Sara let the letter fall from her fingers and a single tear slipped down her cheek; all her fine dreams and schemes reduced to ashes. It was almost an hour before she gradually became aware of her surroundings. The smell of leather and horses teased her nostrils and she stirred herself, sighing deeply for what might have been, and walked slowly to the house. As she passed her stepfather’s study, his cold command reached her ears. “Come in here!”
She pushed open the doors and met his eyes. Suddenly she knew the reprieve of three days’ standing was over. He knew that she had swum naked. She stood motionless through the endless sermon, only longing to know her punishment and to get it over with. She was the scandal of the neighborhood. Her behavior was wanton, wicked, eccentric. She was an instrument of the devil. Her Wilde Irish blood was tainted and she responded neither to chastisement nor punishment; she neither regretted nor repented. She heard him list her long catalogue of sins and waited for his verdict. When it came it was totally unexpected. It was said quietly without anger, yet it was more terrible for her than any beating.
“From now on you will be deprived of your privileges, beginning with your riding. To ensure your obedience, I sold your horse today.”
“No,” she whispered, stunned. “Who did you sell her to?” Her mind screamed its denial.
“Silence!” he ordered.
Her pale green eyes narrowed. She dipped him an insolent little curtsy and departed with dignity. Cheltenham was a small enough town that she soon discovered where Sabbath had gone. At the moment she was helpless to do anything about losing her, but she resolved to get her horse back come hell or high water when it was possible, and until that time she accepted the fact that she could only visit her occasionally and then only after a two-mile walk in each direction.
The wedding of Beth was imminent. Such loving attention had been given to each detail of the lavish affair that Sara was sick to death of it all and wished the ordeal were over and done with. She dreaded the wedding ceremony itself with her stepfather officiating at the marriage of his own daughter. Jane’s husband was to walk Beth down the aisle of the English church, which would be packed with all their relatives from Gloucester and all her father’s regular congregation from Cheltenham. The church would echo to the rafters with whispers about why she was not being married. After all, it was her turn, and Beth was almost five years her junior. In Tudor England girls married before the age of sixteen or were considered to be left on the shelf—unsuitable, unmarriageable, unwanted.
Damn, I’d like to give them something to talk about, she thought unhappily. She sat in the orchard, thinking up one scheme after another, rejecting her ideas almost as quickly as she thought of them.
The deep pink bridesmaid gown, which she hated, was finished and hanging in her room. She felt depressed every time she looked at it. Ah, well, in two days’ time it would all be over but the shouting, and then she would have the attentions of three brothers-in-law to dodge instead of just two, for the bridegroom had already caught her alone a couple of times and tried to steal kisses from her.
As she walked past the washhouse she saw one of the servants busy over a large washtub. “What are you doing, Mrs. Pringle?”
“Ah, lovey, I’m busy dyeing the choirboys’ cassocks. The reverend sets great store by a grand show in the church. These cassocks are to be scarlet, do ye see. With the white lace surplices over the scarlet cassocks it will be like a pageant!”
“Do you need any help, Mrs. Pringle?”
“Well, now, lovey, ye know how sore me old back gets. While I’m taking these cassocks out to the orchard to dry, you can empty the tub with yon bucket. But be careful to let it cool down first so ye don’t go scaldin’ yerself.”
As Sara watched the scarlet dye bubble, her own wicked juices began to stir. Did she dare? Why not? The only color that would make her look worse than deep pink would be scarlet! She wasted no time in smuggling her pink bridesmaid gown down to the washhouse.
The wedding day dawned and none had time to give Sara Bishop a passing thought. She would keep her cloak on until the last possible moment; then she would throw it off as she walked down the aisle and everyone would recognize that Sara’s alter ego, Sabre Wilde, had turned up.
Every pew of the church was packed. Her mother was escorted to the front row, while the bridegroom and the Reverend Bishop stood at the altar. Fourteen-year-old Ann was to go first in the procession, scattering rose petals, then the lovely dark-haired Margaret and Jane, so alike, were paired to walk hand in hand. The bride, on her brother-in-law’s arm, was to be followed by Sara, who would carry her train.
