He had arranged for something else too:
In Dumfries Rowan had managed somewhere to find a dress for Charlotte. He left her waiting for him in “Sweetheart Abbey,” and when he came back, walking purposefully, with his arrangements for passage already made, he had the dress bundled up under one arm.
“ Tis the best I could find on short notice,” he told her. “Here, we ll find an alcove for you to put this on. You cannot go about in torn clothes concealed by an apron!” He frowned at her present garments.
Charlotte was too tired and despondent to care what people thought. But she was submissive enough to let Rowan find her an alcove and stand guard while she removed her bedraggled gown and donned the simple green and yellow calico trimmed modestly in bands of moss-green grosgrain riband that he had found for her. It did not fit very well. The girl for whom it had been made was much shorter and far plumper, so the dress rode up un-fashionably high on Charlotte’s trim ankles and hung depressingly loose in the bodice.
Rowan winced at sight of her when she came out of the alcove and turned about listlessly for his inspection.
“Well, there’s no time to do anything about alterations now, for we must hurry aboard,” he muttered, sounding harassed. “We were lucky as the devil to find a ship that was just leaving.” He frowned down at her. “We'll see what can be done about the fit aboard ship. At least we’ll rid you of this!” He snatched the torn white gown from Charlotte’s fingers and tossed it atop the apron into a corner.
Charlotte, uncaring about her appearance, turned to take one last wistful look at the little heap of white voile lying there forlorn. She swallowed. That dress had been to her a wedding gown.
She closed her eyes and let Rowan take her arm and lead her away to the ship.
Out of the Nith River they sailed, into the Solway Firth—and terrible weather. The light coastal vessel they were on had bobbed like a cork on the churning seas and made almost everyone on board seasick. The few accommodations the ship afforded had all been taken up by a single family removing from Dumfries to Liverpool with all their goods, and Charlotte had found herself sandwiched into a tiny cabin with three of the daughters— every one of them at least as sick from the ocean’s buffeting as herself. When they reached Liverpool she was pale and tottered ashore only to discover with a groan that Rowan, who was never seasick and who had spent most of the voyage on deck enjoying the gale, had once again had “rare luck”—a ship bound for Lisbon was leaving on the evening tide.
And so an exhausted Charlotte found herself almost no sooner landed than bundled on board another vessel, this one a fat wallowing merchantman called the Ellen K.—and this time with a cabin of her own. Rowan had managed that by explaining to the captain how seasick his young wife became and by conveniently having the money on hand to pay for the extra accommodation.
Charlotte was looking wan as they went aboard.
“How did you happen to have passage money with you for such a long journey?” she wondered as they went aboard.
Rowan gave his bride a sardonic look.
“I am usually prepared,” he told her in an amused voice.
She was to learn that Rowan always carried gold with him, sometimes quite a lot of it, and that he did seem always prepared for anything. At the time, dull and exhausted and brokenhearted over Tom, she did not really think it so strange.
They stood on deck as the ship drove out of the Mersey into the Irish Sea, sped onward by a brisk wind that billowed her sails. Charlotte would have liked to go immediately to her cabin but she did not protest Rowan’s desire to be out in the fresh open air after the long gale they had endured on the way here. She no longer felt ill, merely weak and tired.
“Dinner will give you strength.” Rowan assessed her condition with a smile. “It will be served as soon as we stand well out to sea, and we are to be the guests of the captain in his cabin.”
“Oh, no, I don’t think I—”
“It would be very rude of us not to accept his hospitality,” Rowan said firmly. “After all, he went to considerable trouble moving people about in our behalf so that you might have a cabin to yourself. ”
Charlotte nodded wanly. She would dine with the captain.
Captain Scaleby proved to be a bluff, good-natured Cornishman, full of entertaining stories about the sea. He was delighted to learn that Charlotte was from the Scilly Isles and told her warmly that he was glad to have a pretty woman on board for the voyage.
