In a Pirate's Arms

by Kruger, Mary

  Love. That one word almost stopped her. “I heard you plan to become a privateer.”

  He went still in her arms, and then lifted his head again. “Who told you that?”

  “It doesn’t matter. Is it true?”

  “Aye, lass,” he said, and rolled off her. She almost whimpered at the loss of him, even though he immediately gathered her close to his side. “I have to do what I can to help. We’re at war, Rebecca.”

  “I know, but.” Her fingers toyed with the crisp curls on his chest. “Can’t you do something from your home? Can’t you stay there and run your business?”

  “There’s no business for a man like me at times like this, Rebecca. The best thing I can do, for my country and myself, is to go out as a privateer.”

  “Against England.”

  “I have to, Rebecca.”

  Her heart thudded, slowly, painfully. Of course he did. If he did as she asked, he wouldn’t be the man she loved. But the parting was coming, no matter what he had said. “I know.”

  “But not alone.” He shifted, and suddenly she was atop him, staring down at him in surprise. “I’ll not leave you behind. You’ll be with me.”

  “Oh, Marcus.” She squeezed her eyes shut. “I can’t. Don’t you realize that?”

  “You can.” He moved his hand to her shoulder, shaking her a little. “You’re a grown woman. You can do what you want.”

  “No. I have obligations.”

  “Yes. To me.”

  She lifted her hand, stroked it down his cheek, delighting in the feel of skin roughened by the sun. “You don’t need me, Marcus,” she said, softly.

  “The devil I don’t!” he exclaimed, and tumbled her over, rising from the bed, magnificently naked, magnificently male. “Do you know what my life’s been like without you? It’s been—”

  “Empty,” she finished for him. “Lower your voice, Marcus.”

  “I don’t want to lower my voice,” he grumbled, but he sat on the edge of the bed, head down. “I need you, Rebecca. I’ve been alone too long, lonely too long, and the only thing I’ve cared about is getting revenge on a country that doesn’t care if I exist. But, you.” He twisted and bent over her, fisting his hands in her hair. “The day I met you, everything changed. Lord, I didn’t know what was happening to me, but I do now. There’s more to life than I’ve ever known.” He paused, his face working with emotion. “Show it to me, Rebecca.”

  She closed her eyes tightly, hearing in her mind a similar plea aboard the Raven. Need, and want. Not love. “I want to.” Her voice was a whisper as she traced the outline of his lips with her fingertips. “But I can’t. No, please, hear me out.” This as he shifted away. “Times will be hard. Amelia needs me more than ever—”

  “Amelia’s grown up,” he growled.

  “Yes. But she still needs me. And my father.” She frowned. “I’m worried about him. He’s not himself.”

  He muttered something in reply. “I beg your pardon?” she said.

  “I said, if he’s not himself, that’s a good thing.” He glared at her. “Dammit, Rebecca, you’re going to waste your life on that old man.”

  “He’s my father.”

  “And he treats you like dirt.”

  She sighed. “When I was a little girl, no one could have asked for a better father. He had two daughters to care for and no wife, and he was wonderful.”

  “Devil take it, Rebecca, he’s not wonderful now.”

  “Does that mean I should just abandon him? Should I walk away because things have gotten difficult?”

  “Things have gotten impossible. He doesn’t give a damn for you. When are you going to admit that?”

  She flinched. “You’re wrong—”

  “I’m not.” He swung around and sat up. “We had this argument before, on the Raven. And you’ve admitted that what you did then was a mistake.”

  She didn’t answer right away. “Leaving you was a mistake. But if I hadn’t done what I did—Marcus, I don’t know if I could have lived with myself. I don’t know if I could, now.”

  “I’d make you forget him.”

  “Maybe. For a while.” She looked up at him, longing to touch his back, hunched and strained. But she didn’t dare. She didn’t have the courage.

  “So it comes to this.” His voice was flat. “You’re choosing him over me.”

  “Marcus, you once chose your country over me.”

  “That’s different.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Devil take it, Rebecca,” he said, turning towards her. She saw anger in his eyes, passion, fear. “I could force you to come along.”

  She shifted on the bed, intrigued by the idea in spite of herself. “Abduct me, you mean?”

