by Kruger, Mary
“I’m not—”
“When will you stop punishing yourself for the past?”
“What in the world do you mean?”
He gestured with his hand, so like Brendan that for a moment she was assailed by déjà vu. But Brendan’s hair had been coal black, not streaked with gray; he had spoken with an Irish lilt. So different, they were, and their similarities only heightened the differences. “The past, Rebecca. We both know what I’m talking about. You’re punishing yourself for it, aren’t you?”
“No.”
“Hiding away, doing your father’s bidding, acting old before your time, never letting yourself have a normal life. For God’s sake, Rebecca. It’s all past.”
Had she ever thought this man lacking in emotion? He wasn’t, today. His eyes shone with the fervor of his beliefs; his hands gripped her arms. Curiously, it calmed her. “You know nothing of me, sir.”
“I know what I’ve seen.”
“I do what I do because I wish it. You see,” she went on before he could interrupt, “someone once told me to forgive myself.” She paused. “I have.”
“Have you?” His gaze was unreadable. “You have no regrets?”
“There are some things I wish I could change. I would have my son back, if I could.” She raised her chin, wondering what his reaction was to that; seeing only the same impenetrable gaze. So he knew she had had a child. “I regret none of it.”
“Then why do you live as you do? You must have other choices—”
“Choices? What choice does a woman alone have, sir? I would have no home. No, sir. I have no choices.”
“You do.” His grip tightened. “I’ve offered you one.”
Her heart contracted. Tempting, so tempting. She didn’t love him; love had died with Brendan. But, oh, she was attracted to him, and he was right. She did want her own home, her own family. If only she hadn’t seen him at the British legation. “So we’re back to that.”
“Yes.” His hands gentled, slid down to grasp hers. “I meant what I said, Rebecca. I’m attracted to you.”
“Why?” she asked, bluntly.
“Because you’re strong and brave and beautiful.”
“And what do you offer me, sir? Certainly nothing to make me change my mind.”
“No?” His gaze was piercing. “I want you, Rebecca, and I suspect that you want me.”
She bit her lips. Want. Not need, and certainly not love. She accepted that men found her attractive, but, oh, why couldn’t they wish for more of her? “My answer remains, Mr. Brand,” she said, pulling her hands away.
“I won’t stop trying,” he said behind her.
“My answer will remain the same,” she called over her shoulder, and hurried on, along the sun-dappled path, seeing neither the trees arching overhead, nor the wood violets and day lilies in the undergrowth. At last she reached the top of the hill, and the group of people who waited there.
Amelia eyed Rebecca curiously as she joined them. “Is something wrong?” she asked.
“Nothing.” Rebecca strove to keep her voice normal, in spite of the past emotional moments and the exertion of climbing the hill. “Mr. Brand and I were remarking on the view.”
Amelia’s gaze flicked past her to Marcus, just coming into sight and looking remarkably unruffled, the wretch. “Do you mean,” Amelia’s voice lowered, “he didn’t try to kiss you?”
“Amelia!” Rebecca exclaimed, and several of the others turned to look, smiling a little.
“Well, he should. He’s being remarkably behind-hand.”
“Amelia, we hardly know each other,” she hissed.
“And he’s been pursuing you since we met.” Her eyes crinkled. “What would Papa think, do you imagine, if you made a match of it with Mr. Brand, and I with Mr. Collins?”
“Mercy! He’d have an apoplexy.” Rebecca frowned, alerted by something in Amelia’s voice. Mr. Collins would be a good match for Amelia; he was ambitious and of good family, and in his presence Amelia seemed steadier. But then, she had changed from the girl who had once wanted to marry an English lord she didn’t know. “Amelia, are you and Mr. Collins—”
“Papa said an odd thing today,” Amelia interrupted, the mischief gone from her eyes. “He asked me if I would like to live in the President’s House.”
“He was jesting, Amelia.”
“No. He was serious. And his eyes looked strange, Becky. I cannot describe it, but—they scared me.”
A chill ran down Rebecca’s spine, in spite of the warmth of the day. She had no chance to say anything, however, for Marcus joined them at that moment. “Ladies? I believe they’re organizing the tour.”
