Ride the Wind: Touch the Wind Book Two

by Erinn Ellender Quinn

  “What can I do?” he asked at last. What should I do?

  With this. With her.

  “Two things,” she said. “I didnae cast it for ye. It’s Ian O’Manion who cannae gamble and win. Once ye clear yer real name and reclaim it, the gris is done.”

  “Jaysus, Joseph, and Mary!” Ian thrust his hands in his hair and stared at her, still trying to fathom what she had told him. If only she’d said something…asked him questions…talked to him first. But it was too late for that. Whatever she’d done, he would only have to deal with it.

  “That takes money, Red,” he reminded her curtly. “More than I have at the moment.” His attorney was already working on it, but until he came up with some hard coin, and a lot of it, the thing would not get done and he’d die as Ian O’Manion. “And the second?”

  “Race Zephyr,” she told him. “The gris is for gambling. Ye can enter contests and win. Taking a purse is the same as staking coin on the turn of a card. Ye willnae be able tae wager, but if Zephyr runs like I ken he will, ye’ll hae gentry in droves coming tae buy his colts. I’ve oft wondered why he’s been so insistent. Last year, poor Zeus barely got a turn.”

  Ah, Beth. Beth, who sleeps with foxes and talks to bees and pimps my mares to the stallion that might yet save us.

  He supposed he should be angrier than he was. Of all things, to have a curse put on him was, well, disturbing at the least. He believed her when she said she’d done it for his own good. It didn’t take a genius to recognize a proclivity for addiction. Other than not going far enough back to the boxing he’d done, she was spot on for patterns. Playing music with his mates ‘til the wee hours every night. One spell of drinking ‘til he couldn’t hold a job. Women—ah, women—going at it all night with one or two whenever he made port. Then he’d found cards and juggled women with the gambling, until he won a ring and got arrested and the world as he’d known it had ended.

  A passionate man, she named him. Not the worst thing he’d been called. He supposed a passionate man could be a gentleman farmer. That’s what he’d promised God that he’d be, if he escaped the hellhole of Port Royal prison. He’d just have to get passionate about something that paid the bills, like indigo or tobacco or blooded horses. It was too late in the season for the first two. But the horses, now.

  “Will you help me?” Red Beth, his horse whisperer. He wouldn’t put it past her to sneak into the stalls and sweet talk Zephyr’s competition to throw the race to him. And right now, he didn’t care how she’d work her magick. He just needed Zephyr to win magnificently enough that he’d be the talk of the colonies and bring top dollar for his offspring. With the substantial crop of midnight colts and yearlings that Zephyr had thrown, a lesser man could retire.

  She climbed off the bed. Hugging the stack of documents to her heart, she crossed to the window and kissed him. “Aye,” she said, a world of promises in her eyes.

  He planned on holding her to them.

  Chapter Ten

  Bartholomew Atwood II, Esquire, attorney at law, didn’t like to pry, but Captain Ian O’Manion was making it deuced hard. The Captain had just given up two indentures and land he could ill afford, what with the losses in March of a prized stallion and his late overseer. Barry had agreed to help him find a replacement, and he’d arranged a last-minute dinner and card game to help set the wheels into motion.

  Barry’s wife Jane was just as curious to meet Miss Elsbeth Gordon, the beekeeper who had inspired such magnanimity in Captain O’Manion, he was moved to grant her and her mother their freedom early. When he was fevered, she had saved his life. He made the former bondservant sound nothing short of a miracle worker.

  And her mother was a midwife.

  As promised, Bartholomew Atwood II, Esquire, sent his carriage out at six. By seven, the four little Atwoods were upstairs in the nursery and Barry and Jane were seated at the banquet table with their fourteen guests. The last to arrive had been the intrepid Captain Ian O’Manion and the miraculous Elsbeth Gordon.

  The men, single and married, froze mid-sentence when Miss Gordon was escorted in, draped in blue silk that was mere shades from her brilliant blue eyes. Her gown was of the latest style from the fashion plates of Europe, but she had eschewed both wig and powder, and had chosen to wear her bright red hair au naturel. A riot of vibrant curls was pinned atop her pretty head, adorned with a French lace cap.

