Siren

by Melissa Lynne Blue

  “If I’m not mistaken this is Jenny McGivern,” Burk said thoughtfully stroking a thumb and forefinger across his jaw. “Seems she had a falling out with her mother earlier this week. Don’t know what about, but Widow McGivern is going to take this awful hard.”

  James shook his head, what a sad situation.

  “You wouldn’t know anything about that, Colonel?”

  Confused, James quirked a brow at the magistrate. “About Miss McGivern having a falling out with her mother?” He shrugged. “I’ve never seen this girl before in my life.”

  Burk nodded and stood, keeping a wary eye on James. “What exactly were you doing out here in this foul weather?”

  James tensed. He didn’t like Burk’s accusatory tone. “Just clearing my head after Captain Collins wedding. I’m to rejoin my regiment tomorrow, and needed a bit of fresh air.” He sure as Hell wasn’t going to disclose that he’d spent the afternoon alone with Phoebe Landon. “I wasn’t walking in the storm. The rain stopped some time ago. As you can see I am perfectly dry.”

  The magistrate said nothing more, merely shifted his attention to the other men. “Load her up in the wagon. I’ll speak with the girl’s mother once we’re back to the village.”

  “Yes, sir.” The men quickly complied, rolling Miss McGivern into a blanket.

  Saddened by the display, James sighed. He’d seen so much death in his life, he was growing weary of it. His imminent return to duty and the war whisked through his head, followed quickly by memories of his afternoon with Phoebe.

  Panic seized him. He’d been a fool today. A mindless, lustful fool. Only after he’d taken her, shredded her innocence, had his sanity returned. He had no idea what to do about the situation. The manner in which he’d lost all control in her arms scared the living hell out of him.

  Raking a palm through his hair, he strode back to the narrow road. After a day like this, he wanted nothing more than to drown himself in a bottle of whiskey.

  Eleven

  Phoebe woke with her stomach tied in knots. Today was the day. James was coming to call on her, and she didn’t know what to expect. Surely he’d propose… but even if he did, his visit would be impossible to keep from the staff, and word would quickly get back to Edward. The fact was unavoidable.

  He’d be furious.

  She perched on a chaise in her room, nervously drumming her fingers on a side table. Would there be time for her and James to elope before he returned to the war? That may be for the best. Perhaps she should prepare a bag. They could leave immediately once he arrived.

  Sparked to action, Phoebe channeled her nervous energy into stowing a few personal items and two day gowns into an oversize carpet bag. She stuffed it under the bed for the moment, not wanting any of the maid staff to discover it before she was ready to slip away.

  Sweeping her gaze around the room, her eyes fell on the desk against the far wall. She should leave Edward a letter a letter as well. Hurrying to the desk, she quickly pulled a piece of paper from the drawer, and lifted a quill, wondering how exactly to explain that she’d run away with the man her brother hated.

  “Get the hell out of my house, Witherspoon,” Edward’s furious voice boomed through the house. “If I so much as catch you in the same village as my sister again you’ll find yourself on the unpleasant end of my dueling pistol.”

  “Oh, no.” Phoebe dropped the quill, and bolted for her bedroom door. When had Edward returned home? She dashed to the top of the stairs, dread settling in the pit of her stomach as she flew down the steps. “Edward! Edward, stop!”

  Phoebe careened around the corner and into the entrance hall. Edward and James squared off by the oversize door, two titans prepared for battle. Their butler stood against one wall, uncharacteristic panic lining his usually staid façade.

  “Get back upstairs, Phoebe,” Edward growled. “This doesn’t concern you.”

  “This concerns me very much.” She marched into the hall and speared her brother with a withering glare. “However, it does not concern you.” Ignoring her brother’s return glare, she turned to James. “The parlor is this way. Please join me.”

  James shifted a guarded gaze from her to Edward but said nothing, and made no move to follow her.

  “James?” She took a hesitant step forward, her dreams of love, marriage, and brown-eyed children rapidly evaporating.

