by Jo Goodman
She closed her eyes, trying not to imagine what sort of devil's face was hidden by the stiff tricorn hat. She risked another look at the grounds. At the same moment the Yankee was looking at the garden pond, and Ashley grew bolder as his attention was directed at something beside the house's face. She leaned past the drape to face the window more fully, and the sleeve of her nightgown snagged on the window's latch. She yanked on her sleeve to release it, horrified to see her small movement had caught the Yankee's eye.
Her mind did not register the features of Captain McClellan. She did not see the thoughtful twist of his full mouth, or the puzzled lift of one dark brow. She could never have seen the reflective gaze of his silver eyes beneath a sweep of thick lashes. What did register in Ashley's mind was the hint of bronze in Salem's darkly tanned skin. To her there was only one explanation for skin so unfashionably dark. It was just as she had suspected all along. The Colonials were descendants of thieves, weaklings, or, as in this case, savages.
She turned her face into her pillow to cover her moan of absolute distress. She had never been able to imagine this. That Nigel would force her to marry Lord Bosworth was not as frightening, nor as contemptible, in her own mind as forcing her to bed with a Colonial savage. The thought of being left alone with the Yankee, for any length of time, was making her ill.
Ashley's perspective of the Colonies was skewed by the stories she had heard from the servants and her own tutor's less than accurate renderings of Colonial life. In light of the fact that Mrs. Timms's second cousin had been murdered by Indians at the frontier, and Mr. Lampley had taught her there were few books and even less learning, she believed the Colonies were settled with barbarians. She never doubted the duke when he had once pronounced the Colonies to be little more than a jail for wastrels and murderers. The Atlantic Ocean, he had stated, was more confining than the walls of debtor's prison. Ashley had always believed it to be true. Until today. Today she had learned the Adantic was no barrier to a savage with a ship.
Salem and Davinia, after being relieved of the coach and horses by the grooms, were met at the main door by Stephens. The butler did not like Davinia Grant, but not by so much as a flicker in his black eyes did he reveal his own thoughts. Similarly he had conveyed to his staff that giving voice in any manner to personal opinions concerning the duke's affairs would be dealt with harshly. This meant nothing less than dismissal and no character reference, making the prospect of finding a similar position highly unlikely.
For her part, Davinia gave little thought one way or the other to Stephens. The manservant was simply one of the more functional pieces of furniture at Linfield House. "Ah, Stephens," she said, slipping out of her warmly lined pelisse. "His Grace is expecting us. We will be staying at Linfield for a sennight. I'm certain the captain wants to freshen before dining. Have someone take him up."
Stephens did not acknowledge Davinia's statement but simply turned to Salem, taking his cape and three cornered hat. "His Grace has already informed me of your arrival, and your room has been made ready. Nancy will show you to your chamber. Your valet has your bags?"
Salem grinned, refusing to be embarrassed. "I don't have a valet. My mother taught me to take care of myself."
"Very good, sir," Stephens said while giving the maid at his elbow an almost imperceptible nudge to mind her tendency to giggle. The girl bit her lip nervously but continued to stare wide-eyed at the Colonial captain. "Nancy, show the captain to his room. I'll see that someone delivers his bags."
"This way, your lordship," Nancy said, beckoning to the grand staircase on Salem's left. She seemed to bob and curtsy with every movement. "His Grace asked that you have chambers in the west wing. Some of the loveliest rooms in the house are there." As they climbed the polished stairs Nancy never completely turned her back on Salem.
"I'm sure they are," Salem replied, somewhat bemused by the maid's skittish air. He looked over his shoulder at Davinia and Stephens, but Davinia had the butler's attention, and neither of them appeared to notice anything amiss. When they reached the second landing and had turned into the main corridor, he interrupted one of her wary, over-the-shoulder glances by quietly asking her what he had done to make her afraid.
Huge rounded eyes regarded him solemnly from beneath a slightly askew mobcap. "I've never met anyone from the Colonies before."