  “Yes. I’ve done it before.”

  “So you have.” A smile curved her lips, and then faded. “It wouldn’t work. I’d only resent you.”

  “Devil take it.” He pounded his fists on his thighs. “Don’t do this, Rebecca.”

  “When the war is over—”

  “And when will that be? And what excuse will you find then? No.” He rose. “Now or never, Rebecca.”

  She swallowed, hard. It had an awful, final ring. “I’m sorry, Marcus,” she whispered.

  “Sorry,” he snorted, and began pulling on shirt and trousers. “Get dressed.”

  “I could stay a while longer—”

  “No. If you won’t stay with me forever, then that’s not enough. Get dressed.”

  Rebecca closed her eyes against a sudden rush of tears, and then rose. In silence she found her petticoat and gown and slipped into them, turning her back for him to fasten the buttons, a very different experience than when he had undone them. In silence she followed him out into the hall and down the stairs, and, at last, out into the street. Silently she walked along beside him, her hand on his tense arm, until they drew near her house. And it was in silence that she watched as he bowed, turned, and walked away from her, though inside she screamed. Marcus! She wanted to run after him. Oh, Marcus, come back, I was wrong.

  But she didn’t. Instead, she stayed still at the top of the hill, watching his figure growing ever distant. Only when he had turned a corner and was gone from her sight did she turn, dry-eyed from pain too deep for tears. Marcus was gone. She was alone.

  Part III

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Georgetown, July, 1814

  Rebecca trudged up the hill to Prospect Street, her marketing basket light and her spirits low. Behind and below her the Potomac sparkled in the sunlight, and where it had once been filled with ships at anchor, now there were few: her father’s, rotting at anchor, his plans for transferring them to Canadian ownership having fallen through. Times were hard, and the brunt of the problems had fallen on Rebecca. On her was the task of finding food, beyond the chickens they kept and what they grew in their garden.

  The war was not going well for the Americans. The early naval successes over the British were now a thing of the past, with most of the American frigates being blockaded, and the invasion of Canada had failed. In Europe, Napoleon’s abdication had freed Wellington’s seasoned troops to fight in the Americas; rumor had it they were already in Bermuda, preparing to invade from Canada. The blockade extended along the entire coast, and, with the British marauding at will throughout Chesapeake Bay, exports from other countries had been cut off. Sugar was scarce, and so was coffee; and the tobacco that once provided livelihoods for so many went unharvested. In the spring plans had been made for the defense of Washington City, and soldiers now drilled in President’s Square, bringing home to everyone just how close the war was. There was little money in the Talbot household, and less life, and, as she approached the home she had once loved, Rebecca felt as if she were entering a mausoleum.

  To her surprise, Amelia was standing in the front hall when she entered, fussing with her bonnet and surrounded by bandboxes and trunks. “What in the world?” Rebecca exclaimed. “Amelia, what is all this?”

&nb
sp; “I’m leaving.” Amelia put her chin up defiantly. “And nothing you can say will stop me.”

  “Leaving!” Rebecca dropped into the chair that stood in the hall. “Amelia, you can’t.”

  “Oh, can’t I.” Amelia’s voice was grim, making Rebecca look at her as she hadn’t in too long. Why, Amelia had grown up. There was new determination in her face, a new look in her eyes. She wasn’t a girl, but a woman. The two years past had brought more changes than Rebecca had realized. “I’ve thought this over, Becky, and I’ve decided I will not stay in this—this tomb!—any longer.”

  Rebecca closed her eyes, tired, so tired, only vaguely surprised that Amelia’s thoughts echoed hers. “I know it hasn’t been too lively around here, Melia, and there’s been little fun, but—”

  “Fun! is that what you think I want?” Amelia crouched before her, her face incredulous. “I need more than fun. I need a life. Oh, Becky! Just look around.” Her gesture encompassed more than the hall, dusty in spite of all Rebecca’s best efforts, for the lack of income had forced them to let Ruth and Jacob go. It took in the entire house: the closed doors; the curtains, drawn at Ezra’s command; the darkness. “I can’t live like this. Papa never comes out of his study anymore, and when he does he doesn’t talk, and, Becky, you—” she reached out to grasp Rebecca’s hands, “you’re growing just like him.”

