“My mother continued to shield me from my father’s wrath after the birth, as well. He was determined to lock my secret away forever. To do that, I needed to be imprisoned. If he could have it, I would be put someplace where I could never be spoken to or seen by anyone again. As his only child, I had betrayed him, he said. I’d tried to destroy his life and his career. I needed to be punished.’
“Seclusion had no meaning to me. I had no desire to join in with the frivolity of society. I had no chance of marrying, though that was no issue either, for I would never have agreed to any match. So my mother arranged for me to live in a little house in Dublin for six months of the year and the other six in a cottage by Lake Windermere in Cumberland. I had a woman to watch over me and a few servants. I kept my gardens…and my memories…and, to be truthful, I had all the comforts that one could wish for. But it could not last for ever. The late roses were just beginning to fade when I received word that my mother had died.”
“When did you lose her?” Portia asked softly.
“Seven years ago. She was ill for some time, and when my father was commissioned to come to Boston after the commotion caused by the passage of the Stamp Act, she simply did not survive the sea voyage. I was told that they buried her in the sea a fortnight after they set sail from Bristol.”
“And is that when you were brought to the colonies?” Pierce asked.
“The summer after. Once my mother was gone, the Admiral wasted no time. He’d heard reports that I was beginning to live a life less secluded than he wished. Truthful, I had befriended a schoolmaster’s wife in Dublin, but she passed away the winter before my mother. He also knew that I was beginning to have problems with my vision, although at that time ‘twas very slight.” Helena spread her fingers on the embroidered material covering the sofa, feeling the texture. “My father did not really need any excuses, but that served as well as any for bringing me to Boston. As a dutiful father, he only wanted the best for me.”
Portia saw a mocking smile form on her mother’s lips.
“And that was when ‘Mad Helena’ was born. Trouble started between my father and me the first moment I arrived. After all those years, I was accustomed to my independence. For so many years I was mistress of my own houses, though they were never more than a couple of rooms. But still, I was not anyone’s charge. That situation, of course, was hardly acceptable to the Admiral. He put that witch, Mrs. Green, over me. Pushing me around until I became angry, claiming that my mind was not sound, insisting that I should be visited by doctors and given sedatives that would keep me subdued—that was her way of controlling me.”
“But you fought them,” Portia said, thinking how miraculous it was that Helena had somehow been able to maintain some of her spirit after so many years.
“I tried. But ‘twas getting harder every day. In fact, ‘twas becoming nearly impossible…until you came, my saving angel.”
Portia moved across to the sofa and into her mother’s arms. She shut her eyes to hold the tears at bay. These were happy times, she told herself. They were together…and it was all because of the man sitting across from them.
She turned and looked at Pierce. The look of tenderness she saw in his face nearly undid her.
“That is enough storytelling for one night.” Helena pulled back and quickly dabbed the wetness from her cheek. “Mr. Pennington, would you be kind enough to escort Mad Helena and her unruly apprentice crewmember daughter to their cabin?” She stretched out a hand toward him.
“’Twould be an honor, ma’am.” He immediately rose to help her.
Portia had to hang back for a moment to pull herself together. She had known she was doing the right thing in trying to free Helena from that house, but now she felt Pierce’s approval, too. He didn’t have to say it. She saw it in his eyes…and she loved him for it.
She hurried to catch up with them.
“A lovely night!” Helena took a deep breath. “Any stars?”
“Millions of them,” Portia whispered, looking up at the sky before her gaze locked with Pierce’s. “Some of them are so far away, and yet some seem miraculously within arm’s reach.”
“Those are the best ones,” he added softly.
They went down the steep stairs, and at their cabin door Portia let her fingers brush against his as Helena disappeared inside.
“I need to help—”
“I understand,” he whispered, pressing a finger gently against her lips. “There will be other times for us.”
She kissed hs fingers and went inside.
Helena had her blanket turned down on the berth and was already stepping out of her dress. She turned and smiled at Portia.
“You see? I need no help. I can manage perfectly fine by myself tonight.”
“I am very happy to hear it,” the younger woman replied, starting to help her mother. “But I’m not sure I can. I would value your advice.”
Helena sat on the edge of the bunk. “I am the wrong person from whom to seek advice.”
“You are the right person.” Portia frowned, hanging her mother’s dress on a peg high on the wall. “I feel that I may be following exactly in your footsteps, and I need to know if—”
“If you think that, then you need to learn more about my past. To be honest, I do not believe our situations are alike at all.” Helena pulled on Portia’s hand and made her sit down next to her. “The relationship I had with your father was doomed before we even met, and we both knew it. In the height of my romantic notions about the love that I thought was blossoming between us, I knew that we would each be considered the enemy by our respective families and friends. Even so, the few liaisons we had were thrilling, passionate. They were stolen moments filled with danger and intrigue. There was no future for us, but we cared not. When we were together, the world consisted only of the two of us.”
Helena sighed, letting down her long blonde hair and combing her fingers through it.