  Equally impressive was Captain O’Manion, who cut a fine figure in his gold justacorps, left open to reveal a brocaded vest in greens and golds and a fine silk shirt, worn with a jabot. Pale gold knee breeches disappeared into high topped polished black boots, and even Mrs. Haversham nodded her approval.

  Here in the colonies, Jane Atwood knew that she would soon be forgiven for the liberties she took tonight with table seating. Normally she’d have seated the Captain and Miss Gordon on opposite sides of the table, and rank would have placed Miss Gordon rather below the salt. But her husband had insisted that she honor the Captain’s request, and so she had placed Miss Gordon between herself and Captain O’Manion.

  The Captain was all solicitousness, carrying on the conversation when Miss Gordon proved less a talker and more a listener. But she could sew. When the table was cleared and the men readied to drink and play cards and the women retired to the drawing room, Miss Gordon welcomed the invitation to raid Jane’s sewing basket and was soon making a poppet for the baby.

  Jane realized that she owed her husband an apology. She had rushed to judgment about the Captain and been proven wrong. Instead of the odious tyrant she had expected, the Irishman was solicitous in his attentions to Miss Gordon. He was considerate. Kind. Sensitive to Miss Gordon’s needs and responsive in turn. Clearly, his request to keep Miss Gordon by his side was for her benefit, not his. Jane hoped the cards favored him to make up for any conversational opportunities he may have missed at the dinner table.

  Miss Gordon, in her first evening of freedom, seemed rather wary of others, especially the men, and remained close by the Captain, who ran the gauntlet of introductions with aplomb. Jane sensed her discomfort and sought to dispel it, keeping her close at hand when they moved into the drawing room. She told Miss Gordon about her children, golden blonds, all of them. Michael was six; the twins, Martha and Bartholomew III (Martie and Barty) were four. Then there was the newest apple in the orchard, Baby Jane, with her plump cheeks and dimpled fingers and truly sweet disposition. Jane Atwood was very much interested that an accomplished midwife was so close by, for the next time. They had buried two babies already.

  When Captain O’Manion came to collect Miss Gordon, Jane could not help noting the way they finished each other’s sentences, like her twins. Fragments that only the two of them could piece together and make the whole.

  Him: “Shall we?”

  Her: “Did ye?”

  Him (shaking his head): “As you said.”

  Her, saying nothing, just touching his sleeve the way she had her husband’s the one time he’d lost in court.

  If that wasn’t love, it was well on the way to it.

  They returned to the hotel the same way they’d come, in his attorney’s fashionable coach. Ian had been so proud of Beth, the way she’d entered the fray with her head held high and parried questions and fended off the advances of more than one man who’d wanted to get closer. He’d done his best to protect her, not knowing the guests, or what memories they brought to the table. He still didn’t know, but he could tell her exactly how much they’d walked away with, once he’d joined the card game.

  He’d set a limit for himself, thanks to Red’s gris or curse or whatever the hell she’d waved into existence. He needed to make a good impression. He went into the game forewarned at least. Somehow he’d hoped that he would prove Beth wrong, yet a part of him oddly expected to lose, which before now would have been unthinkable. But he’d told himself, if he did lose, he needed to be warm and witty doing it, and clever enough to impress. It was his best hope, if he were to be considered for inclus
ion, and it worked. He’d lost hand after hand with self-deprecating humor and aplomb, and the good grace he’d maintained had ultimately yielded an invitation to race in August.

  He hoped he could talk Beth into returning for it.

  At the hotel, he took her up and opened her door, checking the room before they stepped inside. He lit a candle and opened the window, to allow in the cool, sea-scented air.

  He turned back to her, smiling softly. “Thank you for going. You looked beautiful.”

  He wanted to tell her that he knew it wasn’t easy, and how much he admired the courage it had taken to go. Healing him had nearly killed her, and in a city, where she was struggling to steer clear of the energy of thousands, putting her in mixed company was not without risk.

