Gallant Rogue (Reluctant Heroes Book 3)

by Lily Silver

  She rarely called him Jack. It was always captain or Captain Rawlings. Elizabeth Beaumont was English, after all. That she said his Christian name and with such sorrow boded only ill for his cause.

  “Sorry, for what, Madame Beaumont?”

  “Chloe has married Uncle Gareth. You are too late, Captain.”

  “What…? When?” Jack was certain the woman must be misinformed.

  “Uncle Gareth proposed to her last night after the party. They had a secret wedding on the beach at sunrise this morning. My lord and I were the only witnesses. Please, captain, do not betray them. They wish to keep it a secret with the count’s mother also arriving late last night. It is a delicate situation. I pray I may depend upon you, sir?”

  “Yes,” Jack mumbled, feeling as if he’d just swallowed a bucket of sand. Too late!

  Chapter One

  February 1808, Ravencrest Plantation , West Indies,

  Why are some blessed with so much abundance, while others have only emptiness and loss as their portion?

  As she knelt at the stones in the family cemetery situated high up on a grassy plateau overlooking the turquoise sea, Chloe despised herself for her unkind thoughts. And yet, thoughts were echoes of deeply buried feelings.

  She shouldn’t compare her life to that of her friend and patroness, Lady Elizabeth Beaumont, the Countess du Rochembeau. It was petty and mean. She couldn’t help it. Sometimes she felt petty and mean, jealous of her beloved friend for possessing such bounty.

  Lady Elizabeth was great with child—her fifth child. The woman already had four healthy children and a rich husband who adored her.

  Chloe had two graves to tend in the family cemetery.

  Her beloved Gareth had many titles in her heart during their time together. Tutor as he taught her to read when she first came here to work as a maid. Friend, when he helped her find her way after she had been raised in position to be Lady Elizabeth’s companion. And finally Lover, when they jumped the broom together and secretly became man and wife.

  Tears blurred her vision as she knelt at her husband’s grave. She was surprised to find the tears still came easily. She’d shed enough tears to fill an ocean in the past year. Chloe propped the bright red bougainvillea flowers against the marble headstone bearing the name of her beloved. She took the sugar cakes, a voodoo offering to the deities, from the basket beside her and set them next to the flowers in a neat line. Nine cakes, for nine years of marriage.

  Reaching into the basket a second time, she lifted the small bouquet of white roses she’d picked in the garden just this morning. Chloe sniffed them, inhaling their innocence with longing before placing them on the smaller stone bearing her infant son’s name. At the news of Gareth’s death she went into early labor and delivered a darling boy who lived but a month and was then buried beside his father.

  Two little girls came rushing past Chloe. One had hair as black as ink and the other possessed locks as bright as a polished copper penny.

  “Aunt Chloe, can we go now? I’m hungry.” The sweet voice belonged to six-year-old Cherie Beaumont, Lady Elizabeth’s daughter.

  Chloe looked up from the plots she lovingly tended over the past year. Cherie was chasing a butterfly. Angelica Rose trailed happily along behind her cousin with arms out at her sides like a little bird. Her head was tipped back and her cherubic face was turned up to the sky.

  “Girls,” Angelica’s mother called out, “Away from that ledge this instant! Come, help me decorate Granny Sheila’s memorial.”

  Lady Greystowe was standing before the marble obelisk dedicated to Sheila O’Flaherty, the powerful sorceress of Clan O’Flaherty. The woman was not buried here, as she died in England years ago. The young girls running about were the descendants of the old druid priestess.

  Cherie stumbled a few feet from Chloe. She pushed herself up with her hands, looked down at her pale pink muslin gown, noting the green splotches from her knees. She shrugged and wiped her palms on the light fabric, adding to the streaks of green and brown.

  Chloe couldn’t help herself; she giggled at Cherie’s antics.

  The dark head of perfect ringlets turned to Chloe with a look of surprise. Cherie’s surprise turned to joy as she giggled, too, as if sharing a secret. Cherie was given a rare freedom. Her mama, the countess, was not one to expect her only daughter to remain immaculate with three brothers getting into all manner of mischief. Thus, Cherie had developed a devil-may-care attitude toward clothing and didn’t mind if she appeared before her parents in tatters.

