Tides of Passion

by Sara Orwig

  “Thankee, luv.”

  “Have a good time, Tillie. I just remembered some business.”

  Her smile vanished. “You’re going?”

  “Yes. Take the coins.” He brushed her cheek with his hand and turned to walk away.

  Tillie looked at the gold coins, then at the broad-shouldered man striding away from her. He passed a sailor who was headed her way. Tucking the coins into her blouse, she smiled and walked forward.

  Josh strode back to the ship, pausing a moment on deck to survey his surroundings, thinking the sea was the only satisfying thing in life. He inhaled the sea air tainted by salt water and fish. He would soon be under way on a mission he hoped would accomplish more than one purpose.

  Josh climbed down the ladder to his cabin and poured a dash of brandy in a glass. He peeled off his coat and sat down, looking at a ring he held in his palm. It was a coiled golden serpent ready to strike with fangs bared and an eye made of a deep red ruby. He rolled the ring in his palm with his thumb. Marcheno’s cousin was the governor of Chile, a despot whom Englishmen hoped to help overthrow. The Marchenos had murdered Phillip and he wanted revenge as well as a chance to earn the respect of his countrymen. He tossed the ring in the air and caught it in his closed palm, turning his hand to look at his deformed finger. His father still caused him trouble. Every exclusive club in London was closed to him, every home with a young daughter refused him. That would change in time. This was his chance. He dropped the ring into a sea trunk beside his chair and slammed the lid shut, remembering William’s words: “I’m not sure, when you come back, that you’ll think it worth the price you paid.”

  Along the road to Portsmouth, jagged lightning rent the sky, casting a silvery brilliance across the weathered brown oak walls of an English inn. Two black coaches were reflected through the driving rain. The gloom of the night was no greater than the despondency experienced by Lianna as she emerged from the doorway of the first coach.

  Wrapped in a voluminous dark woolen cape, she placed her cold fingers in the outstretched hand of Byron Cleve while he held the door open. This was the moment to speak; she might not get another chance to carry out her plan.

  Before stepping down, she leaned forward, her eyes level with his as she whispered, “Wait for me near the stable door at midnight.”

  “Miss Melton—”

  “Please, I must go inside,” she said while her heart pounded with fear and with a growing determination to rule her own fate. She dashed ahead, followed by her slender young maid.

  Inside the inn, Lianna flung the black hood of her cape away from her face, ignoring the rivulets of water which fell into small puddles on the floor’s polished planks.

  A great fire roared, sending warmth into a room filled with the odors of rum and succulent roast fowl. Across the spacious common room men sat in a semicircle intent on playing their game as they slid coins along a long trestle table.

  With a haughty lift of her chin Lianna ignored their stares. She was embarrassed by the strangers’ glances and eager to reach the privacy of a room. Grasping the maid’s slender wrist, Lianna whispered urgently, “Quita, I want you to stay with me. I won’t spend tonight with Doria watching over me. I shall inform the innkeeper—”

  She was interrupted by the shrill call of her name. “Miss Melton!”

  With a regal turn, Lianna hardened her voice. Trying to hide her qualms, her tone a pitch deeper than the older woman’s, she said, “Doria, tonight you’ll have other quarters; Quita will remain with me.”

  The wrinkles deepened in the older servant’s brow. “Miss Melton, when we left London, your father imparted strict instructions.”

  “Quita will share my room.” Hiding her fright, Lianna drew herself up, raising her chin. In order for her to escape, she needed to be free of Doria’s watchful eyes.

  During the sleeplessness of her last nights at home, Lianna had determined to choose her own fate. There was no longer time to worry. She had to act.

  The elderly woman murmured a disapproving acquiescence and Lianna turned away before Doria glimpsed her relief. Motioning to Quita, she followed the innkeeper up a narrow flight of stairs to their room.

  After dinner, in the confines of a comfortable room where a fire blazed on the hearth, Lianna paced the floor while Quita shifted the cloaks to dry in front of the fire. The odor of damp wool mingled with the aroma of burning coals. Lianna noticed neither as she bent her head over the paper before her and dipped the quill in ink to write:

  My dearest Edwin,

  Papa has managed to keep us apart, but I will not willingly marry the Count of Marcheno. I intend to run away tonight, and later, when Papa no longer can threaten you with Newgate Prison, I’ll send you word as to where I am. Wait for me, please.

