The Indigo Blade

by Linda Jones

  Fletcher was right. No matter how he fought it, his budding relationship with Penelope was going to interfere with his work—and his work was going to interfere with his relationship with Penelope. He'd always been single-minded and unfailingly dedicated, but this situation was already tearing him apart.

  What was right? That was not always an easy question to answer. This fight for freedom was right, of that he was certain. Claiming Penelope as his own was right; he felt it in his heart. His heart demanded that he dedicate himself to both causes, that he throw caution to the wind and reach for all he desired.

  At least he didn't have long to wait to find out the details of the Cypress Crossroads adventure. John, Dalton, and Beck had stayed behind—in disguise of course—but Fletcher had made his way home in the wee hours of the morning.

  The ladies Beck had hired to see to the kitchen and the upkeep of the big house were happy to accommodate Max when he asked them to prepare a magnificent picnic lunch for him and his lady friend. The same ladies were shocked when he decided to forego breakfast at the vast and finely furnished dining room table in favor of carrying two cups of coffee to the livery to share with his stableman.

  The others had rooms in the house, luxurious chambers on the third floor. But not Fletcher. He'd never been one for fancy places or people. He preferred the stable and the company of his beloved horses to an elegant chamber in a courtly mansion. While the others slept in comfort, the ornery Fletcher bedded down on a cot in a tiny room that had been added to the stable just for him.

  Max wasn't surprised to find his friend already tending to the horses.

  "Coffee?” he asked as he stepped into the shelter.

  Fletcher didn't turn around, nor did he seem to be surprised at Max's appearance. “In a minute."

  Max waited for Fletcher to finish his chores, smiling as he watched his friend's back. Fletcher had a small fortune of his own, but no one would ever know it to look at him. This seemed to be all he wanted in the world: a roof over his head, fine horses all around, and a bottle of whiskey hidden somewhere close by.

  "How did it go?” Max asked as he handed Fletcher the warm china cup.

  "Flawlessly,” Fletcher said woodenly, as if he'd expected nothing else. “The villagers were most cooperative. A cellar in the tavern was converted to an arsenal, as was a secreted room in a farm at the edge of town. I expect Chadwick and his soldiers had quite a surprise when they marched into Cypress Crossroads this morning and found that the sleepy little village was not what they expected. I imagine they're madly rummaging about the hamlet as we speak, searching for weapons and revolutionaries they will not find. How went your afternoon of romance?"

  Max grinned. “Flawlessly."

  Fletcher shot him a black glance. “You always did have a maddening propensity for purposely playing with fire."

  Max thought of asking the Irishman if he'd ever been in love, but he knew what the answer would be—a harsh laugh and the insistence that no love beat in Fletcher Huxley's black heart.

  "I dined in Victor Chadwick's company,” Max said coolly. “And while I did not participate in the conversation, I did happen to overhear that he's expecting additional troops to arrive by ship at the end of the month."

  "That information might be useful,” Fletcher grudgingly acknowledged.

  "When Dalton returns from Cypress Crossroads, I want him to get in touch with his friend from Williamsburg."

  "The one who transported the boy who was to hang?"

  "The very one."

  Fletcher grinned and sipped at his cooling coffee. “If the ship transporting those troops was to be met at sea by a number of privateers, and if that ship and her occupants were stripped of arms and sent limping back to England, they wouldn't be much good to Chadwick at all, now would they?"

  "Not at all,” Max said primly, slipping into the persona that allowed him to pass among the loyalists without question.

  Charles Town was beautiful, a paradise of palm fronds and flowing water and flowers of every color, a city of many fine houses, a busy harbor for ships of every size.

  Never had it seemed so beautiful to Penelope as it did today. Maximillian had arrived on her doorstep promptly at noon, with a driver and footman and a very large basket containing enough food to feed a dozen hungry people.

  They'd traveled north at a leisurely pace until she could no longer see the bay or the familiar ships or the fine homes of Charles Town. The carriage stopped in a deserted field surrounded by trees, and on a quilt of greens and blues the footman had laid out a feast.

