Love's Rescue (Keys Of Promise Book 1) (Historical Romance)

by Christine Johnson

  “But he saved our lives.”

  “Lives you put in jeopardy through your rash actions.” He strode across the room, unstopped the decanter, and poured brandy into a glass.

  “But Papa, how could I stay in Charleston? How could I stay when Mama is gone?”

  “If you love her, you will obey her wishes.” He lifted the glass to his lips and drained it.

  Elizabeth tried to hide her shock. She remembered him sipping brandy from time to time after supper, but she had never seen him gulp an entire glassful before a meal.

  His piercing gray eyes looked black in the dim light. “Tell me why you turned down every suitor.”

  Elizabeth had not expected such direct examination. She again tried to swallow the knot in her throat. “None were suitable.” It was the response she had rehearsed in her mind the entire voyage, yet it sounded pitiable when spoken aloud.

  “Not suitable?” Father punctuated each word with disbelief. “Society’s elite are not suitable for the daughter of an attorney? Your great-aunt tells me that many prominent men presented themselves, yet you turned them all away. Do not presume to think you can put off such men without repercussions. Thankfully Mr. Finch is a generous and forgiving man. He tells me that his affections have not changed.”

  Elizabeth could think of no response to this unwelcome news.

  “You are fortunate,” Father continued. “Most men would not risk rejection a second time. Mr. Finch is a man of uncommon courage. I expect you to treat him with all the courtesy that his position demands.”

  “Is he not employed as a clerk in your office?”

  “I am not referring to his current employment,” Father snapped. “Mr. Finch is the son of a highly respected plantation owner.”

  She had missed that bit of information somehow. “Why would an heir to a distinguished estate work as a clerk at a Key West law office?”

  “As the youngest son, he does not stand to inherit. However, he is rising rapidly under my tutelage. Given his excellent academic record at law school, I expect to make him a partner soon.” His gray eyes bored into her. “He would make a fine husband.”

  Shallow breaths would not still the pounding in her ears. “But I am in mourning.”

  “I am aware of that. However, Key West is not Charleston. Your great-aunt notwithstanding, few here care about convention. No one will look askance at a man under my employ calling at the house on occasion. I expect you to receive him, not run to your room. Do I make myself clear?”

  Elizabeth choked back the panic churning up her throat. “Yes, sir.”

  She would obey the letter of Father’s law, but she could not grant her heart to Percival Finch. Not when a man the caliber of Rourke O’Malley was within reach.

  7

  Three nights later Elizabeth sat at her vanity, waiting for her maid to appear. The day had been long and filled with the aggravations of taking on new responsibilities, but at least Percival Finch had yet to pay a call. That blessing would not last.

  If only Rourke would return.

  Restless, she crossed to the front window. She could see nothing between the posts of the upper-floor veranda and the coconut palms. Moreover, the restored room did not have a door or floor-length window to walk onto the balcony. She returned and flopped onto the bed.

  Aunt’s criticisms today had stung. Despite having no experience and little training, Elizabeth had waded into managing the household. She consulted with Cook each morning and asked Florie to clean specific areas that she noticed needed a little attention. Still, Aunt Virginia found fault with everything, from the way she addressed the staff to the poor level of housekeeping. Most of all she harped on Anabelle’s insolence.

  The entire matter had boiled over tonight when Cook served fish instead of the chicken Aunt had requested. Cook had told Elizabeth that chicken couldn’t be bought at any price, but Aunt Virginia refused to believe that was possible, instead attributing the fault to Anabelle since she had done the marketing. When Elizabeth leapt to her friend’s defense, Aunt scolded her for almost an hour about the proper way to deal with servants.

  “You must wield a firm hand,” Aunt had insisted. “Threaten the whip and they’ll stay in line.”

  Mother had never raised her voice, least of all had one of the servants whipped, and the household had suffered far less turmoil than Aunt had managed to stir up in a few days.

  “If you don’t take charge, the servants will rule the house,” Aunt had insisted. “Show them you are mistress by starting with that maid of yours.”

  Anabelle had been with Elizabeth for as long as she could remember. There would be no whipping of servants in her house.

