Justin gazed at the ships in the harbor. “We had better see the harbormaster.”
Marcus looked at him. “We? Nae, Justin. You aren't coming.”
The earl started forward. “I would say his office is where we entered the docks.”
Marcus hurried forward. Within arm's reach, he grasped Justin's shoulder and forced Justin to face him. “I didn't ask you to come.”
His expression remained impassive. “Of course not.”
“I will not have you risking your life.”
“Will you have me bound and sent back to Whycham House?”
“By God,” Marcus burst out, “if that's what it takes.”
Mild amusement crossed Justin's face. “You know me even less than your son.”
“Sophie will not allow this.”
“I already sent Sophie word I would be accompanying you to America.”
Marcus gaped.
“I'm not a complete fool,” Justin said.
“She won't be pleased.”
“She won't be pleased we left her behind.” Justin began walking.
“Justin!” Marcus strode after him.
* * *
The following morning, Marcus leaned against the railing of the Sallinger, absently fingering the wedding band in his trouser pocket. He stared across the harbor at the docks. The shouts of drivers in passing hackneys, dock workers, and merchants buying and selling wares faded into the background, replaced by a quiet whoosh as the brigantine skimmed through the water. Hearing footsteps behind him, he looked over his shoulder to see Justin approach.
“The captain has been kind enough to extend an invitation for breakfast,” Justin said.
Marcus nodded. He glanced past the masts at the sun. Eleven years had passed since he'd last been outside Great Britain, fourteen since crossing the Atlantic. He squinted against the sunlight. A month from now, he would be seeing this same sun from Boston Harbor.
Only, it wouldn't be with Elise.
Chapter Eighteen
Marcus rolled onto Elise. The darkness prevented discerning even the outline of her face, but he heard her sigh. His chest pressed upon her breasts and she shifted, teasing him with a slight arch of her body. His heart beat fiercely, his body hard with an arousal that circumvented the disorientation clouding his mind. He yanked on her shift until he could spread her legs with a knee. He grasped her shoulders and, levering himself into position, thrust into her. With the first stroke, pleasure radiated through his body. Marcus pinned her against the mattress, each stroke increasing the deafening roar of blood through his veins.
Elise gasped. He lowered his full weight upon her, then rolled onto his back, keeping their bodies joined. Grasping the back of her knees, he slid them forward so that she straddled him. He gripped her waist and lifted her up until only the tip of his shaft remained inside her, then brought her down, up, down—she gripped his arms and he felt her weight shift as she threw her head back. He lifted her, slamming her onto him, faster, then faster, gripping her slim waist in a clasp that frightened him. Pleasure shot through him. He slammed her down harder. Arching to meet her—Marcus jerked awake, grasping the wet sheet covering his hips as he groaned. He continued to pump upwards for several strokes before slumping back onto the mattress.
His chest rose and fell in heavy gasps for several moments before his senses cleared enough to recognize the cabin that had held him captive for twenty-eight nights. Shafts of muted light streamed through the small glass skylights. His gut wrenched. Another dream. He closed his eyes. In his mind, he saw the flutter of Elise's eyelids when he brought her to her release. His shaft twitched. A muted shout overhead brought the sudden realization that the ship no longer rocked as it had while slicing through the Atlantic. Marcus yanked the sheet aside and jumped from bed. He strode the three paces to the door and stuck his head into the hallway.
“Lad,” he called to a boy at the far end of the corridor, “where are we?”
The boy turned. “We're in Boston, sir. We've docked.”
“Can you get me a messenger? I need a note delivered immediately.”
“Aye, sir,” the boy said. “I'll go if you like.”
“Good lad,” he said. “I'll have it ready in ten minutes.”
* * *
At five-fifty in the afternoon three days later, the door to the private dining room in the Boston Harbor Hotel opened and Marcus looked up from the glass of wine he had been staring at.
“A message for you, sir,” the waiter said, and laid an envelope beside him on the table.
