03 - Dreams of Destiny

by May McGoldrick

  This last question, however, had become the topic for dozens of toasts from the group of officers who had gathered in the Rose Tavern near St. James Square. The drinking had started hours ago, however, and the more articulate comments were now only a foggy memory.

  “Nonsense! I hear David is leaving us to pur…pursue his love of singing and learn to play the harpsichord.”

  Though few could understand the slurred enunciation of the final word, a loud cheer went up and everyone drained their glasses. In an instant, the serving lasses—some sitting on the laps of revelers, some fighting off wandering hands—had filled the glasses again.

  Another officer, jacketless and missing a shoe, staggered to his feet. “I heard that our good fellow here plans to work with those Scotch country lasses on perfecting his technique of…er, his dance steps. A gennelman cannot work tod on such things.”

  “Aye,” another pitched in. “And hard is the right word, lads. ’Twould never do for our David to fall in the middle of a dance.”

  Lewd comments and laughter followed. More glasses were raised. David had lost count of the number of toasts an hour ago. But he decided he must be more sober than the rest of the men, for he could still count eight of them sitting around the table. A buxom serving wench, a bottle of wine in her hand, continued to lean against his shoulder, her large bouncing breasts spilling out of her dress as she laughed at the toasts. The heavy curtain that separated his party from the rest of the tavern had long ago been drawn back, and David peered through the smoke at the ever watchful proprietor, standing on the tilting floor at the far end of the room. Happily, the man still had only one head.

  As he watched, a woman wearing a hooded cloak entered the tavern and took the proprietor aside. David vaguely recalled there were rooms upstairs for travelers who were arriving or departing London.

  One of the older officers stood, gathered himself, and bowed gravely to the party. “I propose a toast to David’s aspiration of mastering his skill with the feminine coiffure. In his new profession as a hair dresser here in this fine city, one only hopes that instead of simply demolishing these spectacular structures when he services the ladies, he may apply his talents of erection—”

  The loud cheers and laughter of the men drowned out whatever was to follow. The other patrons of the tavern were beginning to join the cheering and the toasts. Ignoring them all, David stared at the woman speaking with the proprietor. Locks of fiery red hair had escaped the hood of the cloak.

  “Gentlemen! Gentlemen!” The same officer waved his cup in the air, sloshing half of it on David’s arm. “Allow me to finish, gentlemen.”

  The din lessened momentarily.

  “What I intended to say was this…may David’s creations be filled with entire gardens of shrubs…and rose gardens…and clumps of peonies…and of course every other bit of nonsense that fashion dictates.” He raised his cup higher. “And may our good fellow have ample opportunity to drive his erections…of ladies hairstyles…to new heights.”

  Laughter and calls of “Hear, hear!” went round the table, and everyone drank heartily to that. As the glasses were again filled, two men across the table started arguing over who was to give the next toast.

  David’s gaze was drawn to the woman again. Her hood had inched backward on her head. The red curls framing her face caught the light. He had a brief glimpse of an upturned nose, pale skin. He leaned forward, tried to focus, but she turned her back to him and headed for the steps. He immediately rose to his feet, nearly upending the wench hanging on his shoulder. The room whirled around him, and he had to sit down. But planting his hands on the table, he pushed himself up again.

  The officer to his right stood, too, draping an arm around David’s shoulders to keep his balance. “Gentlemen, may I have the…the divine honor of introducing a man we all know, Captain David Whatsisname…late of His Majesty’s 46th Regiment.”

  Cries of “Speech!” and “A toast!” rang out, quickly giving way to shouts of laughter as the officer tried to sit down again, but missed the chair and went sprawling. Paying no further attention to their fallcomrade, they all waited for David to say something, their glasses raised.

  “Considering the gravity of the moment,” David started, “I shall need a few moments to weigh the merits of your thought-provoking career suggestions. Enjoy yourselves, gentlemen. I raise this glass to you all, and I shall return…perhaps.”