Sitting in the captain’s roomy though unpretentious cabin, listening to Rowan conversing easily with Captain Scaleby for all the world as if he might have been an old “sea dog” himself, Charlotte felt her strength coming back to her. She found herself savoring the excellent dinner, complete with fresh fruit and vegetables, which their host assured them had been “newly brought on board this very day.”
It was still early when they rose to leave, and Captain Scaleby, having drunk one last toast to the “beautiful bride,” came up with a sudden bit of information that brought Rowan to attention.
“There’s a gentleman named Flint on board,” he volunteered, “who’s just back from Portugal. He could tell you how matters stand there.”
“Thank you. I’ll have a talk with him tomorrow. ”
“Best do it tonight. We re letting him off at Anglesey tomorrow. He won’t be accompanying us on the voyage. But you’ll be able to find him dining with the rest.” Rowan nodded. “I’ll do that.”
They thanked Captain Scaleby for a fine dinner and Rowan had already escorted Charlotte onto the deck when the captain called him back. Although their conversation was low-voiced, it was a quiet evening, the passengers had not yet left their supper to come out onto the deck in the dusk, and Charlotte could hear the captain’s nasal voice clearly.
“I’m sorry to tell you this, but Morrison’s gout is acting up on him and he’s refused to give up his cabin and move in with Wetherbee as he promised. So I’m afraid your bride can’t have a cabin to herself after all. But the weather is clear and I don’t think she’ll be seasick—she seemed well enough at dinner. ”
Charlotte could not hear Rowan’s low-voiced response but she took a couple of steps away from the cabin door lest he be aware that she had overheard when he joined her. Her heart was beating fast. They were to share a cabin after all. . . .
She waited for Rowan to tell her that, but he did not. He merely escorted her to her cabin door and told her that he wished to have a word with this fellow Flint, who’d have the latest word on how things were in Portugal.
How things were in Portugal meant nothing at all to Charlotte. What did mean something to her was the sight of the single large bunk that seemed to occupy most of the space in the small cabin about her. She approached it gingerly. And suddenly it seemed to signify everything that was wrong with this ill-considered marriage she had gotten herself into. Marrying Rowan had seemed the only thing to do at the time. Now suddenly it was all wrong.
Set-faced and silent, she stared at that bed—a bed such as she and Tom might have occupied in bliss together had things gone differently. She began to pace the floor, thinking of all that might have been, all that her uncle s sudden vicious kick atop Kenlock Crag had robbed her of. She remembered the feel of Tom s arms, so strong and warm and loving. She remembered the tenderness with which he had held her, the depths of those clear green eyes that had probed so deeply into her own. She thought with a pang of how unerringly Tom had turned back to save her when he knew how slim their chances were, when it would have been so easy for him to just keep going and let himself forget a girl who could only bring him disaster. Indeed he could have left her at any time on that wild ride to freedom and made his escape. Loving her had cost Tom his life.
A great sob escaped her and she pressed shaky hands to her mouth. She had been Tom s undoing—she alone. And now tonight she was to share a bed with a man who— trumped-up marriage or no—was really a stranger. She flinched at the thought.
Outside her do
or she now heard footsteps. The passengers were returning from supper. But Rowan was not among them—doubtless he was still with Flint, seeking information about matters in Portugal, although God alone knew why he cared.
Since this small stuffy cabin had no window, it was illuminated by a swinging overhead lamp even in the daytime, but she knew it must have grown dark—and still Rowan had not returned.
Charlotte s hands twisted together and her lovely face now wore a hunted look. She belonged to Tom—and only to Tom. And somewhere, somewhere Tom was waiting for her. She had to believe that. And outside was the sea, endless and deep, waiting to receive her.
She opened the door.
Outside, the darkness was pierced by a slender moon that shed its pallid light across the broad expanse of wooden deck before her. There was no one about.