Marcus saw the return address from Colonel Shay. He tore open the letter and read.
My Dear Marcus,
I have only now received word concerning Steven Landen. The boy is a lieutenant in the US Army and functions as a tracker for them. As of three months ago, Lieutenant Landen was stationed with the 23rd Cavalry Division on the Tyger River in South Carolina. The Army is slow in updating its records; the boy may have been sent elsewhere in the meantime. I hope this information will suffice to connect you with him.
Another bit of news I know will interest you. My wife is acquainted with Mrs Charles Hampton, of the Burlington Hamptons. (No, I do not expect you to know them, but you may take my word that they are among the Boston elite.) Mrs Hampton remembers the calamity which struck the Amelia on that fateful trip to England. Apparently, the story was widely discussed amongst Mrs Hampton's class, a class, as you know, far above my own station.
My wife related to me the tale as told to her by Mrs Hampton as follows: When the Amelia docked and her captain advised Price Ardsley of Elise Kingston's fate, he was grief-stricken. Your wife's brother, the young Lieutenant Landen, was seriously injured and went into forced convalescence for nearly three months. Even before his release from the hospital, he demanded a search be mounted for his sister. The demand was flatly refused, most notably by Ardsley, though the directors of Landen Shipping did agree. They believed that had Mrs Kingston survived, she would have returned to Boston.
None of this surprises you, as I well know. There is, however, one piece of information I believe will. Steven Landen contends that the night Elise was lost at sea, he came upon Robert Kingston strangling her. Steven thwarted the murder attempt, and he and Elise escaped up to the deck.
Marcus stared, his gaze fixed on the words he came upon Robert Kingston strangling her. Elise's husband had tried to kill her. His chest tightened. This explained why she shot him. Marcus closed his eyes. Elise, why didn't you tell me? He forced back the pain, opened his eyes, and refocused on the letter.
While they were on deck, Robert appeared. Elise shot her husband. Robert pulled a pistol from his pocket after she drew on him, and returned fire. Steven took the bullet he says was meant for his sister. When Steven regained consciousness, the captain informed him Elise had fallen overboard and that Steven had tried rescuing her by cutting down the longboat. Steven has no memory of this.
Ardsley proposed that Robert Kingston wanted to eliminate Elise in order to claim her shares in Landen Shipping. Ardsley preached this philosophy with a depth of gravity that Mrs Hampton described as '“most admirable.'“
I wish I could be of more service. Travel safely to South Carolina. I look forward to learning of your success when you return.
Sincerely,
Colonel Martin Shay
“South Carolina,” Marcus said in a low voice, but his mind still staggered with the picture of Robert Kingston strangling his wife—my wife, Marcus's mind shot back. Memory of her broken body after the carriage crash filled his mind.
The clock that hung on the wall near the door gonged. He jerked his gaze onto the clock, dispelling the bloody vision. Six o'clock. Justin would arrive any minute. Even as he folded the letter with expert precision and set it beside him on the table, the door opened and Justin entered. A waiter followed close behind. The waiter pulled Justin's chair out as he seated himself across from Marcus.
Justin lifted the wine bottle sitting on the
table and poured the remainder of the wine into his glass. He handed the bottle to the waiter. “Another bottle, if you please, and…” He paused, then focused on Marcus. “No dinner yet?”
Marcus gave a slight shake of his head.
Justin turned to the waiter. “Have you any pigeon pie?”
The waiter looked horrified. “This is not a port tavern, sir.”
Justin raised a brow. “Can you name a port tavern that serves pigeon pie? Never mind. You do have filet mignon?”
The waiter straightened. “Of course.”
“Be kind enough to bring two then, along with whatever you Americans consider appropriate accompaniments.” Justin reached for his wine, clearly dismissing him.
The waiter looked as though he would like to bludgeon Justin with the wine bottle but turned stiffly and left the room.
Marcus leaned back in his chair. “You have a knack for condescension.”
“Never say you think the fellow was right?”
