Veil of Pearls

by Marylu Tyndall

  She struggled to rise when strong hands lifted her from the bed and drew her close. No, not again! Raising her fists, she pounded the intruder’s chest. His scent filled her nostrils.

  Morgan.

  “Are you all right?” His voice confirmed the hope rising within her. She opened her eyes to find him gazing down at her.

  “Morgan?”

  “Yes, sweetheart, it’s me.” He wiped the hair from her face and pressed her against him. The muscles in his chest twitched beneath her fingers. She listened for his heartbeat. There it was, strong and sure. Tears spilled down her cheeks.

  “You can’t be here. I’m being whipped, and the pain has made me delirious.”

  But the press of his lips on her cheek and his warm breath on her neck told her he was anything but a dream.

  “You’re safe now,” he whispered, wiping her tears. He peered over her shoulder at her back. “You’re hurt.”

  “No, I’m fine.” She gazed up at him, still not believing her eyes. “But why …? How …?”

  “That beast whipped you.” Morgan hissed, glancing at the unconscious man lying in a heap on the floor.

  Sorrow broke through Adalia’s joy as she remembered the look of repulsion on Morgan’s face at the Brewton ball. “It’s not the first time. I’m a slave, after all.” She pushed away from him, hearing the bitterness in her own voice. Candlelight wove gold through his hair, angled over his strong jaw, and reflected such love and affection in his eyes. “I don’t understand, Morgan. Why have you come?”

  “Shhh, now. I’ll explain later.” He reached out for her. “We must go!”

  A moan sounded.

  Adalia tensed and glanced over in time to see Sir Walter rising from the floor, rubbing his head. He started for them, his face blistering with rage.

  Morgan pushed her aside, drew his sword, and leveled it at Sir Walter’s chest. Adalia’s throat went dry.

  “How dare you invade my home!” Sir Walter raged. “Rodale! Kemp!” He shouted out the door. “My men will be upon you in a second.”

  “I doubt that. My men had no trouble dispatching your pathetic guards.” Morgan pressed the sword. Sir Walter retreated.

  The pompous gleam left Sir Walter’s eyes, replaced by a fear Adalia had never seen before in the man.

  “Allow me to inform you how this is to be played.” Morgan unclipped a pouch from his belt and tossed it to Sir Walter.

  His bumbling attempt to catch it failed, and it landed with a clank at his shoes. He bent over and picked it up, testing the weight.

  “One thousand dollars. More than the price of a good slave. I’m purchasing Miss Winston. You will agree to the price, and we will leave unhindered.”

  With Adalia safely behind him and his blade pointed at Sir Walter, Morgan’s heart began to settle. When he’d first dashed into the room and seen the man slash Adalia’s back, it took every ounce of Morgan’s control not to kill him on the spot. Even now as the buffoon fingered the bag of coins and grinned as if he had won the game, Morgan’s fingers twitched in an effort not to end his miserable life. Instead he plucked a receipt of sale from his pocket and laid it on the table.

  Adalia was alive! And she was with him. That thought alone kept his temper at bay.

  Sir Walter’s narrow eyes flitted between Morgan and Adalia. The malevolent sparkle within them brightened with each passing second as if were planning their demise.

  Morgan sighed, tired of the man’s theatrics. “Do we have an agreement, sir? I haven’t all day.”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  “No. But you can make it easy on yourself by yielding.”

  Sir Walter thrust out his chin. “Very well, but I have no pen.”

  Morgan produced pen and ink from a pouch clipped to his belt and forced them into Sir Walter’s hand.

  After scribbling his signature on the document, the swine handed it to Morgan. “I dare say you won’t be at all pleased with your winnings.” He looked Adalia up and down as if he were gazing at a spoilt piece of meat. “She’s nothing but a Negro whore.”

