by Laura London
Carefully, because of my leg, he turned me on to my back, still kissing me, still with one hand underneath me.
“You know, dear,” he said, “one thing our cultures have in common is the button mechanism.” His mouth covered the fullness of my lips and lingered there while he said, “You know how to do it. Why don’t you?”
“Do you mean that I should—your shirt?”
“Yes, that’s what I mean.” His lips touched the hollow at the side of my neck, below my earlobe. “Yes. Yes. Liza, are you going to marry me? Say ‘of course, Alex.’ ”
“Of course, Alex,” I could only whisper. “Am I doing this right?”
He laughed shakily. “It would seem so. Talk to me, Liza. What possessed you to swim this morning in the dower house pond?”
“It was the bog bean. I wanted to make a tonic for my loss of appetite.”
“Really. An appetite tonic.” His lips seared over mine, washing my being in a hot, shuddering wave of pleasure. “How does this compare with bog bean?”
His wonderful touch moved lower and my flesh hummed with delight under the subtle movement of his hands. Love-giddy, I said, “Better. Ever so much better. But then it’s been a long time since I’ve had bog bean tonic.” It was heady, soul-deep enchantment to let my hands explore the uncovered skin beneath his shirt. Marveling that my awed, bashful touch could stir him, I laid my worshipful hand over his heart, and learned the hard echo of its rhythm. It was on this beat that my very life drew breath. I whispered to him, “I suppose you disliked it excessively to find me at the pond like that?”
“Did you think so? You’ll be surprised when we’re married, and I make you do it every day.”
“Fine,” I said. “I’ll include it in my memoirs, ‘The Misadventures of Countess B.’ ”
He laughed in that happy, perfect way he has when he’s relaxed and completely at peace.
“Indeed, m’lady, we had best start behaving ourselves or the first chapter will be titled ‘Before the Gypsy Wagon,’ instead of ‘On the Night of My Wedding.’ ” He stroked his finger down the line of my nose. “Say ‘I love you, Alex.’ ”
I pulled him fiercely to me. “I love you. I adore you. You’re the only man I’ll ever love.”
He placed his hands on my cheeks, and with a rapt honesty that would shed forever my doubts, he said, “And you’re the only woman I’ll ever love.”
He kissed me, long and hard, on the lips; and in a light movement, was on his feet, straightening his shirt.
“Where are you going?” I asked him.
“To wake your uncle, my dearest love, and ask for his blessing. Not that I imagine it will come as a surprise to him! A very perceptive man, your uncle. What do you think, Liza—for our honeymoon, shall we take your wagon and travel with the tribe?”
My throat was too full with happiness to speak, but I smiled my love to him and gave him my hand. He bent over to brush it with a gentle kiss, and then covered me with the quilt.
The flaming shaft of the early-morning sun was beginning to slant through the trees as he gave me an intimate little wave. I leaned back, smiling at him, my hands clasped behind my head to watch him walk with clean, quick strides across the field to the gypsy camp. He stopped halfway across, and came back to me, to pick me up, still wrapped in the quilt, and together we began our journey.
Mistakenly swept aboard an infamous pirate ship, Merry Wilding finds herself at the mercy of a wicked crew … and one sinfully handsome pirate.
Please see the next page for a special excerpt of the beloved classic
Chapter One
FAIRFIELD, VIRGINIA. AUGUST 1813.
Merry Patricia Wilding was sitting on a cobblestone wall, sketching three rutabagas and daydreaming about the unicorn. A spray of shade from the swelling branches of the walnut tree covered her and most of the kitchen garden, but even so, it was hotter here than it had been inside. A large taffy-colored dog with thick fur stole past the fence; she noticed it as a flicker of movement in the corner of her vision. Light dust floated in the air and settled on the helpless leaves. The breeze brought the scent of baking ground and sun-burnt greens.
