Keely watched as Brock lifted his mother. Buried in a heap of brocade skirts and bustling crinolins, he deposited her inside the front door. "Put on a stone or so, haven't you, Mother?"
Gwenevere spun around. "So what if I have?" she asked with mock severity. "It's an old woman's prerogative to indulge in a sweet meat or two."
"Old woman!" He laughed, stalling for time, knowing it would be Keely he had to pick up next. "Joshua Kane was just asking about you. Sounds smitten to me."
"Oh, pshaw!" Gwenevere waved a lace handkerchief. "But next time you see Joshua, send him my greetings, tell him to come by and visit. I haven't seen him in near on four years. He visited me on the Morrow estates on several occasions, you know." Her eyes sparkled mischievously. "Well, fetch Keely, son, and let's get on with it."
Brock turned and came across the stoop. "Keely?"
She stood on the brick front walk, her arms crossed over her chest, her reticule dangling from her arm on a velvet string. "I can walk on my own, sir."
"Don't be difficult. I can't let you walk through the paint, now come on." Brock wondered vaguely why he was arguing with the chit. What did he care if she stepped in the paint?
"Keely, stop being a goose and come along. I swear, girl, you've not been yourself since we left England."
Biting her lower lip, Keely took a step forward. She was caught between not wanting Brock to lift her and not wanting to make a scene.
Brock swung Keely into his arms, hesitating as he gazed into bewitching hazel eyes framed with thick dark lashes. "How is it that I find myself toting you again," he asked softly. She smelled of lavender and freshly scrubbed skin. He groaned inwardly. What's wrong with me, he wondered, spinning around. I've been at sea too long when I start finding virgins appealing.
Keely held her arms wrapped tightly around Brock's neck, trying not to lean against his chest. The man was huge! He smelled of the salt air, of tobacco, and of the forest. As he lowered her to her feet, their eyes met for a second and then she turned from his striking face.
Chapter Three
Keely stood outside the closed door of Uncle Lloyd's office, waiting for Aunt Gwenevere to call her. A flood of happy memories washed over her as she ran her hand over the dusty wood of the hallway's paneled wall. Little had changed in the nine years that had passed since she left Dover for England. On the floor, the same blue and gold Persian rug ran the length of the hallway; the same handpainted, vined wallpaper ran from the ceiling to the chair rail. The house smelled of cinnamon and clove, and the rumble of servants' voices could be heard in the distance. The home she had grown up in was filled with familiar sights and sounds that had once made her comfortably content and now reassured her. She smiled at the sight of cobwebs hanging from a wall sconce. Though the servants had obviously been lax in their household duties since Lloyd had taken ill, there was nothing wrong with the house that a mop, a broom, and a little elbow grease couldn't solve.
The door to Lloyd's office swung open and Keely looked up. "Aunt Gwen?"
"Go ahead in, child, he's waiting."
Keely reached out to take her aunt's hand. "Aren't you going in with me?"
"Don't be silly, he'll not bite. He wants to see you alone." She squeezed her niece's hand reassuringly. "Now go on while I see to supper." She released Keely's hand and started down the long hallway.
Taking a deep breath, Keely smoothed the knot of auburn hair at the nape of her neck and then knocked lightly on Lloyd's door.
"Come in," a masculine voice beckoned.
Stepping into the room, Keely saw her uncle seated in a chair at a massive oak desk. Across the room was an identical desk, the one that had once belonged to her father.
"Come in, kitten," Lloyd Bartholomew said, turning in his chair.
Keely smiled. Her Uncle Lloyd looked no different than she had remembered him. He was a tall, slender man with silver-white hair and a clean-shaven face. He didn't look as if he was dying to Keely. "Uncle Lloyd."
He put out his hands to her. "Come, come, give your old uncle a hug." His brilliant blue eyes glistened with moisture. "I was afraid I wouldn't live to see your sweet face again."
Bending over Lloyd, Keely wrapped her arms around his neck, lowering her head to his shoulder. "I've missed you," she whispered.
"Is that all of the hug I get after nine years? Give me a squeeze, kitten, I'll not shatter. You've grown up to become such a beautiful woman."