“Not right,” Marcus replied. “Simply not worth the time.”
Justin snorted. “Had I not done it, you would have.” Marcus started to reply, but stopped short at the gleam that appeared in Justin's eye. “Marcus, prepare yourself… she is alive.”
Marcus's hand jerked, upsetting his glass. Wine spread across the linen tablecloth. Justin started, nearly tipping over his own glass.
“Bloody hell,” Marcus cursed, and set the glass upright. He ignored the stain. “What are you talking about?”
“Three months ago, Ardsley announced that Elise had returned to America.”
“Three months ago? But that was before we wed.”
“Listen,” Justin cut in, “there's a very interesting stipulation in her father's will. If Elise dies, a body must be presented as evidence, or five years must pass before Ardsley can take possession of her stock.”
“How does that prove she's alive?”
“Ardsley claims to have her in a convalescent home.”
Shock ricocheted through Marcus. “An insane asylum?”
“Yes.”
His mind reeled. Elise, alive? And in an asylum. “'Tis not possible,” he said in a hoarse voice.
“No?” Justin held his gaze. “For the past six months, Ardsley has been attempting to get Landen Shipping's board of directors to agree to a large loan he wants in order to expand the shipping company to include west coast trade. Many of the board members plan on retiring in the next few years and don't relish the idea of putting their life savings at risk. They have a date set three weeks from tomorrow to settle the matter.”
“Ardsley needs Elise's twenty-five percent interest to control the vote,” Marcus said in a near whisper.
“Fifty-one percent,” Justin rejoined.
“What?”
“A year after Elise married, Steven Landen signed his interest in the company over to her.”
“My God.”
Justin's brows lifted. “It's rather late in the game for Ardsley to present Elise's body, don't you think?”
“An insane asylum,” Marcus murmured. “If it is true…”
'No Campbells, or anyone else, can harm you,' he had told her. 'I can protect you.' Wed only two days and he had utterly failed her.
“Marcus.” Justin's sharp voice cut into the picture of Elise huddled in a tiny filthy cell, hands clamped over her ears to drown out the screams of the other inmates.
“I saw her body,” Marcus said. “If that wasn't Elise, then who—”
Justin's mouth thinned. “That is a mystery to be solved—but not one we cannot solve from here. Agreed?”
Marcus stared. “Aye.”
“What have you learned of Steven?” Justin asked.
Marcus's mind registered the letter lying on the table. He picked it up and handed it toward Justin.
The earl unfolded the paper and began reading. A moment later, he murmured, “Shay. Wait. Shay. This cannot be the fellow whose son you saved while on campaign in America?”
Marcus nodded.
Justin frowned. “What prompted you to contact him?”
“Landen Shipping informed me Steven Landen was serving in the Army.”
Justin laughed. “Good of them to be so obliging.”
“Colonel Shay located the boy.”
“Boy?”
“He is twenty-five.”
“I expected someone older than Elise.”
“I thought the same,” Marcus said.
“Something more you need to know,” Justin said. “If Elise doesn't return from the dead, her shares go to the next living blood relative.”
“Steven Landen would control Landen Shipping,” Marcus said.
“Steven Landen does control Landen Shipping. Elise's stock isn't his—not until the allotted five years passes—but he controls her vote until then.”
Marcus frowned. “Then why hasn't Ardsley simply killed him?”
“Because Steven's will bequeaths his shares and controlling interest to a distant cousin who lives in New York.”
“My God,” Marcus murmured. “Steven Landen is of no consequence—”
“If Price Ardsley has Elise,” Justin finished for him.
“Why the bloody hell is her brother not here?” Marcus burst out. “Where did you get this information?”
Justin grinned. “There is always a disgruntled employee to be found.” The earl returned his attention to the letter. A moment later, he looked up, shock written on his face. “My God, she shot her husband? Surely, it can't be true?”
“I believe every word,” Marcus said.
Justin glanced at the letter. “You knew nothing of this? Of course not,” he added.
