Immediately fire burst through her veins and the stars began spinning wildly overhead. She had to get back to her room and staggered to her feet only to fall full length on the soft yielding sand. A horrible pain stabbed through her belly and she rolled onto her side curling into a tight ball, moaning through clenched teeth.
It was as bad as having a baby after carrying it for a full nine months. But this one would not survive. She couldn’t get up, couldn’t even crawl and she writhed in agony calling for Amy. The house was not far away. Could she hear her cries for help? Would she come and take her back to her small green and white room where she could at least lie on the bed?
Angela could hardly breathe. Sand gritted between her teeth as she rolled onto her back gasping for air. The stars hung low touching her with their white-hot brilliance, torturing her beyond endurance. When would it end? It must be over soon!
There was loud pounding on the door, frantic voices calling her name. “Mrs. Newton, Mrs. Newton! Come quick! The duchess is dying on the beach!”
Amy rolled over. It had to be a dream, but her eyes opened and a servant was knocking on her bedroom door.
It usually took a good hour for her to come fully awake each morning but not today. Shoving her feet into a pair of slippers she hastily tied the robe around her waist and stumbled from the room. She ran into Ezra in the hall.
“What is it?”
“I don’t know,” he replied running down the stairs two at a time with Amy streaking after him.
A group of dirty, bewhiskered fishermen smelling of rum and fish were on the porch and they led the way to the beach.
Angela lay as white and motionless as a marble statue on the golden sand. Amy fell to her hands and knees beside her. There was sand in her hair and on one side of her face but she seemed untouched. There was a great green chunk of stone suspended on a thin chain lying on her unmoving bosom.
Ezra pressed his ear against her chest while the baffled fishermen looked on. She couldn’t be dead—not their duchess! There wasn’t a mark on her and she was as beautiful as an angel. Besides who would dare lay a finger on her?
“Is she alive?” Amy laid a tentative hand on her cool brow.
“I don’t know.” Ezra’s face was several shades lighter as he turned to her. “Let’s get her home.”
“There is no doctor,” Amy reminded him. “He’s on board the Silver Bear. ”
The group of fishermen parted in awe before the tiny imposing figure in a tattered black dress. Her sharp black eyes took in everything and everyone in a glance, missing nothing.
“It’s the Old Lady,” whispered the fishermen in awe. She rarely ventured to this part of the island, preferring to keep close to her hut. People always went to her.
“Get away!” she commanded with queenlike dignity. Kneeling beside the small prone figure her knobby hands lifted Angela’s wrist feeling for the beat of life.
“She lives. Take her into the house and I will see if I can save her before the spark goes out.”
Ezra lifted Angela in his powerful arms. She was a light burden but his heart felt as heavy as a millstone. If anyone could save her the Old Lady could.
The odd almost funereal procession was headed by Ezra, then Amy and the Old Lady, with the fishermen trailing behind. The short walk took forever.
When Angela was laid in her own bed, the Old Lady ordered them all out of the room. Amy hesitated, torn between hope and despair, but Ezra propelled her toward the door and she went. They heard the key click in the lock, heard the low chanting sounds.
The woman piled blankets on Angela, then forced a liquid she had brought with her between the slack lips. She should have been dead by now but something had protected her. Reaching beneath the covers she withdrew the green stone. It was warm and glowing. Yes—it was endowed with a great power far beyond her own magic. The power of love was grand beyond compare.
Placing the stone on Angela’s lips the Old Lady sang and chanted, moving around the bed. The potion had worked against the mother instead of the baby as if a shield protected the tiny being. She had warned the duchess of going contrary to what was meant to be. But she would live and the child too.
When Angela opened her eyes she saw the wizened face of the Old Lady bending over her. The last thing she remembered was lying on the beach with stars whizzing over her head. So it was over at last. Thank goodness!