  All my love,

  Lianna.

  As she finished sealing the letter, she paused to look at the slender girl kneeling in front of the fire. “Quita, how many more nights are there before we reach Portsmouth?”

  “Two,” the maid replied softly.

  Lianna moved to the window. She had put behind her the despondency over her father’s callous treatment, but she still ached when she thought of Edwin arriving home to find her gone.

  “I hope we don’t sail during a rainstorm. I fear the sea,” Quita said, interrupting her thoughts.

  “Once I am on La Joya, sailing for Spain, there will be no turning back, nothing to deliver me from this dreadful union. I won’t do it,” Lianna said, frightened of running away, yet determined to escape the unwanted marriage.

  Without replying, the maid smoothed the folds of her mistress’s black cape. Lianna strolled to the window and watched as lightning flashed, illuminating the muddy yard of the inn where glistening silver puddles dotted the brown earth. Thunder rumbled, shaking the panes and adding to the tension Lianna felt. She glanced at the ormolu clock—midnight approached.

  Tracing her finger down the cold window glass, she let her gaze rest on the wide ring on her hand, the golden serpent wound around her slender finger. She hated the count’s ring and all it represented, yet she had promised her father she would wear it. The serpent ready to strike gave credence to the rumors she had heard from Conchita about the count’s cruelty. “Quita, do you really plan to leave our employ at Portsmouth and sail for the New World, for the Spanish colonies?”

  “Sí,” Quita answered.

  Temporarily Lianna forgot her own concern and gazed curiously at Quita’s raven-black hair, as dark as her own. Quita’s deep brown eyes contrasted with Lianna’s blue ones. Her maid’s features were symmetrical, conveying a sultry beauty in her full lips and thick hair. “So you did acquire other employment when you were in London. You’re to sail on a ship destined for the New World?”

  The girl shrugged. “A person in London, a Mr. Summers, in the employ of Captain Joshua Raven, searched for a suitable female, one who can speak both English and Spanish fluently.”

  Lianna’s lips tightened bitterly at the thought that a serving girl was free to do with her life as she wanted, while her mistress had no say in her own fate. Clenching her fists, Lianna said, “Quita, I intend to run away.”

  “Por qué? And where will you go?” Dark eyes widened as her brow furrowed.

  “I don’t know. I have no relatives to run to, but I’ve made up my mind,” Lianna answered grimly; then her voice wavered. “This is my last hope! I must do something before we sail for Spain!”

  “Your father will find you,” Quita stated flatly. “The Count of Marcheno is one of the wealthiest men in all Spain.”

  “I don’t care a fig for that! When my father returned, bringing you, Conchita, and Alfonso from Spain, Conchita told me clearly what kind of man Marcheno is—deceitful and dreadfully cruel. She has lived in Madrid and had a relative imprisoned by the count.”

  “Conchita may have exaggerated.”

  “I’m afraid she didn’t. I don’t want such a marriage!” Lianna crossed the room impatiently. “You must h
elp me, Quita. Give me my cloak and say nothing. Allow me as much time as possible.”

  Biting her lip, Quita whispered, “Your father is a hard man. If he discovers I have helped you escape—”

  “Nonsense, Quita! In spite of the discovery of my absence, it will be a simple matter for you to reach Portsmouth on time. I shall make Byron promise to see that you do.”

  “Byron Cleve, señorita?”

  Lianna nodded, fully aware of how Quita’s dark eyes had followed their young servant during the journey. She had seen Quita openly flirting with him on several occasions, but had been too worried about her own affairs to pay much attention. “When is your ship to sail?”

  “I am to be in Portsmouth by late afternoon day after tomorrow.”

  “You see!” Lianna swirled the heavy woolen cape around her shoulders. “No one will miss me until morning. Byron can see that you’re transported to Portsmouth. You’ll be quite safe from my father’s wrath.”

  Brown eyes peered intently into blue ones; then Quita said, “You’ll need money.”