Like a wraith, she drifted to the ship’s rail, drawn as if by a magnet. She rested her hands upon its smooth solid wood and stared down at the moon’s pale glimmer upon the dark waters. About her the night was very still. And who was to say Tom’s winging spirit was not waiting for her somewhere out there? Perhaps he was even now calling out to her and her earthbound ears did not hear him. Perhaps she would find him again if she seized her courage in both hands and dived deep into the dark waters that lapped the side of the ship.
Caught up in these destructive thoughts, she leaned over the rail a little farther, fascinated by the sight below. Only a little farther and it would all be over, the die would be cast, her earthly travail would be over and she could soar on wings of her own, seeking Tom. . . . Only a little farther . . . She threw a foot up and over the rail and prepared to take the plunge.
And was abruptly jerked back from the rail, jerked back so roughly that she lost her balance and plummeted backward against a solid body. She heard Rowan’s voice, low and furious: “Are you mad that you would throw yourself olf the ship?’’
“Let me go!” she cried.
She thought she heard his teeth grate, but her own voice was smothered, choked off as he whirled her about and clenched her against his coat. Dizzy with what she had almost done, confused by his sudden appearance, for, lost in concentration on those dark lapping waters, she had not heard him come up behind her, she let herself be dragged back to her cabin, watched him close the door behind them. In the lamplight she could see that Rowan’s face was white and she could feel through the fierce grip he still kept on her that he was trembling.
“What is this urge you have to destruction?” he demanded.
“I heard what the captain told you,” she gasped. “That we would be sharing this cabin.”
“And you thought . . . ?”
Charlotte shivered. “Yes, there is but the one bed . . .” She thought she saw his shoulders flinch but she read only fury in the dark eyes fixed so intensely upon her.
“And so you thought to take your life lest I thrust myself upon you?” His voice lanced at her with cutting sarcasm. “Tell me, have I offered you some hurt? Have I so much as laid a finger on you since I wrested you from your uncle s machinations? God in heaven, I am cursed by my own folly! Why are you so intent on taking my life?” She fell back, startled. “Taking your life?” she demanded incredulously.
“Yes, did you think you would die alone and I would go merrily on? In Cumberland you nearly let me go to the gallows for kidnapping, and now—now you would have the world think I have murdered you!”
“But there could be no thought of that!”
“Could there not?” His grip was cruelly tight; his dark eyes blazed into her bewildered violet ones. “The deck watch heard you cry ‘Let me go!’ I saw him turn in our direction. And now I’ve no doubt from the rebellious look of you that you plan to try for death again the moment my back is turned. The world will think I have given you some injury, they will remember that in Scotland you were a dejected bride weeping at your own wedding, the deck watch will remember that you cried out to me at the rail to let you go—they will have heard that you are an heiress, because Bodine spread the word that you were, and they will believe that I wed you for the wealth you do not possess and that I killed you when I found you had none!”
Charlotte felt the trap closing about her.
“I told you that I cannot be a wife to you!” she cried despairingly.
“No, nor to any man!” he said gratingly. “But before you see me in hell, I will have some recompense for my folly in having troubled to save you.”
With the words he abruptly tossed her to the bunk and followed her there, tearing at his clothes as he did so. Her attempt at a scream was instantly silenced by a hard mouth that covered her lips and almost cut off her breathing. Fighting him for all she was worth, Charlotte felt her wrists confined in a cruel grip and her skirts yanked unceremoniously upward. She heard the calico rip and felt her undergarments tear away from her. She struggled anew as her legs were thrust apart, and in rising panic she tried to slip sideways beneath him. Rowan countered this by landing on her so that together they slid to the side of the bunk and were brought up hard against the cabin wall. Trapped and fighting, Charlotte tried to bring up her knee, but it was crushed triumphantly downward and she heard Rowan’s short angry laugh as he bore it down into the mattress.
A moment later her entire young body shuddered as she felt Rowan’s hard masculinity plunge into her and she seemed to be swept this way and that, the better to please him.
