by Kruger, Mary
She didn’t move, utterly convinced he was an apparition, though he walked towards her. “Hello, Rebecca,” he said, his voice very gentle.
“Marcus.” She said it without surprise. “Am I imagining you?”
“No.” He dropped down onto one knee before her. “I’m here.” He glanced towards the headstone. “There was no answer at your house. A neighbor told me you might be here.”
“We had to let Ruth go.” She glanced towards the headstone, too. “I spend a fair amount of time here. ‘Tis peaceful.”
“It’s dead, Rebecca.”
She shrugged. “It doesn’t seem to make much difference.”
“No? You’ve changed, lass.”
“So have you.” Only now did she turn to look at him, tall and broad and strong, like the oak at her back. If only he were as dependable. “You look like the Raven again. Your hair is all dark.”
He shook his head. “No. Not the Raven, and not the fop I was before. This is me, Rebecca.”
“At last.”
“Yes, lass.”
She looked away again, and now it was his turn to study her. Thin, so thin, her face almost gaunt, and pale. Her eyes were dull; even her hair seemed to have lost its sheen. Devil take it, what had happened to his Rebecca? “You’ve been through a tough time, lass.”
She blinked, and he realized his words had brought her nearly to tears. “There’s been worse.”
“Not that I’ve heard.” Gently he laid his hand on hers, clasped around her knees, but after a few moments, she withdrew. “You don’t seem surprised to see me.”
“Nothing seems to surprise me anymore.” Again she turned to look at him. “Why are you here?”
“I just brought a load of goods into Alexandria.”
“The spoils of privateering?”
“No, lass. Legitimate goods, from the Indies. I brought them through the blockade.” He smiled, suddenly. “From St. Thomas. Do you remember it, Rebecca—”
“Oh, don’t!” she burst out. “Please, just—don’t.”
“I can’t help it,” he said, his voice low. “I think of you all the time, Rebecca. No, don’t turn from me. I hear your voice in the wind, see your eyes in the sea, wake in the night and want you there beside me. I’ve missed you, leannan.” More than she knew; more than he could say. “I should never have left you.”
“Don’t,” she said again.
He pressed on. At least she’d shown some emotion, rather than that dull hopelessness. “You’re all I think about, Rebecca. What I do, I do only because I have to, but if I could, I would take you away with me, hold you, kiss you, make you my own—no, don’t pull away.” This as she jerked back. “I won’t hurt you. If I could, I’d shelter you from anything that ever hurt you, Rebecca. I would.”
“But you don’t love me!” she cried, and her face twisted. “You talk of taking me away, but it’s never more than talk, with no promises, no mention of the future—”
“Oh, lass—”
“ —and I know why. I’m not good enough, am I? Even for a pirate and a spy, my past is too much and—”
“Devil take it, Rebecca! I don’t give that for your past.” He snapped his fingers. “Is that what you’ve been thinking?”
“‘Tis the truth. Oh, God.” She rested her head on her knees, the tears she’d held back coming out in great, gulping sobs. “Why couldn’t you love me?”
He sat very still, and he knew, at last, under the shade of the oak tree, that he did love her. That he had loved her for a very long time. Why else would he feel as he did, empty, without her beside him? Why else would he keep coming back to her? And why, he wondered, reaching out for her, hadn’t he seen it before?
“Ah, leannan,” he said, gathering her into his arms. He expected her to struggle, but she lay against him limply, her only movement the convulsions of her sobs. “Leannan, mo cridhe,” he crooned, rocking her back and forth. “Of course I love ye. Of course I do.”
“No, you don’t,” she sobbed, her head resting against his chest. “You’re saying it to make me stop crying.”
“Rebecca.” He pulled a little away, making his voice stern. “Did we, or did we not, agree to be honest with each other?”
She looked up at him, her breath coming in little gasps, and in her eyes he saw something new: the fragile beginnings of hope. “Y-yes.”
“Then do ye really think I’d lie to ye?”
“It’s funny.”
“What is?” he said, startled.
“On the Raven, when you were emotional, you sounded English. Now the brogue is back.”