There was no one about to disturb her solitary concentration, or to mark the intriguing contrast she made with the homey products of the earth that grew freely near her soft-shod feet. Her appearance suggested a fragile, pale icon: lace and frail blossoms rather than fallen leaves and parsley plants. She was a slender girl, with delicate cheekbones set high in an oval face, and dark-lashed eyes, lazy from the day. Early that morning she had put up her heavy hair in anticipation of the heat, but the ivory combs and brass hairpins were working loose and silky red-gold strands had begun to collapse on the back of her neck. It never occurred to her that some might find the effect charming; it merely made her feel hot, untidy, and vaguely guilty, as though she ought to return to her bedroom and wind her hair back up. She would have been so much more comfortable, she thought, if she dared sit as the housemaids did on the back stoop in the evening, with the hems of their skirts pulled up past their knees, laps open, bare heels dug into the cool dirt. A slight smile touched her lips as she imagined her aunt’s reaction, should that lady discover her niece, Merry Patricia, in such a posture.
Setting down her pencil, Merry spread and flexed her fingers and watched as a tiny yellow butterfly skimmed her shoulder to light on the ground, its thin wings fluttering against the flushing bulge of a carrot. The beans were heavy with plump rods, and there would be good eating from the sturdy ruby stalks of the rhubarb. Merry looked back to her drawing and lifted her pencil.
The rutabagas weren’t coming out right. The front one had a hairy, trailing root that jutted upward at an awkwardly foreshortened angle. Though she had corrected the drawing several times, the result remained an unhappy one. It would make a better exercise to continue reworking the picture until she had captured the very essence of the vegetable, in all its humble, mottled-purple symmetry… Merry was disappointed to discover in herself a flagging interest in the rutabagas… discipline, discipline.
Discipline and a hot afternoon sun are the poorest allies, and while Merry forced her pencil back to its labor the dream invaded her mind once more.
Last night the unicorn had come again.
Ten years ago she had had the first unicorn dream, after seeing an impression of the creature fixed into the sealing wax of a letter to her aunt from England. Merry had been eight years old then, and as she slept the unicorn had come to her, like a tiny toy with great soft eyes, and she could pull it after her on a string. As she grew the dream had altered. She would dream of meeting with the unicorn in an enchanted wood, and they would run between the trees, a race which neither won, and afterward they would drink from a secret spring. She wasn’t allowed to have pets; but her dream unicorn was satisfying, exclusively hers, and would always come again if she went to the edge of the woods and called. Her aunt would never find out about it because it lived in the wild and was only tame for her.
Then it left her dreams and hadn’t returned for years—until last night. It had burst through the window in a frightening rush of energy, glass flying everywhere, and it had reared in the corner of the room, pawing and snorting, looking bigger than it had been before, its muscles white and glistening beneath its creamy hide, its chest broad and heaving, its horn poised and thick. She had cowered beneath the covers, but curiosity caused her to look in small peeps and then long gazes. Its eyes were different now, still big, but there was knowledge there, a frightening intelligence, and it tossed its head, beckoning to her.
He wants me to ride him, she had thought in her dream. Am I too afraid? She was going to leave her bed and go closer, but before she moved, it turned in a sudden dash and leaped through the window, hooves flashing in the moonlight.
The fantasy hoofbeats faded slowly from her daydream, slipping away into the dimly lit part of the mind where dreams lie in safekeeping. Merry came back to reality as the soft walking rhythm of a flesh-and-blood hor
se prosaically replaced her midnight creature.
She had been expecting no visitors, so she looked up quickly toward the sound, toward the narrow pebbled carriageway that split her aunt’s two-story red-brick house from the old frame barn. From behind the potent green of a ridge of lilac bushes, she saw her only brother emerge and watched with unbelieving elation as he worked his sweaty animal over to the shaded wall beside her.
“Carl! Oh, Carl, hello! Hail! Salutations! Guten Morgen!”
Leaning forward in the saddle, her brother said, “I take that to mean I haven’t arrived at an unwelcome moment? Who’s been teaching you German?”
“Henry Cork—but that’s all he knows, so it was a short lesson.” Grinning her delight in a way she was sure must look foolish, Merry set down her sketch pad and extended her hand. Three months it had been since she had seen him, a comparatively short interval. Heroes, it seemed, didn’t make the most attentive brothers. “How did you know to find me back here?”