  Hopefully Aunt Virginia would return to Charleston shortly, and the whole situation with Anabelle could be avoided.

  Elizabeth sat up. Where was Anabelle? She should have been here the moment Elizabeth retired. Cook said she’d send her up, but that had been ages ago. She eyed the door. Going downstairs might wake Aunt and start a new round of criticism. She would wait.

  She rubbed her forehead. Compared to her other problems, staff issues were minor. Her brother had not left his bedchamber in the old music room and refused to admit her. A parade of women called each day to express their condolences, taxing her patience. The threat of Mr. Finch hung over her daily. Whenever he did pay a call, she must give him greater consideration than she could muster. Worst of all, there had been no news from the salvage.

  Where was Rourke?

  She padded across the waxed pine floor to the side window and looked in the direction of the harbor. From here, she could see little but the neighboring houses and the yard below. She leaned over the sill but still could see nothing. Distant laughter mingled with the night breeze, but the street was empty. No blast of a steamboat horn or clanging of a bell. Even the turtle cannery was quiet at this hour.

  Three days had passed without a sighting of the Windsprite. The Joseph M had brought in a load of raw muslin earlier that day, but her crew would not estimate when to expect the remainder of the fleet. The deckhand would only tell Anabelle that the salvage was proceeding without any accidents. The report brought Elizabeth relief, but worry returned with the freshening wind. Too many wreckers had met their end on a salvage operation.

  Not Rourke, please not Rourke.

  That afternoon, Caroline had brought new hope. “He sees no one,” she had whispered to Elizabeth behind the cover of a silk fan.

  Elizabeth knew that she referred to Rourke.

  “All the ladies long for some glimmer of interest—a glance or smile—but he doesn’t attend any social functions. Some say his heart was broken.” Caroline’s hazel eyes sparkled with laughter. “I cannot imagine who could have done such a thing.”

  The recollection of his strong arms and sea-green eyes made Elizabeth shiver. The years at sea had weathered his visage, to be sure, but she found his appearance nobler and more handsome. A man who could protect those he loved. A man of courage and honor. He struck such longing in her that she had to look away lest Aunt notice. Neither her aunt nor her father trusted wreckers, slipping them into the same category as pirates. If only Father truly knew Rourke, he would change his mind.

  Moonlight silvered the roofs, and leaves rustled in the breeze. From the corner of her eye, Elizabeth caught movement below. A single dark figure glided noiselessly through the back gate, past the stables and cookhouse before heading toward the main house.

  Anabelle. Her tall figure was unmistakable. Where had she gone at such an hour, well after the 9:30 Negro curfew? What could possibly tempt her to risk arrest and Father’s displeasure?

  As Elizabeth waited, her anger brewed. How could her maid put her in such a position? If Aunt Virginia found out that Anabelle had broken curfew, she would insist Elizabeth punish her. Why would she do this?

  The bedroom door opened, and Anabelle slipped inside.

  “Where were you?” Elizabeth demanded.

  Anabelle glanced in the directi
on of Aunt Virginia’s room, which was separated from Elizabeth’s room by only a small reading room.

  Elizabeth lowered her voice. “Don’t deny you left. I saw you.”

  Anabelle lingered in the shadows, beyond the reach of the moonlight but not that of her mistress. “His sloop has not arrived.”

  Elizabeth drew in a shaky breath, the anger wiped away by the realization that Anabelle had risked arrest in order to bring her news of Rourke. “Oh, Anabelle.” She raced to her friend and wrapped her arms around her. “You shouldn’t have taken such a risk. If he had arrived, he would still be here in the morning.” She squeezed her eyes shut to hold back tears, both for her shame at leaping to the wrong conclusion and for her gratitude that Anabelle would do this for her. “Thank you.” She drew back. “But don’t break curfew again. Promise?”

  For a second, Anabelle said nothing. “I will not seek your captain again after curfew.” The light was just enough for Elizabeth to see her lips curve. “Unless you ask.”

  Elizabeth laughed. “You haven’t grown up one bit. Remember how you used to help me sneak out late at night?”

