The Indigo Blade

by Linda Jones

  "Just read the rest,” she said impatiently.

  "'Penelope,'” he said, beginning again. “'How could you? Since you refuse to see me, I must be satisfied to leave this letter, but I could not go without letting you know how I feel about your unforgivable actions.’”

  Maximillian raised finely shaped eyebrows above lazy eyes that were so pale at the moment they seemed to hold no color at all. “Ah, yes. Unforgivable actions."

  He didn't wait for an answer but continued reading. “'I know your sympathies lie with Uncle William and the loyalists, but I never believed you could stoop so low as to betray a friend. I can no longer stay here. By the time you read this, I will be far away. I can never undo what you've done, as I can never forgive it. But I can and will leave behind a family I can no longer bear to live with, and I can fight for what I believe in. Tyler.’”

  He offered the letter back with one hand and stifled a yawn with the other. “Sounds as if the lad's run away from home."

  "Maximillian, how can you be so calm? Tyler isn't old enough to be living on his own. He hasn't finished his education, and he's ... he's just fifteen."

  "Some are men at fifteen,” Maximillian said with little care. “Some are not. Your brother seemed to me quite capable of taking care of himself."

  This was the most frustrating conversation she'd ever endured. “And what's this about my betraying a friend? What does that mean?"

  Maximillian had evidently found a spot on his lacy cuff, for he began studying and brushing at it. “Oh, that,” he muttered. “I imagine he's talking about Lowry. It's all the talk about town today, you know. My wife the brave heroine.” He glanced at her from hooded eyes. “I never would have thought it of you."

  "Heath Lowry?” Penelope said softly. She felt a wave of unease, a coolness in her cheeks. “I didn't expect anyone would find out."

  "Really?” Maximillian turned his back to her and walked slowly from the room, that damned cuff continuing to claim his attention. “It's not every day that you get to send a rebel to his death. I'm rather surprised you didn't tell me all about it last night."

  He continued walking away from her, and she had to hurry to catch up. “What do you mean, to his death? What happened?” His long legs were carrying him away from her too quickly, and she was soon breathless. “Maximillian, will you please stop?” He did not. “I did what I thought was right,” she said breathlessly, knowing now that she should have fetched the doctor in spite of Heath's protests. “I can't believe Heath's dead. Are you sure?"

  Maximillian came to an abrupt halt, and she caught up with him in the foyer of her new home. His back was stiff and straight, his face fixed and expressionless as he turned to her. “We don't discuss politics, remember m'dear? The topic is of no interest to me.” There was not a hint of warmth in his eyes, not a hint of longing or love in the face he presented to her.

  "But—"

  "Enough,” he said sharply. “Good God.” He looked her up and down with barely disguised disdain. “You bore me already.” With that, he turned his back to her once again and walked away. This time, she didn't bother to follow.

  Chadwick's reinforcements were well on their way back to England, with an armed escort. Four privateers had intercepted the vessel transporting the troops, boarded the ship, and taken command with very little resistance. Chadwick would wonder what had delayed his troops, but he'd not receive word of their fate for weeks, perhaps months.

  It was small consolation.

  Max sat in his study, a single candle burning on his desk, a map spread before him. Pockets of resistance had sprung up across the country, and South Carolina was no different. Those rebels needed guns, ammunition, financial support, and training. The League of the Indigo Blade provided it all.

  "Maximillian."

  He closed his eyes at the intrusive sound of Penelope's voice. God, the woman was stubborn. He'd avoided her all day, rebuffed her in the evening, and still she sought him out.

  "What?” he answered sharply without turning to face the doorway. He rolled up the map as her footsteps sounded softly, footsteps that brought her closer and closer.

  "I just wanted to say good night."

  Her voice was sweet as honey, the dulcet tones of an angel reminding him of the false treasure he'd found and claimed, the life she'd offered and then taken away. The anger that simmered inside him grew until he was afraid he could no longer contain it.

  "Good night, then,” he said sharply, opening a drawer and tossing the map inside, then slamming the drawer with more force than was necessary. Still, he hadn't looked at her. God help him, he did not think he could bear it.

