Emerald paused and looked at Minette. The girl did her best to cover her alarm as she turned away and walked to the bed.
Lavender glanced at her, satisfied.
She’s jealous of how pretty Minette has become, thought Emerald. And she’s determined to try and ruin things by flirting with Captain Farrow at the ball.
“I’m tired now,” said Minette, sinking to the bed. She tossed aside her fan dejectedly. “I’ll never learn how to do things like a lady.”
It was the wrong thing for Minette to say, and her surrender to Lavender’s dominance made Emerald angry. The girl had to believe in herself and try, instead of being afraid to compete. She might never win Erik Farrow, but if she didn’t, it would be Erik’s fault. If he could be trapped again by Lavender, he deserved getting hurt all over again.
“Don’t be silly, Minette. You’ll be as fancy as any girl at the ball.”
Lavender made no comment as she got up from the daybed and went out onto the terrace. “Yasmin, bring me another glass of limeade.” She leaned over the rail. “The guests are all arriving, Emerald. You best get ready.”
Emerald forgot Minette and turned with excitement as Zunsia came through the dressing room door, smiling, carrying her gown with its yards of pale blue satin and cream lace.
Minette for a time forgot her fears and rushed to help Emerald into the dress, careful to not muss her elaborate hairdo of French curls. She clasped her hands together. “Ooh, Emerald! Wait till Baret sees you!”
Lavender glanced resentfully over her pale shoulder, her blue eyes cold. Jealousy had turned her normally pretty face into harsh lines.
Emerald looked at herself in the mirror, and her heart fluttered with nervous excitement. She wouldn’t say it. She wouldn’t even think it. She turned away from her lovely image, her cheeks flushed, and smiled at Minette, who had tears in her eyes.
“I wish Uncle Karlton was here to see you now.”
“That’s odd,” Lavender murmured as she took the limeade from Yasmin and looked down the palm-lined road.
“What is, Miss Lavender?”
“Those men. I’ve never seen them before. Have you?”
Yasmin shaded her eyes with her hand. “No, Miss. Must be folks from Saint Jago. They’ve come from all over Jamaica.”
“I suppose you’re right. Has Lord Grayford arrived?”
“Yes, Miss. He’s downstairs in the library, talkin’ to Lord Felix.”
Lavender sighed. “And the viscount?”
“I expect he’s here, Miss, in the earl’s chambers. I think he arrived an hour ago with that Sir Farrow.”
Lavender’s eyes gleamed as she sipped her limeade and glanced back to the strangers on the road. “I want you to deliver a message to Sir Farrow for me.”
“Yes, Miss Lavender.”
9
THE GRAND BETROTHAL
Twilight set in with a mixture of inky shadows and soft shades of rose. Baret swung from the large pepper tree branch and caught hold of the railing. A moment later he hauled himself over the side onto the veranda as easily as climbing the rope ladder to board his ship.
The sleek-muscled frame of Erik Farrow came behind. “You have fifteen minutes, your lordship,” he said too calmly. As usual his chiseled face showed no emotion. “A word of caution—do not permit the woman you expect to marry to know you nearly forgot to keep your hour of betrothal. You will never hear the end of the matter.”
Baret laughed and came swiftly into Earl Nigel’s elaborate bedchamber, tossing aside his hat and baldric and unbuttoning his shirt.
Erik remained by the rail, looking below into the back side of the little used garden. He glanced toward the next room above, where golden light spilled over the veranda trellis and a familiar female voice laughed merrily like chimes. Minette.
“Bristol!” Baret called.
His grandfather’s serving man rushed in from a dressing room and, seeing Baret, threw up his hands with relief. “There you are, m’lord. I was so afraid—”
“What! You, too, thought I’d forget? What ill thoughts you and Farrow have of me!”
Bristol hesitated, looking at him.
Baret smiled. “Tonight the buccaneer is a viscount. Where are my suitable garments?”
The old man scrambled to the walk-in wardrobe and with great flourish brought out a stylish dark velvet jacket and a ruffled white silk shirt, which he laid on the large bed as though offering a display of the Buckington jewels.
