Fortune's Bride

by French, Judith E.

  “Who then?” she demanded.

  “He was drinking and he found her bathing, Caroline. He told me that it was his fault and that he was sorry. She said it would break your heart if you found out he raped her, so we kept it a secret.”

  “Who?” Caroline asked.

  “Let it go, sis. If Amanda didn’t tell you—she didn’t want to hurt you.”

  “Who did it? Who raped her?”

  “It’s not important now.”

  “I have as much a right to know as you do. Who was it?”

  “Your husband. Wesley.”

  Chapter 25

  Bruce dismissed the guard. “I wish to interrogate Mistress Steele,” he said. “Under no circumstances am I to be disturbed.”

  Caroline went to the window overlooking the Chester River and stared out into the twilight. For hours, her cousin had rambled on, making threats and heaping her with insults, but she’d paid him little mind. All she could think of was Reed, chained below in the cellar like a wild dog, hungry and thirsty. Reed . . . and what she’d learned about Wesley.

  How could she have misjudged her husband so? She’d believed him to be an honorable man. With all her intuition, why hadn’t she guessed how weak he really was? Raping Amanda was unforgivable—foul. If she’d only known the truth, she would have driven Wesley from Fortune’s Gift at the point of a sword. He’d forced himself on her sister and then led an entire crew of good men to their graves through his own willful arrogance.

  Both Amanda and Reed had protected him from her anger. They’d done it to protect her from the knowledge of what Wesley was really like, but it hadn’t been a favor. Far better if she had known the truth; she wouldn’t have wasted so much time mourning him or blaming Reed for getting Amanda with child.

  . Further angered by her continued composure in the face of his tirade, Bruce had dragged her here to his temporary quarters on the second floor of the Customs House. The room was small, containing a desk, a single camp bed, and one window.

  “. . . this doesn’t have to be unpleasant for you.”

  What was Bruce saying? Caroline was torn from her state of shock and reverie when she realized Bruce’s tone had changed. She glanced back at him and an icy chill washed through her.

  “Many women have said that I am rather . . . well endowed.”

  Her throat constricted as she realized the danger she was in. Bruce was ogling her with an expression that could only be out and out lechery, and he was removing his coat and stock.

  “Why am I here?” she demanded, refusing let him see how frightened she was—not so much afraid of what he might do to her, as of what she might be forced to do to him. Don’t make me kill you, she cried inwardly. No matter how rotten he was, he was a Talbot, and it sickened her to think of living out the rest of her life with her cousin’s blood on her hands.

  “You’re not stupid, Caroline. We are betrothed. I’m only going to sample what I should have had long ago.”

  “You wouldn’t,” she said, trying to regain her dignity.

  “Save your playacting for one who will appreciate it,” he said, pouring himself a cup of port. “You will not scream or fight me—” He smiled slyly. “Well, perhaps you can struggle a little. It adds spice to a man’s palate.”

  “You expect me to allow you to—”

  “I’ll kill him, cousin. I can do it. One order from me, and our good Corporal Jakes will go to the cellar, put a cord around Reed’s neck, and strangle him like a Christmas goose.”

  “What good will Reed’s death do you?” she bargained. “You stand to gain much more by his living.”

  “No; you have the wrong of it. When Reed is dead, everything falls to you.”

  “And when I’m dead, you’ll inherit,” she dared.

  He drained the tin cup. “You wound me,” he replied. “You have only to behave as a proper wife, and we shall enjoy a long and contented marriage.”

  A shout rang out from the stairway. Bruce turned toward the door and Caroline’s fingers closed around the neck of the wine bottle. She swung it with all her might, and struck him squarely in the groin.

  Bruce howled and bent over, clutching his genitals, and she smashed the bottle over his head. He crumpled forward like a poled ox.

  Caroline wrested his sidearm from his body, opened the door cautiously, and stepped out into the hall. It was empty. Hiding the pistol in the folds of her skirt, she walked quickly down the first flight of steps. To her surprise, there was no guard at the foot of the stairs.

  She knew she should try to escape. If the blow hadn’t killed Bruce, he’d come to and sound the alarm. But she couldn’t leave without Reed. She kept walking, down the corridor to the small doorway that led to the cellar.