  "Maximillian.” Penelope's soft whisper was hesitant, a caress so sweet and uncertain.

  Max's first instinct was to come out of his chair and strangle her. He'd been a fool to think her innocent and precious. He'd been a bigger fool to fall in love with her. At this moment, he wanted revenge for the way she'd deceived him as much as he wanted her to pay for Heath Lowry's death. Perhaps more.

  But he couldn't relent, he couldn't let the anger overcome the cold calm he'd forced himself to maintain. Not yet. He stilled the fury that burned inside him, and calling on all the resolve he possessed, he rotated his head slowly until he could see her beautiful, treacherous face. “Yes, m'dear?"

  "Is something wrong?"

  How could she ask that question? Did she have no soul, no conscience at all? “No,” he lied smoothly.

  "It's just that you're acting very differently today. Have I displeased you in some way?” There was an earnest quality in her voice, a sadness on her face.

  "No,” he lied again. “What more could a man ask for in a wife?” He lifted his hand slowly to touch her arm, to trail his fingers over fine silk and delicate lace. Much as he wanted to, he did not grab and shake her. His touch was light, his fingers barely touching her gown. He could feel no warmth beneath the silk. Perhaps there was none.

  It was a small smile that crossed her face, a faint turn of her mouth that transformed her entire face. “I'm happy to hear you say that. I want us to have a good life together, Maximillian."

  "I'm sure we will.” Unable to take any more, he allowed his hand to fall away and returned his attention to a now-bare desk. “You come from a good family, your breeding is practically impeccable, and being associated with the Seton name will do wonders for my import business when I get it into full swing.” He drummed lazy fingers on the desk and forced a yawn. “And I, of course, will be the perfect husband. You'll never want for anything money can buy, m'dear. Clothes, jewels, whatever your heart desires."

  "I care little for such things,” she said softly.

  "It's all I have to offer.” The words came quickly, too harsh and too true.

  There was a moment of complete silence. No rustle of silk, no murmur of Penelope's soft breath broke the stillness. If he was lucky, she would run from the room without another word. Luck was not with him, on this night or any other.

  "And what of love?” she finally whispered.

  "Faith, m'dear,” Max said lightly, “the courting stage of our relationship is over. We are man and wife, and need endure no more silly chatter of love."

  Dead silence filled the room again, and Max dared not look at Penelope. Instead, he lifted a hand and brushed at the lace cuff. “Would you look at that? Another damned spot, and this my favorite shirt."

  Out of the corner of his eye he saw his wife backing toward the door.

  "Good night,” she said, her voice unsteady and almost weepy. “Should I ... should I wait up for you?"

  He forced himself to look at her, to stare into her damp eyes, to stare into the dark and deceptive depths where he'd once been foolish enough to see love. If he touched her again, he would kill her. If he let down this shield, he would accuse her of treachery and she would know the truth—that he was not who he pretended to be.

  "I performed my husbandly duties last night, did I not? Lud, woman, was that not enough for you
?"

  Her hand trembled and her mouth quivered, but she said nothing.

  "I quite outdid myself on our wedding night, I confess, and I find I'm still quite fatigued.” He lifted a limp-wristed hand and smiled softly. “Gad, I hope you didn't think I would provide such services each and every night."

  "Of course not,” Penelope said as she reached the doorway, finally as anxious to escape as he was to have her go. “Good night, Maximillian."

  Max didn't drop his hand or his facade until Penelope had been gone for a very long moment. He listened to her step on the stairs, the rustle of her gown, and finally the closing of her door above.

  She was amoral, surely, to stand before him so innocently after what she'd done. Evil and heartless and empty. She was a shell of a woman, a beautiful body without a soul, without a conscience. Without a heart. He could never show his true self to her, never offer his heart and his soul to a woman who had none.

  Why, after a lifetime of hard lessons on the falsity of human nature, had he been fooled by this woman? Why had he believed in her?

