Siren

by Melissa Lynne Blue

  After several firm raps on the door, an elderly butler opened the heavy wooden portal. “Good afternoon,” Phoebe said. “Lady Phoebe Landon to call on Mrs. Witherspoon.”

  The butler’s eyes widened.

  “It is of the utmost importance that I see her.”

  Finally, the butler stepped away from the door. “This way, my lady.” He led her to a formal parlor and returned a few minutes later with James’s mother, and the woman she recognized as his sister-in-law. Both wore black mourning attire and quizzical expressions.

  Phoebe stood, clutching the canvas in trembling hands as overwhelming emotion threatened to consume her. Had things between she and James gone differently, this could have been her family. “Forgive the intrusion at such a difficult time,” she said quickly. “But, I have something for you.” She pulled the cheese clothe from the painting and revealed an oil painting of James garbed in full military regalia, sitting astride Sam. His expression was serious with the slightest curve to the left side of his mouth as he gazed at some unknown point beyond the edge of the canvas. Phoebe believed it was one of her best portraits. “I painted this after witnessing his amazing display of horsemanship at the festival last spring.” In truth she’d started the piece the day he’d saved her life when she’d been thrown from Jupiter. “I wanted you to have it to remember your son by.”

  Mrs. Witherspoon clasped both hands over her mouth, tears trembling in her clear blue eyes. “Heaven save me,” she whispered, flicking an awed gaze over the portrait. “My Jamie. The likeness… it’s uncanny.” Mrs. Witherspoon reached for the painting, holding it before her. “Judith, come see this. The lines and colors in this portrait are brilliant, but the way Lady Phoebe portrayed him…” her voice trailed off as she lifted wondering eyes to Phoebe. “You’ve captured his very essence and imprinted it onto this portrait.” A tear slid onto her cheek and she shook her head as though puzzled before passing the artwork to Judith. “How well did you know my son?”

  Heat crept up Phoebe’s neck, but she swallowed, forcing it back. “Not as well as I might have liked,” she replied—it wasn’t a total lie, she would have liked to know James much better… in the bonds of marriage to be specific. “But Captain Collins spoke very highly of him. I believe your son was misunderstood by society and simply allowed everyone to expect the worst of him.”

  Both Mrs. Witherspoon and Judith fell completely silent and stared at her, stunned. After a long moment Mrs. Witherspoon shook her head, marveling. “You did know him. You’re exactly right about my son.” She sighed, crossing to a settee and lowering herself warily onto the cushions. “He hid from life behind mischief and liquor. I blame myself for that. My late husband was hard on him. Too hard. They clashed so often that James eventually stopped trying to please him at all, he simply defied him at every turn. I ran out of the energy or means to intervene. If I’d been stronger perhaps my son wouldn’t have developed such jaded ideas about family. He allowed no one to be close to him.” Sadness touched her tone. “He was such a sweet child. So loving. Now I’ll never have the chance to see him reclaim that within himself.”

  Tears stung Phoebe’s eyes and a lump lodged in her throat, making it impossible to speak without the risk of bursting into tears. She’d seen the tender side of James buried beneath the layers of witticism and aloofness. She’d also seen him tuck tail and run like a total coward when she’d needed him most. With effort she discreetly fortified her emotions and managed to remain calm. She was a lady after all. She’d spent years perfecting a façade of serenity.

  “Thank you, Lady Phoebe.” Mrs. Witherspoon stood and embraced her warmly. “This gift means more to me than I could ever express.”

  Beyond words, Phoebe simply held the woman tightly for a long moment and then nodded.

  “Would you care to stay for some tea?”

  Phoebe cleared her throat. “Thank you, but, no. I need to help Mrs. Collins finish making preparations for her trip to London. She received the blessed news that her husband is in fact alive just this afternoon.”

  Mrs. Witherspoon pressed a hand to her chest, face softening with genuine relief. “That is wonderful. Do give her my best, Lady Phoebe.”

  “I will.” Phoebe gave a weak smile and turned to the parlor door, compelled with the sudden need to leave before this kind woman divined her secret.

  “I’ll walk you out,” Judith offered, interrupting Phoebe’s fitful thoughts.