Laughing, Keely squeezed him tight, inhaling his familiar scent. He smelled of tobacco and whiskey and hair powder, just as her father had. Withdrawing, she straightened up, studying his wrinkled face. "Uncle Lloyd, I can't believe it. You don't look a day older than when you put me on the boat for England."
He chuckled, indicating a straight-backed chair. "Excuse me if I don't stand, but my surgeon has forbid me; I'm not even to be out of bed." He winked. "Now sit and let me look at your lovely face."
Keely sat down, looking at the bookshelves that lined the interiors of two closets. Lloyd's office was distinctly masculine, with dark paneled walls and ominous rows of dusty leather-bound books. A fireplace took up one wall while another had two windows heavily draped in faded crimson velvet. "You haven't changed a thing," she murmured. "Not even Papa's desk."
Lloyd glanced at the twin oak desk that had been his brother's. "Matilda suggested I move it out of here often enough, but I just didn't have the heart."
"Matilda?"
"You don't know her. She came here after you'd gone. I hired her to run the house—" he waved a wrinkled hand—"do my sewing and the like."
She nodded, sliding back in the chair. "I'm glad you didn't move it." She ran her hand over the smooth-grained desktop, smiling sadly.
"So tell me, how was your journey? Not too arduous, I hope."
She shook her head. "I can't tell you I'm anxious to make the trip home again, but it wasn't as bad as I thought it would be."
Lloyd took a long-stemmed clay pipe from his desk and reached for his tobacco tin. "And what of Brock?"
Startled, Keely looked up. "What of him?"
"Do you like him?"
"Like him?" She blinked.
Lloyd chuckled. "Fine specimen of a man if you ask me. Bright, a head for business, and a full set of teeth. Not a rotten one in his mouth. Good stock, I suppose." He tamped at the bowl of his pipe and reached for a tinder box tucked in his faded gray-twill waistcoat. "What more could a female ask for?"
Keely shifted uncomfortably on the chair. What was her uncle getting at? What did he care what she thought of Aunt Gwen's illegitimate son? "Sir?"
"Oh, nothing." He sucked on the stem of his pipe, exhaling slowly.
An uncomfortable silence filled the room as Lloyd concentrated on his pipe, seeming to forget Keely for the moment. Finally, he looked up. "Well, kitten, I know you must be tired. Go on to your room and rest. I'll see you at supper."
Keely rose. "I am tired."
"Then go on. I'll have Matilda or one of the others show you to your room. If there's one thing I've got here, it's servants. Coming right out of my ears they are."
Keely laughed. "Then why do you keep them all?"
He shrugged. "Some folk collect prized chickens; I seem to collect misplaced help. I inherited Matilda when Mistress Samkins passed on. Lucy came off the stocks in Annapolis and Blackie—I caught him trying to steal horses at Sunday services."
Keely smiled, her hazel eyes twinkling with pride. "And what of Ruth? Is she still with you?"
"She is."
"And does she still make the best gingerbread in the three lower counties?"
Lloyd grinned, his pipe still clenched in his teeth. "She does. I sent her to the Solomons' with a tincture for Daniel, but she'll be back shortly."
Keely brushed her lips against the old man's wizened cheek. "I'm glad I came, Uncle Lloyd."
"So am I, kitten, so am I."
Keely lay awake in her childhood four-poster bed, staring at the forest-green drapes that floated dre
amily on the hot August night air. The tall case clock on the landing down the hall chimed midnight, and she rolled restlessly onto her side. Her stomach churned, growling, and she ran a palm over it irritably.
Brock had reigned over the evening meal like some foreign prince, making it impossible for her to eat. He had monopolized the conversations, entertaining Uncle Lloyd and Aunt Gwen with his sharp wit and intelligence until Keely thought she would scream. He had made no attempt to draw her into their discourse, politely ignoring her except to ask that she pass the bread pudding. While Brock rattled on of his adventures at sea, Keely had pushed her roasted chicken and boiled peas around the plate with her fork until Matilda had come and cleared away the dishes.
