The Hellion Bride

by Catherine Coulter

  At eight o'clock the following morning, Sophie was trying to fasten the front buttons of her gown. Every movement hurt. The flesh over her ribs had turned a fierce yellow and purple during the night. As she worked another button into its hole, she felt the pain so deeply she doubted it would ever ease. She stopped, bending over like an old woman. She'd sent her maid away; she couldn't allow Millie to see her, for it would start gossip and she couldn't allow that.

  She couldn't allow that because of Jeremy.

  When there came a light knock on her door, fol­lowed by her young brother's head coming around, she smiled despite the pulling pain. Jeremy came into the bedchamber. "Don't you want breakfast? It's growing cold and you know how Uncle Theo is. You won't get a bite to eat until luncheon."

  "Yes, I know. Let me finish with these buttons."

  Jeremy prowled around her room, forever curious, filled with a nine-year-old's energy. Always on the move, always restless, always ready to work as hard as any slave, only he couldn't.

  She finally finished with the buttons. She hap­pened to glance in the mirror and saw that she hadn't brushed out her hair. She looked pale and frowzy and about as seductive as a broken conch shell. Some whore she was. There were dark circles under her eyes. Ah, but it hurt to pull the brush through the tangles. Every stroke sent waves of pain through her chest.

  "Jeremy, would you brush my hair for me?"

  He looked startled and cocked his head to one side in silent question. When she merely shook her head, he came to her, frowning. "Are you tired or something, Sophie?"

  "Yes, I'm something." She handed him the brush and sat down. He did a poor job of it but it was sufficient. She managed to pull back the mass of chestnut hair and tie it at the nape of her neck with a black velvet ribbon.

  "Now, Master Jeremy, onward to breakfast."

  "You're ill, aren't you, Sophie."

  It wasn't a question. She touched her fingers to his cheek for she saw the worry in his eyes, and the fear that something was seriously wrong. "I'm all right. Just a touch of a stomachache, I swear to you. Some of Tilda's wonderful muffins and I'll be right as rain."

  Jeremy, reassured, skipped ahead of her. It was, at least, skipping to her. Perhaps to others it looked like clumsy ill-coordinated movements, but not to her. No, he was a happy little boy and he was doing marvelously well. She loved him more than anyone in the world. He was hers, her responsibility. He was the only person in the world who loved her, without question, without reservation.

  Uncle Theo was in the breakfast room. The veranda doors, green-slatted, as were all the floor-to-ceiling doors in the house, were open and a slight breeze stirred the still air. In the distance the sea glittered beneath a blazing early morning sun. Just outside the open doors, the air was thick with the overripe summer scent of roses, jasmine, hibiscus, bougainvillea, cassia, frangipani, and rhododendron. During the hottest part of the day, the scent was nearly overpowering. But now, early in the morning, it was a paradise of smells and it stirred the senses. However, Sophie felt no stirring inside her this morning at the beauty of it. There was very little of anything that held beauty for her now. There had been very little of beauty for the past year. No, now it was closer to thirteen months.

  Thirteen months since she'd become a whore. Thir­teen months since other plantation owners' wives cut her directly whenever she chanced to see them shopping in Montego Bay. They didn't cut her here at Camille Hall; they admired her dear uncle much too much to hurt him like that. No, they were coldly polite to her here.

  "There aren't any muffins, Sophie," Jeremy said. "Do you want me to ask Tilda?"

  "No, no, love. I'll have some fresh bread. It's fine. Sit down now and eat your breakfast."

  Jeremy did, with his usual enthusiasm.

  Theodore Burgess looked up from his newspaper, the imported London Gazette, only seven weeks old, for English ships were regular in their arrivals.

  He studied her face for a long moment, was con­tent at the lingering pain he saw in her eyes, and said, "You and I will meet after you've eaten, my dear. There are things to discuss, and I know you always wish to accommodate yourself to my wishes. Ah, do eat a bit more. I know the heat is enervating, but you are growing too thin."

  Jeremy continued oblivious, content to smear more butter on his roasted yam.

