by Mary Campisi
“I’ll tell you, little lady. I found him, drunker than a dog and more miserable than a bird without wings.”
Because she’d clipped them.
“And all because he had to marry you and leave.” His blue gaze searched her face. “He didn’t want to leave you. He wanted to be a proper husband. A real husband.”
The cup slipped from her hands, splattering hot coffee onto her blue gown.
John jumped from his chair. “I upset you. I’m sorry.” He handed her his linen napkin, his big frame standing beside her as though to ward off further accidents.
“He—he wanted to marry me?” Hearing the words aloud sounded foreign, even to her and she’d dreamed them a thousand times. Noah had wanted to marry her. He’d never indicated by even the smallest degree that he’d be amenable to such an arrangement. But then, she hadn’t seen him until ten minutes before the wedding. And afterward, Emily blushed with remembering, there hadn’t been more than a few minutes of talking before passion carried them away on a tumultuous ride.
“I’m so confused. You said he wanted to marry me, but he had to leave. Why did he have to leave?”
John sat next to her, sagging the cushions with his weight. “I can’t say, Lady Emily. I wish I could. All I can tell you is that he had good reason. You’ll have to hear the rest from him.”
She wanted to ask what kind of good reason could permit a man to desert his wife, but decided against it. John was too loyal to divulge something he thought should come from her husband. If only she knew the truth. Memories of the last time they were together rushed through her and along with them, Noah’s words, long buried, No matter what happens or how circumstances may indicate otherwise, I will always want you.
Oh, what could he have meant?
Emily sighed, resigning herself to the question she’d asked every night for the past several weeks. “How will I ask him when I have no idea where he is?”
John smiled. “You will. If I know Noah, he won’t wait much longer. I’m surprised he hasn’t come to you already.”
“Well, it’s not that easy, John,” Emily said. “Cyrus Mandrey is here for the express purpose of keeping Noah away from me.”
The old sailor threw back his head and let out a deep-bellied laugh. “Dear girl, do you really think one man is going to keep Noah from what’s his?” He laughed again, clasping his big hands together. “Ah, well, time will tell. Yes, it will.”
Emily was about to say more, when a harsh rap on the door interfered.
“It’s us, Lady Emily. Come to say g’night.” Emily smiled at the rough, gravelly voice on the other side. Big Tom must be sending Mr. Billington into fits of apoplexy. She heard the butler’s precise voice trying to persuade the group to wait, beseeching them to employ a little patience as the door burst open and in piled Big Tom, Amos, Jeremy and Mr. Billington.
“We wanted to say g’night, but this bugger tried to stop us,” Amos said, pointing a bony finger at Edward Billington. “Told us to use some ‘reserve.’ Wot’s that?”
Big Tom screwed up his face and scratched his head with two beefy fingers. “Dunno. Jeremy, wot’s a reserve? Is it like me mum’s preserve? The strawberry kind?”
Jeremy crossed his skinny arms over his non-existent chest. “Hmm. I think it’s something we do. Like.. like…” his voice drifted as he tried to come up with a plausible answer.
“For your information, gentlemen,” Mr. Billington’s voice filled the room. “To practice reserve means to exercise self-restraint.”
“Huh?” The three sailors looked at one another. “Exercise what?”
“I think what Mr. Billington is trying to say is that he wanted you to wait until you were invited to enter,” Emily said in a gentle voice. “He was only doing his job.”
“All ’e knows how to do is walk around like ’e’s got a stick in ’is behind and a bunch o’ lemons in his mouth,” Amos said, casting the butler a disgusted look. Big Tom and Jeremy howled.
Mr. Billington straightened, long arms at his side, shoulders back, feet squared and centered. His mouth was puckered in a look of distaste as though he had a “bunch of lemons” in there.
Emily stifled a giggle. “Amos, he was only thinking of me. Isn’t that what all of you have been trying to do since the moment you arrived?” She stood and walked toward them, stopping between the three sailors and the butler. “You’ve tried to protect me, worry over me, guide me. That’s all Mr. Billington is doing and I have to admit, sometimes I make his job very difficult.”