“Oh. Yes.” Rebecca looked once more at Amelia and then turned away, a determined smile on her face. She would endure this, but after today she would have little to do with Marcus Brand. For the sake of her heart, she had to.
Mount Vernon was no shrine to the late General Washington, but a working farm; the current owner, Judge Bushrod Washington, a justice on the Supreme Court, lived in Washington City. Behind the great house there were an icehouse, a spinning house, stables and paddocks; a flower garden and a kitchen garden, and even a bowling green, making the plantation a town within itself. Because the Bayards were acquainted with Judge Washington, the group toured the house itself, though little remained of the General’s possessions. His globe of the world was still there, and the key to the Bastille, given him by Lafayette. The furnishings, however, were a hodge-podge mixture chosen for function and comfort, and in the General’s study were empty shelves, his carefully chosen library having been bought by, of all places, the Boston Atheneum. Finally the party left the house and came to the family tomb overlooking the Potomac. They stood in respectful silence for a moment and then turned away, their chatter all the more hectic because of the silence.
Ruth and the other servants had set out the food under a grove of trees, and here they settled for their picnic. Below them opened a sweeping vista of the hill down to the river, sparkling in the sun, and the rolling countryside beyond. Rebecca deliberately chose to sit with Mrs. Bayard; she was, nonetheless surprised when Marcus joined the younger people, sitting next to Miss Fairfax, after Amelia the loveliest girl there. As she ate the repast of cold ham and chicken, followed by fresh fruit and a trifle and washed down with lemonade (discreetly strengthened for the men), Rebecca watched him, though she hadn’t meant to. She watched as, Miss Fairfax, wary at first, soon began to smile and then to flirt. Her lips tightened as Marcus showed every sign of flirting back, and her heart contracted when he leaned over to say something to Miss Fairfax that had her simpering and smiling. Determinedly she looked away and started a conversation with Mrs. Bayard. Marcus was not important to her. She would not let his behavior bother her.
Luncheon was over, and the party was sitting, somnolent, under the trees. Gilbert Collins had taken out a knife and was carving away at a chip of wood. “That’s a fine-looking blade,” Marcus said, and the sound of his voice made Rebecca look up.
Gilbert looked pleased at the compliment, but didn’t relinquish the knife for inspection. “It was my father’s. He gave it to me some time back.”
“Tell him why,” Mr. Parke suggested, and there were some sniggers. “Remember? You took it to play mumbledy-peg when he said you couldn’t,” he said, referring to the game of knife throwing.
“So did you. How old were we? Ten? Twelve?
“Yes, but I didn’t catch my aunt in the—in a delicate portion of her anatomy.”
“She shouldn’t have been in the garden!” Gilbert said hotly, while the men hooted with laughter and the ladies, pretending embarrassment, looked down and bit back smiles.
“Wasn’t she hurt?” Marcus asked.
“With all the petticoats she wore? No. But I was,” Gilbert said ruefully, his hand going to his backside before he remembered himself. “After my father learned about it I couldn’t sit down for a week.”
“I like your Aunt Lucy,” Mr. Parke sai
d. “But sometimes she does need taking down a peg or two.”
Everyone groaned at the pun, and, clicking his knife closed, Gilbert tossed it in the air. “How long has it been since you played?” he asked, looking at Parke.
“Are you challenging me?” Parke answered.
“Yes.”
“I’m said to be rather good with a knife myself,” Marcus said, rising to his feet. “Shall we make it a competition?”
“Oh, dear, here they go,” Mrs. Bayard groaned, as her husband joined the group. “Sometimes men are such little boys. Which one has the longer knife. Or sword.”
Startled, Rebecca looked at her, and then decided that she’d imagined the double meaning. How well did Marcus used his blade—stop it, she commanded herself, feeling the color rise in her cheeks.
The men gathered in an informal group, coats off, cravats loosened. Rebecca looked up to see muscles rippling across Marcus’s taut shoulders, and warmth started low in her belly. Always he was dressed so properly, and now she had seen him in only his shirt twice: here, and when she had gone to Mrs. Sally’s to warn him. Just the thought of how he had looked then, with his shirt open at the throat, was enough to make the heat within her intensify. But then, she thought, trying desperately to regain some control of herself, she had never denied that he was a fine-looking man.