  And now they sat, the bright sun warming them on this mild February day. Maximillian seemed content to watch her as she sketched their near-wild surroundings, and she found she was amazingly content in his company. His footman and driver—an odd couple if ever she saw one—waited a good distance away. They shared their own meal and soft conversation, though now and again their openly curious eyes turned this way.

  Their occasional perusal didn't bother Penelope. She wouldn't allow anything to spoil this afternoon. She was very aware that she wouldn't have many more days like this one, days free and happy, hours simply to sit and enjoy a beautiful day and the company of a man who had somehow worked his way into her heart.

  "What's wrong?” Maximillian asked softly.

  "Nothing.” Penelope laid her paper and chalk aside, and turned her full attention to her companion. “What makes you think something's suddenly wrong?"

  His ever-present smile faded. “The light in your eyes grew dull, your chin dropped in what appeared to be defeat, and something akin to a frown marred the perfection of your mouth. Your hand stilled, your breath quickened, and I knew that something had stolen the happiness that had been so much a part of you just a moment earlier."

  Had anyone ever watched her so closely or known her so well? Penelope shifted and turned to face Maximillian, her feet tucked beneath her, her hands on the soft quilt that cushioned them from the hard ground; she leaned forward just slightly. She could confide in this man, she knew it. In her heart, in her always sensible mind ... in a place within her so deep she hadn't yet completely fathomed it.

  "I'm afraid it has to do with Uncle William's family affairs."

  "I suspected as much."

  "You see, last year, Victor Chadwick asked me to marry him."

  A fire flashed and quickly died in Maximillian's eyes, clear eyes that were an odd color that was not gray nor blue nor green, but somehow all three. Those eyes changed with his mood—and the color of silk he wore. “I do hope you said no. I can't for the life of me imagine a woman like you married to a dull toad like Chadwick."

  "I said no,” Penelope said, “but I don't think Victor understood. When I told him I wasn't ready for marriage, he seemed to think that if he asked at a later date my answer would be different. I wish I'd had the nerve to tell him then that I have no desire to marry him, ever.” If she had just a smidgen of Mary's courage, she wouldn't be in this mess. “And of course Uncle William is determined to see me married to the man of his choosing. He admires Victor, his politics and his power, his money. This time when Victor asks, I don't think my uncle will allow me to say no."

  The fire was in Maximillian's eyes again, and this time it didn't fade quickly away but burned deep, becoming a part of him. “I can't allow that to happen."

  "I don't think there's anything you or I can do to avoid it. If I defy Uncle William and refuse Victor again, he's likely to disown me. Tyler, too."

  "The brother you speak of with such love."

  "Yes. It would be devastating to Tyler—"

  Penelope was silenced when Maximillian lifted his hand to her cheek. His fingers were warm, and his caress was so tender it nearly brought tears to her eyes.

  "Marry me,” he whispered.

  "What?” Her own response was quick and soft. Surely she hadn't heard him correctly.

  "Marry me.” The smile was back.

  "I hardly know you.” It was true, and at the sa
me time it was a blatant lie. Whom did she know as well as this man she'd met just two days ago? There was no one else she could share her dreams and fears with, laugh and cry with—no one. The connection had been immediate and disturbing, and she couldn't deny the affection that continued to blossom.

  "You know how very much I adore you, that you captured my heart the moment I laid eyes on you, that we share a bond that's rare and wonderful. Isn't that enough?"

  "I don't know..."

  "Marry me, Penelope Seton.” There was such wondrous passion in his voice that it touched her heart. “Throw caution to the wind, defy your uncle and Victor Chadwick, live dangerously."

  His hand still at her cheek, Maximillian waited for an answer.

  "I must be honest with you,” she said, placing her hand over his. “I don't know that what I feel for you is love. I wish I could be as sure as you are, but I've always been a cautious one."

