by Kim Bowman
Shrugging into his clothes, he was just about to walk out the door when her angelic voice hailed him from the bed. “Thomas? Aren’t you going to wish me good morning?”
Taking a deep breath, knowing London was but a day away, Percy closed the door and turned back around. “Good morning, little blossom. I’m afraid I’ve got duties to attend.”
“Can’t they wait? We’ve hardly had time to talk.” She was right. Talking had not been part of their activities. Her eyes fluttered sleepily, enticingly, and she drew the sheet up to her neck.
“We’re almost to port, and I have much to do in order to ensure we dock safely.” It was a lame excuse. He regretted the words as soon as they came out of his mouth.
“London?” she whimpered, a dark ominous cloud sweeping over her eyes. “How I dread it.”
“Winds being what they are,” he explained. “We’re making good sail. It shouldn’t be long now.”
She lifted her sweet, trusting eyes again and he knew unconscionable damnation. “When we arrive, will you escort me home? Father would be honored to meet the man who saved my life.”
She asked too much and put too much trust in the duke. “No, little rose. Your father would not approve.”
“I could talk to him. He’d understand — eventually.”
“I want to live to see another day,” he exclaimed. When she didn’t smile, Percy’s heart hinged. “Constance, you know there can be no future between us.”
Her unshed tears gutted him cleaner than any cutlass. “Will you not… come to see me, then?” she asked, her voice hesitating slightly, as if the idea of what he was doing finally dawned on her.
He resolved to get this over with and quickly when she let out a soft, tortured sob. “We come from different worlds, you and me. Though you suit me well, I wouldn’t make a good husband. I thought you understood.”
“Yes, but we’ve… we’ve slept together. I’ve given you—” Her lips trembled.
“Aye, and what a riotous time we’ve had.” He looked fondly at the bed and shook his head, tsking. “Life is what it is. You’ve a fine body and you’ve pleased me well. Keep that to heart.”
“Keep that to heart? How can you be so callous?”
“You’re beautiful and young. Someone is bound to jump at the chance to wed you. They needn’t know we’ve pleasured ourselves until the wedding night, though I’m quite assured you’ll give your husband the ride of his life.”
“You’re despicable!” Her eyes conveyed the fury and rage building inside her.
He winked and bowed mockingly. “I imagine the man will be thanking me for it someday.”
Constance lunged off the bed, furiously vulnerable. Understanding her torment, Percy stood his ground, allowing her to vent her anger. Naked and fuming, she pummeled him with her fists, tears rolling down her cheeks. He’d thought he could withstand her outburst but it was almost impossible to allow her torment to continue. He grabbed both her fists and held them behind her, imprisoning her in his arms. Her breasts jutted against his chest.
“I rather like this unruly side of you,” he said, trying to be reasonable.
He kissed her pouting lips, knowing this would be the last time he tasted her, held her. Something pushed him to his limit. He wanted her, wanted to implant her in his memory, and dared not think of the consequences. The heat of her burned into his chest as she writhed in his arms. Nothing mattered but coming home, finding his way back to the crux of her womanhood.
“You won’t make this easy, will you?”
Her lips thinned noticeably as she shot him a cold stare. “My life has never been easy,” she said, her green eyes blazing with hurt.
He tightened his arms about her. “We are too different, you and me. Don’t you see? Our worlds will never coexist. You will only be hurt more for loving a man like me.”
“I could never love a man like you.”
“Never?” he teased.
She pulled out of his arms, paling noticeably, and returned to the bed. “I never want to see you again.”
Percy stepped back, memorizing every nuance of Constance before turning toward the door. He clenched his teeth, refusing to think of his own happiness and walked out, never looking back.
Chapter Nine
The Striker pulled into port amid laudable hails and applause. Dock workers and passersby stopped to gaze at the previously unbeaten ship that had beleaguered the English coast, oppressing one vessel after another before spiriting away to parts unknown. One by one, onlookers ogled and spat on Captain Frink and his men as they were led down the boarding plank in chains to an awaiting admiralty wagon. Word had traveled fast. Buoyant cheers arose for the victorious survivors of the Octavia as Captain Collins’ flag was carried aloft, followed by Guffald and members of the Octavia’s crew.