  "Yes, Uncle," Sophie said. "In your study then. After breakfast."

  'Yes, my dear, that is exactly what I wish. As for you, my fine lad, you will accompany me to the stillhouse today. There are some processes I wish you to learn. It will be hot as the fires of hell itself but we shan't stay long. Just long enough for you to learn something of the rum-making process and the steps Mr. Thomas takes to prevent the slaves from stealing and drinking all our profits."

  The pleasure in Jeremy's eyes made her ribs hurt all the more.

  Samuel Grayson had seen Ryder come back into the house, his thick pale brown hair dark with sweat, his white shirt stuck to his back, his face flushed red from the sun. He'd ridden over the plantation the entire morning with Emile, and now, at midday, he imagined Ryder was holed up someplace cool. He found him sitting on the veranda that gave off the billiard room. He was in the deepest shade, the one place where the breezes flowed continuously. He said quietly, seeing that Ryder's eyes were closed, "It's an invitation, Ryder, from Theodore Burgess of Camille Hall. There is to be a ball this Friday and you are to be the honored guest."

  "A ball," Ryder said, opening his eyes. "Jesus, Samuel, I can't imagine trying to dance in this infer­nal heat. Surely this Burgess fellow isn't serious."

  "There will be slaves waving woven palm fronds about to keep the air stirred up. Also the Camille Hall ballroom, like this one, is lined with slatted doors, all opening up from ceiling to floor. It will be quite pleasant, I promise you."

  Ryder was silent for a moment. He was thinking about the woman who was sleeping with three men. He wanted to meet her.

  "There's a boy waiting for your response, sir."

  Ryder gave him a languorous smile. "We'll go, naturally."

  Grayson left to write an acceptance and Ryder closed his eyes again. He didn't move much; it was too hot. He knew he couldn't go swimming just yet else he'd be baked within ten minutes by that infer­no of a sun and his face and arms were already a bit burned. Thus, he sat there quietly and soon he slept.

  When he awoke, afternoon shadows were length­ening and Emile was sitting beside him, his long legs stretched out in front of him.

  "Your father says I will become accustomed," Ryder said. "I think he's lying to me."

  Emile grunted. "A bit, but the summers are par­ticularly brutal."

  "Is it ever too hot to make love, I wonder?"

  Emile laughed. "Yes, it is. I hear we are to go to a ball at Camille Hall this Friday night."

  'Yes, I am to be honored. I think, however, that [ would prefer swimming, perhaps even trying to shinny up a coconut tree again or even chase a villain who is wearing a sheet."

  Emile grinned. "It should be amusing, Ryder. You will meet all the planters and merchants from Montego Bay and their wives. You will hear so much gossip your ears will ache. There is little else to do here, you see, except drink rum, which most do to excess, unfortunately. Also, Father is much taken with Sophia Stanton-Greville, and she is Burgess's niece and hostess. I don't doubt he would challenge any man to a duel if he dared say something insult­ing about Father's goddess."

  "I also understand that she is a whore."

  "Yes," Emile said, not looking at Ryder, "that's what is understood."

  "This displeases you. You've known her a long time?"

  "Her parents were drowned in a storm four years ago on a return voyage from England. Sophie and her brother, Jeremy, were given into the guardianship of Theodore Burgess, her mother's younger brother. She has lived here since she was fifteen. She is now nineteen, nearly twenty, and her exploits with men and thus her reputation began over a year ago. You are right, it displeases me and dis
appoints me even more. I had quite liked her. She was a spirited girl, fun and without guile or vanity. Indeed, I once thought that we might—but that's not important now."

  'You know it as a fact then?"

  "She meets her lovers at this small cottage that fronts the beach. I chanced to visit the cottage fol­lowing a night she spent with Lord David Lochridge. David was still there, naked, and drinking a rum punch. The place reeked of sex. He seemed quite pleased with himself. He was rather drunk, which surprised me because it was only about nine o'clock in the morning. He spoke of her freely, her attri­butes, her skills at pleasing a man, her daring at flaunting convention."