  “James?” Edward stormed forward and… exploded. “James!” He shoved James square in the chest with enough force to send the larger man staggering backward. “She’s using your given name now? Just when did you become so familiar with my sister.”

  Heat rose in Phoebe’s cheeks. Familiar was certainly an apt word.

  Regaining his balance, James clenched a fist at his side as a murderous glint steeled in his eye, but he remained silent.

  Phoebe’s heart hammered. Part of her prayed he would tell Edward the truth and fight for her, while another feared what her brother would do if he knew just how familiar she and James had become.

  Edward turned on her, gray eyes blazing with rage. “So help me, Phoebe, I warned you about consorting with that man.” Her brother stabbed a finger toward James. “Do you know what he is?”

  “I know perfectly well who he is,” Phoebe began. “He—”

  “He is a gambler, and a thief, and a drunken womanizer.”

  James flinched as each word struck the air. The truth of defeat in his eyes sliced clear through Phoebe. Her heart trembled.

  “The magistrate sent word of the murder you reported last night. Are you responsible for that as well?”

  “No,” James growled. “Every crime in the county can’t be pinned on me.”

  Edward stalked forward once more. “You low down, scou—”

  “Enough.” James raised a commanding hand, and Phoebe’s heart swelled. He was going to stand up to her brother! “I’ll go,” he said, turning to the door, dashing her hopes completely. James quartered back, meeting her gaze and her spirit hiccupped one last time. “Forgive me any inconvenience, Lady Phoebe. I came only to bid you farewell.”

  Farewell? Her heart shattered. “James,” she cried, running to the door.

  Edward grabbed her arm, halting her flight. “Phoebe, no. I forbid you to follow him.”

  “Let me go!” She wrenched from his grasp, and rushed through the door. She sprinted down the stone steps, desperate for answers and the uncertain state of her future. “James!”

  He stood in the drive, gathering the long leather reigns of his mount.

  “Don’t go, please.”

  Shoulders tense, he turned, resignation written all over his face.

  She slowed and drew a ragged breath, reaching for him. “Please, James, I—”

  He waved her off. “Don’t, Phoebe.”

  “But…”

  “Your brother is right. About everything.” He sighed heavily. “It’s what I came here to tell you, Phoebe. There is no future for us.”

  “No future, but… What of yesterday?” She gulped as her throat tightened. “I—I… gave myself to you,” she whispered.

  “And it was wonderful.” He stepped forward abruptly, grasping her upper arms, brown eyes softening just enough to reveal the man she’d been with yesterday. The man she’d come to love. “But no one has to know. Find a good man, Phoebe. Marry.” He tipped her chin and flashed that roguish half smile that never failed to melt her insides. “Think of me fondly from time to time.”

  “Don’t do this, James.” Tears welled in her eyes. “You are a good man. You—”

  “No,” he said firmly. “I’m not. I am good at soldiering and disappointing people. Nothing more.” He backed away, swinging lithely onto his horse. “Goodbye, my lady.” He tipped his hat and urged Sam to a brisk trot and then a ground-eating canter.

  Heart broken, Phoebe hugged her arms around herself, watching him fade into the distance. Not once did he hazard a glance over his shoulder. Instead his militaristic form remained staid and stoic, faced solidly forwar
d, until he disappeared from her sight.

  Silent tears trickled onto her cheeks. She’d known something was wrong yesterday when James had grown so distant. Foolishly she’d clung to the hope he’d marry her, when she should have realized he had every intention of walking away from her when he returned to war. Who was she to believe she could reform the most notorious rake in all England? James had merely taken what she’d freely offered. She’d asked for nothing in return… given him no ultimatums or expectations.

  “Phoebe, come inside,” Edward commanded. “You’ve created enough of a scene, and have much to explain about your dear friend James.

  Wiping the tears from her face, she turned slowly, eyes settling on her brother standing on top of the steps, his arms crossed. His eyes gleamed murderously. She swallowed nervously, genuinely afraid of her brother’s temper for the first time in her life. She nodded and followed him slowly into the house.

  Total silence ruled the manse, and the eye of every servant followed Phoebe as she trailed behind Edward. She fought to stem the flow of tears threatening to pour down her face. Creating more of a scene and showing weakness would not help help her cause.

