Taming Charlotte

by Linda Lael Miller

  “You’re afraid, “ Cochran muttered, as if stunned at the revelation. “All during our long association, my friend, I’ve regarded you as a brave man, a leader, deserving of the title of captain. But I see now that I was wrong—you’re nothing but a coward.”

  “Damn it,” Patrick spat, in an explosive undertone, “I have reason to be afraid—on more than one occasion, Charlotte nearly died because of my love! And now there’s Annie.”

  Cochran was plainly furious and not in the least sympathetic. “I never thought I’d say it, but they’re both better off without you. A great lady like Charlotte needs a man to share her life, not a sniveling little whelp scared to take any risk that really counts!”

  “Get out!” Patrick flared, gesturing wildly toward the great double doorway of the room that had been meant to be the front parlor. His voice echoed in the emptiness.

  “Gladly,” Cochran replied, wounding Patrick with the cold finality of his tone. “You’ll sail those two fine new ships of yours without me, Captain Trevarren. I can’t take orders from a gutless wonder like you.”

  Patrick closed his eyes against the pain, for the loss of his closest friend was a brutal blow. He wanted to ask Cochran to stay, to understand, but his pride would make no allowance for such a gesture.

  He flinched when he heard the front door slam in the distance. After a while, he went outside and walked the grounds. Here, there would be a garden, there a marble fountain, there a shallow pond bright with goldfish to delight his child.

  Dreams, Patrick scolded himself. Just so much smoke. Charlotte would never live in this house, their daughter would never run, laughing, through fragrant, colorful gardens. He lifted his gaze to the leaded windows on the second floor, where there was a large suite, complete with an antique French fireplace and smaller rooms for dressing and bathing.

  Charlotte would never lie beneath him there, in the grand bed he had planned to install, never open his breeches, take him inside her, and ride him in that sweet, merciless way she had. He would never call out her name in the singular desolation of passion, or hear her call his.

  Broken, Patrick turned and walked across the large yard and through the gate, where his hired horse and buggy stood. He didn’t look back, not even once, but instead took himself to the shipyard, where his new mistresses, the half-finished clippers, awaited him.

  That night, instead of returning to Quade’s Harbor, and Charlotte, by boat, Patrick took a room at the Union Hotel.

  After six weeks, Charlotte had grown strong again. She packed her things, and Annie’s, and set out for Seattle, though certainly not in pursuit of Patrick. The pain of losing him throbbed within her, but she had turned a corner of some sort with her daughter’s birth, and she meant to make something of her life, with or without Patrick.

  She rented a small house, not far from the one Patrick was building, and engaged a young woman named Martha Landis to serve as Annie’s nurse. That done, Charlotte met with her father’s lawyers to arrange a divorce, then ordered furniture and art supplies and more new clothes than one woman could ever need. These last, she charged to Patrick’s accounts, since he was still her husband.

  She had set up an easel on the side porch and was busily painting the harbor, of which she had a limited view, when Mr. Trevarren himself deigned to appear, driving a buggy. He promptly abandoned the vehicle and bounded up the walk.

  Patrick was wearing dove gray breeches and a flowing linen shirt, just as he had when Charlotte had first known him, and he’d let his hair grow long again, too. It was tied back with a narrow black ribbon.

  “What the hell is this all about?” he demanded, waving a sheaf of papers as he stomped up the steps and onto the porch.

  It was like having a hurricane blow in, and Charlotte promptly reached out to steady her easel. Her heart was thudding against her rib cage, but she managed a bewildered smile and raised one eyebrow in pretended puzzlement.

  “You’ve gotten the bills for my clothes and furniture, I see,” she said airily. “Well, it’s the least you can do, Patrick, considering—”

  “I don’t give a damn about clothes and furniture, Charlotte,” he said, and there was something of the whisper in his voice, as well as something of the shout. “These are divorce papers!”

  “Oh.” She smiled, smoothed her skirts, which happened to be of simple black taffeta. Her hair was arranged in a puffy cloud around her face, and her blouse was fitted to advantage, though modest. “That.”