  Halfway down the twisting wooden steps, she heard men’s voices and stopped short. She turned to run back the way she’d come, but it was too late. A man’s form loomed up in the shadows of the cellar.

  “Put up your hands,” she ordered, twisting around and using both hands to cock the flintlock pistol. “Move an inch and you’re a dead man.”

  “Caroline!” Reed’s voice came from behind the man she was trying to take prisoner.

  Then a familiar chuckle made her limp with relief.

  “By the king’s arse, woman, will you decide for once which side you’re on?”

  “Garrett!” she whispered. “Where have you been?”

  “Where’s Bruce?” he demanded.

  “I broke a bottle of port over his head,” she said, throwing herself into his arms and leaving out the part about her first blow. “There are at least three guards.”

  “Below in my cell,” Reed said.

  “All of them?” She held tight to Garrett, fighting the giddiness that threatened her consciousness.

  “Your math is a little off, Caroline,” Garrett teased her. “We locked up five of His Majesty’s finest.”

  “Someone shouted. It gave me the chance to get the best of Bruce,” she explained.

  “You’re mistaken,” Garrett said. “They didn’t get a chance to utter a sound.”

  “But we both heard . . .” She broke off. “It doesn’t matter.” She let go of Garrett and went to her brother and hugged him. This time, she couldn’t hold back the tears. “Reed,” she murmured thickly. “Reed.”

  He patted the crown of her head. “There, there, sis, you’ll be all fleas and stink. Here, give me that pistol, if you don’t mind. It’s been a while since I’ve held one.”

  She saw then that the two were not alone. Four sailors from the ship crowded hard on Reed’s heels. “You took your sweet time,” she admonished Garrett. “I thought—”

  “We’ll argue later,” he said. “This isn’t the place.” He passed her on the stairs, opened the door, and stepped out into the hall. “Come on,” he whispered. “Quick, now.”

  Then were nearly out the far door when Caroline heard Bruce’s shout. “ ’Ware the watch! Beware the watch! Prisoner escaping!” He came stumbling down the wide staircase with a rifle in his hands.

  “Caroline! Look out!” Reed shouted, taking instant aim with his pistol.

  Garrett shoved Caroline aside and raised his own gun, but Reed was between him and Bruce and he couldn’t get a clear line of fire. Bruce’s rifle and Reed’s pistol went off as one explosion. Both bullets struck their targets with killing accuracy. Bruce pitched headlong down the steps, and Reed sagged sideways against the wall with his cousin’s musket ball through his chest.

  “Reed!” Caroline cried out.

  Garrett gathered her mortally injured brother up in his arms, and they ran outside to the street. Two men were waiting there with horses. In seconds, they were mounted and pounding down the river road out of Chestertown toward the waiting ship.

  “Will we be pursued?” Caroline asked as she climbed the ladder to the deck.

  “I doubt it,” Garrett replied. “Chestertown’s hot for the rebellion. Besides, I doubt if Bruce made any friends there while he was commander
. His remaining troops are probably glad to see him dead.”

  Reed lived for three days, and died peacefully in his bed at Fortune’s Gift. And as Garrett had predicted, no one came to search out the escaped prisoner or his accomplices.

  “The British are pulling out of Philadelphia and heading north just as Falconer told us they would,” Garrett said as he stroked Caroline’s hair. She had not slept or eaten since they’d ridden out of Chestertown and he was deeply concerned about her. “You needn’t be afraid. There’s so much confusion, I doubt if anyone will look for Bruce’s murderer.”

  “It’s not that,” she sobbed to Garrett. “I’m not afraid. It’s just . . .” She paused and sniffed. “Reed’s dead. We didn’t save him. I feel as though it was all for nothing.”

  “No,” Garrett answered softly as he rocked her against his chest. “Not for nothing, woman. Reed died a free man, on his own land.”

  Teardrops sparkled like diamonds on her long, dark lashes. “Do you think that makes a difference?” she asked.

  “It would to me,” he answered firmly.