  “I have some. I can get some kind of employment. Most anything would be preferable to this marriage! And then someday I can marry—” She snapped her mouth closed without saying Edwin’s name.

  “You have no knowledge, Señorita Melton, of what it is like to be poor or alone.”

  “Hush, Quita! My mind is set on this.” Fastening the cape securely beneath her chin, she raised the hood over her head before gathering her reticule and gloves. “I must flee now. Tomorrow Doria will be continually at my side and tomorrow night she might insist on staying with me. If I wait until I’m in Spain to escape, I’ll be a foreigner in a strange land.”

  “Your Spanish is like a native’s.”

  “Nonetheless, it would be difficult, and I couldn’t let Edwin know where to find me.”

  “Your father will follow every step Edwin takes until he finds you.”

  “I’ll be careful. This is my last opportunity and I plan to be far away by the light of morning.” She faced her maid; they were the same height, but Quita bore the deep olive skin of many natives of sunny Spain, while Lianna’s heritage of Castilian and English forebears was displayed in a skin of creamy whiteness. “Pray, Quita, that I’m not discovered.”

  “Vaya con Dios,” Quita said solemnly.

  Stepping into the hall, Lianna rushed for the stairs, her ears straining to hear if anyone stirred. The inn was dark; the customers had departed. Outside, the rain was now little more than fine mist, though it blew cold and wet against Lianna’s cheeks. She drew the hood closer about her face, catching up her skirts as she waded through puddles to the stable.

  “Byron! Byron!” she whispered urgently, waiting for his deep voice. Shifting nervously in the darkness, she called, “Byron!”

  Wind whistled around the corner; disappointment and fear chilled Lianna more than the mist. Drops sprayed against her ankles, causing her to abandon the wait, to reach impatiently for the door. It opened swiftly and a man emerged.

  Gasping in surprise, Lianna stepped back as lightning flashed. Relief surged in her upon seeing the familiar face, the locks of pale brown hair clubbed behind his neck. “Byron! At last!”

  “Why are you here?” he whispered.

  “I’m running away. Help me get a horse, please. I won’t marry the Count of Marcheno!”

  “What’ll you do? Where can you go?”

  “I won’t tell you. Then you can truthfully tell Papa you don’t know, but I’ll ride far away, and later I’ll send word to Edwin. Will you give him this note without fail?”

  She held out the folded note, and Byron whisked it out of sight. “Yes,” he said, but his voice was grim. “You can’t get far. Your father will be enraged and he’ll spare no expense to find you and bring you back quickly.”

  “I’ll have an early start before he learns what happened.”

  “Miss Melton, brigands haunt the roads. It isn’t safe for you to go alone.” He shuffled his feet as if he were torn by a dilemma.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll be very careful. Now, please fetch me a horse.”

  He hesitated and rubbed his hands on his coarse leather breeches. “If Squire learns I furnished the horse for you, I’ll lose my job.”

  “Then just stand aside and warn me if someone comes. I’ll get my own horse.”

  “You can’t!” He looked over her head at the inn. “John Stafford will be back in minutes. He’s talking with the innkeeper about a hole in the roof over our quarters. If you run away, your father will leave no stone unturned until he finds you.”

  “Byron, watch for John Stafford or hide me until he has gone to sleep!” She grasped his cold hand in hers.

  His voice was tight with agony. “Your father would send Bow Street Runners. He would have me imprisoned if I helped you.”

  Realizing he spoke the truth, and having no desire to cause Byron misfortune, she said, “Move out of my way. I can ride like a man, without a saddle.”

  He stared at her and finally answered, “Wait here where it’s dark. I won’t take long.” He reached for the door and emerged within minutes with a saddled horse. He helped Lianna up. “Take care,” he said.

  She reached down to squeeze his hand, saying good-bye to another from her childhood. “Give Edwin my letter, and farewell, Byron.”

  As she straightened, a figure emerged from the inn. Lightning flashed, revealing everything as clearly as the noonday sun.

  “Miss Melton!” the man gasped, rushing toward them, his black boots splattering mud as he raised a musket and blocked her path.

