by Nancy Butler
“Alexa!” He stood up, and his face was quite white.
“I heard you scream, MacHeath,” she hissed at him. “All the way down in the street I heard it. My whole life long I will never forget the horror of that sound.”
“Please go,” he said between his teeth. “While I still have some command of my temper.”
“No,” she said. “I ... I am not saying this to anger you or embarrass you ... God, not that. I only wanted you to know that I would have torn those men to pieces if I had known what they’d done to you. I ... I only sorted it out afterward.”
She forced her hands to relax; her nails were carving half-moons into her palms. “Still, I don’t blame you if you despise me. We all failed you, in one way or another. I saw your face before you left us this morning ... it was so sad, so weary.”
She reached toward him, but he drew back. “But the thing is, I tried. I really tried. To help you, to be your advocate.” Her voice started to break, but she kept on regardless. “So please don’t hate me, MacHeath. I was the only one who never stopped believing in you.”
He finally met her eyes. His own were a dull black, and there were smudged shadows on the skin beneath the filigreed lashes. “I know that, Alexa. And I don’t hate you, or your father. The truth is, I don’t feel much of anything right now, good or bad.”
She paced away toward the windows, needing to work off her anxiety. In the Chelsea Hospital she’d tended men sent home from the war, some whose mental wounds were far greater than the ones their bodies had suffered. She’d seen in their eyes the same dead expression that now dwelled in MacHeath’s eyes. Shock, despair, hopelessness. As if the foundation of their every belief had been shaken.
She wanted to rail at him, challenge him, do something to stir him from this frightening malaise. But she feared throwing her anger at him would just make him retreat farther.
It was like that time in Gable’s barn, when he’d hidden in the shadows rather than have his shame revealed to her. But what was his shame this time, what did he have to hide from her? She’d seen him without the false hand before, surely that was not it.
What made men ashamed? What drove them to punish themselves and, therefore, those who loved them? The answer formed itself, once she thought back to that fearful scream.
Cowardice.
One of the worst slanders one man could level at another, and possibly the worst a man could level at himself. She’d have to go delicately with him for a change. No foot stomping, no fierce lectures, no flashing eyes.
“Come,” she said, taking his good hand and drawing him down to the sofa again. He went unresisting.
“Remember the night you told me that you’d chosen your life, and it had failed you? It occurs to me that you were wrong on both counts ... you didn’t choose it. It was forced on you. But I believe you always made the best of it, when you could. William told me something Nat Tarlton said to him, that three years ago you’d stopped smuggling brandy and started smuggling English spies into France.”
She added with a gentle drawl, “Of course, you would never tell me of this ... it might reflect well on you. Eb Gable told me you’d more than once rescued one of your crewmen when they were in danger, I’m sure there are any number of admirable things you’ve done that you’ve never told anyone.”
“I’m a bleeding saint,” he muttered.
“Well, an unlikely one,” she said, pleased by his small show of ire. “Still, you perform these noble, even selfless acts, and then dismiss them. As if you don’t deserve any credit for your deeds. As though MacHeath is always in the minus column, no matter what he accomplishes or withstands.”
“I wish you would get to the point,” he said, keeping his face averted from her.
“I just said withstands ... think on that word. I believe if someone asked me to describe you, I would say, ‘He withstands a great deal.’ Scorn and loss and pain. Betrayal and deceit.”
She shifted onto her knees before him, still clasping his hand. “Perhaps courage is not always measured by going out and fighting battles. Sometimes it means tolerating that which is intolerable, sustaining your honor when there is no honor around you ... putting yourself at risk so that another will be safe. Withstanding, MacHeath ... enduring their blows, even if you cry out, even if you scream out, but not letting them break you.”
“They did break me!” he breathed raggedly, pushing away from her and leaping to his feet. “Don’t you understand that? They snapped me like a piece of kindling. Good God, Alexa, you said yourself that you heard me scream. I shouldn’t wonder if they heard me in Exeter.”
“You don’t sound very broken to me,” she observed from her position on the floor. Her eyes danced wickedly up at him. “Maybe they just bent you a bit.”
He reached down and dragged her to her feet, his good hand clamped hard on her shoulder while he shook her.
“You dare laugh at me?” he stormed. “You dare laugh in my face?”
“It’s better than crying,” she said evenly. “Stop lamenting, MacHeath. Life is too short.” Her hands slid up to cradle his face, and she said gently, “We all have moments we’d like to erase. But think how many more there are that we want to cherish and preserve.”
Unable to weather the stark uncertainty in his eyes, she tugged his head down to her shoulder and held it there, her fingers stroking soothingly over his hair.
“You used to be naive and full of foolish pronouncements,” he murmured into her throat.
“And now?”
“Now you make sense a great deal of the time. It’s unnerving.”
She chuckled. “Shall I tell you about the thing I would like to erase from my past?”
“You mean Smelly Ned?”
“No,” she chided him, “Something I did that I would wish undone.”
“Tell me,” he said, pulling back a little so that he could see her face.
