A Brother's Honor

by Ferguson, Jo Ann

  As they entered a large parlor that was fancier than the room where she had met with Clive last week, Abigail recalled the lessons she had learned when she had believed that Dominic was her enemy. If she remained in control of her own errant emotions, no one could guess that fear was the strongest one.

  “May I say you look lovely this evening?” Sir Harlan gushed as she sat in a chair that was separated from the others by a pair of round tables.

  “Thank you.” When she added nothing else, the two men exchanged uneasy glances. She was pleased she could disconcert them, but she had already learned that any victories in this house for her would be small and infrequent.

  Captain Fitzgerald almost collapsed as he was trying to sit. With a guffaw, he raised his glass. “To the fulfillment of your dreams, Sir Harlan, and the filling of my pockets.”

  “Of course, Arthur, you will not receive any remuneration until she marries Clive.” Again the baronet appeared embarrassed.

  Abigail stared at Sir Harlan in astonishment. Why was he coloring as red as her hair when he was getting what he wanted? Then she realized that he was not embarrassed, but furious. Again the question was why.

  She had her answer when Captain Fitzgerald sat straighter and lost his drunken smile. Setting his glass hard on the table, he said, “You agreed that if the wedding was held before month’s end you would pay me—”

  Sir Harlan turned away from him, jerking around to face Abigail like a dog taking a scent. “Abigail, I have received exciting news today. I daresay I cannot wait a moment longer.”

  “Exciting?” She let sarcasm drip into her words. “What could be more exciting than the life I am living here now?” When she noticed that her hands were trembling, she clasped them behind her back.

  Captain Fitzgerald rounded on her. “You cannot think you can make us believe that you want to marry Clive Morris.”

  Sir Harlan’s face deepened to a ruddy fury, but he reached under his coat and drew out a piece of light cream paper. “I received an invitation from Lady Sudley.”

  “Lady Sudley?” Abigail strained to keep her face serene. There must be no hint that she had been awaiting this answer to the note she had sent to Lady Sudley last week after visiting Dominic in the prison. That Sir Harlan was excited over the receipt of the letter suggested that Lady Sudley was willing to help her and Dominic.

  “Yes. She has heard that you are to be married and wishes you to come to London.”

  Captain Fitzgerald grumbled, “And slip away with her help, no doubt.”

  “You do not know Lady Sudley, so you should not judge her so,” Abigail returned, letting vexation creep into her voice. Why had he returned now? “She offered me shelter when I had none and welcomed me as if I were part of her family.”

  “Yes,” seconded Sir Harlan, unfolding the page. “She knows Abigail’s mother is dead, and she wishes to help Abigail with the selection of the perfect wedding gown.” He smiled broadly. “And the dear lady is inviting me to join her family in Town as well.”

  “Do not trust Abigail in London.” Captain Fitzgerald lurched to his feet, as unsteady as Clive. “She is a scheming shrew just like her mother.”

  Abigail shrugged. “I do not wish to go, Sir Harlan. I admit that I would greatly enjoy seeing the Sudleys again, but I have no interest in the perfect wedding gown for this ceremony.”

  The baronet bristled, and she knew her remarks had been as effective as Captain Fitzgerald’s at upsetting Sir Harlan, who clearly could not wait to play court on the Sudleys. “Of course, you will go and allow Lady Sudley to help you. It would be beneath reproach to turn down such a generous invitation. I shall hear no more of this.”

  “But, Sir Harlan—”

  “Abigail, I said you shall go, and you shall.”

  She glanced at Captain Fitzgerald, who was beginning to smile. Let him think she was browbeaten. If he was enjoying that, he might not think again of his suspicions, which were uncomfortably close to the truth.

  “Sir Harlan—” she began again.

  “If you are going to say anything but yes,” the baronet said in his most condescending tone, “then say nothing.”

  Clenching her hands at her sides, Abigail blinked as if she were about to cry. She must not let them guess she wanted to spin about with delight. She turned and walked toward the door.

  Sir Harlan called to her back, “We will leave at dawn the day after tomorrow. Be ready.”

