by Kruger, Mary
“No.”
“Pity, but I’ll tell you, anyway. You, Rebecca.” He paused. “I want you.”
Chapter Eighteen
Rebecca stood still on the brick sidewalk, so stunned that for a moment she couldn’t breathe, and began pulling her parcels from Marcus’s arms. “Ooh! You—you men!”
“What did I say, lass?” he asked, sounding bewildered.
“Don’t you dare call me that.” She glared at him with hands on hips, not caring that her parcels had tumbled to the ground again. “You’ve heard stories about me, haven’t you? You’ve heard what people say about my past and you think that means—that means—well, I’m not!” She crouched to pick up her parcels, her vision blurred with tears. “I am not available.”
“I didn’t think you were, lass,” he said, very gently, crouching across from her, and her hands stilled on the parcels. “Look at me. Look at me, Rebecca.”
She kept her head bent. “I did not give you leave to use my name.”
“No, you did not. Come, let me help you with those.” Gathering her parcels, he rose easily, and she had no choice but to follow suit. “It seems I must beg your apologies yet again, Miss Talbot. I feel as if I’ve known you forever.”
She looked sharply up at him; looming against the sky, he looked so like Brendan she could almost believe he stood there. “You’re very like him,” she said, in a low voice.
“Who?”
“Bren- the Raven.”
“Is that a compliment?”
“And yet, you’re not.” Her brow wrinkled in a frown, as she cataloged yet again the differences in speech, manner, and dress. She couldn’t imagine a gentleman such as Marcus Brand captaining a pirate ship. Or, could she? Perhaps she could. For, as Brendan had, he held himself with authority and confidence. It only added to her confusion. “It’s very strange,” she murmured.
“Not really. No, I’ll hold onto these. You really must learn to hold onto your parcels, Miss Talbot.”
“I must—!”
“There’s a legend in my family, whether ‘tis true or not, I don’t know, that we are descended from pirates. Perhaps your Raven—Fitzpatrick, did you say?”
“Yes. Brendan Fitzpatrick. And he’s not my Raven.”
“Perhaps he’s a distant relation. Brendan? Hm.”
“What?” she asked, when he didn’t go on.
“Mm? Nothing.” His lips tucked back in what she was beginning to recognize was a smile. “Just that it’s curious. ‘Brendan’ is a form of ‘Brand,’ and they both mean the same thing.”
“Which is?”
“I doubt you’ll like this.” He paused. “The raven.”
“You’re jesting!”
“No.” His face was serious. “You are right, Miss Talbot. I have heard about you.”
Rebecca flinched and turned away. “I see.”
“No, you do not.” He caught her arm, and she stilled, not wanting to look at him for fear of what she would see in his face. “It must have been hard for you.”
Absurdly she felt tears prickling at her eyes. “It was.”
“I’m sorry for it.”
“Why?” She looked up at last, puzzled at the sympathy she heard in his voice. “It wasn’t your fault, what happened, or that everyone’s believed the worst of me since.”
“No. But, still, I’m sorry you had to go through such an ordeal.”
“Thank you,” she said, after a moment, glad her voice didn’t shake and betray how close to tears she was. In the past year, against the censure and ostracism she had faced, she had never once let herself give in. She had not given anyone the satisfaction of breaking down. One kind comment from this man, though, and her emotions became unbalanced. She didn’t think it was because he resembled Brendan, or, at least, not for that reason alone. For she could not deny the truth, not even to herself. She was attracted to Marcus Brand, for all the good it would do her.
Rebecca stopped before her house, debating on inviting him in. Father would likely be pleased to see him, and Amelia, and that was part of the problem. She didn’t think she could bear watching Amelia flirt with him. “Thank you for escorting me—”
“Don’t thank me,” he interrupted, his voice so rough that she stared at him. His eyes were intent, his face almost stern, a sharp contrast to the urbanity of his earlier pose. Pose? she thought, sharply, but had no time to ponder the thought. “I wanted to do it. Rebecca.” He caught her hand in a tight grip. “I haven’t been honest with you. There’s something I must tell you—”
“Ah, there you are,” a voice said behind them, and they turned, startled, to see Ezra on the doorstep. “Good morning. A pleasure to see you again, sir. We never did finish our discussion on the embargo.”