“One of your abigails told me—Bess, I think. She’s sitting around front, shelling peas and dickering with a trunk-peddler over a card of buttons,” he said, taking her offered hand. “I imagine it will ruffle April’s feathers that I didn’t have myself announced.”
It was clear from the unemotional tone of his observation that this was not a circumstance that would trouble him overmuch, but because her brother’s casual dislike of their aunt made Merry uncomfortable, she sidestepped the ramifications of his remark and said, “Not at all, Carl. Family needn’t stand on ceremony. How glad I am to see you. But I’m surprised! I thought you were in the capital with Father.” Her expression changed. “Has something happened? Father—is he…”
“He’s well. Same as always. Tough as a horseshoe, although Mrs. Madison says he doesn’t get enough rest. I don’t know. I didn’t come to talk to you about him.” He gave her hand a brief squeeze before he released it, and then removed his hat, brushed back his hair, which was red-gold like hers but not as thick, and put his hat back on. He was gray with road dust and had tired, fine lines on his lean face, around his eyes, unusual lines on one so young, mapping the intensity within. She could tell he’d ridden hard. He was wearing civilian clothes, riding clothes which flattered him less than his officer’s uniform, making him look more like the young adult of twenty-one he was and less like a man used to drilling recruits.
He glanced around with shaded eyes. “Can we talk here?”
“Of course.” She lifted her feet to the top of the wall and hugged her knees, looking up at him with a slight tilt to her lashes. “The only ears here are on the sweet corn.”
“But the potatoes have eyes,” he answered with a reluctant smile. “Is that what you’ve been doing, sketching vegetables?”
“Trying,” she said. “There are riches in shape and shading under the leaves, but I’ve a poor hand this afternoon.” She held up her sketch pad for him to see.
“Hmm. Amazing. Like life. I can’t see what you find amiss with it.”
Merry only smiled and closed the sketchbook. “Will you come in the house, Carl? It’s almost teatime, and we’ve got cider cooling on ice chips.”
“Later.” He waved his hand impatiently, as though dismissing an inane courtesy. “I need you again, my girl.”
Her heart quickened. “To draw, do you mean?”
It was the pride of her life that twice before she had been able to help him and the American cause. He had taken her once to a coaching inn and once to market day at Richmond, where he had quietly pointed out men suspected of collaborating with the British. She would make her best effort to watch them without seeming to and later had rendered the faces in detailed sketches. Carl saw to it that the drawings were reproduced and circulated, which neutralized the British agents as effectively as if they’d been captured or hanged.
It had been a small thing to do for her country, especially compared to the ultimate sacrifice American soldiers were prepared to make on the field of battle; the smallness of it had stirred within her embers of dissatisfaction with the useless gentility of her life. These yearnings would surely have wounded her staunchly pro-British Aunt April, so Merry kept them to herself and tried to find solace in painting watercolor portraits of heroines like the courageous Mrs. Penelope Barker, who, thirty years ago in the First War of Independence, had stopped the British from commandeering her carriage horses by pulling her absent husband’s sword from the wall and slicing to ribbons the reins in the British officer’s hands. Inevitably Merry had tried to daydream herself into Mrs. Barker’s shoes, but even if she’d possessed a sword, Aunt April would never have allowed such a gruesome object to hang on the wall, and the only horse they had was poor old swaybacked, buck-kneed Jacob, whom no one would want to steal. Furthermore, if enemy troops came within a hundred miles, Aunt April would undoubtedly whisk Merry away to a place of safety.
Carl shoved his hat back over his sweat-lacquered curls. “If you’ll do it. Want to work with me again?”
