The Windflower

by Laura London

  The too casual admission of Morgan’s strange involvement in her life made her gaze up frankly into the snapping black eyes. “That’s what had me worried.”

  He answered her with an enigmatic smile.

  Merry stretched out her feet in front of her and spread and studied her toes, and then her husband. He was beautiful in the slight dishevelment of sleep, with a soft flush pinking the skin below his lashes; but it was not his striking male beauty so much as his undefended posture that moved her. Scene by scene she reviewed their relationship, and scene by scene forgave him or herself for every act of temper or quick judgment, and when she had done with those, her memory began to drift to warmer moments between them. After about ten minutes of this her cheeks were as warm as her thoughts, and she began to wish earnestly that he would wake up, although her conscience warned her against doing anything to achieve that end. For heaven’s sake, the man had just had a bullet dug out of him.

  There is a school of thought that holds that if one stares with enough intensity at a sleeper, the sleeper will waken, but after practicing this patiently for what seemed like forever Merry decided there wasn’t a word of truth in it. Beginning at his ankle, she walked her fingers gently up his leg, hopping over the kneecap, trodding a little heavily on his thigh and his ribs, and collapsing her fingers on his good shoulder. Nothing. She leaned from the waist to exhale lightly on his hand. She might as well have saved her breath.

  “All right, then,” she whispered, lifting his hand to her lips. Peeling back his shirt cuff, she worked little nipping kisses down his thumb and then slow ones over his inner wrist. He didn’t move. Cat must have given him a stronger dose of laudanum than she had at first suspected. Sighing, she held his relaxed fingers to her cheek and then let them slip to her lap, where they created an interesting sensation against her thigh.

  “How can I wake you up, you ridiculous man?” she asked softly and almost jumped out of her silk gauze day dress when he answered, “Not by playing with my unconscious body. That’s more likely to make me pretend sleep indefinitely.”

  She began to laugh. “How dare you, sir!”

  He gazed back at her from under sweetly drowsy lids. “I’m wicked past redemption, I suppose.”

  “Not past redemption, I think.” Delighted to have him wake at last, she rested her chin on her fists and held him in a calm study. “I’ve put my mind to considering things, and I’ve decided that you’re not much of a rake after all. All those months of opportunity and not a thing came of it until we had benefit of clergy.”

  His smile was light. “The last thing I would have taken pleasure in forcing on you would be an act of love.” He caught a strand of her hair and began to wind it around his forefinger. “Poor Windflower, have you been sitting here watching me snore?”

  “I have, but you don’t snore. Everyone else has gone off to some horrible place—the One-eyed Dog. I suppose it’s a brothel.”

  He grinned. “No. A gaming hell.”

  “Oh! Are you a frequenter, then?” Her cheek was close to his wrist, and she rubbed herself against him there. “Can you hear how quiet it is? Raven said that was because when the crew of the Joke signed into the inn, the other patrons signed out. If you feel well enough to talk for a bit, I have something very exciting I’d like to tell you about.”

  He was caressing the wound curl with his thumb. “Every minute I see you, I feel better. Tell me about your something exciting.”

  “Well, with everything that happened today, I completely forgot to send a message to Teasel Hill, and so Aunt April arrived here with your mother! What do you think of that!” She had to laugh at his grimace. “You don’t have to worry about your mother, because Lord Cathcart was outside and was able to reassure her about our safety, so she wouldn’t have to come in and run a gauntlet of pirates, but Aunt April forced her way inside. Game as a pebble, Saunders said, and came straight into the parlor where I was dining with Raven—and half the crew almost. She swept me up in an embrace and said, ‘My dear, you can’t know! Aline and I have been in the greatest affliction. To leave without a word—and His Grace having ridden off after you, hell for leather, as the stableboy would say, though of course he shouldn’t have, at least not in front of us. Every feeling of trepidation from those terrible months returned! We went first to Lord Cathcart’s, which I only hope may not have damaged Aline’s reputation, because for myself I don’t care, but we were in an open carriage, so Aline says perhaps it will be all right.’ ” She paused to resettle her knees. “Raven was so funny about it afterward, because he misunderstood her completely, and he said it seemed like a devilish lot of trouble to go to to complain about a little cursing from a stable lad. You’ll never guess what happened then!”