  Ignoring the loud cheers and protests, he made his way unsteadily across the room toward the tavern keeper. The floor was rolling like the deck of a ship on the Irish Sea. What should have been a straight path to the man was a blurry hazard of moving tables, chairs, faces and serving wenches. David couldn’t recall the last time that he’d been this far gone.

  Not that there was any fault in that. He’d worked bloody hard for too many years, and he was now at…well, at a changing station on his life’s road. He needed a fresh team of horses and a new direction, by the devil. He could do as he wished. He had ample income. His father had provided both the younger brothers with enough to live in luxury for the rest of their lives. Still though, he was not accustomed to idleness. He needed to make choices about what team of horses to pick…which clubs to spend his evenings in…which direction to go. True, he had no immediate plans, but he found no fault in that, either. He would remedy that soon enough. For tonight, he was too drunk to care about such things. Tomorrow would come soon enough to deal with the future.

  The tavern keeper’s bagwig had to be older than the wine he served, but David knew the heavyset man did all he could to please his patrons. Everyone in the place, including the proprietor, knew he was the guest of honor in the party of officers. The bewigged head bobbed when David asked about the woman who had just come in.

  “Aye, sir, I know who ye mean. She’s a pretty little thing, and well dressed. Quite young, I should think. Gave the name of Mrs. Adams when she came by earlier to take a room. I had one of the lads take her trunk up, and not a moment or two later, she went off to make her final arrangements for a carriage, she told me. She just come back, Captain, but she’s off tomorrow, she is.”

  “Is the lass traveling alone?”

  The tavern keeper glanced toward the stairs where she had disappeared. Winking his eye, he leaned toward David confidentially. “She wishes to make it look that way. But the carriage she was asking about has taken more than a few of these young folk to Gretna Green. I’d put my money on some scoundrel tricking her into meeting him along the way.”

  David wished he’d gotten a better look at the woman’s face. Since the Marriage Act, an underage woman could no longer be married without the banns being read or her parents’ consent. An eloping couple needed to go to Gretna Green now, just across the Scottish border.

  The red hair and pale profile looked the same as Gwyneth’s. She was about the same height and nicely built, just as he remembered the nymph looking last year. He was too drunk to recall where Augusta took her niece at this time of the year. But what would she be doing alone at this tavern? And where the devil did the name ‘Mrs. Adams’ came from?

  “What room is she staying in?”

  “Begging your pardon, Captain,” the man said apologetically after a slight pause. He pointed at the table of revelers across the taproom. “But all my serving wenches here are of the eager sort, if ‘tis companionship ye seek. I’d wager you might have your pick of any oas as If ‘tis the red hair ye fancy, I’m sure we can find—”

  “Which room, man?”

  “Begging yer pardon, sir, but I’m thinking that the young miss upstairs might not be so willing to have a strange gentleman calling on her tonight.”

  David reached in his pocket and took out few guineas. His vision was too blurred to count them, so he dropped them all on the counter. “Well done, man. You’ve done your duty. This is a place of honor and discretion, to be sure. Which room?”

  “I can’t take yer money, sir.” He shook his head apologetically. “She might be tellin
g the truth, and her husband might be waiting for her in Scotland. In your condition, Captain, I cannot be sending ye up there—”

  “I don’t want to bed the blasted creature,” David said irritably. “She looked like a family relation…and if she is who I think she might be, then she has no right to take a room alone or use a fictitious name or go meet some bloody fortune hunter in Scotland. If she is the person I think she is, her kin knows nothing of her doing all of this.”

  The energy to say that much with any coherence—at least David thought he sounded coherent—took a great deal out of him. Still, he drew himself erect and looked down at the tavern keeper, who was clearly thinking hard.

  “Well, man?” David roared. “Will you tell me or must I find the bloody chit myself?”

  Quickly, the man swept the coins off the counter and pocketed them. Hurrying around David, he gestured for him to follow.

  “In that case sir, I’ll take ye up to her room myself.”

