The Prodigal Hero

by Nancy Butler

  “I hope it’s also a relatively untrafficked place. It won’t do for the vicar to come stumbling down the stairs and find us holed up here.”

  “Maybe we should find him, Simeon.” She turned to face him in the narrow entryway. “We can tell him about Quincy and the ugly customers. Mr. Featherbridge is a very understanding man—I promise he’ll listen.”

  “No, I am not turning you over to anyone but your father. And whether or not the vicar is an understanding man, don’t forget that I am still a fugitive.”

  He followed her down a short staircase into a stone chamber, where the diffused light spilling through the low cellar windows shone on a pair of dusty trunks, three rickety pews, and a tall, metal candlestick.

  “No one’s buried down here, are they?” he asked under his breath.

  “Why?” She poked him in the ribs. “Are you afraid?”

  He didn’t answer her, but instead went to light one of the candles in the metal stand. Afterward he scouted the perimeter of the room, checking to make sure that the door that led up to the vestry was closed.

  “This is a perfect place to store brandy casks,” he observed as he settled beside her on one of the pews. It creaked ominously.

  “In a church?”

  He laughed softly and chucked her under the chin. “Your education on smugglers has been sadly neglected. Church vaults are a prime place to keep smuggled goods until it’s safe to carry them inland.”

  “And the vicars allow this?”

  “The vicars, my little innocent, heartily endorse it. You see, a wise smuggler always leaves a cask behind for his host’s pleasure.”

  Alexa frowned. “Papa vows Mr. Featherbridge has the best brandy in Devon.” Her eyes widened. “Do you really think he has allowed—”

  “Shssh.” He held up one hand.

  Above them the roof vibrated, and a deep throbbing sound penetrated the two feet of stone that separated them from the sanctuary.

  “It’s the church organ,” she explained. “My father bought it for St. Peter’s after Mama died. In her memory. I believe the choir has a last-minute practice on Christmas Eve, so the service should start within the hour.”

  The faintest sound of singing could be heard, but it was eclipsed by the heavier tones of the pipe organ.

  “Christmas Eve,” he said with a long sigh. “This is the first time I’ve been in a church for Christmas.”

  She appeared shocked. “Didn’t your parents ever take you?”

  He shook his head. “My mother died while I was very young. And my father ... well, if he had a religion of any kind, it was probably something to do with the sea.”

  “How did he die, Simeon?”

  He shifted slightly on the bench. “He fell off a ship he was working on and drowned before anyone could get to him.”

  She gasped and reached for his hand. “Oh, Sim, I am sorry. Now I understand why you were so afraid for me that day I fell into the water.”

  “The week after his funeral, I taught myself to swim. Went off to a lake outside Glasgow and walked into it, right up to my neck. It was March, and the water was like ice. But I got the hang of it eventually. I swam across that freezing lake and vowed that as much as I loved the sea, it would not be the death of me.” He turned to her. “I remember your father telling me you’d learned in Barbados.”

  She clasped her hands between her knees and nodded. “I learned from some native children. Slave children, I expect. They seemed to be having a great deal of fun swimming in the waves, so I asked them to teach me. The water was lovely and warm, and so salty that it was almost impossible to sink. My mother was quite scandalized when I came home in my shift and as wet as an otter. But Papa said it was a good thing, since I was always hanging about the riverfront. He went out onto the beach and tried to give the children some money ... but they were afraid, and they ran off.” Her voice lowered. “I never saw them again.”

  He was quiet for a time. “He’s doing it again, Lexie,” he said at last. “Trying to buy you a proper husband in London. But they all ran off, as well. No wonder you chafe at his methods, they seem counterproductive, to say the least.”

  She bit at her lip. “I think I chased a few of them off. I’ve spent the last seven years surrounded by people I generally found intolerable, and I’m afraid I never tried to hide my feelings. It’s not my nature to be conciliating.”

  “Did you form any friendships during that whole time?”

