Pushing that unpleasant thought aside, Keely slipped on her nightrobe and padded barefoot down the front steps. She found herself suddenly hungry and wanted something to eat. To her surprise, a lamplight shone through the summer kitchen windows. Cautiously, Keely pushed open the door. Light spilled onto the brick walk and illuminated the summer night air. "Is someone there?" It seemed odd to her that anyone would be up at this hour.
"Evening," came Brock's deeply masculine voice.
Startled, Keely stepped into the kitchen. "I thought you were gone."
"I'm back." He was seated at the worktable in the center of the room, his boots propped up on it. On the table sat a pewter mug, a small wheel of cheese, some bread, and a bowl of peaches.
Keely was tempted just to return to her room. She hadn't seen Brock since the other day in Lloyd's office when their marriage had been proposed and she had no desire for a confrontation now. But slowly she came to the table, as if drawn to him by some unholy spell.
Tonight Brock was dressed in a pair of navy breeches and a lawn shirt, minus a stock and waistcoat. Keely's gaze came to rest on the triangle of bronze skin that peaked from the V of his shirt. She swallowed hard, mentally chastising herself for being such a ninny. What was wrong with her that a glimpse of bare male skin could make her heartbeat quicken?
She cleared her throat, reaching for a slice of aged cheese. "I trust your business went well . . ."
"Well enough."
"You certainly are the talkative one," she murmured sarcastically.
"I didn't know what they had cooked up, Keely." He tried to keep his gaze from straying to her slender neck, where wisps of auburn hair fell from a neat braid to entice him.
"Then you don't approve?"
"The truth?" He dropped his booted feet to the floor.
She nodded slowly, lost in the depths of his ebony eyes. "The truth," she whispered.
He tapped a stool beside him. "Sit." He waited until she had done so and then he spoke. "At first I was violently opposed. I had no intentions of marrying any time in the near future, though I'd like to have children."
Keely tore her gaze from his and reached for another bit of cheese. "But now?" She didn't know what made her so daring.
He reached out tantalizingly slowly to touch a lock of the dark red hair. "What do you think?"
His low rumbling voice was a caress, like the sound of the wind in the forest on a late afternoon. She moistened her dry lips. "I don't think I'm the woman for you. I think—"
"I think you're frightened of me . . ." He twisted the wisp of hair around his finger, mesmerized by its magical color.
Keely lifted her chin to study his sculptured face. "Why should I be frightened of you?"
"Oh, you know"—reluctantly he freed her hair and reached for the pewter mug—"me being a savage and all." When Keely said nothing, he changed the subject. "I understand Micah Lawrence came to call today."
"He did." She reached for a peach and a small paring knife.
"What did he want?"
He eyes narrowed, smiling secretly. "To propose marriage, I think."
"He what?"
Keely slipped with the knife, cutting her thumb. "Ouch!" she cried out as the knife fell to the floor with a clatter.
Brock rose up out of the chair. "Are you all right?" He took her hand, holding the thumb that oozed blood.
Keely watched Brock bring her thumb to his lips. His mouth was warm and moist on the injured flesh, sending an odd shiver down her spine. "It's all right," she whispered. She knew she should pull away, but her limbs were frozen, and she could do nothing but stare into Brock's dark eyes.
He sucked gently on her thumb, holding her in the countenance of his ebony eyes. "Micah is not the man for you," he said.
Gaining control of herself, Keely snatched her hand angrily from his. "And why not? He's your friend, isn't he?" She was angry at him for being so familiar with her and angry with herself for allowing it.
"Aye, that he is, but he's not right for you."
"Why, because he doesn't need my money as badly as you do, cousin?" she flared.
Brock's face grew taut with checked anger. Why did he care who she married, he wondered. Was the price of his privateering ventures worth the chains of marriage to a woman who came to him against her will? "I can't explain it," he said stiffly.
Keely took a step back. "It seems to me that even Lord Calvin would be better than you!"
Brock said nothing as she spun around and ran out the door and through the breezeway to the house. It wasn't until she was halfway up the front steps that she heard his voice come out of the darkness.
