“Please be careful, sir,” Beckett pleaded, handing him a squat glass filled with amber liquid. Your grandmother would take her cane to me if anything was to happen to you.”
Dismissing the warning, Nick took her stiff fingers and wrapped them around the glass then urged the drink to her mouth. He chuckled at her grimace as the first of the spirits passed her lips. “I don’t think our little stowaway is fond of brandy.” But he persisted with his efforts until she had downed the contents.
“Now,” he said gently, setting the glass aside, “I can tell from your speech that you’re from the North, so why don’t you tell us who you are and how you came to be aboard my ship?”
“Your ship?” The last scrap of color drained from her face. “If that was your ship, then you know, sir, that my name is Sarah Townsend and that I was kidnapped.”
Nick jerked back as if she had slapped him, and his scowl darkened. “I would be careful, my little miss, just who you accuse of kidnapping – “
“She might speak the truth, sir,” Beckett interrupted. “Captain Riggins being the scoundrel that he is.” But at Nick’s glare the agent edged back again toward the door. “Of course there is always the chance that the captain paid good coin for her. Even though she be a bit on the slight side.”
Nick watched as tears welled in her eyes and wondered why they should move him. He cared not a whit about the girl, he only wanted answers. “You say you were abducted, yet Riggins has papers for you. Was he the one who took you from your home?” His voice grew hard with his impatience.
A single tear traced a path through the grime on her cheek. “I don’t know. I only know that two men came to my house in the middle of the night and then I was on that ship.” A violent shudder consumed her. “I’ve got to get back. My family must be frantic by now.” She tried to rise, but her legs refused to support her.
“Do ye want me to take her back to the wharf, sir?” Beckett asked.
Nick held her panicked gaze with his and suddenly realized his mind was settled. “No, I’ll keep her here tonight.”
Beckett nodded. His employer’s manner didn’t allow for further questions and he struggled to keep his surprise from showing. “Kind” was not a word he would ever have used to describe Nick Beaumont.
“I want you at the wharf at sunrise,” Nick continued. “Stress to Captain Riggins how important it is for him to find those papers, if, indeed, they really exist. Then have the crew remove that scum from my ship. Put word out that Riggins is a thief and no longer works for Beaumont Shipping.”
“Ye know if I do that, sir, Riggins will be hard pressed to find work as a mate, let alone a captain.”
Nick turned and cast a dark look in Beckett’s direction.
Beckett saluted. “Consider it done, sir.”
As the door clicked from Beckett’s departure, Nick watched the sound snap Sarah back to reality. “I can’t stay here,” she declared, panic edging her voice, and this time when she jerked upright, she managed to stand.
Nick caught her arms as she began to sway. “I don’t really think you have much choice in the matter, my dear.”
Her eyes, wide and frightened, darted about the room in confusion. Frantically she pulled herself from Nick’s grasp. “I’ve got to get home. Which way is Salem?” She took less than a step before spinning back in his direction. “I have to . . . “But her words never came as her body failed her and she fainted.
Catching her before she hit the floor, Nick swung her high into his arms, surprised at how light and fragile she felt. Her head rolled to rest on his shoulder and for a moment he stood silent before the fire, angered by the desires that clamored throughout his body. The hall clock struck the half hour, its deep chime ringing through the house. Sarah never moved. Not when Nick slowly climbed the stairs or later when he laid her on his bed.
* * *
Undaunted by the storm that continued to rage outside his window, Nicholas Beaumont sat in his study, lost in thought. The fire crackled warmly in the hearth, casting a golden glow. Books of every description filled the floor-to-ceiling shelves that flanked the fireplace, and an imported tapestry cloaked the opposite wall with its splendor. As the rain pelted the windows, Nick studied the indenture papers that Beckett had delivered.
