When Love Commands

by Jennifer Wilde

  When Love Commands

  The Marietta Danver Trilogy

  Jennifer Wilde

  To my agent,

  JAY ACTON,

  who makes it all happen

  BOOK ONE

  Chapter One

  Ogilvy cracked the whip and the horses picked up speed and the coach rumbled noisily through the village, passing the inn, putting more and more distance between me and the man I had almost allowed to ruin my life. He hadn’t wanted to marry me, no, for the illegitimate daughter of a barmaid and an English aristocrat wasn’t good enough for him. He had found the perfect wife as soon as he returned to England, a lovely, gentle creature born to be mistress of a great estate like Hawkehouse, but he still wanted me. He wanted me desperately. I was in his blood, he assured me, would always be, and he couldn’t live without me. He had instructed me to stay at the inn until he could make other arrangements, and he fully expected me to do just that. I could never be his wife, but I could be his mistress. He seemed to think that honor enough. How little he knew me.

  The village was behind us now. The horses were moving at a brisk gallop. As the coach sped over the potted, uneven road, as the gorgeous English countryside seemed to flash past the windows in a kaleidoscope of shifting shapes and colors, I realized that he had never known me at all. I had been his obsession, as he had been mine, but it was over now. Derek Hawke was ensconced in his ancient manor house with his genteel new wife, awaiting the birth of his first child, and I felt no pain at all. I felt only relief. I was free at last, and a glorious elation stirred inside as I realized that the tormenting, all-consuming love I had had for him had been dead a long time. I knew now that it had died the first moment I laid eyes on Jeremy Bond.

  The elation swelled as I thought of him, and the love seemed to sing, filling me with music felt, not heard, a silent symphony of happiness so lovely I could scarcely endure it. Jeremy. Jeremy. He was waiting for me, and in a matter of hours I would be in London and in his arms and a new life would begin for both of us. What a fool I had been. What a bloody, blundering fool! I had almost cast this happiness aside. I had almost destroyed the best thing that had ever happened to me. “One day,” he had informed me, “you will see what is in your own heart,” but I had ignored him. Blindly I had turned away from him and come to join the man I stubbornly believed I still loved.

  I knew at last what was in my own heart, and that knowledge filled me with a glow of happiness as radiant as sunlight, as inebriating as the finest wine. The music seemed to surge inside. Never, never had I known such elation. Never had I felt this way about any man, and how I had fought it. How I had struggled, spatting with him constantly, holding myself aloof, refusing to give in to those delicious sensations his mere presence caused within me. I denied them. I shut them off. I held back until that star-blazing night in Texas when we finally … Horse hooves pounded, harness jangled, wheels spun in a noisy clatter, and I saw again that handsome, beloved face. I saw those vivid blue eyes so full of merriment and life, those broad, flat cheekbones, skin taut across them, that slightly twisted nose and the wide pink mouth with its amiable yet disturbingly sensual curve. I saw the rich, unruly brown hair, one glossy wave invariably flopping across his brow. How I longed to run my fingers through that hair and look into those eyes and trace the curve of that full lower lip with my fingertips.

  Soon, I told myself. Soon! This very evening I would be with him and we would experience anew that shattering splendor we had known months ago in the wilds of Texas. Convinced that Derek Hawke was dead, I had finally given myself to Jeremy there under the Texas sky, and all the stars blazing above seemed to explode inside me as I experienced an ecstasy few women ever know. Jeremy Bond was a remarkable lover, and lover was the proper word. He had not taken me, as Derek had done. He had made love to me, expressing his love in the age-old way and with a tender fury that seemed to shred the senses. I remembered, and my body ached for him as the coach bowled along the road, as green trees and pale blue sky and low gray stone walls streaked past the windows.

  There had been just the one time. Jeremy Bond had risked his life for me on more than one occasion, had rescued me from a fate indeed worse than death, yet for months I had denied him, denied the love I felt with ever-mounting intensity. After that night of splendor—the very next morning, in fact—I had learned that Derek Hawke was still alive. Jeremy Bond had known all along, had kept it from me, and I had been unable to forgive what I considered his base treachery. He had insisted on accompanying me to England, assuring me all the while that I loved him, not Derek, but that was something I had had to find out for myself.