"Keely," he beckoned as he moved silently up the flight of steps.
Against her better judgment, she stopped and turned. "Yes?" she demanded.
Suddenly he was one step below her, bringing them eye to eye. "Keely, will you marry me?"
"What?" Only the moonlight shining through the window on the landing illuminated his bronze face.
His hand brushed the nape of her neck. His breath mingled with hers. "I said marry me," he whispered.
"Why?" she challenged, hoping he didn't hear the pounding of her heart.
"Because . . . because I don't know why . . ."
"Not a very good reason for a girl to marry," she retorted.
"Don't you ever do anything on impulse?" His obsidian eyes locked with hers. "Because it feels right?"
"Does this . . . does this feel right," she murmured, her head suddenly dizzy with confusion. His presence was so overwhelming that she seemed to lose all conscious thought.
"This does." Brock pulled her roughly against him, taking her breath away as he forced his mouth down hard against hers. Instead of resisting, Keely's lips parted to accept his sweet, searching tongue. She shivered as he planted the seeds of desire, combing his fingers through her thick hair as his mouth made its shocking assault.
When Keely withdrew, she spoke before thinking. "Yes, I'll marry you." She swallowed hard, frightened by her own words. "Though I'll probably regret it."
He laughed, releasing her so abruptly that she nearly lost her balance. "That's all right," he assured her as he went up the steps, "I'll probably regret it too."
Chapter Six
Brock ducked into the King's Head tavern and swept off his cocked hat, squinting as his eyes adjusted to the dim light of the smoke-filled room.
"Brock, where the hell have you been?" cried a voice from a table along the far wall.
"Christ, George, don't ask. I'll not be the brunt of your jokes for the next fortnight." He shrugged off his brass-buttoned sea jacket and tossed it onto a bench, along with his hat.
"Been with the tailor being fitted for a wedding coat, I suppose," Micah's mouth twisted and for an instant Brock saw a flicker of red-hot anger before his comrade laughed with amusement.
Brock's gaze met Micah's as Brock slid into a chair at the end of the rectangular wooden table. "You've a big mouth, friend."
"Wedding or a hanging?" George dissolved into raucous laughter. "I never thought I'd live to see the day Brock Bartholomew was caught in the noose."
"I knew it was only a matter of time," chided Joshua Kane.
"Who's the fortunate lady?" Manessah Lewes asked, then signaled for a barmaid.
"Well, Micah," Brock said irritably. "You might as well have finished what you started." Two days ago Keely had sent a message to Micah declining his proposal, but thanking him graciously. The following day, Brock and Keely's betrothal had been announced.
Micah rose to his feet. "My trusted friend, Brock, has beguiled his cousin, the lovely Mistress Keely Bartholomew, into marrying him."
The men cheered, banging their copper-bound leather jacks on the table. "Hurray!" one called. "Congratulations," cried another.
Brock raised his hands. "Enough gentlemen, we have business to attend to."
"Not so fast," George interrupted. "When does the miraculous event take place? We're to be invited, aren't
we?"
"That depends entirely on whether or not you can behave yourselves," Brock responded dryly, turning to the barmaid who stood at his side.
"Afternoon to you, Master Brock." The pox-faced barmaid dipped a curtsy, giggling behind her dirty palm. "Your usual, sir?"
He nodded, flipping her a copper pence. "Where's Jenna?" he asked as the serving girl skittered away.
"Haven't seen her," Joshua answered.
"No one's seen her since she went north?"
Micah lifted a jack of ale. "Not to my knowledge."
"Damn!" Brock muttered. "I knew we shouldn't have sent her."
"Now, now, my sister will be here," Manesseh assured him. "With Lord Howe marching toward Philadelphia, Jenna was the best choice. She's just late."
A week ago, on August 25, Commander Howe of the King's army had landed his warships at Head of Elk in Maryland. Some 18, 000 British troops had disembarked, leading to skirmishes with the patriot army at Wilmington and Cooch's Bridge in Delaware. Now, General Washington and the rest of the new nation waited to see what Howe's next move would be.