The rules had quickly been decided. Each man would throw his knife, with those throwing the longest going on to compete against each other. “Best two out of three, gentlemen?” Marcus said, and took out his knife, flicking out the blade. Rebecca gazed at it absently, and then suddenly straightened. Mother of pearl handle; distinctive silver scroll work on the hilt and along the tip of the handle. She had seen the very same knife flash in a sunny Caribbean lane; seen it clamped between the teeth of a ruthless pirate come to take captives. Brendan’s knife. It couldn’t be, but it was.
“Dear? Are you all right?” Mrs. Bayard asked.
“What? Oh, yes. Fine.”
“You look a trifle pale.”
“It is probably the heat. Pray don’t worry. I am fine.” Brendan’s knife. How could it be, unless his personal effects had been sold—but the Raven had gone down with all hands. Her heart thudded sickly. Brendan’s knife, in the hands of a man who looked so like him it made her heart ache. Dear heavens. No one had ever found Brendan’s body. Common enough at sea, but what if—no, it was impossible. But...
Her thoughts were jumbled as she watched the competition, sharpening only when it was Marcus’s turn. He threw it with the cool competence she’d expected of him, and yet also with controlled savagery, joy in the game, and determination to win. And win he did, his knife going the farthest in the preliminary round, and in the following games. It flew cleanly, gracefully, through the air, falling precisely, tip into the soft grass, each and every time. At competition’s end he was proclaimed the winner, with promises of future matches to come.
The men returned to the ladies, perspiring, grumbling as they struggled into their coats, but looking far more relaxed and cheerful. The ladies clustered about them, talking, with most of the attention reserved for Marcus. Rebecca stood aside, watching as he shrugged into his coat, straightened his cravat, smoothed down his hair. He was the picture of cool, controlled elegance again, and if she hadn’t seen it she would never have guessed at the keenly-honed danger within him.
His gaze caught hers. “Well, Rebecca?” he said, walking over to her. “Don’t you have something to say? Some comment or criticism?”
“No.”
“No?” He grinned. “Dare I hope you actually approve something I did?”
“Yes.” She paused, watching him. “You throw very well, Brendan.”
“Thank you,” he said, absently, and then his head snapped up. His gaze caught hers, and in his eyes she saw a terrible knowledge. Dear heaven. She was right. Why she hadn’t seen it before she didn’t know, but Marcus Brand was, indeed, Brendan Fitzpatrick, the Raven.
Chapter Twenty-One
“Excuse me,” Marcus said, politely. “What did you call me?”
“You heard me.” This couldn’t be happening. It couldn’t be, not when she had just decided to face her future at last. Yet here was her past, undeniably real and solid.
“Yes.” His voice was clipped. “You made a mistake, Rebecca. No man likes being called by another’s name.”
“‘Twas no mistake.” She faced him squarely, in spite of the feeling that this was a bizarre dream. “Brendan.” She hadn’t really believed it, she thought, heart pounding, hadn’t really expected he’d answer to the name. But he had. He was— “Brendan.”
“Ah, lass,” he said, dropping the clipped accent along with his studied pose of coolness. “I can explain—”
It was too much. She turned and ran, blindly, not caring where she was going. She knew only that she had to escape, from the pain, from the knowledge that it had all been a lie.
“The devil take it,” Marcus swore.
“Rebecca?” Amelia called at the same time, staring after her sister, blundering down the hill. “Where is she going?”
“She must be unwell.” Marcus’s mouth was a thin, grim slash. “I’ll go to her.”
“I’ll come—”
“No.” His voice cut across hers. “I’ll go alone.”
“Well, if you think that’s best,” she said, puzzled. “But please do bring her back.”
Marcus nodded and set of at an easy lope. Keep it slow, careful; show none of his panic. Devil take it, he’d known he would someday have to tell her the truth, but not like this. Not when she was unprepared and vulnerable. She’d been hurt badly in her life, and most of it had been by him.