  Rebecca pulled her hands away. “I’m not.”

  “You are. You never smile anymore, and I don’t know when I last heard you laugh. Not since you sent Marcus away.”

  Rebecca started. “You know about that?”

  “I saw you.” Amelia’s voice softened. “The day war was declared. Oh, Becky! Why didn’t you go with him?”

  “He didn’t love me, Melia.”

  Amelia snorted. “The way he looked at you? You were blind, Rebecca, and foolish.” She stood up, drawing on her gloves. “I’m not going to make the same mistake.”

  Rebecca blinked at her. “Where will you go? To your mother’s family?”

  “No.” Amelia finished buttoning her gloves. “Gilbert Collins has asked me to marry him. I’ve finally agreed.”

  “Mr. Collins! Oh, Melia. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  Amelia glanced at her from the mirror. “He’s been asking me for a long time, but I couldn’t. I thought you needed me. Now I know...”

  “What?” Rebecca said, when she didn’t go on.

  “You’re like Papa, nursing your hurts and not letting anyone close.”

  “That’s not fair!”

  “No? Look at me, Rebecca. I’m not a timid little girl anymore. I’ve grown up. But you don’t treat me that way.”

  “I’ll change—”

  “I wish you could. Oh, Becky! Do you think I like leaving like this? I almost asked you to stand up with me at my wedding, except...”

  “What?”

  “I didn’t think you’d agree.”

  Rebecca swallowed around a lump in her throat. “I’m sorry, Amelia. You know I would, but...” Her voice trailed off as she glanced at the study door. “If he disapproves of your marriage, there’ll be no living with him.”

  “Then come with us. Oh! I hear a carriage.” Amelia flew to the door and looked out the sidelight. “‘Tis Gilbert. Oh, Becky!” She spun around, catching Rebecca’s hands in hers. “Come with me. You can stay with us.”

  “I can’t, Amelia.” Rebecca rose, unsteadily. “I wish I could, but—I can’t. Someone has to look after Father.”

  “Becky.” Amelia’s eyes filled with tears, and she reached up to touch Rebecca’s cheek. “Why is it always you who has to carry the burdens?”

  “Because someone has to. Oh, Amelia!” She caught her sister close, squeezing her eyes shut. “I’m glad for you, truly, I am. But I’ll be so lonely.”

  “Find out where Marcus is and go to him.”

  The lump in her throat grew larger. “I doubt he’d have me now.”

  “I think you’re wrong.” The sound of the door knocker echoed in the hall. “That’s Gilbert. I must go. Rebecca, please, please, change your mind.”

  “I can’t. Does Father know?”

  “That I’m leaving? Yes. I went into his study and told him. He just looked at me, but he knew what I was saying.”

  “Oh, dear. I don’t know what he’ll do now.”

  The door knocker sounded again. “I must go. Wish me happy, Becky.”

  “You know I do.” Rebecca pulled her sister close and then, as abruptly, released her. “Be happy,” she whispered, and fled up the stairs to her room. She couldn’t bear to watch another loved one leave her.

  In the upstairs hallway she listened to the muted voices below, and then the click of the door latch as Amelia left. Alone. All gone now, her son, Amelia, and Marcus. A tear slid down her cheek, and she blinked furiously, determined not to give in to self-pity. No matter that she woke nights aching for Marcus, yearning for his touch; no matter that she went through her days aimlessly, existing only because she had to. The choice had been hers. But if she had it to do over—no. She shook her head. Even now, she didn’t know if she’d do it differently. She loved Marcus, needed him; without him she was dying a slow death. She didn’t know, though, if she could have lived with herself, had she abandoned her father and sister. They had needed her then. Father still needed her now.

  Straightening, she brushed a hand across her face, wiping away any trace of tears, and went downstairs, to make the dinner her father would probably ignore and she would only pick at. She had to make the best of things, but, oh, she was so lonely. And she doubted it would ever get any better.