“Is it? But ye bring it out in me, leannan. The joy and the laughter, the music.” He smiled at her, taking out his handkerchief to wipe away her tears. “The love.”
“I think,” she said, her voice as stern as his had been, “that you have kissed the Blarney Stone.”
He couldn’t help it; he gave a startled bark of laughter, a sound not often heard in that hallowed place. “Rebecca, Rebecca.” He rocked her in his arms again. “How have I lived without you?”
“I don’t know.” She reached up to touch his cheek, tentatively, as if still not believing the reality of him. “I don’t know how I lived, without you.”
He sobered. “It’s been bad, Rebecca.”
She sighed, looking away. “Bad enough. Amelia’s married, and Father pretends she doesn’t exist. Father pretends,” she said, her voice low, “that very little exists.”
He had a sudden thought. “Rebecca, I wrote to you. Did you ever get my letters?”
“No.” She stared at him. “You wrote me?”
“Aye. Did you really think I’d leave you like that, lass?”
She glanced away. “Yes. I thought you had.”
“Devil take it.” His lips thinned. “Your father must have taken the letters. Has he hurt you?”
“No. Mostly he’s left me alone. And that’s the problem.” Her eyes filled with tears again. “I’ve been so lonely, Marcus.”
“Aye, I know it, lass.” Tenderly he brushed her tears away. “But that’s done. Marry me, Rebecca.”
Her eyes grew wide. “I—you mean that?”
“Aye. Marry me. I’ll take you to my home. It’s a modest place, not like your father’s, but it will be yours. You’ll be my wife. And the mother of my children.”
Rebecca’s lashes fluttered down. So much to take in, and none of it seemed quite real. “I—oh, I want to, Marcus! But I can’t.”
“Rebecca—”
“It’s not my father,” she rushed on, the words tumbling out. “Since the war started he’s hardly noticed I’m alive. All he needs is someone to see that he’s fed and has clothes to wear. It’s me. I don’t know why, Marcus, I truly don’t, but—I can’t.” She looked up at him, pleading for understanding. “I just can’t.”
“If I give ye time, lass, will that do it?” he said, his voice low.
She gripped his arm. “You promise me you’ll come back?”
“Lass, I don’t think I’m ever going to leave you.”
“Well, that might cause problems,” she said, dryly. “Even Father might notice if you started living at our house.”
“Don’t jest,” he said severely, though he was smiling. “Is it all a bit too much, lass.”
“Yes.” She looked at him in wonder. “That’s it. How did you know?”
“Never mind.” He shook his head. “Aye, lass, I’ll give ye time. But not too much, mind.” The look in his eyes, warm, tender, belied the menace in his voice. “Because you’re mine.”
“Aye, Cap’n. And you,” she said, turning to him and placing her hands on his shoulders, “are mine. Now. Are you ever going to kiss me?”
“It’s a kiss you want, then? I think I can oblige. Come here.”
She went into his arms like coming home. They closed about her, welcoming her, sheltering her, and in his embrace the miseries of the past years began to drain away. She kissed him with all the longing, all the abando
n she had denied, all the passion she now admitted lay within her, and gloried in it. This wasn’t wanton. This was love. What she felt was real and true. The consequences no longer mattered. She loved this man.
At length Marcus drew back, eyes glittering. “Ah, lass,” he murmured, reaching out idly to cup her breast. She shivered as his thumbnail ran lazy circles about the tip, feeling as if she were going to dissolve into a pool of need and desire right there. “Do ye know what ye do to me?”
“I’ve an idea.”
“An idea, is it?” He leaned back against the tree, legs sprawled, arms about her waist where she faced him, half-kneeling, half-leaning on him. In such an intimate position she couldn’t help but be aware of his reactions; yet when he took her hand and led it downward, pressing it against the bulge in his trousers, she didn’t protest. “That, lass. That is what you do to me.”
“Good,” she said, letting her fingers play as they would, and smiling as a groan came from his lips. It felt strange, smiling, it had been so long. Strange, but good.
“Little witch,” he muttered, and hauled her close again. His kiss burned through her, and long-dormant nerves and responses, the very fiber of her, began to stir, in a rush of sensation. Painful, this coming back to life, feeling again, when she had tried so hard not to feel anything for so long. Painful, but good, and right. And, as he’d said a moment earlier, too much.
