Jillian's gaze met the pirate's. "So, kill me," she said softly. "Kill me or let me go."
With a growl of anger, Indigo lunged forward. Duncan dropped Jillian to the ground on her good leg, and Beatrice came up behind her to support her.
Duncan's fist connected with Indigo's jaw making a sickening crack. "Let us go!" Duncan called.
"Never! She's mine!" Indigo slurred through his broken jaw. He attempted to aim the blunderbuss pistol, but Duncan lifted his leg high and kicked Indigo in the forearm. The pistol flew out of the pirate's hand and slid across the damp grass.
Indigo hurled himself at Duncan in fury, hitting him soundly in the stomach with his fist.
"Stand on your own," Beatrice whispered.
Before Jillian could answer, Beatrice let go of Jillian and slipped away behind her.
Trying to keep her balance on her good leg, Jillian cringed as Duncan slammed his fists into Indigo's face again and again. But for a small man, in comparison to Duncan, Indigo was an excellent fighter. Both men were covered in blood.
"All right, Indigo, that will be enough," came Beatrice's voice from behind Jillian.
Jillian turned to see her sister aiming the pistol at Indigo.
Panting, Duncan backed up, coming around toward Jillian.
"Put that down, Bea," Indigo ordered. "That's very naughty. You'll be punished."
"You have to let my sister and her husband go now."
Indigo wiped at his bloody nose with the back of his hand. "You wouldn't shoot me."
Bea smiled. "That's where you're wrong. I would." She glanced at Jillian and Duncan, but still kept her aim. "Get her to the ship, Duncan. I'll hold him. If any of his men go after you, I'll shoot him." She looked at Indigo. "Now, call off your men."
When he didn't immediately respond, she shook the pistol. "Call off your men, Indigo, else I swear by all that's holy I'll kill you."
"Lay down your arms!" Indigo ordered. "Let them go."
Slowly, the clang of sabers ceased and the jungle was nearly silent except for the rustle of the trees and the insect song.
Duncan swung Jillian into his arms, starting toward the jungle. "To the ship!" he ordered his men.
Jillian clutched Duncan's neck, calling desperately. "No, you can't do this, Bea." She looked at Duncan. "I won't do this. I won't leave Bea behind."
Duncan halted.
"Go!" Beatrice shouted. "I'll be all right. He won't hurt me. I know he won't."
"Put down that blessed pistol," Indigo intoned through clenched teeth. "You're making me very angry, Beatrice dear."
"Run!" Beatrice shouted. "Take her, Duncan, take her home to Maryland. This is where I want to be. Here." She looked at Indigo. "With him," she added softly.
Jillian's frightened gaze met Duncan's. "Don't make me do this."
"It's our only chance."
"She's my sister. I can't leave her."
"Would you do it for her?"
Jillian hung her head.
"Answer me," Duncan demanded harshly.
"Yes," Jillian sobbed. "Yes, I'd do it for her."
Duncan took off at a dead run.
"I love you," Beatrice called as they entered the edge of the jungle.
"We'll come back for you," Jillian sobbed.
Beatrice waved goodbye, and then Jillian lost sight of her in the darkness.
Twenty-seven
Nervously, Algernon shifted his weight from one foot to the other. He fingered the lace of his sleeve as he watched Constance Abbott move from one knot of guests to the next. The Colonials had come from miles around to attend the funeral; some traveled days.
She was a lovely lady, Constance, dressed in her heavy silk-and-taffeta mourning gown. Her honey curls, piled high on her head in a tor, were as thick and shiny as market taffy. Her hands were smooth, her nails well manicured. Her pursed lips were darkened with red paste. She had plucked and powdered her face, but her cheeks were properly lacking rouge. She was, indeed, a lovely woman. Algernon surmised that few of the mourners guessed she was fifty-five.
"Algernon? Algernon, come here."
Algernon heard his grandmother call and knew that he should go to her; but then, to his delight, he caught Constance's eye. He hurried across the room in the opposite direction from the dowager, toward the fair-haired hostess. He left his brandywine glass on a cherry sideboard as he went by. "M—"
"Don't say it!" Constance hissed. She smiled sadly at the guest who passed, then turned to Algernon with a frown, whispering, "I told you never to call me that, didn't I?" Her breath was scented with a heavy mixture of French brandy and toilet water.