Beth was far too concerned over her own wedding attire to pay heed to eccentric Sara, who had insisted upon wearing her cloak until the last possible moment. The notes of the virginal rang out and the choirboys’ sweet voices rose like the sound of angels. Then the solemn little procession started down the aisle and an expectant hush fell over the congregation.
Suddenly the musician struck a discordant note, the choirboys forgot the words to the hymn, and the assembled congregation gasped in unison. The girl was in bright red! The color screamed aloud its shocking unsuitability for a nuptial ceremony, especially inside a church, a hallowed place of God.
Sara had her revenge, upsetting the smug propriety of her half sister’s wedding day, and at the same time reducing the Reverend Bishop’s sacrament to the level of farce. The wedding would be talked about for months, and after the first shock waves wore off, people could not hide their laughter. That Sabre was a red-headed virago who had a penchant for scandalous behavior and they would never tame her!
Chapter 2
The magnificent dragon symbol on the sail was sighted from Devonport long before the ship was brought expertly into harbor. A cry went up from the seawall and was carried to every person abroad in the port town this fine May morning. “The Sea God! The Sea God!” The children took up the cry until the cobbled streets rang with it. Shopkeepers left their stores and along with their customers came out to witness the spectacle that always accompanied the arrival of their beloved native son, for the Sea God did not refer to the name of one of his ships, but to the man himself.
The Hawkhurst family, with its vast shipping empire, had ruled the sea town of Devonport near Plymouth for over a century, but it had taken the good sense of the present queen to reward that family with its first title of nobility. Early in Elizabeth’s reign Sebastian Hawkhurst had been named Lord Devonport and appointed her lieutenant for the County of Devon. Now his seafaring days were past, but his sons carried on the glorious name of Hawkhurst, rivaling Howard, Raleigh, and even Drake in the eyes of the townfolk of Devonport.
His elder son, Captain Hawkhurst, had been at sea for almost six months and did not know yet that his father was ailing. A crowd had gathered on the seawall and jetty, all jostling for a position that would afford them a look at the magnificent, near-legendary figure. The women almost swooned in anticipation of a glimpse of the handsome, powerfully built man the queen called her Sea God. They were agog over the prize he had in tow. It was obviously a Portuguese or Spanish galleon and they speculated about its cargo of gold or silver, or jewels at the very least. They would have called a liar any man who referred to Hawkhurst as a freebooter or pirate. To them he was a merchant seaman, a privateer, and a defender of England’s sea lanes. No wonder Britannia ruled the waves when the queen had the sworn loyalty and strength of men such as the Sea God.
He stood on the forecastle bridge, his deep masculine voice booming forth his orders to his seamen. The steering sails were pulled in by sailors high in the rigging, then the ship lowered anchor, once more safe in harbor. A cheer went up from the crowd and The Sea God’s teeth flashed white in his bronzed face as he waved his acknowledgment. He was well over six feet tall, with surely the broadest shoulders in England. He was deeply tanned and his hair, which was naturally black, had highlights where the strong sun had streaked its tips. He wore it long and it reminded one of
a lion’s mane.
The crowd waited patiently until he came ashore, knowing the show he would provide would be well worth the wait. Seamen carried his trunks and chests up to the big house on the cliff. Then came his matched pair of Irish wolfhounds, which traveled everywhere with him, and his beloved black stallion, Neptune. Sooner or later his personal manservant would emerge from belowdecks —the monklike “baron,” who wore a long dark robe and never uttered a word. Lastly would come the small doll-like woman with the slanted almond eyes, dressed in richly embroidered silk pantaloons and slitted tunic. The tales of her strange origins and the Sea God’s possession of her would run the gamut from concubine to slave.
