The Ruffian and the Rose

by Colleen French

  "I meant to be." Brock's eyes narrowed. "You were listening? That's not like you."

  The gray-haired man laughed, waving his pipe. "Hell no, I wasn't listening. I haven't the energy to stand that long these days. Lucy told me."

  "Something's got to be done about that wench's loose tongue before she gets herself or us into trouble."

  "Lucy's harmless—you have my word on it. Now back to Keely. I don't want her hurt; I don't want to see her spirit trampled. She's seen a lot of changes in her life in these last few months."

  Brock's dark eyes met Lloyd's. "I must be hard on her; I have to make her understand the severity of our situation. My contacts are none too pleased to hear that I've married a proclaimed British subject. It's been suggested she be sent home to England."

  Lloyd's eyes narrowed. "And will you, when I'm gone?"

  "No . . ." Brock sighed." . . . I don't know. It would make things easier."

  "You've never been one to take the easy road, son. You know it's my wish that she remain here. This is where your sons belong, here on freedom's land."

  Brock ran a hand through his raven hair. "All I can tell you, sir, is that I will watch and wait and see what the situation commands. Hopefully she'll learn her place as my wife and accept my political affiliations, or at least tolerate them."

  Lloyd chuckled. "You've your hands full then. She'd never betray you, son, but she's got her own thoughts on what's right and what's wrong. She'll not be an easy one to win over. Owen's brought her up to be awfully hardheaded."

  "Well, she's my wife and I wanted things straight between us from the beginning. Once she begins to take over household business, this will all be forgotten. Women aren't interested in politics."

  "And what of Jenna?"

  "She's different, you know that. Now don't worry, I can handle my wife, sir."

  "I'm glad to hear it." Lloyd lifted his booted foot to a footstool, a smile pulling at the corners of his wrinkled mouth. "Now, tell me what's about in Philadelphia and leave nothing out . . ."

  For the next few days conversations between Keely and Brock were cool and kept to a minimum. It hurt Keely to think that her husband found her untrustworthy, yet Aunt Gwenevere and Uncle Lloyd both assured her he was just being cautious. Both were certain that they would come to an understanding and that it would just take time. Keely knew she should confront Brock on the matter of her loyalty and explain to him that she knew when she married him that her first loyalty would have to be with her husband, but he was so accusing and angry that he filled her with fear and fury. There was just no talking to him.

  When Brock set sail a week after they'd been married, Keely couldn't help feeling glad he was leaving. She didn't like sleeping with her back to him, listening to his light breathing, wondering what he was thinking. Since their wedding night, he had made no attempt to make love to her and that was worrying her. Was that it? Had he done what he considered to be his duty? Would she ever see that tender, warm side of her husband again? Had he really desired her, or could a man feign ardor? By the time Brock set sail for some unknown destination, the man she had spent her wedding night with was barely a shadow in the recesses of her mind.

  Two days after Brock had gone, Micah came calling. Keely received him in the garden, where she was reading a leather-bound copy of Homer's Iliad. "Micah, how good to see you." She set her book on the bench, rising to offer her hand.

  Micah's lips brushed the back of her hand. "By the King's hounds, you just look radiant today, Keely."

  "Oh, sit down. Your flattery is wasted on this old married maid."

  "Nonsense. Married life must suit you well. You're utterly breathtaking this morning." He sat beside her on the bench.

  She straightened the woolen shawl she wore over her brocade morning gown. The September air had turned crisp in a day's time, bringing a refreshing breeze off the ocean to cool the heat of August and ripen perfectly shaped apples on the trees in the garden. "Well enough."

  "If only it could have been me, Keely," Micah said wistfully.

  She looked at him with open surprise and then frowned. "Oh Micah, please don't say that or I'll have to ask you to leave. Brock is my husband now and of my choosing."

  "You want me to go?" he asked quietly. His yellow-gold hair peaked from beneath his beribboned cocked hat to shine brilliantly in the morning sun.

  "No, I don't. I want to be your friend. I liked you from the moment we first met. It's just that I wanted you to understand. I really had no right to make you think I could honestly consider your offer. It was my uncle's choice that I wed Brock." She looked away, slightly embarrassed.

