by Kruger, Mary
“Well.” Amelia glanced back over her shoulder, and her smile dimmed. “I cannot stay very long, Becky. Gilbert is waiting for me outside, and if I’m not out in a little while he’ll come for me.”
Rebecca frowned. “Why?”
“Because—” Again she looked over her shoulder. “I need to see Papa.”
“Oh, Melia.” Rebecca grasped her hands. “I’m not sure he’ll see you.”
“I need to tell him—oh, Becky, I can’t keep it from you!” she exclaimed, her face glowing. “I’m increasing.”
“Oh, Melia.” Rebecca caught Amelia up in a hug, ignoring the pang that went through her. Her sister was going to be a mother, while her own arms were empty. “That’s wonderful.”
“Yes. I thought if Papa knew he’s to have a grandchild, he would forgive me.”
Rebecca bit her lips as that pang went through her again. He had had a grandchild once, and never had he forgiven Rebecca for it. It still hurt.
“Becky? Are you listening to me?”
“What? Oh, I’m sorry, Melia.” Once her father had loved her, and yet, she continued to insist to Marcus that he did still, in the face of all the evidence to the contrary. All these years, could she have been wrong? “What did you say?”
“Will you tell him I’m here? If I go in unannounced—he’s in his study, isn’t he? —I fear he’ll have an apoplexy.”
“He may not wish to see you, Melia,” Rebecca said, as gently as possible. “He doesn’t forgive easily.”
“He’ll forgive me,” Amelia said, with touching confidence.
Rebecca bit her lips, and then nodded. “Very well. Wait here. I’ll go to him.”
In the hall Rebecca untied her apron and pulled the kerchief from her head, smoothing her hair with nervous hands. She saw little of her father these days, and when she did he was distant, remote. Yet sometimes there was a fire in his eyes that made her wonder uneasily what emotions burned inside him. Raising her hand, she knocked on the door, and, at his answering growl, went into the study.
Ezra looked up from behind his desk, his eyes red-rimmed and hostile. Papers were everywhere, on the desk, on the floor, on the chairs, some in place so long that they were covered with a thick layer of dust, for he would not allow her in here to clean. As Rebecca closed the door behind her, she saw out of the corner of her eye that he was slipping one paper over another, making her wonder, yet again, what he did all day. “Well? What is it?” Ezra growled. “Speak up, girl.”
Rebecca lifted her chin. Like all of them, her father had changed; he was no longer stout, and what hair he had left was completely white. Yet one thing remained the same, and that was his unpredictable temper. “There’s someone here to see you, Father,” she said, finally.
Ezra grunted and returned his attention to the paper before him. “Tell whoever it is to go away.”
Her lips tightened. He had to know who it was. “Father, it’s Amelia. She—”
“I will not see her!”
“But she’s your daughter.”
“I have no daughter.” He rose so abruptly that she took a step back. “Don’t you understand, girl? I have no daughter by that name.”
“You’re wrong.” Rebecca stood her ground, fighting for Amelia, where she had never fought for herself. “She’s as much your daughter as I am, even if she married someone you don’t approve of. She’s come here to tell you something—”
“I tell you I won’t see her!” he roared, and the silver inkstand, once prized by him because it had been a gift from Amelia’s mother, whizzed through the air. It struck the paneling scant inches from where Rebecca stood, spattering her and everything else with ink. “Now get out of here, girl, before I forget myself.”
Rebecca glared at him and then turned on her heel, stalking out of the room. Stupid, stubborn old man, she fumed, slamming the door behind her. And dangerous. If he were to throw something at Amelia in her condition, what would happen?
Amelia was standing in the hall, her face pale. “Oh, Becky!” she gasped. “What did he do?”
“Threw the inkstand.” Rebecca grimaced down at the black stains on her dress. “I’ll never get these out.”
“And it’s on your face. Oh, Becky.” Amelia’s eyes filled with tears. “I never meant for anything to happen to you.”
