.

Once again, Charlie stared as a
woman
walked away from him.
After a long
afternoon with no customers, two different women
had
stopped
,
drawn to the same paintings
. Was it magic? Or a stroke of luck?