  “And tell you that you’d get a whipping if your daddy ever found out. Turn around.” Anabelle began unfastening Elizabeth’s clothes.

  “He never did.” Her thoughts drifted back to the harbor as Anabelle slipped off her gown. The appearance of the Joseph M today had raised her hopes. Often one wrecker’s return signaled another was on its way. “What can be keeping them?”

  Anabelle quickly unlaced the stays. “It takes time.”

  Elizabeth knew that, but knowing didn’t ease her impatience. She nibbled at her lip as stays and petticoats fell away. “No news must be a good sign.” She let Anabelle slip the nightgown over her head. She must content herself with the hope that Caroline’s report had instilled. Rourke had waited for the woman he loved. That woman must be her. It had to be. “He will return to me. I’m sure of it.”

  “Perhaps.” Anabelle turned away to hang the gown and undergarments. “But take care.”

  “What are you saying?” Elizabeth fought a rising tide of fear. “Did you hear something about Rourke? Is he betrothed?”

  Anabelle closed the wardrobe doors and shook her head.

  She sighed in relief. “Then what?”

  “Your father does not favor him.”

  Elizabeth groaned. “He wants me to marry the dreary Mr. Finch.”

  “He wants what’s best for his daughter.”

  She smiled at the bitterness in Anabelle’s statement. Her friend knew that Rourke claimed Elizabeth’s heart. “Tell me what to do. How can I change Father’s mind?” According to her aunt, she shouldn’t be asking advice of a servant, but Anabelle wasn’t just a servant.

  “Some men can’t be changed.”

  “Mother could ask him for anything.”

  “Your mama was special.” Anabelle’s voice was thick with emotion. “So was mine. Now they’re both gone.”

  Elizabeth drew in a breath, ashamed of her selfishness. “I’m sorry. I forgot.” Mammy had been Elizabeth’s nurse, an ever-present fixture in the household. Then one day she was gone. “Do you . . . miss her?”

  “You know your mama is in heaven. I don’t know where mine is.”

  “No one told you? I can’t believe Mother wouldn’t say.”

  “She’s somewhere in Louisiana.”

  “I remember that day,” Elizabeth said softly. “I cried and begged Father to tell me why.”

  “What did he say?”

  Elizabeth remembered the moment with clarity. Mother and Father had sat her in Mother’s bedroom late at night, after the servants were in their quarters. “He said that I didn’t need a nurse any longer. They wouldn’t tell me anything else. What did your mother tell you before she left?”

  “My mama didn’t tell me anything. You remember that. Mammy didn’t say one word.”

  Rourke smiled with satisfaction when the stevedores in Key West began hauling the salvaged cargo from the holds of the Windsprite. His muscles ached, but the week of hard labor would soon pay off. He had loaded the most valuable cargo on his vessel. When John had hacked into the forward hold four days ago and discovered bale after bale of tobacco, all dry, their fortunes rose considerably. He wouldn’t trust that to a Littlejohn ship.

  Captain Cross scowled as the commission agent logged each bale. “I suppose you’ll want a bigger cut now.”

  “Only what we agreed on.” Despite the man’s deliberate omission of the tobacco and his dragging out of the operation, Rourke would not go back on his word. A man’s word was his honor.

  The tobacco should fetch a handsome price at auction, more than enough to cover salvage costs and keep Rourke and his crew off the turtle grounds this year. He rubbed his hands, relishing the thought of time ashore. First he’d return to his rented room and order up a bath. Then a trip to the barber for a proper shave and haircut. Finally, he’d put on his Sunday best and call on Miss Benjamin. If her father put up a fuss, he would claim he’d come to see Charlie. Benjamin had never refused those visits. In any case, he would at least see Elizabeth, and she would know he had paid a call.

  Tom said she’d asked about him on the trip to Key West. That was all the encouragement Rourke needed. Her father might disapprove, but he would also know the extent of Rourke’s award by then. Since Rourke and the master had already reached an agreement, they could avoid wreckers’ court. All that remained was the property auction. Key West streets crawled with well-off buyers from Kingston, New Orleans, Havana, and Europe. Yes, the cargo and ship’s furnishings would fetch a fine price, perhaps enough to woo an attorney’s daughter.