  Jealousy flickered in Micah's eyes. "I'm no proud man. I'll take the spoils."

  Keely turned to him, a frown creasing her brow. "The spoils?"

  Micah's scowl turned so quickly to a sincere smile that Keely missed the transformation all together. "Your friendship, my dear. If I cannot have your undying devotion, I shall just have to accept your friendship."

  "Oh." She smiled. "Good."

  "And while we are getting things straight here, I want to apologize about what happened to Brock the night before you were to marry."

  "I'm certain you would have helped if you could have."

  "Helped?" He erupted into laughter. "I could have prevented the whole thing; it was my idea to put him on that carriage in the first place. Though, I have to admit I was well in my cups when the idea came to me."

  Keely tried to mask the shock she knew was evident on her face. "The carriage?"

  "The carriage I put Brock on after he passed out—the carriage to Philadelphia. It was just a joke. I didn't realize he'd sleep ten hours." The smile faded from his face. "You didn't know about the carriage?" he said haltingly.

  Keely shook her head, turning away. She was mortified at the thought that she'd been so gullible. Brock had told her he'd been kidnapped and she'd believed him! The colonial bastard had lied to her!

  " I'm. . . I'm sorry," Micah murmured. "I didn't mean to—"

  "It's all right, Keely interrupted, getting hold of herself. "I just had some English tea brought in this morning. Would you like some?"

  Micah lifted a brushed golden eyebrow. "Your husband is allowing you to accept English goods?"

  "Certainly not, so don't tell him. Tea or no?"

  "Yes, indeed I will, thank you. Unlike my other patriot counterparts, I've not lost my taste for it."

  "Then come into the parlor." She stood, picking up her book. "I'll have Lucy bring us a pot and some of Ruth's gingerbread."

  "Excellent." Micah offered his arm, thoroughly pleased with himself. "My lady."

  "Sir."

  When the Tempest entered the Saint Jones River more than a week later, Keely was on the Bartholomews' private dock, tapping her foot decisively.

  Had she not been so furiously angry with Brock, she might have taken more notice of just how breathtakingly beautiful the Tempest was as she sailed up the river, her pennants fluttering in the breeze. Long boats towed a British brig behind her, its ensign flying upside down in defeat.

  Yesterday Joshua Kane had brought Keely a message sent by Brock. The tiny piece of foolscap had been crumpled, the ink smudged, after being passed from the Tempest to another privateering vessel and then to Joshua before it finally came into her hands. The brief note was in Brock's own scrawled handwriting:

  Keely,

  Mission was a success. I am well. See you on the morrow.

  Brock

  Instead of bringing her relief by saying that Brock was safe, the note only fueled her anger. Did he think he could just march off whenever he pleased and justify it by sending a silly note? Brock had lied to her about why he had missed the wedding and she wanted an explanation. Who was he to be concerned with her loyalties when he had come into their marriage with an inexcusable lie on his tongue? Keely had said nothing to Aunt Gwen or Uncle Lloyd about what Micah had told her, seeing no need now, but she had counted the hours until her husband return
ed so that she could confront him.

  When the wooden hull of the sleek vessel scraped the dock, sailors in tarred pigtails ran to catch the lines that were tossed overboard. Keely could hear Brock's voice, carried by the sea breeze, as he called out instructions in a deep tenor. When he spotted her on the dock in her sapphire brocade gown and bonnet, he lifted a hand in salute, smiled, then turned away to speak to one of the crewmen.

  Shortly, a gangway was lowered from the Tempest and a hulking black man disembarked, making his way to Keely's side. "Mistress," he beckoned in a soft, lilting voice, "The captain asks that I escort you aboard." He lifted a dark hand in the direction of the sharp-hulled privateering vessel.

  Keely nodded, swaying with the crowd of men gathering to see the English vessel captured by the Tempest. "Lead the way, sir."

  Isiah stepped forward and the crowd of cheering patriots moved back, allowing the lady and her escort to pass. Unassisted, Keely crossed the gangway, setting foot lightly on the deck. Spotting Brock just forward of the foremast, she stalked up to him, her face taut with anger. "Brock . . ."

