by Mary Campisi
She would have no part in their games.
“Emily, I tell you, I’ve been watching the man. He’s in love with you,” Andrew persisted.
“Funny, but Cyrus said the same thing about you.” She met his blue gaze, her face somber, unsmiling. “The two of you have been at odds since the moment you met. I suggest you deal with one another on a private level, and stop putting me in the middle.”
Her words cast a shadow of gloom over the conversation, matching the dimness of the room. “Very well,” Andrew said. “Perhaps that’s exactly what we need to do. Settle matters in private.”
“Good.” At least one of these men was being reasonable. Cyrus had been about as easy to move as the stone fountain on the front lawn of Glenview Manor. But Andrew’s next words made her realize he was just as stubborn as Cyrus, though in a more diplomatic, genteel manner.
“And when Mandrey is gone, I’ll take over full protection of you against your errant husband, when and if he ever shows.”
“Andrew—”
“Don’t worry, Emily,” Andrew waved a gloved hand in dismissal, “I can handle ten Noah Sandletons.”
****
The carriage pulled away from Penworth, Andrew’s words clinging to Emily like a hot summer night, still and close, almost suffocating. I can handle ten Noah Sandletons. There had been sincerity and conviction in those words. Determination, too. For the first time in all of her encounters with Andrew, Emily had detected a steely tenacity that heretofore lay buried under an air of gentlemanly civility. But she’d seen it today and it surprised and confused her.
What would happen if Andrew and Noah ever met one another? Though Noah could intimidate through sheer size and dark looks alone, Emily sensed Andrew would not fall prey to such tactics. Rather, he’d remain undeterred, employing craftiness and cunning to achieve his goal—whatever goal that might be.
The only bright spot in the whole situation was her relative certainty that Noah would not return. Seeing her again had most likely been a passing fancy—like their marriage. She closed her eyes and sighed. Noah was but a memory, and an unpleasant one at that. Everything would be fine.
“What the devil is going on?”
Emily’s eyes shot open. They’d rounded the bend toward home where Glenview Manor sat several hundred yards ahead, in stately, vine-covered elegance. But the front lawn leading to the manor was anything but stately or elegant and this is where Cyrus’s attention lay. Two men, one tall and skinny, the other built like a mountain, romped about the front lawn like children on a Sunday afternoon. They ran to the huge fountain and drenched their bodies with the water spouting from the stone angel’s pursed lips. A third attempted to climb the privet hedge.
From the distance, their manner of dress appeared similar—breeches, loose fitting shirts, jack boots. Most wore caps. Only one man stood out from the rest and Emily would have recognized his tall, lanky build anywhere. Edward Billington volleyed between the men like a black bouncing ball, his long arms gesturing to the house in choppy movements. He appeared to be trying to get everyone inside, probably to regain control and avoid a spectacle, as was the typical Billington style. Little did he realize he provided more entertainment than the men cavorting on the lawn.
“Damn them,” Cyrus whispered under his breath.
Emily sensed the tension in his body. Oh, but he did not look pleased.
She peered out the window in an effort to get a better glimpse as the carriage rolled around to the middle of the drive. The men stopped their play as all eyes centered on the elegant carriage bearing the Sandleton crest. It was then that Emily saw their faces, young, old, stubbled, clean-shaven, familiar ones. Before Cyrus could stop her, she leapt from her seat and flung open the door, bounding into the waiting arms of The Falcon’s crew.
Chapter 14
“I tell you, Miss Emily, er, I mean Lady Emily, the capn’ was dyin’ without you.” Big Tom’s full lower lip pulled into a pout as he shook his shaved head. “Jest dyin’.”
“Yep, it’s true enough,” Amos piped in, popping a piece of roast duck in his mouth and chewing it with great thought. His sun-weathered face resembled well-worn leather, creases and all. “The capn’ was miserable before he left. Ornery too.” He shook his gray head and laughed. “He was a sight to be around, let me tell you.”
“He’s in love.” All eyes turned to the red-haired youth who’d uttered the words. Jeremy’s face turned five shades deeper than his hair. “It’s just my opinion, is all,” he muttered, bowing his head to stare at his plate.