  "This woman wasn't there?"

  "No. Evidently she leaves her men to wake up by themselves, that's what David said. However, there are slaves there to tend to them. None of the men seem to mind her habits."

  "You believed this Lochridge?"

  Emile's voice was emotionless, but still he didn't look at Ryder. "As I said, the place reeked of sex. Also, he was too drunk to make up something that hadn't happened. I don't like him particularly, but there was no reason for him to lie. The cottage is on Burgess land."

  Ryder swatted a mosquito. He said, his voice medi­tative, "So she turns eighteen and decides to flout convention. It doesn't make a lot of sense, Emile. Surely no man would wed her now. Why do you think she started making herself available in the first place?"

  "I don't know. She was always a strong-willed girl, spirited, as I told you, and very protective of her little brother. One of the planters called her a hellion because once she was angry at his overseer for calling her brother names and she smashed him on the head with a coconut. The man was in bed for a week. That was about two years ago. She could have wed any gentleman on the island for it is known that she is handsomely dowered. I have always been giv­en to understand that females don't wish to have; sex as much as men do. Thus, why would she want it so badly to give up everything that women are raised, even expected, to want?"

  "There is always a reason for everything," Ryder said. He rose and stretched. "Thank God, I do believe it's cooling off, just a bit."

  Emile grinned up at him. "I heard Father order Cook to make you something cool for dinner, a bowl of fresh fruit, perhaps, and some iced-down shrimp. No baked yams or hot clam chowder. He doesn't want you to shrink away for lack of sustenance."

  Ryder swatted another mosquito. He looked off over the sugarcane fields shimmering beneath the sun, to the endless stretch of blue sea beyond. So beautiful it was, yet so alien. "As I said, there is always something that drives men and women to behave as they do. There are three different men involved, I understand, and there were probably oth­ers before these three. There is of course a motive, and you know something, Emile? I rather fancy that I will amuse myself and just find out what it is that makes this hellion part her legs for so many men." "It is depressing," Emile said, and he sighed.

  By Friday night, Ryder was actually beginning to believe that he could endure the heavy still heat, even though he was sometimes so hot it hurt to breathe. He had even swum that afternoon, but not long, for he didn't want to burn too badly. To his disappointment, after the incident his first night, there had been no other strange occurrences. No burning sulfur; no sheeted man; no moans or groans; no guns or bows and arrows.

  Nothing at all out of the ordinary had occurred. He had met Samuel Grayson's "housekeeper," a young brown woman with merry eyes, a compact body, and a ready smile. She lived in Grayson's room and worked in the house during the day. Her name was Mary. As for Emile, he also had a "housekeeper," a thin slip of a girl who answered to Coco. Her eyes were always downcast in Ryder's presence, and she never uttered a word that Ryder heard. She couldn't have been more than fifteen. Emile paid her no attention whatsoever, except, Ryder assumed, at night, when he took her to his bed. She cared for his clothing, kept his room straight and clean, and was utterly docile. Ryder was amused and put off by this custom, one considered quite respectable on Jamaica by all parties concerned.

  Grayson, of course, had offered him a woman, and Ryder, for the first time in his adult sexual life, had refused. It simply seemed too cold-blooded to him, too contrived, too expected. That was it, he didn't want to do the expected thing. He laughed at his own conceit, at the affectation of his own behavior.

  The three men rode to Camille Hall at nine o'clock on Friday night. It was just growing dark and the moon was full, the stars lush overhead. Ryder had never seen such a sight as this; it still made him stare.

  They could see the lights of Camille Hall from a mile distant. There were carriages despite the condition of the main road, and at least three doz­en horses, all tethered close to the great house and watched by a dozen small boys. The house glistened and shimmered. All the veranda doors were wide open.

  Ryder saw her immediately. She was standing next to an older man at the very entrance. She was gowned in white, pure virginal white, her shoulders bare, her chestnut hair piled on top of her head with two thick tresses falling over her shoulder to lie on that bare white flesh. Ryder looked at her and smiled just as she looked up and saw him. He saw her go very still. He realized, of course, that there was something akin to contempt in that smile of his. He removed it. He relaxed. It didn't matter if she slept with every man on the island. It simply didn't matter.