They certainly looked official, but then so had the duplicate manifest. Nick reread the contents for the third time. Sarah Townsend, of Salem Village in the Massachusetts Bay Colony, had been sold into bondage for a period to last not less than ten years. And the grand sum that had been placed on her worth was five shillings. Nick steepled his fingers as he contemplated the document. Who was Samuel Wittfield and why had the man sold one as comely as Sarah for only five shillings? Had she already been in service to Wittfield and deemed a troublemaker? She claimed to have been kidnapped, but her hands were not those of a well-bred lady. She had labored somewhere, for her palms bore the calluses of steady toil. His brows knit in thought. Never had he imagined that under all that filth he would find skin the color of ivory, or that the simple act of removing grim from her arms and legs would touch him so deeply. He had only to close his eyes and the image of her sensual body sprang to mind. She was tiny, but the memory of the gentle curve of her breast made his loins tighten with anticipation. His smile vanished as he carefully folded the indenture papers and fought back his desires. He would have her, of that he had no doubt. But first he would have his answers. . .
“I don’t care what your orders are. I said, get out of my way and let me pass.”
Hearing the commotion outside his study door, Nick slipped the documents into his desk and locked the drawer. Tucking the tiny gold key into his vest pocket he leaned back in his chair to wait. Within moments the door flew open and a disheveled Wadsworth stepped inside.
“I beg your pardon, sir, but. . .”
“Get out of my way, you old fool.”
Nick stood as two burly men carrying an invalid’s chair brushed past his butler. Drenched from the pouring rain, their boots left a trail of wet footprints across is carpet.
“Over by the fire.” Agatha Beaumont whacked her porter on the shoulder with her cane. “And don’t you dare drop me.” She gave a grunt of dissatisfaction as they lowered her chair and unhooked the poles that allowed them to carry it. “Hurry up.” she snapped. “Be gone with you now. I have business to see to.”
Careful to stay clear of her cane, the two men gave the old lady a hasty nod and fled toward the door. “Don’t go too far,” she cautioned, “I may want to go home soon.”
Nick folded his arms across his chest and leaned back against his desk. “I thought we decided that on days with weather such as this, you would stay home and I would come to you.”
“We decided no such thing. Besides, if I waited for you to fit me into your ridiculous schedule, I would be cold in my grave.”
Nick crossed the room and placed a kiss on the old woman’s cheek, inhaling the strong rose scent that clung to her clothing. “I broke fast with you just yesterday, Gran.”
Agatha shrugged and pulled off her gloves from fingers bent with age. “If you’re too busy to spare a moment and a nip of sherry for your last living relative, then I shall just leave.”
Nick rolled his eyes and moved to the side table, “Don’t work yourself into a tizzy, Gran. You know I am always glad to see you.” He handed her a small crystal glass filled with amber liquid, “Except when you foolishly venture out in to the worst storm of the season.” Punctuating his words lightning streaked the sky and thunder cracked on its wake. “See, the hem of your gown is wet.”
Agatha frowned. “You watch your mouth, young man, and mind who you call foolish.” She downed her sherry in a single gulp and extended the glass for a refill.
Nick cocked a brow as her reached for her glass. “ 'Tis not yet noon, Gran.”
“I can tell time, Nicholas. It’s my legs that don’t work, not my mind. And at my age, if I feel a want for sherry, I don’t need you or the clock to grant me
permission.” Snatching the filled glass from his hand, she again downed its contents. “And don’t go sending that wicked scowl of yours in my direction, young man, or I’ll send you out to cut a hickory switch, and don’t think I won’t.”
Shaking his head and forcing the smile from his lips, Nick bent to stoke the fire. “What pressing business can I help you with, Madam Beaumont?”
Agatha smiled and relaxed back in her chair. “Come to supper tonight. Cook is going to make your favorite, fried clams and oyster stew.”
Nick sat on the chair before her, took the empty glass from her fingers and kept her hand firmly within his own. He felt the tremors that she tried so hard to hide. “I can’t today, Gran. I already have an engagement.”
Agatha sent a shrewd glance in his direction. “And is it that prissy Marigold Thermont that you’ll be bedding tonight?”
Nick’s laughter filled the room as he flopped back in his chair to stare at his grandmother. She was wizened and bent with age, wisps of white hair stuck out in all directions from a scrap of lace she wore on her head, and at two and seventy she was still sharp as a tack. “I can’t tell you that. You raised me to be a gentleman.”