  They buried Reed in the family brick-walled cemetery, and Caroline could not remain dry-eyed as she watched the carpenter erect the wooden monument over her brother’s grave . . . the same one she had seen so often in her dreams.

  Afterward, when friends and neighbors had all gone home, Caroline and Garrett walked hand in hand along the river. Green fields spread around them, and water sparkled on the surface of the water. High above, an osprey soared. The air was heavy with the scent of honeysuckle and apple blossoms.

  “When will you leave?” she asked him. Her tears were cried out now, and she had come to terms with Reed’s loss.

  “A few days,” he said. “Now that the French have recognized our independence, and Washington is on the march, I’m needed more than ever. I’m needed, Caroline. No matter how much I want to stay with you, I have to go.”

  “Only part of you goes,” she answered. “Part, I get to keep with me.” She squeezed his hand tightly. “In late fall or early winter, we’ll have a child.”

  “You’re pregnant?” He took hold of her shoulders and stared into her eyes. “For certain?”

  “Are you happy, Garrett?” she asked. “I want you to be happy about it.”

  He crushed her against him, tilted up her face, and kissed her tenderly. “If we have a son, I suppose I’ll have to come back teach him a thing or two, won’t I?”

  “Or a daughter.” Her heart was thudding wildly. He was pleased. She’d been so afraid that he’d blame her—that he’d think it was a way to trap him into staying away from the war.

  “A daughter of yours will need my hand more than a son,” he said.

  He kissed her again, so long and hard that it nearly took her breath away. She raised his callused hand and laid it against her cheek. “I’ve been thinking about the treasure,” she said, “the chests of gold we brought back on the Cassandra.”

  “I thought the best thing for you would be to bury them. Now that Bruce is no longer a threat, and the main British army is moving out of the area, you should be safe here. But I’d not want to risk leaving so much gold—”

  “Take it to General Washington,” she said.

  “What?”

  “For Reed, and for Grandmother Lacy. Fill Washington’s war chest with Kutii’s—”

  “But what of our child, Caroline?” he asked. “Are you willing to risk beggaring—?”

  “Our children and grandchildren can build their own future. If Kutii’s gold can help make the Maryland and the other twelve colonies free of British domination, then it can’t go for a better cause.”

  “But if you give up the treasure, and we lose the war, you could lose Fortune’s Gift,” he warned.

  “This land is a dream,” she said. “And dreams don’t die so easily.”

  “You are my dream, Caroline Faulkner.”

  Her eyes widened in amazement. “You can say that . . . after all I’ve put your through?”

  He grinned that special crooked smile of his that always made her heartbeat quicken.

  “Do you love me, Garrett—really love me?”

  “Aye, woman, as the preacher said, ‘For richer for poorer . . . until death do us part. . . .’ ”

  “And then?” Her voice dropped to a whisper.

  He groaned. “You know how to make a man cut out his vitals and lay them on a table for you, don’t you?”

  “I just want to hear you say the words, Garrett . . . just this once. Forever and ever?”

  “From hell to heaven and back again,” he answered huskily. “No matter where I drop anchor, or what star I sail to, I want you beside me.”

  “You’d best mean it,” she replied, “because I intend to hold you to it. I do love you, Garrett—with all my heart and soul.”

  “You do?”

  “I do.” .

  “Then why are we wasting what little time we have left in talking?”

  “You’re the one doing all the talking.”

  “Caroline.”

  She laughed and raised her face to meet his slow, tender kiss.

  Epilogue

  Fortune’s Gift

  October 31, 1781

  “No bedtime!” Peregrine protested. “Want to stay up. Hungry. Want cider. No bedtime, Mama.”

  Caroline took her small son in her arms. “I’ll put him to bed, Susan,” she said to his nurse.

  “Thirsty,” the boy repeated loudly, then flashed a smile that melted his mother’s heart.

  “Have a drink of water,” Caroline soothed. The nurse poured a little from a pitcher into a pewter goblet and handed it to her. She gave Peregrine a few sips.

  “Hungry, Mama.”

  “You have had a long day. No nap this afternoon, remember?” She’d taken him with her on horseback to the river cornfield where they’d watched the men cut and stack long, straight rows of corn shocks. “I told you that if you went into the fields with me, you’d have to go to bed early.”