And then as quickly as it had come, Rowan’s fury seemed to subside, and even though his grip was still as firm, his demeanor toward her changed. His lips no longer bruised her mouth but moved softly across her own, allowing her straining lungs a gasping breath. His long body, which had crushed her into the mattress of the bunk, was now raised on one elbow, and she felt with a shock the pleasurable sensation of his dark-furred chest moving lightly across the soft mounds of her breasts, teasing her tender nipples, bringing them to hardness. His narrow hips—of a surprising sleekness—rubbed like heavy satin against her own tingling skin as he moved luxuriously, lazily, within her.
And to her shame, Charlotte felt her resilient young body respond to him. Although she tried her best to remain rigid, her very stance a protest, she could feel herself going pliant in his arms and shivering against him. If he felt this change in her, he took no notice, proceeding as if she was his by right—as indeed in law she was— letting his free hand slide down beneath her rounded buttocks and press her upward against him as he moved inside her with long, slow, tantalizing strokes that brought a gasp to her lips and a low moan deep in her throat.
Charlotte's was a passionate nature. She was made for love—as all men knew who looked at her. And tonight her fragile body overcame her indomitable spirit and she melted into an all-enveloping warmth that glowed through all her senses, setting them ablaze.
Rowan's touch was magical, stirring—he was experienced with women. And the wildness of his nature reached through to her as if his spirit, caged within him, now fought free and took her, his mate, with him through pathways unexplored by other mortals, soaring over mountains far and free, riding the winds, alone together and needing no one else, wanting no one else, only each other, perfectly matched and reveling in that perfection.
In Rowan’s arms Charlotte forgot everything, she became another person altogether, a woman who moved as he moved, breathed as he breathed, wanted what he wanted, wanted more. Somewhere she had shed her controlled self-flaying outer self and become only the woman inside her, a reckless spirit meeting this wild lover more than hallway, giving him back joy for joy, straining in his arms and savoring every moment.
Swiftly their passion crested, but still he held that last great bursting moment at bay, carrying her ever upward with him until it seemed to her that she could stand no more—only to crest the next wave even higher. She was a mad thing in his arms now, panting, moaning, desperately seeking. Her hands no longer needed to be held lest she do him an injury. Like her body, they seemed to belong to him now, they clutched at life, t
hey clutched at him, trying to draw his long body ever closer. She had forgotten in whose arms she lay. She was devoured by heady passions that obscured her view of life and left the world out of focus somewhere beyond these cabin walls.
She was his. Utterly.
At least for the moment.
With a last frenzied effort their bodies seemed to crash together in a wild crescendo of passion that brought a cry to her lips and a groan from Rowan. Her world exploded and she was lost in a wild splendor that seemed to go on and on, filled with tremulous ecstasy that dimmed the vision and clouded the brain.
At last she lay beneath him spent and glowing.
And as the glow receded a little and the world came back to her, she realized what she had done.
She had been untrue to Tom. She had let another man have his way with her. Worse, she had enjoyed it, been thrilled by it! A shame such as she had never known washed over Charlotte and her closed eyes filled with hot tears that ran in silence down her smooth young cheeks.
Rowan, his face pressed against her cheek, felt those tears and slowly sat up, gazing down at her.
In all his life he had never experienced anything quite like this young girl’s openhearted fervor. She had made him feel triumphant, a superior being, godlike.
And now she lay crying in his arms.
He pulled away from her with a curse, his face gone pale and set.
“I will leave you to sleep alone,’’ he said bitterly. “And if you think to kill yourself, you can forget it, for I will take charge of all the sharp objects in this room!’’ He was moving around, grasping objects as he spoke. Charlotte’s eyes were still tightly closed but she could hear the slight clash of metal objects.
She turned over, pressing her face down into the pillow. Kill herself? What need to do that now? She had dishonored Tom. And in her fatigue and shame, she felt herself to be already dead.
All that long night she lay there grieving until, toward morning, sleep and exhaustion claimed her.
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