Rebecca pulled away this time, averting her head when he would have kissed her again, so that his lips only grazed her cheek. “Not here, Marcus,” she whispered.
She could feel him regarding her. “No, not here,” he agreed, finally.
“And not now.”
That took him longer to answer. “It’s been two years, lass.”
“I know.” She looked down at her hands, now resting on her lap. “But I can’t.”
His lips tightened, but he nodded. “Aye. If you can’t, you can’t. Don’t look at me like that, lass.”
“Like what?”
“All big-eyed and sad. I’m not angry with you.”
“I didn’t think you were.” She toyed with the laces of his shirt. “But you’ll be leaving again, won’t you?”
“Soon,” he admitted. “But I’m not leaving you, lass, I promise you that. I’ll be back.” His eyes searched her face. “I will, Rebecca.”
“When?”
He shifted beneath her, and again she felt his desire, setting off sparks within her. “I don’t know, and that’s the truth. But soon. Soon as I can get to the Indies and back, Rebecca.” He caught her chin in his hand, forcing her to face him. “My roving days are over.”
“I’m sorry for it.”
“Why?” he said, startled. “I thought you’d be pleased.”
“Oh, I am, but...” She lifted her eyes to study him, rakish-looking with his open shirt and long hair. “I loved the pirate, too.”
“He’s here.” He pressed her hand to his heart. “I suspect, lass, there’s a bit of the pirate in you, too.”
“Mercy, no! A plain, prim spinster like me?”
“Not plain, and not prim.” He punctuated each word with a kiss.
“But a spinster, nevertheless.”
“Not for long,” he said, rising to his knees. “We’d best go, lass. If we stay here no telling what will happen.”
She felt her cheeks color. Oh, she knew quite well what would happen, and in spite of her earlier refusal, she wanted it, too. “I suppose I should be getting home to see to supper.” She held her hand up to him, and he helped her up. “Though Father probably won’t eat it.
He frowned. “Lass, isn’t there someplace else you can go? To your sister’s, perhaps?”
“No.” She shook her head, bending down to retrieve her bonnet. “No, I’ll see it through, Marcus.”
“I never have understood why you wanted to stay with the old man,” he muttered.
Truth to tell, neither did she anymore, except that he was her father. “I know. Let’s not argue about it, Marcus.” She placed a finger on his lips. “We’ve found each other. That’s all that matters.”
He frowned. “Aye, lass, but I worry about your safety.”
“I’m all right. Where do you go now?”
“Back to Alexandria, and my ship. I’m sorry, lass, but I will come back.”
“I know you will,” she said, believing it at last.
“Come.” He held out his arm. “I’ll see you home.”
“Gladly, sir,” Rebecca said, and placed her hand on his arm, letting him lead her out to the street. Hope, so long dead within her, was blossoming again. Hope for the future, hope for a life filled with love and laughter and babies. She cast one quick glance over her shoulder at the cemetery, saying good-bye to her son, to her past. Then, smiling up at Marcus, she tucked her arm closer to his, and they walked on, facing their future.
And because they were so involved with each other, neither noticed the man who slipped from beneath the trees behind them and ambled along, following them.
Jeremiah Dee sat up straight, hand slamming onto the table in the seedy tavern where he now made his home. “You saw him? Where?”
“With her, mate.” The little man sitting at ease across from him, his hair lank and greasy and his clothes stained, grinned. “Hot night, mate. A cold beer would taste good.”
“Drinking is evil,” Dee said, but nevertheless he signaled to the barkeep, who came over with a pewter tankard. “Now, Simms, tell me all.”
Simms took a deep draught of the beer and exhaled in satisfaction, wiping his arm across his mouth. “Ah, that was good. What’ll I get for all my work?”