  Beth pulled off her pristine white gloves and laid them on the table.

  “Would ye mind?” she asked, presenting the laces on her back.

  Ian had had to play the lady’s maid and help her dress for dinner. Now he undid everything that she could not reach herself. The silk dress was unlaced. The stays came off. Petticoats and panniers pooled on the floor.

  “Would you mind?” he asked, looking at the bed, hoping she would invite him to join her. Attuned to her, he heard her breath catch, and he felt his body thrum.

  Her cap came off. Her hair came down. Exploded, more like it. Freed of the coil she’d pinned, it burst around her face and streamed down her back like fireworks on the King’s birthday. The chemise was next. Then it was just her gorgeous legs, clad in stockings, and her pretty feet in her worn but polished silver-buckled shoes.

  She left them on while she helped him undress. He shed his coat first, then his vest and jabot and shirt. He sat on the bed and she knelt on the floor before him, taking off his boots and setting them aside. She undid his garters and pulled down his stockings and then there were only his breeches.

  He peeled those off quick enough, and lay down in her too-short bed and tried not to think of it as some sort of metaphor for his deficiencies. Instead he focused on her pomegranate breasts and her soft pink lips that curved like Eve’s when she sat on the bed, facing him, and lifted one of her pretty feet and put it on the mattress beside his shoulder, while her other leg dangled off the edge.

  Vixen, a new game? What else did those horses tell you today?

  He sat up. Leaning over, he put his hands around the exquisite turn of her ankle and bent to kiss the inside of her stocking-clad knee. He moved his fingers higher, rediscovering the shape of her calf, before finding the garter and setting it free to fall on the floor. He slipped off her shoe and let it drop too, then came a gradual unveiling as he slid his hand down to her ankle, taking the blue silk knit with it.

  He lifted her foot, held it with her stocking pooled, then pulled on the toe and slipped it free.

  Hail, Mary, full of grace.

  He wondered, was it sacrilege, to kiss her feet and beg for mercy and worship at the altar of her body? Pagan thing that she was, she didn’t believe in venial sin. Her path was one of stewardship; her credo was kindness.

  She was certainly kind to him, offering a chance for absolution when he finished too quickly again. Thank God, he’d always had more in him than a single shot.

  “We might need more bees,” he remarked much later, after they’d had a second go at it. This time he’d managed long enough to send her over the edge twice and take him with her in the end. A vast improvement over the eunuch he’d been, but he’d really like to make it last. He wanted to go the distance without worrying over control issues that had him randy as a stallion and finished just as quick.

  Beth was using his chest for a pillow, and both of them had yet to catch their breath. She sighed softly, and started drawing designs in his chest hair.

  Lifting a wild red curl, he inhaled its fragrance. “I don’t know,” he said, rubbing the silken strands. “I don’t know. I can’t seem to get the hang of it.” He tried not to sound too worried but the lingering problem concerned him.

  “Give it time,” she told him. “It takes time.”

  Sweet girl. He was thirty-six years old. He should be the one counseling patience.

  He kissed her hair and pulled up the sheet when the fevered pitch faded and the night air grew cool. He supposed he ought to go to his room, but her fingers drew such lovely designs on his body, he preferred to remain here as her canvas.

  And so he stayed, willing her hand to remain on him even when her breathing changed and her fingers stilled, cherishing the feel of a woman’s tender touch after the months he’d been abused. If she never did more for him, if tomorrow she decided she’d had enough and looked to Thomas Marshall or some other man closer to her age, he would remember this, remember her kindness, and be forever grateful.

  Rain kept them indoors on Sunday, and most of that was spent in bed. Ian had hoped that having all the time in the world might take some of the pressure off his performance, but he still had to have her twice each time. Between rounds, he explored the landscape of her body, in case there was anything uncharted that he’d missed, and gave her free rein to do the same.

  She was most interested in his scars, wanting to know the story of each one. Most of the marks on his back were stripes of service, beatings for daring to differ. Somewhere among them, near his right kidney, was a scar from his first tavern brawl at the age of fifteen, when he was good with his fists and naïve enough to think that people fought fair. When the two of them took it outside, he hadn’t gotten ten feet before he was stabbed in the back. But the blade had hit a rib, and he’d never forgotten a hard lesson learned.

