Keely laughed huskily, arching her back beneath him, lifting her hips rhythmically. She was lost in a swirl of aching want. It had been too long since their bodies had met as one and she longed for that sweet union. Keely raked her nails over Brock's back, writhing, calling his name as he suckled at her breast.
Twisting Brock's thick black mane in her fingers, she forced his mouth down on hers, her tongue darting out to taste of him. "I want you," she whispered. "Now, Brock, please . . ."
Brock brushed the damp tendrils of hair from her cheek, kissing her love-bruised lips. It was difficult for him to believe that this was his wife who gazed up at him with such rapturous abandon. "God, Keely, I . . ." The word love was on the tip of his tongue as he slipped his engorged manhood into her, but he said no more.
Lost in the throes of full arousal, Brock's words went unheeded as Keely lifted her hips, matching his rhythm. Just a few short strokes and she was clinging to him, crying out with abandon as she surrendered to an ocean of complete and utter fulfillment. A moment later, Brock pushed home and then he, too, was silent.
It was a long time before Keely's breath finally came evenly and she lifted her dark lashes to stare up at her husband's face. It was a perfect face and suddenly she was afraid she was in love with him.
Brock lifted the lid of a barrel and peered in, then dropped it again and made a mark on his sheet of paper. He moved on to the next barrel. The dock was alive with the sights and sounds of a sunny July afternoon as he worked his way down the row of assorted kegs and crates. A scrawny half-man half-boy followed on his captain's heels, nodding vigorously.
"Yes, sir. I think I got it now," Marky Mcgraw murmured eagerly.
Brock squinted in the bright sun. "You told me that yesterday, Marky, but you still managed to lay level an entire week's worth of figures." He sighed. "Now these things have got to get to General Washington's troops. You said you could read and do sums when I hired you, son."
"Yup, yup, and that I can. My mama was a learned woman, she was, God rest her soul." Marky yanked his felt hat off his scraggly red head and crossed himself.
"Very well, I give you one more chance, but I'm warning you"—Brock shoved the paper and quill into his hand—"if you make a muck of it again, I'll have you bailing bilge water."
"Yes, sir," Marky nodded. "I can do it, sir, and do it right this time."
Brock looked at the boy doubtfully. "Well, get to work, just don't stand there."
Leaving the lad, Brock headed down the dock toward the Tempest.
"Brock!" came a voice from behind. "Brock, wait."
Brock turned to see Micah Lawrence alighting from a carriage. Scowling, he waited. Since his marriage to Keely, Brock's friendship with Micah had nearly dissolved. The fact that until very recently Keely preferred the man's company over her own husband's had been more than Brock could stand, though he refused to admit it. He'd also grown aggravated with the fact that although Micah had much to say at their patriot meetings in the King's Head, he did little work, and none of it dangerous.
"How have you been, old friend?" Micah clapped Brock on the shoulder. The handsome fair-haired man was dressed today in an outrageously fashionable sapphire brocaded suit with matching shoes. "I haven't seen much of you lately."
"Do you need something?" Brock asked quietly. "I've much to do."
Micah lowered his voice, all the while grinning broadly. "Could I see you privately?" He nodded to a passerby he recognized.
"Privately?" Brock lifted a dark eyebrow.
"Your cabin, perhaps."
Curious, Brock nodded. He led Micah on board ship and across the deck. Neither man spoke again until they were in the captain's cabin with the door closed.
Micah glanced down at the maps sprawled across Brock's rack. "Have you anything to drink, old friend?"
Brock leaned against the door, crossing his hands over his chest. "Water."
Micah laughed, tossing down his feathered cocked hat. "No, something of substance. A little brandy?"
"I've no brandy."
Micah sighed. "Pity."
"Get on with it, Micah. I told you I'm busy." Brock scrutinized the patriot, wondering how they could ever have once been friends.
"I want you to understand that it's only after great contemplation that I come to you. I mean to make no trouble."
"Go on."
