The Unraveling of Lady Fury

by Shehanne Moore

  “An inn or a country house. A vicarage even.”

  “Actually, Lady Margaret, you’re right.”

  “I am never less than that. It astonishes me you have taken all this time to realize it.”

  “Fortune—Fortune does resemble her father.”

  “And so she should. In every regard.”

  “Alas, but that father is not Thomas.”

  “What do you mean?”

  The explosion of shock was probably worse than Fury had feared. Lady Margaret clattered into a chair, which in turn clattered into the wall.

  It was probably unwise to have spoken, when she could defend neither herself, nor Fortune, against what would probably ensue when Lady Margaret clattered back out the chair again. This rashness was certainly something she needed help governing. But so long as she could call for Susan, it should be all right.

  “Not Thomas?” Lady Margaret snarled. She snarled so Fury wondered if she should call for Susan now. “Explain yourself, Fury.”

  But that might be to inflame things further, when the possibility still existed that Lady Margaret might leave quietly.

  “I thought I had. And I know this is hard for you both to hear and understand. But in case you don’t understand, Thomas, in all the years we were together, couldn’t have children. He tried. Oh, God, yes.” Thinking of those times dried Fury’s throat. Even now she could remember how he’d used his fists when he’d failed. But she couldn’t tell Lady Margaret that. Not with Thomas lying at the bottom of an Italian bay, having supposedly perished on a visit to his holy father. “But is Fortune his? I’m afraid not.”

  “Not his?” Had Fury wrapped up some dog dirt and tried to pass it off as the Beaumont heir, Lady Margaret could not have sounded more affronted. Fury braced, waiting for the moment Lady Margaret crossed the room and attacked her with her reticule.

  “Oh, you should be…you should be very afraid,” Lady Margaret growled.

  “Before you start screeching about what a disgusting whore I am, I tried. I tried for years to get you to like me. But you didn’t. The deception would not have been necessary had you done so. Even if it was just a little. But there.” Fury closed her eyes tighter to mask what filled them. She would not cry before this woman. “We won’t speak of it.”

  “But we will speak of it, you thieving whore. You mean, you were prepared to—”

  “I wasn’t just prepared. I did it. I slept with another man to father my child.”

  “How dare you?”

  “It was up to me, so I did. But am I prepared to go further and lie to you, for that child to inherit the Beaumont fortune, and so I—I can have what I am entitled to as Thomas’s widow? No. No, I’m not. Because unlike you, with your cold heart and your cold house, I now know there are other things worth having. My daughters are worth having. Both of them.”

  “You mean—”

  “Yes. The reason I knew the fault wasn’t mine.”

  Did it matter she had said that? Probably. Lady Margaret contorted her mouth. She breathed like a bull about to charge. Fury would have thought the woman might be glad to know she was being proved right.

  She rolled over and faced the wall. “Their father is worth having. So please go away and leave us all alone.”

  “Their father? And who pray, is that? Some…some gutter-rat you—”

  “I believe you met him as Captain Ames in Genoa. But his proper name—”

  “Captain Ames?” Lady Margaret could barely contain herself. Fury had expected a little ire. A little slavering. But this, this was crowing. “Captain Ames? Do you mean the man whose boat you somehow took by mistake at Calais? The one who sent for me to fetch you home? The one I met on his way out of here, for good by the looks of him?”

  How Fury kept her cool… Perhaps she was too tired, too weak to do anything else. But she closed her eyes tighter to hide what didn’t just prick them now but what flooded in a horrible drowning pool. At least it answered some of her questions, didn’t it?

  Even after Lady Margaret slammed out, nearly removing the door from its hinges, she lay for a long time trying to consider her next move. Because she knew, no matter what Lady Margaret said, there must, there had to be one.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The crowded taproom of the wharf-side tavern seemed to mock Flint as he strolled across the floor and set his hat down on the scratched surface of the bar. A good crowd stood round the fire. Older men, fisher folks mainly, but no faces he recognized. It suited his purpose. The last thing he felt was amiable, and people here had been kind.