  But motives interested him. She interested him.

  He walked beside a worshipful Samuel Grayson toward her. He saw upon closer inspection that she wasn't the heavenly beauty that Grayson saw her to be. She looked much older than nineteen. Her eyes were a fine clear gray, her skin as white as her bare shoulders, too white. But she was wearing more makeup than a girl her age should wear. She looked more like a London actress or an opera girl than a young lady at a ball in her own home. Her lips were thick dark red, kohl lined her eyes and darkened her brows. There was rouge on her cheeks and a heavy layer of white powder. Why did her uncle allow her to look a harlot in his own house? And that damned white virginal gown she was wearing, it was the outside of too much. It was as if she were mocking her uncle, mocking all the people present, perhaps even mocking herself.

  Ryder heard the introduction and took her hand, turning it over and lightly kissing her wrist. She jerked and he released her hand slowly, very slow-

  ly.

  Theodore Burgess was of a different ilk. A tall man, thin as a stick, with a gentle face yet stubborn chin, he seemed inordinately diffident. He also seemed oblivious of the nineteen-year-old girl who flaunted herself beside him. He shook Ryder's hand with little strength and said, "A pleasure, sir, a pleasure. Mr. Grayson has spoken often of the Sherbrookes and his esteem for the Sherbrooke family. You are most welcome here, sir, most welcome. You will dance, of course, with my sweet niece?"

  Was the damned fellow an idiot? Was he blind?

  The sweet niece looked like a painted hussy. Ryder turned politely and said, "Would you care to dance this minuet, Miss Stanton-Greville?"

  She nodded, saying nothing, not smiling, and placed her hand lightly on his forearm.

  He realized that she'd said nothing at all to Emile. She'd ignored him. More tangled and unexpected behavior. He became increasingly fascinated. His curiosity rose accordingly.

  "I understand you and Emile have known each other since you were practically children," he said, then released her to perform the steps in the minu­et.

  When they came together again, she said, "Yes." Nothing more, just that flat, emotionless "yes."

  "One wonders," he said when she was near him again, "why one would ignore one's childhood friend when one reached adulthood. Yes, one wonders."

  It was several minutes before her hand was in his once more. She said, "I suppose one can won­der about many things." Nothing more. Curse the chit.

  The minuet ended. To Ryder's relief, he wasn't sweating by the end of it. Grayson hadn't lied. The ballroom, brilliantly lit by myriad candelabras, was nonetheless fairly cool, what with the breeze com­ing from the
sea from all the open doors, and the ever-swinging palm fronds waved by small boys all dressed in white trousers and white shirts, their feet bare.

  Ryder returned her to her uncle. He said nothing more. He turned away, Grayson at his side, to be introduced to other planters. He looked back once to see her standing very straight, her shoulders squared. Her uncle was speaking to her. He frowned. Was the uncle berating her for wearing so many cosmetics on her face? He hoped so, but doubted it. Personally, if it were up to him, he'd hold her face in a bucket of water then scrub it with lye soap but good.

  He danced with every daughter of every Montego Bay merchant and every planter within a fifty-mile radius. He was fawned over, complimented on every­thing from the shine on his boots to the lovely blue of his eyes—this by a seventeen-year-old girl who could manage naught else but giggles—simpered at until he wanted to yawn with the boredom of it. His feet hurt. He wanted to go sit down and not move for a good hour. Finally, near to midnight, he managed to elude Grayson, three purposeful-looking planters, two more purposeful-looking wives with daughters in tow, and slip out onto the balcony. There were stone steps leading down into a quite lovely garden, redolent with the scent of roses, hibiscus, rhodo­dendron, so many more brilliantly colored blossoms that he couldn't identify. He breathed in deeply and walked into the garden. There were stone benches and he sat down on one and leaned back against a pink cassia tree. He closed his eyes.