Percy stood with his legs braced apart, his back to the crowd, mindful to keep his face out of the public eye.
“A lot of fanfare for a motley crew, is it not, Cap’n?”
“Aye, Jacko. Frink’s reputation precedes him. His men are bound to get what they deserve, and the Octavia’s crew will be celebrated for their courageous efforts.”
Jacko clicked his tongue. “In the end, Collins finally found the fame he’d searched for.”
“Not the kind he’d hoped for.”
“What is to become of Guffald?” Jacko asked. “Will his testimony be sufficient in keeping the constable from your stoop?”
Squaring his shoulders, Percy nodded. “Guffald will give his rendering of events. No one will question his loyalty.” Percy turned his head to scrutinize Guffald’s swagger as he accepted a flower from a young girl and entered the general’s coach, carrying himself with unusual panache. “Guffald’s knowledge of our mission has been limited. He’s smart, sure to figure out the details in time. Until then, his confusion is paramount.”
Jacko shifted his feet. “I wish I had your confidence.”
“Think on Guffald no more,” he said, slapping Jacko on the back. “Our focus must turn to Josiah Cane.”
“What about the lady?”
“What about her? Lady Constance and I have parted ways.” Fixing his gaze on Constance, dressed in a modest brown gown Ollie had found on the docks, he watched her descend onto dry land and slapped his glove on his thigh. “Transport her home. Deliver her to Simon Danbury or her father, no other.”
“As you wish,” Jacko agreed.
Turning away from Jacko, Percy busied himself with the crew. Much needed to be done to prepare the Striker for inspection by the war office and that was where he directed his attention. To dwell on Constance was pure folly, even if she had branded him with her scent, her taste.
~~~~
Constance and Mrs. Mortimer sank into the well-used leather seats of the hired hack Jacko Clemmons paid to have them transported from port to Throckmorton Manor, located in Mayfair. Suppressing a shiver, Constance focused on her father’s initial reaction to the scandal certain to darken his doorstep.
Gazing out the muted panes to scenes unfolding on the cobbled streets of the London docks, the ramifications of her actions became clear. Her presence aboard the Striker and poorly fitted gown had surely been noted.
“Mr. Clemmons,” she said, focusing her attention on Thomas’ first mate.
“Aye?” He centered his gaze on her.
“How long have you known your captain?”
“Long enough.”
“How long would that be?” she pried.
“Long enough to know my place.”
“As should you,” Mrs. Mortimer interjected. “That man isn’t of your ilk, Constance, and now that we are free, ‘tis time you put him out of your mind.”
“Morty, it’s time you kicked that pedestal out from under my feet,” she said. She put her hand on her governess’ arm and squeezed reassuringly to ensure the woman she meant no disrespect.
Mrs. Mortimer harrumphed and cast a fiery-eyed stare at Mr. Clemmons then pointed her perturbed nose in
the air.
“Mr. Clemmons,” Constance continued, “I fear you misunderstand my intentions. What I wish to know is — what if I need to contact the captain in the unforeseeable future?”
“Why would you need to contact that man, Constance?” Mrs. Mortimer erupted.
The woman’s unlikely barbs cut Constance to the quick. She raised her chin defiantly. “Father may want to thank him.”
Mr. Clemmons’ eyes rounded. “It makes no difference. I doubt you’ll be able to find him. Captain won’t stay idle long.”
Constance was undeterred. “Does he intend to sail soon?”
“You’d better concentrate on what you’re going to tell your uncle and your father,” Mrs. Mortimer reminded her.
“You have a point,” she said, wringing her hands, worrying the cream-colored shawl clenched between her fingers after being properly put down.
Mr. Clemmons shrugged. “You’ve a hard road ahead, m’lady. A duke isn’t to be slighted. And only you can say what your da will do.”