  Max doused the candle to leave himself in comforting darkness.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter Ten

  Penelope quickly went from confused to angry to numb, and the process took all of a week. Maximillian's puzzling and complete transition from loving suitor to disinterested husband was only one of her problems.

  Uncle William did not share her concern about Tyler's departure. In fact, when Penelope called on her uncle the morning after receiving Tyler's letter to discuss the problem, he'd brushed aside her concerns and began a tirade concerning her husband's ungrateful response to his wedding gift.

  She'd tried to turn the conversation around, but her uncle had seemed almost pleased to be rid of the responsibility of a rebellious nephew. He'd insisted there was nothing he could do and urged Penelope to put the youngster from her mind. She couldn't.

  It had been there, in William Seton's house, that she'd heard the story that had circulated about Heath's death and her part in the capture. Her uncle had actually congratulated her, and when she denied the preposterous charges and shed a tear for the young man who'd died, he'd winked slyly and told her not to fret. He understood completely her reasons for preferring to remain anonymous. Penelope's heartiest protestations were met with a condescending smile.

  She didn't understand why Heath had accused her, or why Victor had confirmed the story. Poor Heath. She would forever remember him as she'd last seen him, hurt and scared; so young, so devoted to his cause. It wasn't fair that he should have died in that way. It wasn't right, and Penelope was torn as to what to do next. She'd wanted to rush from the house and spread the word that she was innocent, but she'd also wanted to hang her head and cry.

  Silent tears came, but try as she might, she couldn't convince her uncle, who was most proud of her supposed actions, of her innocence. Victor Chadwick, the only person who might clear her of this charge, was conveniently unavailable. He was out of town for a few days. Uncle William said vaguely.

  Mary had been asleep, still, on that morning, though Uncle William told Penelope—when she asked—that Mary was aware of Heath's fate and of Tyler's action. Apparently Mary was no more concerned about Tyler than Uncle William was, to be sleeping so late in the morning. Nor, evidently, did she grieve for Heath as Penelope did.

  After that short visit, Penelope went home. She hadn't left the house since.

  The fine Broderick mansion was more a prison than a home. The servants never smiled in her presence. In fact, they seemed to despise her. Maximillian was not the man she'd married, was not the man who'd professed so convincingly to love her. He was cold and distant, concerned only with his wardrobe and his horses, and was usually absent or sleeping. He did his best to avoid her, of that she was certain.

  Their differing schedules helped to keep them apart. Penelope kept to the routine she'd maintained all her life—rising with the sun and finding her way to bed soon after it set. Maximillian rarely rose before noon, and Penelope usually had no idea where he was when she retired. She heard him in his study some nights, while on other nights he was mysteriously absent.

  So, a week after becoming Mrs. Maximillian Broderick, Penelope drifted through her day unhappily, waiting for word from Tyler, questioning over and over again the events of the night she'd found Heath Lowry beneath her window, and wondering when or if her husband would make an appearance.

  When Dalton came into the parlor to very sourly announce Miss Mary Seton, Penelope put the book she'd been holding but not reading aside and came to her feet.

  Mary was radiant, with color in her cheeks and a brilliant smile on her face. “I came to see how married life is agreeing with you,” Mary said as she stepped into the room.

  Penelope took quick steps to reach the doorway and throw her arms around her cousin's neck. “I miss you terribly,” she said, and she meant it. No one would ever know how deeply and regretfully she meant it.

  "But you have Maximillian now, and he's much richer and much more handsome than I,” Mary teased as she stepped back to break away from the hug.

  "Is something wrong?” Mary's smile faded.

  Right then, looking into Mary's sparkling eyes, Penelope made her decision. She wouldn't take her troubles to her cousin or to anyone else, wouldn't become the pitied, unhappy wife. Marrying Maximillian had been her decision—her mistake. She had no choice but to make the best of it.

  "I've been very worried about Tyler,” she confessed.

  "La,” Mary said with a wave of her hand. “Tyler will be fine. I expect he'll come back any day now, hungry and tired and done with his ridiculous ideas of revolution. A full stomach and a soft warm bed will seem heaven after a few days or weeks on his own."