  “Want Harry.” He pursed rosebud lips into a pout.

  Susan produced a much-loved stuffed cat with button eyes. “Here you go, my lamb.”

  “Not that Harry.” He threw the toy. “Want the other Harry.”

  “Be nice,” Caroline said, “or no bedtime story.” She rolled her eyes at Susan. “I’ll take him up. I think we’ve all had quite enough of this young gentleman’s antics today.” As she started for the stairs, a spotted hound unfolded its long legs and trotted after them.

  “Flirt chases Harry,” Peregrine informed her.

  Caroline looked down into the cherubic face that reminded her so much of his father. Peregrine’s huge gray eyes sparkled with mischief. “Flirt chased Harry up on the highboy, and Harry jumped through the wall. Poof! All gone.”

  “Through the wall, hmmm?” Caroline nuzzled his sweet-smelling cheek and neck.

  “Is it tomorrow yet?”

  “Almost.” She carried on a daily battle, trying to explain the concept of tomorrow to Peregrine and failing miserably. He couldn’t understand why tomorrow was always the next morning—but when morning arrived, tomorrow had jumped poof to the next day. Tonight, she was too tired of the subject to allow herself to be drawn into the discussion.

  “My Papa come home tomorrow?”

  “I hope so, but I can’t promise,” she said. Since word had come of Cornwallis’s surrender at a little place in Virginia called Yorktown, she’d hoped for Garrett’s return. Every day, she watched the river for sails, and every night, she prayed for his safety.

  She and Garrett had had so little time together in the last few years. Garrett’s ship had engaged the enemy time after time, sinking English vessels in the Chesapeake and up and down the east coast. It hadn’t taken the British long to learn that Osprey was under sail again, and they’d doubled the price on his head. Garrett had outwitted the English naval captains in New York, Charleston, and Savannah. Once, he’d even captured a naval snow carrying pay for e
nemy troops in South Carolina. She had every reason to be proud of him, but she’d feel even better once he was back in her arms.

  Already, two locals boys, Frank Bennett and Alfred Thompson, had come home from the southern campaign. Both had served with the Maryland militia, and neither had any word of Garrett.

  “Sleep in your bed,” Peregrine said when Caroline had finished the night’s story.

  “You’re a big boy,” she said, “too big to sleep with Mama. You have Flirt for company, and I’m just down the hall.” The hound curled up at the foot of the boy’s small poster bed.

  “I want Harry,” he said.

  “Good night, Peregrine.”

  “You forgot prayers.”

  “I didn’t forget them. Say your prayers.”

  A few minutes later, she tiptoed out of the room. As she paused in the doorway and looked back, she saw the hound’s ears go up as a black cat leaped onto the bed. “Harry, don’t you dare wake him,” she warned. From somewhere far off, she heard the gentle sound of Kutii’s laughter. “You either,” she said, firmly closing the door. “Anyone who wakes that little hellion can just sing him back to sleep.”

  She went down the hall to her bedchamber and pushed open the door, then froze in shock as she saw a man’s figure in her open window. “Put your hands up!” she cried, trying to frighten him away with a ruse. “I warn you,” she bluffed. “I have a gun here, and I’ll shoot.”

  “Lord, woman,” Garrett answered. “If I put my hands up, I’ll fall out the window.”

  “Garrett!” She ran toward him. “What in the world? I’ve been watching the river, and—”

  “The Cassandra’s docked in Annapolis. I stole Guy Wiggin’s sloop and crossed the bay to get here.” He grinned at her as his boots hit the floor. He opened his arms, and she flung herself at him. She kissed his mouth, his chin, his eyelids, and then his lips again.

  “You’ve been drinking,” she accused when she stopped to catch her breath. “Are you drunk?”

  He laughed. “No. Just had a few drinks with my friends. We were having a bit of a celebration. You heard about Yorktown, didn’t you? By God, we showed them a thing or two. You should have seen the lobster-backs’ faces. Cornwallis didn’t even have the guts to surrender his sword; he sent O’Hara to do his dirty work.”