‘I dare because you are as near to a little sister as you could possibly be, and very dear to me.’
Blue eyes glittering, Gwenna pressed herself close against his broad shoulder so that her breasts swelled above the neck of her gown, full and white. ‘Ah, but I am not your sister, am I? Only a cousin, and a distant one at that. Do not feign indifference to me, Bryce Tregowan, for I see how you ache to have me.’
Bryce allowed a long moment to pass before he answered. ‘I am a normal, red-blooded male, so if you present yourself to me in a mode of dishabille, am I not entitled to look?’ Deliberately staring at her décolletage.
‘And wouldn’t you just love to touch?’ she breathed, slipping a hand beneath the tablecloth to caress his thigh.
Bryce calmly removed it. ‘I wouldn’t recommend you nurse any romantic dreams on my account.’
‘Damn you! I wouldn’t have you as a husband if you were handed to me on a platter.’
‘Ah, but I reckon you would,’ he said, chuckling softly. ‘As the elder, Jago may in theory be the better bet, but money slips through his fingers as swiftly as the cards he slickly deals at the gaming table each evening. I am much more likely to bring home the bacon, and keep it hanging in the chimney breast. And for all he may excite you, Gwenna, you are not such a romantic nincompoop that you don’t value property higher than love, as you have just made very clear.’
Blushing furiously, Gwenna flounced from him, and digging her spoon into her dessert sent shards of meringue flying.
Inwardly amused at her discomfiture, Bryce picked up his glass of wine to take an appreciative sip. Discussions with his charming cousin nearly always ended in an argument between them. But then she was almost as much a chameleon as his brother, never the same two days together. One moment all sweetness and bonhomie, the next a veritable termagant, a real little hellcat. Certainly they did not spoil a pair, as the saying goes, although they’d no doubt tear each other apart were they to ever make a match of it.
But what if it were true and Sir Ralph had indeed written to his son seeking a rapprochement? How would his mother react were the prodigal son to return home? Now that would put the cat among the pigeons. The second Lady Tregowan had rather set her heart on exploiting all that Penver Court and its substantial estate had to offer. She fully intended to enjoy the fruits of her labour over the length of this, her – what was it – third marriage? No, her fourth, including the elopement at seventeen.
And how would his brother react to such news?
Bryce was startled out of his reverie by a loud, sonorous snore. Sir Ralph’s eyes had drooped almost closed, now he jerked upright in his seat, woken by the volume of his own snorts. The ladies looked shocked and deeply embarrassed, while the gentlemen smirked with amusement. Lady Tregowan simply pretended to be both deaf and blind, as was generally the case when confronted with anything remotely unpleasant.
Bryce leant across the table to gently tap his stepfather’s hand. ‘Sir, would you care for your usual glass of port? Shall we ask the ladies to retire?’
‘That is my prerogative to decide,’ his mother snapped.
He smiled at her. ‘Then pray hasten to do so, Mama. I fear your husband will fall asleep shortly otherwise.’
Instead, he promptly fell off his chair to lie jerking on the floor in what could only be a seizure. His wife screamed, and pandemonium broke out as the entire company flapped and fussed about, some ladies fainting while the servants stood apparently frozen with shock. Only Bryce had the wit to rush to the old man’s aid.
‘Will someone please call the doctor,’ he cried. ‘Now!’
Rose couldn’t believe what was happening to her. Only yesterday she’d been excitedly anticipating a new life in America, now she was back on board ship about to sail to England. She thought she’d never forget the look of complete horror on her mother’s face when she was pulled out of line and shoved into that cage. They’d had to drag poor Annie away screaming, but they’d both known there was nothing to be done. The dream was over. Dead in the water. The fear that she might never see her mother, or her brothers and sisters, ever again was a pain so crippling it seemed to tear her heart in two. Rose doubted it would ever go away. Fear pounded through her, drummed in her ears, a hollow beat of terror. She felt sick, as if she might throw up at any moment, although the ship hadn’t left the dockside yet.