"Ah, and you've heard stories that we eat children for breakfast," he offered as a joke, his lips curving in a boyish half smile.
"At teatime, your lordship."
Salem's smile vanished as he stared at the maid in astonishment "You're serious!" His brusque tone startled young Nancy, and she hurried down the hallway, wishing Jimmy were with her with the captain's bags. Salem followed at a slower pace, shaking his head thoughtfully, blind to the skillfully scrolled woodwork on either side of him or the elaborately framed works of art displayed along the walls. Neither was he interested in the sway of Nancy's skirt or her covert glances. He was seriously wondering how many others believed in some version of the maid's tale. It appeared Colonials were regarded as ogres, something to frighten naughty English children with at bedtime.
Salem came out of his reverie as Nancy stopped abruptly and opened the door to his chamber. "This will be your room," she said quickly, controlling the quaver in her voice admirably. It was all right to giggle at the Yankee when there were others around, but alone, he seemed impossibly large and not at all the sort of man one laughed at without regretting it later. At the moment his silver eyes were boring holes right through her. "I'll be leaving you, then. Jimmy will be around with your things. If you need something you can ring for it. Someone downstairs will answer. Dinner will be in two hours. Will there be anything now, your lordship?"
"Not a bloody lordship," Salem muttered, mostly to himself. To Nancy, as he brushed past her to enter his chamber, he said, "I would like a bath. Can that be managed?"
"Right away," she said brightly, obviously glad to be given an excuse to be off to another part of the house.
Salem could hear the swish of her skirts as she nearly ran for sanctuary. When she was out of hearing he allowed himself the privilege of giving vent to his annoyance by slamming the door.
From what he could see at first glance, the suite of rooms was more than ample for his needs. The bed chamber itself would have been sufficient. The addition of the small study to his left and the dressing room to his right made him suspicious again of Davinia Grant's interest in him. A fire in the grate was taking the chill off the room and Salem walked over to it to warm his hands. Looking around he noted the fine workmanship of all the furnishings, from the highboy and fourposter to the writing desk and its accompanying chair that appeared too delicate to support more than a thimble's weight. His room and what he had seen of the house and grounds reminded Salem that the duke was indeed prospering.
But at whose expense? Salem did not know what prompted this thought, but he did not dismiss it lightly. If there was an answer, he vowed to have it at the end of his week at Linfield House.
Later, after Salem had enjoyed that special luxury peculiar to a hot bath, he dressed for dinner. He invariably chose his clothes without any conscious thought, yet his own confident manner seemed to give a more stylish line to his black satin coat and additional flair to his neckcloth. The touch of lace at his wrists emphasized the lean masculine strength of his hands. The cut of his breeches and required white hose hinted of the power of his muscular legs. His refusal to wear a wig, even on formal occasions, identified him as one not swayed by the dictates of others. His thick, nearly black hair was tied neatly at his nape. Quite unintentionally Salem McClellan was a man whose character and stature flattered his tailor's best efforts.
Salem's thoughts ran in a similar direction when he was escorted to the dining room, and Davinia introduced him to Nigel Lynne. Surrounded by the classic good taste of Hepplewhite table and chairs, a crystal and brass candelabrum, and an extensive collection of jade figurines, the Duke of Linfield was not in th
e least overwhelmed by his possessions. Indeed, the room was secondary to the duke's commanding presence.
Nigel Lynne was not what Salem had imagined, though he was careful not to betray his surprise. Within an instant of meeting the duke Salem recognized a certain watchfulness, a calculating gravity in the duke's dark eyes that revealed crafty strength. Salem was unafraid to meet the assessing stare. If the Duke of Linfield ever proved to be an adversary, then Salem was prepared to face pitiless determination.
Nigel offered wine. "You know, I recognized your name immediately," he said, pouring a glass for the captain and refilling his own. "I can't think how Davinia didn't know the surname. Of course, she does not pay much attention to the business of managing the estate."
Salem was barely able to hide his surprise. He tasted his wine to cover any lapse in his carefully neutral expression. "I wasn't aware the McClellan name would mean anything to you," he said.