  "I'll make you love me,” he whispered.

  "And if I say yes,” she said quickly, “I might very well come to you with nothing. Uncle William may offer no dowry to a man who is not of his choosing. He might toss me out with nothing but the clothes on my back."

  "I don't care."

  "It might be quite a scandal."

  "I love scandal.” He was confident, smug even, but without warning the mask fell away and she saw a glimpse of raw pain and longing. “But if we're going to be perfectly honest with one another before finalizing our plans, there's something I must tell you."

  Penelope steeled herself for the worst. He had a wife and a dozen children in England. He was dying of a horrid disease. He didn't really love her...

  "I am the youngest son of an earl, a very rich and powerful man with an estate north of London. My mother was a kitchen maid on that country estate.” Maximillian's words were clipped and harsh, filled with anguish, and Penelope would not have interrupted for all the world. She wanted to know more about this man, and she recognized his need to tell the story, to be certain that no secrets came between them. “Of course he never married her, even though his third wife and mother to his sixth and seventh sons was long dead. She was seventeen when I was born, twenty-eight years ago. He was fifty-three."

  His hand dropped from her face, but she wasn't ready to let him go. Her hand remained atop his even as it fell, and she slowly and boldly wrapped her fingers through his.

  "While he never legitimized me, he did recognize and abide me. After my mother died, when I was six, he took me in. I had a room with the servants, and I was tolerated as long as I stayed silent and invisible.” He stared at her with such intensity she could feel the pain. “My father saw me clothed and fed, he made sure I received the finest education any bastard deserved, and in return all I had to do was stay out of his way."

  He held her hand tightly.

  "And all was well, until I went to London. You see, of his eight children, all sons, I am the one who bears the strongest resemblance to my father. My presence in London embarrassed him, and more importantly it mortified my eldest half-brother and heir to the title. I found I rather enjoyed being the torment of my fine family.” The smile that crossed his face was a bitter one, a poor attempt on his part to dismiss the importance of his story. “I drank too much, I dallied with the affections of the daughters and wives of my father's acquaintances, and eventually I gambled away every cent I had."

  "You don't have to do this.” For all that she and Maximillian were very different, she could see the similarities in their childhoods. An ocean apart, they'd spent years without a mother's love, years trying to fit in. To be, as he said, invisible. The difference was, Maximillian had found the strength to rebel.

  "I do.” He brought her fingers to his lips and then dropped their joined hands into his lap. “My father's solution to his troublesome bastard was to ship me off to the East India Company, where I would either make my fortune or perish. It was quite clear that he preferred the latter possibility."

  "But you are stronger than you allow others to see,” Penelope said. “You surprised him, didn't you?"

  He gave her a small smile. A real one. “That I did. I made my fortune, but in the end I had no desire to go back to London and resume my role as the family black sheep. It wasn't home—it was hell. I wanted something fresh and new."

  "Something like Charles Town."

  "And you, if you'll have a bastard for a husband."

  Penelope brought their joined hands to her lips and kissed Maximillian's fingers as he had hers. The simple brush of his mouth against her hand brought her such comfort, and she wanted to offer him whatever solace she could at this moment. More than that, she wanted very much to know the man behind the fine manners and silk, and she was certain at this moment that there was a man very much worth knowing behind the facade.

  "I find, as I sit here contemplating the future, that it matters not at all."

  "We'll never discuss it again,” he added brusquely. “It's been years since I spoke of my father, and if his name never passes these lips again, I won't regret it. Broderick was my mother's family name, the name he always insisted I use. It's the name I offer you, Penelope."

  If she'd had any doubts earlier, they were now gone, whisked away by the glimpse of a man worthy of a life's devotion.

  "Ask me again,” she whispered, squeezing his hand tightly.

  "Penelope Seton,” he said huskily, “will you be my wife?"

  "I will.” There was not a single doubt in her mind, no regrets or recriminations.

  "We'll be married tomorrow,” he said with a smile.