  Edward held open the door of his study, and bade her enter. She quickly complied though all she really wanted was to bolt. She flinched as the door banged shut.

  “Goddamn it, Phoebe, I warned you what would happen if you continued consorting with Witherspoon.” Edward paced the length of his study, vibrating with rage. “Do you heed nothing I say?”

  “Edward—”

  “I will hear none of your excuses. You defied me, Phoebe. Openly and blatantly. I cannot believe you were encouraging his attentions.” He wiped a palm over his face. “How did this even happen?”

  “I-I told you, we met at Sarah’s engagement party.”

  “And then you continued to see him! Do you realize what you’ve done Phoebe? If word that you carried on a friendship with James Witherspoon gets back to London you’ll be ruined.”

  Phoebe resisted the urge to squirm. Little did her brother know that she was well and truly ruined. James’s voice rumbled in her mind, No one has to know… Was that true? Could she go on as though she’d not foolishly given her innocence to a rake?

  “You will not leave this house without my express permission or escort until we leave for London next month.” Edward’s dictate sparked her from her thoughts. “You will receive visitors only with my approval, and this season you will marry. If you do not select a suitable husband by summers end, I will choose one for you.”

  Phoebe had no energy to form an argument. She simply nodded and left her brother’s study for the safety of her room.

  Twelve

  May, 1815

  Brussels

  Dozens of low burning fires cast a reddish glow across the encampment. Heavy clouds covered the stars and cloaked the night in heavy darkness. James reclined on a bedroll beneath a canvas overhang, leafing sightlessly through a book, listening to his men laugh and carry on.

  “Do ye recall the night in Spain when the colonel won fifty pounds drinking that Russian giant under the table?”

  “Oh, aye!” The men roared with laughter. “The colonel was in rare form that night.”

  James cringed. Rare form. He’d made a royal ass of himself more like. A role he played all too often—the royal ass. He slammed the book shut, shame roiling in his gut as Phoebe’s haunting face flashed through his head. The sight of her stricken expression, pain and betrayal brimming in her wide beautiful eyes, had permanently seared his mind. He hated himself for hurting her. Such had never been his intention. He’d gone to her home that morning with his grandmother’s wedding ring in his pocket. He’d had every intention of proposing… asking her to wait for him… making plans to elope once he came home. But her brother had been in residence after all. The duke’s rage had forced James to come to his senses. Over and again he told himself it was best for her, without doubt she could do far better than he, but… was it truly for the best? Could they have been happy together anyway?

  James heaved to his feet, restless, and needing to move.

  It didn’t matter what could have been. He’d severed the bond with Phoebe so severely she’d never want to see him again. The truth was he’d panicked. He’d been consumed by her. Passion… Desire… Words did not exist to describe the supreme loss of himself he’d discovered in her arms. It scared the living hell out of him. He’d selfishly taken her to bed, and devoured everything she’d offered. It wasn’t until he’d seen the smear of blood on her thigh that the full import of his actions had struck. He was such a cad.

  He wended through the low-burning campfires, keeping his face down to avoid being recognized. He had no desire to speak with anyone, be offered a drink, or hear more cackling tales of his transgressions.

  Since meeting Phoebe he’d scarcely taken a drink and he’d undertaken the longest span of celibacy he’d known since the age of seventeen. He’d lost all taste for other women. It would seem Phoebe had had an exceedingly good impact on James. Because of her, he wanted to be more. More than the debauched man his men crowed about and made fun of. His men liked him to be sure, and they were confident in his ability to lead them in battle, but did any of them respect him?

  “Colonel Witherspoon!”

  Bloody hell. Shoulders hunched against the light rain, James continued moving forward, pretending not to hear.

  “Colonel!” Heavy footsteps ran up behind him.

  Finally, James ground to a halt, grudgingly turning to face the bastard interrupting his solitude. “Nick.” James relaxed a bit as his friend and junior officer approached. He’d spent considerably more time with Nick since returning to duty than his other cronies. “What can I do for you this evening?”