She closed her eyes again but was shaken violently by the woman. “Open your eyes! Yes, that’s right." She raised Angela’s hand and closed it around the stone. “You know what that is?”
“Yes,” Angela whispered wishing she would go away so she could sleep.
“The child is still in you.” Angela winced but she continued, “You almost died. The next time you surely will. Swear on everything that stone means to you that you will never make another attempt to rid yourself of this baby!”
“No!”
“Yes! You will swear and when the child is born—if you still do not want her—bring her to me. I will take her.” The black eyes shone strongly, willing a response. “Do you understand what I am saying?” Angela nodded. “Then swear!”
“I promise,” relented Angela, tears of weak despair slipping down into her outflung hair.
three
Laughter from the garden drifted into the sitting room where Amy sat embroidering the tiny clothes she had kept a secret from Angela. It was good to hear her laughing with the children and then she heard Jack’s booming voice. But of course, Jack had always had a way with women.
There was no cause for concern about a renewed romance between them because Angela was now in her ninth month and heavy with child. Her recovery after the attempted abortion that almost took her life had been nothing short of amazing. By the time the Old Lady had emerged from her room Angela was safely past the crisis. Amy never found out what had transpired behind the locked door and didn’t dare ask. She was just immensely thankful that by the time Jack returned from Havana their guest was back to normal. She was also thankful that there were no more attempts to abort the child.
Angela still remained adamant about not wanting the baby but had decided to wait it out. She couldn’t do any less after the dreadful warning and the promise she had made to the Old Lady. She had brought her back from death’s door and for that Angela was grateful. There had been no contact between them since she had left reminding her that she would take the baby if Angela didn’t want it.
Every time Angela thought about it she had to laugh. What a fitting beginning for the offspring of a pirate—to be raised by a witch and spend her childhood in a tumbledown hovel. In her mind she saw a small replica of Laporte, but in tattered skirts and bare feet, wreaking havoc on the Key.
As Angela entered the sitting room Amy hurriedly slipped the baby clothes into her work basket and pretended to examine a torn ruffle on one of Lorna’s dresses.
“I’m going to have it today,” Angela said as calmly as if she was announcing dinner. What a relief it would be to have her body to herself again, to be rid of the kicking squirming thing that inhabited her.
“When did the pains start?”
“They haven’t. But I know it will be today.”
Amy didn’t argue with her. She knew a woman could instinctively tell when the time was right.
“Lord, I’d love to go horseback riding!”
Amy laughed, she had gone riding up to about a month ago. But by now nothing Angela did shocked her or the islanders. They were used to her self-willed ways and were disappointed when she didn’t act eccentric. Amy got to her feet. “I will get things ready.”
Angela went out to the porch and leaned against the railing half sitting on it. She could hear the children playing with Jack. It was almost beyond belief that it was December. Flowers bloomed, birds sang, and the breeze off the ocean was warm. It was more like an English summer. She would have to get used to strange climates because where she was going the seasons were upside down. She wondered how long t
hey would remain in Australia after she and Scott were reunited again.
With a deep sigh she wished they were all sitting by a cozy fire in Seafield Castle with a blizzard howling outside. She had been ecstatically happy there—for a shorter period of time than she cared to remember. It seemed as if she had been unhappy the major part of the last eight years, with only a few brief respites.
A pain gripped her and Angela waited silently for it to pass. It was unusually strong for the first one. When it was over she started upstairs, but another pain caught her halfway up and she sat down on a step panting from the exertion. Sweat broke out on her forehead and there was a sudden gush of water soaking her skirt.
This baby was waiting for no one and was anxious to make an appearance! She made it to the open door of her room and saw Amy turning down the bed. She must have gasped because Amy turned, taking in the situation with a glance. She helped Angela into a nightgown and into bed, then called for the servants.
Always before it had taken long grueling hours, days of hard labor to produce her precious children. But less than four hours later as the winter sun plunged into the sea, the baby was born. Amy received the wet, slippery girl into her hands and it cried lustily for a minute then slipped its tiny thumb into a puckered mouth and was quiet.