  She stiffened her shoulders, but did not reply. She walked out. As she closed the door behind her, she heard the baronet say, “And you can stay here, Arthur, to oversee the final details before the wedding.”

  Abigail put her hand over her mouth to silence her giggle that the contemptible Captain Fitzgerald was having to deal with the matters that Sir Harlan wanted to put aside in order to win the Sudleys’ friendship. Mayhap it was not so horrid that Captain Fitzgerald had returned just now.

  Climbing the stairs, she stroked the smooth banister. Soon she would be out of Sir Harlan’s house and seeking a way not to return. Turning, she scanned the lower floor. She wanted to shout her farewells now.

  Another giggle tickled in her throat as she could hear, in her memory’s ear, her aunt’s reprimand after a far younger Abigail had slid down the banister in the house overlooking New Bedford harbor. Each admonishment Abigail received had been accompanied by one of her aunt’s warm hugs. So much love was shared in that house, but she had not appreciated the treasure she had possessed.

  How proud Aunt Velma and Uncle Jareb would be to learn of Abigail’s idea to contact Lady Sudley! It had been a risk, but, as her uncle had always said, nothing truly wonderful came without some risk.

  She smiled. Dear Aunt Velma and Uncle Jareb. Not her uncle, but her father. She reconstructed his windsculpted face from memory. His red hair and stubborn chin were so much like hers that she wondered why she had never questioned her parentage. How Uncle Jareb would have admired Dominic if the war had not stood between them! Uncle Jareb always spoke with respect of the men who commanded ships facing the sea’s many moods.

  Her happiness faltered as she climbed the stairs. Captain Fitzgerald would not take a message from Abigail to Aunt Velma. Instead he would devise lies. She feared his tales would be aimed at hurting Aunt Velma because she had taken Abigail into her heart.

  But that would not matter if she could find help in London and free Dominic so both of them could flee from England. Then Captain Fitzgerald could wallow in his lies, and she would be done with him.

  She hurried to her rooms that were her only haven in his house. When she reached the door, it opened before she could put her fingers on the latch. She smiled at Tessie.

  “Lady Sudley wrote to Sir Harlan inviting us to London,” Abigail said as soon as she closed the door behind her.

  Tessie’s smile widened her cheeks. “How wonderful! And so quickly.”

  “We leave for London at dawn the day after tomorrow.” She went to the French doors and flung them open. “Which gives me tomorrow to pay a visit to the modiste.”

  “Tomorrow?” Tessie’s voice lost its good cheer. “Do you think that is wise, Miss Abigail? If you are discovered—”

  “I shan’t be. Sir Harlan is oblivious to anything but gaining Lord Sudley’s patronage.” She laughed. “He intends to leave Captain Fitzgerald here and put him in charge of overseeing what wedding plans still must be completed.” Rubbing her hands together, she stared out at the prison. “This has to work. It may be our only chance.”

  “I hope you are right, Miss Abigail.”

  “I hope so, too. We shall not get a second chance.”

  Abigail’s skin became gooseflesh as she entered the shadowed clamminess of the prison. The ugly prison courtyard was deserted. She had never seen any prisoners out here. When she heard a scratchy, too familiar voice, she turned. Pritchard must have been watching for her.

  “Good day, Miss Fitzgerald,” he said, holding out his hand for a bribe.

  She p
laced the coins on his palm. When he counted them and grimaced, she wondered if he would believe how difficult it was for her to get even these few shillings. She was surrounded by wealth, but to obtain it she would have to sell her soul to Sir Harlan.

  Shuffling his feet, Pritchard walked toward the stairs that led most directly to Dominic’s room. She kept her cloak close to her. If anyone saw filth on it, her visits might be discovered and halted.

  “Trial be coming around soon,” Pritchard said.

  “Unfortunately for you! Then you will not be able to beg for shillings from me.”

  He shrugged with a smile. “Others come to replace those who go to the gallows. Others have those who want to visit them. They shall pay as ye did.” Grumbling, he added, “Mayhap better.”