"She should have been back last night. Is there word from anyone else?" Brock accepted his china cup of herbal tea and dismissed the barmaid with a wave of his hand.
Micah shook his head. "All's quiet."
Just then the tavern door swung open. "Sorry I'm late," came a feminine voice.
Brock swung around. "Jenna, where have you been?"
The young woman laughed, shaking her mane of silver-blond hair. "You worry too much, Brock." She gave him a peck on the cheek as she swung around the table to take a seat beside Micah.
Brock leaned across the table. "So what's the word?"
"Howe's pigs are making a mess of things. Raiding and the like. I guess you heard they burned the courthouse records, ransacked the storehouses, and destroyed the army depot at Head of Elk."
Brock struck his fist against the table. "I knew we should have had the militia on that depot. We can't afford to lose supplies like this."
Jenna shrugged, taking a sip of ale from Micah's jack. "We should have expected it. Howe's men have been on those ships nigh seven weeks. Any army's going to pillage after being cooped up that long."
George leaned back against the wall, propping a foot on the back bench. "A commander ought to have better control over his troops."
Jenna reached for a crusty slice of bread. "If it's any consolation to you, gentlemen, I understand one man was hanged and three got the lash for their ill behavior."
"Hmph! Little good that'll do our soldiers this winter," Joshua muttered.
Brock sipped his tea. "What about our army? What are they lacking; what can we get them?"
Jenna laughed, her rich feminine voice echoing in the small public room of the tavern. "What do they always need? Black powder, cornmeal, soap . . . shoes. I understand they're terribly low on salt. My guess is that Washington had better be prepared to defend Philadelphia—Congress had better get their coattails out of there."
"Well"—Brock lowered his voice-"I have it from a good source that there's a fat English brig only a few days offshore . . ."
George leaned in. "Think you can catch her?"
"If there's a man who can do it, it's Brock." Joshua raised his jack in salute.
Brock shook his head, deep in thought. "She's going to be knotty," he said slowly. "There are two more in the fleet, but the scuttlebutt is they're a good day behind her."
"What's she carrying?" Jenna tugged off her mobcap and dropped it onto the table.
He smiled. "Salt and lots of it. Woolens, flour, salt pork, and the like."
Jenna's dark eyes danced mischievously. "When do you set sail?"
Brock glanced behind him to be certain none of the tavern's other customers were nearby. "On the morning tide."
"Good luck to you then." She rose to her feet. "And now, gentlemen, if you don't mind, I've got to get home. The rest of the information can wait. I've got a young son to tend to."
Brock stood up, following her to the door. "I'm going to be married, Jenna."
"Married? You?" She looked up at him with surprise. "I didn't know there was anyone. I'm glad to hear it."
He ran his hand over his head to smooth his dark hair. "Lloyd's niece. I brought her back from England with my mother."
Jenna grinned. "I hope she'll make you happy. You deserve it if anyone does."
"Happiness has nothing to do with it, but the cause can well use her dowry. I can buy another ship." He grinned. "Come for the evening meal tonight. I'd like you to meet her."
"And if I don't approve?"
He chuckled. "Too late. I signed the betrothal papers this morning."
"I suppose this means I've lost my chance. You're not going to fall madly in love with me, kidnap me, and sail off into the sunrise with me in your arms." Her voice was laced with good humor.
He lifted his hands. "You had your chance."
"Yes, Brock, I'd love to come. But would it be all right if I bring Max? I've been gone for days."
"Certainly, bring him along. I just want Keely to meet you. She could use a friend."
Jenna squeezed Brock's hand. "See you tonight."
Keely had been standing on a wooden stool in the center of her bedchamber until her arms ached from holding them out at her sides. The rotund mantuamaker had been making circles around and around, creating tucks and adding pins to the green damask wedding gown for nearly two hours.
"Please, Mistress Schmidt, you've got to hurry. My head hurts, my back is stiff, and I've got to use the necessary," Keely moaned irritably.
"Ja, ja. Helga is almost finished," Mistress Schmidt soothed through a mouthful of dressmaker's pins. "Lift deine arm just a bit. Gut! Gut! Ve are almost done." The mantuamaker turned to one of the three maidservants she'd brought with her. "Janey! Das scalloped lace on das bed. Hurry!"