Keely couldn't for the life of her figure out what it was about Brock that Uncle Lloyd and Aunt Gwen found so fascinating and she found so infuriating. Whenever she was in the same room with him, she found herself tongue-tied or saying foolish things. How was it that she could carry on an intelligent conversation with the Prince of Wales, yet she sounded like a ninny in her cousin's presence. At least now that they had arrived in the Colonies, he wouldn't be so near. She realized that he would still visit with his mother on occasion, but at least now he would go home to his own house to sleep.
Keely's stomach growled again and she sat up, slipping her feet into a pair of silk mules that rested on the floor near her bed. Midnight or not, she knew she'd not sleep until she had something to eat. Shrugging on a robe of filmy cotton, she opened her bedchamber door quietly and listened.
The only sound she heard was the whining of one of Aunt Gwen's spaniels. The entire household seemed to be asleep; not a single candle burned. The tall case clock ticked ominously as Keely made her way down the steps. There was no need to light a candle—she knew her way by heart, even in the pitch blackness. Many times since she had left the Colonies she had dreamed of this house she'd grown up in; in her mind she had wandered its long hallways and explored its elegant boxwood gardens. England was her home and had been for quite some time, but still this house in Dover had haunted her.
Reaching the bottom landing, she followed the back hallway into the winter kitchen, out the door, and down a breezeway to the summer kitchen. Lighting a candle, she rummaged in the pantry, coming up with a peach, a slice of fresh-baked bread, and a sliver of yellow-white cheese. Spotting a row of dusty ale bottles, she snatched one up on impulse. Placing her bounty on a wooden tray, she slipped back into the main house and went into the parlor to enjoy her feast.
By the light of the three-quarter moon shining through the open window, Keely enjoyed the simple meal. The sound of peepers chirping in the woods filled the night air and she sighed, leaning back to draw her feet up beneath her. She was content with her life in England, but she had to admit there was something about his land that stirred her. There was something about the clean, fresh smell of the air, the vast openness, the vivification of the colonists that made her heart swell, her skin tingle.
Spotting an ancient chess set on a small table between two high-backed chairs, Keely rose to study the pieces. Lifting a delicately carved queen, she rolled it between her fingers, remembering the hours she had spent on winter evenings watching her father and Lloyd play the game. Setting the piece down lightly, she pushed a pawn forward. "Pawn to king four," she murmured.
"Knight to king's bishop three," came a deep, masculine voice from behind.
Startled, Keely turned to see Brock lean forward to move the black knight to the indicated position. "What are you doing here?" She clutched her robe at the waist, lifting the collar to conceal her bare neck.
"Doing?" He smiled roguishly, making her cheeks color. "I live here, my dear."
Keely's face fell. "Live here?"
"Well, where did you think I live, in a wigwam outside of town?"
He had changed his clothes since the evening meal and now wore a working man's garb. His high black leather boots led to fawn-colored breeches stretched taut over massive thighs, joining smoothly with the pristine white of his shirt and stock. His thick, blue-black hair was tied with a leather thong to hang like a mane down his back. He was the most handsomely intimidating man Keely had ever seen in her life.
Flustered, she took a step back. "Well, I . . . no, of course not, I just thought somewhere . . ." She shrugged taking another step back." . . . I just thought you had a home . . ." She let her voice trail off into uncomfortable silence.
Brock laughed. "I do. My home is here. After I returned from my father's people on the Ohio, Lloyd took me in. He set me up in the shipping business; he's been very good to me."
"I should say so, considering!" Keely blurted.
Brock's eyes narrowed. "So young you are, my English cousin. So little you know about the world. My being an honest man meant far more to Lloyd than being a bastard, even his wife's bastard." He turned to the window, not wanting her to see the tears welling in his eyes.
Keely trembled. She had hurt him and she was sorry. She ran her fingers softly across his shoulder and he turned back toward her. Her eyes locked on Brock's dark, brooding features.
"I'm sorry," she whispered. "That was uncalled for. But I am not as young as you think."
Brock took her chin between his thumb and fingers, making her tremble. His touch was hot against her skin, the scent of his male flesh rising to taunt her senses.
"Nor am I as naive."
"No, maybe not." Forgetting himself for the moment, Brock leaned into her. Her face was delicately oval in shape, her skin a creamy satin. He could see her soft, shapely lips trembling, daring him to kiss them. He was so close that he could feel her sweet breath on his face.