“When they tore us apart,” she finally continued, “I continued to live in that loving world. I had to. Unlike you, I was not strong enough to fight against that harsh, real world. I could not stand on my own feet. I was not accustomed to work. My whole life I had been taken care of by my family. I expected someone else to look after me for the rest of my life. I expected my handsome knight to ride back and rescue me. Until then, I would wait.”
Helena held Portia’s hand tightly in her own. Their hands were so similar, their fingers long and tapered.
“As much as I loved him, your father was not Pierce. He too was a romantic dreamer. There were times when he would look off into the distance and see another world. He was made for greatness, and he knew there were sacrifices that needed to be made to achieve that greatness.”
“And leaving you was one of those sacrifices?” Portia asked softly.
Helena smiled and her chin momentarily sank onto her chest. A soft blush had crept up her cheeks. She looked like an innocent, young and vulnerable. “I should like to think that. That is what I have been telling myself all these years.”
“I think that must be the truth.” Portia pushed a gray-streaked strand of golden hair off of Helena’s brow.
She looked up. “That young man we just left has more to offer a woman than any man I have ever met in my life.” Helena took Portia’s face in her hands and looked into her eyes. “He cherishes life and has a great sense of what is real. He is responsible. He is honest. He plans, but will not allow wild dreams to get in the way of his beliefs or his loyalties. And he strikes me as a person that would not even let a kingdom come between him and the woman he loves.”
Helena touched a tear that was rolling down her daughter’s cheek. “You and Pierce are far different people than your parents, my love. You two are much better—much stronger. Go to him now. There is a great chance of happiness for you. I had no such chance.”
CHAPTER 23
Portia could feel the change in the air the moment she stepped on deck. The ship seemed almost deserted,
with only the sound of the wind in the sails and the low steady roar of the sea to keep her company. Standing by the railing, she stared out in the vast wasteland of rolling black water. She could not tell where the sea ended and the sky began, for there was a low mist enshrouding the horizon. She looked up. Far above her, beyond the straining gray canvas, the stars were visible for only a few moments as openings in the clouds scudded past. As she turned her gaze downward at the water rushing along the dark hull, the sound of a hornpipe floated back from the foredeck. It was a lonely tune, one filled with a sense of yearning, and it cut deeply into her soul.
Helena’s final words had not eased her fears about the future. They had not given her any relief at all. Her path was not any clearer now than it had been. One thing Portia was sure of—she was not destined to have the happiness that her mother thought she could have with Pierce. The two of them could never be.
True, she loved him. But he had never bargained for all the trouble she had caused him. From the start, she had pushed herself on him, chased after him, tricked him. Even their initial meeting had been the result of her recklessness. Still, she had not even been able to capture his interest at the Admiral’s ball when she’d looked her best.
And later, it had been she who showed up at his house, throwing herself at him once more. Portia wondered how his feelings about that night—about her—could possibly be any different than his feelings for any of the dozens of women who went willingly to his bed. She still recalled clearly how quiet, how distant he’d been after they’d made love.
Portia didn’t want to dash her mother’s hopes for her, but the truth was that when it came to their stations in life, she and Pierce were farther apart than Helena and her mysterious lover could possibly have been.
Pierce was the brother of an earl. He was a wealthy ship owner, a young and handsome bachelor with every women he met vying for his attention.
And she was Portia Edwards, born out of wedlock, happy to have found her only family, her mother. And what did she have to offer—eighteen pounds and five shillings in her purse and perhaps a lifetime of running.
It was simple. The two of them had no chance. Still though, Portia knew she was as dreamy-eyed about this relationship as her mother had been twenty five years ago with another man. All she really wanted now was to savor every moment of the time they had left. There was no future for them; there was only now. However harsh the consequences might be, she would face them when the time came.
A passing cloud decided to shed a few tears on her behalf, and Portia lifted her face to it, almost grateful for the sentiment.
“Lie to me if you must, but do not tell me you are thinking of climbing into the rigging tonight.”
Portia turned to see Pierce descend from the stern deck. He’d shed his jacket again and had rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. The collar was undone. He’d also forsaken the ribbon he generally used to tie his hair. As he came toward her, she thought he moved with the smooth confidence of a Mohawk Indian she had once seen at Fanuel Hall in the company of one of the western landowners—dark, confident, noble. As she looked at him now, her breath caught in her chest to think that she was the center of this beautiful man’s attention—even if it were only for this moment.
“I did not know you were up here.” His gaze traveled down the front of her body, and she felt the fires immediately kindle within. “I did not see you when I first came up.”
Leaning against the rail, she fisted one hand around the shroud behind her. He stepped closer, slipping one hand around her waist. When his chest came fully in contact with her breasts, she ceased to breathe completely.
“But you did not answer me, my wee water monkey.” He wrapped a hand around the back of her head, and his lips hovered over hers. “I saw you concentrating so hard. What mischief are you contemplating now? Fomenting mutiny perhaps? Do you plan to conquer or destroy my ship?”