When the baby was clean and wrapped in a blanket she brought it over to the bed but Angela thrust her hand out. “No! I don’t want to see it or hold it! Get her out of my sight!”
“But—but—” stammered Amy. She had hoped that Angela would relent in her harsh attitude once the baby was a reality. “You are her mother. How will she survive if you don’t feed her?”
“I don’t know and don’t care!” she screamed angrily. “Weight it down with stones and throw it into the ocean—give it to the witch—keep it yourself! I don’t give a damn what you do with the little monster. Just keep it out of my sight!”
Amy took the baby out of the room. Jack was standing in the hall. “Did you hear?”
“Yes,” he said inspecting the small bundle critically. “It is so tiny. Is it all right?”
“Perfect. Now all we have to do is get her mother to accept her. Poor little girl,” she crooned, rocking her in her arms.
Angela was tired but felt fine. The doctor had been wrong, this had been the easiest birth yet, and the shortest. She opened her eyes as Jack came into the room, walking quietly in case she was sleeping.
He hid a smile at the sudden stubborn tilt of her chin and the determined set of her mouth. She was expecting an argument about the child but he disappointed her.
“I’m glad you’re all right, little one.” He sat on the edge of the bed smiling down at her. His gray eyes were sympathetic. “I worry about you, Angela. You are so headstrong and soon you will be sailing off again for parts unknown. You will be careful?”
“Yes,” she sighed, her eyes half hidden by her lowered lashes. “What else could happen?”
“With you—anything! You make a very poor house-guest.” That brought a smile to her face. “Poor Amy— you have scared her out of her wits several times and she has always been the calm type.”
“She will be glad when I go. Your lives will be uncomplicated again.”
“Yes, but some complications add spice to life. I will miss you, and the children.” He brushed a quick kiss against her forehead. “But we won’t talk of partings yet. You are tired. Sleep.”
Amy dipped a clean twist of cloth into a bowl of warm milk and inserted it into the baby’s open, birdlike mouth. She sucked greedily and then waited patiently as Amy repeated the process. It was as if the child knew the extraordinary efforts Amy was using to keep her alive.
She fed her every few hours, hoping that the baby was getting enough to eat. She rarely cried and at first Amy thought she might be weakly but she was vigorous enough. Her wide blue eyes drank in the small world around her with intense interest.
It had been two days and Angela still refused to see the baby. Amy had coaxed her, tried to reason with her and at last resorted to shouting at her, all to no avail. And she was off gallivanting all over the island on her black horse, declaring she had never felt better and wanted to regain her figure.
Jack had scoured the island to find a nursing mother to wet-nurse the baby but couldn’t. There was one pregnant woman but she wasn’t due for another month, and Amy wondered if she could keep the child alive that long.
She was exhausted by her vigil with the baby, unable to comprehend how any mother could reject her own flesh and blood no matter who the father was. The motion between the bowl and the mouth was repeated mechanically. Angela was dooming the child to death. Heaven knew she had tried her best already, even before its birth.
Jack entered the room, his face set in grim lines. “I did it, talked to her but she won’t give in.” He eased himself into a chair and watched his wife with the infant in her arms. She was growing attached to it already he could tell. For that matter so was he. “She won’t even see her for just a minute.”
“I’m going to keep her!” Amy said vehemently, daring Jack to contradict her. “Somehow I am going to keep her alive until Mrs. Fitzpatrick has her baby.”
“Here,” said Jack reaching out his arms, “let me feed our new daughter. You’re the one that is likely to die of exhaustion before this is over. Go lie down and get some sleep.”
Amy didn’t argue with him. A smile lit up her face at his usual loving concern and she put the baby in his arms. Jack began feeding her, imitating Amy but clumsily. She stood there watching them. Against his immense bulk the baby looked tinier than ever. She dropped a kiss on his whiskered cheek and one on the incredibly soft skin of the infant’s forehead and went to bed.