“I dearly want to draw for you again, Carl.” She stretched out a hand to stroke the horse’s soft, damp muzzle, smiling at her older brother. Motherless, they had been reared separately; he by their austere, unloving father, she by Aunt April, their mother’s sister. If she had seen Carl twice a year as a child, that was often. His boyhood had seemed to her an entrancing miracle of kite string and fishhooks, Latin tutors and wooden boats that really sailed. Unaware that she herself had become anything more than the awkward, overprotected girl-child who knitted mittens in the winter and stitched samplers in the summer, she watched as Carl grew taller, more clever, more self-confident. He was not an affectionate man. He hadn’t once remembered her on her birthday. He rarely offered himself as a confidant or a protector, and yet, through his patriotic activities he had brought into her life a rare and precious dimension. Teasingly she told him, “You’re my only chance to grab a little glory, you know. I suppose I’m not to tell Aunt April, again?”
“Not unless you want her to forbid you to go. Anyway, that’s been taken care of. Father wrote a letter to cover us, saying that he’ll be in Alexandria this Thursday on government business and wants you to meet him there for a visit.” He jumped from the horse’s sweating back. “Come with me while I walk the horse.”
She slid from the stone wall and put her hand self-consciously to her hair. “I ought to fetch my bonnet, I suppose. I imagine I look all scraggly.”
He looked surprised and irritated. “We’re just going down the lane a bit. Does it matter so much?”
Instantly she shook her head and joined him in the bright, battering sunlight, embarrassed that she had been so petty. “Then Father knows about it,” she said.
He glanced down at her as she caught up to him and tried to match his stride, her eyes blinking out the sun’s stinging rays. “He knows you’re going to draw for me again, Merry, but—” A bee, attracted by the sweating horse, buzzed around their heads, and he swatted at it. “But he doesn’t know where. Truth is, I lied.”
Shocked and honored at once by his confession, she said, “You lied to Father?” Her father had been forty-five when she was born, and now his wreath of white hair, long hooked nose, and still eagle vision made lying to him seem futile. He appeared to be looking for the lie in the face of every man he met. “Why?”
“Because it’s not a place I should take you. I wouldn’t either, if it wasn’t such a rare opportunity. There’s a man who is going to be there at nine o’clock Thursday who—no, I’ll tell you about it later. But it’s important. I would never take you to such a rough place if it wasn’t important.”
“A rough place? Do you mean a prizefight?”
He gave a rueful grin. “Is that the roughest place you can think of, Merry?”
The lane angled away from the kitchen garden, into a green meadow dappled with pink clover and birdsong. Merry had been holding her skirt carefully above the path’s red dust, but at Carl’s words she let it drop and snatched up the silver-seeded head of
a thistle. She held it before her, flourished a hand over it, and said in an important voice, “This, my dear brother, is a crystal ball.”
He had no particular taste for whimsy, but because she was young and female and his sister, he said indulgently, “Is it? Divine for me then, ma’am.”
“Let me see!” A soft breath of air from her pink lips sent a powdery cloud of feathered seeds spinning off across the high June grass. Staring with comical intensity into the thistle globe, she said, “Yes, it’s becoming clearer now! I see—a room. A rough place! There are men there, some of them unshaven, and they are—horrors, they’re setting great flagons of ale upon a maple-wood table and leaving dreadful water rings! The high corners are dripping with spider webs, and the side tables beg to be dusted.” She glanced at her brother. “How am I doing?”
“Shockingly well. A body would think you’d taken to tavern-haunting.”
“The doors to Mr. Hardy’s taproom were open as we walked home from prayer meeting last Thursday, and I took a good look inside.” Taking in a deep breath, Merry turned the thistle in her hand and was about to blow into the remaining plump hemisphere when the breath choked short in her throat and she said in a startled voice, “Carl! Does that mean you really do intend to take me to a tavern?”
Frowning heavily, he said, “There. I’ve shocked you, have I? There’s worse yet. The tavern’s on the coast, and isolated, and we’ll have to be there after dark. Furthermore, the place is frequented by some of the lowest rogues that… Look, here’s the straight truth—the tavern’s a smugglers’ den.”
When Glory smiled, she smiled with a vengeance. The thistle’s dark-green stem slid from Merry’s suddenly numb fingers and was crushed under the hind hoof of the ambling horse. Her first instinct was to ask Carl if he really meant it, but she stopped herself. Never had he looked more serious. With experimental bravado she said, “Then I’ll be able to find a good price on some English cotton for Aunt April.”