  “Oh, that, “ Patrick echoed, obviously furious. “I never agreed to this, Charlotte! How dare you sic a lot of smarmy lawyers on me!”

  She sighed and sat down on a wicker settee, hoping Patrick could not see that she was trembling. “Well, it seemed the only sensible thing to do, given your attitude. Besides, it isn’t as though I didn’t mention divorce to you, Mr. Trevarren. We spoke of it just after Annie was born.”

  “A fine thing!” he sputtered, looming over her. “Our daughter a few hours old, and we were already talking about getting ourselves unmarried!”

  Charlotte bit back a grin, though she couldn’t imagine what possessed her to want to smile. After all, the situation was hardly humorous. “I should think you would be anxious to be legally free of me,” she said, smoothing her skirts. “It’s common knowledge that your ships are nearly ready to sail, and there’s even a rumor that you’ve been seeing a woman from San Francisco.”

  “Madeline is not a woman,” Patrick snapped. “She’s an investor. Good God, Charlotte, exactly what kind of scoundrel do you think I am?”

  “The kind who needs his pleasures. It’s been months since we’ve been together.” She paused—even her heart seemed to stop its beating—and looked up at him. “You don’t mean to imply that you’ve been faithful ail that time?”

  “I have,” Patrick replied, with such proud gravity, such masculine resentment, that Charlotte knew he was telling the truth. “Mind you, I didn’t say it was easy. There were times, my dear, when I thought I’d go insane with temptation. But I have been true to you.”

  She looked away to hide the tears of bittersweet relief that had brimmed in her eyes.

  To her surprise, Patrick reached out, took her hand, pulled her to her feet. Then he drew her against him.

  “Charlotte,” he said, linking his fingers together at the small of her back and searching her eyes, “I’m so scared.”

  “Of what?” she asked, genuinely puzzled. Her heart, stopped before, was now racing dizzily, and her whole body was weak with the need of this man.

  “Losing you. Losing Annie.”

  “Patrick, you’re not making sense. You turned your back on us, and now you’re telling me you’re afraid of losing us?”

  “Charlotte, look at all that’s happened to you since you met me—you’ve been held captive in a harem, nearly ravished by pirates, blown up in an explosion—”

  She laughed. “And it was glorious, all of it. The kind of grand, wonderful adventure most women only dream of having. Oh, Patrick, I wouldn’t trade a minute of that time for anything, not the pleasure, and not the pain.”

  He gazed at her in amazement. “You are the damnedest woman, Charlotte Trevarren. And I can’t live without you.”

  She pressed closer, letting him feel the promise of her body, well aware of his hard readiness. “Will you stay with us, then?”

  Patrick stared deeply into her eyes for a long moment before countering with a question of his own. “Will you sail with me, when I can’t bear the land anymore and have to go to sea?”

  Charlotte stood on tiptoe and kissed the cleft in his chin. “Oh, yes.”

  He frowned. “What about Annie?”

  “She’s your daughter. My guess is, she’ll be as at home on the open sea as you are.”

  Patrick bent slightly, lifted his wife into his arms, and kissed her with brazen abandon, right there on the side porch. “Is there someone here to look after our child?” he asked when, at last, they had disentangled their ton
gues. “There’s a threshold I’d like to carry you across, Mrs. Trevarren, and a bed where I’ve dreamed of having you.”

  She blushed with pleasure and anticipation and the pure joy of loving this wonderful, enigmatic, impossible man.

  “Martha!” she called sunnily. “I’m going out for a while. Please look after Annie while I’m gone.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Trevarren,” answered a female voice from within the house?

  Patrick set off down the porch steps and then the walk, still carrying Charlotte the way a groom carries a bride. People peered from windows, and stared from the backs of horses and from wagons, but Patrick paid them no mind.

  He simply strode on, passing through the open gates of the mansion he’d built for Charlotte, moving up the driveway, over the wide veranda, and finally through the front doors.

  His heels echoed on the bare floors, for most of the house was still unfurnished, apparently.

