Charity smiled up at him gratefully. "Whatever you say, my lord. And what shall we call her?" Weariness was evident in the faint voice.
"You shall choose, little lady. Would you like to name her after Elizabeth? She has offered to stand as godmother." Harry inspected the child closely. "Blue eyes. My own were blue until they faded with age. She's a true Beauford."
"You'll not call the child Elizabeth. 'Twill make for too much confusion. Give her her own name," Elizabeth said firmly. "Something solid like Anne." She'd not bother to tell Harry that all infants were born with blue eyes, even the heathen Indians, so she'd been told.
Charity licked her swollen lips. She was sleepy, so sleepy. "My mother's name was Cassy. If it pleases you, I would name the baby after her. I believe her true name must have been Catherine." A cramp seized her and Charity winced. Her eyes were as dull as lead. "We... we could give her Elizabeth as a middle name."
"Catherine. Catherine. I like the sound of it," Lord Beauford declared. "Lady Catherine Elizabeth Eames it shall be." He bent over and kissed Charity on the forehead. "Sleep now."
"I... I'm sorry I couldn't give you a son," Charity said weakly. "I promised you an heir."
"And an heir I have. Daughter or not, she is my legal heir." He winked at her. "A son will follow next year."
At Widow's Endeavor, when the news of the safe delivery of Lady Beauford was received, James Drummond, the Viscount Braemar, drank himself into a mind-numbing stupor.
Charity's recovery was slow but steady. A wet nurse, Molly, was brought to care for the baby, who thrived from the start.
A cap of golden curls covered the infant's head; her cheeks were round and dimpled. The bruises suffered in her difficult birth soon faded, and she sucked greedily at her nurse's ample breasts.
Charity was awed by the tiny creature. Hers. Her baby. Hers and Jamie's. She searched in vain for some hint of the father. The baby—Kat, as they soon began to call her—was her own person.
Within days of her birth, Lord Beauford seemed to have forgotten ever expressing a desire for a son. "Dirty little urchins, always getting into mischief. Cost a fortune to educate. A daughter's the thing," he confided. "Females cling to their families. Not afraid to show a little affection."
Every morning, Kat must be dressed in her finest and brought to Lord Beauford for inspection. He inquired as to her night's sleep and her appetite. Strict instructions were given to the nurse and staff concerning her care. "She is never to be left alone, not for a minute," the earl threatened. "If any harm comes to this child, you'll all suffer for it. Mark my words!"
Charity agreed. No precaution was too great to take for Kat. Suppose a rat should come into her room, or an Indian? She could not be left alone, not even with the nurse. She ordered the baby's cradle to be placed next to her own bed. She regretted being unable to nurse the child herself, but Harry had been firm.
"Peasant stock makes the best milk. The upper classes are too high-bred. A good country girl's what we want to feed Catherine. Besides, you need to recover your own strength. You gave us quite a scare." He patted, her hand. "We've got to put roses back into those cheeks."
Charity took the baby from Molly and rocked her. She had never imagined how protective she would feel. The bright little eyes stared back at her, so blue they were startling. You'll never be hungry, my little Kat. Never have to sleep on cobblestones! "Lady Catherine," she whispered. "She does look like a lady, doesn't she, my lord?" Holding Kat in her arms, knowing she was safe, made it all worthwhile.
A shadow of regret flittered across reason. Charity pushed it ruthlessly away. If she must trade Jamie for Kat's welfare, she would do it gladly. For Kat and for all those who would come after her.
Lord Beauford motioned to Molly and the nurse carried Kat away. He lifted a cup to his lips and sipped at the fragrant tea. The gray eyes regarded Charity closely. "There is something I feel we must speak of, my dear," he said. "Once, and then never again."
"Yes, my lord?"
"On the day of her birth, when I mentioned having a son next year"—the earl's voice hardened—"I spoke for the benefit of those who were present. The midwife could be questioned in court... or Elizabeth."
"My lord?" Charity leaned forward in her chair, puzzled.
"There will be no son, no other child at all, as long as I live." He laughed. "Not as long as we do not witness a miracle, a resurrection of something long dead."