“We discussed payment.” Dee eyed the man distastefully. A distressing business, but with his country at war someone had to keep an eye on the upstart Americans. Someone had to prove that Marcus Brand was not an upstanding citizen, but the Raven. When war had been declared and the need for espionage became apparent, Dee had jumped at the chance given to him, volunteering to serve behind enemy lines. In the last two years he had put together a network of agents and had managed to find out some valuable information. His headquarters was at this tavern deep in the Maryland countryside, a lucky find, for the barkeep had been born in England and had no use for Mr. Madison’s war, as he called it. Few questioned Dee’s comings and goings; fewer still even talked with him, and that was how he liked it. He had a mission to perform, a destiny to fulfill.
“Aye, we did.” Simms took another deep draught, banged the tankard down, and signaled to the barkeep. “But I deserve extra for this.”
“You’ll get what we agreed upon, and no more,” Dee said, coldly.
Tension flickered between them, not broken by the barkeep coming back with the refilled tankard, until, at last, the man looked away. “Well, mate, it’s like this. I’ve been following the Talbot wench, like you said. Not that she ever does much. Stays home, mostly. But today she went to that cemetery again.” He paused to take a sip. “Not much to her, but it’s been a long time since I’ve had a woman—”
“She’s not to be touched.”
“If you say so, lieutenant.” His face darkened. “But I’ve got something to settle with her.”
Dee felt a flicker of satisfaction. God was smiling on his mission; how else to explain this stroke of luck? When he had been in need of someone to keep watch on Rebecca, lest the Raven return to her, in another tavern he had found Simms, deserter from the Royal Navy, with a grudge of his own against both Rebecca and the Raven. “Never mind that,” he said, and withdrew a coin from his pocket. Simms’s eyes grew larger. “Tell me what happened.”
“Well, mate, it was like this. I followed her to that cemetery, like you said, and I thought it was going to be a dull one. But then he showed up.”
“Who?”
“Him. The one you told me about. And I’ll tell you somethin’. He’s the Raven, sure enough. Even without the eyepatch, I’d recognize him anywhere. Didn’t I serve under him?” His face darkened. “Aye, and didn’t he
try to cheat me at cards on St. Thomas? Nearly had him, I did, and good riddance, except she came along and knocked me down. Still don’t know how she did it.” He glared into his tankard. “Thought he was going to cut my balls off.”
Dee leaned back. “You’ll get your revenge, Simms. That I promise. With your information we can bring him down.”
“And you’ll let me have at him, first,” Simms said, banging the tankard down again.
Dee hesitated, and then nodded. Why not agree with him? Simms didn’t need to know that Dee had other plans for him. “Yes.” He pushed the coins across the table, and rose. “A good job, Simms, “and there’s a bit extra there for you.”
Simms smiled with satisfaction. “Now that’s right generous of you, mate. Appreciate it.”
“You earned it. We’ll get him yet.” Dee inclined his head and then turned, stalking out of the smoky, beery tavern, though the heavy air outside offered little relief. Barbarous country, this, he thought, looking up at the stars. But he’d not have to endure it for long. The Raven was within his grasp. Soon he’d have his revenge.
Chapter Twenty-Six
“Becky?” Amelia’s voice rang through the house, and in the parlor Rebecca dropped her dustrag in surprise. “Where are you—oh, there!”
“Amelia.” Rebecca hurried across the room to embrace her sister, and then drew back. Amelia was garbed in a fashionable ensemble of pale blue trimmed with darker blue ribbon, a shawl tossed about her shoulders and a chip straw bonnet upon her head, while she—well, the less said about her frock, the better. “I’d hug you, but I’m all over dust. You look so pretty, Melia.”
“I wish I could say the same for you. Whatever are you doing?”
“Oh, I thought I’d give the house a good turn-out.”
“In this heat? Can’t you wait till the fall?”
“Yes, well, I let it go in the spring, and last fall, too.”
Amelia tilted her head to the side. “You look different, Becky. I don’t quite know how, but you’re different.
Rebecca smiled and shrugged, imitating Marcus’s mannerism. She knew what the difference was. She was happy. It had been several weeks since she had seen Marcus, but she had faith in him. She had no doubt that soon he would come sailing up the river to her again. The thought made her feel alive, vital, as she hadn’t in much too long. “Nothing has changed. Oh, but do come in, Melia. I fear the only clean chair I can offer you is in the kitchen, but I know you won’t stand on ceremony.”
