After handing him the drink, she sank to the long leather sofa and eyed him carefully. “So, you have already tired of your boyish wife? I can’t say that I’m surprised, only that I hadn’t expected it this soon.”
He did his best to hide the jolt of shock that reverberated through him all the way into his bones. He’d offered to escort Annette with the specific intention of gleaning whatever information she might have of his current state. In all honesty, he’d not expected her to instantly confirm his marriage; he’d been certain that Keelan had lied to him. In fact, he hadn’t even considered she was truly his wife. Everything he’d observed so far had supported his suspicion that she was a spy. Unless of course she’d been telling the truth about everything.
Dammit. He wouldn’t have married again. He would not have. Not ever. How could he even have considered it? What was it about her that had completely removed every grain of common sense he’d ever had? Had he been coerced? Forced at gunpoint? There. There was a question he hadn’t thought to ask. What were the circumstances surrounding their vows? Had Conal demanded it? Had something else happened between him and Keelan that had forced them to marry?
But there’d been no wedding, no priest to sanctify their union. Had they even consummated their marriage? A small feminine cough reminded him where he was. Annette had asked a question of him.
He swirled the amber liquid in circles around his glass. “Why would you think that I’ve tired of my…wife?” The word almost refused to leave his mouth. Further confirmation that marriage was not a suitable pastime for him.
She shrugged a delicate shoulder and huffed a humorless laugh. “You made it abundantly clear, when we were together last, that you no longer desired my company.”
“I did?” Landon gulped a swallow of his whiskey. The question on his tongue begged to be asked. Was he ready to expose the weakness of his memory so soon? There appeared to be no other way to broach the subject other than simply asking the question. “When did you learn of my marriage?”
He caught a flicker of confusion in Annette’s dark brown eyes. He shouldn’t have asked it in that manner. “The moment you introduced her to me as your wife,” she said, sarcasm dripping from her words. Annette left her seat on the couch and came to him. She ran her hands up his forearms and over his chest as she studied his face.
He struggled to keep his expression one of nonchalance. Could she see the turbulent uncertainty in his eyes?
She ran a hand over his shoulder and behind his neck then pulled his head down and kissed him. Her lips tasted like wine; the scent of roses surrounded her. Her other hand slid down over his belly to his crotch and cupped him.
This room was familiar. Her scent was familiar. The way she kissed him— boldly thrusting her tongue in his mouth and then nipping his lip—was familiar. By this time, he should have been hard and throbbing and impatient to rid her of the hindrance of her clothes. They should both be naked on the cool leather of the couch, Annette clawing at his back while he plunged himself into her.
Unfamiliar, was the apathy he had toward the woman now. He wasn’t aroused. The kiss bored him. He had a need to find a pub and sit alone to contemplate everything that he’d learned since waking up from the accident.
He put his hands on her shoulders and gently broke the kiss. She grasped his hand in hers and pulled.
“Come,” she whispered in a sultry voice. “Let’s continue this in my bed.”
Landon reached up and threaded his fingers around a strand of her sleek black hair. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, held it for a moment then released it.
“I’m sorry, Annette, I can’t stay.” He brushed her cheek with the back of his fingers. “But you knew I wouldn’t, didn’t you?”
She gave him a sad smile. “I had hoped you would.” She turned her face to stare at the unlit fireplace. “But yes, the way you looked at her when you introduced us, I knew then I’d lost you.” She refilled her wineglass. “Why are you here? Was it to test your resolve, or my charms? Maybe both?”
This was vexing. Why do women seem to have an uncanny ability to guess a man’s intentions? “I thought I had questions to ask.” He set his empty glass on a side table. But instead of answers, he had more questions.
“Do you still?”
“I think not.”
“I see.” She stared at him for a long moment. “Since I’ve dismissed Rupert, you’ll have to show yourself to the door.” She left and less than a minute later, he was on the street, heading back toward the wharf. He wandered along King Street a while, unable to return to The Whistling Pig. He entered a small pub. He needed to think things through.