"Y—yes. I—I apologize. It's only that I'm overwrought, as are you, madame. This is a difficult time for us both." He looked up at her, hoping for a pat on the shoulder, perhaps a hug, some small demonstration of her affection.
One of the mourners, a tall man with a bobbing Adam's apple, took Constance's hand. "I'm so sorry for your loss, Constance. I cannot imagine what you must be going through, having lost your son once to the savages, only to have had him returned again, and now to have had him meet his death so tragically. And to think, his wife and unborn child perished, too."
"I know, I know." She rolled her head dramatically, then leaned on the man for support, pressing her breasts against him.
"Duncan was a fine man."
Constance produced a scented handkerchief and dabbed her nose, giving a convincing sniff. "Thank you so much, dear Myron. It's only due to my dear friends and family that I'm able to keep my wits about me."
Algernon bowed stiffly, introducing himself to the mourner whose hand Constance was holding so tightly. "Algernon Roderick, sir."
"My nephew," Constance interjected quickly.
"Myron Welsh." The man bowed. "Your servant, sir." Then he turned his attention back to Constance. "Please, do let us know if there's anything you need, dear." He smiled grimly. "And I am sorry for your loss."
She pursed her lips as he walked away. "Thank you so much, Myron, and do send dear Jane my love." Then, under her breath, as he walked away, she whispered, "It's just too bad your whore-wife is in childbed with a another man's son, again."
Algernon stared at Constance.
"Well, she is," she whispered. "Everyone knows Jane Welsh sleeps with anything with three legs. Now, go get me a drink—brandy. I'm parched. Grief does that, you know." She touched the sleeve of his new pink-and-bayberry doublet. "No, two. And don't you dare sip from either glass. Get your own."
"Yes, madame."
"Meet me in Peter's office. You and I have a matter to discuss, and I'm sick of these horse's asses. Peter must have invited everyone in the colony. They'll not go home until they've drunk every bottle of English liqueur, eaten every crumb of meat and pastry, and slept on every sheet in my house."
Algernon watched Constance flounce away and then ran to fetch her drinks. A few minutes later, he found her in her husband's private office, seated at a desk.
"Come in, come in." She gestured. "And shut the blasted door. Do you want someone to see us?" She snatched one of the glasses from his hand, and a portion of the amber liquid spilled onto the cherry desktop. "Sit, sit. You make me nervous hovering the way you do."
Algernon did as he was told.
Constance drained half the glass of brandywine before she came up for air. "Now, I've had my solicitor draw up the papers." She pushed a pile of legal documents and quill and inkwell across the desk. "Just sign, and the matter will be settled."
Algernon glanced at the papers, then at Constance, not quite certain of himself. He wanted so badly for her to like him. "Sh—should I read it first?"
"Ods fish, no. I told you, my solicitor drew it up. Don't you trust me?" She let her words sink in and then went on faster than before. "It's all quite in order. I will manage your estates and monies. You will carry the title, my lord." She batted her eyelashes. "We'll discuss your payment later, of course."
"Just so that I understand, madame," A
lgernon hedged. "Why am I giving you control of my inheritance?"
Constance slapped her hand so hard on the desk that Algernon jumped. "Because of your nervous disposition, of course." She gestured to him, as if his reaction were proof enough. "I'm better able to look after your interests—" Her voice softened "—darling."
Algernon smiled. She was so lovely. She could be so sweet. "Of course," he murmured and reached for the quill, anxious to sign.
Constance relaxed in the leather chair and retrieved her brandy.
The office door swung open, and Algernon looked up, startled. It was just Alfred, Constance and Peter's whiny son.
"Mama! Father says I mustn't have another sweet." He came around the desk to his mother, pouting. His pockmarked face was covered with sticky sugar and jelly. "He says I'll pop like an overinflated pig's bladder if I eat another bite. But if I don't taste Martha's crumpet, I fear I shall perish!"