  “Put her to anchor?” John asked after the last of the cargo had been unloaded.

  Rourke could see the longing in his mate’s eyes. He’d waited four years for his wife, only to see her vanish into the grasp of Charles Benjamin. “Aye. But I’ll spend the night in town. I plan to pay a visit to a certain young lady.”

  John’s look of frustration touched Rourke. He’d feel the same if their roles were reversed.

  “I might suggest a stroll,” he said. “Of course, her maid would need to accompany her.”

  John grinned. “Dat be de way of things.”

  “I find the shore lovely in the evening with the trade winds blowing in.”

  “Aye, Captain.” John nodded. “Dat it be. Dat it be.”

  “You might be able to see us heading along the south shore toward the hospital.”

  “Dat I might.”

  “On the other hand, it looks like the seas are flattening. She might enjoy a row,” Rourke added. “Bring the ship’s boat around just in case.”

  “Yes, sir!” Whistling, John boarded the Windsprite to take her to anchor.

  The agent brought the list of off-loaded cargo to Rourke for verification. After confirming the tally, he was done for the night. At the negotiated percentage, this could end up a profitable salvage.

  “Thank you, Captain.” The agent headed back to the custom house, where Cross likely waited for the same tally.

  Rourke hefted his canvas bag and headed for Mrs. Mallory’s boardinghouse, a reliably clean place that catered to seamen yet didn’t stand for drunkenness or brawling. A warm bath and a hot meal sure sounded good. His stomach was rumbling already for her turtle soup and tuna steaks. From the first time he’d set foot on the island, the widow who ran the place had taken him under her wing, saying he was almost a Mallory with that last name of his. She kept his room spotless and baked his favorite lemon cake when he was in port. He played piano for the guests.

  “Excuse me, Captain O’Malley.” The town marshal, Clive Wright, stepped in front of him.

  “What can I do for you?” Rourke spotted two deputies approaching from opposite sides. He’d seen law enforcement surround a man often enough to get nervous.

  “I’m going to need to search your bag.”

  “My bag? It’s just a change of clothing and a few personal items.
”

  The marshal’s thick mustache didn’t move one bit. “I’m still gonna have to search it.”

  Rourke knew better than to fight over something so insignificant. He didn’t have a thing of value in there. His grandmother’s wedding ring was on a leather thong around his neck. He handed the bag to the town marshal. “Go ahead.”

  The man nodded to the deputy on Rourke’s right. The man wasted no time opening the bag and pulling out every piece of clothing while Wright kept one hand near his revolver, as if Rourke would pull a knife on him.

  “What’s going on, Clive?” he asked.

  Wright didn’t soften. “I’ve had a complaint of theft.”

  “From that mate on the Victory, Mr. Buetsch? He claims someone took a brooch that he bought for his sweetheart, but they searched the Windsprite top to bottom and didn’t find a thing. If you ask me, it’s probably on the seafloor.”

  “That so?”

  The deputy looked up. “Nothin’ here.”

  “Good. Pack the bag and hand it to Captain O’Malley.”

  The deputy did as ordered.

  When the man handed Rourke the bag, the town marshal let out his breath real slow. “I trust you won’t leave the island. In cases involving foreigners, we sometimes have to lock up the suspect, but I’ve known you a long time, O’Malley. I’ll take your word that you’ll stay on the island until this complaint is resolved.”

  “You have it.” Rourke extended his hand, and the town marshal shook. “I sure hope you find it.”

  “Me too.” Marshal Wright hitched up his trousers. “Never easy to find things that disappear off a wreck.” He stepped close. “Thought you might want to know that the master of that wreck filed a libel of salvage.”

  “What?” Rourke’s temper flared. “We had an agreement.”

  “These things happen. The master changes his mind once he gets ashore, especially after a lawyer gets hold of him. Get yourself a good proctor and file your response. You can be sure Judge Marvin will sort it out.”

  Rourke tried to shake off a sense of foreboding. “Who is representing Captain Cross?”