"Now you're being modest. I admit I'm not aware of much that goes on in the Colonies, but horses have always been my passion. I know the McClellans have perhaps the largest stud farm in the Americas. It has also come to my attention that McClellans have twice taken home breeding mares I ordered my man to bid on. Had I been at the auction personally, I wouldn't have allowed that to happen."
Salem's smile was noncommittal. "My brother Gareth does all our bidding."
The duke laughed appreciatively at his guest's careful reply. "Come. Let's be seated at the table. Stephens is motioning dinner is ready. We can take up cudgels over the meal."
Conversation lapsed momentarily as the first of several courses was brought to the room. Stephens's presence as he either served the steaming soup or removed the remains of succulent game hen and baby peas was so unobtrusive that he went without notice for the entire meal. For him it was the highest of accolades.
"Have you come to London for horseflesh this voyage?" Nigel asked. His eyes icily pierced Davinia when she audibly sighed her regret that the conversation was turning to horses again.
Salem wondered at the relationship between the duke and his mistress. The affection that Nigel harbored was clearly not without its limits.
"That and tobacco," Salem said.
"Tobacco? Your family's interests are more varied than I thought."
"It was the tobacco crop that enabled my father to begin the stud."
"Your father? That would be Robert McClellan?"
"Yes. Are you acquainted with him?"
Nigel shook his head. "Only by reputation, I'm sorry to say. If he is going to attend a sale in the future I should like to meet him."
"That wouldn't be possible. My father hasn't set foot in England for quite some time and I don't think he has any intention of it."
"Really?" Davinia interrupted, her head tilting back the exact number of degrees necessary to express disdain. "And what has your father against civilization?"
"Nothing as far as I know," Salem said politely. "Perhaps it is only your peculiar notion of civility that my father has little tolerance for."
Davinia drew herself up and looked as if she might strike Salem for his insolence. The duke's keen eyes settled on Salem sharply. "Tell me, captain, is there some malady that keeps your father from making the voyage?"
Salem sensed the duke cared very much about his reply, yet he had no reason to answer less than honestly. "Not an illness exactly. It's an old injury. My father stopped a pistol ball with his leg and the risk of removing it was too great. As a result he has an unsteady gait that makes travel by ship uncomfortable, to say nothing of the dampness which would plague him."
"I'm sorry to hear that," Nigel offered sincerely. "How long has it been since he's been to London then?"
Salem paused, his glass of wine suspended in midair as he thought. "I was about ten when he made his last voyage. That's also when he was involved in the shooting accident. That was nearly twenty years ago." He lifted the wine to his lips. Over the crystal rim Salem saw the duke stiffen, then recover so quickly he nearly believed he had imagined the response. "In the ten years before I took over as captain of the Caroline our ship was commanded by men outside the family. My father is very involved in all aspects of managing our plantation, but I know he regrets not being able to sail. The stud has given him a new interest in recent years. There's a need in the Colonies for hackney breeds, larger draft horses, and naturally an interest in the development of a line of thoroughbreds." Salem purposely turned the topic back to horses in order to see if the duke would sense the gambit. Had the duke's pique really been caught by the mention of Robert McClellan's accident? Salem continued to enjoy his meal, assiduously avoiding a change in his expression.
"Sensible of your father to develop other amusements," Davinia said in bored tones, making it difficult for Salem to offer his bland smile.
Admonishment came from the duke. "Managing a stud is not an amusement, Davinia." To Salem he said, "But it is good that your father's found appeal in other things. Perhaps he always had a secret desire to raise prime cattle. I would have thought that particular fancy would have been hard to realize in the Colonies."
Salem's grey eyes were shaded by his heavy lashes, giving no hint that he was vaguely troubled to have his suspicions confirmed. Nigel Lynne was most definitely concerned with Robert McClellan. Salem had the strong impression that the duke was trying to place Robert McClellan in his memory, as if Salem's father completed a picture. Not since he had first taken command of the Caroline and ridden her through the worst storm of his memory had he felt so dangerously close to foundering. In his mind he could see his father's distant expression as he spoke of the duke. His father's tight-lipped caution gave Salem no clue as to how to proceed.