  Though he knew he was not thinking too clearly, David knew it was better this way, in case he had the wrong woman. He was also glad the tavern keeper hadn’t just given him directions. In his condition, he might arrive at the door of St. James Palace as easily as the right door.

  The stairs heaved and shifted as he tried to follow the proprietor. He needed to stop a couple of times along their way and lean heavily against the walls. They seemed to be moving in and out on him. The older man chatted away the whole time they were moving up the steep steps, but David didn’t hear most of it. He should have drunk more…or dipped his head in a bucket of cold water before coming up.

  Upstairs, the hallway was dark. It was hot and airless in the narrow passageway. Doors lined both walls. One swung open when he swayed a little, banging it with his shoulder. David found himself staring in at a good-sized bed. The window was open and—though it was August—he could smell smoke from a bonfire on the street below. The sudden urge to lie down and sleep almost overwhelmed him.

  “This one’s not let for the night. Ye can have it no charge, Captain. A nice comfortable bed, that one is, sir.”

  He tore his gaze away from the temptation and turned to the man at his shoulder. “The woman…take me to this Mrs…Mrs…what was her bloody name?”

  “Mrs. Adams.” The man pointed. “This way, sir. Her room is the last one there on the left.”

  Curiously, it appeared that his legs had turned to stone. By the time David got his feet moving again down the allway, the other man was already knocking on the door. A muffled response came from inside.

  “I’ve a gentleman here, Mrs. Adams,” the tavern keeper called out. “He says he’s some relation to ye, ma’am.”

  David thought it was stupid to warn the woman that she’d been found out. Talking took too much effort, though, and the narrow space was starting to feel like a crypt. Pushing the proprietor out of the way, he leaned heavily against the woman’s door, waiting. She was taking her bloody time. He thought to ask if there were a window she might climb from. His mouth was too dry, though, to say anything, and he decided to rest a little where he was.

  “He must be mistaken,” she answered from the other side of the door. “I have no kin in London…and my husband would not be happy if I were to open this door at this time of the night to—”

  “Gwyneth,” David managed to say. “Is that you?”

  There was another pause. Then a latch lifted hurriedly on the other side. The surface he was leaning on suddenly gave way, and David went tumbling into the room.

  The young woman tried to get out of the way, but David reached for her, and both of them ended up landing on the hard floor…her on top of him.

  “David? Are you hurt?” She slid off to his side, her hands touching his chest, his face, running over his hair. There was worry in her voice.

  He somehow got hold of her wrist. He wanted to make sure she didn’t run away.

  “I guess the Captain was right in saying he knew ye, ma’am,” the tavern keeper said with a chuckle, backing out of the room and closing the door.

  She worked her wrist free and leaned over him again. “What are you doing here?” She caressed his face. “The last I heard, you were in Ireland.”

  David blinked to clear his vision. She wore no fashionably tall headdress. She didn’t need such ridiculous ornamentation. Her curls were the color of fire in the flickering candlelight. He reached up and touched her hair. It was so soft. The way it used to be. His finger looped around one and he tugged once, the way he always did. She didn’t cry or complain though. Instead her fingers gently freed the curl. His gaze caressed her face, focused on her lips. This was not the girl he remembered, though. She had become a woman.

  “You are not helping me. Sit up, David.”

  She stretched her arm under his shoulders and tried to lift him. He stared at the pulse fluttering beneath the ivory column of her throat. The skin looked soft. Her eyes were huge and as green as the hills of Eildon. She smelled of lavender and a freshness not found in London. He did help her. He raised himself onto one elbow, facing her.

  “Who is this bloody Adams?”

  “Never mind that.” She leaned over him, trying to get him to sit up. “You seem to have too much wine in you. I should like to get you out of here and downstairs. We can find you a carriage or a sedan chair. I do not think your family even knows you’re back from Ireland. And why are you not wearing your uniform?”

  He reached over and cupped the back of her head, drawing her face close. “Who…is…Adams?” he asked again.