“I do not plan to turn in your captain, if that’s what you’re suggesting.”
“Why wouldn’t you?” Mrs. Mortimer exclaimed.
“I’ll explain later,” she said, patting the woman’s hand. “Please, let Mr. Clemmons talk.”
“Mr. Clemmons? Ha!” the woman exclaimed.
“Morty!” Strangely, Mr. Clemmons ignored Morty’s barbs, as if this hadn’t been the first time Morty had cut into him. But how was that possible? What had gone on between them while she and Thomas had—
“Lord Danbury and the Duke of Throckmorton are formidable men,” he said. “They might induce you to surrender my captain against your will so charges can be brought against him.”
Constance understood Mr. Clemmons meant to protect Thomas. He didn’t trust her. She couldn’t blame him. She couldn’t be trusted where Thomas was concerned.
“Captain Sexton believes he is doing the right thing by sending me back to my father. Be assured, in the meantime, I’d never do or say anything that would put him in danger.”
“You have his name.”
“You must believe me when I say that I will not discredit your captain,” she vowed, answering him in a rush.
Cocking his head to one side, Mr. Clemmons appeared unconvinced. “You are not an ordinary wench.”
“That she is not.” Mrs. Mortimer turned toward her. “I cannot believe I’m hearing the words coming from your mouth, Constance.”
“Captain Sexton’s secret is safe with me,” she promised, ignoring Morty’s reprimand.
Mrs. Mortimer exclaimed, “What secret?”
Constance blinked nervously. “Oh, you know,” she said with a wave of her hands.
“I don’t. Explain,” Mrs. Mortimer said.
Constance leaned forward conspiratorially. “He really isn’t the dreaded pirate people think he is.”
“You could have fooled me,” Mrs. Mortimer snapped.
Mr. Clemmons grinned slyly and slapped his thigh. “Well now, that is a secret we must keep under our hats. Let ol’ Morty say what she must,” he said, his eyes transferring between both women. Then he grew serious. “But know if you ever revealed the truth, captain wouldn’t last the week.”
“Precisely,” she insisted, heavy with regret.
Mrs. Mortimer used the lull in conversation to her advantage by listing Captain Sexton’s shortcomings. Constance knew at once when Mr. Clemmons tuned the woman out. But Mrs. Mortimer had a point. The man had callously cast her aside, using his occupation as an excuse never to see her again. While the dismissal hurt, deep down she’d known there could never have been a future with the man. Given her circumstances, it would suit her better to denounce Thomas instead of protect him. She’d been ruined, but she’d also played a significant part in that ruination. In the end, she took with her the knowledge that passion existed between a man and a woman and she shouldn’t settle for less — like Lord Burton. As the carriage wheels rattled across the ruts in the road, her resolve weakened. What would she tell her father? How would she explain her absence?
Mr. Clemmons placed his well-seasoned hand over her clenched fists. “I shall pass along your promise.”
Constance smiled weakly, feeling as if a weight had been lifted off her shoulders even though her battles had just begun. Soon she would face her father, Uncle Simon, and the inquisitive stares of the servants at Throckmorton Manor. Worse. Her appearance reminded her of how low she’d fallen. She’d been provided a simple brown round gown made of scratchy wool and a cream-colored shawl for the journey home. She hadn’t complained overly much. The garments, more feminine than her previous shirt and breeches, provided modesty, but also prevented her from being seen in male attire.
Jostling across uneven stones, they rode to Mayfair in silence. The conveyance continued through the city for nigh onto thirty minutes until it pulled to an unceremonious stop. A plain-clothed footman appeared at the columned portico. Mr. Clemmons exited, helped her descend the carriage, and then stopped just beside the bottom step leading up the stairs to the door of Throckmorton Manor.
“It was a pleasure to sail with you, m’lady.”
Constance smiled, but her joviality didn’t last long. Out of the corner of her eye, she spied her father and uncle crossing the threshold, filled with determination. Before she lost heart, she said, “I’ll never forget that he saved my life, Mr. Clemmons. Will you tell him?”