“Well, first you must understand that money became my curse once I got to London. I saw there that Alexa Prescott was of less value to the world than her purse, and so I began to wither on the inside. I became sour and discontented with life ... a grumbler of the first water. I wasted seven years of my life refusing to see the good around me, and only ever saw things that displeased me.”
“We are a pretty pair,” he muttered. “The cripple and the malcontent.”
“We are neither of those things now, Simeon. That’s the beauty of what’s happened between us. We both found the spark that was missing. You have gotten past your fears and your loss, and I have found something to make me smile again.”
“Being home?”
“Being with you.”
“Oh.” He was just starting to smile himself when the footman came into the room.
“Mr. Prescott will see you now, sir.”
For an instant her eyes closed tight in frustration. This was dreadfully bad timing.
“Thank you for that, Alexa,” MacHeath whispered as he set her away from him. He went to the doorway, where he lingered a moment. “Maybe someday I’ll return the favor and give you the answers that you require.”
“I don’t recall asking for answers,” she responded gently.
But she knew the questions were in her eyes, all of them beseeching him, and she knew, further, he was not unaware of them. He started to say something, but curbed himself.
And then he pushed roughly away from the door; he re-crossed the room in a heartbeat and dragged her into his arms. She moaned softly when he kissed her, a brief but surprisingly thorough kiss.
“Such a spark, Alexa,” he said hoarsely, up against her ear.
And then he went striding out, right past the astonished footman.
* * *
Alexander Prescott greeted his entry with a nod. And then went back to sorting through the papers on his desk. It was not rudeness, MacHeath realized—the man was nervous as a cat on a griddle. His fingers shook enough to be detectable, and his gaze never once crossed the desk to where MacHeath sa
t after that first, curt acknowledgment.
“So?” MacHeath asked at last, feeling an edgy gnawing begin in the pit of his own stomach. He wanted to say his piece quickly, and then get away. That brief, heady taste of Alexa had shaken him, and the longer he sat here, the harder it would be to resist the urge to taste her again.
“So,” Prescott echoed as he set down his papers. “If you’ve come to hear a formal apology, consider it spoken, and from the heart, I might add. However, there are other things I could offer you, to make restitution—”
“You don’t owe me more than an apology,” he stated flatly. “It was all I came back for, originally. But now I find I still have some unfinished business with you. There is the matter of Alexa.”
“I see you still don’t shilly-shally. I always liked that about you, Hastings ... er, MacHeath.” He shot him a look of apology. “My girl tells me you prefer that name. So out with it, then. What about Alexa?”
The old man wore a smug expression, as though he knew beforehand what MacHeath’s business was.
“She needs to be here, with you, sir. Not off in London wasting herself on idle people and pointless occupations.”
Prescott’s brow knotted, and one hand began to tap on the surface of his desk. “Forgive my confusion ... I suspected you wanted to speak to me of her future, but this is hardly what I envisioned.”
MacHeath slid forward in his chair. “Her future is here, at Prescott Shipyard. It was her life for seventeen years, it’s where she belongs now. And don’t hand me some trumped-up objection because she is female. We both know she could run this place better than any man ... it’s in her blood. You’re a fool if you don’t see the potential in her. You raised her to be your heir, so why not let her take her place, then, as is fitting?”
Prescott made no comment at first. He rose and went to the sideboard, where he poured them each a glass of wine.
“Well, you don’t mince words, do you?” he said once he’d resumed his seat behind the desk. “I’ve a mind to call you an interfering jackanapes, but I don’t fancy a bout of fisticuffs. I will think on what you’ve said ... Lord knows the girl’s been bringing it up time out of mind. But what of your own future, MacHeath? What will you do, now that you are a free man again?”
“That’s not the issue here.”
“Then, you have made no plans? Well, I’m not surprised ... only yesterday you were a fugitive from justice. But now the world has turned about for you. Would it be rash for me to offer you a job here at Prescott? Something, say, with a bit more responsibility than your previous position. I could use a good right-hand man.”
MacHeath’s eyes flashed up at him, and then he shook his head. “I want no favors ... for myself. All I ask is that you keep Alexa here.”
“Still got that proud, stubborn Scottish streak, eh? It’s a wonder you and Alexa didn’t butt heads constantly during your journey here.”
MacHeath’s face relaxed for an instant, and he almost smiled. “There were ... um, occasional moments of conflict.”
Prescott did smile, a wry crooked smile. “Ho, there speaks a diplomatic man.”
“She set my coat on fire at one point, actually.”
And then both of them were chuckling, MacHeath shaking his head in amused recollection, Prescott grinning back at him.
“Stay, lad,” he said with sudden intensity, the humor in his eyes now replaced by earnest appeal. “I have need of you. We both have need of you. Stay here in Cudbright.” He hesitated, and then added in a gruff whisper, “Please.”
Well, that’s it, MacHeath thought. Full circle. He’d been carted away in disgrace, deprived of everything he held dear, only to return a hero ... with old Prescott himself begging him to stay on.
“I had a feeling this was how the wind was blowing,” he said at last. “And I am not ungrateful. But I cannot accept your offer. I cannot stay here. Cudbright, the shipyard”—he’d almost added Alexa—”they remind me too keenly of all I lost.”