  "Keely." He turned to her smiling. "Good to—"

  "Don't you Keely me, you—"

  With one swift motion Brock leaned forward, catching Keely's hand and forcing his mouth hard against hers. She struggled to disengage herself but he held his mouth pressed to hers until she was faint. In the back of her mind she heard the roar of men's voices, catcalls, and clapping. When Brock finally released her, she could do nothing but sputter, gasping for breath. With a forceful hand on the small of her back, Brock hurried her across the deck and down the steps below. He didn't let up on the pressure of his hand until they were in his cabin, the door closing out the sound of raucous male laughter.

  "How dare you do that in front of all those men!" Keely spit, tugging off her bonnet.

  Brock's raven eyes narrowed dangerously. "How dare you launch a tirade in front of my men!"

  "You lied to me, you son of a bitch!" She raised her hand to strike his face but he caught it in midair.

  "I what?"

  Realizing her mistake, she lowered her hand, suddenly frightened by his booming voice. "You lied to me! You were never kidnapped," she murmured bitterly.

  "That's it, is it?" He released her hand. "Then, I'm sorry." He turned away. "I'll have Micah's head for this."

  "Why is he to blame when you're the one who played me false? You tricked me; made me feel sorry for you!" She took a step toward him, shaking a finger. "If I'd known the truth, I'd never have agreed to marry you the second time. I'd have had Uncle Lloyd withdraw the betrothal agreement. I'd have sooner married old Lord Calvert than a liar."

  "That's why I did it," Brock said calmly.

  "You . . . you . . ." She took a deep breath, suddenly without words.

  "It was wrong, but I just thought it would be easier than telling the truth. I wanted you to marry me."

  "You mean you had to marry me because you'd already spent part of my dowry on your stupid ship."

  "True."

  Keely's hazel eyes grew moist with defeat as she turned her back on him. Brock's brutal honesty was almost more than she could bear. On their wedding night she had been so optimistic; she had hoped that his behavior, his tenderness, was a reflection of what would be.

  Silence stretched between husband and wife for a moment. Brock studied Keely's slim figure, noting the auburn curls that sneaked from beneath her linen snood to curl beguilingly at the nape of her neck. Seeing her tremble, he had to restrain the urge to take her in his arms and kiss her creased brow. Suddenly her unhappiness seemed important to him. But he held his ground. "I apologized. What else am I to do?"

  "That's it? You expect forgiveness because you say you're sorry," she said in disbelief.

  "I told you why I lied."

  "And it was a rotten excuse," she countered.

  He shrugged. "I got what I wanted . . . you."

  Keely met Brock's dark eyes with cool contempt. "How could you be so cruel to me? What have I done to you?"

  "It's not cruelty, it's truthfulness."

  "Well, I'm sick of your damned truthfulness. I don't want truthfulness! And I don't want you, you stinking traitor! I want to go home!" Taken aback at the words that slipped from her mouth, Keely stood for a minute in shocked silence then ran out of the cabin, slamming the door behind her.

  "Keely, come back here," Brock cried out in fury, slamming his fist into the door. How could he have been so stupid as to have married her, money or no? How could he have been so idiotic as to allow himself to care for her? She was right. She should return to England, but the truth was . . . he didn't want her to go.

  That night Keely retired early, not wanting to have to see Brock when he finally returned home from the ship. She had heard him shout after her, she had heard the sound of a fist or a foot hit the door behind her, and she hated him. Tears ran unchecked down her cheeks. She was homesick and she wanted to go home. She would go home! But Keely knew that she couldn't go running to Aunt Gwen or Uncle Lloyd. She was a married woman now so she would just have to get up her nerve and settle it with her husband herself. If Aunt Gwen and Uncle Lloyd could live their married life apart, so could she and Brock. But even as she lay in her bed making plans to return to England, a small part of her protested. Why?

  Their wedding night. That's why. Keely rolled onto her side, drawing the counterpane to her chin. Brock's lovemaking . . . he had been so tender, so sincere. Even now, the thought of Brock's hands touching her brought a moistness between her legs. She was ashamed that she had allowed him to make her feel so deeply. She was ashamed that she had wanted him, that she wanted him even now. With that thought, Keely drifted wearily into a dreamless sleep.

