Keely's cheeks colored. "It's not what he said, it's what he—" She cut her sentence short, moving to the window.
Gwenevere chuckled deep in her throat. "I thought you needed a good kissing! I was just telling Lloyd the other day that you needed some proper kissing."
Keely swung around. "You didn't!"
He aunt laughed, obviously pleased. "It must have been quite a kiss to make you agree to spend the rest of your life with him."
"I said I changed my mind."
"And I said you can't. Now just marry him and make the best of it, the love will come with time."
Keely sighed, realizing the hopelessness of any argument. The savage was to be her husband, whether she liked it or not.
"Now I won't have you sulking. Put on something pretty and come downstairs. Brock's just arrived and he's invited a guest."
"A guest? Who? Micah?"
"Micah, is it?" Gwenevere crossed her arms over her ample bosom. "Let me give you some advice. Stay away from Micah Lawrence."
Keely lifted a brush from her dressing table. "He's Brock's friend."
"Friend, is he? Then what was he doing proposing to you?"
Keely lifted her dark eyelashes indignantly. "He thought he was helping me out of a difficult situation."
"Hmph! Helping you into one if you ask me."
Keely dropped the brush on the table irritably and went to retrieve her gown from the bed. "I didn't know you didn't like Micah. Why not?"
"I don't know. I just don't."
"He's certainly better mannered than Brock . . ." Keely dared.
Gwenevere nodded. "I'm quite sure he is, but one day you'll realize what's important in a man and what's not."
Feeling chastised, Keely turned away, pulling her gown over her head. She was confused. She never argued like this with Aunt Gwen. Wasn't anything ever going to be right again?
Gwenevere came to Keely, resting a hand on her niece's shoulder. "I didn't mean to be sharp with you, child. Who your friends are is certainly none of my business. The truth is that I never cared for the boy's parents. Micah's mother, Eve Lawrence, was a scandalous slut. Quite the jezebel. Everyone knew it. His father was little better—cheated at cards. Naturally I transferred my dislike to their son. You must think me quite an old fool, I know. Every woman has lightskirts now. It's quite the fashion."
"You could hardly say your life has been the model of propriety, Aunt," Keely chastised gently.
"You simply cannot compare my youthful peccadilloes to Eve's transgressions! You are too much an innocent to know the difference between high spirits and common sluttery." Gwenevere kissed Keely's head. "Now finish your toilette and come down."
"Who's the guest?"
"Jenna Williams. Her husband was Brock's first officer until he was killed on board the Tempest last year."
"How horrible! She continues to associate with the man that was her husband's undoing?"
Gwenevere laughed, turning Keely around so that she might button up her gown. "You have a lot to learn about these patriot fools. When her husband fell, she lifted the banner for him."
"Whatever do you mean?"
"Meet you downstairs in the parlor. I have to see to the pups' baths. Rupert strayed from the path on his morning walk and muddied his paws." Gwenevere blew a kiss across the room as she went out the door, leaving her niece to stand, staring in perplexity.
A half hour later Keely descended the grand staircase and went in to the parlor. To her dismay, there was no one there but Brock, seated before the chessboard.
"Good evening," he said, looking up. A spark leaped in his dark eyes as he admired Keely's slim form. She was dressed in a simple azure cambric gown.
"Don't you stand when a lady comes into the room?" she asked tartly.
"A lady, yes, but you're to be my wife."
She came to him, her hands planted on her hips. "And I'm no lady?"
"I didn't say that. It's just that I'd be a'bobbin' up and down like a cork on the sea with you coming in and out of the room for the next forty years or so." He turned his attention back to the chessboard.
Keely supposed he was right, but just the same, they weren't married yet. Wasn't she due a little respect?
"A good move that was of yours yesterday," came Brock's deep voice.
She leaned over to study the board. They had an ongoing game between the two of them, each one getting a full twenty-four hours to make a move when Brock was not away. "You think so?"
"I just said so, didn't I?"
"This marriage business, it's never going to work when neither of us can keep a civil tongue!"