Micah smoothed the silk of his waistcoat. "You make this so difficult. Must you stand there looming over me? I swear you look more like a savage every day!"
"Speak!" Brock barked.
"Very well." Micah took a deep breath. "I wanted you to know that Keely . . . that she's said things."
"Things?" Brock's mouth went dry.
"You mustn't ever say who told you. I don't recommend that you do anything yet except keep an eye on her. But I thought you should know." Micah turned his back to Brock, smiling to himself. "At first I just thought it was idle gossip, but last week she made mention of the Carter affair. She knows that we were the ones who captured him and gained that information on the British troop movement."
"What do you mean?" Brock clenched his fists instinctively. "I said nothing of that to her or anyone outside of the circle. She couldn't have known."
"Well, she does." Micah spun around, watching Brock carefully. "I didn't want to say anything in front of the others, for your sake."
The veins stood out on Brock's neck as he struggled to keep control. He swallowed against his rising fears. "Are you certain?"
"You think I'd say anything if I wasn't?" Micah asked quickly. "I suspected before, but then everything was quiet for a while."
"When she had Laura and was recovering . . ." Brock intoned.
Micah nodded. "Exactly. At first I thought it all coincidence . . ." He shrugged. "But now I'm not so sure."
Brock took a long time to answer. "You're not to tell the others," he finally ordered quietly.
"Of course not. We're friends, you and I. It wouldn't be your fault if your English wife turned out to be some sort of enemy spy."
"I thought you were her friend." Brock wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, trying to brush away the bad taste that rose in his throat.
"I'm a friend to the cause of freedom first, just as you are."
Brock studied Micah's crystal-clear blue eyes. Micah said all the right things, and yet something didn't sound as it should have. His speech was calm and collected, without remorse. All too well without emotion. Brock heard Micah's accusations; he heard his evidence and yet something deep within him made him question the validity of it all. "I'll look into it," Brock answered stiffly.
"You say that, but then we hear nothing," Micah challenged. "What do you know of Jenna's death? Nothing more than you did that night."
Brock moved away from the door to open it. "I thank you for coming and I thank you for your silence in the matter."
Micah scooped up his hat from atop the pile of charts and pushed it onto his head. "Get control of your wife, friend, before it's too late for all of us."
Keely laughed, sinking her fist into the mound of dough resting on the counter. "Things never change, do they, Ruth?" she asked the old cook.
Ruth held Laura up in the air, pursing her lips to make the child smile. "That they don't, Miss Keely. That they don't."
Keely had come to the summer kitchen to check on the menu for the evening meal and had ended up kneading bread while Ruth entertained Laura. Keely enjoyed the physical labor of kneading and relished the opportunity to stand and talk idly with Ruth. It also gave her a chance to question the loyal servant on Lucy's activities.
"It certainly is taking Lucy a long time to return from the Carltons." Keely brushed the tip of her nose with her floured hand. "You must have sent her with that berry pie a good two hours ago."
Ruth kissed the baby on the cheek and pulled her against her huge bosom, cuddling her. "Got a new man, that wench has. Most likely dallying with him."
"Oh?" Keely turned and twisted th
e heavy bread dough. "Do you know him?"
"That's the funny thing about it. Usually she's spoutin' at the mouth about a new man, but this'in . . ." Ruth made a clicking sound between her ivory-white teeth. "She don't say much at all except that he's handsome."
Keely began to separate the dough into loaf-size pieces. "And you've never seen him?"
"None of us has. Blackie's been givi'n Lucy an awful time about it." The old black cook laughed. "He says he likes to give his approval."
"Why do you think she's being so secretive?"
Ruth's crinkled eyes narrowed as she patted Laura's diapered bottom absentmindedly. "I don't know. Maybe he's married. Why you so interested?"
Keely looked up from her bread making. "Just wondering, that's all. I worry about her. I hear her sneaking out of the house in the middle of the night. This isn't a safe time to be wandering the streets."
"Hallo!" came Brock's deep voice. "Keely?"