  He’d had some tough times in his life. When his ma started taking up with men on account of his no-good daddy walking out on her years before. When he lost the Calypso and stood at that slave auction, grinning temptingly, in the hope some old buffer matron might buy him. When he got flayed by Malmesbury because he wasn’t accustomed to spitting on shoe buckles.

  But writing that letter to Lady Margaret, then getting Benito to take it to Ravenhurst, was the hardest thing Flint had ever done in his whole, entire life.

  His daughter. His daughters. Plural. His. Just as Fury was his woman. And he’d given them up.

  He eased onto a scuffed stool. “Rum.”

  Without a thought about having to captain the Palerna later, he tossed the glassful down his throat. Then he dug in his coat pocket and flung a handful of coins down on the surface of the bar. “Leave the bottle.”

  Had it been simply that Fury wanted so much more than he could ever give her, he wouldn’t have let her go like this. No. Glowering at a tempting-looking whore, who edged onto the bar stool next to him, he tossed back another glassful.

  It wasn’t that though, was it? The reason he’d written that letter. His pride, his damnable, useless pride had nearly killed her. When the hell was he going to learn about his pride?

  On the beach he’d thought maybe he could. But this last fortnight, being with her, being with Fortune, what he held in his heart for them—and hell, he still hadn’t met Storm—terrified him. It was so intense, he feared ever hurting them again.

  He’d nearly lost Fury. She still lay in bed weak as anything. Kate and the other women thought it was a miracle she survived. Anyway, he’d sworn that night what he would do if that miracle occurred. It wasn’t just Fury who survived. He plain couldn’t get over that.

  “Pardon me, sir, but ain’t you the one stayin’ with Ben and Kate?”

  He lowered his gaze. The woman had placed her hand on his arm. At his blank stare, she withdrew it.

  “It’s just a man gets lonely when their missus be indisposed.”

  Well, maybe some did.

  “I ain’t lonely, sister.” Much.

  Fury would have gone. Gone to Ravenhurst. To the wonderful life she wanted for herself and her children. Their children, he reminded himself, downing another glassful of rum. So it would be no odds to go with this woman. He wasn’t going to though.

  Love. All about sacrifice, wasn’t it?

  He just hadn’t understood until this moment, what that word really meant. Sacrifice. Love, now. Love would have been to tell her. In Genoa. On the Palerna. Love, now, love didn’t worry about mile-high pride. Love put itself out there. And it hoped. He did love her. Maybe he always had. Maybe that’s why he hadn’t wanted to know the truth of Celie all those years ago.

  Of course Fury wanted a better life for herself. More than anything. Why shouldn’t she have it? The things he’d done to her. Leaving her on that quay. Now that, when he thought about his ma and how she’d have been happy to be rid of him, that was something.

  But it hadn’t even occurred to him then, despite the careless way he’d taken his fill of Fury, she might be pregnant. And naturally that did things to a woman.

  It would be nice to have seen Storm. To think maybe he could see Fortune. When he thought of the things he’d done, it sure would be an awful lot simpler for Fury if he didn’t show up again.

  He sank another glassful. The woman next
to him persisted. No doubt waiting till he had drunk enough not to care what he was doing, although he wanted to tell her what she proposed was still cheating when a missus, whether she was still that or not, was as indisposed as Fury. He eased off the stool, pocketed the bottle, and headed for the door.

  Skulking deep in his coat, he paused and glanced up the alley. Rain fell in torrents. Great. Now in addition to being soaked, he’d be soaking. The lousy English weather. Not that it mattered. Nothing mattered. Except getting back on that damned boat of his. Nathan had said the day before that the repairs were done. He’d inspected them with half a heart. Fury and the baby had still worried him.

  Truth be told though, he’d never felt less like anything in his damn life. Imagine that, when boats and sailing had been everything to him.

  But as for whatever that damnable whore from the bar thought she was doing, trotting along at his side…

  “Look darlin’, not that I want to be rude but I think I told you in there I ain’t interested—Fury?”