  I had left Jeremy in London. I had hired this private coach and journeyed to the country to be reunited with the man I still considered the great love of my life. I had seen him. I had met his gracious, pregnant wife. I had expected my world to come crashing down. It hadn’t. A great feeling of relief swept over me as I realized that I no longer loved the man who had wooed me with promises he never in tended to keep. Derek Hawke was the past. Jeremy Bond was the future, and that future was going to be wildly exhilarating. I could hardly wait to begin.

  Moving to the opposite seat, getting on my knees, I opened the tiny window behind the driver’s seat. I had already removed my elaborate black velvet hat with its spray of bronze, pale mauve and royal blue feathers, and thick waves of coppery red hair spilled across my cheek as I held the knob of the window and called to the driver.

  “Can’t you go any faster, Ogilvy!”

  Ogilvy turned to peer down at my face, his strong hands firmly gripping the reins. “Can’t push ’em much harder, Miss Danver!” he shouted. “They’re in a fair sweat already!”

  “Hurry,” I pleaded. “Do hurry!”

  “We’ll reach London ’fore nightfall, don’t you fret!”

  I closed the window. We passed over a particularly nasty rut and the coach shook violently and I was thrown backward, landing on the opposite seat in a tangle of skirts, thoroughly crushing the hat with its wide black brim, its turquoise bow and spray of feathers. Pulling it from under me, I muttered an irritated Damn! and then smiled at myself. I wouldn’t be needing fashionable hats in Texas, and the sumptuous wardrobe in the trunks strapped on top of the coach would be wasted, too. Silks, satins and velvets would have to be replaced by sturdier, more sensible garments.

  Sitting up, I brushed the heavy waves from my face and adjusted the tight black velvet bodice of my gown, smoothing down the satin skirt with its narrow stripes of black, bronze, mauve, royal blue and turquoise. It was one of Lucille’s finest creations, especially selected for my reunion with Derek Hawke. The gown was hopelessly rumpled now, but I would never wear it again. Another rueful smile played on my lips. Oh, yes, I had put on my finest raiment for Derek, expecting to be welcomed with open arms, leaving the man I really loved in the yard of the inn with an expression on his face that I would never forget. That sober composure, those eyes filled with tender emotions that belied the pain … How could I have hurt him so?

  The horse hooves were pounding furiously now. The coach rocked alarmingly, threatening to fall apart. A whip cracked. We seemed to pick up even more speed, and I had to grip the edge of the seat to avoid being tossed about. I hardly noticed the discomfort, thinking of that sad departure. Had it been only this morning? It seemed an eternity ago that he had smiled that tender smile and touched my cheek.

  “I hope you’ll be happy, Jeremy,” I had said.

  “I haven’t given up,” he replied.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I still hope you’ll come to your senses.”

  “And—see what is in my own heart?”

  “That’s right. I haven’t given up. I’ll be here at The White
Hart for a week. I’ll be hoping. I’ll be waiting, Marietta.”

  He knew me so much better than I knew myself, and he wouldn’t be at all surprised when the coach pulled into the yard of The White Hart and I climbed out. He would cock his head to one side and arch one of those slanting brows and make some jaunty quip. I would snap back at him and assume my haughtiest expression and we would have a rousing scrap as he followed me up to my room. The mood would be light. No sullen looks, no recriminations from Jeremy Bond, that wasn’t his style. No tears of remorse, no plea of forgiveness from me. I would be cool and dignified, proud as ever, and he would tease and I would scold and he would finally crush me to him and we would tumble onto the bed for a rowdy celebration of joyous love.

  I would never leave him again. Never. We would return to Texas together—that vast, wild, exciting land—and he would buy the spread of land adjacent to Randolph’s property and build me a house like Em’s with thick white adobe walls and red tile roof and patios with fountains. Randy had asked him to become his partner, and Jeremy was eager to settle down after years of adventure. They would breed horses and have the finest stables in Texas, and Em and I would sit on the shady veranda and sip cool drinks and gossip. We had been through so much together, Em and I. Marriage to Randolph had brought her happiness at last, and she adored her rough-hewn, good-natured husband, although they were undoubtedly still bickering and spatting with glee.