Agatha gave a snort. “I did nothing of the kind. You have no one to blame that on but yourself. Marigold, that’s a stupid name, but then she’s a stupid girl. Marigold. Ha, makes me want to sneeze each time I say it.” She waved her handkerchief before her face. “I’m too warm here, Nick, you made the fire too hot.”
Nick rose and gently eased her chair away from the hearth. But before he could guess her intentions, Agatha’s hand shot out and scooped up the stack of invitations that rested on the corner of this desk. “Gran.” Nick reached for the correspondence, but she handed him only the empty envelopes as she quickly scanned several invitations before he could rescue those too.
“Why does Mrs. Hawkins want to see you tomorrow?”
Nick stacked the papers together and pointedly placed them in one of the desk drawers. “I won’t discuss that, either.”
Agatha cocked her head as she watched him return to his chair near the fire. He was too handsome, she thought. Despite the fact that he refused to follow fashion and wear a wig, he had only to smile and the ladies swooned at his feet. “You’re up to no good, Nicky. You’d just better be careful that Master Hawkins doesn’t come home and take offense to what you’re planning. He’s liable to shoot you.”
Nick returned her level stare. “For having tea with his wife?”
“Ha!” Agatha cackled. “I never heard it called that before. But if you want to go and get yourself shot, that’s fine with me. The shock of it will probably kill me, but that’s fine, too. Just tell me why Beckett was all over the Lady May like a fly on a fresh pile.”
Nick folded his arms across his chest. So now we finally come to the point of the visit, he thought. “How do you know that?” he challenged.
“Don’t change the subject, Nicholas. We’re in this business together and don’t you forget it. More than half of the ships in Beaumont Shipping belong to me, at least until I die. And I want to know what is wrong.”
Nick thought of Sarah, still sleeping in his bed. “And what makes you think that something is amiss?”
Agatha’s fingers thumped against the wooden arm of her chair with impatience. “You always wait to hear that the ship has docked before you send an agent down. Suddenly, you have your best agent waiting in the rain for a ship that is not due in for days. That’s not coincidence, Nicky, that’s careful planning, and I want to know why.”
Nick leaned back in his chair and wondered what she would make of Sarah’s story. Her body might be failing, but her shrewd insight to business constantly amazed him. “The last few trips I’ve had an uneasy feeling about Captain Riggins.”
Agatha rubbed her hands together, her eyes narrowing. “I never did like that man.” She gave a shrug at Nick’s startled expression. “Oh, he’s a good enough captain. But he always gave me the feeling that he was looking for ways to make a quick fortune. Is he taking cargo?”
Nick shook his head and rubbed his hand across his jaw. “I thought he might have been dealing with slaves.”
“What!” Nick watched his grandmother’s pale face turn a sickly white before blooming a fiery red. “I won’t have it, Nicky.” Her cane thumped hard on the floor. “I don’t care how much money there’s to be made in that. I simply won’t have it.”
“Gran, many people don’t carry the same beliefs that you do. And besides – “
Agatha’s stunned expression fixed on her grandson in horror. “If you are going to tell me, Nicholas Beaumont,” she interrupted, “that you don’t share my feelings in this matter, then I am going to march out and get that hickory stick myself. You always did pick the puny branches anyway.”
Nick reached for her hand and found it cold to the touch. “You know better than that, Gran. After all you’ve taught me, do you really think I would sanction such an act?”
“Slaves.” Agatha shuddered. “What would the good Lord think if he were to look down and see slaves on a Beaumont ship? Why, I’d die from the shame of it.” Despite the heavy layer of rice powder she wore, her cheeks kept the fiery glow of her indignation.
“You get down to that dock yourself, Nicholas, and you drag that blackheart Riggins back to me by his ear. I’ll give that man a healthy piece of my mind and then see him hung.”
Nick struggled not to laugh at the thoughts of his frail grandmother trying to thrash a man who easily outweighed her three times over. “Gran, Riggins wasn’t carrying slaves. If you’d hush a moment I’ll tell you.”