“No, sir.” Marcus released Rebecca’s hand, with, Rebecca thought, reluctance. What had he been about to say? “We never did.”
“Well, come in. Rebecca! What are you thinking of, girl, keeping our guest standing outside? Come in and get him something cool to drink.”
Rebecca jumped at the rebuke. “Yes, Father,” she said, hurrying up the curved stairs. Marcus followed her, more slowly.
“And see to Ruth. She’ll need your help with dinner, girl.”
“Yes, Father.”
“Where do you want these, Miss Talbot?” Marcus asked.
“Rebecca can take them,” Ezra interrupted. “She does little enough around here as it is.”
“Yes, of course.” Rebecca’s cheeks burned as she reached for the parcels, and her eyes wouldn’t meet Marcus’s.
“I don’t mind, sir.” Marcus kept his voice affable, though inside he burned with anger. She was a different person around her father, and he didn’t like it. “It will be easier if I just put them where they’re needed.
“Oh, very well.” Ezra sounded disgruntled. “Rebecca will show you.”
Marcus nodded. “Miss Talbot?”
“This way.” Rebecca led him under an arched entranceway and down some stairs; as with most other houses in Georgetown, the kitchen was in the cellar. An enormous fireplace took up most of one wall, making the room stifling hot, in spite of the door opened to the outside. “Ruth is our maid. Father doesn’t hold with keeping slaves, and I must say I agree with him. This is most kind of you, sir, I would imagine you’re not made to go into too many kitchens!” she chattered. “There, on the table will be fine. Thank you, Mr. Brand.”
Marcus set the parcels on the trestle table, frowning. “Does he talk like that to you all the time?”
“Like what?” she asked.
“There you are, miss,” a cheerful voice said, and a thin black woman came in from the door leading outside. “Got some fine peas in the garden, miss. Did you get the leg of lamb?”
“Yes, Ruth.” Rebecca brushed impatiently at a strand of hair, her eyes so haunted that Marcus felt a ridiculous urge to smooth it back himself. But her father awaited him. Staying here would only complicate matters for her. “Thank you again, sir.”
He bowed. “My pleasure, madam,” he said, and went back up to the first floor.
Ezra was waiting for him in the hall, at the door to a well-appointed study, looking out onto the side garden. A luxurious oriental carpet was on the floor, and on the heavy mahogany desk were a silver inkstand and a leather letter box. Rebecca had to make do with only one servant, but Talbot apparently saw to his own comfort. “There you are,” Ezra’s voice boomed out. “I was about to go looking for you. She wasn’t flirting with you, was she?”
Marcus looked up sharply as he settled into a comfortable leather wing chair. “Who?” he asked, crossing his legs and affecting a pose of cool indifference.
“My daughter.” Ezra made a face. “Daughter of Satan, I sometimes think she is.”
“Sir!” Marcus was genuinely shocked. “Miss Talbot strikes me as a fine young lady.”
“Yes, that she does, doesn’t she.” Ezra leaned back in a chair next to Marcus, folding his hands on his ample stomach. “Deceptive,
ain’t she? If you didn’t know—” He looked up, eyes keen under his brows. “You’ve heard the stories?”
“About the pirate? Yes. Hardly her fault, sir. Everyone knows what a danger the Raven was.”
Ezra snorted. “Her behavior was disgraceful. If it had been just that one time I could forgive her, considering the circumstances, but...” He shook his head. “There’s no help for it. The girl is wanton.”
“Are you saying this has happened before?” Marcus asked.
“No, no, I’m not saying that,” Ezra said, his face suddenly wary. “Rebecca spent some time with her mother’s family a few years back, and people have put the worst construction on it. It was, unfortunately, after her romance had broken up. If I didn’t need her to look after Amelia, I’d have cast her off then.”
Slowly, smoothly, Marcus raised his quizzing glass and studied Ezra through it. “A remarkable thing to say.”
“Mayhaps. You condemn me for it? But you weren’t here, sir, when she made me a laughingstock. I told her he’d never marry her.”
“Who?”