  Abigail did not bother to answer. If she lowered her facade of cool regality, he would prey on her vulnerability. She kept her gaze focused on the corridor ahead of them as she climbed the final set of steps leading treacherously up to where Dominic was imprisoned. To see the ghostly faces staring through the bars in the desperate hope of a visitor would tempt her to tears.

  At Dominic’s door, Pritchard banged his ring of keys on the battered wood. “C’mon, Cap’n. Ahoy there. Ye be wanting company?”

  The small panel slid open, and she saw Dominic’s welcoming smile.

  When Pritchard opened the door, Abigail did not wait for him to shove her into the cell. Skipping lightly past his loathsome fingers, she ignored his muttering as he relocked the door. She untied her bonnet and drew off her cloak. She dropped both on the chair before turning to Dominic.

  He was too pale. She hoped that it was from lack of sunshine and decent food, and that he had not taken ill with some prison fever.

  “You act surprised to see me,” Abigail said. “Did you think I would go to London without visiting you before I left?”

  “London?” He slammed the panel on the door closed and whirled her into his arms. “Chérie, you have managed the impossible!”

  She laughed as she locked her fingers together behind his nape, trying to ignore the clatter of chains that emphasized every step he took. “Only partly. Sir Harlan and I leave for London on the morrow.”

  “Sir Harlan is escorting you there?” His brows lowered in a frown.

  “I would rather it be he than Captain Fitzgerald.”

  “Fitzgerald is back here?”

  She nodded. “I wish he had stayed away, but it might be better that he is not in London while I am there doing an errand or two that needs to be done.”

  He tugged her even closer. When he pressed his mouth over hers, she sensed his intense longing. Not only that, but some darker emotion he could not hide.

  She pulled away slightly and whispered, “What is it, Dominic? Is something wrong?”

  “Nothing should be wrong when soon we will be away from this chamber pot of an island.”

  “We? So you will take me with you?”

  He hesitated. “Chérie, I did not mean—”

  Abigail moved away to sit on the single chair. “Nothing has changed, has it? La Chanson is first in your heart.”

  Crossing the room, accompanied by the jangle of his manacles, he knelt and took her hands between his. “You don’t understand, do you? I shall not put you in such danger again. Mayhap when the war is over …”

  “Enough, Dominic.” She stood. “This is not the time for arguing.”

  “When you return to your Aunt Velma, you will see I am right.”

  Her face became icy. “Mayhap.”

  He gripped her shoulders. “What is it? What is stealing the color from your face? Has Fitzgerald threatened you?”

  She put her arms around him. She was tempted to tell him the truth about her betrothal to Clive Morris. But she must not. Dominic might squander his sole chance to escape in an effort to save her. The boundary between France and England might as well have had a brick wall along it. Few ships crossed the invisible frontier. If La Chanson did not return in time, Dominic would die. She would not let him know what she would suffer if they did not escape, because there was nothing he could do to halt it.

  “I do not want to be without you,” she whispered. That much was the truth.

  His fingers touched the center of her chest. “You cannot be without me. My heart is here with yours. That part of me will be with you forever.”

  When he drew her back into his arms, she did not resist. The caress of his lips told her what she knew too well. He dreaded their parting as she did, but Captain Dominic St. Clair had taken to the sea to serve his country. He would not be waylaid from that obligation until it was completed, not even for her love. Yet it was that sense of duty that she admired, and he would not be the man she loved without it.

  His fingers combed through her hair to send her hairpins cascading to the floor. As the red strands fell to her waist, he brushed them aside to unhook the back of her dress. “I love you, chérie. I want your love now.”

  “You love me?” she gasped, pulling away.

  “Oui, chérie. How could you not know that?” He ran his fingers along her cheek. “My heart, before it left to join yours, told me that you might love me, too.”

  “I do love you, Dominic.” She laughed, unable to contain her joy. “Although if you had told me when you boarded the Republic that I would fall in love with such a bold pirate, I would have called you a liar.”

  “A privateer, chérie.”