She’d spent the previous night in the detention room, together with a motley collection of other rejected souls. There’d been one group of women, all garishly painted and attired, marking them out at a glance as what her mother would call ‘ladies of the night’. There were other more respectable women who had come to meet a prospective husband but found no eager young man waiting at the gate, as promised. Lone females were unacceptable in the New World. Who knew what they might get up to?
Many fortune-seekers, entrepreneurs and adventurers were also turned away, some of them perhaps bankrupts fleeing the heavy arm of the law in their own land, others honest, upright citizens, but for one reason or another, possibly mistakenly, as in Rose’s case, they’d been marked as suffering from some physical infirmity. They were to be sent back to the pit of despair from whence they came, or to the bottom of the sea for all America cared.
One young man was to be deported because his pocket had been picked and the inspectors believed he would become a charge upon the state. The loss of just ten dollars had made the difference between the success or failure of his dream, possibly even life or death.
Rose heard an inspector suggest to one pretty young girl that he’d see she was allowed in if she went with him to a certain nearby hotel. She declined, which Rose thought very noble and honourable of her, wondering if she could have been as brave if faced with such a choice.
Now the steamship company, who were obliged to take the rejects back free of charge, would provide them with only such leftover food as the crew didn’t want, or else wasn’t fit to be eaten by anyone. If the crossing to America had been tough, Rose fully expected the return journey to be a thousand times worse.
Wrapping her arms about herself, she sank her head to her bent knees in abject misery. Perversely, the day after the examination her eyes had cleared and appeared reasonably bright, almost normal. But it was too late. The officials had only laughed when she’d begged to be checked again by a doctor, telling her the government hospitals were already full of more worthy cases, that they must enforce the law strictly. Nothing could be done.
The upset caused by that little dispute set off her coughing again, and they’d marked her down as consumptive as well.
What she would do in England without a home, without a job, without her beloved family, Rose couldn’t even begin to think. Would she simply be abandoned on the dockside at Bristol? Then what should she do? Where could she go? How would she find food? And when she arrived she’d be viewed not only as a pauper, but with a stigma attached for having been rejected by America.
Tears rolled down her cheeks, splashed onto her clenched hands, her chest tight with pain.
She knew only too well what happened to young girls with no means of support. Bristol was no different in that respect to any other city. There would be only one way for her to earn a crust, and it wouldn’t be either honest or pleasant. Her stomach curdled at the prospect, and, as she heard the rumble of the anchor chain being pulled up, she began to weep all the more.
‘Hey, what’s all this? It’s not like our Rose to wallow in self-pity?’
‘I don’t believe it. Joe!’ Leaping to her feet she hugged her old friend in surprise and delight. Then pushing him from her she gazed at him in disbelief. ‘I’m not dreaming, am I? It is really you?’
He laughed. ‘Aye, it’s really me, and it feels more like a nightmare to me than a dream.’
‘So they rejected you too?’
‘They didn’t, actually. I gave my cash to your mum and pretended I didn’t have any.’
‘Oh, Joe, what a thing to do. Mam had no right
to accept.’
He grinned at her. ‘She protested, of course, at least at first. But when I explained I meant to go home with you she soon changed her tune, was quite grateful, in fact, and sends her love. But then, I couldn’t let you be packed off back to England on yer own, now could I? Wouldn’t have been right. So here I am.’
‘I don’t know what to say, how to thank you.’
He flicked one wicked eyebrow. ‘I could think of a way. Still, all in good time, eh? How are you, girl, feeling any better? See, I’ve fetched you a hunk of bread.’
Whether it was the sight of the food, her highly strung state or the sudden lurch of the ship, but by way of response Rose threw up all over Joe’s best boots.