  The sleek black ship had docked at Alexandria, several miles below Washington City on the Potomac, and discharged its cargo: coffee, fresh oranges, sugar. She was a smuggler, bringing in the goods made scarce by the British blockade, and her captain was a respectable man. A far cry, Marcus thought, turning for one last look at his ship as he headed up King Street, from the days when he’d been a hated and feared pirate. If he could, though, he would bring those days back. They had brought him Rebecca.

  “Be ye goin’ to see her this time, Cap’n?” Tyner asked, scurrying to keep up with Marcus’s long strides.

  “I don’t know,” Marcus said, shortly.

  “About time ye did. Ye haven’t been a joy to be around.”

  “Tyner—”

  “Nay, I’ll speak my mind on this, Cap’n. Lettin’ her go was a mistake. Both times.”

  “She chose her father,” Marcus said, through gritted teeth. Aye, and not just once. Time after time in the last years he’d written to her, and not once had she replied.

  “She had no choice.” Tyner retorted. “What did ye offer her, Cap’n? Life on a pirate ship? All the time worryin’ and wonderin’ if ye were alive, or comin’ back to her? Did ye even ask her to wed?”

  “Devil take it, Tyner, ‘tis none of your concern!”

  “Mebbe not.” Tyner nodded. “But I don’t like seein’ ye unhappy, Cap’n, and ye are.” He paused, as if waiting for a reply. “Go to her, Cap’n. Ye knew ye want to.”

  Marcus stood still, gazing ahead without seeing anything. Oh, yes, he wanted to. That was the problem. Twice he’d asked Rebecca to stay with him, and twice she had refused. If he went to her he’d ask her yet again. Only a fool would put himself through that. “Maybe,” he said, slowly.

  “Boat leaves in half-hour, Cap’n. Ye could be in Georgetown this afternoon.”

  “Damn you, Tyner,” he said, but without any heat. “You won’t give me any peace until I do go, will you?”

  Tyner grinned up at him. “No, Cap’n, that I won’t. Ye’re makin’ the right decision,” he called, as Marcus abruptly hefted his ditty bag and began heading back down the hill, towards the waterfront. “And this time, ask her to marry ye.”

  Passersby, hearing the exchange, grinned at Marcus, and he gave them a sheepish smile in return. Marry? Aye, maybe. Hard to do, though, when there was so much left for him to do, and such a need f
or his services. It was making him into a rich man, but that wasn’t his main reason for smuggling. Privateering had been profitable, too, but not nearly as satisfying as he’d expected. Smuggling was different, a war of wits between him and the British ships roaming the coast, a battle he had so far won. It had been close this time, with that British corvette hot on his heels, but his ship was a fine one, as fast as could be. Once again, he’d escaped. Now he was walking into a different kind of trap. The strange thing was, he thought, as he boarded the schooner that would take him upriver to Georgetown, he didn’t mind at all.

  Rebecca sat by the base of a broad oak tree, knees drawn up, watching a swan glide on the serene surface of the little lake nearby. It was peaceful here, the only sounds birdsong and the wind rustling in the leaves overhead. Cooler, as well, with the lawn a verdant green. Rebecca glanced at the wind-ruffled grass a few feet away, her heart skipping a beat. The grave was tiny, and so was the headstone. Her son was buried there.

  She looked at the headstone for a moment, and then away. Odd, but the pain of her son’s death had grown distant. It would always be with her, but she had more recent disasters to consider. Amelia was married, and happily ensconced in a snug little house on F Street, not far from the President’s House. She missed her sister, in the dark tomb her house had become. Papa stayed in his study all the time, coming out only to sleep. What he did in there all day she didn’t know; he had a great many papers lying around, but he took pains to cover them when Rebecca brought him his meals on a tray. When he did talk it was about the war, never about Amelia. More obdurate than ever, he behaved as if she had never existed, and Rebecca, for all her pleading, could not make him change his mind. Thus her visits to her sister were clandestine and brief, and yet she continued to make them. They were the only light spots in a dark, dark life.

  Branches rustled nearby, and she glanced up, incuriously, to see who else had come to pay his respects to the dead. A man, carelessly attired in a coat of navy blue that needed a good sponging, with longish black hair, and broad shoulders—she stiffened. It couldn’t be, but it was. Marcus.