  “Patrick, I’m perfectly able to walk,” Charlotte said as he started up the majestic curved stairway.

  “Ummm,” he said, taking a right turn at the top of the stairs.

  Charlotte drew in her breath when he carried her into the master bedroom. There were no chairs, no wardrobes, and certainly no flames flickering on the hearth of the elegant marble fireplace. Against one wall, however, stood a massive bed, sumptuous enough for royalty.

  Patrick tossed Charlotte unceremoniously onto that bed and bent over her, one hand pressed into the mattress on either side of her head. “You’ll stay with me?”

  She nodded. “For always.”

  “Even when I’m difficult?”

  Charlotte laughed. “When have you been otherwise?” She extended her arms, and he came to her eagerly, opening her blouse, baring her breasts.

  He paused just when he would have taken a nipple, and frowned to see Charlotte smiling in amusement. “Is it all right? Would it hurt you?”

  She stroked his cheek, gently urging him to take her breast. He tongued her until she thought she’d go mad with wanting him, then hoisted her skirts.

  “Take me inside you,” Patrick pleaded in a gruff voice. “Now, Charlotte—please—now.”

  Gently Charlotte opened his breeches, freed him, held and stroked him. Later there would be time for leisurely loving, but it had been months since they’d been together, and Charlotte wanted her husband as urgently as he wanted her.

  She arched her back as he tore away her drawers, and they both groaned as Patrick sought entrance and then delved deep inside her.

  In that instant of glory and fire, their future truly began.

  POCKET BOOKS PROUDLY ANNOUNCES

  THE LEGACY

  Linda Lael Miller

  The following is a preview of

  The Legacy…

  Ian Yarbro was in no mood for a party.

  Dingoes had brought down four of his best sheep, just since Monday.

  Water holes all over the property were coming up dry. And worst of all, Jacy Tiernan, damn her, was back from America.

  The first two plights were sorry ones, all right, but a man had to expect a fair portion of grief if he undertook to raise sheep in South Australia. That last bit, though, that was something personal, an individualized curse from God.

  With a resounding sigh, Ian leaned back against the south wall of the shearing shed, a mug of beer in one sore, lacerated hand, and scowled. Every muscle in his body throbbed, for he’d shorn more squirming woollies than any man on his crew in the days just past, and he felt as though he could sleep for a month, should the opportunity arise. That wasn’t going to happen, of course, not with all he had to do around the place.

  Ian took another sip from his beer, which had lost its appeal while he pondered his troubles, and surveyed the rustic festivities.

  The music of the fiddles and mouth harps seemed to loop and swirl in the warm summer twilight, like invisible ribbon. Shearers and roustabouts alike clomped round and round the long wooden floor of the shed, some dancing with women, some with each other. The night air was weighted with heat, since it was January, speckled with dust and bits of wool fiber and rife with the smells of sweat and brewer’s yeast, cheap cologne and cigarette smoke.

  And Jacy was back.

  Ian muttered a curse. It had been bad enough, this past day or so, knowing Jacy was living right next door, at Corroboree Springs, but at least she’d had the good grace to keep her distance. Until about five minutes before, that is, when she’d walked into the celebration with her father.

  Ian could have ignored her completely, and would have, if it hadn’t meant slighting Jake. Jacy’s father was one of the best mates Ian had ever had, and he was just out of hospital as it was. Collie Kilbride had flown the pair of them, Jake and his daughter, up from Adelaide in his vintage plane the day before yesterday. If he was going to live with himself, Ian reasoned sourly, he’d have to go over to Jake and shake his hand and tell him it was good to see him up and about again. No need for so much as a glance in Jacy’s direction, as far as he could see, but if an acknowledgment was required, he’d just nod at her in the most civil fashion he could manage.

  Frowning, he pushed away from the wall, tossed what remained of his beer through the open doorway of the shed, and handed the mug off to Alice Wigget as he passed her. Wending his way between the spinning couples was like moving through the gears of some enormous machine.