"Here. In the kitchen," Keely answered, her cheeks coloring. In the last two weeks she and Brock had gotten along amazingly well and it pleased her. The truth of the matter was that he pleased her.
Brock stuck his head in the kitchen door. "Here are my ladies." He came across the room and leaned to kiss the back of his daughter's sweet-smelling neck, then went to Keely. "You keeping her busy, Ruth?" he asked, his hand falling naturally to rest on his wife's waist.
"That I am, Masta Brock." Ruth smiled, pleased to see her master and mistress finally getting along as they should have months ago.
Keely plopped the bread dough into four pans and then wiped her floured hands on the apron of Ruth's that she wore over her sprigged cotton gown. "You're home early." She smiled, gazing up at his dark eyes, her own twinkling magically. "I didn't expect you 'til after dark."
Brock rubbed the flour off the end of her nose with a finger. "We set sail tomorrow. All's set."
Keely scowled as she turned away and removed Ruth's apron. Lately she'd found herself concerned with Brock's safety and hadn't been able to resist asking him of his destinations, even though she knew she wasn't supposed to. She told herself she was concerned for him because of their daughter, but deep inside, she knew it was more. And that thought frightened her.
Brock picked up a peach from the wooden bowl on the worktable and tossed it into the air, catching it. "Can you keep her awhile?" he asked Ruth, chuckling at his daughter's antics. The child had a firm hold on the cook's hand and was trying desperately to tuck it into her own mouth.
"I was hopin' you say that, Masta Brock, cause me and the missy, we got things to do in this here kitchen, don't we?" she crooned to the babe.
"Come on, cousin." Brock gestured with a nod of his head. "Walk with me in the garden. I've been meaning to check my roses for days."
Keely smiled, catching Brock's hand as they left the kitchen. "You won't be gone long, will you?"
"A week, no more than two," he answered, biding his time until they were outside and out of earshot of any servants.
"Oh." Keely sighed.
"Why do you ask?"
She shrugged. "Just wondering. You said something of going to Annapolis and spending a night or two. I just thought it might be nice to get away from the house, you and I." She tried not to sound too disappointed.
Brock led Keely down the red brick path that wound through the verdant garden. The flowering bushes and vines were lush and sweet-smelling, their full green branches brushing at Keely's and Brock's arms and legs as they walked. Taking a deep breath, he stopped, lifting her hand to his lips. "Keely, I must ask you something."
She looked up at him innocently. "Yes." There was a smile on her face as she studied his ruggedly handsome form.
"I wish I didn't have to, but"—he kissed her knuckles before lowering her hand—"but I must."
"Brock, what is it?" She blinked.
"Have you been speaking to anyone about my . . . my activities?"
"Have I what?" She pulled her hand from his. "What do you mean?"
"Just that. Have you told anyone where I've been?" He spoke faster, with more confidence. Just get this over with and be done, he told himself. She'll be angry but her anger will pass. "Have you said anything you shouldn't have?"
Anguish washed over Keely's delicate oval face. "Who in the hell would I tell?" she demanded angrily. "I have no friends, no one, only Laura." And you, she thought.
"Then you admit that you know more than you should?"
Her hazel eyes grew round with shock and indignation. "I admit to nothing. What are you accusing me of, husband?"
Brock turned away, running a hand over the crown of his head. This was more difficult than he'd anticipated. "I'm not accusing, I'm asking you."
"It's your friends, isn't it? They are accusing me, aren't they?"
"You don't understand how important our work is, Keely. You don't understand how careful we must be."
Keely's first thought was to tell Brock just how much she did know of his activities for the cause. If he knew the extent of her knowledge, he would have to believe her innocence. How many successful missions had taken place over the last nine months that she'd known about? But why should she have to prove herself to her own husband? What had she done to make him distrust her except to have been brought up in England? Besides, she knew Micah wasn't supposed to be telling her the things he had. He'd only done it out of friendship, to relieve her worries, sometimes to entertain her. She couldn't betray him.