At last Hawkhurst stepped ashore to wend his way to the mansion. When men shouted his name, he answered them by their names. He blew kisses to the women who were waving at him wildly and tossed handfuls of coins to the boys who ran after him, imitating his bold gait as he regained his “land legs.”
The women sighed after him, but excitement lingered within each bosom, for arrived home with the Sea God were a hundred of his sailors—husbands, lovers, unattached bachelors all starving for the company of a generous woman to warm their beds this night and the nights yet to come. Hawkhurst men were special—all seasoned veterans, utterly without fear, for their commander was a genius at seamanship and a master of deceit. He concentrated on richly laden Spanish treasure ships and stalked them with an unholy fervor. Hawkhurst men received a share of the prizes they took and always had well-lined pockets.
Every servant Devonport House possessed managed to be on hand for Hawkhurst’s arrival and assure him of their warmest welcome home. His beautiful mother, Georgiana, had been watching for him from the highest window in the house and rushed down the spiral staircase to be engulfed in his great arms. She was a dark-haired beauty, her eyes the deep, deep blue of a summer’s sky. Always very feminine, she was elegantly fashionable in the extreme.
“My darling Shane,” she said, “I’m so glad to have you home.” She was the only one who called him Shane. He signed his documents only S. Hawkhurst, and since his father’s name was Sebastian, most people assumed that they shared their Christian name. Mother and son had such a deep bond, he was instantly aware that she was upset.
“What’s amiss?” he asked, keeping a steady, protective arm about her.
“Your father’s been gravely ill, Shane.” She hastened to reassure him. “He is improved … a little … but” —she hesitated in order to steady her voice—“he has a paralysis all down one side of his body.”
“Will he recover? What does the physician say?” he demanded.
“He holds out little hope. I even sent to London for a physician, but he attributed your father’s affliction to a stroke, and said another one such as that will kill him.”
“I’ll go to him,” he said quickly. He was halfway up the stairs when she called softly, “He’s not to be excited, but already he’s at fever pitch knowing you are returned. You are not to argue with him, and no strong spirits!”
“Hawk, my boy! God’s bones, I hate for you to see me so diminished.”
Shane Hawkhurst was shocked at his father’s appearance. He had always been so strong, only showing softness where Georgiana was concerned. The voice was badly slurred from a mouth drawn down at one side. Only his father’s eyes were as bright as they had always been.
“So, you plucked another prize from the Spanish fleet. Ha!”
He sensed that his father did not wish to speak of himself and his illness. He would give him time to grapple with the words and the decisions that would have to be shared between them for the Hawkhurst dynasty to be passed smoothly from the elder to the younger while there was still time.
“What cargo?” asked Sebastian.
Shane grinned. “Silver the Spanish were sending home from Peru and Mexico.”
“God’s cock!” The old man was astounded. “Elizabeth will knight you for this.”
Shane’s eyebrow slanted quizzically. “I might let her have a quarter of it … might,” he emphasized. “Bess is too damned greedy; too tightfisted with her honors. I still don’t have official letters of marque to sail for England, but, by God, I’ll wring them from her this time, even if I have to bed her!”
The treason joked about in this room would go no farther, but still Sebastian warned him. “Have a care. Her network of spies may have already informed her you have taken a prize.”
Young Hawkhurst grinned. He never ignored danger, he simply enjoyed it. “Aye, I have no doubt of it, but I have enough cargo in the caves beneath the cliffs and stored elsewhere to fill the prize with Spanish leather, wine, and artifacts. I may even be generous enough to donate the galleon to our fleet instead of keeping it for myself.”
The older man had tired visibly and a deep frown of concern appeared on his brow as he worried how deeply this son of his was involved in dangerous plots of which he knew nothing. He didn’t want to know—the shock would likely have killed him long ago, he thought ironically.
Hawk saw his father’s agitation. “I’ll let you get some rest,” he said, rising to leave.
His father raised his hand to stay him a moment. “Tomorrow we will talk at length of more serious matters; tomorrow before young Matthew returns from London.”
Now a worried frown marred Hawk’s handsome features.