  How I longed to see Em again, Randolph, too. Hurley and Marshall and young Chris were at the rancho as well, working for Randy. I would be surrounded by friends, and I would be the wife of Mr. Jeremy Bond. Oh yes, the scamp was going to marry me before we left London. I intended to see to it. He loved me every bit as much as I loved him, I was certain of that, but with a man as mercurial, as jaunty and carefree as Mr. Bond, the ties had best be legal. He was altogether too attractive for his own good, irresistible to the ladies, and fidelity was not a notable male virtue. The rogue was going to marry me, yes, and if he even thought of straying he’d pay dearly.

  The coach bounced, banging noisily. The landscape was flying past now, a blur of color. Horse hooves thundered on the road, pounding, pounding, pounding. Ogilvy had certainly taken my plea to heart, I thought as the whip cracked in the air again. Each passing moment brought me closer and closer to Jeremy Bond, and as I thought of our passionate reunion my elation grew. Was it possible to be drunk with joy? Indeed it was, and I gloried in the sensation. Soon. Soon. Those strong arms would crush me to him and those lips would fasten over mine and I would revel in his warmth, his weight, the virile smell of his body. I would catch my fingers up in that thick, silken brown hair and moan beneath him as …

  The coach seemed to explode beneath me. I was thrown against the window as the shrill, shrieking noise of splintering wood filled the air. In that same instant I heard Ogilvy yell and the horses neigh in panic, and I was slammed onto the ceiling, banged to the floor, knocking my head against the side of the door just before it flew open and flew away and windows shattered and wood crumpled up like paper in the hand of a savage giant. The same giant picked the coach up and tossed it into the air and it rolled over and over and I was flung in every direction like a rag doll, banging, slamming, hurled finally into a black void pierced with pain.

  Thick, heavy blackness, layers and layers smothering me but never smothering the pain. I struggled against it and firm hands held me down and I couldn’t move. The black grew darker, darker, black so black it was a solid entity holding me captive, heavy, pressing down on me … I saw the slave block in Carolina and Derek Hawke and Jeff Rawlins, and Derek was driving me to his plantation and then I was on the Natchez Trace with Jeff, Derek had brutally cast me aside, and Jeff was tearing up my Article of Indenture and we were dancing together at Rawlins’ Place in New Orleans, music swirling, chandeliers glittering in the candlelight … I was wearing a golden gown and Derek came in and then he and Jeff were holding pistols, firing at each other, and I moaned and shook my head violently … No, no, no, I couldn’t go through that again, I couldn’t endure the pain of Jeff’s death … Those same firm hands continued to hold me down, and far, far away, on the other side of the void, I heard a gentle voice speaking to me, words I could barely hear, couldn’t understand.

  The blackness began to melt, liquid now, and I was floating and the sharp, savage pain had dissolved into a throbbing ache, my whole body aching as Helmut Schnieder laughed and locked me up in Roseclay as the flames leaped and I knew I was going to be burned alive … Helmut laughing, laughing, then crying out as Jack and Derek arrived … New Orleans again, Derek moody, sullen, telling me we would be married as soon as we reached England and Jeremy there in the courtyard with moonlight gilding the bougainvillaea and the fountain splashing quietly as he held me in his arms … “Love me, Marietta,” he murmured and my lashes were wet with tears … “I do,” I whispered. “I do. Oh, Jeremy, I do. You must know that.”

  I cringed as the pirate ship loomed on the horizon, sharp against the black as Em and Corrie and I were herded onto boats along with the other girls, moving over a black, black sea that engulfed us … I was drowning, drowning, desperately trying to swim to the surface, but something restrained me, held me down firmly, speaking to me again from the other side of the void … Nicholas Lyon, Red Nick, holding me down, his harsh, handsome face over mine, those cold blue eyes ablaze with anger and love, that heavy copper red wave slanting across his brow … “I’ll do anything you ask,” I pleaded, “only don’t kill Corrie. I will never try to escape again, I promise, I promise.” … Corrie wielding a pair of scissors as his hands squeezed my throat, choking the life out of me as the island blazed … Nicholas on the floor, the scissors sticking out of him, blood pouring.