  “Your aunt glanced around at the company and fell into a swoon?” he suggested innocently.

  “A swoon! As though Aunt April would do anything so paltry! Oh! Oh, I beg your pardon. I didn’t mean—” Laughter overwhelmed her, and she could see the smile lurking in his bright eyes as he pulled her close with his good arm and played her laughter against his mouth, swallowing the thrills of sound, feeling the vibrations in her chest and lips. His kiss became more thorough, the trace of his tongue inside her mouth much deeper. But then the hand that had brought her to his kiss gently released her.

  “Before I stop thinking about it,” he said, “you’d better tell me what happened to your aunt.”

  Merry had been inclined to linger over the kiss, but she sat up anyway and was able with some enthusiasm to say, “Henry Cork! And he turned out to be Raven’s ‘curst rum touch.’ Morgan had him follow us, you see, because Raven wouldn’t have known who Henry was, because he’s only just got to London, though he’s been in Ireland visiting his sister and her husband. He was traveling with false papers, which shows that the world is in a sad state with more dishonest officials than anyone would suspect, though Morgan may call them ‘flexible.’ ”

  “He would. Does your aunt still hold Cork to blame for the ants in your luggage?”

  “You know, I have no idea because when he arrived at the doorway beside Morgan and looking so nice—almost natty, in fact, in a mulberry coat and stone-colored trousers—all she could do was stare at him. And then when he came striding across the room to pull her into his arms and kiss her, my only thought was, Poor Aunt April—it must be like a nightmare for her to find Henry Cork suddenly in England hugging her in front of a room filled with pirates. I would have gone to her and tried to push him off, let me tell you, but Morgan put his hands on my shoulders and pushed me into a chair—don’t frown; he did it very gently, I promise—and it turned out Morgan was right, because Aunt April didn’t seem to mind the kiss at all, although she looked rather bemused. And then Henry Cork made her the prettiest speech about how he hadn’t had her off his mind a day since they parted in New York, and though he knew he wasn’t her quality and never would be, Morgan had settled a nice size of property on him, as he’d promised for watching me all those years, and if Aunt April would consent, he’d like to court her, and didn’t she know the reason he’d plagued her with all those tricks was to get a moment of her attention when he could. He led her out to the carriage so gentlemanly-like and kicked Max Reade in the shin because he hadn’t doffed his hat. Cat says it might serve, because with a duchess for a niece and Henry Cork’s money, she might not be shunned by the ton, or at least all but the highest sticklers, if we could think up some story to make his background sound more respectable. And you know, I think Aunt April wouldn’t care so much if she was shunned just a little, because although in Virginia she pined for England and society, now that I see her here, she’s just as content to putter in the garden and coze with her close friends as she is to go to ton parties. I think the”—she had to think about the best way to say it—“the pleasant quiet of our life in Fairfield changed her more than she knew. What are you thinking?”

  “That I don’t want our children to have Henry Cork for an uncle.” But Devon wa
s smiling.

  The offhand mention of their children brought new color to her cheeks. “They may as well have him, since they’ll have Rand Morgan also. Poor little things, we’ll probably find them sailing the Jolly Roger from their cradle slats. But you had better go back to sleep. What am I doing, keeping you awake chattering? Go on. Close your eyes. Close them. There. And I can sing you a lullaby.” But her singing voice was not as good as her drawing, and the song she chose was an American one which made reference not only to the villainy of England’s ruling prince but to his girth as well.

  Devon opened an eyelid and in a mild tone said, “If you will sing just a little louder, my heart, you’ll ensure our place in the history books, because by morning our heads will be adorning Traitor’s Gate.”

  “Then never mind that. I’ll rub liniment into your poor bruised body. That will relax you.” She heard his indrawn breath as she laid a hand lightly on him.

  Both his eyes were open now and shining. “You don’t have any liniment… and I don’t have any bruises.”