He needed to think.
Annette had confirmed he’d taken Keelan to wife. Even if he had wanted to ease his lust with his mistress, he would not have. He’d experienced the pain of Lenita’s infidelity. Although he didn’t care for the chit he’d apparently wed, he wouldn’t intentionally thrust that kind of humiliation on her.
The dark and sparsely populated tavern suited his needs perfectly. A thick, leather-faced bar keep walked over and nodded a greeting. “What can I get you, good sir?”
“An ale and two fingers of Bushmills,” Landon straddled a stool nearest the door.
The man poured the whiskey first and placed it in front of Landon, then pulled a tankard of ale. “What brings you to our fine city?” He pushed the tankard across the worn planks of the bar.
It wasn’t a casual question. There were many layers of Charleston society that went beyond class levels. Many were underground and Landon’s response might hint his place in it. He pondered the question a moment before he responded. He needed more information about Keelan, but he’d tighten the man’s lips if he asked in the wrong manner.
“I’m a simple merchant captain,” Landon said. “We made port late this afternoon and will be here only as long as it takes to deliver and pick up our cargo.” He tossed down the whiskey.
The man thrust his hand across the bar. “I’m Willy Kennedy, proprietor of this fine pub.”
A faint tingle along his spine sent the hair on the back of Landon’s neck twitching. He grasped Willy’s hand. “Ian Shepherd,” he lied. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
Willy gestured to the whiskey bottle and Landon nodded his thanks. “What are you carrying, if you don’t mind my asking?” Willy said casually, refilling the glass.
Ah. Now the tricky part. Landon smiled. “Currently, rice, indigo and several barrels of spices and port wine. As we’re heading north, I’ll do my best to add items from the Low Country coveted by northern ports.”
Willy braced his large hands on the smooth wooden bar and tilted his head and pondered for a second before asking, “Are you familiar with Fritz Schoen? He owns the Whistling Pig.”
Landon nodded, aware the man’s eyes keenly studied him. “Yes, I’ve known him and his wife for several years. I usually rent a room there when I’m in port.”
The man nodded. “I heard he’d like to send some things to his sister in Philadelphia, if you’ve space in your hold.”
The Schoens must have some new runaways hidden. It wasn’t part of his plan, but he’d ask Fritz about it when he returned to the tavern. “I have a small amount of room. I’ll be sure to speak with him about it.” Landon took a deep drink of his ale. A couple stout men, by their dress, dock workers, sat at the other end of the bar sharing a platter filled with chunks of meat, cheese and bannocks but by the angle of their bodies, had been listening intently to the conversation.
Landon leaned forward. “There was talk down at the wharf about a fire-haired woman with a steep price on her head.” The bar keep paused for the briefest second before continuing to polish the glass in his hand. “Do you know of whom I speak?”
The closer man of the two shifted his gaze to Landon, then to Willy, who caught the man’s stare and raised a brow. The dock worker gave him a slight shrug.
“Well, yes sir, I think I might know who they were talking ab
out.” He scratched the bristles on his cheek. “Her name is Keelan Grey, and she was last seen with a merchant captain named Landon Hart.”
Landon leaned back, raised his brows and said, “So, it’s true. What crime has she committed?”
A low gravely voice responded, “Murder.”
Murder! Landon turned his very real expression of shock to the dockworker who’d been eavesdropping. “The sheriff must have a hefty reward for her capture, if she’s wanted for murder.” Sometimes playing a bit at being naive made people drop their guard a little.
Landon’s tactic worked and the dockworker snorted in derision before he answered. “Ain’t the sheriff who’s wanting her. It’s a personal vendetta. She killed a man’s first mate and cousin—a man whose ire you don’t want to stir even the tiniest bit.”
His friend added, “Word is that she’s back in town. The Desire made port less than a day ago.” He took a long swallow of his ale. “And we knows now that she disguises herself by wearing britches instead of skirts.”