  Blood surged into Morgan’s fists. Folding the receipt, he stuffed it in his pocket, sheaved his sword, and barreled toward the miscreant. Grabbing him by the lapels, he slammed his fist across Sir Walter’s face. The man jerked to the side and tumbled to the ground. Diving for him, Morgan picked him up by the neckerchief and fisted him again. And again. Sir Walter groaned and cringed, holding up his hands.

  But Morgan didn’t care. He would have struck him yet again, if Adalia’s touch on his arm and her gentle pleading for him to stop had not stayed his hand. “Leave him be, Morgan. He’s not worth it.”

  Breathing hard, he turned toward her. Ebony hair circled her flushed face. “Let’s go.” She caressed his cheek with the back of her hand.

  He released Sir Walter. The beast dropped to the floor with a thud and a moan. Morgan didn’t give him another thought—wouldn’t waste another thought on the mongrel. Cupping Adalia’s face, he showered her with kisses, finally absorbing her lips with his.

  Ah, the sweet taste of her! He’d missed it. But now wasn’t the time. He forced himself to withdraw.

  “I can’t believe you came for me.” Her eyes shimmered with tears.

  “I’m so sorry, Adalia. I was wrong. So very wrong. About you. About so many things.”

  He kissed her forehead and swept an arm around her. She winced, reminding him of her wounds and causing his anger to resurge. Shrugging out of his coat, he swung it gently over her shoulders and helped push her arms through the sleeves. To protect the open gashes on her back as well as her modesty. But now, they must hurry. There wasn’t much time.

  He led her out the door, felt her tremble as they descended the dark stairway. His whispered words of love and encouragement seemed of no effect as she cast a wary glance over the dark house. Even as they emerged onto the veranda, she jerked as if expecting a guard to force her back inside. He rubbed her arm and drew her near, wanting to reassure her—hating what Sir Walter had done to her. How could Morgan have ever let that man take her away? How could he have left her in this hellish place for even a moment? He ground his teeth together, fighting back a burst of self-loathing as he led her down the front drive.

  A moonless night offered them no view save murky shifting shadows. A breeze shivered the palm fronds above them as gravel crunched beneath their feet. Adalia tensed. Morgan caressed the hair tumbling down her back in an effort to soothe her. Lifting fingers to his mouth, he whistled, and a dozen shadows, armed with cutlasses and pistols—Captain Bristo’s men—emerged from the shrubbery lining the drive. Men who had knocked all the night guards unconscious when they’d first approached the house. Adalia seemed to relax at the sight of them.

  The journey through the jungle to the coast was made in silence. Nothing but the snap of twigs, crunch of leaves, and buzz of katydids filled the air. Morgan kept one arm draped around Adalia and the other hand on the butt of the pistol stuffed in his trousers. Though he couldn’t imagine Sir Walter following them, Morgan wasn’t taking any chances. Not with the most precious cargo in the world at his side. Though her body still felt as taut as a sail under full wind, Adalia finally leaned her head on his shoulder with a sigh. A sweet sigh that told him that with each step they took, she believed more and more that this was no dream.

  Batting aside a leafy branch, he caressed her arm, relishing in the feel of her by his side. He thanked God for the easy rescue. No one had been killed, though Sir Walter’s guards would have a headache come morning. And with all of them out cold, surely Sir Walter wouldn’t attempt to confront twenty armed men on his own. In fact, once they emerged onto the beach, they had only a mile’s trek down the coast to where Captain Bristo’s ship was anchored offshore. Morgan took a deep breath, smelling the salty sea already. Nothing could possibly go wrong now.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Adalia had a sick feeling in her gut. Something wasn’t right. It was why she refused to allow her
self to relax, refused to give in to the joy that longed to burst from her heart. She trusted God, but she had grown enough spiritually to know that His plans didn’t always match her hopes, nor her dreams. Nevertheless, she would enjoy every precious moment with Morgan. Just the fact that he had come for her, just seeing the love pouring from his eyes once again, was all she needed to die a happy woman. For now, it was enough to feel his arm circling her like an impenetrable fortress. It was enough to feel his muscles move beneath her cheek as she laid her head on his shoulder and breathed in that masculine scent that was purely Morgan. Yes, she would cherish every second.

