by Kimberly Nee
"Flirting, seduction—they both come so naturally to you,” she replied in a soft voice. “You do both without even realizing it."
"Be that as it may, it does not mean I will always act upon it. I do have a whit of self-control, you realize. It has never been in my nature to simply attack a woman, you know. I don't make a habit of it."
Her throat closed at the heat in his voice. He was angry now, angrier than she had ever seen. He didn't raise his voice, but it was scorching all the same and she had the feeling this could grow way out of control. Still, her own hackles were raised now, claws and teeth bared for the battle.
"You have no idea, do you, the effect you have on a lady? Without saying a word, you have the ability to reduce one to a blob of jelly and, you forget, I know these sorts! I know how tempting they might be! That's how they survive!"
"Of course you know!” He was shouting now. “You won't let me forget, and I know you sure as hell won't forget! But that doesn't mean I intend to bed every female whose path I cross! And, if you think I am that clueless—"
"Of course I cannot forget!” Now she was also yelling, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears. “How can I forget? I have to think of it anytime anyone asks me how I met you! I certainly cannot tell them the truth now, can I?"
"I don't care what you tell anyone, Heather. I do not give a damn what anyone thinks."
"Oh, you say that now. But mark my words, should it become known, I don't think you'd take that same attitude.” She sighed softly, leaning against the wall. “I don't think your family would be so happy to learn that their son met his wife in a—a whorehouse."
He opened his mouth to argue, but then sighed, his shoulders slumping as he sunk down onto the sloped pine floor. “You are right, Heather,” he said after a long silence. “You are absolutely right."
She could see the emotions flit across his face as he raked his fingers through his hair, leaning his head back against the wall, eyes closed. The fight left her as she sighed heavily. “I am so sorry, Drew. I wish it was different."
He opened his eyes to look at her. “I don't.” He held up one hand. “Come here."
She walked over to him, slipping her hand into his. He drew her down to sit beside him on the slightly warped floor. Easing an arm about her shoulders, he said, “I would not change a thing, love. I don't care where you were or what you were doing. Remember, I know the truth. I'd wager those sheets are still bloodstained if anyone really wished proof.” He nuzzled her playfully, adding, “I love you, Heather. And yes, I would have proposed whether you carried my child or not. I just wish to marry you. You might be surprised, but it is that simple."
She leaned against him, suddenly very tired. “I only wish everything were that simple."
He kissed the top of her head. “I know, love. I know."
Thirty-five
Melanie Tomlinson had always enjoyed lording over the younger generation in Brunswick. She was strikingly beautiful, with long sable brown hair and eyes like the darkest chocolate. She was spoiled and pampered by those around her. The only child of Brunswick's wealthiest family, she should have been a prime marriage candidate.
Trouble was; her beauty ran no deeper than her fine porcelain skin. She was a spoiled gossip. No story was too scandalous, and if wasn't scandalous enough, she was not above adding spice where needed. Her peers had long ago learned it was a matter of survival to keep Melanie from learning anything that might come back to haunt them. She was responsible for the ruination of couples, as well as several forced marriages—such as Kendall Kennedy and Julian McCallister. It was Melanie's rumors regarding a nonexistent tryst that had resulted in their marriage. Melanie had set her cap for the dashing sea captain from Connecticut and attempted to ruin Kendall in order to snare him herself. The plan backfired, though, as their union became a love match and Melanie's treachery was exposed.
And yet, her social standing never suffered. People still angled for invitations to Tomlinson balls and parties and very few families—namely the Kennedys—crossed her name from their registries.
And so, she was still admired and envied by the other young women, and desired by Brunswick's male population. Or so she preferred to believe. She had no qualms about trying to snatch a beau out from under the noses of her even closest friends. But she was a Tomlinson and, as such, she was readily forgiven time and again. Men found it hard to resist her beauty and her wealth, with the exception of the two men she'd chosen to set her sights on—the Kennedy brothers.