All eyes were on Landon, now. A sick feeling of dread seeped into his stomach.
This was trouble.
Landon entered the Whistling Pig and nodded to Fritz, who handed him a key.
“My wife has a message,” he said. “If you knock on der kitchen door, she vill give it to you.”
“Thank you.” Landon did as instructed and Mrs. Schoen gestured him into the kitchen.
“We have Simon hidden upstairs,” she said, wringing her apron. “Mr. Pratt somehow found out dat he vas moving your cargo and tried to trap him. Tankfully, he vas warned in time to run.” She let out a heady breath. “He worries for his wife und boy.”
Landon clenched his jaw. Simon, had been a house slave at Twin Pines, which was now, according to Annette, owned by Keelan. Interesting how Keelan hadn’t mentioned to him that she was a slave owner. What if she worked for Pratt? Could she be trying to infiltrate Fynn’s alliance as well as spy for the British? If she was, then this mission was in even greater danger.
“I’ll take care of Simon’s passage north,” Landon said.
Mrs Schoen pressed her lips into a thin line. “He may not go without his family.”
“I’ll talk to him.” What kind of sop had he been to marry a woman like Keelan Grey? How had she blinded him so completely? He glanced at the stair leading to the upper floors of the tavern. Now, she was in their midst and the one place Simon should be safe had become perilous.
“Which room have you placed Keelan and her manservant?”
Mrs. Schoen’s worry lines smoothed somewhat, although she still seemed confused by his question. “She iss in der last room on der right. Mr. Hunter iss in der first room on der right.”
Two separate rooms? Landon nodded and bounded up the stairs, two at a time. He wasn’t fooled. Because they each had a room didn’t mean they were separated. He strode to the end of the hall and knocked sharply on the door. He heard the scraping of a chair, then the door opened a crack and Daniel’s face appeared.
He was right. He shoved the door wide, unable to contain his anger as he stared at the man. “What are you doing in here?” It took every ounce of control to keep his voice flat.
Mr. Hunter had the good grace to look somewhat chagrined, but remained silent. Keelan sat on one of the two chairs at a small wooden table. Two trenchers of half-eaten food sat on the table. She swallowed a bite, wiped her mouth and glared at Landon.
Without breaking her stare down with him, she said, “Please sit back down and finish your meal, Daniel.” She dropped her napkin on her plate. “I’m afraid I’ve lost my appetite.”
The dig wasn’t lost on Landon or to his embarrassment, Hunter either.
The valet scooted to the table and picked up his plate. “I’ll finish in my room, mistress.”
“I’ll see you in the morning.” She smiled softly.
Daniel gave her a quick nod and slipped out the door. Landon kicked it closed. If he managed to refrain from killing her, it might be a miracle worthy enough persuade him to enter the seminary. Even now, green fire sparked from her eyes and the sweet smile she’d given her servant had turned into a scowl. How many faces did she have?
“How dare you speak to Daniel that way!” She shot to her feet, knocking her chair over. She stepped around it and approached Landon, a bundle of fury and fiery beauty. “He practically raised me and has been nothing but a faithful servant and staunch protector.” When she reached him she put her hands on her hips and tilted her stubborn, little chin up. “Just because you don’t remember someone, doesn’t give you permission to be rude.”
Keelan, standing barefoot with a man’s shirt hanging almost to her knees, eyes blazing, with that impish mouth, so pink and lush and kissable, awakened something in his belly that had slept when he was with Annette. The scent of jasmine wafted into his nostrils and he froze. A glimmer of a memory flickered before his eyes. Wisteria blossoms drooping lazily from an arbor, an auburn haired beauty in a gown that shown like polished silver in the moonlight. He couldn’t make out her face. Was it her? Was it Keelan? He closed his eyes, desperately trying to bring it into focus, but it faded.
“Landon?” Keelan’s voice was soft.