  The colored light from the paper lanterns dangling from the rafters played in Jacy’s fair hair, which just reached her shoulders and curled riotously around her face. She’d put on a bit of weight since he’d seen her last, as well. Too bad, Ian thought uncharitably, that it had all settled nicely into just the right places.

  Drawing nearer still, Ian saw that Jacy’s blue-green eyes were luminous with affection as she gazed up at her father’s face. She was good at looking as if she gave a damn, but where had she been for all those years, while Jake’s luck was getting worse and worse by the day? Where had she been when her dad’s health had started failing?

  Ian was seething by the time he reached them. He felt a muscle twitch in his cheek, set his jaw in an effort to control the response, then thrust out his hand to Jake.

  “It’s about time you got back and started tending your property, instead of leaving the whole place for your mates to look after,” he said, half barking the words. Even though he tried hard, he couldn’t force a smile to his mouth.

  Jake, always good-natured and full of the devil, had no such problem. He beamed as he pumped Ian’s hand, but his grasp was not the knuckle-crusher it had once been, and he was thin to the point of emaciation. There were deep shadows under Jake’s pale blue eyes, and his face had a skeletal look about it.

  “Well, then,” Tiernan teased, “let’s see what you’ve made of the job before you go complaining too loudly, Ian Yarbro. I’ve just been back for these two days, and for all I know, you’ve ‘helped’ me straight into the poorhouse.”

  Ian was painfully conscious of Jacy’s nearness; he felt her gaze on him, caught the muted, musky scent of her perfume. And God help him, he remembered too damned much about how things had been between them, once upon a time.

  “Hello, Ian,” she said. He felt her voice, too—soft and smoky, evoking all kinds of sensory reactions.

  She was going to force him to acknowledge her. He should have known it wouldn’t be enough for her, just coming there and stirring up all those old memories again.

  He forced himself to look down into her upturned face and instantly regretted the decision. Jacy was twenty-eight now, as was he, and far more beautiful than she’d been at eighteen. He saw a flicker of some tentative, hopeful emotion in her eyes.

  “Hello,” he replied, and the word came out sounding gravelly and rusted, as though he hadn’t used it in a long time. Jake and the shearers and the roustabouts and their women seemed to fade into a pounding void, and there was only Jacy. Ian hated knowing she could still affect him that way, and he hated her, too, for ripping open a
ll the old wounds inside him.

  The dancers pounded and thumped around them, shaking the weathered floorboards, and Ian had an unsteady feeling, as though he might tumble, headlong and helpless, into the depths of Jacy Tiernan’s eyes. He didn’t notice that the music had stopped until it started again, louder than before and strangely shrill.

  Jake put one hand on Jacy’s back and one on Ian’s, then pushed them toward each other with a gentle but effective thrust. “I think I’ll sit this one out,” he shouted, to be heard over the din, and then he stumped away through the crowd.

  By no wish of his own, Ian found himself holding his first love in his arms. He swallowed hard, battling a schoolboy urge to bolt, and began to shuffle awkwardly back and forth, staring over the top of her head. Jacy moved with him, and they were both out of step with the music.

  Nothing new in that.

  “Is it really so terrible,” she asked, in the familiar Yankee accent that had haunted his memories for a decade, “dancing with me?”

  “Don’t,” he said. The word was part warning, part plea.

  Ian felt exasperation move through Jacy’s body like a current, though he was barely touching her.

  “Will you just lighten up?” she hissed, standing on tiptoe to speak into his ear. “You’re not the only one who’s uncomfortable, you know!”

  Ian’s emotions were complex, and he couldn’t begin to sort them out. That nettled him, for he was a logical man, and he hated chaos, especially within himself. He wanted to shake Jacy Tiernan for all she’d put him through, but he also wanted to make love to her. He was furious that she’d come back, but at one and the same time he felt like scrambling onto the roof and shouting out the news of her return.

  He clasped her forearm—it was bare and smooth, since she was wearing a sleeveless cotton sundress—and half-dragged her to the door and down the wooden ramp to the ground. The farmyard was filled with cars and trucks, and the homestead was a long, low shadow some distance away.