  After some time, the mud transformed to sand, and the sound of waves crashing ashore muffled the hum of the jungle. By the time they emerged from the wall of foliage onto a wide beach, a strip of gold lit the horizon, inching fingers of light over sea and sand.

  Morgan gave her a squeeze as they trudged toward the firmer ground near the water, his men following behind him. Adalia clutched her skirts. Sand scratched her feet through stockings that were now hopelessly torn from tromping over twigs and stones. She lifted her face and took a deep breath of salty air, tainted with morning dew.

  Mr. Griggs came alongside her, hair still like scraggly twine and musket in hand. “It be good to see ye again, miss.”

  “And you, Mr. Griggs. Thank you for rescuing me.”

  He seemed to blush. Or was it dawn’s glow? “It was Morgan’s idea,” he said. “He planned it all. We just came along fer the fun.”

  She chuckled and glanced up at Morgan. The wind tossed his loose hair over his shirt. His jaw was tight, determined. Something was different about him. Even in the way he walked. More assured, confident, serious. As if to defy her last thought, he gave her that wickedly delicious grin of his, topped it off with a seductive wink. And she thought she might become one of those foolish coquettish ladies who swooned in men’s arms.

  “That’s far enough, you pampered fop!” The loud declaration was immediately followed by the click of several pistols.

  Sir Walter’s voice sliced through Adalia’s heart.

  Every muscle in Morgan’s body turned to stone. He swung to stand in front of her.

  Breath in her throat, Adalia peered around him. Several dark figures emerged from the jungle like demons escaping hell. The arc of the sun peered over the horizon, spreading a fan of light over sea and sand, revealing the ghosts for what they were—merely men. Sir Walter and his paid henchmen, in fact. Though from the looks of them, they were mostly slaves.

  Captain Bristo’s men swerved about, pistols cocked and at the ready.

  “What is it you want?” Morgan’s tone was more one of annoyance than fear as he marched toward the front of his men.

  “Need you ask?” Sir Walter gestured toward Adalia with his pistol. “I want what is mine.”

  “And yet there is nothing here that is yours. I paid for the lady fair and square.”

  “You forced an agreement at the tip of a sword,” Sir Walter said. “I hardly think that is valid.”

  Mr. Griggs eased beside Morgan and whispered, “Want me to shoot him betwixt the eyes?”

  Morgan’s lips curved. “No, my friend.” He cast a worried glance at Adalia. “Watch over Miss Winston, if you please.”

  Adalia’s insides turned to mush. She didn’t want to be watched over. She wanted Morgan’s arm around her again. She wanted to leave this horrid place.

  Morgan edged his fingers toward the pistol stuffed in his breeches. “There is no need for innocent blood to stain these sands,” he said.

  “I beg to differ, sir. These sands are all but pleading for the blood of a daft aristocrat such as yourself.”

  Adalia scanned Sir Walter’s men. She recognized Mr. Pope, Sir Walter’s valet, and Mr. Kerr, the groom, and the overseer, Mr. Milson.

  They looked none too happy to have been awakened in the middle of the night for one of Sir Walter’s mad schemes. The rest were field slaves wearing their usual masks of apathy.

  “This is between Sir Walter and myself,” Morgan addressed them. “Do you wish to die on this beach? For what? For this lady?” He waved toward Adalia.

  Sir Walter studied his fingernails. “They are my slaves. They will do what I say.”

  Yes, the slaves would, but the disgust registering on the servant’s faces gave Adalia a measure of hope. Especially Mr. Milson’s.

  “Seems we are at a standstill,” Morgan said. “Surely, there is a better solution than all of us shooting each other.”