“Lord Everett. Here on a visit, some years back. He was a baronet, heir to an earldom. Stands to reason a man like that wouldn’t tie himself to an American. But, would she listen to me? No. I tell you, sir, she deserved what happened to her.”
As carefully as he had taken it out, Marcus put the quizzing glass away. “Losing her reputation seems like punishment enough.”
“No, sir.” Ezra’s voice was grim. “Else she wouldn’t have fallen again. She’s flighty, like her mother.”
“How is that, sir?
Ezra’s eyes went blank. “Past history. I doubt Rebecca will change. I thought she’d learned her lesson when Everett returned to England—”
“He isn’t dead?”
“Yes, he is.” Ezra frowned at him. “Why do you ask?”
“I wondered why you didn’t see that he married her.”
Ezra stiffened. “I tried, sir, but he would not. He was already betrothed. His death came later.” He shrugged. “It matters not. She has shown she cannot be trusted, and that is why I must be stern with her.”
“She has shown she trusts too easily,” Marcus said, his voice tight.
Ezra frowned at him again. “I hope, sir, that this hasn’t given you a disgust of my family. Amelia is entirely different, I assure you. Her mother was not like Rebecca’s, and she has been raised carefully.”
“I would never hold what you have said against Miss Amelia.” Marcus rose, disgusted with the conversation. “I must be leaving.”
“Now? But you just got here.”
“I’m sorry. I’ve business to attend to.” He strode out into the hall, just as Rebecca entered, carrying a tray.
“But surely you can stay for a cool drink,” Ezra expostulated, following him.
“I haven’t time. Miss Talbot.” Marcus stopped, nodding at her. “A pleasure to see you again.”
“And you, sir,” Rebecca said, her heart sinking. His face was tight, his eyes cold. Oh, what had Father told him, to make him look at her in such a way? “You are leaving already?”
“Yes,” he said, curtly, and then, as if aware of the effect of his tone, smiled. “I hope to see you again soon.”
Rebecca set the tray down on the hall table and dropped a curtsy. “And I you, sir.”
“Good day.” He bowed to them both and walked out the door, closing it very carefully behind him.
“Well.” Rebecca turned away, dismayed by the look on Marcus’s face. “I’ll just return this to the kitchen, then.”
“Look at me, girl.”
Rebecca turned, startled. “Yes, Father?”
“What did you say to him?” he roared, and his hand clouted her across the face.
Marcus strode towards the river and his lodgings, having returned the gig to the livery stable, his face smooth, only the quick, agitated swing of his walking stick betraying his anger. Ezra Talbot was a dolt, and Marcus would take great pleasure in throttling him. Rebecca was a sweet, gentle woman, and yet her father talked of her as if she were a whore. Treated her that way, too. What did her past matter? His own past was checkered, and yet no one held that against him. It all made him wish he’d returned to Washington City sooner.
The door to the tall brick house near the river opened as he reached it, and Mrs. Sally, his landlady, stood there, her apple cheeks puckered. “Oh, Mr. Brand. You are home at last.”
“As you see, madam.” In spite of his anger, Marcus bit back a smile. Mrs. Sally was an elderly widow who had been forced by finances to let out rooms in her house. She had a penchant for the dramatic, and immense curiosity, which he suspected he would soon find a liability. Yet he couldn’t bring himself to snub her. “Is something wrong?” he asked as he entered the house, doffing his hat.
“A message came for you, sir, not ten minutes past,” she whispered conspiratorially, handing him a note. “A most arrogant man delivered it. I do dislike the English, don’t you?”
“Did he say aught to insult you?” Marcus’s voice was absent as he glanced down at the note, recognizing the handwriting. At least the wax seal wasn’t broken. To his knowledge Mrs. Sally couldn’t read, which was one reason he lodged here, but in his work he knew too well that no one could be trusted completely.
“He didn’t have to say anything. The very way he looked at me was an insult.” Mrs. Sally’s chins quivered in outrage. “I hope, sir, that you will not be inviting him to this house.”
Marcus had broken the seal and was scanning the note. “I will endeavor not to. I must go out again, ma’am.”