  “General Boland called a meeting, sir.” Though the young captain’s expression remained grave, a small smile quirked his lips. “He bade me drag you from whatever whore’s bed you’d crawled into back to his field tent.”

  James ignored the General’s insult, instead falling into step beside Captain Collins. “The general is not attending the parties in town?”

  “No, sir.”

  Interesting… Something significant must have occurred if Boland had skipped one of the many opulent balls taking place. A flood of English men and women had traveled to Belgium despite the waging war. Utterly ridiculous to James’s mind. Most Londoners hadn’t a clue what real war involved. “What of Wellington?”

  Nick nodded. “General Boland summoned him as well.”

  James’s mind spun with possibilities. He was bored with camp life and itching for a fight. Side by side, he and Nick marched toward the commander’s tent.

  “Where is Witherspoon!” General Boland raged from behind the canvas. “By Christ that man is the bane of my command. “If he weren’t so damned good at—”

  James threw back the loose flap and entered the tent. “You were saying, General?”

  Boland’s steel gray eyes flipped to James. “What took you so long? I sent Collins after you an hour ago.”

  “I came the moment I learned of your summons, General.”

  The general scoffed. “Your tardiness is of no consequence.” He strode across the tent to the large table littered with maps, ledgers and parchment. He scooped a sheaf of paper from the cluttered surface and raised them to eye level. The pages rattled as he shook them. The general radiated pure intensity. “Do you want to see this war ended, Colonel?”

  Unwittingly Phoebe’s face flashed through James’s mind along with an intense longing to return to her. He swallowed unsure how to handle the shift in his desires. “I do, sir.”

  “I have a mission for you,” General Boland continued, moving steadily forward. “You likely won’t survive it, but if you succeed, you’ll have been instrumental in ending this miserable war.”

  James nodded, growing somber. Phoebe’s haunting eyes refused to give him peace, but faced with the imminence of his mortality, he resolved once again that
he’d made the right decision in ending their relationship. He steeled himself for the undertaking to come. “What is the mission, sir?”

  General Boland rattled the pages again. “This, Colonel, is correspondence from Napoleon himself.”

  * * * *

  Life for Phoebe had gone entirely back to normal. Too normal. She hated it. After James had ridden away, her life had marched on much as it had before—aside from Edward all but keeping her under lock and key. It was almost as though her her whirlwind romance had never occurred. Except that it had, and Phoebe knew nothing about her life would ever be the same again. Not with her heart so thoroughly broken.

  She tied a slim piece of white ribbon around a jam jar and glanced up at Sarah seated opposite her at the table in the Corsair Estate. They’d spent the afternoon preparing gift baskets for the tenants.

  “I received a letter from Nicholas today.”

  “Oh?” Phoebe froze, arm holding one of the jars frozen in mid air. “What news from Brussels?” she asked, dropping a jar in the woven basket sitting atop the table, forcing herself to behave normally. She’d received nothing from James. Foolishly she’d clung to the hope he’d see the error of his ways and write to her, begging forgiveness. “What news from Brussels?” she asked dutifully, stuffing down her heartache as Sarah began to chatter merrily.

  “He said several aristocrats have traveled to the continent and hold parties and balls as though they are in London. I tell you, Phoebe, I’m tempted to join him there myself.”

  Phoebe nodded, listening with half an ear as Sarah chattered on about Nick’s letter’s and her desire to follow the drum and join him on the continent.

  After a few minutes, Phoebe wrinkled her nose as a rather pungent odor invaded her senses. What was that awful smell?

  She dropped another jar into the basket and glanced around.

  Had someone let a wet dog into the house?

  “Do you smell that?” Phoebe asked suddenly.

  “Pardon?” Sarah paused, left hand in midair as she prepared to lower another jar into the basket. The gem in Sarah’s wedding ring glinted in the sunlight, catching Phoebe’s eye. Phoebe quashed a nasty sprig of jealousy. It wasn’t Sarah’s fault James had left her without a single promise. Sarah didn’t even know of her foiled relationship with James.