The young woman scurried to do her mistress's bidding, and then stepped back admiring Keely in awe. "Beautiful," she breathed. "Ye've outdone yourself with this'n, mistress."
The bedchamber door swung open and Gwenevere hustled into the room, her spaniels barking and leaping at her skirts.
"Aunt Gwen! Help me!" Keely dropped her arms and a pin stabbed her in the armpit. "Ouch!" tears came to her eyes as she lifted her arms again.
"Enough! Enough!" Gwenevere proclaimed with a sweep of her arms. "Get her out of it, Helga."
"But Mistress Bartholomew, I have not complete meine vork." The mantuamaker's eyes grew large. "I cannot be expected to create a perfect gown if I cannot be allowed to vork!"
"Get her down this minute! Look at the child, she's near to fainting!" Gwenevere went to Keely, helping her down off the stool.
"I've never fainted in my life," Keely whispered in her aunt's ear.
"I know, but it sounds good," Gwenevere returned with a wink. "Now get it off her before I take it off," she said, raising her voice.
"But it vill not be right," moaned the mantuamaker, near in tears. "It vill be ruined!"
"I thought the whole idea was ridiculous anyway. She's being married in the parlor, for God's sake." She looked to Keely. "It was all Lloyd's doing, I want you to know. I wouldn't care if you wore your shift to your wedding if that was what you wanted."
Keely managed a smile. "He thought it would make me happy. He's never been fitted for a gown."
Helga Schmidt circled Keely, the spaniels ducking beneath her skirts as she tried to loosen the gown to remove it. "I can make no promises how it vill come out," she moaned, shaking her head. Stepping over a dog, she gave a squeak as the spaniel dove to catch the toe of her leather slipper in its mouth. "Vhat are these dogs?" she shouted.
Gwenevere laughed, clapping her hands. "Rupert, Annabelle, you poor pups," she crooned, shooing them out the door. "You've hurt their feelings."
Keely held up her hands as the dressmaker pulled the gown over her head. Sighing with relief, she slid down to sit on the wooden stool. "It's like an oven in here!
"
One maid fanned Keely's face with a paper fan while another handed her a glass of lemonade.
"Give it another few days, the weather will turn," Gwenevere assured her. "But nothing is certain in this beastly wilderness. In England one always knows the climate will be abominable. Now," she announced to the others in the room. "It's time you all were out. Shoo, all of you!"
The mantuamaker muttered in German as she ordered her maidservants about, gathering scraps of damask and packets of lace.
"Send a message when the gown is ready," Gwenevere commanded imperiously.
"Ja, ja, one last fitting vill do it," the dressmaker answered, still flustered.
"No. I think not. There will be no more fittings. My niece is about to become a bride, she's distraught! I'll not have Keely pierced with your sharpened bayonets again. If I'd had my way we'd have wrapped her in yards of chine silk . . . perhaps an East Indian sari—magenta—with a rope of pearls around her waist. Fashion is not limited to his majesty's realm, you know. Eastern garb is becoming quite the thing among the traveled."
Keely rolled her eyes heavenward.
"Now out with you!" Gwenevere smiled. "And thank you. You'll be well paid."
The mantuamaker made her exit with a great flailing of her arms and muttering beneath her breath. "Magenta. Saris?"
Keely laughed as the entourage of maids burdened with silks and laces followed their mistress out of the bedchamber. "Thank you," she told her aunt as the door was closed with a resounding bang.
"No need for such a fuss. Does Mistress Schmidt think Brock won't take you if the dress isn't to his liking?"
At the mention of Brock's name, Keely scowled. "I've made a mistake, Auntie. I don't want to do this; I don't want to marry your son. Maybe Lord Calvin wouldn't be so bad."
"Too late, the betrothal papers are signed." She took Keely's glass from her. "But just out of curiosity, tell me why you agreed in the first place. You seemed so obstinate in the garden the other day. Whatever Brock said to you that night must have been quite convincing."
The Ruffian and the Rose Page 6