Cyrus tapped his fingers on his glass of claret. When this was all over, he’d thrash every one of his men, starting with Big Tom and saving an extra one for Jeremy. Or two, perhaps. They were making Noah look like a weak-kneed spineless fool and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it. From the moment Emily bound out of the carriage, he knew trouble was ahead, and he’d been right. For the last several hours, he’d heard nothing but what a sorry excuse for a man Noah had become since parting from his beloved wife. It was downright sickening.
“He’ll come fer you now,” Amos said, around a mouthful of candied yams. “Sure enough, he will.” The other men, mouths filled with samplings of roast duck, boiled potato and candied yams, grunted agreement.
Was Emily worried for Noah’s safety? Did she think he’d try to come to her? One look at her plate told him something was bothering her. She’d flattened her potatoes, topped them with smashed yams, and dumped shredded roast pork over the whole mess. And she hadn’t taken more than two bites, though he couldn’t blame her on that count.
Emily cleared her throat and glanced around the table. Her eyes glistened with tears like stars on a cloudless night. Cyrus didn’t miss the slight tremor in her hand as she smoothed back a stray lock of hair.
“Thank you, each of you. You’ve all been so kind, trying to make me feel better by telling such high tales about your captain.” Her smile grew bright, too bright, as though it masked a pain buried deep in her soul where joy once dwelt before betrayal and despair blotted out its memory. “But,” she continued with just the slightest quiver in her voice, “we all know there isn’t a weak bone in Noah’s body. He’s proud and fierce, and—” She hesitated, stumbling over the next word as though her tongue refused to say it. “D—determined. You all know he’s determined not to be saddled with a wife.”
The men all started talking at once, their raucous voices drowning out Emily’s protestations until a shrill whistle burst through the clamor, quieting the group in an instant.
All eyes turned to the man who’d issued the edict. John Judson patted Emily’s hand and frowned at the misbegotten group that was more family than his own blood relations. He stroked his white beard with his free hand, a gesture the crew knew he employed when deep in thought. The room remained silent, waiting.
The oak chair squeaked under John’s weight as he turned to face Emily, his paunch spilling over the ornately carved arm. His rough, reddened hand remained on her smooth, slender one, offering comfort and strength. It amazed Cyrus how this woman could make a man, any man, regardless of rank or station, want to help her.
“I’ve known Noah a long time, Lady Emily,” John began, holding her gaze with his honest blue eyes. “As I told you before, he’s a good man. When he left us several weeks back, he told me he wasn’t returning until he had you with him. Those were his exact words.” His voice grew soft and low, like the lapping of the tide on sun-weathered rocks. “I believe him.”
A shimmering tear escaped and trickled down Emily’s cheek. “But where is he, John? He’s had plenty of time.” The sadness in her voice ripped at his gut. Brave Emily. He wanted to stand up and rip off his wig, throw his glasses and beard on the ground and end this cruel game. His fingers shook. He clenched his hand to still himself.
John’s broad shoulders lifted. “Perhaps he’s here. Somewhere.” His blue eyes glanced over Cyrus then settled back on Emily. “Have faith in him, Lady Emily.”
>
“E’s the cause of it all,” Big Tom said, pointing a sausage-sized finger at Cyrus. “We heard he was hired ta keep the cap’n away from Lady Emily. If’n it wasn’t fer ’im, they’d be together already.”
Emily shook her head. “Well, that’s not exactly—”
“That’s right,” Amos cut her off. Scratching his gray head, he muttered. “Wot business is it o’ his if the two of them git together or not?” He leaned forward, his faded blue eyes the color of the ocean after a storm.
“I agree.” Jeremy’s voice squeaked with feeling. “He had no business interfering with them. They would’ve worked it out. They—they—” he stuttered. “They love each other.” His ears flamed but he kept his level gaze on Cyrus, challenging him to answer.
“Gentlemen, there’s something you should know,” Emily began.
“The kid’s right,” Big Tom said, hitting the table with a beefy fist.