  “Dis is for Nuncle Gar-rit.” Angelica Rose, Lady Greystowe’s flame-tressed daughter, came up on the opposite side of Chloe, drawing her attention away from Cherie. “He like it? He like preddee lellow flower?” The-four-year old held out a single bloom of some obscure weed. Angelica Rose had a speech impediment. Chloe learned to understand her as the family had been visiting for several weeks already.

  “Yes. Uncle Gareth will love it. Thank you, dearest.” Chloe took the flower from the girl and placed it on Gareth’s grave next to her own offering.

  Chubby little arms wound around Chloe’s neck. “I sorry, Thlo—ee. I sorry nuncle no more here. He in Summer-land wiv Granny Shee-wa. He wuvs oo. No cry, he say.”

  Chloe made a squeaking noise as she struggled to contain the tears. She hugged the sweet little girl. They clung to each other for several moments, until the soft swishing of skirts heralded the approach of Lady Greystowe, the child’s mama.

  “Angelica, darling, don’t choke Aunt Chloe,” Lady Rose admonished in her soft Irish burr. “Goodness, you’ve hugged her nicely. Let go now.”

  Angelica Rose slowly unwound her pale alabaster arms from around Chloe’s neck and stepped back. She might only be four years old, but the expression in her eyes was ageless beyond measure. Chloe felt her sorrow lessen notably after Angelica’s endearing hug.

  “I hope she didn’t say anything to upset you?” Rose, Lady Greystowe, placed a light hand on Chloe’s shoulder as she stood behind her. “Angelica’s an intuitive. She reads the feelings and emotions of others, especially if she touches them. As she’s young, she doesn’t know enough to not speak her mind or simply blurt out what she sees.”

  “Oh, no,” Chloe demurred as she pushed herself up from the ground and brushed the bits of grass from her lavender silk gown. Elizabeth had urged her to start wearing colors again as a full year had passed since Gareth’s and Baby John’s deaths. It was easy for someone in Elizabeth’s position to suggest such a thing, when she herself had not lost a beloved spouse.

  “Angelica is a sweet child. She told me Gareth loves me,” Chloe informed the child’s mother as tears welled up. “You are blessed, my lady. Such a lovely little girl, and she has the O’Flaherty gift of seeing, like her father.”

  “Yes,” Lady Greystowe said with some despair. “Makes it a challenge to discipline her. She can sense my regret at doing so and then feels twice as bad. She can sense the feelings of others and takes them onto herself, like a sponge. It worries me as life is so full of sorrow, I wonder that she won’t die of a broken heart before she’s ten years of age—Oh—oh, do forgive me.” The soft blue sapphire eyes darted to Baby John’s grave and back to Chloe with alarm. “I meant no disrespect, my dear.”

  “We should return to the house,” Chloe countered. “The girls are hungry and my lady will worry if we are gone long.”

  Lady Greystowe placed a consoling hand on Chloe’s arm. “If you wish to stay a little longer I can take the girls to the house. I’ll send a carriage for you in an hour or so if you like.”

  “No. I am finished,” Chloe declared, making herself stand tall and straight. She was finished—with self-pity and despair. She was finished looking back. A full year of mourning, of being morose during the day and crying herself to sleep at night because her husband and child were both dead. It was enough. It was time to move forward. Mourning Gareth would not bring him back. The years with him were the happiest she had ever known. She had to move
forward, and in moving forward, she had to make some serious decisions about her life.

  They rode back to the plantation house on the low road abutting the sea. The girls chattered in the back of the open curricle. Lady Greystowe tooled the reins and guided the horse as she and Chloe sat on the front seat. Lady Greystowe was what was termed an original. Women of her high rank would typically have a driver take them everywhere. During her stay, the woman insisted on driving herself about the island instead of allowing one of the count’s grooms to escort her. She was a grand lady in England and yet here on the island estate she seemed to glory in the freedom of being plain Rose O’Flaherty instead of Countess Greystowe.

  “Elizabeth did not share the circumstances of your baby’s passing. Are you able to speak of it?”

  Chloe was jolted out of her musings. “I couldn’t, for a long time. Now, I wish to speak of Baby John’s passing. Others wish me not to.”