  Penelope laughed. A real true and unfettered laugh. “Tomorrow! Impossible. It will take at least a month to make the arrangements. The posting of the banns, a proper gown, and of course I must have Tyler here for the wedding, and he's still at my uncle's plantation."

  "Impossible,” Maximillian said seriously. “I can't wait a month to make you my wife."

  "Three weeks?"

  "One,” he countered.

  "Two,” Penelope offered with a smile as wide as his own. “The banns must be posted for a fortnight."

  Maximillian seemed at least to consider this compromise. “I could arrange for a waiving of the banns, you know,” he offered quickly. “A fortnight.” He sighed after a moment's consideration. “Seems like a terribly long time at the moment, but as I've waited a lifetime for you, m'love, I suppose I can wait two more weeks.” He rocked up on his knees, and with that simple movement he towered above her. “A kiss to seal the bargain?"

  "Yes.” Before the agreement was out of her mouth, he was touching her, his lips over hers, his arms protectively encircling, and a warm and wonderful feeling washed over and through Penelope as he joined their mouths gently. The kiss was not demanding or harsh, but warm and intoxicating in the most extraordinary way. The kiss lingered. Penelope was in no hurry to break away, and apparently neither was Maximillian.

  What a wonderful feeling this was. She was safe in these arms, she was loved, and she had just agreed to take as her husband a man she had already begun to love.

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  Chapter Five

  "You're doing what?” Fletcher thundered.

  "He's getting married,” Garrick said with a distinct lack of emotion. “In a mere two weeks, I might add."

  Lewis piped up, his usual lighthearted voice tinged with irritation. “Garrick and I were the first to be told, you know. And all we could do was nod submissively and wish the happy couple our best.” He turned his cool eyes on Max. “Does this mean I have to be the driver all the time? Twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, Lewis Turner the driver? And Garrick a footman!"

  This was much the same reaction they'd gotten in the Seton household, when together he and Penelope had broken the news to her uncle. Disbelief, followed by irritation, which would soon be followed, if the chain of emotions stayed true, by horror.

  "Good God!” Beck shouted. “Lewis is right. It's bad enough now, having to pretend t
o be servants while the cook and the maids are here, but at least they go home once supper is prepared, and they have a day off once a week. What's your bride going to say when we go riding off into the night? What's she going to say when the butler refuses to answer the door or when she finds out that I, who am supposedly in charge of the kitchen, can't boil a pot of water without assistance?"

  Max had thought of all this, the numerous problems his marriage would create, but simply didn't care. In a fortnight, Penelope would be his wife. Nothing else mattered. She was all he'd ever wanted from life, and yet more than he'd ever expected to have. Obstacles be damned. “She'll have to be told, eventually,” he conceded.

  "You trust her that much?” John grumbled.

  "I do."

  "An engagement,” Dalton suggested sensibly. “A nice, long, romantic betrothal. Shall we say two years?"

  Max couldn't help but smile. “No."

  They were all talking at once, all arguing, all violently opposed to this marriage. They seemed to think, to a man, that he'd lost his mind.

  When there was a lull in the conversation, a low pitch in the roar that filled the room, Max spoke. “I love her. I want this marriage more than I've ever wanted anything in my life. More than respectability, more than money, more than justice. When we decided to come to these colonies to start over, I expected the fortune I made in the East to buy everything I'd ever need. A home, a position, and one day a suitable wife. I never expected this, but I refuse to turn my back on a heavenly gift because it comes at a bad time.

  "I love her, and I need her."

  Max's declaration silenced the men arguing before him. Dalton and John even had the good grace to look a trifle ashamed, but it was Garrick who broke the new and strained silence.

  "Then you shall have her,” he said softly.

  "I didn't expect Uncle William to take this so well,” Penelope said as she lazily brushed her hair. Dressed for bed and sitting atop the mattress, she stared at an unusually pensive Mary. “He didn't take it well initially, but he has come around nicely, don't you think?"