  He had scars from when he had sailed with Bonnet and two from prison, courtesy of a day guard with a penchant for torture.

  She went still, and he knew that she was sorry she’d asked. Thinking to change the subject, he turned the tables to her.

  “Tell me,” he said. “How does someone sprung from Roman Catholic loins end up talking to oaks and drawing down the moon? Whatever made you learn magick?”

  Beth finished the symbol she’d been drawing in the Captain’s chest hair and started the next, weaving energy with each line that she made. “I didnae fit,” she said simply. “Try as I might, I couldnae make meself intae what everyone expected, nae me family, nae me parents, nae our priest. He thought sic gifts were from the devil, and was ever after me mam tae let him drive the demons oot. If I ever saw ane, it was riding tha’ mon’s back.”

  She shuddered, remembering the taint of evil that clung to him, whispering in his ear, driving him to desperation. “Once, when me mam was at a birthing a town over and me da was helping a foal come, wie me brothers and sisters grown and gaun, and me there alone, he came in, unbidden, and got hold of me and swore he’d get the devil oot of me yet. If me da hadnae come just then, I dinnae ken what he would hae done.”

  The Captain felt her shiver and gave her a hug. “I’m glad your da was there for you,” he said. “He was a good man.”

  Beth swallowed hard; her throat grew thick with tears. “I miss him,” she whispered, hurting from more than the memory of his loss. Watching him die, she’d eased his pain when it was too much for him to bear, had taken what she could from him, like a cross carried by two. “I told him I was never going back tae church, and he never made me. Instead, I prayed, and read, and listened, and searched, and one day in the woods, I met someone who could do some of the same things that I did. I touched her,” she said. “There was no malice, no hate, only love and joy and appreciation for the earth and her bounty. She smiled and offered tae teach me the rest of it. When I said aye, it felt like coming home.”

  “She was a witch.”

  “Aye. Solitaries, ye could call us. We had no coven, no group of like souls. There were but few of us—I only met two others—and each of us kent tae guard our secrets. Fanatic priests and other zealots are yet quick tae point fingers and accuse people of witchcraft who ken nocht of it. I’ve seen it done over a piece of disputed land. Get one called out, trie
d and hung, and nothing stands in the way of the other. It was frightening, for it tae be so easy, and so sad, tae hae an injustice be so clear and no one brave enough tae speak agin it, for fear of getting called intae question and be themselves accused.”

  Ian kissed the top of her head. “I’m sorry,” was all he could say. How did one explain witch hunts and inquisitions? He’d never understood how people of one nation or race or faith could justify the persecution of another simply because they were different. Maybe it was because he was Irish; for centuries they had been put upon by invaders from other lands with different beliefs. He’d been impressed. He’d had his freedom taken from him, first by a British press gang, then by Stede Bonnet. He could justify indentures that helped people come to the colonies, and gave them land when their time was served, but he had a hard time with the idea of owning slaves. It went against his very nature.

  “Guid,” she whispered, eavesdropping again.

  Just for that, sensing that she was still in his head, he started thinking of other forms of bondage that he’d seen. Beth gasped, and tapped him on the back of his hand like a schoolboy caught drawing naughty bits on a privy wall.

  “Really?!” she cried.

  His green eyes were alight with mischief, and his smile reminded her that he had known Blackbeard. He’d sailed with pirates. He’d seen things.

  “Oh, aye,” he murmured, and proceeded to show her just a few of them.

  Ian concluded his business with his banker the following Monday morning. He visited his attorney, and although the meeting took longer than planned, in the end he’d gotten more than he’d expected, and he hoped that Beth would be pleased.

  The sun was high and hot enough to make for misery, but Ian refused to risk staying until Tuesday. In truth, he couldn’t if he’d wanted to. The trip had cost more than anticipated, but he had enough left to hire a conveyance to carry them back to the private dock where they’d left the dinghy.