  “I became friendly with a few married ladies who shared my interest in the Chelsea hospital. And there were several members of Parliament I was always pleased to converse with at parties.”

  “Hang your members of Parliament, Alex. I mean real friends, ones who would stand up for you, who would aid you without hesitation. The way Eb Gable and Nat Tarlton aided me.”

  She shook her head slowly, wondering how he would react if she told him he was the only person in her life who fit that description. If he knew he was her one true friend, that would be a bond between them. And he had voiced his determination to sever all bonds with her. He’d been keeping his distance from her since last night, as he vowed he would. And even though she’d had a brief hope that he might kiss her after he rescued her from Finch, she’d realized quickly enough that once again he’d merely been offering comfort.

  “And what of beaus? Surely in all that time there were men who courted you.”

  “Only fortune hunters,” she said with a sigh. “I had quite a flurry of them in the beginning, but my great-aunt was a formidable judge when it came to sorting out the wheat from the chaff. She soon sent them about their business.”

  “And what if one of them had taken your fancy? Would she have routed them?”

  “None did, so I have no way of knowing if she’d have allowed me my foolishness. As for the other men in the ton, the wellborn lords and the wealthy landowners, they gave me a wide berth. I had something of a reputation as a shrew.”

  She looked at him from beneath her lashes and was rewarded when he grinned. “And, of course, I was tainted by trade. Not that it ever stopped Darwin from pursuing me. He’d have married me if my father was a rag-and-bone man, providing I was to come into a nice fortune.”

  MacHeath merely growled softly.

  “Now, tell me about how you came to meet Nat Tarlton,” she said, hoping to distract him from his line of questioning.

  “I met Nat at a tavern in Dover, where I’d gone after I escaped from Exeter jail. I figured it was far enough from Devon to be safe, and I hoped to find a berth on a merchant ship. Nat convinced me that smuggling was a fine life and took me on as part of his crew.”

  “And was it a fine life, being a smuggler?”

  “It was never dull,” he said. “The excise cutters were fast, and the men who captained them were a canny bunch. But my ship, the Siren Song—”

  “That’s a lovely name,” she interjected.

  “I had a little education, Miss Prescott, enough to know my Greek mythology. Anyway, I’d gotten her from old Nat when he retired from the trade. I changed her name after I’d made a few modifications on her keel. There was not another ship could touch the Siren when I was done with her.”

  “Papa always said you were a demon for a fast ship.”

  He grinned. “I understood the needs of commerce back then. But smugglers need more than speed, they need cunning and luck. It was a hard, dangerous life, Alexa, but it made me feel so alive.”

  “At least you were doing something exciting back then. I was taking lessons in deportment and dancing.” Her nose wrinkled. “It was dreadfully dull.”

  His fingers slid over her hand. “I would have liked to dance with you, Alexa.” His voice was full of wistful longing. “To spin you around a ballroom until the lights blurred and you were breathless.”

  “That would not be dull at all,” she said with a tiny gasp.

  She sat lost in thought for a moment, and then slid off the bench and held out one hand. “Dance with me, Simeon.
Just this once. A stolen moment, if you will.”

  His brow furrowed. “I don’t think it’s a—”

  “For me ... please. I know you’re going away after you talk to my father. I won’t hold you back, I promise I won’t. But just give me this, a first dance ...”—her voice lowered—”a last dance.”

  He rose hesitantly. “Very well, Miss Prescott.”

  She felt him shiver slightly as she set her hand on his shoulder. He placed his arm around her waist and drew her to the center of the chamber. Then he tightened his hold, and together they skimmed around the shadowed floor, swirling in time to the lilting tune he sang under his breath. As the dance progressed, he drew her even closer, until their bodies were nearly touching, though she had no mind to complain.

  “You have a very pleasant singing voice,” she remarked in her best Society drawl.

  “What? You once said there was nothing pleasant about me.”