Keely turned on Brock. "You bastard," she said bitterly. "You savage bastard! You have no right!"
Brock cringed inwardly at her words, but said nothing, his fists balling at his sides.
"I've had it with your unfounded suspicions and accusations!" she shouted." I've done nothing wrong! I've tried to make this house a pleasant place to come home to. I bore you a child! I risked my life to save you in that damned tavern and what do I get for it?" She dashed at the hot tears that ran down her flushed cheeks.
"Keely, you don't understand." He wanted to tell her that he didn't believe it, but the bitter sound in her voice reminded him of other heartbreaking insults hurled long ago. Elizabeth had called him a savage bastard too.
"Oh, I understand well enough, cousin. And now you understand this," she went on; "I'm taking Laura and I'm catching the first clipper to London!"
Brock spun around in fury. "No!"
"No? And why not? It's what you want, isn't it? You got my money, my house, my uncle's good name to back you. What do you need me for? I'm just excess baggage!"
Anger rose in Brock, coloring his face. What was wrong with him to have ever thought he could love this wench? What had made him think anyone could ever love him? "You go," he said quietly.
Keely's breath caught in her throat. I didn't mean it, a voice called silently from within. Don't make me leave you. Don't send me away.
"But my daughter stays."
Keely's eyes narrowed in shock. "You wouldn't!"
He rested his hands on his narrow hips, his dark eyes averted so she wouldn't see the pain she evoked. She's leaving me. "You're free to go—today if you like—but my daughter doesn't leave this house." He lifted a fist threateningly. "We're going to win this damned war, and when we do, my American daughter will inherit all that is mine."
"I won't go without her," Keely spit.
"Then you won't go."
Keely bit down on her lower lip to keep from crying out. "I'll hate you forever for this, Brock Bartholomew," she whispered shakily.
Brock brushed past her. "Just see that you don't take Laura from this property."
"And if I do?"
He spun around, unleashing his fury. "I'll hunt you down. To the ends of the earth."
Chapter Seventeen
"He's made all these accusations against you. Why do you stand for it?" Micah perched himself on the corner of Lloyd's desk, watching Keely thumb through a stack of household receipts. "He has no right to treat you like this."
"Micah." Keely pulled her m
obcap off her head and tossed it onto a chair. "I don't think I should be talking about this with you."
"Keely! The bastard accused you of betraying him!"
She dropped a sheet of paper to the floor and leaned to pick it up. "He's still my husband." She looked up at him. "And I won't have you speak of him in that manner in front of me."
Micah got up and poured himself a healthy portion of whiskey from a decanter on the mantel. "I don't care. You never should have married him. You should have married me."
Keely scowled. "We've been through this before." She opened an ink well and dug in the desk for a goose quill. "I married Brock of my own choice and I'll live with it."
"Is it your choice that he distrust you to the point of forbidding you to leave your own home?"
"I never should have told you." She shook her head. "He was just angry. I said things I didn't mean, he said things he didn't mean." She wondered why she was defending Brock. Hadn't she said to herself all the same things Micah was saying? Still, it didn't seem right to sit here and talk about her own husband like this with another man, no matter what he'd said or done.
"I can't believe you're taking this so calmly." Micah sipped from his glass. "It's not like you."
She added up a row of figures and marked down the number. "So you tell him I'm not betraying him. Who would I tell his stupid little secrets to? What do I care what warehouses his monkeys raid?"
"You know he won't listen to me. There's no reasoning with Brock Bartholomew. Never has been."
Keely sighed, setting down her quill. She just couldn't concentrate well enough right now to do the household ledgers. Besides, it was going on one o'clock and near the dinner hour. "I can't figure out where he ever got the idea that I would do such a thing. He acted like he had some sort of evidence against me."
Micah shrugged, following Keely out of Lloyd's office. "God only knows with that man." He hurried to catch up with her. "Say, Keely, is that roast duck I smell baking?"
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