  “Mayhap, but you have stolen my heart.”

  As his lips moved along her neck, she let the remnants of her unhappiness and fear of what awaited in the future flow from her mind. She wanted the joy he gave her. She wanted it, and she wanted him.

  Tossing her cloak over the scratchy straw on the bed frame, he leaned her back on it. She held out her arms to him. Grinning, he murmured, “One moment.” He sat beside her, drawing her up as he finished unhooking her gown.

  She sighed with eager anticipation as his mouth etched moist fire into the skin above her chemise. When footfalls paused outside, she stiffened and grasped his shoulders.

  “Pritchard will not disturb us,” Dominic whispered as he leaned her back onto her cloak.

  “How do you know?” She twisted her fingers into his hair that reached past his shoulders.

  “Because I paid him well.”

  “You paid him? How?”

  He took her hand and brushed her fingers against his ear.

  “Your earring!” she gasped. “You gave him your earring? You were so proud of it.”

  He framed her face with his broad hands. “What good is it, chérie, when it is of the past? I want you, for you are the pleasure of this moment.”

  As his hands explored her in a thrilling voyage of rediscovery, she closed her eyes and delighted in the warmth of his touch. His lips soared along her skin, bringing every inch of it alive.

  Although he hurried to undress her and then tossed his shirt atop her clothes, he slowly caressed her. His mouth explored her as eagerly as he had the first time she had given herself to him. She moaned against his mouth as his hands stroked the downiness of her inner legs, enticing her to press more tightly to him.

  When she loosened the buttons on his breeches, she realized why he had not removed them. With his ankles manacled, he could not take off his breeches. She began to laugh. “I think we have a problem.”

  “I do not find it particularly funny,” he growled against her ear, sending a fiery shiver through her.

  She looked up to see his lips twitching. “You, my dear Captain St. Clair, seem to be a prisoner of love.”

  “Me?”

  She could not answer as he teased her with kisses that stripped all strength from her, but she tried to undo the buttons. She pushed his breeches down his legs, stroking him with each movement. The touch banished her laughter as she was consumed by a more potent joy.

  He whispered against her neck, “I need your love to take with me when the trial—”

  Her fingertips covere
d his lips. To hear him speak of the horror waiting beyond these walls would ruin her happiness. “No. Not now!”

  The roguish sparkle returned to his eyes as he rolled her onto her back. Raising himself over her, he stated, “Yes, now, chérie!”

  Her bare skin touched his, and it was as if she had become alight with fire. His light kisses scintillated along her. When she pressed on his shoulders, she leaned over him to taste his warm skin. It heated to a higher temperature to send the flame cascading through her. When her fingers flicked across him, she heard his quick intake of breath. A smile tilted her lips as he growled with the longing that would no longer be denied.

  She cried out in surprise as he pushed her onto her back. His gaze refused to release hers as he smiled victoriously. Grasping one of her wrists, he pinned it to the straw. He did the same with the other and bent to place his mouth against her neck. When she writhed beneath him, he smiled.

  “Let me go!” she gasped as she tried to escape the ecstasy which was speeding her toward madness.

  “Never, my russet vixen,” he rumbled in her ear. “You are my prisoner of love forever.”

  With a throaty moan, she shivered as his tongue teased the soft skin behind her ear. His tongue moved along her in its succulent spiral, and she forgot everything but its heat as he traced a path along her breast and into the downy hollow between them. Her breathy call of his name did not halt him as he moved to sample her most intimate delights. She became the flame.

  She only realized he had relinquished his hold on her when she placed her arms around his shoulders. Guiding his mouth back to hers, she tangled her fingers in his hair. As he slid within her, she sighed against his mouth. Nothing had ever been so wondrous, so perfect, so glorious.

  Hungrily she pressed to him, letting her need for him careen out of control. His mouth was branded into her mouth by his uneven breath. That caress threw her into the powerful pulses of yearning. As rhythm ruled them, their craving gained strength. In a cataclysmic explosion, the fire melded her heart to his as it had yearned to be for so long.