Gwenna lay beneath the apple tree in the far orchard beyond the walled garden, her skirts rucked up, her bodice unbuttoned so that her small breasts spilt out, happily content that no one could see her as they were some safe distance from the house. It was a lovely May afternoon, the sun warm on her bare skin, and there was nowhere she’d rather be than here with Jago, lying in the sweet-smelling long grass. She was deeply aware of how enticing, how beautiful she must look, her body plump and soft, her slender arms wrapped about his neck. She was willing to yield him anything – well, almost anything – that he wanted. Much as she might insist to Bryce that she meant to catch herself the richest husband she could find, she had her heart set on a quarry much closer to home. ‘Oh, please don’t stop,’ she whimpered, as he drew away slightly. ‘I love it when you kiss me.’
No one could kiss like Jago. He seemed to take complete possession of her, devouring her with his mouth and tongue, as if to prove she belonged entirely to him. Which indeed she would, if Gwenna had her way, title or no title.
He traced a trail of burning sweetness along the curve of one breast. ‘I was hoping you might be feeling a bit more generous today, ready to offer something more substantial than mere kisses,’ he murmured, and sliding one nipple into his mouth began to lick and suckle it, making her groan with pleasure.
Very carefully, paying full attention to what his mouth, and his busy fingers beneath her skirt, were doing, smiling at her soft moans, Jago shifted his weight gently onto her. She was moving instinctively against him, that timeless rhythm which augured well for his next move. He began to swiftly unbutton his linen trousers.
Gwenna was alert in a second. ‘Oh, Jago, you mustn’t. You know I daren’t go too far,’ she gasped, a giddiness creeping over her, robbing her of resistance. Valiantly, she fought the weakness. ‘Not unless there was some sort of understanding between us?’ She cast him a sideways glance from beneath golden lashes, which caused him to laugh out loud.
‘And what sort of understanding would that be, dear girl?’ he chortled, sliding one hand over her bare thigh, making her squeal in delighted protest. ‘You know full well how I feel about you, how much I ache to make you mine.’
She listened, entranced, silently praying he meant what she hoped, loving the way he scattered tender kisses over her eyes, her mouth, her bare throat. He must love her enough to marry her, mustn’t he, if he was so rampant for her? Yet as always with Jago, there was room for doubt. His next words served to confirm this.
‘But marriage right now is out of the question while the old man lies sick. It wouldn’t be proper, now would it? We couldn’t possibly consider any sort of celebration, not until he’s well again.’
Although his reasoning was sound, in her heart Gwenna knew this was yet another of Jago’s many excuses. There’d been any number over the last couple of years. That she was too young, that he was not yet ready to take on the responsibility of a wife, that he must be sure of coming into his inheritance. This was but another. Oh, but as he skimmed the tip of his tongue around the curl of her ear lobe, she couldn’t find the strength to push him away, to challenge or scold him. He knew exactly how to please her, how to reduce her to a shivering wreck. And didn’t she want to please him?
‘What if Sir Ralph doesn’t ever get well?’ she whispered, desperately wanting him to say that he would then marry her, like a shot. Instead, he laughed, told her she talked far too much and gave her one of those kisses that set her head spinning, his tongue dancing with hers so that she could hardly breathe, let alone think.
‘Don’t you find me beautiful?’ she managed, while he struggled with the laces of her stays.
‘Deliciously so.’
‘And exciting?’
She could feel the hard swell of his manhood pressing against her, only the thinness of her pleated skirts between them. Daringly she caressed the bulge through the bunched fabric, curious to know how it felt, and was shocked by its size. On a grunt of impatience he suddenly pushed her skirts right up to her waist, leaving her half naked to his gaze. ‘Stop this silly game, Gwenna, you know how much I want you. How many times do I have to tell you that I love you?’
‘But you haven’t ever actually …’ she began, and then gasped as she felt his cock slide inside her. Oh, what had she done? Why had she let things go this far? But then the glory of having him pushing and thrusting inside her, claiming her for his own, caused her heart to soar with joy. He would have to marry her now.
Chapter Three
The sickness continued for the rest of that day as the ship set sail, although there was nothing left in Rose’s stomach, which made the retching all the more painful. Her head pounded, and as if being sick wasn’t bad enough, the cough too got worse. At least it was quiet in this corner of steerage, save for the muffled sound of sobbing every now and then, and fewer people fighting for space. There was no dancing or singing on this journey. No merry jigs or the tinny sound of a harmonica or accordion. The steerage passengers being returned to starvation and oblivion did not have the spirit left to brighten the long lonely hours of endless days at sea with joyful merriment. The good fellowship and joking of the earlier crossing were gone, and with it all hope.