"I'm not sure I understand."
"I will not tolerate infidelity. Since I could obviously not be the father of any future children of yours, I expect Kat to remain an only child. Is that clear, Caroline?"
Her green eyes clouded with fury. Charity rose in her place. "Are you accusing me, husband? Do you suppose I have lovers hidden under my bed? I am but a month from childbirth. Do you think me such a harlot that I would be already seeking a father for my next child?"
Beauford threw up both hands and chuckled. "Peace, little Caroline, peace. It was not my wish to pick a quarrel with you or to accuse. You have kept your bargain, and I am well-pleased with the marriage and with our child."
"Then why do you name me whore?" she lashed.
The hawk eyes hardened to flint. "Because I know you are young. You will have temptations of the flesh. I warn you out of kindness, Caroline. There will be no second warning. Give me cause to believe you put horns on me, and I will send you back to England. You'll never set eyes on Catherine again." His voice dropped to a harsh whisper. "Believe me, I have the power to do it."
The crackle of the fire was the only sound in the room. Charity's heart caught in her throat. The old lion had teeth yet. A part of her soul chilled at the threat. There would be no reprieve, no softening of the sentence if he believed her guilty of adultery. And yet... and yet, another part of her recognized his arrogant pride and respected him all the more for it.
She turned to face him, her eyes catching light from the flames and reflecting them. "You need have no fear that I would do so foolish a thing, my lord," she said boldly. "If you were a weak man, I would have chosen another. Better an old fox than a young hound for the chase."
He laughed long and hard until his face turned a dark beet-red. "Good enough," he managed finally. "Good enough. We know each other. I wondered when that temper of yours would surface. Much too meek for those green eyes, you've been." He chuckled and brought out a deck of cards. "Stay with me awhile. I'll teach you a new game. It's the rage of London, they say. My leg's bothering me today. I'd just as soon sit here and be amused as ride about."
Charity returned his smile and came back to her chair. The lion had retired to his lair. She did not deceive herself that he was gone, but only in hiding. "I'll beat you, you know," she dared him. "I always win."
"You do not, not without cheating."
"Deal, my lord. We'll see who cheats and who does not."
* * *
The baby had been christened at birth by Lady Deale in case it should not live, but the formal christening was held at Avalon when Catherine was six weeks old. All those who had been invited to the wedding were asked to come and help celebrate Lord Beauford's joy. The grand house was full to bursting with servants and guests, and tables had been set up outside for lesser folks to enjoy the bounty of the day.
No one who came to Avalon was turned away, be he poor farmer, craftsman, or free black man. Many came uninvited to share the food and company, and among those was a certain Scottish sea captain by the name of Angus MacKenzie.
By virtue of his clothing and title, the captain was admitted to the festivities in the house. A maid took his hat and cape, and John announced his name as the captain entered the great hall. Several men turned to greet him as he came in; a few merely nodded, acknowledging his presence. More than one of them had been involved in the Scotsman's smuggling operation and wondered what profit might come of current negotiations.
Lady Deale looked up from her place near the punch bowl and frowned. God's teeth! Why had he come here?
She continued her conversation with an overdressed matron, then dismissed her politely and moved slowly across the room toward Angus.
"Captain MacKenzie." Elizabeth's smile belied the sarcasm in her speech. "I did not expect to find you here today."
"Lady Deale, I believe." His Scottish burr was flawless. "I was well-acquainted with your late husband." Mischief lurked behind the brown eyes.
Elizabeth's glare shot daggers in return. His disguise was excellent. Even knowing who he was, it was difficult for her to find any part of Jamie Drummond behind the decadent facade of the middle-aged sea captain. The wig and red-heeled shoes added inches to his height; padding increased his weight by three stone. The silver-tipped walking stick with its erotic ivory handle concealed a thin rapier perfectly. She suspected that one or even a pair of pistols was tucked at his waist. "You should not be here," she said quietly. "Captain Wallace is here, of the Maid of York, and his good friend Captain Halifax. You may not have met him. He is here to enforce the King's laws against smuggling."