  “Quibbler!” Then, as though willing to concede a point, she said, “Well, perhaps not bruises.” Her hands slid lower, and her voice was ingenuous and husky as she said, “Swellings.”

  A laugh, a breath, taken quickly. “My love, my own sweet love… my lily petal. I’m too damned weak.”

  “As though I care for that,” she scoffed cheerfully. “I mean to ravish you. You’ll find I don’t share your scruples. It should be a good lesson to you.”

  As she carefully removed the pillow from under his head and laid him back, eddying her parted lips over his mouth, he said, in fervent agreement, “God, yes.” Then when her hand began to coast down over his body: “I’m beginning to think you should have no mercy.” He took another hard breath as her fingers wandered over the rise of his thigh. She could feel his flesh heat under her cheek and the crooked curve of his smile. “I don’t know how it comes to be, but I’m feeling stronger by the minute.”

  She sighed, trailing the tip of her tongue over his lips. “Men are so easy.”

  Meeting her tongue, moving his lips against hers, he said, “Flammable is the word. Please, if you intend to assert your conjugal rights, carry on. Although—and I’m sorry about this—the way Cat’s bound my arm, I don’t think my shirt will come off.”

  But this morning she had tucked a small knife from her breakfast tray into her garter, and her shifting skirts twisted it against her stockings, reminding her of its presence. A gleam of humor lit her eyes. “What I have under my skirt may change your mind.”

  He watched appreciatively as she sat back on her heels and began to draw up her hem. “It may.” His gaze widened lazily as he saw a small knife with a mother-of-pearl handle under the gold Brussels lace garter that circled her slim thigh.

  “I come equipped with the necessities.” Her breathless voice tried to sound informative.

  There was an oddly disquieting smile in his eyes. “Every last one. And now?”

  “You’re such an unsuccessful ravisher, I’m going to show you how it ought to be done.” A series of jabbing slashes opened his remaining buttons, laying his midriff bare.

  Laughing, flinching as the inexpertly wielded blade skimmed his flesh, he said, “I suppose I’ll have to make my way mother-naked back to Teasel Hill?”

  “We pirates never trouble ourselves about whether our victims have a change of clothing. Revenge is sweet. How do you like this?”

  “If I told you, love, it might ruin your revenge,” he said huskily, lifting a knee to kick off the bedclothes. “Now what? Trouble?”

  “Yes.” She was sawing at the seam over his shoulder. “It’s hard work being a swashbuckler. How do you ravishers always make this look so easy?”

  He had brought up a hand to brush the back of his forefinger over her nipple, feeling a nerve-shiver run through him as it hardened against his skin. Sympathetically he said, “For one thing, we don’t use dining utensils.”

  She had to gasp a little as his hand curved up and into her low-cut bodice, pressing under the warm thrust of her breast, caressing the nipple with his thumb. Feebly she murmured, “When one dines, one uses the proper utensils.”

  He slid her closer, freeing her breast from its aching confinement, and applied his lips and tongue to the tip. “Then I think I may come by my just deserts.”

  Her laughter was a sensual stroke on his brow. “I think, love, that your desserts have just begun.”

  When Cat returned much later to check on his patient, he found Devon asleep in a bed littered with the scattered tatters of his clothing and Merry’s nose peeking out of the bedclothes, her eyes deliciously alight with amusement. And seeing the answering humor in his pale-blue gaze and questioningly upraised brow, she whispered, “Give me your hand,” and slapped the knife into it. “There wasn’t a bit of fight in the lad.”

  Chapter 32

  October brought the return migration of winter birds to England. Though they were often unseen, Merry could hear the shrill, undulating calls of geese as they passed overhead at night. Nutters rustled in the woods under turning leaves. The elms were a bright umber, and the Spanish chestnuts reared great golden boughs among glowing brown beeches and the russet flutter of oak leaves. Hedgerows sparkled with holly berries and the deep shimmer of luxuriant blackberries. Children sailed kites in the open fields.