  “Thank you.” Phoebe forced herself to take unhurried steps. She’d probably aroused too much curiosity by delivering the portrait in the first place, but it was the right thing to do.

  “It is a true pleasure to meet you, Lady Phoebe. I just wish the circumstances could have been better.”

  Phoebe shifted her gaze back to Judith as they exited the parlor and stepped into the hall. “As do I.”

  “It really is a pity about James,” Judith said sadly. “My son, Toby, is taking his death very hard. It’s so soon after his grandfather’s death, and he idolized his Uncle Jamie.” Her eyes took on a wistful look. “I-I had hoped James and I would marry when he returned from the war so that he might truly become a father to Toby.”

  Judith’s words sliced through Phoebe like an ice pick to the heart. Had James carried on with her while discussing marriage with Judith?

  The prospect the prospect was despicable and chilled her to the bone.

  No wonder James hadn’t proposed to her… He’d already made promises to another.

  Sixteen

  Irritably James yanked off the sling holding his right arm immobile and dropped it right into the street. He couldn’t do a damn thing with it on. Slowly he flexed the injured shoulder, pleased to find everything in working order. It was still sore, but tolerable. Satisfied, he tossed a few coins to the hackney driver, and jogged up the steps of the large London army hospital.

  It had taken weeks to track down the location of Nick Collins after they’d been separated in the field hospital. Initially he’d been told Nick was dead, and he’d been determined to find his remains and return them home to his wife. It was the least James could do. Later he’d received conflicting reports—some confirming death, others stating that Nick had lived and been transported with other wounded to London. James had quickly pursued every possible lead, ignoring his own doctor’s orders for bed rest.

  He shoved the heavy wooden door inward and shuddered the moment he stepped inside. The hospitals interior was dark, overcrowded, and suffocating. Soldiers on crutches shuffled about the entry hall, and orderlies rushed about carrying bandages, buckets, and various other odds and ends.

  Uncertain how to go about locating his friend, James quickly waved down an orderly carrying a stack of books. “Excuse me, lad, I’m looking for a cavalry captain that was under my command. Captain Nicholas Collins.”

  The harried young man furrowed his brow and shook his head. “Forgive me, Colonel, that name is not familiar to me.”

  Frustrated, James asked another orderly, and then another. Finally, an elderly woman with crisp blue eyes recognized the description. “Yes of course. I know right where he is. Follow me.”

  The woman led James up two flights of stairs, down a narrow, foul smelling hallway, and finally to a closed door. “You’ll find Captain Collins here, Colonel.”

  “Thank you,” James said.

  The woman nodded and bustled away.

  Without knocking, James tried the knob and opened the door a few inches. “Collins?” he inquired softly, peering inside. The room was so tiny it may as well have been a closet, but to his immense relief Nick reclined on a narrow cot along the far wall, heavy bandages wrapped around his chest. He was pale and had lost a lot of weight, but overall he looked alert and well. Sarah sat at his side.

  “Witherspoon!” Shock registered in Nick’s drawn expression as he struggled to a sit on the edge of the narrow cot. “My God, man. They told me you were dead!”

  Grinning from ear to ear, James crossed the room in two str
ides, clasping his friend’s hand warmly. “And I was told the same about you.” He turned to Sarah and winked. “I owe my life to your husband, my dear. I am forever in his debt…” he bowed his head, “and yours.”

  Sarah sat primly in her chair regarding him with a cool, wary eyes. “Both of your names appeared on the casualty roster,” she said. “Phoebe and I were devastated.”

  Phoebe. A pang of regret hit his chest so hard it nearly knocked the breath from him. Her face swept through his mind, evocative and lovely. She’d haunted his dreams every night for weeks. He cleared his throat. “I take it Lady Phoebe told you of our, er… friendship?”

  “Everything.”

  Everything? James shifted uncomfortably, mortified by the prospect of Sarah knowing just how poorly he’d treated Phoebe. Had Phoebe truly related all? Or did Sarah simply believe she knew everything?

  “Will you be going back for her?” Sarah asked, voice betraying a slight hint of hope.