  “You are in no condition now for any explanatins. I should like to get you to your brother’s house.”

  Her mouth fascinated him. He kissed her. If she was surprised, there was no struggle. David pressed his tongue into her mouth, and his hunger surged as he heard her make a small surprised noise in the back of her throat. Her taste was sweet, her breath warm. He took a fistful of her hair and her mouth opened. In an instant, he was devouring her, mindless of why he had come up here. All he knew was that her mouth was like some luscious flower, and he was drawing the nectar.

  Suddenly she came alive. Her tongue answering his call to play. When he finally drew his head back a little, her mouth followed. David lay back, pulling her body on top of his. Her soft curves fit in all the right places, and he felt his body growing hard. His hand slid downward over her bottom, and he kneaded the sweet, firm flesh.

  “David.” She lifted her head, breaking off the kiss. Her skin was flushed. She was breathless. “We shouldn’t.”

  “Why is that?”

  He rolled them on the floor, cradling her head as he moved on top of her. He fit himself against her and saw the pulse in her throat now beating wildly. He put his mouth on it.

  “I love the taste of you here.” He trailed his mouth down to the neckline of her dress. “And here, too.”

  His hand gently squeezed her perfect breast, and a small gasp escaped her lips as she arched her back into his touch. Lowering his head, he nipped at one breast through the layer of clothing.

  “I would like very much to strip this garment off of you so I can taste you here, too.” His hand moved downward beyond her belly. “And here.”

  Her body grew still, and then she took hold of his face in both hands. She drew his head up until he was looking into her face again.

  “I fear you are too far gone with wine to know whose body is lying beneath yours,” she said quietly. “Look at me, David.”

  His body throbbed. The woman was beautiful, and he knew she was willing. He tried to focus on her face, though. Green eyes. That dusting of freckles on her nose. He wanted to make love to her. He pressed his hip into the juncture of her legs.

  “David!” she pleaded. “I want you to see me. ’Tis Gwyneth.”

  He tried to focus again and this time reality sank in. Gwyneth! He closed his eyes for a moment to gather his sanity. He opened them and looked at her again. Her eyes had grown misty.

  “Bloody hell! I am so so
rry, I—”

  She pressed her fingers against his lips and shook her head. “Do not apologize. I understand.”

  He couldn’t roll off of her fast enough. He pushed himself unsteadily to his feet. As he stretched down a hand to help her up as well, the room tilted, lurched once, and began to spin wildly. He staggered back, hitting the door with his back.

  “I think I am going to be si—.”

  ****

  The window was open. But there was no breeze, no relief from the heat burning Gwyneth’s face and body.

  The sounds of the taproom below had finally quieted. Outside, the noise of the street was dwindling, too. Dawn was only a few hours away, though, and soon the early coaches leaving London would rattle through the town, the harnesses of their teams jingling and the drivers’ gruff shouts breaking the silence. Then the calls of the early morning vendors would begin to be heard.

  Gwyneth walked away from the window and came to touch David’s brow for the hundredth time. He was not feverish, but his sleep was restless and fitful. She’d helped him out of his jacket when she’d laid him down. Still though, she thought he must be far too warm in his waistcoat and shirt, but she didn’t dare touch any of his clothing.

  He had been so sick, but he wouldn’t let her help him. The only thing he’d asked of her was to go downstairs for a clean pitcher of water. She’d done that, and afterwards neither of them had said much before he’d fallen asleep on the narrow bed in her room. She had little experience in dealing with effects of drinking too much wine. She assumed sleeping, though, would be his best medicine.

  She quickly snatched her hand away from David’s face when he rolled toward her in his sleep. She moved to the window again and sat on the rickety bench. The moon was still high, though she could see thickening clouds covering much of the starry sky. They would be setting off in the rain, she decided. His jacket and his sword lay beside her and she ran her fingers over the fine new cloth of his coat and the ornate metalwork of the weapon, which gleamed in the moonlight. She looked across the room, watching him as he slept.