  Where the hell had she come from? She hadn’t been in the tavern, that was for sure. Before he could think what the hell she wanted, she reached up, grabbed his face, and kissed him.

  She’d taken him by surprise, so for a second his mouth reacted instinctively, even while his head jerked back and he tried to pull away.

  Fury’s awareness of her own physical weakness and what it had cost her coming here was acute, however. While she felt herself sag, she determined not to let him go. Her hands clasped the sides of his head, ready to pull him back against her should he try again. Not that he did. He was enjoying the kiss a little too much for that. And she suspected it was the type of kiss he would enjoy. Hot. Open-mouthed. Passionate. A kiss that didn’t give him an opportunity to think, because she knew thinking would be dangerous.

  “Lady Margaret liked the heiress then.” He gasped, his eyes wide.

  Of course, Flint would not be Flint unless he thought well of himself.

  “Oh, she loved her.”

  “Loved? Sweetheart, that’s—”

  Before he could finish whatever it was he started to say, she dragged his mouth back toward hers.

  “There will be kissing.”

  To do so here, in an alley, hungry and demanding, with no thought of the rain coming down or the passersby, as if she were as much a common whore as the woman she’d seen trying to pick him up inside the tavern, only added to her passion. She had never done anything like it before because Flint didn’t require tempting. He always led in these situations. But it didn’t matter.

  If she lost him now, she would die. She couldn’t control what flowed through her pores, filling every part of her. The knowledge that they belonged together and she could not let him part them, no matter what he thought he had done, strengthened her determination not to be that woman on the quay ever again, in a different way. A way that did not involve her hurting herself or him.

  On this cold, gray afternoon, with the rain drizzling on her head, she was relieved when he swung her around and shoved her against the dank, brick wall, his mouth responding now, as only Flint’s could.

  It felt too good to stop and she surrendered, wondering where her restraint had gone. Every bone in her body seemed to dissolve. He kissed her, devoured her. And she wrapped her arms round his neck to draw him closer still. She loved the scent of his skin, the hard heat of his body, the knowledge of how much he wanted her, even the scent of rum on his breath. She couldn’t imagine stopping ever.

  But there were dangers, insidious dangers, if she did not push this to its conclusion. He had left her, contacted Lady Margaret, after all. For all he drank so deeply of her mouth, this kiss, that could just as easily be his farewell. Whether he wanted her or not.

  “Whoa. Wait a minute, sweetheart.” He pulled himself free as if she had bitten him. “Lady Margaret liked her. So, just how come you’re here? Where’s Fortune? You ain’t given—”

  One thing she didn’t think was that he was stupid. Except at times when he deliberately wanted to be, emotionally. How else to explain the way he’d just kissed her and now stood like this.

  “Why am I here?” Frustrated, she wanted to hit her fists off his chest. He had to act like this now, when she most wanted to be daring and bold? The kind who could reach for the sky and make it hers, instead of some foolish, angry wreck. “Why did you send for Lady Margaret without telling me? Why did you damn well walk out on us, after telling me you loved me? Because that’s what you’ve done. That’s what you’ve done to us.”

  “Because—because my pride damned nearly killed you.”

  His gritted undertone quivered through her and she understood. He might have kidnapped her, he might have taken her book, he might have done a thousand times worse than that, but at this moment, it didn’t matter, and she must make him see. Because he hadn’t said he didn’t love her or that he’d done this to convince himself he didn’t.

  “You think I’m going to let that happen again?” He stepped right back now, setting her away from him. Dismissing her. His eyes sat like slits in his head. “I’m not going to let it happen again.”

  “Too damn right you’re not.” She felt her boldness flow back into her, as if the words were a charm that freed her from her awful anger and paralyzing frustration. “Now rule two.”

  Ignoring him, she moved forward. To do this she needed to. So close, while she felt so weak, she almost leaned against him. He tensed and so did she, as she edged a hand into his coat and plucked at his shirt.