Music swirled about them and the room was filled with dancers. They moved away from the crowd and Elizabeth affected a bored expression as she conversed with the Scotsman. "Halifax's term of service in Maryland will soon be up. Why must you tempt fate by coming within reach of his claws? The man's dangerous."
A thin smile played across the captain's rouge-tinted lips. "I have unfinished business with Daniel Halifax."
"Madness," she murmured. "It's no longer a matter of money, is it?"
"It never was, not entirely." Jamie scrutinized the room. "Where is she? Lady Beauford?"
"Leave her alone. You'll only hurt her."
He shrugged. "I doubt if that's possible, considering the circumstances." He fumbled in a brocade pocket. "I've even brought a gift for the heir. Pity she didn't give him a son. I'm sure the girl was a disappointment for them both." MacKenzie leaned on his cane lazily and yawned, covering his mouth with a lace cuff.
Elizabeth wanted to slap him. "You came here to see her. Lie to me if you want, but you can't deceive yourself. Bitterness doesn't become you."
"And what do you expect? She played me the fool." He caught Lady Deale's hand, lifted it to his lips, and bowed formally from the waist in a single motion. "Mind your own business, Elizabeth," he said. The smile did not extend to his eyes. "It's not wise for you to be seen speaking to me for more than a social conversation." He turned and strolled off through the dancers, rudely eyeing the tight breeches of an elegant young man.
"Elizabeth."
She turned to see Lord Beauford coming toward her.
"The musicians have promised to play something old-fashioned that even I can dance to. I believe you promised me one, Elizabeth," Harry reminded.
Smiling, Elizabeth gave him her hand. "I did indeed."
Servants began to light the multitudes of candles throughout Avalon as dusk fell outside. Laughter and the clink of glasses came from every room. Even on the Tidewater, where hospitality was a byword, Lord Beauford's was bountiful. Few guests expected to depart before dawn, and some would stay for days. After the long hard work of planting and harvest, the season of parties and celebration was more than welcome.
Jamie found her in the small sitting room where they had fought so bitterly. The door was open and the room was in shadow, the only light that still coming through the windows from the setting sun. Charity's back was to the door, her hand on the carved walnut cradle, rocking it gently. She was humming an old nursery tune.
"Good evening, Lady Beauford," he said. "I've brought something for the bairn. Might I have a look at her?"
She turned her head, and he was trapped in the old enchantment. The gown of hunter-green velvet dipped low to expose the rosy mounds of her full breasts; her white-gold hair fell simply over one shoulder. Her expression was soft and open; her lips curved up in a genuine smile of welcome. "Thank you, sir. I..." Her green eyes widened in disbelief. Her hand flew to cover her mouth to cut off his name. "You!" Her small shoulders squared and stiffened; instinctively she placed herself between him and the cradle. "For God's sake, go! And quickly!"
A swift glance around the room assured him that they were alone. "Your attitude is hardly hospitable, Lady Beauford," he mocked. "Surely your child isn't so ugly you're afraid to have it seen."
Fear made her voice husky as she gathered the baby in her arms. "Don't..." Charity shook her head. "You don't know what you're risking in coming here."
"Afraid for me? How touching." Jamie closed the distance between them and forced himself to look at the infant. He swallowed hard, feeling the quickening of his heartbeat. He'd come here to rid himself of her. He'd known that if he looked at Beauford's child, the symbol of Charity's betrayal, the hurt would burn away the wound she'd left. Instead all he felt was desire. Not just desire for her body... for the feel of that creamy flesh, the smell of her hair... He wanted her. To possess her. To belong to her. Forever.
Unconsciously he tugged at his glove and reached out to touch her cheek. God, but she was glorious.
Charity jumped back, her trembling plea almost too low to hear. "Go, please, Jamie. Go away."
The baby lay against her breast, one tiny arm flung out, the blond head nuzzling. It made a small contented wimper.
"If I were a papist, I'd say you looked like one of those statues of Madonna and child," he said softly. He knew nothing of infants, but this one was a real beauty. A muscle twitched in his taut jawline. "I think you owe me an explanation, Charity. All I want to know is why?"
