Now, with his passengers aboard the ship his brother had once commanded, he oddly found himself anticipating his thirtieth birthday. Still a few months off, but this was the first year in many that he looked forward to it, just when he had the most to lose, if that infernal curse were true.
The benefit of turning down history-making commissions from a wartime general was the freedom to arbitrarily declare holidays, and his crew was drunk with excitement over an entire week on the island to do as they wished. After that, they would get to work. As tempted as he might be to remain on the island until he quietly passed his thirtieth birthday with Marley at his side, a new country he loved was being born, and she needed every man capable of fighting for her.
Rashall sat off a dozen feet with young George. “Now here we’ll make a bosun whistle knot. Some people call it the Chinese button knot. You’ve got your carrick knot, there—”
“Desist!”
Rashall looked up. “Excuse me?”
Bronson gave him an incredulous look. “The boy just made a carrick, and you’re taking him directly into the bosun whistle? Why not send him off with Conrad for a while to learn navigating?”
“Aye aye, Cap’n!” The cheerful young boy, ever eager for life’s next moment, raced off toward the wheel.
Bronson gazed after him. “’Twas a jest, but with his exuberance, perhaps he’ll be running the whole ship in another month and I can lie about all day.”
Joining Bronson at the rail, Ray raised his spyglass. “I think you do already with that wife of yours.”
“Every chance I get. The island should show in the next few hours. Have you recuperated yet?”
“From?”
“If my wife is correct, you’re either pining or heartbroken.”
“Your wife is incorrect. I am fine and looking forward to finding suitable company on the island.”
“Suitable. We know what that means. Be sure to bring a sheath along.”
“How crass you are, my domesticated friend.”
“Indeed. And I’m sure you meant a proper chess partner.”
“Speaking of chess, what’s your strategy with the powder?”
“We are on a pleasure cruise, celebrating my honeymoon, albeit five months late. At the end of that, we’ll take care of business. If things continue, this might well be our last voyage here. The heat will grow too hot, the territory too hostile.”
“And our … deposits?”
Bronson hesitated. It wasn’t the first time he’d thought of the gold buried under the Bermudian Trelawney home. “I’d like to take it on this trip.”
Rashall nodded, and for a time they were silent. Then, suddenly: “I’m thinking of adopting the boy.”
This surprised Bronson. “Young George? Why? He’ll be like Jem, son to us all.”
“Exactly that. A boy needs a man for a father, not a crew.”
“Are you implying something about Jem?”
Ray leaned back against the rail and, closing his eyes, tilted his head up to the sun’s warmth. “Absolutely not. The boy is Kit’s, not yours, and ’twas kind of you to bring him on. But I am not you. I grow hungry to put down roots.”
“Then why did you sail right out of the life of the young lady at Stonefield?”
With rare foul humor, Ray cast him a dark look. “Does nothing about my courting her strike you as a predicament?”
“Clearly there is black blood in my wife’s family. Do you think I saw that as a predicament?”
“Yes. And your wife looks quite as white as her sister does. And, notably, as white as you.”
“What do you think your mother would say to you about that? You, who she named after a white woman.”
Ray ignored that. “My mother knows things I do not, things that are apparently upsetting enough that she wasn’t at all surprised that General Washington declined to offer me any kind of commission.”
“Still here we are at Cambridge, long after General Washington has decamped.”
“I am trying to help you see the truth. What world should we choose to live in, my wife and I? Where our children are not allowed to attend school? Where I become a field worker? In what world, sir, could a love like that live?”
Bronson giggled. “Sir?”
Ray’s lips went tight.
“Tell me this. How different will this world you bemoan be without Juliana in it? Will losing her change the world?”
Ray gave him a quick look; Bronson had gotten through. Still, he hesitated.
“My friend, you forget no one is a greater champion for your happiness than I. I have seen you know many women. And I saw the way you looked at that woman—the way you look at your mother’s cooking after you’ve been eating hardtack for a year.”
“She’s a beautiful woman, I’ll give you that. Did you see—green eyes? And when she smiles, it’s as if the sun has risen.”
“Oh, my. Yes, she’s as gorgeous as my Marley. Now shut up. I’ve seen how you feel about her. And I say that if you don’t act on that—and soon—you will regret it the rest of your days. And that new son of yours as well. Think how delighted he might be to find himself suddenly in possession of a mother as lovely as Juliana.”
“Land ho!”
Rashall harrumphed. “Well. There you have it. Two experienced sea captains, so knotted up by mere women that in sunny daylight we miss an entire island.”
“Mere women. Perhaps those you’ve known in the past. Not the young lady we met in December. Not my wife. And if your mother gets wind of that phrase, well, God help you.”
“Good day, sir.”
Bronson laughed as Rashall strode toward the hatch. These seamen had sailed into St. George’s so frequently, they could manage blindfolded. As they neared the island, he watched the Union Jack slide up the line. A troublesome unease gnawed at him for their Appeal to Heaven flag. And only then did it strike him.
Somewhere between their departure last October and their arrival today, he had—without any awareness of when it had occurred—lost his identity as a man born in the British Empire but roaming the seas, subject to no man. Now, he was an American.