  He crinkled his brow. He looked bewildered. Astonished. Heavens, she was a little astonished herself. To think only a few short hours ago she’d been lying in bed scarcely fit to move a muscle. And now she didn’t just move a muscle, she worked his shirt from his breeches.

  “You won’t be fully dressed at all times. I desire to look at your body before, during, and after, in all shapes and all forms.” Bending her head she pressed her lips to his chest, tasting him. His skin was warm and his heart beat beneath her lips. “I desire to kiss it.”

  “Fury, what the hell?” He bent his head as if he couldn’t believe what he saw. “Will you stop this?”

  She let her fingers roam over his back, until they reached the waistband of his breeches. She considered the decorum of continuing with this in so public a place, when she herself couldn’t begin, let alone continue. But she did it anyway, exploring him with complete abandon.

  “Rule three. I will touch you in any place, intimate and otherwise.”

  “Fury—”

  “Maybe touching is as much as is possible right now and will only be for a week or two—”

  He dragged her hand away, as if he had remembered that. Then he caught her face. “Will you listen to me?”

  “No, I can’t.”

  “Don’t you understand? I made myself a vow that night on the beach. So you shouldn’t be here.”

  “A vow?”

  Alarm prickled, adding to her disquiet. A vow was horribly tricky. She knew herself just how tricky. Had she not vowed things regarding him? She had broken them, of course. It did not mean he would do the same. Already she felt the way he stroked her face was ominous. Flint, the possessor of no heart whatsoever, did not do things like that.

  Of a sudden she felt like fragile porcelain. She seemed to stand there forever in the dirty street, feeling the heart leave her body. The soul too. So she felt like a hollow, crushable shell, from which the life had gone.

  If ever there was a moment when she knew she could not live without him, this was it. But then, when she thought about it, that night on the beach was her last. And she had spent it with him, though maybe not as she had imagined. The old Fury had gone. Disappeared with the floating tide. And hadn’t she herself nearly died?

  “What did you swear? Tell me.” She could hardly bear to hear.

  “I swore if I didn’t lose you I had to let you go, no matter what you want. And I didn’t lose you.”

  “But you did ever
ything to keep me.”

  “That wasn’t an option. I couldn’t lose you both that way.”

  Both. She reached her fingers up to his lips to silence him. “And so did I once make a vow and want these things. All of them. The money. The security. What I thought I was entitled to. But now I’ve learned vows can be broken when they’re right but wrong. You’re the one who taught me.”

  “I taught you?” He probably didn’t think he’d taught her anything.

  She squeezed her eyes shut to mask what pricked them. “This is wrong. It’s so wrong.”

  “Sweetheart.” No doubt his eyes searched her face. His fingers certainly did. “Look at you. You shouldn’t be here. Why the hell did you do this? It’s so stupid of you. I’m going to find a coach. Get you home.”

  “No. Because now, I’ve vowed that when it comes to rule five, I’ve decided there should just be this. Talking.” She took a breath and reached her hand to catch his wrist. “Lots of it. And I should tell you, I still love you. I love you, Flint. I always have. Maybe from that very first minute. Yes. Now I think about it, maybe even from then. Because even then I know you captured my heart. And I know it’s not suitable and I know it’s not wise. But there it is.”

  She opened her eyes. He seemed to stare forever, as he had that last day at the cabin door, his beautiful eyes holding such deep emotion, the thought thudded inside her: It wasn’t just the old Fury who’d gone. This was a different Flint. A melding of the old and new that made him even more loveable in her eyes, if that was possible.

  “I just had some issues to overcome to find that out.”

  “You still love me?”

  “Oh, you must know that. And if you go…if you go now…”

  His throat moved as he swallowed. “But you never—”

  “Said? I should have. I should have lots of times. But I thought it had died. I thought you killed it.” She couldn’t help that she cried a little. She thought perhaps they were tears of joy. She hoped they were, because it seemed to her he’d moved a little toward her, or he wouldn’t look like this. He wouldn’t wrap his arms around her like this.