Rebecca shook her head. “Nothing has. But I think you’d best go, and let me try to persuade him. Another day—”
“He won’t change. Becky.” Amelia grasped her hands. “You can’t stay here. I fear for what he’ll do to you.”
“He won’t hurt me, Melia.”
“Come home with me and Gilbert. He won’t mind. We’ve discussed it, Becky, and he thinks you should, too.”
“No.” Gently, Rebecca pulled her hands free. “I can’t go, Amelia. Who will take care of Father? Lord knows what he’d do if I left.”
“He is a mean, selfish, stubborn old man, and I don’t understand why you are sacrificing yourself in this way.”
“I’m not. Believe me, I’m not.” She cast a quick glance over her shoulder at the study door, and her voice lowered to a whisper. “I’ve plans for the future. No, I can’t tell you what they are, but trust me, Amelia. I will be all right.”
The front door opened. “Amelia?” a masculine voice called.
“Yes, Gilbert.” Amelia crossed to her husband. “Oh, Gilbert, do please tell Becky she must come with us.”
“No,” Rebecca said, as he opened his mouth to speak. “I’ve made up my mind on this, Melia, and you can’t change it. But you’d best go.” Again she looked back at the study door. “If Father hears you, I don’t know what he’ll do. And you wouldn’t want anything happening to Amelia, would you?”
Gilbert started to answer, and then shook his head. “No. But you know you can come to us if you have to.”
“Yes, I do know that.” Rebecca shepherded them towards the door, listening to their protestations and agreeing, soothingly, that yes, they were right, wanting them only to be gone. Wanting Amelia to be safe. It was a relief to close the door at last behind them, leaving her alone in this dark, miserable home. But not for long.
Not stopping to think, she crossed the hall and crashed the study door open. “You’re wrong,” she announced, marching across the room and planting her hands on Ezra’s desk, leaning forward. “You are a stupid, stubborn, bitter old man, and you are wrong. I’ve stood by you all these years, but this is the outside of enough! I’ll not stand for anymore, do you hear me?”
Ezra said nothing; merely sat back and studied her, an odd glitter in his eyes. “All these years,” she went on, heedless, all the years of hurts and slights rising up to fuel her anger, “all these years, I have waited for one little sign from you, that you forgave me, that you even still cared. Well, I will not wait any longer. Not after today.” She straightened, suddenly tired, her energy and anger draining away. “Marcus Brand has asked me to marry him. When he returns, I intend to tell him that I will.”
With that, she turned and left the room, closing the study door very quietly behind her. Ezra continued to sit still for a few moments, his face impassive, and then reached for a fresh sheet of paper. Rather than retrieve the inkstand, he had opened a new bottle of ink. He dipped into it, the tip of his quill scratching across the paper. When he was done he folded the paper and sealed it, and then sat back looking at the direction with great satisfaction. Rebecca thought she could defy him, did she? She would learn. Chuckling a bit, he tossed the letter onto the desk, and the direction was clear to see: a tavern deep in the Maryland countryside.
The night was hot, sticky. Rebecca tossed in her bed, trying to sleep, but memory of the day’s events, combined with the heat, prevented her. Amelia was right, she thought, sitting up and punching her pillow. She couldn’t stay here any longer. Oh, if only Marcus were here... And, as if the thought had summoned him, she heard a pattering at her window.
Jumping up from the bed, she ran across the room, wincing as she trod
on a pebble that had come in through the open window. Not caring, she hopped on her other foot, until at last she reached the window and leaned out, her heart swelling with joy. In the dim light she could just make him out, standing below her, a finger to his lips and a basket of some kind in his other hand. Eagerly she waved to him, and he gestured to her to come to him.
She needed no second invitation. Stopping only to toss a shawl about her shoulders, she ran out of her room, tripping lightly down the back stairs and out to the garden. At sight of her he let the basket drop and opened his arms, wide, and she flew into them. “Oh, Marcus!” she gasped. “I’m so glad to see you—”
“And you.” He lowered his head and took her mouth in a fierce kiss of possession, of need, sending flames through her. “God, Rebecca.” He crushed her to him. “I thought I’d never get back to you.”