Emily threw Mr. Billington a sideways glance, hoping he’d play along with her explanation but he merely stared at her, the sour expression gone, replaced with open-mouthed confusion. It was probably as close to gaping as Mr. Billington had ever come. She gave him a small smile and turned back to her three friends. Mr. Billington thought her less than one step above this lot standing before him but she was offering him a way to save face with these men. All he need do was accept it by remaining quiet, which Emily knew, would prove very difficult for the ever correct, self-righteous, Mr. Billington.
“Maybe we was a little hard on ’im,” Big Tom said, cracking the knuckles on his right hand. His beady eyes ran over the butler. “’E jest got some strange ways, is all.”
“We ain’t used to ’em. We ain’t used to havin’ a body look down ’is nose at us ever’ time we fergit our manners.” Amos puffed out his bony chest. “Captain never done that, and we met all kinds of royalty. All kinds,” he repeated, taking a step closer to Billington.
Emily held her breath as Mr. Billington met Amos’ hard stare. He offered no rebuttal, no dripping sarcastic commentary, though Emily knew his repertoire contained several. She thanked the heavens he chose this moment to hold his tongue.
“Big Tom and Amos said it all fer me. Nothin’s left to be said.” Jeremy grinned and punched Big Tom in the shoulder.
The burly man grabbed the young boy and hoisted him in the air as though he were one of the many cream cushions accenting the room. Amos let out a hoot and shouted, “Get ’im Jeremy. Get ’im where it counts.”
Jeremy thrust his fingers under Big Tom’s arm pits, tickling him, until the giant let out a screech and dropped him on the hard floor.
Anxious to avoid another altercation between these three men and the butler, Emily stepped forward and said, “That will be all, Mr. Billington. Thank you.”
He looked at her, his gaze hard and steady. Had a whisper of kindness just passed across his face? Had she imagined those ever-narrowed gray eyes relaxing, just a little, the tight lips smoothing out, the frown gentling? She couldn’t say and before she could consider it further, he gave her a curt nod and exited the room.
“All right, men,” John’s commanding voice addressed the laughing, tickling trio who resembled naughty children more than seasoned sailors. “It’s time we bid Lady Emily goodnight. We need to be on the road by dawn. The Falcon’s got a schedule to keep.”
The jostling, teasing gestures from the men died down and they approached their captain’s bride. “Yer the most beautiful, kindest woman I ever met, Lady Emily,” Big Tom blurted out, casting his eyes downward. “You got a heart o’ gold an’ the capn’s gonna be back soon. ’E knows how to spot riches and yer a jewel.” Heat colored his face, and she knew he’d just paid her a rare compliment.
She grabbed his beefy hands and planted a kiss on his cheek. The faint smell of cabbage reached her nostrils. Surprising, Mr. Billington hadn’t lectured them on the basics of hygiene. It appeared he himself had exercised some “reserve” in that regard. “Good-bye, Big Tom. Thank you.” He smiled at her then, a wide, toothless grin that lit up his homely face and flattened the long scar on his forehead.
Amos was next. “Thank you, Lady Emily, fer lettin’ us in yer home.”
His faded blue eyes met hers, filled with wisdom that came from years of experience, situation and circumstance. Life had been Amos’ tutor, not the mere words found in books. “You treated us like the ca
p’n does, like friends.” He nodded his gray head, the lines in his leathery face spreading like a fan as he grinned. Amos reminded Emily of an oak Christopher had cut down years ago, its middle marked with a series of rings, denoting its age. They’d counted fifty-seven rings. She wondered if the lines on this old sailor’s face would outnumber the oak. Emily kissed his sun-beaten cheek and whispered, “Good-bye, Amos.”
Jeremy stepped forward. His face with its smattering of freckles was the same vivid hue as the scarlet roses on the front lawn. He twisted his hands a few times, his green eyes darting about the room, bouncing from the right to the left, up and down, before settling on Emily’s chin.
“Thank you for coming, Jeremy,” she said. He blushed an even deeper shade of red, the same vibrant color as the gladiolas in the back of the manor. She tried again. “You all came to insure my safety. Your captain would be very proud of such a noble act.”