  Sometime in the middle of the night Brock shook Keely gently, calling her name.

  She was slow to wake, drifting pleasantly on the sound of Brock's soft, beckoning voice. The warmth his skin radiated enveloped Keely as he lifted her, sliding onto the bed to cradle her in his arms. She lifted her dark lashes deliciously slowly to stare up at her husband. Half-asleep, she forgot her anger. The only thing she felt now was his warm breath on her face and the fingertips that brushed her breasts.

  The light of the candle at the bedside glowed golden, casting an aura of peacefulness over Brock's bronze face. "Keely," he called softly. "Wake up, ki-ti-hi."

  "Brock?" She smiled drowsily, lifting her hand to stroke his broad cheek. He's come to me to beg my forgiveness, she thought with heavy-eyed contentment, her eyes drifting shut again.

  "Keely, please." Brock smoothed her mussed hair, kissing her temple. "Come on, sleepyhead. You've got to listen to me."

  She forced her eyes open. "What is it," she whispered softly.

  "It's Lloyd, Keely. You've got to wake up," Brock murmured. "He's dead."

  Chapter Ten

  Keely blinked, uncomprehending. "What, Brock?" she murmured.

  "It's your uncle. He's died in his sleep." His dark eyes shone with compassion. "I thought you would want to see him."

  "Uncle Lloyd?" she was fully awake now, still cradled in Brock's arms. He hadn't come to apologize, he'd come to tell her Uncle Lloyd was dead! Keely slipped out of bed to escape the warm embrace of her husband. "Dead?" She moistened her dry lips in confusion.

  "I'm afraid so," Brock answered quietly. "I'm sorry."

  She turned to him, noticing for the first time that he was fully clothed. "What time is it? When did he die?"

  "Apparently he died in his sleep. Mother sent Blackie to get me down at the dock. I was still aboard ship; I had British prisoners to unload." He wondered why he felt the need to explain to Keely why he wasn't home, here in bed with her at two in the morning.

  "He died and Aunt Gwen didn't call me?" Keely ran a hand through her thick unruly hair. Untended like this, it was a mass of fire-lit waves, nearly reaching her waist. "I don't understand. If he died in his sleep, how did Auntie know?"

  Brock could not resist the briefest sm
ile. This English wife of his was such an innocent. "Because, Keely, they've been sleeping together since you arrived. She was with him when he died."

  "Sleeping together?" She laughed, an edge of hysteria in her voice. "They were not!"

  Brock got up from the bed to fetch Keely's night robe and hold it up for her to slip her arms into it. "It's all right, you know; they were married."

  She shook her head in disbelief, fumbling with the silk frogs that ran the length of her robe. "You're crazy, everyone in this house is crazy, and now you're making me crazy."

  He laid his hand gently on her shoulder. "Come on, if you want to see him. I wanted you to have a moment alone with him before I got the whole house up."

  Keely nodded dumbly, allowing him to usher her out of their room and down the hall toward her uncle's room.

  When Brock reached Lloyd's bedchamber, he turned to her. "Stand here a minute." He slipped into the room then returned to the door. "Come on." He offered his hand and she accepted it without question.

  Candles were ablaze on every table in the distinctly masculine bedchamber. The room smelled of hair powder, of tobacco, and of her uncle. Gwenevere sat on the edge of the bed, beside her husband's still body, wiping her eyes with a lace handkerchief.

  "Auntie . . ." Keely cried out.

  Gwenevere looked up, her eyes swollen and streaked red from spent tears. When she saw Keely, she smiled sadly, rising to take her niece in her arms. "It's all right, honey. He went peacefully," she soothed as tears slipped down Keely's cheek.

  Brock left the room, closing the door discreetly behind him.

  "He kept saying he was going to die, Auntie, but I didn't believe it." She sniffed. "He seemed so healthy!"

  Gwenevere laughed, dabbing Keely's eyes with her own sodden handkerchief. "I know. The old goat was such a good actor, I nearly believed it myself." She kissed her niece's damp cheek. "But you mustn't be sad. Death is a part of life, it just completes the circle."

  Keely nodded, accepting the handkerchief Gwenevere offered. "I just wish there'd been more time. There were things I wanted to tell him."