  “Yes, give me the girl.”

  “Never.” Morgan replied. “You will die on this beach before you lay a hand on her.”

  Mr. Milson rubbed his chin. “How about a duel?”

  Sir Walter shot him a seething glance.

  “Aye,” Mr. Pope chimed in, avoiding his master’s gaze. “Seems a fair way to settle things.”

  Frowning, Sir Walter faced forward. His glance took in Morgan as if sizing him up. He rubbed his sore jaw before a grin seized his lips. “Perhaps they are right.”

  Glancing back at Adalia, then over at his men, Morgan released a sigh. She knew what he was thinking. He didn’t want to risk any more lives than he had to. “Very well.”

  “No, Morgan,” Adalia cried out.

  Sir Walter chuckled. “No, Morgan,” he repeated in a mocking tone that made his men laugh. “Seems your lady has no confidence in you, Mr. Rutledge.”

  “Her confidence is not what should concern you.”

  Sir Walter snorted. “The winner takes the lady. What say you?”

  Tugging from Mr. Grigg’s grasp, Adalia dashed toward Morgan and gripped his arm. “No. He’s skilled with a sword.”

  Morgan raised one cocky brow. “So am I, milady. Besides, he’s drunk.” He gestured for Mr. Griggs to take her away, following her with his eyes as the man obeyed. “Don’t worry.”

  But she was worried. Sir Walter prided himself on his swordsmanship, even engaged in contests with the neighboring landowners. And he didn’t appear drunk anymore. No doubt the trek through the jungle had done much to sober him. Dragging her feet, she allowed Griggs to lead her to the side.

  “Well?” Sir Walter asked.

  Adalia knew Morgan had no choice. It was either a duel or a bloodbath. “Agreed,” he finally said.

  Sir Walter leaned in to whisper something to his overseer, and then he smiled at Morgan. “Very well. Whoever survives gets the woman.”

  Adalia’s head spun. Waves thundered. Foam churned onto the shore. Though the dawn was muggy, a chill gripped her. Sir Walter was up to something. She knew it. But how could she stop this madness? “Oh, God, please help us.”

  Plucking out his pistol, Morgan tossed it to the sand and pulled out his blade. Sir Walter shrugged out of his coat and handed it to one of his men. Drawing his sword, he held it out before him, one hand in the air behind his head. The rising sun reflected off the metal, nearly blinding Adalia.

  Sucking in a breath, she leaned on Mr. Griggs for support. He patted her hand, though his eyes reflected fear.

  The ring of blades echoed across the sand. Sir Walter, in his classic impudent pose, short-stepped toward Morgan, his sword slashing before him.

  Morgan dipped and dodged each swipe, pretending an incompetence that seemed to embolden Sir Walter. He charged at Morgan full force. Clank! Their blades met. The edges ground together in a metallic chime. Adalia shivered.

  Morgan forced Sir Walter back. In a surprise move, Sir Walter swooped to the left and dove at Morgan’s right. Morgan twisted and met the attack first with a defensive block and then swung his blade up to slash his opponent’s side.

  Sir Walter leapt back, barely avoiding the tip, then backed away to catch his breath. “Well, well, well, the dandy has played with a sword before.” His imperious tone hid a strain of unease that only Adalia would have detected. It gave her hope.

  “Though I doubt you have acquired my level of experience,” he continued.

  Stabbing his sword
into the sand, Morgan leaned on the hilt. The wind flapped his shirt. Sweat glistened on his powerful chest. “It takes more than experience to win. It takes courage and honor. Neither of which you possess.”

  The sun rose higher over the horizon as if anxious to watch the altercation. Sir Walter’s men did not share its enthusiasm. Aside from a slight grin from Mr. Milson over the last comment, boredom stole all expression from their faces. Captain Bristo’s men, however, cast anxious glances at one another and seemed to be having difficulty restraining themselves from jumping to Morgan’s aid.