Jack was one in a million! How many other men would have put up with such a situation, and patiently at that? As she drifted off to sleep Amy heard the quiet sounds of the baby sucking on the cloth and Jack talking softly to her, urging her to eat. It was music to her ears.
When Angela got back from her ride the house was oddly quiet. Ezra was giving the children their lessons in the library and the door to Jack and Amy’s room was closed. She knew the baby was in there, she had heard it crying last night and now hurried by.
It was better not to think about it; let time erase the memory. She felt wonderfully free and young since the birth, full of vitality. The only reminder of the child was the milk swelling in her breasts. But she bound them tightly with a strip of cloth and hoped it would dry up soon. It was very inconvenient, but that too would pass.
The ride had cleared her head of all the hurtful angry words that she had flung at Jack. She had known that eventually Amy would talk him into confronting her. But nothing either of them said, or could say, made her want to see the baby. She didn’t feel like its mother and the fact that she had abandoned it didn’t bother her at all. Let Amy and Jack raise her, she would have a good life with them—much better than if she was brought up by a mother that hated the sight of her.
The only problem was that Lorna was absolutely entranced by her baby sister. How could she ever understand why they must leave her behind when they set out on their search again? She would try and explain it to her daughter and if she still didn’t understand would just have to leave it at that. There was only so much a seven-year-old could absorb no matter how smart.
It would be good to be at sea again on a quest that was spanning years. The interminable delays only made her anxious to be gone soon. Angela had decided to buy a ship and inquiries were already being made in Havana by the agents Jack had commissioned. Any day now they would receive word that a ship was available. Just the thought set her heart leaping with excitement.
The thought of Scott’s mouth on hers of lying in his bed and joining with a wild frenzy made Angela dizzy. It was three years since his transportation and no man had pleasured her since. True, there had been a few blissfully forgetful moments in Jack’s arms but that had led to a dead end. Their love affair was over once and for all. The
times with Keith and Laporte were better obliterated.
But how could she force herself to forget the two men that she had killed? The Old Lady was right—Angela was a disaster to men. Thurston Vaughn, Owen’s brother, the richest most powerful man in Britain, had committed suicide because he couldn’t have her, and because he had lost everything to her: estates, money, even his title on the turn of a card. He had calmly and efficiently slit his wrists in his gold-plated tub and bled to death in style, sipping brandy.
Then Keith. She closed her eyes with a spasm of pain. Keith Montgomery, Jane’s brother; her friend and protector and knight in shining armor; her golden lover, her husband. But what a price he had paid to make Angela his wife—conspiring with Captain Latham to have Scott arrested and transported, deceiving the whole world into believing Scott had died of cholera aboard the Columbine on his way to Australia so she would be free to marry him. And marry him she did, only to regret it immediately, for no man could ever replace Scott.
What a murderous rage she had felt when she found out the truth! The hoax, her own bigamy, the agony Keith had subjected Scott to, not to mention herself and the children. Beyond stopping herself Angela had challenged Keith to a duel and shot him in cold blood. He hadn’t even made a pretense of defending himself—wouldn’t raise a pistol against her, the woman he loved. He had deliberately forced her hand, knowing he could never live without her, knowing she would leave him for Scott.
Why not think on more pleasant things? Going to her jewelry box Angela quickly found the golden locket and opened it, gazing lovingly at Scott’s image smiling up at her with a rakish charm. His eyes were warm and brown, and the golden specks dancing in them seemed alive with love for her. Every well-remembered line of his face beguiled her: the firm jaw and cleft chin; the sensual lips that could cause such havoc when pressed to hers; the straight classical nose; the wavy bronze hair that she loved to run her fingers through. If only he was here right now to make her dreams a wonderful, shattering reality!
Toward Love's Horizon Page 5