As the words spilled out, she questioned the truth of her own words. Would Noah really be pleased that his men intruded upon his personal affairs? Bandied his name and emotions about, giving the impression he was a besotted husband who wanted nothing more than to reunite with his wife? She doubted he’d take kindly to that description.
“He’ll come to you. I know he will.” Jeremy’s words rang with the innocent fervor of one who has never known the bitter taste of love’s betrayal.
It wouldn’t do to have him see her fall apart, better to do that in private, where no one would bear witness to her pain. She hugged him and whispered, “Thank you, Jeremy.”
The youth turned away, his face settling back to its pale pink hue. There wasn’t more than a few years difference in their ages, but it may as well have been decades. Jeremy still resided in a cocoon of naiveté where love prevailed and good triumphed over evil while she’d been stripped of those beliefs the day Noah left their marriage bed.
A light touch on her arm reminded her she was not alone. She turned to find John studying her with quiet intent. “Oh John, what am I going to do?” Did she want Noah to return or didn’t she? The words that spilled from her mouth said she never wanted to see him again, but the secret corners of her heart told a different story; they held onto some of Jeremy’s fairytale beliefs of happily ever after.
“Jeremy’s right, you know.” John’s soft voice wrapped around her like a warm blanket. “Noah will come to you. And then you’ll have to decide if you’ll listen to your heart or your pride.”
****
Sleep wouldn’t come. The hours ticked by, creeping toward morning as Noah watched the dark edges of night give way to the gray shades of dawn. He lay on the bed, arms propped behind his head, staring out the window. Soon it would be time to shroud himself in a mass of bushy hair, don a pair of thick spectacles, and pad his chest.
Each day it became more difficult to pretend he was a trustworthy, nondescript, do-gooder named Cyrus Mandrey. It was becoming equally difficult to feign anything but polite interest in Emily when all he wanted to do was take her in his arms and bury himself inside her sweet silkiness. Her very presence made him a prisoner to his own senses. He heard her voice everywhere he turned. In his dreams, her golden beauty unfolded like an exotic flower, her lilac scent smothering his good intentions.
He grew hard at the thought but that was nothing new to him. For the past several weeks it hadn’t taken more than a smile, a look, a word from Emily, no matter how innocent, to make his cock throb. She wielded a power over him, like a sorceress casting a spell, making him want her as no woman ever had. Soon, he’d go to his wife and no one would stand in his way. Not Kleeton, or Ian, or even Cyrus Mandrey. Very soon, there would be nothing between him and Emily but skin against skin.
Things were moving too slowly. And what of Kleeton? Was he just a quiet, country gentleman, harboring no darker side than a macabre taste in decorating? Or was he a ruthless killer, waiting to strike again? Noah sat on the edge of the bed and grabbed his breeches. Was his name Andrew Kleeton or Peter Crowlton? He splashed water on his face and reached for a towel. Gentleman or traitor? He opened a drawer and pulled out his wig and beard. Neighbor or nemesis? He strode to the closet where he pulled out a fresh shirt and jacket. Innocent or guilty? Grabbing his spectacles, he fitted them to his face and looked at his reflection in the oval mirror.
He’d created Cyrus Mandrey. Had Peter Crowlton created Andrew Kleeton? He thought of the calfskin gloves that Kleeton never removed. Crowlton could be Kleeton and there was only one way to find out. As he headed down the spiral staircase in the direction of the dining room, he plotted his next move.
The smell of bacon and fresh brewed coffee reached him before his boot hit the bottom step. When he entered the dining room, plates and utensils clanged against one another as The Falcon’s crew dove into piles of crispy bacon, sausage patties, fried potatoes and eggs.
“This certainly beats young Jeremy’s cooking,” he commented as he took a seat at the head of the table. He reached for the silver pot and noticed all eyes on him. “Is something wrong?” He ran a hand through his full beard. Patted his hair and moustache. “What is it?”
Amos coughed into the silence. Big Tom cleared his throat. John’s eyes narrowed. Jeremy’s cheeks matched the strawberry jam on his knife when he spoke. “Pardon me, Mr. Mandrey, but how did you know I was the cook?”