These were a people in despair, folk who had lost not only a dream but also the loved ones they’d travelled with to achieve it. They had been cast out, forgotten and unwanted by the authorities. It was a bitter pill to swallow. They were all to be returned to Slovakia or Russia, Liverpool or Bristol, back to the starvation or oppression they thought they’d escaped, to all the reasons they had left, and worse, this time they would be alone.
Some played cards, others drank vodka, a great deal of vodka, and gin. But many simply sat slumped in abject despair, as distraught and terrified of what was to happen to them as was Rose.
She could hear a group of Italians quarrelling, a woman sobbing out a lullaby to her lifeless child.
‘Christ is risen, Christ is risen,’ someone whispered, and Rose shivered in her bed. Would she ever rise again? There were times when she very much doubted it.
The barriers of class were as rigid on board ship as in the more normal strata of society, yet somehow here it seemed more callous, more artificial and offensive in this closed community. First- and second-class passengers could loll about on deck, have their maid bring them a soft steamer rug. They could lean over the ship’s rails and marvel at the rippling blue sea, or stroll about the deck to enjoy the spring sunshine. They also liked to hang over the barriers and look down upon the misery of those in steerage below, those taking the air in the tiny square of space allotted for exercise. It was almost as if they were watching animals pace back and forth in their cage in a zoo. Some would even call out or make ribald jokes, which always roused Joe’s anger.
‘Them toffs in the cabins above think themselves proper lords and ladies, while we’re the peasants to be jeered at.’
‘I’m sure they aren’t all like that. I’ve heard some show real concern, even throw down food,’ Rose said, wishing someone would toss down something tasty for her too. The ache of hunger in her belly was not helping her recovery. Her longing for something other than stale water and salty fish was becoming almost an obsession. How she longed for the sharp sweetness of an orange, for a sip of weak ale
, or even a cup of hot tea, a drink she’d admittedly tasted only once in her entire life. Mostly she dreamt of her mother’s stews and how Annie had always kept the stock pot bubbling, no matter how poor they were.
Joe dismissed her comments as sheer fantasy. ‘None of that lot gives a toss about us. They can breathe pure air, sleep on spotless linen, be served delicious food by courteous waiters. And the crew on board act as if they were the flipping police, ordering us about, keeping us locked up down here and making sure nowt good comes our way. It would cost twenty dollars to buy you a cabin, love, and if I had such riches I’d get you one, like a shot.’
‘I know you would, Joe.’
‘What I wouldn’t do to give you a good life, Rosie. I’d kill for you, I would really.’
She laughed. ‘You talk a lot of daft nonsense, Joe Colbert. Always did. Now see if you can find me some of that stringy beef or soggy bread. Anything will do.’
Joe went off, still bitterly complaining. ‘Not even soap or hot water to help us keep clean, or a decent place to relieve ourselves. We might as well be animals. Is it any wonder you’re sick?’
‘Please don’t worry, I’m fine …’ And as if to disprove her own optimism, Rose promptly threw up again.
The next morning she woke with a fever. Rose lay on her bunk feeling as if she was burning up, barely able to move, quite unable to sleep or eat. She wouldn’t even have troubled to take so much as a drink of water had it not been for Joe pressing it upon her. Numb with agony, aching in every muscle, one minute burning up, the next shivering with cold, she had never felt more ill in all her life.
‘Come on, love, you must eat. At least drink something,’ Joe urged her, offering Rose a sip of water and yet another hunk of dry bread.
Rose shook her head, quite unable to even attempt to eat it, knowing it would near choke her. ‘No thanks,’ she murmured. Her voice was weak, cracking with the effort of speaking, her face flushed, mouth and throat swollen and dry as parchment.
My Lady Deceiver Page 3