Keely lowered her lashes instinctively, her breath catching in her throat.
Brock withdrew abruptly. "No, you're no child, but you play childish games I've long outgrown."
Keely's eyes flew open. His face was a mere inch from hers, his dark eyes laughing. She pulled back, her cheeks growing flushed with embarrassment.
"Your move," he said, taking a step back.
"My . . . my move?" Her heart was beating wildly, her hands trembling. What did he mean? What did he expect her to say, to do?
"The chess set, mistress." He pointed at the table. "I take it you play . . ."
"Oh, Lloyd!" Gwenevere giggled girlishly, curling up at his side beneath the light cotton spread on his massive oak bed.
"We never got along so well when we were together, did we?" He lifted a wrinkled hand to brush a stray lock of hair off her cheek. The light of the candle on the stand next to the bed cast an aura of golden light over Gwenevere's face, making him smile at the memory of her once youthful features. Even now, in his eyes, with the creases of age and the plump curves, she was still one of the most beautiful women he had ever known.
She caught his hand, pressing a kiss to his palm. "Too young and foolish, I suppose. I should have made an attempt to stay here with you and be happy."
"You're right, you should have, but I should have insisted you stay." He sat up slowly, propping himself on a plump goose-feather bolster. "I should have thought less of the damnable business and more of my wife."
Gwenevere shook her head, lifting the counterpane to cover her bare breasts. "Should have, could have, the soup has stewed, Lloyd. 'Twas in the stars." She smiled, leaning forward to kiss his lips. "Admit it, you and I were never meant to be. Our fate was sealed before we breathed our first breath."
"So why did you come to me? To make an old man happy on his death bed?"
She laughed, sitting up beside him. "Or to kill him. I'm certain your surgeon's instructions didn't include frittering." Her rich brown eyes grew serious. "Actually, I don't know why I came—guilt?" She looked away, staring at the ancient crimson bedcurtains. "I hope not. I like to think of it as good friends saying good-bye." She turned to study his aged face.
"Then a man could receive no finer a farewell." Lloyd took her hand in his. "And now on to the business at hand. You must know why I called you
."
"I do, but are you certain you're dying? You seem healthy enough to me." She smiled coyly.
Lloyd chuckled. "You could always make a man feel like a king, Gwen. But yes, I'm certain. I've had two heart attacks in the past year. My surgeon says I can't possibly survive the next." He smiled sadly. "My time's run out."
She nodded. "Then what's to be done? Why do you need me?"
"I wanted your consent, in person. I have a proposal to make, but I wanted your word on it first."
She looked at him, puzzled. "A proposal?"
"I have a niece not of legal age who will inherit a great deal of money when I die; you have a son with a large shipping business and no means to run it when I'm gone . . ." He paused, letting the information sink in. "My proposition is a legal union between the two parties."
Gwenevere gasped. "Marriage? You want my son to marry Keely?"
He shrugged. "And why not? They're of no blood kin. Do you not think it fitting?"
"Well, no, it's just that it didn't occur to me that you would think Brock of high enough station to marry her."
"Bastard or no, I've never met a finer man, Gwen. I'd trust him with my life, so why not the life of my only living heir?"
Gwenevere sat back in the pillows, her hands clasped. "You're right." She nodded thoughtfully. "The perfect solution. Keely's inheritance is safe . . ."
"If I were to die without appointing a guardian, one would be appointed. No telling how mismanaged her funds would be. And Brock would no longer have the money to continue financing his ventures."
"If they married, no matter who wins or loses this bloody war, the Crown or you traitors," she said good-naturedly, "the union would retain the money."
Lloyd nodded, pleased with himself. "The only question is, will Keely and Brock agree the solution is so simple?"
She turned, slipping her hand beneath the coverlet. "Certainly not. They've been at each other since the minute she set foot on board his ship, but I can speak with him if you're willing to take on Keely."
Lloyd chuckled, leaning to blow out the candle. "All right, I'll speak with her. But as usual with you, Gwen, I believe I've gotten the short end of the stick."
The Ruffian and the Rose Page 3