Constance reached out to adjust one of the pale-blue ribbons tied in her son's hair. "Just sneak into the kitchen, love, and tell Martha you must have one," she crooned. "Father need never know."
The ten-year-old boy crossed his fleshy arms over his chest "And what if they're gone, Mother? What shall I do, then?"
"Well, Martha shall have to make you some more crumpets, of course." She smiled. "Now, run along, dearest, and do try to stay out of your father's way."
As the boy exited the office, Peter entered. The child ducked under his father's arm and ran down the hall.
"Alfred, come back here! Alfred!"
"Peter, hush." Constance reached for her second glass, the first one now empty. "Our guests will hear you, and what will they think? Shame on you, behaving so harshly on the children and it being the day of my eldest son's funeral."
Algernon glanced up at Constance, suddenly wishing he weren't in the middle of this conversation.
Peter closed the door behind him. "You're drunk, again," he accused distastefully.
"I'm in a state of grief." She lifted her chin so that the wrinkles of her neck were barely visible. Seated so closely to her, Algernon could see where the thick make-up on her face was beginning to crack. "I have a right to a glass of refreshment."
"Refreshment, my ass. I saw the maid bring you a bottle at breakfast." He scowled. "You disgust me, Connie. You've turned our son into a worthless, whining milksop. Our daughter can barely speak by her own wits, she's so downtrodden, and you spend your days getting soused and plucking your futtering eyebrows!"
A single, well-rehearsed tear ran down Constance's rice-powdered face. "My son is dead, and you speak to me this way?"
"Your son, to whom you barely gave the time of day after he returned from the savages? Your son, to whom you said 'good riddance' the day we received the message of his death at sea?" Peter spat. "Oh please, spare me, Constance. Save your histrionics for someone who doesn't know you as well as I do." He glanced at Algernon. "Save them for that little turd."
Algernon's mouth dropped open, shocked a husband would address his wife in such a manner.
Peter slammed the door behind him.
"Oh, what are you staring at? Eavesdropper!" Constance picked up a small leather-bound receipt book and threw at Algernon. It glanced off his ear.
He jumped up out of the leather armchair.
"Did you sign it?" she demanded.
"Y—yes."
"Then get the blast out of here."
Algernon backed toward the door. Constance was overwrought, that was all. Today was the day of Duncan's funeral. She wasn't really herself. "I—I'll speak with you later, madame." He clasped the doorknob. "When you're feeling better."
She snatched up the documents, still damp with his signature. He'd signed them Algernon Roderick, Earl of Cleaves.
"Get out!" Constance shouted. "Get out, all of you! This gray hair, it's your fault; the wrinkles, your fault," she ranted. "You did this to me, all of you! You made me old . . ."
Algernon reached the paneled door just before the second book struck.
Jillian tucked her hands behind her head, sitting up, but resting against a pillow. She was seated on the bunk in the captain's quarters of the Royal Fortune. Duncan and Jake had stolen the pirate ship out of the Port Royal harbor. "But it's been weeks," she protested, watching Duncan carry her dirty plate to a bucket near the door. "I'm going stir-crazy."
He came back across the small, but comfortable cabin, a glass of wine in his hand. "I want the leg to heal properly."
"I thought you said it was going to be fine. No limp."
He sat on the edge of the bunk. "It is." He brushed his lips against hers, tasting of wine. "It's going to be fine because I made an excellent splint and because you're going to do as I say and continue your bed-rest for another month."
Jillian laughed, running her hand over her rounded belly. "By then I won't be able to walk. You'll have to roll me."
He covered her hand with his. "I told you, Jilly, I find your change in shape rather attractive." He ran his hand back and forth over her abdomen. "A trim waist has nothing over this."
She was seven and a half months pregnant now. Duncan thought they'd be in Maryland within the next ten days, depending on the winds offshore. By the time they were settled in their house on the Chesapeake, the baby would be arriving.
Jillian smiled sadly. If only Bea were going to be with her when it came time for her lying-in. But, of course, that was impossible. Bea was still in Jamaica, safe she hoped . . she prayed.
Duncan brushed her chin with his fingertip. "What is it, sweet?"