Portia couldn’t help herself. His lips were so close, his body so warm. She raised herself slowly on her tiptoes and brushed her lips against his. “What I was thinking had nothing to do with the ship. I was thinking of you.”
His blue eyes looked black in the night. Small wrinkles appeared as he smiled. “Conquering me or destroying me?”
“Neither.” She shook her head and kissed his chin, brushed her lips fleetingly against his mouth again. Shyly, she bit on his ear. “I was thinking of other things. Like a promise you gave me this afternoon.”
She tried to move her hand from the shroud, but Pierce took hold of her hands and trapped them behind her back. His slow smile sent a shiver through her.
“In that case…”
He kissed her. Leisurely and with sublime tenderness. It was a long time before he drew back. Portia parted her lips, starved for more. He sealed their mouths again as they began a seductive dance of lips and tongues. Portia struggled to free her hands, but he held them tighter, the kiss deepening even more. Her excitement built, her body straining against his.
She moaned softly when he pressed a knee intimately between her legs. Her ankle wrapped around his calf. Heat rushed through her body when he rubbed his loins against her middle. He was fully aroused, but he was clearly in no hurry. It seemed that he took pleasure in making her slowly burn.
An unexpected trough caused the ship to heel, and Portia felt them both leaning dangerously over the railing. Pierce freed her hands and she wrapped them tightly around him. He too held her tight, gripping the shroud with his other hand.
She laughed a little nervously and pressed her cheek against his heart. “Well, if I am to die, what better way to go than while I’m being made love to by you.”
“You can forget about dying, or being hurt, or anything else terrible happening to you.” As the vessel righted itself, Pierce lifted her chin until their gazes locked. “I am ot going to let any of that happen. Like it or not, you are now mine to protect.”
******
Although both had distinguished military careers in the colonies to their credit, their paths had never crossed until Lieutenant Dudingston was assigned to patrol the Narragansett Bay in March of this year. They met when the ambitious young officer began reporting directly to his new superiors in Boston.
Even before meeting him, Turner had been impressed by Dudingston’s reputation. Tolerating no nonsense and treating the troublemaking colonists with a heavy hand—the way they deserved to be treated—the lieutenant and his ship, the Gaspee, had been churning up the waters leading to Philadelphia. In four years, he had harassed or seized enough suspected vessels that several colonial governors had written letters of protest to the Admiralty in London. Turner had considered Dudingston’s move to Rhode Island a strong and positive step. It was a sentiment that was obviously not shared with anyone in that filthy little colony.
Turner believed the burning of the Gaspee and the wounding of Dudingston proved that strong colonial authority in Rhode Island was simply non-existent. There were clearly no fear of reprisals in the colonists. Even the paltry reward—one hundred pounds—offered by the governor for information about the person who wounded the lieutenant was laughable.
The preliminary report of the incident was appalling. The bullet had passed through Dudingston’s left arm, breaking it. The ball had then lodged in his groin, five inches directly below the navel. Bleeding badly and in great pain, the officer had lain on the Gaspee’s deck while the attackers had taken control of the ship and removed the crew to the boats. He’d been left there suffering while the raiders had gone through the ship. Finally, the leaders of the attack had forced the bleeding man to beg for his life on his knees before summoning a trained surgeon to help him.
Even after the ordeal was over, Dudingston had feared for his life. Even when he’d been removed to Newport, the lieutenant had refused to mention names or give any details. He would wait, he said, until his court martial in England for the loss of the Gaspee. Turner understood the officer’s reasoning.
The captain wished his o
wn reason for silence were so easy to explain. Since their departure together on the Beaver, he and Dudingston had spent many hours in each other’s company, sitting in the captain’s quarters, playing chess and cards. Perhaps because of his injuries, the lieutenant was spending a great deal of time drinking heavily. Turner was beginning to look forward to the end of this journey, for every time the officer was in his cups—which was quite often, of late—the injured man would begin to goad him about the vagueness of his mission to Wales.
“I overheard one of the mates relate the most improbable story about your assignment today,” Dudingston said, reaching unsteadily to move his chess piece.
Turner said nothing. He already knew he was not going to like the explanation.
Dudingston was not deterred. He poured himself another cup of rum. “What I heard about your mission is that there is no mission.”
Turner tried to concentrate on his next move on the board.
“This is all over a woman, they tell me. A woman! ‘Twould be a fine thing to have one on board right now.” He laughed bitterly and then downed the cup. “Although I have no idea why it should.”
Turner did not look up.
“I’ll tell you a secret,” Dudingston said in a low voice. “The bloody surgeon tells me that it might never work again.”
“Shall we finish this game tomorrow?” Turner pushed his chair away from the table.
“Unmanned, Captain,” he continued, pouring another drink. “Do you think there is a special decoration for that?”
Turner stood up. He didn’t care to pursue this discussion at all, and Dudingston was becoming quite drunk.
“I think I shall see Lieutenant Lindsay about our posi—”
“Sit, Captain. I must apologize. This kind of talk is entirely unseemly for two gentlemen such as ourselves.” He waved Turner to sit. “Please, Captain.”
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