“Your bathwater, my lord Viscount, waits. Er—would you like a smidgen of rosewater, m’lord? A bit of oil perhaps?”
“Put that in the bath, and I’ll dunk you in it. Where’s my grandfather?”
“He waits in the parlor, m’lord, as does Lord Felix and the rest of the family. Lady Emerald will not be escorted down until your presence is—er—accounted for.”
“You have the ring?”
“Right here, m’lord, waiting.” He produced from his own jacket pocket a tiny silver box bearing the insignia of the house of Buckington. “Earl Nigel gave it to me only minutes ago.”
As Baret quickly finished drying, Bristol handed him the white silk shirt. He snatched it and put it on while Bristol proceeded to the task of getting on Baret’s polished black boots.
Baret saw Erik leaning against the terrace rail, arms folded, looking up to the next terrace.
“I should have abducted Emerald and married her aboard the Regale.” He fumbled with the buttons on the shirt, unhappy with it. He didn’t like silk. “I loathe this formality.” He gave up on the black ribbon cravat and tossed it on the bed. “How much more exciting to marry her beneath the stars on the Caribbean.”
“She may not think a captain’s cabin is as fine a place as you do,” Erik said.
Baret’s dark eyes squinted. “Nevertheless, I have finer memories of that cabin. And maybe I’ll abduct her yet.”
Erik laughed. “And hang—by request of your grandfather.”
“Here, m’lord, allow me,” said Bristol and tied the cravat with the expertise he used daily on the earl.
“I suppose Emerald and Minette have had the entire day to dress.”
“It’s like a woman, m’lord,” said Erik. “They have everything prepared a week in advance. Men, especially viscounts, wait until five minutes before the ball.”
Baret cast him an irritated look, slipped on the impeccable jacket, and buttoned the cuffs. He stomped his feet in the leather boots, helping out the flustered Bristol, who was struggling and sweating.
“I always thought a man’s betrothal should be a leisurely affair,” continued Erik, strolling about the red velvet and dark mahogany furnishings of the grand chamber.
All the while, Baret’s dark glittering gaze followed him. A sardonic smile was on his mouth. “There’s nothing stopping you from getting yourself betrothed to Minette tonight. You look leisurely enough. And there’s always a stray bit of jewelry about the chamber to lend you for the amorous occasion.”
Erik looked at him with a lifted golden brow.
Baret smiled, satisfied to see his moment of fear. “Cheer up, Erik. The black hour will come when you, too, are doomed.” He looked down at Bristol, who was giving a final whisk of his cloth to the boots. “Enough, Bristol.”
Baret placed the ring in his jacket pocket, then added the finishing touches to his handsome appearance, smoothing his thick dark hair and stuffing his pistol in his belt before buttoning the jacket. Even tonight, he trusted not his enemies.
Bristol poured refreshment and brought it to Baret and Erik. “You have five minutes, m’lord.”
“A leisurely amount of time. To Porto Bello, Erik.”
Erik returned the toast. “At long last.”
Bristol disappeared, leaving them alone.
Erik sank into a plush red velvet chair, and Baret walked to the edge of the large bed and stood gazing at a painting of Royce Buckington on the ivory wall. It wouldn’t be too many weeks before he expected to rescue his fath
er from his Spanish captors—or die trying. He knew Morgan was already sailing to the South Cays for the rendezvous, as were many of the other buccaneers.
The room was muggy, for a tropical storm was beginning to blow in, snapping the drapes near the open veranda. Outside there were many voices and the sound of laughter. Baret was thoughtful.
“There’s something I should tell you,” said Erik quietly.
Baret turned and looked down at him with a steady gaze. He wasn’t surprised. Erik had been behaving oddly since he’d shown up at Port Royal to accompany him here to Foxemoore.
“Tell me anything, Erik, but do not tell me Miguel has escaped your ship.”
Erik watched him over interlaced fingers. “You can be sure the Spaniard is locked safely in the hold of the Warspite. No, it is ill news of another sort, affecting Emerald.”
Baret’s mood altered to gravity. He wasn’t sure he wanted to hear it. “Say on. There’s little time.”
