by Madelyn Hill
Martine wrapped her long legs around his waist, drawing him deeper than he could ever imagine. Still, they fought to be closer, deeper.
“Please, Declan,” she whispered through parted lips.
“Aye, my love.” He plunged into her. She bucked off the bed—her hands gripping at the bedding.
He watched satisfaction flow over her face. Peaceful. Beautiful. He buried himself one last time, reaching the pinnacle of fulfillment as never before.
Well sated, he collapsed upon her, chuckling as their breaths came in exhausted spurts. He leaned to the side. Martine’s eyes remained closed, but he knew she was still awake. He trailed his finger along her forehead, over the length of her nose and across her lips. She finally opened her eyes.
“That was . . .”
“I know,” he said as he leaned down and kissed the perfect peak of her nose. “I know.”
They slept, still entangled, unclothed, yet incredibly sated and content. Never had he ever felt this close to another person. The perfection of the moment hovered around them as if protecting them from the harsh reality outside their door.
Declan knew that nothing could possibly surpass what they shared. Even if the truth were revealed, they’d have this afternoon and the bliss of their lovemaking.
He hoped with one last fleeting thought that his bairn grew within her. ‘Twould be a divine example of their struggles and how their love overcame them.
They woke to sun streaming into the room and an insistent knock on the door.
“Bollocks,” Declan muttered as he eased Martine’s body from atop his. “Coming.” He pulled on his britches and covered Martine with a blanket.
He opened the door and leaned against the jam to further protect her privacy. Nate and Pierce stood in the hall with sheepish expressions on their faces.
“We hate to disturb ye, but Randolph hasna been in Dublin for several days.”
“Damn.”
Pierce jumped at his outburst.
“We’ll be going to London?”
“Aye, go to the docks and book passage. You know the ship.” Declan knew Nate was familiar with the vessel from which he wanted passage purchased. “Martine bunks with me.”
“Of course, m’lord,” Pierce sputtered. “We wouldn’t do otherwise, to be sure.”
“Grand. Now leave me be until it’s time to sail.”
Pierce trotted down the hall. Nate remained and gave a crooked grin. “She appears to agree with ye, lad.”
“That’s enough out of you, you eejit.” He shut the door and smiled. Aye, Martine did agree with him. Together for love. There his beautiful woman lay, snuggled in the bed. ‘Twas Martine who saved him with her love and acceptance.
She stretched and yawned.
He pounced on the bed. “Wake up. ’Tis time to break our fast.”
She grinned, a sleepy little moue. “Aye, I’m starving.”
He kissed her then rose from the bed before he started something that would make them miss their voyage. “’Tis time to shop for you.”
She scoffed and pulled a face. “You bought half of Riverton for me already.”
He looked pointedly at her. A woman who didn’t want to buy gowns and hats and whatever else they bought? How lucky was he? “I’ve a right to spoil you.”
She sighed and tossed off the covers. He nearly jumped back into bed and feasted on her naked body.
“Now, now, I see that wicked gleam in your eye. We’ve shopping to do.”
He tapped her chin. “I thought you didn’t want to be spoiled.”
Martine waved at him. “Not for me, for you,” she said with a pointed look.
“Me?” His entire plan had backfired. He just wanted to give what she’d been lacking and now he was going to be subjected to the endless bore of shopping for himself. At least by purchasing items for her, he could enjoy her pleasure.
“Come on with you, get dressed.”
Declan obeyed, somehow feeling as if he were ten and on his way to be fitted for his first suit.
Chapter 21
After an endless morning of selecting trousers and suit coats, Declan had endured enough. He insisted Martine select something for herself.
“Look,” he said as he pointed across the road. “There’s a quaint shop.”
Kane’s Millinery, the sign read. “Would you be pleased with a hat?”
She flushed and looked to the walkway.
Declan stopped and tipped up her chin. “What’s troubling you?” She bit her lip and his heart careened. “You can tell me.”
“It’s just the woman all have fair skin. And mine,” she said as she touched her cheek. “Is tanned.”
He wrapped his arms around her and kissed the top of her head. “My sweet, sweet, Gypsy.”
A frown tipped her mouth downward as she furtively glanced up and down the walkway. “Please do not call me that.”
He cocked his brow. She met his gaze, her eyes pleading. “I’m English. If others know me as a Gypsy, they’ll never accept me. And in doing that, they’ll never accept you—us.”
He tangled his hands in her hair, touched she was concerned with his image more than her own. She was unique, and he thanked God for it every day. “Don’t worry about me. If I have you, that’s enough.”
She smiled, but he saw doubt in her expressive eyes. “Let’s go see about a hat for you.”
As they entered the store, a bell tinkled. A woman came into the shop from behind a velvet curtain. Martine looked around the shop and smiled. He was enthralled by her reaction at the little shop, its neatness, and the variety of lovely hats stacked on the shelves.