She paid scant attention to the rumors swirling about Brunswick regarding a lovely young woman newly arrived from England. It mattered not to her. The girl was nothing as far as she was concerned. After all, the stranger was living with Christina Anderson, on the western outskirts of Brunswick, so she might as well not even exist.
Then she heard the terrible rumor. Drew and this mystery woman were betrothed, that it was a love match, indeed. The Tomlinson servants could hear the crashes and muffled shouts from Melanie's lavish bedroom, and couldn't help but snicker at the fact that, once again, her self-centered actions had led to nothing.
Now, as she stood in MacDowell's Emporium, perusing a selection of fine Parisian lace, her thoughts were a jumble. Shopping was always the best cure for troubled thoughts, so she left MacDowell's and made her way up the walkway towards yet another shop.
"Miss Tomlinson?"
She didn't halt her stride as the tall, bone-thin man fell into step beside her. Instead, she ignored him, lifting her chin and staring straight ahead.
He didn't take the hint, though, loping along as he spoke louder. “Miss Tomlinson!"
A sigh leaked from between her clenched teeth as she stopped and affixed the man with her steeliest glare. “Yes?” She fought the urge to grimace as she looked him over. He was taller than she, and very gangly, arms and legs as limp as old rope. His eyes were sharp, though, and the coldest icy blue she'd ever seen. “Do I know you?"
"I doubt it. Name's Henry—"
She sniffed, setting her jaw. “Well, Mr. Henry, if you will excuse me. I have much to do this morning and no time to waste on the likes of you."
If her rudeness fazed him, he didn't show it. Instead, as she resumed her pace, he hurried after her. “Now, you may rethink that, when you hear what I have to tell you."
Irritation shot through her. She could just imagine what anyone would think, should they see her standing in broad daylight with this ragamuffin. There was no way she could let that happen. People didn't gossip about her. They were too busy being envious of her. Still, she had to admit, she was curious. So, despite her better judgment, she halted her steps and faced him again. “And what is it you have to tell me that I could possibly be interested in?"
"Captain Kennedy.” His expression was one of extreme smugness as he folded his arms over his sunken chest and lowered his almost non-existent sandy eyebrows.
He was right, she was interested. “What about him?"
He glanced around. “Not here. I wouldn't want to be overheard."
"Well, you are mad if you think I am going to accompany you anywhere without a chaperone,” she replied in her haughtiest tone. “You're fortunate I am even speaking with you here, on the street, in front of everyone."
He rolled his eyes. “Very well. I suppose I can simply keep this to myself. Although, I know it's something you would be most interested in hearing."
Her curiosity was aroused now, but so was her impatience. “I do not have to stand here and bicker with you, you know."
"Then come with me."
Her eyes widened and she let out a rather undignified squeal as he wrapped skeletal fingers about her wrist to pull her around the corner of MacDowell's. The strength in those skinny fingers took her by surprise. He certainly did not look that strong. Rather, he looked as though a slight breeze might sweep him down the street.
Once they were off the main street, Melanie yanked her arm free, staring at him with as much cold superiority as she could
muster. “What is this all about?” she demanded, casting a quick look about to make certain no prying eyes were upon her. Beech Street was deserted, though. There were several tiny shops tucked in amongst the small houses, but none seemed to be doing much business this morning.
He gave her a chilly smile. “What is it worth to you, Miss Tomlinson?"
"It's worth nothing,” she replied with equal coldness. “I don't know what this is all about, so why should it be worth anything to me?"
"Spare me, Melanie. We both know you would sell your own mother for a juicy bit regarding Drew Kennedy."
She swung her reticule slowly. “Is that a fact?"
"Ask anyone in town."
"Very well. What do you wish in return?"
He smiled again, folding twig-like arms over his skinny chest. “Enough gold to purchase my own ship."
"You are insane. Good day."