“Jackman told me he has trustworthy news. The Dutch slave ship with Sir Karlton aboard was attacked recently and sunk.”
How would he tell Emerald that dark news? Especially tonight.
“Who was it, does the Brotherhood know?”
“No one appears to know anything.”
As Baret contemplated, the door opened, and Bristol stood in the outer hall. “M’lord, the earl has asked for you.”
The doors to the spacious parlor opened, and Emerald and Lady Sophie entered with Geneva. The two older women were perfectly gowned and carried an aura of nobility. Lady Sophie had donned her best jewels—“in honor of Baret, of course,” and carried the family Bible. This she ceremoniously presented to Sir Cecil Chaderton, who was overseeing the betrothal ceremony at Baret’s request. Geneva looked almost well again, though she had risen from her bed for the occasion. Her red-gold hair shone regally, and her gray eyes appeared to glow with well wishes for Emerald.
Behind them, Minette carried a basket of white roses on her arm, and her amber curls glinted with interwoven pink rosebuds on a gold netting.
Only the immediate family was in attendance at the ceremony in the parlor. The myriad of guests loitered outdoors, dining on roast capon and nibbling on plates of fresh bite-sized fruits, or they waited in the ballroom for Emerald and Baret’s first waltz after the ceremony.
Minette had cast her amber eyes down the hall where other guests stood watching as Emerald and the small family procession entered the parlor. Minette looked to see if Captain Farrow was nearby. He was.
Emerald entered through the parlor doors, where woven garlands of white roses sweetened the air. She thought that if her heart beat much faster her stays would cut off her breathing. The flames of hundreds of tapered candles welcomed her in flickering silence like the smiling eyes of hovering angels, and she felt a catch in her throat. This can’t be happening. I am dreaming.
Music drifted in from the terrace but not the kind she had expected. Her eyes turned toward the sound. She could hardly believe it! Who had arranged for this?
On the open terrace, with the darkening sky as a backdrop, a handful of African humsters formed a dignified line, their dark faces grave and their eyes cast upward toward heaven. Robed in white tunics, they were humming from the soul the only slave chant that Great-uncle Mathias had managed to arrange with a Christian High Church musical slant. The sound was African Christian and pulled at the heart as though each note were wept before the feet of Jesus.
Tears filled Emerald’s eyes when she saw all her dearest friends among the slaves—Yolanda, Ngozi, Jitana, even Yasmin, Lavender’s maid, and Zunsia.
Lady Sophie in seeing this display—never before witnessed in all her seventy-two years—gasped and swayed in her white silk slippers. Felix caught her arm, hauled her across the parlor to a velvet chair, and gestured for the twins.
Timothy and Titus emerged from behind the potted palms. Each gathered up a great palmetto leaf, stood on either side of her wingback chair, and swished his fan in time to the humming. Then they began to join in, loudly, and Sophie groaned.
Jette, standing in green velvet beside his grandfather Earl Nigel, tried to get their attention to be quiet until the earl laid his jeweled hand on his head.
Emerald parted with Geneva as planned and walked forward alone to the middle of the room. There she waited, just as she had practiced at least fifty times with Minette in the bedchamber.
The warm honey-colored light from the candles spilled down upon her gown and its yards of pale blue satin and ribbons of velvet embroidered with gold. A two-inch trim of cream lace fluttered at the edge of her bell sleeves. Her dark hair shone in countless French curls, and her cinnamon brown eyes looked expectantly at the male assemblage for just one particular man.
She saw Baret, and her heart raced. There had been a last minute avalanche of whispered gossip that he wouldn’t come, that he had set sail with Morgan, having changed his mind about “Harwick’s daughter.”
But he had come for her, just as he had promised. His vow in the garden of the governor’s residence had been true and faithful. She waited, her eyes on him expectantly, and he came forward without hesitation.
It was all so formal. Almost as though they were strangers, he bowed, then reached for her left hand. But there was nothing in his touch that carried the thought of their being strangers. It made her heart leap, and the warmth in his dark eyes wrapped about her in an embrace as real as though he had swept her into his arms.