  She danced him back against the wall of the vault and then stood there looking up at him. “I was wrong,” she whispered. “There are any number of remarkable things about you.” She raised her hands to his face.

  “No, don’t,” he said, pulling back from her. He should have known where this was heading. It was madness to have danced with her, to have held her in his arms. He tried to take another step back, but the stone wall blocked his retreat.

  She continued on doggedly. “Your eyes are all the colors of the moor, gray and brown with flecks of silver and gold. And your hair ...”

  Her fingers combed his forelock back from his brow. “There were days when I would sit on the dock and watch you working in the sun, and each time a spark of red appeared, I would smile to myself.” Her fingers traced down over his lips, and he felt himself start to tremble. “And your mouth, my dear MacHeath. Shall I tell you that I dream of this mouth—”

  He couldn’t bear it another moment. He dragged her into his arms and set his mouth over hers, kissing her fiercely, raking her with lips and tongue and teeth, until she trembled in turn. His groans were echoed by her whimpering cries as her fingers clutched at him, digging into his back. She was arching against him as though she wanted to absorb every particle of his being. He nearly lost his sanity.

  He spun her around and thrust her against the stone wall, raising her up so that they were mouth to mouth, breast to breast, and then he kissed her hard as he let her body slide—with divine, aching slowness—back down to the stone floor.

  “Oh, God,” she cried out as a shudder racked her.

  Shaping his mouth around the curve of her throat, he laced burning kisses along her soft skin. She was rubbing the side of her jaw against his ear and panting raggedly. The staccato sound echoed the pounding, staggering rhythm of his blood as it surged through him. One hand drifted to her breast, molding it through the fabric of coat and gown. Her sharp gasp was instantly silenced by his demanding mouth.

  He wanted her. The way a starving man craves sustenance. The way a dying man cries for absolution. He wanted to take her and possess her and hold her fast for all time. In blazing heat, in screaming passion ... in mindless lust.

  No, he realized in an instant of lucidity, there was much more than mere lust coursing through him at that moment. He twisted his head back, away from the temptation of her mouth, and drew his hand away from the soft warmth of her breast.

  Sinking to his knees, he tugged her against him, shivering as he leaned the side of his head into the slight convexity of her stomach. After a moment he put his head back and looked up at her, knowing that every wild, soaring emotion he felt was shining in his eyes. She set her hands on his face, and gently flexed her fingers over his cheeks. That soft, whispery touch nearly broke him.

  “I ... I can’t do this,” he rasped. “Not here, not like this. And it’s killing me.”

  She sank down, cradling him in her arms. “I know ... it’s killing me a little, too.”

  He shot her a rueful look. “I’m being paid back ten times over for taunting you in your room that night. God, I wish I’d taken you then.”

  She leaned her head against his chest. “I wish you had, MacHeath.”

  He tipped her face up to him. “So, I’m not Simeon any longer?”

  She shook her head determinedly. “Simeon was a boy from my past … someone who lived in my daydreams. You”—she splayed her fingers over his chest and pressed down—”are very real.”

  He kissed her again, tenderly this time, letting himself savor her sweetness and her spice. She shifted slightly in his arms, canting her head back in her eagerness to reciprocate.

  “I swore I wouldn’t kiss you again,” he groaned unevenly. “But sweet Jesus, Alexa, I can’t help myself.” His fingers tightened until they bit into the flesh of her arms. “But I cannot be with you. Nothing has changed. This ... this is a stolen moment, as you said. The truth is, I sully you as much as that ruffian Finch did—”

  “No!”

  “I do. A man who takes advantage of a woman, when he has no intention of offering her his name—”

  “Then, give me your name!” she cried. “I’ll take Hastings or MacHeath. Oh, my love, I’ll even take Broadbeam.”

  His inadvertent grin never reached his eyes. “Don’t say that word, Alexa. I am not your love.” Something in her face made him rephrase his objection. “Even if I were, sweetheart, I have no right to that privilege.”