Henry held up his hands as she turned to march away. “Very well. I would settle for a commission on another ship. I can find no work without a recommendation from Kennedy and he'll not give me one."
"Why?"
"Very well. If you are not interested, I will find someone else who is. I don't have time for these inane questions."
"You have to admit, it's a perfectly logical question,” she said. “You have been with him for years. Everyone knows that. Why turn on him now?"
"I am fed up with taking orders from him. Of his thinking that simply because he can captain a ship and bank off his father's name, that he is second only to God."
The vehemence in his words startled her. “Well, what do you have?"
He gave her a sly smile. “I have a little information on a certain Miss Heather Spencer."
That most definitely sparked her attention. “Do you now?"
Henry didn't miss the gleam in her eyes. He knew he'd been pushing it with trying to get something in return, but the truth was he didn't care much. He just wanted to strike back, to cause Drew as much pain as Drew had caused him.
Though he was in the process of healing, he still couldn't move without pain. It was a constant reminder of the pummeling he'd suffered at the captain's hands. He was also unemployed now, and could not get a recommendation for another job. That thought sent a fresh wave of fury surging through him. He knew he could never confront Kennedy directly. He was no match for the man's size and physical strength. But, he knew Kennedy's weakness.
He knew how Drew had met Heather.
Melanie was frowning at him now. “If you tell me what this great secret is, I can make certain you find work on one of Markson's ships."
Markson Shipping was the second largest shipping company in Brunswick. Henry's eyes gleamed at the thought. “That would suffice."
"So?"
"Oh, no. I want this in writing first,” he countered, eyes narrowing slyly. “How do I know I can trust you?"
Melanie gripped her reticule so tightly her knuckles turned white. “You will simply have to take that chance, I'm afraid."
"Very well,” he sighed. “I happen to know that the son of one of Brunswick's most esteemed families met his bride-to-be at an establishment known as Delilah's."
"And that is important, because...?"
The sly grin was firmly in place. “Ask any sailor who's been to London about Delilah's. It's one of the city's more prominent whorehouses."
"What?” she gasped, a triumphant smile rising to her lips. “Do you mean to say—?"
"Miss Heather Spencer belonged to none other than Madam Allison, the house's proprietress. She was working there."
She could not contain her glee. “You are joking!"
"I am not. Heather Spencer serviced him. And God only knows how many other men."
She clapped her hands like a gleeful child given the greatest gift in the world. “Oh, that is fantastic! Drew Kennedy is marrying a—a—” she couldn't bring herself to say the word aloud.
"Whore.” Henry supplied readily.
She could not believe this piece of news. It was even better than a story, for if it was the truth, there was no way either Drew or his intended could deny it. The sun seemed to shine brighter now, as she pictured the looks of horror and shock when the news made the rounds of Brunswick. And it would, most definitely make the rounds.
She gave Henry her most captivating smile. “You shall have your commission, sir. I will see to that at once."
Thirty-six
Within days, the news had spread like wildfire throughout Brunswick. People whispered and snickered, speculating and wondering. Henry had been given his commission, setting sail on the Triton by sunset the day after letting Melanie in on the secret. The last thing he wanted was to be in Brunswick when the stories found their way to Drew Kennedy's ears.
Garrett was at his desk, on the top floor of Eagleton's warehouse, when he heard the thunder of booted feet racing up the stairs. The thuds echoed through the small, open space, causing him to start, which in turn sent his quill airborne.
A moment later, the door crashed open with a resounding bang as it met the wall. Garrett was on his hands and knees, under the desk in search of his lost quill when the door banged open. He jumped again, smacking the back of his head against the corner of the oak desk. Peering over the desk's beveled edge, he glared at the panting man rushing towards him.
"Damn it, McCallister! Must you make an entrance every time you make an entrance?” he grumbled, grabbing the wayward quill and standing up, rubbing the knot now forming on the back of his skull.