"It's too late, you agreed." He took her hand, smiling wickedly. "And you have to admit, I am charming in a crude sort of way."
"As charming as a sewer rat." Her gaze settled on Brock's obsidian eyes. He was dressed handsomely this evening in his fawn-colored breeches and red waistcoat and he knew it.
"A sewer rat, is it? The lady kisses sewer rats?"
Keely twisted her hand, trying to escape his grip. "Why are you doing this? I said I would marry you; you're getting my money. Can't you be nice to me?"
He deepened his voice, getting to his feet as he still gripped her hand. "Nice? I'd die of boredom with niceties. I'd rather have a little fire, a little savagery in my life, wouldn't you?"
"Are you trying to frighten me?" She forced herself to stand stock-still as he lowered his head until his lips nearly touched hers.
"Certainly not," he whispered. "But I did want to warn you." Her scent enveloped him, making his chest tighten. Careful, his inner self warned. Don't get too attached, don't let her beneath your skin. Women are all alike, unworthy of love, too fickle, too cruel.
Keely lifted her dark lashes to stare into Brock's eyes, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "Your mother says you like to play Indian on occasion. Is this what she means?"
"My mother has a big mouth." Brock released her hand slowly, reluctant to break the intimate contact. It had been a long time since he'd felt this kind of burning desire for any woman. An image of Lady Elizabeth Cubitt and her azure eyes flashed through his mind and then was gone as quickly as it had come. Liz . . . She'd betrayed him . . . scorned him . . . and he must never allow himself to forget.
Keely chuckled, tucking her hands behind her back. "She says that's why you refuse to cut your hair."
Brock tugged at his long black braid of hair. "You don't like my hair?" he asked, his voice feigning injury.
Slowly, Keely reached to grasp the long mane that trailed down his back. "Would it matter?" His hair was thick and glossy; it felt good in her hand.
"No . . ."
Lucy stuck her head in the door. "Sorry to bother you two"—she giggled—"but Mistress Williams and her son are here."
"Send them in," Brock said. He turned to Keely the minute Lucy was gone. "Now I want you to behave yourself tonight. Just pretend that you like me. Jenna is a good friend."
"And what am I to get in return for this bargain?"
He smiled. "Another kiss?"
Keely turned crimson. "That's not funny." She folded her arms over her chest. "I think an even exchange would be that you will behave like a gentleman and not some sea-sailing redskin."
Brock laughed. "Your price is high. I'd prefer the kiss," he teased, "but all right, little cousin. My behavior will be impeccable. Now let's greet our guests, shall we?"
To Keely's reluctance, she found she liked Jenna Williams immensely. She was well educated, honest in her opinions, and most importantly, she was fun. Jenna wanted all of the gossip from England and wanted to know the latest fashion news. For nearly an hour they chatted while Brock took her four-year-old son, Max, out to the stables for a ride on a horse.
"Brock is good for my Max," Jenna said. "I appreciate his interest in the boy."
"My aunt told me about your husband. I'm so sorry."
Jenna shrugged. "We knew the risks."
"But now your son has no father," Keely l
eaned forward in her chair. "Aren't you bitter?"
"I'm not a bitter person. It's for my son that my Garrison died. It's for my son that I support independence from the Crown."
Intrigued by her new friend's conviction, Keely's eyes narrowed. "Aunt Gwen says you're a part of Brock's business."
"I help out when I can."
"A woman? They have a woman fighting their battles? What do you do?"
Jenna laughed. "Brock said I would like you." She smoothed her fashionable lawn skirts. "I can't tell you what I do."
"Because I'm English?"
"Because Brock told me not to."
"But what of your son? What if you're killed?" Keely asked.
"I take the risks like the rest of us. My mother raised nine children, she can raise one more."
Keely shook her head, rising at the sound of the dinner bell. "How can any cause be more important than your life? I just don't understand."
Jenna stood up, linking her arm through Keely's. "Then I shall have to make you understand, won't I?"
Chapter Seven
"He isn't coming," Keely stated flatly, staring out the window of her bedchamber. Her skin was a dusky pallor, her hazel eyes dull and lifeless.