  Lianna swayed; for one brief second her eyes closed in defeat before she faced John Stafford. “See ’ere, now. What’s this?” he asked.

  The wail of the wind was the only answer. Words failed Lianna as she knew her attempt to run away was foiled before she had escaped the yard of the inn. “John, I beg you to turn your back and forget you saw me. You taught me to ride; you’ve watched me grow up. Don’t send me to this marriage. I love only one, your son Edwin.”

  “Ye both are still children. Foolish dreams cannot help in the realities of life. I’ve given my word to yer father, Miss Melton. I’ll shoot the horse if ye try to ride past me.”

  “Very well,” she said stiffly, defeat crushing her. “But don’t blame Byron. I ordered him to get the horse.”

  “Yes, miss. Now, ye best return to the inn. Yer father left strict instructions with me.”

  “Very well,” she murmured, understanding full well the futility of any further attempt to escape. She dismounted and handed the reins to Byron, who whispered, “Sorry, Miss Melton.”

  Byron doubled his fists as he watched her go. He had heard in detail from Conchita, the older Spanish maid, what kind of man her father had sold her to. Whether Edwin loved her or her possessions, he would be good to her.

  “Let her go,” John Stafford said, moving to stand beside him. “Ye cannot help the lass. Don’t do anything foolish because of my son. Edwin has not learned that he must live the kind of life fate has handed him.”

  “Her father’s a flint-hearted bastard!” Byron said quietly.

  “Aye, that he is. And he would hunt ye down and have ye hauled to Newgate if ye helped her and cost him a farthing. Let her go. Ye cannot do otherwise. Come along, Byron. The innkeeper said to get our things. There’s a dry room in the attic.” John Stafford went inside while Byron stood peering into the empty, rainy night, his fist doubled around the paper in his hand. Suddenly he threw himself into the saddle and turned the horse into the road northward toward London.

  Unaware of Byron Cleve riding the horse away from the inn, Lianna scurried inside. Hot tears coursed down her cheeks as she rushed past Quita into her room.

  In a dockside London tavern men’s voices rose in laughter and conversation, and the smell of ale—tainted with the ever-present odor of fish—permeated the rooms. Coins clinked and the door swung shut behind a customer, letting a blast of cold, rainy air into the wa
rm room. Six men sat at a round wooden table, its surface scarred by knives from customers through the years. A large man with broad shoulders and fingers as fat as sausages talked to a golden-haired man.

  Edwin Stafford leaned forward in his chair, oblivious of the noisy crowd in the inn. His attention only wandered from the subject at hand when a pretty serving girl leaned over the table and brushed his shoulder with her breast. His concentration was otherwise focused on the scarred, grizzled giant of a man seated across from him.

  “Aye, matey, the sea is the place to make your fortune, and pirating is the way to do it.”

  “And the crown will sanction it?” Edwin asked, swiftly grasping the possibilities.

  “Aye, sanction and bless you if you return a share home. And occasionally we prey on ships that aren’t sanctioned—pirate ships like our own. I have a ship, mate, and…” He paused while the serving girl returned with a tankard of ale. Her dark eyes sparkled as she set it before him and glanced boldly at Edwin.

  Edwin grinned and held up a coin. “Another mulled rum,” he said.

  “Yes, Mr. Stafford,” she said, flashing a full smile. As she left, one of the men watched her, then looked at Edwin. “Seems Nan’s favor is yours now.”

  Edwin grinned as his gaze returned to Captain Turner. “You were telling me you have your own ship.”

  “Aye, and treasure buried in spots o’er all the earth.”

  “I’m a groomsman for Squire Melton. How hard is it to sign on a ship?”

  The men laughed. “They scour the streets of London looking for men to sail—some captains do. I have no trouble finding the right men,” Captain Turner said firmly.

  At that moment Nan returned to lean over Edwin, her soft breasts pressing against his arm. He raised his arm to slip it around her waist and give her a squeeze. She looked down at him laughingly and he winked again. “Thank you, Nan,” he said as he reached up to tuck a coin in the low neckline of her gingham dress. His knuckles brushed warm flesh as he tucked the coin away, and the men’s laughter drowned out Nan’s giggle. “I’ll see you later?” he asked.