“What was lost can sometimes be regained,” Prescott pronounced. He rose from behind his desk, leaning his splayed hands on the gleaming surface. “I’ve made you an honest offer, not out of guilt, but out of my own need. I value you, lad. Damn it, I’d have taken you back the instant you were cleared of those charges—”
“Ah, but what if I hadn’t been cleared? Would you have stood by me, found me a clever lawyer, kept me from the noose? Or would you have washed your hands of that proud, stubborn Scot? Good God, Prescott, you never even came to see me in Exeter. Never came to ask me my side of the story. I was a condemned man the instant Quincy pointed a finger at me. I saw then what it truly meant to have nothing ... no friends, no allies, no one who believes in you.”
“Alexa believed in you ...” Prescott injected. “But she was a child of fourteen, I did not heed her. I was too shaken, my feelings over your betrayal were too raw. Perhaps if my admiration for you had not been so great, my shock and disappointment would not have been so extreme. For a time those feelings blinded me to any possibility of your innocence. Then, when you escaped, I saw it as proof positive that you were guilty. I see now how naive I was to think that.”
“Another trait that runs in your family,” MacHeath said under his breath.
“Still, why would I have doubted Quincy, standing there with his head all bloodied, swearing to your guilt? He practically grew up in this house, MacHeath, I never thought he would steal from me.”
“No, it was easier to think that I would.”
“Devil take you! What else was I to believe?”
MacHeath cast him a long, potent look before he murmured intently, “You might have sided with one of your own, Alexander.” He rose from his chair, “But it’s water over the dam, as my old captain used to say. I didn’t come here to fight with you or to make you feel remorse. My only issue was Alexa.”
“Well, then, what of my girl?” he asked as he came around the desk. “You going to run off from her yet again? She’s kept you in her heart all these years, but I should warn you, even obstinate Prescotts weary of the chase eventually.”
“She’ll find another man if you allow her to stay here,” he said. “I suspect she was like a falcon in a cage in London, fretful and unhappy. But once she can spread her wings, once she’s back in her own patch of sky, she’ll soar again. You’ll see, she’ll have suitors lined up from here to Penzance.”
“And that notion doesn’t bother you?”
“Why should it?” MacHeath spoke the untruth with boldfaced calm. “I desire her happiness as much as you do.”
Prescott shook his head. “You’re a fool, MacHeath. And a dashed poor liar. But it’s not my job to make you see the right of things. I suppose I could argue that you ruined the chit, haring over half the country with her. But the last thing I want for Lexie is an unwilling husband.”
“When she meets the right man, it won’t matter to him whether she’s ruined or not. Not if he cares for her.” He paused to take a steadying breath. “I’m going now. Tell her ... tell her that—” He winced slightly, and a small tick throbbed twice in his cheek. He drew an oblong package from the pocket of his greatcoat and laid it on the desk. “Well, just give her this.”
“You’re not going to say good-bye to her?”
“We’ve said everything that needs to be said.”
He crossed the room, and then turned at the door. “Please remember what I told you about your daughter, Prescott. She needs that patch of sky ... we all do.”
And then with a swift nod of farewell, he went out.
Chapter 16
Alexa sat in the drawing room, trying to remain calm. Talking sense into MacHeath was always equal parts draining and agitating. She vowed that this was the very last time she would be forced into this waiting business, this matter of sitting by, inert and fretful, while men made up their minds about her future. No, never again. Regardless of what transpired between her father and MacHeath, she made a solemn oath that she would never sit an
d wait, not for any man.
When an hour had passed and there was still no sign of MacHeath, she went down the long hall to the study and tried the door. Her father was alone, sitting behind his desk with his hands clasped before him, his gaze focused on those entwined fingers.
“He’s gone,” he said without looking up at her.
Alexa sank into one of the chairs and willed her heart to keep beating.
“I did not try to stop him. He seemed determined to follow his own course.”
“What was it he wanted to discuss with you?” she asked, somehow forming the words in spite of the dry, constricting pain that was sealing her throat.
“Your future, Alexa. Your future here in Cudbright.”
She nearly groaned. A week ago that would have been cause for celebration. Now she didn’t care where she lived. Without MacHeath, life held nothing to tempt her.
“He was rather vocal on several points. He pinned my ears back, in fact. Told me you were wasted in London, that I was a damned fool for not letting you come back here and help me. I nearly called him an interfering jackanapes and several other unflattering names, as well. Instead, we had a glass of claret together. I offered him his old job back, Alexa. I told him he could be my right hand—a poor choice of words, I now realize—but he turned me down. He said there was nothing for him here but bad memories. Which surprised me.”
“I am not surprised,” she said with a sigh. “He warned me that he wouldn’t be fodder for my daydreams any longer.” She managed to give him a tight smile.
“Here,” he said, pointing to the package on the desk. “He left this for you.”
She rose and, with fingers benumbed by shock, undid the paper wrapping.
It was MacHeath’s spyglass. The copper casing had been polished to a bright sheen that was achingly reminiscent of the hidden, fiery streaks in his hair. There was a note among the discarded paper. She picked it up and read the words with a quaking heart. The message was but a single line. So the sea will never again be out of view.