“Right ’e is!” Amos seconded, his scrawny fist following suit.
Within seconds, the table resounded with shouts as the men pounded their fists on the hard oak, shooting venomous gazes at the man they now held responsible for their captain and his lady's separation.
Cyrus watched in amazement, moved that these men would remain so loyal to their captain. Or perhaps, it was his lady whose allegiance they now served. Either way, they were hell-bent and dead-set against Cyrus. It was time to settle things down before they pounded him with the same vigor they were attacking the table. He could ill afford another broken or bruised body part.
Slamming his fist down, he roared, “Enough!”
The room fell quiet, all eyes watching in startled silence.
Cyrus stood, his hands resting on the linen tablecloth. He eyed each man, holding his gaze until the other man looked away. Big Tom sunk his head down. Amos looked off to the right and scratched his ear. Jeremy turned several shades of red and planted his eyes on the ceiling. None of the other men were bold enough to hold his gaze.
Except John Judson.
John sat back in his chair, hands crossed over a stomach that reminded Cyrus of rising bread, expanding to twice its normal size. His blue eyes usually warm and full of spirit, were staring with dead intent at Cyrus, as though he could see behind the bushy wig and beard, behind the thick glasses and raspy voice, to the man who lay beneath the layers of extra padding. To the man who was their captain. His friend. Emily’s husband.
Cyrus addressed the men before him. “You men may hate me and hold me responsible for the separation of your captain and his wife.” This statement brought a round of low grumbles. “And I say”—he paused to give his next words added meaning—“if your captain truly loves Lady Emily, no one will keep him from her.” His hands balled into fists. “Not me, or Lord Kenilworth. Or the devil himself. If he truly loves her, Sandleton will find a way to be with her.”
The men hadn’t expected this backward rally for their captain. It was clear in the way they looked at one another, muttering low under their breath, scratching their heads, shifting their gazes between Cyrus and John Judson. Each man was prepared to hate Cyrus, he could see it in the way they narrowed their eyes at him, hear it in their harsh accusations, feel it in the tenseness vibrating throughout the room. They wanted to pounce on him for wreaking havoc on the lives of two people they cared about but now they couldn’t, not after the words he’d just spoken. And that rubbed them raw.
Knowing his men, they’d probably want to get in a punch or two, just to work off some frustration. He didn’t miss the glaze in Big Tom’s beady eyes which usually meant he was ready to launch an attack on some unsuspecting victim. John settled the matter, gathering his men around him to prepare for battle. He had the direction, the determination, the faith to lead his men and the wisdom to impart this knowledge to them. When John spoke, they listened. Only one man commanded more respect from these men. Unfortunately, Noah Sandleton was hiding behind a wig and beard at the moment. Worse yet, the man he was posing as was the object of these men’s ire.
“Listen here, men,” John’s quiet voice stilled the clamor in the room. “Mandrey’s got a point. He’s only doing his job, nothing more, nothing less. You have to respect him for that.” John grinned. “And when Noah shows up”—his blue eyes twinkled—“and we all know he will, he’ll only be doing his job when he trounces this unlucky gent.”
“’E’ll beat ’im to the bones,” Big Tom said, nodding his head back and forth.
“Noah will string ’im up by his boots,” Amos chimed in, cackling like a wild man.
“He takes care of his own,” Jeremy said, his young voice trembling with emotion.
Cheers traveled around the room until John raised his hand to silence them. “You have one thing working in your favor, Mandrey,” he said, stroking his long beard in casual speculation.
“Pray, Mr. Judson, what might that be?” These men had him all but buried. If one believed the roar of the crowd, the only advantage Cyrus might have against Noah would be a head start away from Glenview Manor.
John’s lips turned up in a slow, easy smile as his gaze traveled over Cyrus’s face. “I was just thinking that a few nicks and bruises would never show under all that hair.” He tilted his head to the left. “And those glasses would hide a broken nose real well. Yes sir, Mr. Mandrey, you might just consider yourself a lucky man.”