“But you’re here, you’re here.” It was almost a song, and, indeed, she felt like singing. “Do you want to come in?”
“Better not. Unless”—he held her a bit away from him—“you wish to put some clothes on?”
She beamed up at him. “No.”
“Good. I like ye like this, lass,” he said, hugging her again. “All soft and warm. You’ve put some weight back on.”
“Yes.” Her fingers dug into his shoulders as reality intruded. “I knew I’d need to be strong.”
“That you are, and brave. I—what’s this?” This as his seeking fingers, exploring her face, found and stopped at a dark stain. “The devil take it, did he hit you again?”
“No, Marcus! It’s ink,” she said, hastily. “He threw the inkstand, and it will not wash off. I assure you, I’m fine.”
“I would like to teach him a lesson.”
“Not now.” She cast a glance back at the house. All remained dark, but sounds carried on the still night air. “Come. Let’s go into the arbor. Come,” she repeated, tugging at his arm as he continued to glare at the house. “We’ll have privacy there.”
“Devil take it,” he said, but he turned at last. “But one day, Rebecca, I’ll make him pay for what he’s done to you.”
“Yes, Marcus. Here, sit on the bench. What did you bring?”
“Supper.”
“Supper?”
“Aye.” He set the basket down in the arbor. “A good wine, and other treats. And,” his eyes gleamed, “something for us to sit on.”
Rebecca eyed the blanket folded atop the basket, and then glanced up again. To sit on, indeed! She suspected he had very different ideas. “A practical idea,” she said, nodding, giving away none of her excitement.
“Practical.” He caught her up again, whirling her around. “My beautiful, practical, proper Rebecca.”
Her laugh was breathless as she supported herself above him, her hands on his shoulders. “My pirate.”
“Aye. That I am.” His grip loosened, tightened, allowing her to slide down against his, until her face was level with his and her toes still danced above the ground. “And don’t ye forget it.”
She kissed him lightly, playfully. “I’m not likely to, am I? You’ve already threatened to abduct me again.”
Another playful kiss, this one initiated by him. “Aye. And I’ll do so if I have to.”
“You don’t.” She nibbled at his lower lip, darting away when he would have deepened the kiss.
“I’ll wager you’d like me to.”
“Why, Mr. Brand! I am a proper, practical lady—”
“Woman,” he corrected, and this time his kiss was longer, harder. “My woman.”
She tossed her head. “Sure of yourself, aren’t you?”
His eyes glinted again. “When I have you in my arms like this, all warm and soft and willing—aye, I’m sure of myself.” Another kiss, longer yet, and when he raised his head the playfulness was gone from his face. “I’m not letting you go again, Rebecca.”
“Good,” she murmured, and hooked her arms around his neck, bringing his face down to hers. She, too, was done with playing and teasing. She wanted him, and if these few stolen moments were all they had, she would make the most of them.
The kisses increased in length, in number. His tongue darted in past her lips; hers tangled with his and followed, as his hands molded her to him. His caresses were quick, hard, impatient, and yet they inflamed her, making her cry out softly as he caught her nipple between thumb and forefinger; making him gasp when she moved her hips against his. And then it was all frenzy, all need. He tore at the ribbons that held her nightshift closed, pushing it off her shoulders. He warmed her with his body, his hands, his mouth. She clung to him, not letting go when he bent to shake out the blanket and lay it on the ground with quick, impatient movements, not even when he laid her atop it. Her fingers, eager, clumsy, pulled the lacings of his shirt, at the buttons of his breeches, caressed and surrounded his hardness, full and surging in her hands. He was above her, and then, with one quick, smooth thrust, within her, driving deep, driving home, and it was too much, it was enough. She shattered into a thousand tiny pieces, losing herself and not caring. She knew who she was. She was the Raven’s woman, now and forever.