Julian didn't answer immediately, but dropped into a chair, tugging at his stock. “You—will not—believe—the story I—just heard—” he panted, yanking his stock from his neck and using it to mop his sweaty face.
Garrett's brow furrowed as he took in his brother-in-law's disheveled appearance. “What is it, then? You look as though you just bumped into the devil himself."
"I think I did. Or at least a human incarnation of the devil.” Julian bent over, pressing his hands to the floor as he struggled to control his breathing.
"What is going on?” Garrett demanded, the ledger in front of him forgotten.
"I just bumped into George Hadley and you will not believe what he had to say."
"Regarding what?"
"Your brother."
Garrett groaned, dropping into his chair, head back and eyes closed. “What did he do this time? I know for a fact the Aphrodite is still in her berth."
"No.” Julian shook his head “It has nothing to do with leaving. Although whomever started this nugget might find it healthier to take to the sea."
"Then what?"
"Well, for starters, what do you know about Miss Spencer?"
Garrett jerked upright, wincing as a pain went streaking through his temples. “Why?"
"Just answer me."
"He met her in London. At a party, I believe my father said."
"Are you so certain of that?"
"Why wouldn't that be the case?"
"Well, according to George, that is not at all where they met."
"And this is cause for concern because...?"
Julian took a deep breath. He did not want to be the one telling this to Garrett. He was the Kennedy with the fiercest temper—something Julian had tangled with in the past and had no desire to do again. He shifted back in his chair, making certain he was not within arm's reach of Garrett, in case he decided to smash the messenger.
"You've been in London before, haven't you?"
"Of course I have,” Garrett growled, leaning forward, elbows on the desk. “Why?"
"Have you heard tell of an establishment known as Delilah's?"
"I've never frequented it, but yes, I've heard of it.” Garrett shook his head. “What does any of this have to do with Drew? It's his business if he paid them a visit. As he is so fond of reminding me, he is a grown man."
"That is not the problem, Garrett. The problem is Heather."
A sudden, knowing glint came into Garrett's blue eyes. “Ar
e you saying what I think you are saying?” His voice dropped to a hoarse whisper, the pit of his stomach dropping to the floor at Julian's slow nod. “Oh, bloody hell."
"Exactly. Now, if I've heard about it, you can wager others have as well."
Garrett swore under his breath, shoving his chair back and rising at the same time. “That idiot!” He fumed, yanking his frock coat from the back of his chair and shrugging into it. “I am going to kill him!"
"That's a bit harsh, don't you think?"
"It's better that it's me rather than my father. And we both know my father is going to hit the roof over this one. Scandal is one thing. Bringing home a whore is entirely different!"
Julian made no move to block Garrett as he circled the desk in one stride and stormed towards the door. He knew all too well the fire behind this particular Kennedy's temper and had no desire to get in the way of that fury. That would only serve to get him broken in half—and that only if Garrett was feeling generous. He knew where Garrett was going, and would never be fool enough to try to stop him. For one of the few times in their formerly adversarial relationship, Julian agreed with his brother-in-law. Drew had stepped over the line this time and Julian had the feeling it was going to end badly for the younger of the brothers.
* * * *
Drew had just returned to his room at Shadowbrook when Garrett suddenly burst through the door, shouting, “What the hell is the matter with you?"
Drew, in the process of removing his dirt-spattered boots, jerked his head up to see the fire flashing in his brother's eyes. “And a good day to you, too, Garrett,” he replied dryly. “To what do I owe this friendly visit?"
"What is wrong with you? Do you ever use your head, Drew?"
"What egregious error in judgment have I committed this time?"
Garrett slammed the door shut with such a force that a painting on the wall outside the room hit the floor with a crash. Drew could practically see the fury radiating from him, but he couldn't imagine what could cause Garrett such anger. True, there were times when it didn't take much to set him off, but Drew usually had some inkling of how he'd nettled his brother.