She placed a warm palm on his forearm. Opening his eyes, he stared at her. Concern creased her brow. He reached up and touched her hair, allowing a curl to curve around his finger, imagining it the color of burnished copper. He cupped her face with both hands and stared into the emerald eyes rimmed in gold.
Why couldn’t he remember? He wanted to remember. He was desperate to remember. There were too many unanswered questions. There were too many treacherous situations where Keelan was involved. She’d killed someone, there was a man who would pay a hefty price for her, and one of the key people in Fynn’s network had been found out. Landon could only move forward with the information he had now.
“You didn’t tell me you owned slaves,” he said, each word articulated with tortured rancor. “Nor did you happen to mention that you are wanted for murder.”
For a moment, something in the way he looked at her reminded Keelan of her Landon. Her heart jumped at the possibility that the fog in his mind might be lifting. It disappeared with the tone in his voice. Accusing. Angry. Wary.
“I don’t own slaves,” she replied. “Papa did…he owned Twin Pines plantation when he was alive.”
“Who owns it now?”
Where was he going with these questions? Was he starting to remember?
“Papa told me he would leave it to Uncle Jared but my uncle said that Papa left the plantation to me, so I’m not certain who owns it, nor do I care.” She’d left that life behind the second she set foot upon his ship.
His eyes narrowed. “And the reward for murder?”
The memory of Gampo’s voice screaming her name and hurling threats at her as she ran away from the burning warehouse sent an icy trail of shivers across the back of her neck. Could their common enemy, Gampo, bring down a portion of the wall of distrust he had built between them?
“A man hired Gampo to kidnap me. I was taken to a warehouse where the pirates had stored cargo they had stolen from you.” She could almost see the tension emanating from Landon’s shoulders like waves of heat from a hot skillet. She held her breath and waited for him to interrupt her with exclamations of disbelief and accuse her of lying. He crossed his arms, leaned a hip against the table and waited.
She continued. “You and Conal tracked your cargo to that warehouse. You found me and rescued me from a man who’d been flaying my back with a leather strap. I later found out that the man was Gampo’s cousin and first mate, Crowe. Gampo showed up and the two of you fought. During the fight, Crowe tried to stab you in the back. I used a chain to pull him off his feet. When he fell it broke his neck.”
Keelan closed her eyes against the visions that surfaced as she talked. Crowe’s blunt face twisted in a cruel sneer as he punished her for fighting his advances…the gleam of Gampo’s saber and the wicked
dagger Crowe pulled from his boot as he crept up behind Landon…chains clinking…the remnants of smoke and the metallic scent of blood. She shuddered and reached for her wine to take away the bitter taste in her mouth.
Here again, she was relating another outrageous story to Landon, who was probably completely convinced she was a habitual liar. Why would he want to believe any of this? Even though true, it still sounded contrived. At least Gus could corroborate the part about the theft of his cargo and the fight in the warehouse.
Now, Landon was staring at his boots, to hide his expression this time, no doubt. “So Gampo has put a price on your head for killing his first.”
“Yes.” Trying to explain any more might send her into a fit of hysterical laughter.
“…Who was about to sink a blade into my back.”
“Yes.” She took slow sip of wine and studied him over the rim of the glass. Did any of it sound familiar to him? If one tiny piece could break in to the darkness coating his memory, perhaps another might follow.
Landon unfolded his arms and began to pace the small room. His voice was low, as if he was thinking out loud rather than conversing with her. “I want to remember, because I don’t understand my actions. What kind of man had I become over the last five years?” The anguish in his voice tore at her heart. “Five years ago, I would have never married again, let alone marry…” He gestured toward her. “… Someone like you, a slaver owner and a—”
Keelan sliced the air with her hand. She lowered her voice to a whisper. “I’m not a murderer and I would ask that you keep your voice down. These planks are thin, and it’s dangerous enough for me to be here as it is.” She fought to clamp down on her temper. “Do you truly believe that I could ever be a murderer, that I could ever intentionally kill a person?”
Hart's Reward (Pirates & Petticoats #3) Page 8