Glancing around the deck, he noticed his wife emerging from the hatch, and the warmth that lit his shoulders stole into his heart.
She’d brought with her the buckskin outfit she’d fashioned just for such trips, but she was out of it now, and perfectly a woman. Today in a white frock studded with caramel-colored roses—nearly matching her eyes. Those eyes roved over the shrouds, smiling and waving as she saw Jem far above. She waved, and Jem surely must have waved back. For his part, he couldn’t take his eyes away from her. The salt breeze caught a few loose strands of hair that whirled around her head.
How he loved her.
When she saw him, a look entered her visage that he had come to love. There was something about his person that she found pleasing. He knew not what. He simply stood leaning to one side on the rail, bent slightly, one elbow on the rail, the other hand casually tossing and flipping his spyglass.
Her step hastened, and his own desire for her grew even as he attempted to control it. He stopped flipping the spyglass, fearful that in his excitement he might well drop it.
She reached him and lay her soft, cool hands against his forearm. Her fingertips slid beneath the cuff in a surprisingly intimate gesture, and she tiptoed to kiss his cheek lightly.
“Did I hear we’re there?”
“Still a bit left. ’Tis true, the crew knows these waters. But the island is surrounded by coral reefs and is a graveyard for many ships. Still, we should be off the ship in another hour.”
“Then … do we have time to …?” Her tongue touched the corner of her mouth as she lowered her gaze, then looked up at him imploringly.
“I would love nothing more. But it shouldn’t be very enjoyable for you, my darling.”
“I should find it quite enjoyable right now to kneel in front of you and—”
He kissed her with quick, silencing passion
. Her dark eyes lit up with seductive fire, and her fingers curled around his bicep with hungry insistence. “Please?”
The quiet urgency of her plea reached him. He was but a man, after all. “Two minutes. Go.”
As she vanished down the hatch, he busied himself with leisurely glances at the island. Yes, he thought. There was the place.
On the way to his cabin, he directed Deming to set them down off a remote beach of which he was fond. It would take them longer to row ashore now, but that was the least of his concerns at the moment. Deming would place them off a pink beach, he and Marley would return, and he would do some serious body-worshipping for an entire week.
And with that in mind, he retired to his cabin. As he entered, he noted her sitting demurely on the bed, and he closed and barred the door behind him, leaning back against the door. Leisurely biting his lip, he contemplated her with a glimmer of a smile.
She flew into his arms. When he would’ve been gentle with her, she would have none of it. She tiptoed to kiss his jawline, then his ear, biting lightly. He caught her hands in his, and she grabbed them and shoved him against the door, catching him off-guard.
He was aflame with arousal, but he forced himself to relax, allowing his wife to pace her seduction.
Releasing his hands, she hastily unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it open, covering his chest with open-mouthed kisses as if he were a feast—licking, lightly biting his nipples. Her hand lowered to the buttons at his breeches and made quick work of those as well, then let the front drop away.
She gave a sound of hungry satisfaction as she lightly grasped and stroked him. My, but the lass was a quick study.
His breath caught as she knelt before him, taking him between her lips, tasting him, her hands cupping and stroking him, even the sound of her enjoyment bringing him pleasure.
Surprised at how quickly she’d left him fully hard, needing her, he forced himself to wait. What kind of woman had he married, as full of lust for life as he himself?
And then he brought her to her feet, hastily seeking her mouth with his, cupping her breasts, impatiently pushing aside her dress—dear God, no stays, just soft, full woman. He pulled his mouth away from hers and suckled at her breasts.
“Bed,” he directed, straightening.
“No. Here. Now.” Her gaze was smoky with pure lust.
In a smooth, swift motion, he cupped her buttocks, lifted her against him, and turned, bracing her against the door with his body. Clutching her skirt and petticoats in one fist, he lifted them, displaying her long thighs to his seeking gaze. She raised one leg around him, seeking him, but the position was awkward.
As if she were no heavier than a bird, he slid his large hands underneath her, parted her thighs, lifted her, and planted himself within her in one stroke. His mind was wild with her frantic seduction, and his thrusts were hard, without nuance, almost violent. Even so, she dug her heels into his back as if he were a stallion, giving his forceful motion new need. As close as he was, he suddenly realized he was slamming her against the door.
He gasped out, “Am I hurting—”
She interrupted him with a stark direction, and he endeavored to oblige.
A sudden knock. “Hey, it’s me—”
“Go-a-way!” he ground out, even as Marley’s pleasure overcame her, followed by his own.
They both heard Rashall snickering as he climbed the hatch.
He lowered his head to lightly kiss her mouth, his nose brushing against hers. He felt her breath mingle with his own, and he found himself marveling over the many miracles that had taken place so that their breath might be one.
“I no longer know where I end and you begin. You are with me in my waking moments, and in my most blessed dreams. You are in my heart now—and when we are miles apart. I am lost without the sight of your face, the sound of your laughter. My heart and yours are one.”
Chapter Forty-Six
Although Marley knew nothing of it, there were two Thomas Trelawneys. The first was fearless and curious, an adventurer; the second was cowed and chastened, a penitent.