“Again?” Her face puckered in dismay. “But I made some lemonade, ‘tis nice and cool—”
“I am sorry,” he said, gently. It seemed he was not fated to receive any cool drinks today, he thought with a flash of amusement. “I promise I will sit with you when I return, and we will have a long chat.”
“Oh, very well. But please do walk slowly, sir. Mr. Sally was taken from me on a day like today. His heart, you know.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He opened the door, and then turned. “Ma’am, are you acquainted with Rebecca Talbot?”
Mrs. Sally’s face screwed up in a frown, and he braced himself. “Oh, that poor girl.”
“Ma’am?”
“Wickedly deceived she was by that Englishman, and him calling himself a lord! And, of course, there’s what happened with the pirate.”
“Not her fault.”
“No, it wasn’t, but the way her father carried on...” Her lips compressed. “I do not care to speak ill of anyone, sir, but I must tell you that my dear Joshua never liked Mr. Talbot.”
“An indictment, indeed.” Marcus’s voice was grave, though he wanted to kiss her for coming to Rebecca’s defense.
“Oh, yes. Mr. Sally did always say there was something strange about the manner of Mrs. Talbot’s death. The first Mrs. Talbot, that is.”
Marcus was very still. “In what way, ma’am?”
“Well—far be it from me to gossip, sir, but ‘twas a terrible scandal at the time. She ran off with an actor, can you fancy that? Oh, it was quite a shock, and Rebecca just a babe at the time. Though, there, mayhaps the poor woman meant to come back. We’d word, later, that they both died.”
Marcus stirred, uneasily. “How?”
Mrs. Sally’s face puckered in a frown. “Now, that is what always bothered Mr. Sally, since Mr. Talbot was gone from home at the time.”
“Are you saying he killed them?” Marcus said, sharply.
“Oh, gracious, no! At least, there is no indication he did. No, no, that would be a terrible thing to accuse anyone of.” She stepped back. “I mustn’t keep you, you’ve something you must do.”
“I fear so.” His voice was grim. “Don’t wait dinner for me, ma’am. I don’t know how long I’ll be,” he said, and went out, his thoughts churning. Talbot was a menace. He didn’t need Mrs. Sally to tell him that, and it meant he had to do something. Damn the danger
to his mission. He had to do something about Rebecca.
“Becky?” Amelia said outside Rebecca’s bedroom door that afternoon. “Lieutenant Dee is below, to see you.”
“Tell him I’m indisposed,” Rebecca answered, her voice muffled.
“I’ll do no such thing.” Amelia walked in, hands on hips. “I agree that what Papa did to you is horrid, but I think you should stop feeling sorry for yourself.”
Rebecca lowered the damp cloth she held to her cheek in hopes of lessening the throbbing and bruising. “I don’t feel that way at all, Amelia. But can you blame me for not wanting to be seen like this?”
Amelia held her ground. “Other people should see how Papa treats you.”
“They’ll only wonder what I did to deserve it,” she said. “I’m afraid my reputation’s past mending.”
“Well, it isn’t fair! I think you should come down and see Lieutenant Dee.”
“Amelia—”
“It’s high time you had someone show an interest in you, Becky. Heaven knows I have enough suitors. And if Papa has his way,” she wrinkled her nose, “I’ll marry that Mr. Brand.”
“Don’t you like him?”
“He’s well enough, I suppose.” She shrugged. “But not for me. He’s far too old. Oh, Becky, do come down! You know I can’t entertain a man alone.”
Rebecca eyed her with alarm. “Amelia, you haven’t a tendre for Lieutenant Dee, are you?”
“No, silly, he’s your beau! Do come down. Please?”
“Oh, very well,” Rebecca said, unreasonably cheered. It shouldn’t matter that her sister had no interest in Mr. Brand, and yet it did. Rising, she followed Amelia downstairs, and into the parlor.
“Lieutenant Dee,” she said, smiling, and he bowed in return. He was a well-enough looking man, she thought, sitting, as they exchanged pleasantries. Not very tall, but solidly built, with even, regular features. There was the scar, and his light brown hair, which he kept pushing back with quick, impatient gestures, was thinning, but, really, those were minor defects. She wondered why she couldn’t like him.