Not waiting for his response, she broke away and ascended the steps, rushing toward her father’s comforting embrace.
“Constance, I’ve been so worried,” her father declared, taking her in his arms.
“Who’s your escort, Constance?” Uncle Simon pressed, frowning.
“Thank you, Uncle.” She nodded, hoping to chide him for not showing distress over her disappearance. “I’m happy to see you share Father’s concern.”
Undeterred, Simon asked again, “Who’s your escort?”
Hoping to ease both her guardians’ frustrations, Constance turned as the hack disappeared at the end of the lane. Mrs. Mortimer, prepped for disaster, stood with a firm grip on her valise and tight-lipped fortitude. Straightening her shoulders, Constance opted for half-truths.
“Why that was — a kind gentleman who helped me find my way back home.”
“He appeared to be less than exemplary,” her father insinuated. His eyes narrowed on Mrs. Mortimer. “You should take more care with the company you allow my daughter to keep, madam.”
Mrs. Mortimer opened her mouth to speak, but Constance stopped her. “No,” Constance insisted. “On the contrary, he was a fine man doing a good work.”
Repulsed, her father stared after the vehicle and then exchanged a questionable glance with his brother, one she didn’t miss, before he took her by the arm and ushered her inside the house where no one would be privy to their spectacle. Cooper’s brow rose at her appearance, then he bowed and nodded a greeting before stepping quickly aside to remove her wrap.
“Welcome home, my lady,” he whispered.
“Thank you, Cooper.”
Of all the household servants, Cooper’s manners and dedication appealed most. With a conspiratorial wink and a knowing smile, the man quickly bowed out of sight.
“Constance, what are you wearing and where did you meet that ridiculous man?”
“I’ll reveal all, Uncle, after I have some tea.” She sighed. “It’s been ages since I’ve had a hot cup of tea.”
“I know what you’re about and do not change the subject. Where have you been, daughter?” her father asked, fatigue and worry reflected in his eyes. “What were you thinking, running off without telling me where you were bound?”
“Questions…” She tsked. “All warranted. I assure you, my dearest loves, I will answer them all. I truly have had quite a tiring ordeal, however. I simply must gather my wits. Will you not allow it?”
“Byron,” Uncle Simon said.
Constance shot her uncle a scathing stare. “Pleas
e don’t spoil everything, Uncle,” she whispered.
“I insist you know where Constance has been,” Uncle Simon interjected, shame and guilt in his penitent eyes. Twisting out of her grasp, he faced her father, poised for battle.
Wary of the outcome, Constance placed shaking fingers to her temples.
“That has been my deepest desire,” her father said.
Her uncle had terrible timing. She fixed a heated stare on his person and then turned toward her father. “I swore him to silence, Father,” she said, directing her plea so that her uncle wouldn’t fall further out of favor. “Please do not blame Uncle Simon for my insistence on going to see Aunt Lydia.”
“Lydia!” her father howled. “Lydia?”
“Byron, I know how much anguish you’ve suffered over Lydia’s conduct. I do not wish to cause you further torment, but I—”
“What would you know of suffering?” her father raged. “You strut about like a peacock, no care to your credit, whereas I owe everything I am to my accountant, and no thanks to you, you’ve narrowed down that field.”
Simon continued unaffected, “The girl wanted to go see her mother’s sister. Why do you begrudge her this?”
“Lydia? San Sebastian? Spain, of all places!”
“Uncle Simon booked passage for me aboard the Octavia, a merchant ship.” Every pore of her body anticipated his outburst at the mere mention of her setting foot on board a sea vessel, something her father had sworn never to allow. What little courage she’d saved for this moment slowly withered.
“You put Constance on board a ship!”
As feared, her father cast aside all protocol and lunged toward his brother. She put herself in his path, hoping to prevent bloodshed. “He was acting on my behalf, Papa.”
“Is it bad enough that I must sneak past my creditors without having to worry whether or not you are putting my daughter in harm’s way? You said she’d gone to visit the Carringtons in Merlton.”