  “Oh, stop spouting noble hogwash. I won’t listen to it.” She squared his shoulders. “Just look at me and tell me that you don’t return my feelings. If you can do that, then I will stop badgering you with my attentions.”

  “It’s not my feelings that are the problem, Alexa. It’s my damned pride.” He’d been looking away from her, but now he turned his head and held her gaze. “You are gently bred and a considerable heiress. I am the son of a shipwright and a naval captain’s daughter, a man who is at present reduced to pawning women’s jewelry for his bread. Even with all your grand notions of love, you’ve got to see what an unequal match we should make. I would resent you, and you would begin to find me a burden. No, don’t leap in with your naive objections. Hear me out...”

  He ran one hand distractedly through his hair. “Love and desire are not the only requirements for marriage. It also requires that both people respect each other. You would not respect me, Alexa—furthermore, if I lived off your income, I could not respect myself.”

  He disengaged himself from her and climbed to his feet.

  “You are being precipitate,” she said, glaring at him. “If my father believes you, if he removes the charges against you, you can find respectable employment.”

  “What? Shall I sail off to India, then, and hope to discover a ruby mine? Because I won’t come to you with nothing, Alexa, I will not be called a fortune hunter.”

  “As if I’d care a whit about that. I don’t want a rich man. I would give up everything if that meant you would stay with me.”

  “And you would live in poverty, forsaking your fine clothes and your elegant carriages? You bristle when I call you naive, but it is there, coloring every word you utter.”

  She scrambled to her feet. “I think you’d best let me be the judge of what I am capable of forsaking. But I see now how easily you have forsaken me.”

  “I have not forsaken you, Alex,” he said grimly. “I never promised myself to you.”

  He spun away from her and went to sit on the far end of one of the pews, his head bent, his hands curled in his lap. Alexa shifted onto one of the trunks, mindless of the layer of dust, and racked her brain for some way to make him understand.

  She’d spent her whole adult life feeling at odds with everyone around her. At the seminary for young ladies, she had been a rebellious, resentful student, never content to sit and sew or to practice for hours at the pianoforte like the other girls. Once she was out in the ton, she had made a point of speaking her mind on all topics and had adamantly refused to simper or flirt. And because of her disregard for the rules of Socie
ty, no one ever had come close enough to see inside her, or even cared to try.

  Yet here was this incredible man who made her feel accepted and cherished, who found her combative tendencies amusing and engaging, who understood the wild part of her nature, and—wonder of wonders—who thought she was utterly desirable.

  But now the thing that had been her only saving grace at school and in the ton, her great wealth, had become an obstacle. For once it was not her connection to trade that was the problem—MacHeath’s parents were themselves of good common stock—but her connection to money.

  She tried to place herself in his position, to understand that a man with so much pride that he wore a false hand to keep others from noticing his infirmity, would loathe being called a fortune hunter. But was that label worse than spending his life alone, without the woman he had come to desire?

  She had no illusions that he loved her, as much as she might wish for such a thing. She suspected he was too damaged by life to hold much stock in romantic love. But she’d hoped that her feelings for him would win him over and that he would take the haven she offered—security, stability, a future where he could be anything, do anything. Instead he had tossed it all back in her face.

  She groaned softly when she realized what she’d done. Just as her father had with the slave children in Barbados, she’d frightened him off by holding out a reward. Those children hadn’t valued her father’s coins, and he had been unable to offer them what they truly needed—their freedom.

  MacHeath didn’t value her money, because it was not what he required. Wealth was relative ... and if there was one thing she knew full well, it didn’t guarantee freedom. Sometimes it was as much of a snare as poverty.

  But what, then, did he need? And more to the point, was it something within her power to give him? The questions shifted through her head until her temples throbbed. What were the things a man needed to assure his place in the world?

  Her father had acquired many valuable things over the years, in addition to money—a reputation for honesty, the respect of others, the certainty that he could protect his loved ones. And perhaps, most valuable of all, the conviction that he was meant to do great things.