  The reins jerked stiff and the horse came to a halt. They sat in the middle of the road, the brilliant, blinding Caribbean sun beating down upon them as Lady Greystowe turned to Chloe with alarm. “Do you mean to tell me Elizabeth doesn’t speak of it with you?”

  Chloe shook her head. “It is not as you suggest, my lady. I will not speak of it to Elizabeth. Not when she is heavy with child. It would make her sad and perhaps hurt the child if she shared my pain. She is like your Angelica. Lady Elizabeth feels the pain of others too keenly. It is for that reason I have withdrawn from her company, to protect her during her confinement.”

  Soft, kid leather fingers covered Chloe’s ungloved hand. “A woman needs to talk of these sorrows,” Lady Greystowe said gently. “Otherwise, it is a poison locked your soul, flavoring your life with bitterness. Please, dear one, talk to me if you have need.”

  Chloe did not expect the grand woman beside her, the wife of an English earl, to be nearly so blunt or so kind. “Thank you.”

  “Aunt Rose, why have we stopped?” Cherie asked with imperviousness that mirrored her father’s autocratic manner. “I’m hungry and the new cook was making us shortbread. Mama will worry if we don’t arrive home precisely on time. She’s a devoted worry worm, as Papa always says, so we mustn’t upset her in her delicate condition.”

  Lady Greystowe arched a brow at Chloe, who returned her look of annoyance at the child’s bossy tone. The two women sighed in unison. She turned about to confront the demanding little miss dressed in grass-stained pink muslin. “You’ll not take that tone with me, do you understand? We shall arrive home when I am quite ready, and not a moment before.”

  “I’ll tell Papa about this.” Cherie crossed her arms about her little chest and pouted.

  The countess was not troubled by the child’s declaration, as many an anxious servant might be. “Oh, you do that, young lady. You be sure to do so. And I will tell your father how rude and disrespectful you were to your Auntie Rose.”

  Chloe put her hand to her mouth and leaned closer. “That’s the way,” she murmured to the woman beside her. Cherie was always one to test the barriers of how far she could go with a person. Chloe learned, as had others in the household, that the only way to gain Cherie’s obedience was to stand one’s ground when being challenged by the child.

  “Oh…no…don’t tell Papa that. I’m sorry, Auntie. I’m just so hungry it’s making me unpleasant. And I’m hot,” Cherie whined. “I’m so terribly hot.”

  “Well, then, put your bonnet back on and open your parasol. That’s why you’re overheating.” Lady Greystowe instructed as she turned around and tugged at the reins. “Shall we drop the girls at the plantation house and go for a little jaunt about the island?” she asked, her voice rising with excitement at the prospect of an outing without the children.

  Chloe nodded. It sounded refreshing to go for ride about the island with Lady Greystowe.

  When they pulled up into the courtyard in the back of the house, a maid emerged from the open stable door, running at a wild pace. “My lady, my lady—we were just about the send out a groom to find you. Madame has gone into labor. His lordship asked that we find you, Mrs. O’Donovan, as her ladyship is asking for you to attend her.”

  “Oh, heaven above.” Lady Greystowe set the brake on the open carriage and allowing the waiting groom to help her down. “She has a fortnight yet before her lying in.”

  Chapter Two

  Chloe went to her room to compose herself for the ordeal.

  She examined her reflection. The woman staring back at her was pale, thin, with deep smudges beneath her eyes. I can’t go through this—not today. Not on the anniversary of my Gareth’s death. Not on the same day Baby John was born. Not today of all days!

  Childbirth was a dark passage. Much could go wrong.

  What if Elizabeth dies this time? I cannot bear this.

  And yet, bear it she must. The thought of her beloved friend suffering alone in throes of hard labor spurred Chloe into action. She turned from the mirror to change into an older dress that wouldn’t mind more stains. Once changed, she rushed down the hall to the master suite on the opposite end of the large plantation house.

  Elizabeth’s spouse, Count Rochembeau, was there to oversee the birth. He was a physician and a proponent of the use of forceps in the birthing chamber. Chloe took in the long handled iron clamps, wrapped with cloth to insulate the patient from the coldness of the metal, and shivered. She remembered the agony of those last hard hours of delivering Baby John, and the stark relief that came when the forceps finished the exhausting effort to bring him forth.