  Rand Morgan broke his overland journey to meet the Black Joke, again docked in Falmouth harbor, by spending a day with his grandmother at St. Cyr. In the late afternoon he returned to the Gentle Shepherd, bending his head to avoid the low hang of an alder branch as he came from a lane into the side yard of the coaching inn where the cider mill, the apple baskets, the vats, and the horsehair cloths were out and ready for an evening’s apple cidering. He dismounted, tossed the reins to a groom, made his way upstairs to the comfortable parlor adjoining his bedchamber, and by the time he was joined by Sails, had settled into a chair, a handsomely proportioned leg in a dusty riding boot slung casually over one arm. He had a hookah at one elbow and a pitcher of beer at the other.

  Lifting his glass to the sailmaker in a negligent salute, he quoted the sign exhibited in the alehouse below: “ ‘Drink here. The best beare.’ Shall I give you a glass?”

  “Aye,” said the old man, smiling slightly, and took it from Morgan’s hand, making himself comfortable in a woolen upholstered chair by the fire. While the captain was busy at St. Cyr, Sails had hired a gig to drive over for a look at Stonehenge, though little enough pleasure he’d been able to take in the place, because almost on arrival he’d fallen in with an elderly widower from Swindon who held sternly to the position that Avebury was by far the superior ancient monument, and went on at such length about the injustice of a fate that made Stonehenge better known, and spent such energy in detailing what he saw to be the many shortcomings of Stonehenge that Sails felt almost as though he’d been guilty of an act of ignominy by going there to begin with.

  When Morgan asked Sails how he’d found Stonehenge, Sails answered rather forlornly that it wasn’t the equal of Avebury. Considerably intrigued, because Sails had set out that morning in the best of spirits, Morgan soon had the story out of him, and before long Sails began to see the absurdity of the situation and was laughing and slapping his thigh over Morgan’s pungent comments.

  Plying his handkerchief against the moist amusement in his eyes, chuckling faintly, Sails allowed the pirate captain to refill his glass before he said, “How did ye find the duchess, your grandmama?”

  Morgan inhaled a rose of blue smoke, stretching his arm along the chair back. “Brimming with sentiment. At luncheon she wept over having destroyed the letter Grandfather Morgan wrote to Jasper informing him of my upcoming birth. Do you know, she went so far as to say I would have been a—What was her word? Magnificent, I believe. I would have been a magnificent duke.”

  With a grin in his eyes Sails studied the huge shapely body, the broad shoulders, the strong molding of the jaw. “She
had the right of it, I’m thinkin’.” He took a slow swallow of beer and said thoughtfully, “It’s something, how you never did resent young Devon. I remember the first letter ye had from yer grandmama about that laddie.”

  “Do you? Where was I? Algiers, I think.”

  “Aye, that you were, and in the very bed of a prime article of virtue and her sprinkling ye with rose petals. D’ye recall reading the letter aloud to me? A pathetic thing it was, all about how here was the young duke, fourteen years old and falling to ruin with a man’s vices and all for want of a father. She feared he’d kill himself before he reached eighteen unless someone could take him in hand, and with what she’d heard of ye, ye were the only man to do it. Diamond cuts diamond, she said.”

  “Thus demonstrating a remarkable command of the language.” A mocking smile curled the pirate’s lip.

  “And ye were so much better? It was daft, she was, or desperate, to persist until ye would finally take an interest and agree to kidnap him. ‘Let’s have look at my brother who’s a lord,’ ye said. ‘And we’ll teach him a whole new set of dissipations.’ ”

  “So I did. It’s amazing that she trusted me, isn’t it? She would have done better to help Aline out of her depression over Jasper’s death so she could be the mother Devon needed, instead of telling the poor girl at Jasper’s funeral that he’d left a sideslip in the Caribbean who was a pirate.”

  Sails clucked and shook his head in a gently excusing way. “ ’Twas the stress of the moment belike. Ah, well, it’s all come right in the end, because here’s Cat telling us that Aline means to have Cathcart.” He set down his glass and gazed into the hearth. A note that was partly curious, partly apologetic came into his voice. “There’s been a time or two, lad, when I wondered why ye never tried to make Merry fall in love with ye.” He heard Morgan rise and the whisper of long muscles pulling against fabric as he stretched.