“Ask your mother if she can tear herself from your company to spare an old man a few of her precious smiles.” His grin was a grimace. “I worship the woman, what can I do?”
The east wing of Devonport House was Shane’s private domain. It had its own outside entrances back and front so that his men and servants need never enter the main house. He repaired there now where a bath awaited him and two fresh sets of garments were laid out. The first were riding clothes, so that he could exercise Neptune over the familiar countryside that they both loved; the second were more formal clothes suited to a drawing room, for this first night at home he would join his mother for dinner.
The baron as usual had seen to all his needs efficiently, smoothly, and silently. Neptune was restive, as if he sensed he would soon be stretching heavily muscled legs across the soft turf of the Devon fields. Hawk patted his neck and soothed him with his deep voice as he saddled him and led him from the stables. “Tomorrow I’ll put you to one of the mares,” he promised.
His own spirit soared as he let the stallion have his head. Truth to tell, they’d both been confined too long and needed to unleash their pent-up energy and vitality on an unsuspecting countryside. Horse and man seemed to follow a predestined path that took them over seven miles of meadows and rose-dotted hedgerows, finally arriving at a quaint stone inn where they had enjoyed pleasant sojourns for years past.
The pretty barmaid squealed her delight when she saw him, and the corners of her mouth went up in a smile that she couldn’t have concealed if she’d wanted to. “Welcome home, m’lord.” She curtsied deeply, then hurried to draw him a tankard of strong Devon cider. His bronzed arm slipped about her in a familiar hug though her name eluded his usually perfect recollection. Her Devon burr delighted him. She was a buxom country wench who had never been pampered a day in her life, yet she possessed all the feminine instincts of a London courtesan. She leaned low across the table to display her luscious titties and rubbed the velvet sleeve of his riding coat with roughened fingers. “Ye ben’t in ’urry to take yer leave, m’lord?” she asked breathlessly.
He laughed and shook his head and watched her dimple with delight. He was easily the handsomest man she’d ever laid eyes on and she could never believe her own good fortune that occasionally he rode over to sport with her. She caught her breath now as her imagination had flown ahead of her to when they would be upstairs in the feather bed and she would experience the deep pleasure of seeing his magnificent body stretched out in all its naked perfection. Already she had a deep ache in her belly. She reached for his empty tankard and said saucily, “I’ll jus’ fill ye up again, an’ then ye c
an return the favor upstairs.”
He laughed aloud as her name popped into his mind. “It will be my pleasure, Polly.”
Her eyes were big and serious for a moment as she said fervently, “Nobody fills me like ye do, m’lord.”
He chased her up the stairs, tickling her ankles and letting his hands go up her skirts as she ran before him. He knew he was in for an hour’s good fun as they would laugh and tumble about the feather bed. Ah, there was nothing to match the uncomplicated enthusiasm of a sweet country wench.
The dining salon at Devonport House never ceased to amaze him. The ceiling was hung with a gilt-filigreed chandelier holding a hundred candles. The rosewood table and chairs had delicately curved legs and tapestry cushions done in apricot and pale lemon. The sideboards were filled with Venetian crystal and heavy silver; the walls with tasteful paintings. Georgiana’s fine hand was evident in every detail, and it was as elegant as the London house, even though it was in one of the wildest parts of the country.
Shane complimented his mother upon the superb dishes she had had set before him this night.
“I brought the chef back with us from Hawkhurst Manor. We’d spent the winter there because it was a comfortable forty miles from London.” She closed her eyes momentarily to still her quickened pulses that Hawkhurst Manor evoked still, after all the years. Shane saw the emotion wash over her and knew of whom she thought, but kept silent. She was in control again and finished her tale. “Your father went twice to the royal court, then had many business meetings at Hawkhurst. I don’t know what happened in the last weeks there, but we came home abruptly and no sooner did we arrive than he was stricken down. My heart aches to see his great physical deterioration.”
The Hawk and the Dove Page 2