  “Thank God!” I cried. “Oh, thank God!”

  Jeremy holding me in his arms, soothing me, his hand stroking my brow and brushing the damp locks from my cheek. If only I could see him clearly through the mist … Misty black, no longer liquid, soft black clouds that swirled all around me, carrying me along with them, the ache dull now, no longer throbbing, not really unpleasant … Jeremy teasing me as we moved through the swampland and holding me tight after the Karankawa attack, Corrie dead, tears spilling over my lashes again, and then we were moving over the fields and the cottonwood trees rustled in the breeze and the Texas sky was filled with stars that blazed silver-blue … He loved me. How could I ever have doubted it? Oh, Jeremy, please forgive me, forgive me … He was in the courtyard of the inn and I was climbing into the coach to go back to Derek and that look in Jeremy’s eyes was too painful to behold. How could I have hurt you so much? How could I? I love you. I love you. Forgive me, my darling Jeremy. Forgive me.

  The pain returned, worse than ever, and I cried out as someone pressed and probed, moving my limbs … Demons in the darkness, tormenting me with hands strong and efficient … “Hold on, luv,” Em said firmly. “You’re coming to Texas to see me, remember? Any son of a bitch who tries to stop you has me to answer to.” … I saw her pert face, a scattering of light golden tan freckles across her cheekbones, those greenish brown eyes full of wisdom beyond her years, her glossy chestnut curls burnished by firelight … I could see the firelight through the clouds, burning low there behind the screen, and Em was sitting beside my bed, a book in her hand. The clouds swirled anew, billowing away, a lighter black now, now ash gray, lighter still, evaporating completely as I moaned and lifted heavy lids to gaze at my friend.

  Her hair was a rich golden brown, the color of dark honey, neatly brushed in long, sleek waves that fell to her shoulders. But Em … Em had chestnut locks that tumbled in wild disarray. Her eyes had changed, too, no longer hazel, violet-blue now, beautiful eyes full of secrets. They had an unusual new shape, slightly slanted, almost oriental, thick black lashes long and curling. She had high, sculpted cheekbones and a patrician nose and soft pink lips that curved sadly at the corners. Her violet velvet gown was adorned with delicate silver flowers in appliqué, a rich, exotic ga
rment with exquisite gray fur at bodice and hem. A heavy cloak of the same fur was draped over the chair behind her in lavish folds that gleamed silver-gray in the light. I stared at her, frowning.

  “Em?” I whispered.

  The girl put her book aside and smiled at me, a gentle, demure smile, but the lips were still sad, the eyes still full of secrets. She couldn’t be more than seventeen years old, and she certainly wasn’t English. Italian, perhaps? French? Those high cheekbones and vaguely slanted eyes brought to mind savage Mongol hordes and barbaric splendor. Hair shining in the firelight, eyes dark and secretive, she was astonishingly beautiful in her exotic gown, and I wasn’t at all sure she wasn’t an apparition. I blinked my eyes and tried to sit up. The girl rose, velvet rustling, the fur cloak spilling to the floor in a silver-gray heap.

  “You must stay still,” she said gently.

  She spoke in French, and while her voice was soft and mellifluous, there was an accent I couldn’t identify. She sprinkled cologne onto a thin white linen handkerchief and began to bathe my temples and brow. My eyelids grew heavy again, and my body was one solid ache. The girl murmured something I couldn’t understand, tenderly brushing a damp coppery red lock from my temple. The room filled with a softly diffused golden haze that gradually turned to gray, and I was floating again, slowly sinking into layers of gray that grew darker, darker, soft and black now, enveloping me.

  “—better I think,” the lovely voice said. “She’s been sleeping.”

  “Has she said anything?”

  The second voice was deep, guttural. They spoke in French, and the voices seemed to come from a great distance, muted, blurred.

  “She keeps calling for someone named Jeremy.”

  “We’ve been here five days already. We must move on to London.”

  “The doctor said she must rest. There are no broken bones, but he isn’t certain there are no internal injuries. We can’t just aban—”