The stars twinkled above, distant and eternal. Rebecca lay still, combing her fingers through his thick hair, feeling his weight upon her, welcoming it. Such a fool she’d been, ever letting him go. Such a fool, desperately searching for long-lost propriety and the love her father wouldn’t give her. “Welcome home, sailor,” she whispered.
He raised his head to look at her, his eyes dark, unfathomable. “I’ll give you a home, Rebecca,” he said, his voice husky. “Not a bed in a pirate ship, or a rented room, or the hard ground. A real home.”
She smoothed his hair back from his forehead. “I don’t regret any of it.”
“I know.” He dropped a kiss on her shoulder, and she shivered in delight. “Nevertheless, you deserve more. You were made for loving.” His hands swept down, bracketed her hips, though she was already as close to him as she could be. “For loving and being loved. And you’ll catch cold if we stay like this.”
“No,” she protested as he rolled off her, but too late; he had already climbed to his feet, with the grace of a cat, and was distractedly searching the arbor for their clothes. She sighed. Her pirate could be a stubborn man. Best to humor him. She reached for his trousers, holding them up to him.
“Thank you, lass.” He knelt beside her. “Sit up,” he commanded, and dropped her nightshift over her head, pausing to tie the ribbons just so. How odd, that his dressing her felt as sweet and intimate as his undressing her had.
“I told Father today that I plan to marry you,” she said, calmly.
His fingers stilled on the ribbons, and then his hands gripped her arms. “Did you? Did you really?”
“Yes. I—”
“What did he say?”
“Nothing. He just looked at me.” The crisp curls on his chest were too inviting to resist. She let her fingers drift through them, feeling him shudder in response. “I don’t know what he’s thinking anymore, except when he gets angry. He refused to see Amelia today.”
“He is a hard, unforgiving man.”
“Because he’s been hurt.”
“Devil take it, Rebecca, I wish you would stop making excuses for him. What did you ever do to hurt him?”
“Not me. I don’t know much about his life, Marcus, but I do know it hurt him terribly when my mother left him.”
“And it hurt you.”
“Of course it did.” She looked away. “I spent a long time wondering what I’d done to send her away.”
“For God’s sake, Rebecca—”
“It’s only lately I realized that it wasn’t me. It was him. Or maybe something in her. I don’t know.” She gazed up at him. “What I think now is that he doesn’t want to lose me.”
“For God’s sake,” he said again.
“I’m serious. I don’t think he wanted to lose Amelia, either.”
“Then why cut her out of his life? Why treat you as he
does?”
“Because it hurts less.”
“That’s foolish—”
“Yes. But ‘tis the only thing I can think of.”
“People don’t act that way. If they love someone they forgive them.”
“Most people. Not him. And not me.” She looked away. “I would have been just like him, if you hadn’t talked to me about forgiveness. ‘Tis why I understand him.” She turned back to face him. “I’m asking you for time, Marcus.”
“What?”
“Time. I need more.”
“I didn’t intend to take you away immediately,” he said, deliberately cruel, and regretted it as soon as he saw her flinch. “Ah, lass, I’m sorry for that. I want you with me. You know that. But it seems you always choose him over me.”
“No.” She shook her head. “Not this time. At least, not for long. Let me talk to him, Marcus. He did like you once.”
Marcus frowned. “I don’t like it.”
“Why not?”
“I’ve got this feeling that if I don’t take you away soon, I never will.”
“Silly.” She laid her finger on his lips. “You know I’m yours.”
“Aye. But I worry about you here, with the British in the Chesapeake. Talk is they’ll invade.”
“Everyone says they’ll go to Baltimore or Annapolis.”
“With the capital so close? I think they’ll come here, Rebecca.” His gaze was somber. “Even if they don’t, your father will do what he can to come between us, and what will you do then? Who will you choose?”
“You.”
“Will you?”
“Yes. And if he doesn’t agree—the next time you come, I’ll go with you.”
“Let me talk to him, Rebecca.”
“No!” She eyed him with undisguised alarm. “‘Twill do no good. Let me do it, Marcus. I know how to manage him.”