Gwenevere leaped to her feet. "He's coming. I spoke to him last night before he went to the tavern. He was quite anxious for the day to come. He's just late."
Keely wheeled around, her hands caught up in the skirts of her emerald green wedding gown. "Four hours!"
"Dear, he's obviously run into some trouble." Gwenevere patted her niece's sleeve affectionately.
Not to be mollified, Keely continued to work herself into a rage. "Thirty-five people in the parlor. Thirty-five wedding guests and no groom. He'd better be dead!"
A sharp knock came at the door. "Come in!" Keely demanded.
Lloyd came storming through the door, dressed in a suit of rich burgundy brocade with matching stockings and high-heeled shoes. "Where the hell is he, Gwenevere?" he demanded, moving like a man half his age. He pounded a fist in his palm. "There can be no excuse for this impertinence! I knew this idea of yours would never work!"
"My idea, you old goat! 'Twas you who came to me with the thought in the first place!" Gwenevere's face grew redder with her rising anger. "I don't know where he is, but I'm certain there's an explanation."
"An explanation!" Lloyd drew himself up stiffly. "There can be no explanation to excuse leaving my niece at the altar!"
Gwenevere planted her hands on her well-rounded hips. "You'd better calm down before that fancy coat of yours becomes your death shroud. You're going to get yourself so excited that you're going to fall right out on the floor of Keely's bedchamber. Now wouldn't that be a handsome wedding gift!"
Keely turned from her aunt to her uncle and back to her aunt again as they volleyed their heated remarks until finally she couldn't stand it. "Please!" she protested over the din of their angry voices. "Please stop this. The guests are going to have to be sent home. He's not coming."
Lloyd and Gwenevere grew suddenly silent. "Don't you think we should wait just a little longer?" Gwenevere asked quietly.
Keely stripped off her gloves, throwing them dejectedly on the bed. "What of Micah or Jenna? Hasn't anyone seen Brock?"
"Micah didn't come, business elsewhere. George and Joshua are here, but they say that when they left the King's Head near midnight, Brock was preparing to leave."
"Drinking inebriants, I suppose," Lloyd wheezed, suddenly out of breath.
Concerned at his condition, Gwenevere went to her husband, pulling up a chair for him and pushing him gently into it. "You old goat, you know Brock barely drinks."
"Every man drinks on the eve of his wedding. . . if he's got any sense," Lloyd muttered dryly.
"And he's not on the Tempest?" Keely plucked the green bows from her glossy auburn hair, one at a time.
Lloyd shook his head, cradling it in his pasty-colored hands. "I sent Blackie down to inquire nearly two hours ago. The quartermaster says he was aboard yesterday afternoon accepting good wishes from his crew. From what I can gather, the boy intended on being here."
"Uncle," Keely said gently, kneeling in front of him. "Why don't you go lie down in your chamber for a little while?" She patted his bony knee.
"Guess I am a little winded."
Keely nodded grimly. "Walk with him, Auntie, then you can go down and tell the guests Brock's been detained and that they might as well go home. I don't think I can face them," she said with dry-eyed determination. No need to weep now, she thought. Her throat was so constricted that she could barely breathe. The colonial bastard, if he's not dead, I'll kill him!
Slowly Lloyd got to his feet and shuffled out of the room on Gwenevere's arm. Just as they made their exit, Jenna came to the door, knocking softly. "Could I come in?" she asked gently.
Keely nodded. "Please."
Jenna came to Keely, taking her hand to give it a sympathetic squeeze. "I don't know where he is, but I'm sure he would be here if he could."
Keely laughed, choking back a sob as she spun around to face the window. "No. He changed his mind. Ours was to be a no love marriage. He was only wedding me because my uncle wanted him to."
"Brock Bartholomew has never been a man to be forced into anything."
"Well, maybe not forced. He needed my money. Did he tell you I was to inherit a great deal of money besides my handsome dowry?" Keely asked bitterly.
"He did. But it doesn't matter; if he hadn't wanted to marry you, an entire King's ransom would not have been enough to persuade him."
"Then why isn't he here?"