She made a face. "I was just thinking about my sister."
"She'll be fine. You said yourself, Indigo wouldn't harm her. I'll be back to get her before she knows it."
Jillian gripped his muscular forearm. After only a month of decent food, Duncan already looked robust and healthy again. He seemed none the worse for wear for the two months he had spent on the sugarcane plantation, the only lasting evidence being a few gray hairs. "As soon as we reach Maryland, you'll go back for her? You promise?"
He held up his right hand. "Promise." Then he kissed her again.
Jillian licked her upper lip. "Good wine. Where did you get it?"
Duncan climbed into the bunk, and she wiggled over, making room for him, her leg still propped on a rolled blanket. "There are definite advantages to acquiring a pirate ship."
She lifted a feathery eyebrow. "Acquire? Now, you sound like Indigo. I thought it was called stealing."
He stared at her incredulously. "Not if the ship was never his to begin with."
She laughed. "But of course."
For a moment they lay side by side on the bunk, just happy to be together, pleased to have resolved their differences to the point where they knew they would live out their lives in content. Of course, there were still matters to iron out. So much of Duncan's past was still a mystery to her; but brick by brick, she was pulling down the wall that had once threatened to separate them forever.
"Duncan?"
"Yes?"
She rolled gingerly onto her side so that she faced him. "I know you said you don't want to talk about it, but what are you going to do about Algernon? I have a right to know."
He groaned. "I suppose word was sent immediately to the Colonies that the Kelsey Marie sank with all hands. Once word reaches London, if it hasn't already, the conniving bastard will have my inheritance again."
"So, what's to be done?"
"My solicitor will have to deal with the matter. I've got tobacco to plant."
"No." She traced the bear claw tattoo on his cheek. "I mean, what are you going to do about him? He has to be stopped."
"I'll have to kill him or have him killed, I suppose," Duncan answered flatly. "I've no choice. I'll not be safe—you and the babe'll not be safe—until the matter is settled."
"Couldn't you leave it to the courts?"
"And what proof do I have that my cousin attempted to have me murdered? The Kelsey Marie was not the first ship
to go down under a pirate attack, nor will it be the last. You think Indigo is going to go under oath and say who hired him?"
"I suppose not."
"It's Algernon or us, Jilly. And shortly, we'll have the child to think of."
"You're right." Jillian closed her eyes. Death. She didn't like to think about it, but it was the only logical answer.
"So, what would you like to do this evening?" Duncan questioned, changing the subject. He caught a stray lock of her hair and wrapped it around his finger.
She looked at him. "Go for a walk on the deck?"
"Nope. But I can carry you up, if you'd like."
She frowned. "It's not the same thing. Besides, Jake's sailors gawk at me."
"They can't help it. Some haven't seen a white woman in years, and certainly not one with such beautiful hair and charming freckles." He ran his finger along the bridge of her nose.
Jillian sighed with boredom. "We could play cards."
"Dice," Duncan offered.
"Or, we could . . ." She whispered in his ear.
Duncan grinned. "Precisely what I was thinking, but didn't want to be accused of being insensitive to my wife's delicate condition."
She laughed huskily, curling against him. "It's the only physical activity you'll let me participate in these days."
He set his glass of wine on a stool beside the bunk and took her in his arms, cupping one full breast with his hand. "Love-making is actually known to encourage broken bones to knit faster." He pressed his mouth to the valley between her breasts.
"I'd never heard that." She laughed, lifting her head to feel his lips at the pulse of her throat.
"So, tell me what you had in mind, lady-wife. Your wish is my wish."
She ran her fingers through his unbound hair, reveling in the scent of his masculinity. "I want you to kiss me."
He raised up on one elbow to brush his lips against hers. "Here?"
"Yes," she whispered.
He scooted down in the narrow bunk. "And what of here?"
Jillian ran her hands over his broad shoulders as he nuzzled her breasts, making a wet spot on the thin linen of her gown with his tongue.
"Yes," she whispered. She could already feel a warmth spreading over her, a warmth that kindled in the pit of her belly and radiated outward to her limbs.
My Savage Lord (Hidden Identity) Page 29