****
“I’m sorry, John, but I don’t see Noah returning,” Emily said as she poured coffee into his cup. They were sharing after dinner coffee in one of Emily’s favorite rooms. She called it the Cream Salon because everything from the thick Persian rug to the damask draperies, brocade sofa, and overstuffed chairs shone in various shades of cream. Cream vases lined the fireplace mantel, each displayed in various sizes and shapes with oriental designs etched on them. A huge silk print of a dragon in white, gold and cream, hung over the mantel. Square cream pillows with gold tassels accented the sofa and chairs, and in the corner of the room rested a stack of four very large pillows of the same cream color and gold tassel design as those found on the furniture.
These particular pillows had intrigued Emily and when she was certain no one was about, she’d kicked off her slippers and crawled onto them. And toppled off. Apparently, sitting on them four high was incorrect. She had more success when she placed each one on the floor and chose one. Sometimes, she scattered them about and stretched her body on all four which felt as though she was laying on a big, fluffy cloud. She’d done that a few times and fallen fast asleep.
Mr. Billington had caught her once and much to her amazement, made no comment other than to ask if she were comfortable, to which she pushed the tangled mass of hair from her eyes and replied yes, very much so. He’d bowed and left, and she almost thought she’d seen a shadow of a smile on his thin lips, which was impossible, since the man never smiled.
This room brought her peace, imposing a quiet serenity she often sought. She needed that feeling tonight, especially as she waited for John to bring up the one subject that could tear down her wall of tranquility in the blink of an eye.
Emily set the heavy pot down, making a production of preparing her own steaming brew. Two lumps of sugar, a spot of cream. Stir together, blend to a dark tan. Place spoon on side of saucer.
Anything to avoid discussing her husband.
“He’ll be here, sure as my name is John Judson.” There it was, the first words out of his mouth.
As confident as John was Noah would return, Emily was just as confident he wouldn’t. Why would he when he had Desiree and Monique to warm his bed? Why should he when he’d been forced into a marriage he didn’t want, with a woman he didn’t love? No well bred woman would discuss such delicate matters, especially with a man. But she wasn’t just any woman; she was a woman with a mission.
She plunged forward. “John, you’ve known Noah for ages. Please don’t try to spare my tender sensibilities. I know about his women. I saw the clothes or whatever you might call those wisps of material,
in his armoire. He’s probably off on one of his adventures, lazing about in some port, too drunk on wine and lust to know or care where he is.” Saying the words aloud shredded the last flimsy bits of hope she’d clung to into a hundred pieces of nothingness.
John shook his bushy white head. “You’re dead wrong, Lady Emily.”
She blinked. Why couldn’t she discuss Noah without crying? Where was her calm? Why couldn’t she say his name without a quiver in her voice, as though at any moment, she’d fall apart? When would it stop? Breathe, just breathe, and think of nothing else. But it was no use. The bitter truth dug its way out, clawing and taunting her with words she refused to believe. It would never be over. Not in one day or one year or one hundred years.
“No.” She fought to block out the words swirling through her brain, teasing her with harsh reminders. “No,” she repeated.
“Yes, Lady Emily. You’re wrong about Noah.” John’s voice proved a soothing balm to her tense nerves, even if his words did not. “There’ve been no other women since the wedding. I’d wager there hasn’t been one since the day he laid eyes on you.”
She wanted to laugh. Instead, she raised an eyebrow and scowled.
John held up a big, fleshy hand. “Now just wait a minute. I’m getting the feeling you think you’re the only one who’s unhappy with this marriage situation.” He shook his head. “Not so. Noah was miserable the last time I saw him.”
“Of course, he was miserable, John. I knew that.” It was bad enough surmising his unhappiness and knowing she was the cause of it, but having someone confirm those thoughts, was even worse.
“Sure enough he was miserable, but not for the reason you think. I went to visit him a few days before the wedding. Do you know how I found him? Do you know what he was doing?”
It would not have been ladylike to tell John she had a fair idea of how he’d spent his last days of bachelorhood. She wasn’t supposed to know about those kinds of places so Emily kept her true thoughts to herself and simply shrugged.