Jenna walked slowly to the window to peer out on the gardens below. "Unavoidable business would be my guess."
"Business!" Keely's harsh voice shattered the silence of the room. "I'm sick of this business already! What is his business besides importing illegal goods? He takes on British ships, doesn't he? What else? What else?"
Jenna stood at the window with her hands folded demurely. "I can't tell you."
"Because you don't trust me? He doesn't trust me?"
"You've been under the King's influence for a long time, Keely. You're not to blame him. He just wants to be certain where your allegiance lies."
"Does he think me stupid? I know that when I agreed to marry him, my allegiance went to my husband, no matter what my personal opinions." Her lower lip trembled." 'Tis the way of the world. Doesn't he think I know that? Though I may not agree with his politics, I'd never endanger his life! How are we to be man and wife when I don't know what it is he does when he leaves this house? Isn't a marriage built of trust?"
"Mine was, but not all. There are women right here in Dover who watch their husbands steal out of the house into the darkness, and yet ask nothing. Some have no wish to know."
"But I want to know!" Keely paused, sighing heavily. "This could never work. I don't belong here. Maybe it's just as well he didn't come."
"Don't say that. When Brock told me of your impending marriage, I saw a light in his eyes I'd not seen in many years." Jenna's dark brown eyes met Keely's. "Maybe he has underestimated you; why not prove it?"
Keely's hazel eyes narrowed. "Was there ever someone else?" What she wanted to know was if Jenna was in love with Brock, but she couldn't bring herself to say it aloud.
Jenna smiled sadly. "There was long ago. Her name was Lady Elizabeth Cubitt; he served with her brother in His Majesty's Navy. Brock was young and a little innocent. Apparently the lady led him to believe that she was in love with him too, that they would marry. She used him to make the acquaintance of another officer and Brock became the butt of their jokes. It seems she had no intentions of marrying a 'colonial half-breed bastard." She looked away. "It was then that he resigned his commission and left England forever."
"And he never saw her again?"
"No, but I don't think he's ever gotten over her betrayal."
"And that's when he went to live with the Indians?" Keely asked.
"Yes, but
he doesn't talk about it. He spent two years on the Ohio River with his father's people. Then he returned to Dover, joined with Lloyd, and petitioned for his privateering commission." Jenna faced Keely. "You have to understand, Brock is a man caught between two worlds, Indian and white. He once told me he doesn't think he belongs in either world."
There was silence for several minutes and then Keely moved from the window. "Still, it's no excuse for leaving me here like this," she said, her sympathy fast turning to anger once again. "He had no right. If he wanted out of the agreement, he should have seen the solicitor."
"He wants to marry you. He'll be here, or he'll send a message. I'm sure of it; I know Brock."
Keely spun around, presenting her back to Jenna. "Could you unhook me? There'll be no need for this gown now."
Brock leaped out of the hired coach. "Wait here a minute," he instructed the driver in a tired voice. "I'll fetch your coin." Fumbling with the key to the lock on the front door, he cursed beneath his breath. Finally hearing the satisfying click of the mechanism, he pushed open the door.
Though it was nearly dawn, the Bartholomew household remained silent as Brock slipped into Lloyd's study and swept up some coins off the end of the mantel. Returning to the hired carriage, he pressed the cold coins into the driver's hand. "My thanks."
"Aye, Cap'n. If ye ever need a driver again, just gimme a holler. Jimmy Jo McCoogen's the name. I'll be in Phili 'til the redcoats run me out."
Brock waved farewell and walked slowly back into the house. Peering into a French mirror that hung on a gold cord in the front hall, he groaned aloud. His face was dark with the makings of a beard, his raven hair dirty and tangled, his eyes sunk back in his head from lack of sleep. The first thing he needed was to bathe and rid himself of his stinking clothes, then sleep. Only after he slept would he be able to deal with the force of the anger he knew would be bestowed upon him.
Moving quietly up the steps, he passed Keely's bedchamber, heading for his own. Just before his hand met with the polished brass of his doorknob, Keely's door flew open.
The Ruffian and the Rose Page 7