Damnation! How indeed! He’d known because Jeremy had been practicing his sad culinary skills on the crew since he’d been hired on board The Falcon seven months ago. He’d known because underneath the hair and spectacles of Cyrus Mandrey resided the man who’d tasted every one of Jeremy’s blasted meals from his lumpy porridge to his hard tack biscuits.
Cyrus cleared his throat and held Jeremy’s gaze. He mustn’t look away or appear flustered. “That’s an easy one, Jeremy. I served a short time on a ship and the rule was the youngest member got kitchen duty. At the time, that was me. If the rule still applies”—he scanned the crusty lot of sailors—“you’ve got this room beat by at least ten or more years.”
The boy grinned and nodded his red head. “Right you are. Big Tom is eight and thirty. Amos is…is….how old are you, Amos?”
The old sailor laughed and spat out, “Old enough to know better!” The crowd let out a whooping holler that put a twinkle in Amos’ faded blue eyes.
“C’mon, Amos,” Jeremy persisted. “Tell us how many years you been stomping on this ground.”
Amos leaned back in his chair, scratched his stubbled chin and looked at the ceiling. “Let’s see.” He counted on his fingers. “I was fifteen when I sailed on The Tempest, spent ten years with them, six on The Runaway, twelve on The Lady, and seven on The Falcon.” He paused, moved two fingers up and down, shook his head, raised three fingers, then two more. “Damnation!” Amos threw his hands in the air. “How the hell old am I, anyway?”
Big Tom grinned, the gaps between his teeth wide and uneven. “Old. Older ’n all of us put together.”
“I am?” Amos leaned back in his chair and scratched his gray head.
“You’re fifty,” John said. “And full of more energy than the lot of this sorry group. Now eat up, we have a long trip ahead of us.”
The rest of the meal passed in relative silence less the occasional clink of glass or scrape of silverware to plate. When the men finished, they bade Cyrus a hasty goodbye and left to gather their bags, leaving John and Cyrus alone.
“More coffee?” Cyrus offered, extending the pot.
John held up a hand. “I’m stuffed. My compliments to the cook.”
“I’ll see that she gets them.”
The room fell into silence, laced with a fine tension that hinted of things unspoken.
“So you’ve sailed before,” John said.
Cyrus nodded. “A few times.”
“I’ve been sailing more years than I can remember. Used to be captain of my own ship, until I met up with Noah.” He leaned back in his chair and folded his hands over his rounded belly.
“Then yo
u’re managing quite well in his absence?”
John shrugged. “Well enough. Might as well get used to it. Once he and Lady Emily patch things up, he won’t be back.”
“Would that bother you?” Seven years was a long time.
“I’d miss him. Noah’s like a son to me. Never had any children of my own.” He pinched the bridge between his nose.
“He must think of you as a father.” You were more of a father to him than his real father.
“That would be a great honor.” John held Cyrus’s gaze.
“It would be an honor for him too.”
John said nothing for a full thirty seconds. “He’s in love with her, you know.”
“I know.”
“He’ll come for her.”
Cyrus nodded.
“She loves him too.”
“Does she?” Hope pounded in his chest.
“She does,” John said. “But she’s been hurt and she’s afraid. He better have a damn good reason for leaving her like that.”
“I think he does.”
John sighed. “Then they’ll have to get past their stubborn pride, past the hurt and anger to find the love.”
“Can they do it?” He asked the question as much to himself as to John.
“If their love is strong enough, if they fight hard enough, then they can.”
Cyrus said nothing. There were no words left to say.
John pushed back his chair and stood. “I’d best be on my way before the men start trouncing the flowers again.”
Cyrus stood and approached John. He held out a hand and said, “Good-bye, John.”
The older man clasped Cyrus’s hand with both of his. The eyes that studied him brimmed with unshed tears. “Good-bye, Captain,” he whispered.
Cyrus’s eyes widened. John smiled and squeezed his hands. “You’re like a son to me, boy. I’d know you anywhere.”
There was no time to respond as Big Tom’s voice bellowed through the door. “All set, John.”