He caught up with her at the river’s edge, her shoulders heaving. “Rebecca,” he said, reaching out a hand to place it on her shoulder, and she spun away from him.
“Don’t you touch me!” she hissed, and in her eyes he saw pure agony. “Don’t you come near me, you, you—liar!”
“Rebecca, if you’ll let me explain—”
“It was all lies, wasn’t it?” Her voice was high and tight. “That eyepatch you wore and wouldn’t let me see under—all lies, all of it, on the Raven, and here—”
“No, leannan, it wasn’t—”
“Don’t call me that! Don’t ever call me that again. God.” She turned her back to him, arms wrapped about herself, head back, as if searching the sky for answers. “God.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, helplessly. He had an explanation composed for such a contingency, but the words would be flat, stale. For the truth was, he had lied to her. He still was. “If I could undo it, Rebecca, I would, but—”
“All of it?” she demanded, looking at him.
“No. Not all of it.” He paused. “I asked you to stay with me, Rebecca.”
“Yes. As a pirate’s woman. Or so I believed,” she said, bitterly. “What is your name? I don’t even know that.”
“It is Marcus Brand.”
“Then Brendan Fitzpatrick never really existed.”
“Oh, he was real enough. I—”
“I mourned you!” She spun around again, hands on hips, and he caught the glitter of unshed tears in her eyes. “When everyone else rejoiced that the Raven was dead, when everyone told me I must be relieved—relieved!—I mourned you. This past year has been hell.”
“I’m sorry,” he said again. “Sorry for the scandal you had to face.”
“I don’t give that for scandal.” She snapped her fingers. “But you—knowing you—Brendan wasn’t in the world anymore—I loved you!” she cried, and now the tears streamed down her cheeks. “And all the time, I loved someone who never existed.”
“I’m real, Rebecca,” he said, urgently. “I’m right here.”
“But who are you? Marcus, or Brendan?”
“Both,” he said, after a moment. He’d never thought about it before. “Rebecca, you must believe me. I never meant to hurt you.”
“Where have you been this year pa
st?”
That was a hard one. “In Baltimore.”
“Baltimore.” She stared at him. “You were safe in Baltimore, when all the time I imagined you in a watery grave, with the fish all around, and—”
“Ah, lass, don’t—”
“Baltimore!” She spat it out. “Couldn’t you even let me know you were all right?”
“I wanted to. I came to Georgetown again and again, just to catch a glimpse of you, make sure you were all right—”
“Why?” she demanded. “Just tell me why you did it.”
“I can’t.”
“Can’t, or won’t?”
“Can’t.” He stared at her. “It’s not my secret to tell.”
“Oh, yes.” She gave a bitter laugh. “Oh, yes, I understand. ‘Tis because you’re a spy. Oh, don’t worry,” she went on, as his head jerked up. “I haven’t told anyone. Yet.”
“Who told you that?” he said, his voice dangerously quiet.
“No one. I saw it for myself. At the British legation. Offering your services to Mr. St. John.”
“Oh. That.” Relief made him lightheaded. “I can explain that.”
“The way you can explain everything else? I don’t think so.”
“Rebecca.” His voice was low and urgent. “This isn’t the place, but I can explain it all to you, if you’ll give me a chance—”
“Here you are,” a voice called behind them. Startled, they turned to see Mr. Bayard approaching, puffing with exertion. “Mrs. Bayard sent me to find you. Are you all right, Rebecca?”
“Miss Talbot is feeling unwell,” Marcus said, before Rebecca could answer.
“‘Twas the knives,” she said, flatly. “They reminded me of the Raven.”
“Ah. No wonder you were upset.” Mr. Bayard patted her shoulders in an avuncular manner. “You’ve had a hard time of it, no mistaking that, but it’s over. The scoundrel’s dead.”
Rebecca stared at Marcus. “Yes.”
“Come. It’s getting late. Mrs. Bayard thinks we should head home.”
“Of course.” Rebecca turned, ignoring Marcus. “Shall we return to the others?”
Mr. Bayard grimaced. “‘Tis a long walk back up that hill. No, better if we go directly to the wharf. Come, my dear, lean on me. We’ll see you safely home. Are you coming, sir?” he called over his shoulder.