Marcus gave a hollow laugh. “I knew I wanted her. Nothing else mattered.”
The earl nodded. “Love blinds a man.”
As does passion, Marcus added silently, then said, “I meant to leave immediately to find Steven, but if it is possible Elise is here—” he broke off, still unable to grasp the possibility.
“You must find the boy. He's the key to getting to Ardsley. I never met his sister. If our story is to hold any weight, it must come from you.”
“But Elise…”
A glint appeared in Justin's eye. “I will find her.”
Marcus grasped his cousin's shoulder and squeezed, then released him. “I'll depart tomorrow. We—”
The door opened and the waiter appeared, a plate of food in each hand. He approached the table and began to set Marcus's plate before him but halted, his gaze falling on the wine-stained tablecloth.
He straightened. “I shall replace the linen.” He turned to leave, plates still in hand.
“Nae,” Marcus said. “Leave the plates. We will live with the spilt wine.”
The waiter looked as if he'd been asked to strip naked and run through the streets of Boston.
Marcus rested his gaze on him. “Leave the plates, lad.”
The man did as instructed. “If you need anything—”
“We will call for you,” Marcus cut in. “Until then, see that we aren't disturbed.”
The waiter blinked, but gave a stiff bow and left.
Justin picked up his knife and fork. “I said you'd cut him to the quick.”
“I'll be back well before Landen Shipping's next meeting,” Marcus said. “Then I will cut Ardsley to the quick.”
* * *
Marcus slowed his horse in the dense forest and scanned the ground. The tracks in the soft South Carolina ground were less than an hour old. He glanced up through the trees. At most, the afternoon sun would be in the sky another two hours. At a sudden commotion in the trees ahead, Marcus jerked his hand to the musket in his saddle holster, but relaxed when a flock of bobwhite quail took flight. The leather fringes on the sleeves of the buckskin he wore swayed violently, then came to a rest as he focused again on the tracks and urged his horse forward.
Only a moment later he caught sight of two horses picking their way through the trees about seventy-five fee
t ahead. He looked closer. One of the horses was riderless. He'd been following the tracks of two men, where—the distinct sound of a rifle being cocked answered the incomplete thought.
“Take the musket from its holster and toss it,” a male voice said from above him. Marcus hesitated and a strong “Mister” settled the matter.
He slid the Brown Bess musket from its holster and tossed it to the ground. “I'm not here to cause trouble.”
The sound of the rifle's hammer being uncocked from above was followed by the light drop of the man from the trees onto the ground behind Marcus.
“You tracked me some distance before I realized you were on my trail,” the voice said. “Not bad for an Englishman.”
Marcus slowly turned his horse and found himself facing a young man dressed like himself, except the other's clothes bore testament of the wearer's time in the saddle. This was Steven Landen. Those deep brown eyes—and the challenge they held—were all too familiar.
“Scottish Highlands,” Marcus said.
“Well, Highlander, what are you doing in South Carolina tracking me?”
Marcus glanced at the Baker rifle the boy held loosely at his side—not so loose he couldn't yank it into position before Marcus was upon him. Arrogant pup. But perhaps it was an arrogance born out of experience. The British-made Baker rifle was known for its precision aim, a very good reason for a US Army tracker to carry the weapon.
Steven's gaze shifted past him and Marcus glanced over his shoulder to see the rider he'd spotted a moment ago standing a few feet away. He saw now what he hadn't discerned before. The buckskin-dressed man was Indian.
Marcus faced Steven. “How did you discover I was on your trail?”
“I'm the best tracker this side of the Mississippi,” Steven said with unabashed candor. “White tracker, that is.”
“You are Steven Landen, then?”
The boy gave no indication Marcus had hit the mark, only continued to study him.
“We need to talk. Privately,” Marcus added.
“Anything you have to say can be said in front of Joseph.”
“'Tis about your sister.”
Steven's nonchalant demeanor vanished. “My sister is dead.”
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