The first was born the son of Grey Davies in 1699, on an island in Wales, to a family of wanderers and adventurers. Gypsies were said to be in their distant heritage, and Thomas’s hair was as black as a Sardinian’s. His eyes, a piercing gray so bright as to be silver, made one cautious without knowing why.
His father had wandered to the village of Anglesey as a youth and taken up fishing, and the sea air had agreed with him. Thomas, a curious lad, had wondered before wandering, and it was a man of letters who had come to their town to live out his last years who awakened in Thomas the yen for far-off lands.
The man, a fascinating law professor originally from Cornwall, recently of Oxford, had spoken with a calming, understated accent that gave Thomas an instinctive shame over his own provincial, lyrical tones. In the moment he met him, the boy of 12 began to emulate him. Thomas’s own father did not begrudge the boy his book learning, and Thomas learned early on the importance of a father looking out properly for his son.
By the time the man died four years later, he had taught the young man all he knew. He had learned Latin and Greek, he had read the classics, he had learned every detail of English law. And he had learned that much of this would be of no use to him unless he had a formal claim to such knowledge. He advised the boy to go to London for this, and he even gave him the funds and the name of a man who would admit him to Oxford based on his own recommendation.
Thomas traveled to London and there in a shop met a well-born young lady named Lucy Huntington. He spoke and behaved like the gentleman he had appeared to be, and when he introduced himself to her, he made a distinct break from the island boy he’d once been and became the son of a barrister who had taught at Oxford and recently passed away. Thomas Trelawney, at your service.
He had awakened the morning after their elopement in southern Scotland with fierce regret—for the wanderer in Thomas had been awakened in the past year, and he would not be denied.
He left like a scoundrel in the night, leaving her a stack of notes to pay her way home—instructing her to seek an annulment. Not for decades would he allow himself to think of her again—while he sailed on to Virginia and then through his formal education at William & Mary; married a woman he soon learned was barren; met a young man claiming to be his son; watched his wife die of a fever; and then married a young woman he cherished, Jennie.
And in that time his eyes were opened and he came to accept that the young man who’d laid claim to his name was in fact his son. It had taken almost a decade before the young man—Grey—had forgiven him for his rejection, and Thomas was granted the joy of knowing his granddaughter, Emily.
One might think that the second Thomas Trelawney had been born when he rejected his family name, but no. That had occurred at the age of 47, when Thomas watched his most beloved wife die giving birth; followed two days later by the fire at Rosalie, the death of his son, his precious granddaughter, and Rachel, the woman who had loved them.
With these events, the spirited adventurer had been broken and became obsessed with signs and seers. It had taken the young woman, Rachel, telling him in plain terms of the suffering his little wife Lucy and her son had endured at his hand before he came to understand the consequences of his adventuring. The old midwife at Rosalie had seen death in Jennie, and he had ignored her warning.
And so in 1746 Thomas Trelawney the fearless adventurer became a chastened poltroon. He resigned from his place as a burgess in Williamsburg, he spent his days raising his son, and, when his mourning began to heal, he yearned for the ocean he’d known as a boy. He fed this by learning to sail, and the sea became an elixir, a tonic for his spirit and his heart.
And then Hannah Hastings had come into his life.
Thomas, still a romantic, now a coward, had loved her in a moment but had kept the beautiful young widow at arm’s length. He had learned his lessons about consequence, and about reaping what one had sown�
��about his own tendency to destroy the people he loved the most.
He came to believe that this daughter-in-law of his own son’s good friend Godfrey Hastings was as good as Godfrey himself, and he endeavored to love her.
We know how that turned out.
On his honeymoon with Jennie, they had visited an island due east of Virginia, and they both had loved it. She had loved its exotic character, with its grape-scented sea mulberry and its pink beaches. He had loved it for St. Peter’s, an Anglican church that had endured amid hurricanes for over a century. Thomas was drawn to that which survived the unendurable.
And so, when he lost Jennie, it was in the shadow of that citadel that he sought protection for his young son and built a new home, one where his son could grow strong and faithful and true in the warmth of the Bermuda sun.
His home lay in the heart of St. George’s. The home looked more like the offspring of a sugar plantation house and his straitlaced colonial home back in Williamsburg. Not quite as large as a plantation mansion yet spacious, it had a broad porch running along its entire front—and plenty of room for guests. The home itself was elevated to protect it from flooding during tropical storms, its lowest level unused.
Marley stood on the walkway watching Thomas as he approached his home.
He had slowly thawed in the face of Nan’s contrition and invited her along when Bronson returned him to St. George’s. She had undergone a mental and emotional transition so traumatic she had rushed to the rector at Bruton Church for absolution.
Marley could tell she didn’t yet have Thomas’s forgiveness, however—but likely he, too, would forget in time. Bitterness and hatred took more energy than most people had.
When they arrived at the house, a crisply uniformed man welcomed them, surprising Marley with a broad Gullah accent. Indeed, she would find it an unusual sound on the British isle.
“Ah, Mr. Bronson! How good to see you back so soon. I see you escorting a pretty young lady today.”
Immortal (The Trelawneys of Williamsburg Book 2) Page 40