A faint flush of color rose into her pale cheeks, and her eyes clung to his as he slipped the Buckington ring onto her third finger. It was, of course, too large, for it was a man’s ring and meant only to announce that this man had chosen her to eventually become his bride. But to Emerald it was as precious as though the ring had been brought from heaven by a messenger of joy.
Soon, she thought, perhaps next year at this time, Baret would put a wedding ring on that same finger, and after that she would be his forever. She almost thought that she should have agreed to marry him now and just ignore the ugly gossip that might attend. An engagement was a serious matter, but how much more wonderful this moment would be if Sir Cecil were stepping forward to pronounce the vows rather than offer a prayer for the blessing of God upon their future union.
Emerald smiled down at the ring. Who but her father would ever have dared to think that she would become the betrothed of a viscount?
Baret enclosed her small hand in his, and then, because it was not deemed proper to kiss her in public, he brought the hand to his lips and kissed her palm. His eyes, however, promised more, and her warm gaze responded.
Sir Cecil held out the Bible. Baret laid her hand on it, covered by his own, and the Cambridge divine prayed for God’s blessing, protection, and guidance.
A moment later the mild congratulations followed, and even Lady Sophie recovered enough to plant a dutiful kiss on her cheek while Jette waited to congratulate the couple.
“I am honored you’re going to marry my brother,” he said with a rehearsed tone. Then he blurted out honestly, “Like Grandfather, I’m glad it wasn’t Lavender.”
“Jette!” Lady Sophie groaned, and a hand went to her forehead.
Baret laughed and swooped him up in his arms. “So am I. Now give her a kiss.”
Jette shyly leaned over and planted a kiss on Emerald’s cheek and whispered in her ear, “I got the box for Baret. Me and the twins will be in the garden by the stone lion.”
Earl Nigel came up and bent over her hand. “Congratulations, Emerald. I can see why you’ve stolen Baret’s heart. You are charming, indeed.”
He turned to Baret, and a look passed between them that brought a stilted moment.
Emerald’s hand closed over the ring as she glanced from the earl to the viscount.
“Remember our agreement, Baret.”
“How could I forget?”
The earl excused himself and walked from the parlor to the ballroom as did the others, and Jette was ushered off by Zunsia.
Emerald felt her throat tighten. There had been much more to that exchange, and she thought she knew what it was. The earl was reminding Baret that the betrothal was as far as the ruse was ever to go, but surely—surely Baret wouldn’t—
They were alone. She turned toward him, and if her insecurities bade her fear otherwise, the look he gave her swept them away with one torrid glance.
“You’ll make a beautiful countess.”
She laughed nervously.
His arm slid about her waist, and he drew her into his arms, the other hand lifting her chin; and Emerald met his kiss, her arms holding him.
“I must be a fool to have agreed to wait a year. There are advantages to being a reckless buccaneer, you know. One of them is having the prerogative to ignore rules and marry you tonight. Tell me, Emerald, is there any of the pirate’s daughter from Tortuga left in you? Why don’t you tell me you feel reckless, too? Tell me to marry you now!”
She could easily have blurted out yes! She struggled to safeguard the emotions of both of them by pulling away a little and saying lightly, “You mean I’ve been practicing my curtsies for nothing? And I thought I pleased you tonight with all my manners.”
“Your manners please me very well. And so do your lips.”
“Oh, dear” … She spoiled everything by giggling, but she couldn’t help herself. “I didn’t think you wanted a pirate’s brat from Tortuga,” she said, lowering her eyes and running her fingers along the ruffle of his shirt.
“I want you.”
“I think you’re a tempter. Just where is that Cambridge divinity student?”
“He’s here, too. And he agrees.”
“And what if I said yes!”
His hold tightened. “Do you?”
She laughed.
He glanced toward the door. The music had begun in the ballroom. The guests were waiting for their entry to lead the first waltz to quiet applause.
“I have other ideas. A ship waits—a yellow moon, and the wind—”
He swung her up into his arms and turned toward the terrace.
She gasped. “Baret! You’re not serious—”
Buccaneers Series Page 95