The raw pain in his eyes belied the harshness of his bitter assault and cut her deeper than the agony of childbirth had done. I was wrong. I should have waited. I'll pay for my weakness every day for the rest of my life. Every instinct cried for her to tell him so. To beg his forgiveness. To throw herself into those familiar arms. But the risk was too great. Not only the risk of losing Kat, already more dear to her than life itself, but the risk of having Harry's fury fall upon Jamie's head if they were caught! The Earl of Beauford, nearing eighty and exiled to the outer limits of the British Empire, still held the power of life and death in his sinewy old hands. She would not be the instrument that brought Beauford's revenge on Jamie's head.
"I came to Maryland to make my fortune," she lied. "And I have done so." Jamie's face paled beneath the powder as though she had struck him. "What did you expect?" Her head went up; the green eyes hardened to shards of glass. "I'm a street wench, Jamie." The taste, and smell of London's docks crept into her speech. "My mam taught me well. 'Your face is your fortune,' she said. 'Use what you got. '" Charity laughed wryly. "It got me an earl, didn't it?" She traced her top lip with the tip of a pink tongue. "Who would have thought it? Lady Charity Brown." Her chuckle was low and sensuous. "A pity though... I should have waited. You're much better in bed than Harry."
Jamie raised his fist menacingly. "You bitch. You conniving little slut."
Charity's taunting expression audaciously defied his wrath.
"Hit me if it makes you feel better, but if you strike, strike hard," she dared. "Because it will be your last."
His hand dropped numbly to his side. "You're not worth it," he spat, then turned and strode from the room.
Charity buried her face in Kat's soft body and wept. "God forgive me," she sobbed, knowing, in her heart of hearts that there could be no forgiveness for the evil she had done. With her own lips, she had damned herself, in this life and the next. And worse, she would do it again.
Faces blurred as Jamie moved through the rooms of people. Fool! Stupid fool! Why had it come as such a shock? He'd known all along what she was. He'd come here to prove it. So why did it hurt so much?
He fumbled with the door and stepped outside into the garden, letting the brisk night air clear his head. Hell, he should feel relief! He'd wanted the bond severed. She'd done that well enough. How could God, if there was a God, put such rottenness in such a form? He let out a snort of derision. Charity was what she was. Who was he to blame her?
She'd hurt his pride as much as anything. No woman had ever thrown him over before, at least no woman that counted. He'd always been the one to break things off before they got too serious. He'd been the first to become bored with the arrangement.
He'd walked into her trap with his eyes wide open. Knowing who and what she was, he'd swallowed the bait, hook and all. He almost wished he'd hit her. Maybe that would have drained some of the taste of gall from his mouth, diluted the mist of blood-red fury that possessed him.
* * *
Charity dried her eyes and called for the nurse to take Kat upstairs. It would not do for her to hide here in this room crying like a schoolgirl. She must greet her guests and do credit to her husband. Hiding the anguish behind a laughing facade, she mingled with the Tidewater gentry, exchanging gossip and friendly banter, all the while keeping a sharp eye out for Angus MacKenzie.
"Caroline!" Lord Beauford's voice cut through the conversation of the women. Charity looked up and he motioned for her.
"My lord." She smiled sweetly at the men with him. "I'm having a wonderful time," she confided to Lord Beauford. "I just sent Kat upstairs. It's much too noisy down here for her to sleep."
"Caroline, this is our new sheriff, Francis Bennett, and the master of the merchant vessel the Maid of York. Captain Wallace will lead the tobacco fleet home this year." He laid his hand on Charity's arm possessively. "Gentlemen, may I present my wife, Lady Beauford."
Charity murmured something appropriate in response to their greeting, then asked, "Is it true, Sheriff, that all debts and obligations must be paid before the tobacco fleet sails?"
The man laughed wryly. "Unfortunately. There are a few planters I had hoped to meet here today. If they can avoid me or their creditors until after the sailing, they can put off their liabilities for another year."
"It's no laughing matter, Francis," Captain Wallace said. "You could have been killed." Wallace's thick dark brows twitched as he spoke. "It's a damnable custom. Beg pardon, my lady." He reddened.
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