  “Yes,” James replied without hesitation. He’d been disappointed to find Phoebe wasn’t in London for the season. He’d hoped to reconnect with her in Town while searching for Collins and kill two birds with one stone. Initially he’d feared she was engaged, but after a few inquiries he’d learned she hadn’t been to Town at all. “I was a fool to ever have walked away from her. I began writing her so many letters, at least a dozen, but after my behavior any apology should be given in person.”

  Nick grinned. “I suggest you hurry, Colonel. As you can see I am mending and in good hands here.” He reached for his wife’s hand and squeezed it. Their eyes locked and they shared one of the private looks, so filled with love and passion that James secretly envied them. Would he ever experience such with Phoebe again?

  Uncomfortable, James shuffled back to the door. “If you need anything, anything at all, just send word to my mother’s estate in Corsair.”

  “Wait, Colonel.” Sarah rose, concern lining her lovely face. “Lady Phoebe isn’t in Corsair.”

  James paused by the door. “Not in Corsair? Is she in London then? I’d originally hoped to find her here for the season.” Such would be wonderful. He may be reunited with her today.

  Sarah’s frowned, shifting her attention to her husband. “Didn’t you tell him?”

  Confusion dampened James’s spirits. “Tell me what?”

  Nick’s expression grew serious. “Didn’t you read Sarah’s letter?”

  Letter? Oh, yes! The letter… He shrugged. “I have no idea what became of Sarah’s letter. Most likely it was lost among the debris of bloody uniforms in the medical tents. I’d completely forgotten about it until now.” His gaze shifted between Nick and Sarah. “Please enlighten me now? Should I be concerned?”

  Nick swept an arm between his wife and James. “You tell him, Sarah.”

  Sarah stepped forward a bit more, dark eyes pools of mystery. “Colonel, Phoebe is not in London or at the Corsair estate. Her brother had her sent to the country due to failing health.”

  “Failing health?” His blood chilled with the prospect. “What’s happened? Will she recover?”

  Red bloomed in Sarah’s cheeks as she averted her gaze. “You see, Colonel, shortly after you left, Phoebe found herself with child.”

  “What?” James stared blankly at Sarah, her words refusing to register.

  Nick scoffed impatiently. “She’s pregnant, Witherspoon. It’s what I tried to tell you the day of the battle.”

  Cold panic washed through James as his mind spun nauseatingly. Suddenly everything made sense. Nick’s insistence that he read Sarah’s letter… Nick’s self-sacrifice because he believed James needed to make it home. Heaven save him, the thought of a child—his child—scared the living hell out of him. James staggered and slumped heavily against the wall for balance. “I think I’m going to be sick.” What had he been thinking last spring? He knew to take precautions, but had gotten totally swept away in his love for Phoebe.

  Then he’d panicked.

  Panicked and run.

  James looked back to Sarah. “Y-you said her health is failing. Is she…?”

  “Phoebe is fine,” Sarah quickly assured. “Failing health is the excuse her brother has given for her absence from Corsair.”

  James nodded, relieved. “Where is Phoebe?” he asked, voice barely above a rasp.

  Seventeen

  August, 1815

  The quiet country life was not as lonely or boring as Phoebe had feared. In fact, it was quite refreshing. She stayed in a charming cottage with Mrs. Condon—who’d refused to leave her side—and Elizabeth, her more than trustworthy maid. Together the three of them enjoyed a relaxed, companionable existence. They laughed and read, knitted and hemmed, and Phoebe’s spirits lifted by the day.

  Her grief and feelings of shame had not completely ebbed, but little by little her positive nature was taking over. At night she still had dreams of James. Some memories of the times they’d spent together, others nightmares of him ravaged in battle. In her current condition it was impossible to put him from her mind. It was so difficult to accept that he was dead given that a piece of him grew daily inside her. Repeatedly she reminded herself not to pine and weep for him. He’d rejected her long before his death. He’d never once written or expressed a moment’s regret. He’d known the risk of bedding her and simply hadn’t cared.

  That logic never failed to steel her emotions.