“May I help you?”
“Aye,” Declan said as he grasped Martine’s hand. “We need a few hats.”
“You’ve come to the right place.” The auburn-hair woman walked from behind the counter and stood in front of her. He held tight as Martine tried to back away. She cast her gaze to him and he nodded encouragingly.
The woman tapped her lip. “I’ve just the thing.”
Declan stood back as the woman whisked Martine to the other side of the shop. Martine kept looking over her shoulder at him. He just smiled and watched her.
“Now this will accentuate your lovely eyes.”
He watched as Martine spoke with the woman. The uncertainty she exhibited on the walkway remained. It broke his heart for her to struggle, be concerned about her heritage. Perhaps she’d relax on the voyage after she spent more time away from her clan. She glanced over at him, the line of her jaw tight. He hoped she’d begin to enjoy shopping for herself.
“’Tis time to try it on.” The woman grabbed her hand and led her to a mirror. “I’m Bronwyn McKenna. Are you new to Dublin?”
“Aye, we just arrived yesterday.”
The woman smiled. “Ah, I thought so. Your accent gave you away.”
Martine dropped the hat on the small table before the mirror.
Declan came forward. “We were just passing through on our way to London. I’m Declan Forrester and this is my betrothed Martine.”
“Grand. Now, you may need an evening hat. Let me see,” she said as she surveyed the shop. “Yes, ‘tis perfect.” She selected a sapphire velvet hat that had intricate lace draped over the top and hung off the front. The lace was dyed the exact color of the velvet and was extraordinarily fine.
Martine put it on and pulled the lace over her face.
“’Tis perfect,” Declan and the woman said in unison.
She flushed at the attention and removed the hat. Somehow the shop seemed to calm her and she was able to focus on the task at hand. Declan surmised ‘twas the warm attitude of the proprietress.
“Your shop is lovely,” Martine said, as if trying to make up
for her previous blunder.
“Thank you. I’m usually not here in the afternoon, but one of my girls was ill and needed me to fill in.”
Martine fingered the lace of the hat. “Do you make all of the hats?”
“My partner Caitlin and I make all the products as well as teach young women in need to make lace and hats.”
“’Tis a fine business,” Declan said. “We’ll take both of the hats.”
“Excellent.”
After they purchased the hats, they bid farewell.
“If you’re ever in Dublin again, please stop by,” she called after them.
“To be sure,” Declan assured her.
They strolled down the walkway, hand in hand as Declan balanced their purchases with his free one. “She was a nice woman.”
“Aye.”
“She runs her own shop. Can you imagine?”
“Many women do,” he replied.
She looked at him in surprise. “Aye, I suppose they do.”
Declan laughed and patted her hand. “’Tis time to return to the inn and see Nate about our voyage.”
‘Twas obvious she forced a smile. He furrowed his brow as he tried to think of a way to make her understand all would be well in London. As they made their way back to the inn, she stared forward as if she loathed to see if anyone reacted negatively to her—as if they’d recognize she was Rom and would point it out to all who could hear.
He swore he’d protect no matter what others thought.
Or he’d die trying.
Martine clutched her stomach as she once again heaved into a bucket. The choppy waves refused to cease. She leaned against the headboard of the bed and placed a cool cloth on her forehead. Declan had left to conference with his men, thank the Lord. She loathed for him to see her in such a dreadful condition.
And the stateroom did little to ease her discomfort. The bed and chair filled the room with just a narrow space to walk through and open the door. Their clothing stayed in their bags, horribly wrinkled and in need of washing.
Pah. How long was this trip to last? It appeared endless, much more so than she remembered. The Rom had traveled from England to Ireland when she was so young she had no concept of time.
Declan peeked his head into the room. “Feeling any better?”
“Nay,” she mumbled as she wiped her sweaty brow.
He came in and sat upon the end of the bed. “’Twill be two more days if this weather holds.” Declan pushed her hair behind her ear and caressed her face. “Green or no, you’re still lovely.”
With as much energy as she could summon, Martine swatted at him.
“’Tis the truth of it,” he said with a crooked grin. “Try to rest and I’ll bring some broth.”
When she groaned, he kissed her brow.
“And once we are in London?”
“Depends on how you are feeling, to be sure.” He shrugged.
She bit her lip. “I don’t want to slow you down.”
His expression was inscrutable. “You won’t.”
“But—”
Declan put his fingers on her lips. “Shhh. Rest. We’ll talk later.”
He left the room after one more quick kiss. Och, he was a treasure. She closed her eyes and tried to sleep. Her stomach protested and Martine grimaced at the tears threatening to overflow her tired eyes. Instead of submitting to her errant emotions, she began planning for their future. A home, small and tidy. Children, at least a half dozen. And love, until they met their maker.
Children. How she missed her students.
She touched her stomach, envisioned it plump with Declan’s child. Aye, to have his child would be the best of things.