Agatha frowned. If her legs were working, she’d go down to that dock and see for herself, rain or no rain. She drew herself upright in her chair. “I’m still the head of this business, Nicholas, so if you know what’s good for you, you’ll give me a straight story.”
Nick smiled. Some things never changed. “Beckett found that Riggins had a duplicate manifest. He wasn’t taking any of our cargo. He was simply using our ship to transport some of his own.”
Agatha’s eyes narrowed in thought. “I never did like that scum. Too shifty, if you ask me. You relieved him of his position?” Nick nodded. “Good, I want to go home now. “Luuuttherrr, OOOOscarrr.” Her shrill voice filled the room, and Nick winced from the sound.
Stepping to the hearth, he reached for the bell pull. “Gran, you don’t have to yell.” But his words were lost as the door to the study again crashed open and his grandmother’s two porters scurried in. Within moments they had secured their poles to her chair while Wadsworth stood uneasily in the doorway holding her cape. Nick took the cape, settled it securely around her frail shoulders, and pulled up the hood, before dropping a kiss on her wrinkled cheek. “Next time, wait for me to visit you,” he challenged. “I’ve got a five-pound note that says you can’t.”
Agatha looked up at his classic features and gave his cheek a sharp pat. “Never bet on something unless you’re sure you can win, Nicky. Otherwise it’s a waste of money.” She pulled her cape more firmly about her. “Oh, I almost forgot. You can’t come for supper tonight, I’ve made other plans. What are you two waiting for?” she snapped. “The good Lord is going to call me to my grave before you even get me home. And if you don’t like carrying me about, think how you’ll feel carrying a corpse.”
Nick laughed, then gave the porters a sympathetic wink as Wadsworth closed the door behind them.
Chapter Three
Squaring her shoulders as much as her borrowed shift would allow, Sarah stood at the top of the massive staircase and looked down at the lavish foyer below. Huge paintings broke the starkness of the pristine white walls and a bouquet of fresh flowers graced a highly polished table near the door. The fierce rains had ceased and sunlight now poured through the tall windows to bounce off the crystal chandelier and scatter in all directions.
The sudden brightness stung her eyes, and Sarah felt her head grow light. Desperately, she clutched
the banister and sank to the steps offering up a fervent prayer.
“Please let this be a dream,” she whispered, willing the queasiness in her stomach to pass. The rocking motion of the ship washed over her, and her hand rubbed absently on the smooth oaken banister for reassurance. Her memory of the night before seemed as scattered as dandelion fluff tossed by the wind. There had been a man. She remembered his silhouette illuminated by the firelight, but no face came to mind. Then she remembered waking to the smell of hot cider. A young girl, no more than nine years in age, had gently bade her to rise and bathe. Sarah smiled thinking of the huge tub of hot water. What a luxury. Her body and hair scrubbed clean and dried by the fire had done much to restore her spirits and push the clouds from her mind. But as she donned the offered garments, she could not help but wonder as to their owner. Carefully, she had tried to glean information from the girl. She had smiled shyly but offered no answers. By the time Sarah was dressed she knew only that she was to make her way to the master’s study as soon as she was fit. The master waited for her and would she please not dawdle.
Sitting on the top step, leaning against the newel post, Sarah rubbed her temples. Her mind raced with confusion. Where was she and in whose bed had she slept? A score of questions tumbled one over the other for her attention until her head ached.
Sarah opened her eyes. “Have you forsaken me, Lord?” The sunlight intensified, bathing her in a golden glow, and she reveled in its healing warmth. Relieved that the steps before her no longer rocked to and fro, Sarah slowly rose to her feet. Gathering what was left of her dignity, she smoothed the borrowed skirt and pushed the shift back onto her shoulder. But as she soundlessly made her way down the carpeted stairs, her hands turned clammy and her anxiety grew.
She tapped firmly on the study door, then taking a deep breath, turned the latch and stepped inside.
Bewitching Kissing Page 3