  Gathering up her basket of paint supplies and a brimmed straw hat, Phoebe moved toward the front door. “Elizabeth,” she called into the next room, “I’m going to take a walk down by the field. There are some lovely wildflowers I want to paint.”

  “That sounds lovely, my lady,” her maid returned. “Dinner will be on the table at six-thirty sharp.”

  “I’ll be back,” Phoebe promised, slipping out the front door. She settled the hat on her head and tilted her face into the sunshine. What a beautiful day. Bushy green leaves rustled in the treetops while birds twittered and squirrels chattered. Before long Phoebe found herself humming a simple hymn. Over the last couple weeks the profound nausea and exhaustion consuming her had waned, and today she felt energetic, and more like herself than she had in months.

  She quickly located the spot she’d picked for painting and set to work. Before long a big yellow dog lumbered across the field, tail wagging. The animal often joined her for walks. She had no idea where he actually lived or who he belonged to, but he was friendly and well fed and she was always glad for the company.

  “Well, hello, boy!” She scratched behind his ears and he flopped beside her in the grass to watch her work. Every so often she’d share a bite of the bread and cheese she’d packed as a snack with the dog.

  Suddenly the dog’s ears pricked and he barked once.

  Surprised, Phoebe set the brush aside and glanced around. “What is it, boy?”

  As if on cue, the dog jumped up and barked again. He then loped toward the edge of the field, tail wagging as it always did. An ill-mannered bone didn’t seem to exist in the mutt’s body.

  Phoebe stood too. Someone must be coming. Pulling the brim of her hat down to better shield the bright sun, she looked past the dog to the narrow path alongside the field. A flash of red clothing flickered between the trees. The figure of a man soon became visible as he weaved into the trees, heading toward the field and the dog. A moment later a uniformed soldier stepped into the field, grinning down at the dog.

  “Oh, my god.” Phoebe physically swayed and staggered backward. She pulled the hat from her head. It must be obscuring her view! “Impossible.” And yet… the haunting figure of James Witherspoon stepped onto the edge of her field. More than a figment of the imagination or a ghostly apparition. He looked every inch flesh and blood.

  * * * *

  Absently James extended a hand for the strange—if friendly—dog to sniff. Just that afternoon he’d located the cottage where Phoebe was supposed to be staying only to find that she wasn’t home. A rotund woman with mischievous eyes had
refused to grant him any information regarding her health and had given him directions to this field. Now that he’d found the field, all he saw was this mangy—

  “James?”

  The lilting voice drew his attention upward. He went weak in an instant, clasping a hand over his chest. Dear God, there she was. His siren. His reason for breathing. Cheeks high with color and skin glowing with the luminescence of pearls, his memories of her hadn’t done justice to the reality of her beauty. “Phoebe,” he rasped. “I came as soon as I learned where to find you.”

  Wide-eyed, Phoebe moved slowly forward as though in a dream. “The casualty roster… I-I thought you were dead.”

  “No, love. No.” He broke into a jog, closing the distance between them with long strides. It had been so long and he was within inches of holding her. Her eyes were like stormy ocean pools that he could stumble into and lose himself in. He reached out and yanked her into his arms, crushing her against him. “I’m here. I—” His voice trailed off. She made no move to embrace him. Instead she lay limp against him like a child’s cloth doll. His heart clenched. She hadn’t forgiven him for leaving her in the spring. “Phoebe, I’m sorry. I was an ass, and a fool to leave you.” He pulled back and dropped his hands to her waist, feeling for the first time the slight swell camouflaged beneath her skirts. A shiver of combined panic and excitement raced through him. His gaze locked with hers, steady and unwavering. “I’m here now.”

  She stepped backward, away from his touch, and crossed her arms, regarding him warily. “I take it you received my letter,” she said, tone flat, eyes cold.

  “No,” he replied quickly. “I never received any news. I was on special assignment away from my division, and then wounded soon after I rejoined my men.” He flashed a wry smile. “Once reported dead, no mail is forwarded. It wasn’t until I returned to England that Mrs. Collins informed me of your condition.”

  “I see.”

  Her icy words sliced through him like miniature ice picks. “Phoebe,” he implored, taking a hesitant step forward, arms outstretched, “had I known—”