Hope flared within her and it was that hope she’d cling to as they made their way to London.
Chapter 22
“We need to prepare,” Declan stated. “Our welcome in England may be less than pleasant.” He scanned the faces of his men crammed in such a small room deep in the middle of the ship. Stern, resolved. ’Twas lucky he had such support.
“Aye,” Nate agreed. “We found as much when we landed before. The natives didna enjoy our presence.”
The normally silent Rufus slammed his fist against the table. “Bollocks. They hated us.”
Declan grinned, fueled by the challenge, the prospect of ending the torment of his being. To solve the mystery of his imprisonment had driven him to this day and he vowed to be victorious against the hidden nemesis. Getting back to the matter at hand, he said, “Since there was little word of Finn in Dublin, our first job will be to find him. This mystery has gone on for too long.”
Little voiced his opinion. “’Twill be like finding a needle in a haystack.”
He turned to Little and glared. “Aye, old man. And I’ve no doubt you’ll be up to the task.”
His butler chuckled and nodded.
“’Tis all for now. Go. Rest. I’ve Martine to attend to.”
Pierce fumbled in his pocket. “M’lord? I’ve a few pieces of willow bark and some chamomile leaves. ‘Twill help her stomach.”
“Thank you.” He left and headed directly to his room. He quickened his pace, eager to rid himself of the ideal of revenge in Martine’s presence. How she steadied him. ’Twas odd, in a manner of speaking, that he found love at all. Never experiencing any in the past, he’d been accepting of the fact he may be fated to be without.
Martine was tucked beneath the covers, her lush body curled into a ball. He ran a finger down her cheek, over her jaw, and along her graceful neck. Tempted as he was, he allowed her to sleep and sat in the chair nestled into the corner. Kicking his feet on the end of the bed, he leaned his head against the wall and gazed upon her.
He’d do anything to keep her safe, away from the venom he knew lay in London. Yet selfishly, he wanted her near, needed her near.
She stirred and he rose and burrowed behind her. As he wrapped his arm around her shoulder, she stilled and sighed.
Aye, ‘twas contentment, nay fulfilled he felt, to be sure. He inhaled the scent of her hair and rested his face as close to her as possible. He felt her chest rise and fall and allowed it to lull him to sleep. In the morning, they’d be one more day closer to London, and one more day closer to victory or ruin.
Martine clung to the chamber as her sickness lasted from morn to night. ’Twas disconcerting, the trouble her normally reliable stomach was causing. After three days on the rocking and rolling ship, she’d consumed only sips of broth and a soothing tea. Regretfully, its calming effects were short lived. Once the wind kicked up the waves, her stomach rebelled once again.
“’Twill be just a little longer, my love.”
Although her eyes remained closed, Martine heard him and gave a slight grin. His fingers felt lovely as they smoothed her hair and brushed against her skin.
“How would you like a bath?”
Her eyes popped open. “Truly?”
Chuckling, Declan pulled back the covers and helped her out of bed. “Truly.”
He led her to the captain’s cabin and rapped on the door.
“Enter,” a gruff voice called.
Although she felt like death, she looked forward to soaking in a bath, so she entered.
The richly appointed chamber contrasted greatly from the rest of the ship. Tapestries, plush rugs, and the most elaborate velvet dressings for the huge four-poster bed were only a fraction of what occupied the room. Jeweled trunks stacked in the corner looked as if they would topple at any given moment. And in the center of it all, at long table dressed for dinner with royalty, sat the captain, fork raised with a thick slick of mutton from the smell of it.
“So here’s yer woman, Forrester. Thought she was a myth. Come, join me.” He waved toward the table and poured a health
y glass of wine for himself.
Martine smiled at the magnitude of the man. A pirate by the looks of it, and a wealthy one at that. Gold glittered on his fingers and ears. A rich velvet doublet and waistcoat stretched over his broad shoulders and wide form. And a mass of black hair was tied back into a queue.
“May I present my betrothed, Martine.” Declan pulled out a chair and bade her to sit.
Again he failed to mention her surname. Was he doing it for her or him? Was Declan ashamed she was Rom? She so wanted to ask him, but was afraid of the answer. If he said no, would she believe him? And if he said yes, she couldn’t marry him. God, she prayed it was to protect her.
“Pleasure. Pleasure.” He flashed a toothy grin.
She felt her queasiness subside as she rested against the back of the chair. Even the thought of eating began to appeal to her.
“Please,” the captain said between bites. “Help yerselves.”
Declan selected tatties and mutton. He ladled soup into a bowl for her and gave her a small glass of wine. “Be careful. You’ve had nothing to eat in quite a while.”
She smiled at his concern and sipped the soup. She was much more interested in the captain. A robust man, he talked with an unfamiliar accent, thick with brogue and an underlying twang of an unknown origin.