  “This is the last time,” Elizabeth scolded her husband in a warbled, thin voice. “Don’t ever touch me again. No more babies! Oooh, it’s ripping me apart.”

  Four deliveries, five babies, as their oldest boys were twins, and it was always the same. The countess would spew fury at her husband, blaming him for her agonies and swear that this babe would be the last. They endured her fury, as all knew it was just her way of dealing with the agonizing pain of giving birth.

  Elizabeth’s anguished moans tore at Chloe’s heart. She hurried to Elizabeth and took her hand from the housekeeper. “Easy, Lizzie,” Chloe said, squeezing her hand and stroking her damp temple with her fingertips. “My grandmother said it helps to breathe deep, in and then out again, and focus your mind on the child’s name. What is this one to be called?”

  Elizabeth was ashen. Her skin glistened with moisture. Wisps of hair were plastered to her long neck and her brow as she struggled through the harsh pains. She gave a garbled cry. Her hand gripped Chloe’s. “Ohhh. I can’t push any longer.”

  The strength of Elizabeth’s grip was enough to break her bones. Chloe and Elizabeth had been through this before, many times. Chloe experienced the agonies of childbirth but once, yet she had been present each time Elizabeth gave birth. Elizabeth’s last child had been a big baby. His large size nearly proved too much for the poor woman. Her husband had pulled the child free with those blessed forceps. It was the first time he had used them, and now he swore by them.

  “Shhh, be still, Lizzie.” The count was preparing to use the forceps to assist his wife. “It’s all right, love. Chloe, talk to her, talk her through it as only you can do.”

  “A few moments and it will be over. Your new baby will be here. What name shall he have?” Chloe asked. “An Irish name, like the twins, or a French one?”

  The count nodded to her, grateful for her aid. He stepped forward with his modern birthing device. Chloe felt it the moment the infant was pulled free. Elizabeth’s body sagged and her grip on Chloe’s hand lessened to a minor bruising pain instead of the bone-crushing clamp of moments before. Mrs. MacDougal, the housekeeper, pressed cool, damp cloths over Elizabeth’s face and neck. The older woman whispered to her mistress in her soft Scottish burr.

  The faint sound of coughing beyond them changed into a fretful little cry, followed by a shrill shriek that brought pleased relief to the gathering. Elizabeth sank back on the pillows, spent from the delivery. Chloe co
ntinued to hold her hand and stroked it as a mixture of joy and sadness clouded her heart. Listening to the frantic shrieks of the newest Beaumont infant, she remembered the weak cries of Baby John last year. Her mind moved back to the day when she had been the one to sink weak and exhausted on the pillows, her body shivering from loss of blood and from the overwhelming assault of pain as she waited to hold her newborn son.

  One year ago it was Chloe lying weak and exhausted from the effort of giving birth, and Elizabeth had held her hand and washed her sweat-slickened brow. Baby John did not cry at first. The silence of the chamber at Chloe’s delivery had been a foreshadowing of the sorrows to come. And then, by some slight wink from the gods, Baby John’s weak lungs gave up the last of the birthing fluid and he made little mewling cries that instantly branded Chloe’s heart. He came two months too early, and seemed so tiny, for all the pain she suffered.

  John’s birth had been a sign of hope. He was born on the eve of his father’s death, a false hope, as it turned out when she buried him beside his father one month later.

  “Oh, Lizzie!” The count’s deep voice snapped Chloe back from the bittersweet memory as he brought the plump pink newborn to his wife. Chloe stepped back so he could place the swaddled infant into Elizabeth’s arms. “We have another girl.”

  “Another redhead, madame.” Mrs. McDougal beamed with approval.

  The sharp, frantic cries from the little bundle made the gathering smile.

  Chloe’s cheeks were wet with tears.

  No one noticed. They were all admiring the little miracle nestled in her mother’s arms.

  Chloe couldn’t bear the sight of her friend holding another infant in her arms, a healthy child by the sound of those lungs. She could not endure the sight of the count’s arms winding about Elizabeth to comfort her after her ordeal, his smile rivaling the brilliance of the sun.