  "I hope you're right."

  "I am.” Mary was sometimes annoyingly confident, certain she was infallible in her beliefs. This time, Penelope hoped her cousin was right.

  "And then,” Penelope said, taking Mary's arm and leading her to the sofa, “there's this preposterous story going around."

  "Heath Lowry,” Mary said as she took her seat.

  Penelope nodded.

  "Gossip.” Mary dismissed the subject with another wave of her hand. “And besides, what do you care what a bunch of agitators think? You're a true heroine to the loyalists."

  "It's not true."

  "Well, it seems you get the credit anyway,” Mary said lightly.

  This was impossible. No one took her concerns or her defense seriously, not even Mary. Penelope reclaimed her seat, while Mary rose and started to examine the room. Every figurine, every vase, every piece of furniture came under Mary's wandering inspection. She talked as she roamed, providing gossip from their small circle of friends, plans for a new gown, her latest confrontation with her father ... and Penelope soaked it all in. She hadn't realized how she'd longed for friendly voice. A smile, a laugh ... this had been sorely missing from her day-to-day life.

  At last Mary, who'd made a complete circle of the large room, stopped in front of Penelope. “You really are worried,” she said sternly. “Is it Tyler?"

  "In part."

  "And that business with Heath..."

  "Until Victor gets back to Charles Town, there's no way for me to clear my name."

  "Victor arrived yesterday,” Mary said with a small smile. “He came by the house last night, and stayed to visit with me for a while. We talked until quite late.” Her smile widened. “When we last spoke of Victor, my words were unkind, but you know better than anyone how I feel about him. And now—oh, Penelope—I think maybe he's finally falling in love with me."

  For Mary's sake, Penelope hoped it was true, even though in their last discussion of Victor Chadwick they'd agreed he wasn't good enough for the bubbly and beautiful Mary Seton. She guessed they'd been words spoken in anger, at least on Mary's part.

  "That's wonderful."

  "You're not jealous, are you?” Mary asked, her smile dying. �
��I mean, you could have had Victor for yourself, if you'd wanted him."

  Mary had always had a soft spot in her heart for Victor, and Penelope really wished her cousin the best in this. “I don't think Victor and I were well suited at all, and in time he would have realized it, too. You, on the other hand, are just what he needs. Sunshine in his life, a smile and a laugh, someone to make him less ... serious."

  "I can handle that, I think,” Mary said with a sly smile.

  "Mary,” Penelope took her cousin's hands. “I need to see him as soon as possible. I need Victor to clear my name."

  Mary squeezed Penelope's hands. “I'll speak to him on your behalf this evening."

  "You should have seen her,” Mary said gleefully. “She is positively miserable."

  The carriage house had become as familiar to Mary as her own bedroom. She could find her way from the house to the small building to the fine coach in the dark. There, upon the padded cushions, Victor had loved her. He'd taken her in the back of the wagon, too, and on the ground, and standing up. There was no longer pain when he took her, and on occasion she began to feel that there was something beyond the quick coupling they shared.

  It didn't matter. What mattered was that he needed her, that he told her she was beautiful, that in her arms he lost control.

  Victor had been away from Charles Town for days, and he'd missed her. He said so, and with great enthusiasm he showed her how very much. And then, as they sat in the dark, he asked after Penelope.

  "Perhaps I should do as she asks and clear her name."

  "Don't you dare!” Mary grabbed his head, threading her fingers through his already mussed hair. He'd dressed quickly once he was done with her, and she'd hurriedly redonned her simple linen gown. He was rumpled and warm and satisfied. She was empty and cold and annoyed. “Everything's going perfectly, and I won't allow you to ruin it all now with a fit of honesty."

  "If it had been anyone else, if it had been a servant or a stranger or a slave, this would already be forgotten,” he whispered, his breath still coming heavy and uneven. “But Heath Lowry was one of their own, the son of a wealthy man, a young man they watched grow from a child to an adult, and they won't forgive Penelope. Not ever."