"I believe my father's interest in breeding horses began when he was very young," Salem explained, opting for the truth. "He grew up on a stud farm and took care of the animals from the time he was small."
"Edenton Manor," the duke breathed solemnly.
"Yes. That's correct." Salem could not miss the dramatic change in the duke's demeanor. There was a terrible complacency about him suddenly that was more Davinia's manner. Without knowing how he had done it, Salem had allowed Nigel Lynne to complete the picture, while he, Salem, had little more than a frame. "I believe that's the name of the estate. Do you know of it?"
Nigel made an admirable effort to control his smug smile. He was less successful controlling the racing of his heart. He thought of Ashley locked in her room, her initial defiance soon to be paid back in full. Everything was suddenly so perfect he tossed a bone to his guest. "Edenton is now part of this estate. Has been since the earl died. I'm surprised your father didn't tell you."
"Perhaps he didn't know."
"Perhaps. I vaguely recall your father now. He left Edenton when I was still a pup. Couldn't have been more than five. His family's holding burned, didn't it?"
"Yes. His parents were both killed in the fire. He set out for the Colonies when the estate manager refused him the position of responsibility with the horses his father held."
"The manager was acting on orders of the earl, of course."
Salem nodded. "How did you know?"
Nigel shrugged. "It stands to reason. Estate managers do not act on their own whims."
But nobility does, Salem wanted to say, and held back. "It all turned out for the best."
"Yes, didn't it."
There was a hint of bitterness in the duke's tone that made his statement less than sincere. It made Salem wary. Bitter men were vengeful men he reasoned, and he wanted to avoid being the target of the duke's revenge, if it wasn't too late already.
"Yes, it did," Salem emphasized. "He managed to do very well for himself in the Colonies." He did not mention his mother's wealth, confident as his mother was, that Robert McClellan would have done the same with or without her dowry.
"You mentioned thoroughbreds earlier. I take it your father is interested in the breed."
"Very much so. That's why I'm here after all.
I understand you have some animals sired by Eclipse. My father and brother are most definitely interested."
Davinia sniffed, indignant that she had been used in some way. How dare the Colonial sound so mysterious in the tavern when all he was after was an introduction to the duke's cattle. Upstart! "Why don't you show him around tomorrow then, Nigel? Surely we can explore a more pleasant after-dinner conversation?"
"Of course," Salem said pleasantly.
"Shall we go to the drawing room?" Nigel suggested. "Davinia, perhaps you'll play the spinet for us?"
"Delighted," Davinia said, anxious to recapture the duke's attention. She could not like the way Nigel seemed to hang on the Colonial's every word.
Davinia played brilliantly, and Salem enjoyed the entertainment while he drank his port. Under normal circumstances the music would have had his full attention, but Salem was still troubled by things his father had left unsaid. His mind wandered and for some reason he recalled the white fluttering at the window as he had approached Linfield. A surrendering flag perhaps? A damsel in distress? A ghost? The idea caught his fancy and he smiled.
"My playing amuses you, captain?" Davinia said a trifle indignantly. Barbarian!
"Not at all. You play with both technical skill and emotion. I'm sure you know the extent of your talent."
Somewhat mollified, Davinia started a new piece. She adjusted her opinion of the captain a bit.
"But something amused you, captain," Nigel said.
"It's nothing really. I was thinking about your magnificent home and its history. Do you have ghosts by any chance?"
"Of course." Nigel chuckled. "And in what room is the haunting now?"
"An end room on the second floor with an eastern exposure."
The duke's expression revealed nothing, but it struck Salem that Davinia's playing had faltered for an instant.
"That was most likely my great-grandfather who swore that section of the house would never be completed in his lifetime. It wasn't. He died while inspecting the builder's progress."