JoAnn Wendt

by Beyond the Dawn

  “You’ve already done it, Flavia. I can remember no one. No one but you.”

  He’d made love to her very tenderly that morning, touching her as if she were made of sheerest silk and he must not hurt her delicate skin. He kissed her everywhere, kissed her from head to toe, kissed every secret crevice of her beautiful body until her nails dug into his back and she arched and cried out, “Garth!” She responded to his caresses a rosebud opening into a full blooming rose. When they finished, she lay under him, flushed and panting. They had lain like that for a long time, holding each other, whispering love words. Then with a growl of rising desire he had seized her, and this time they had made love almost roughly, with wild uncensored abandon that had left both of them stunned, exhausted, perspiring.

  “I never knew love could be like this,” she whispered when breath returned to her lungs.

  “Nor did I.”

  “Garth . . . we are blessed.”

  “Greatly and truly . . . forever.”

  And at that moment he had suddenly realized that this was the love he had been waiting for all of his life.

  * * * *

  The landau jounced along. He drew a deep breath as the first houses of Williamsburg hove into view.

  “Flavia, I have news that will stun you.”

  “Jane,” she corrected him with a smile. “You must call me Jane. It is safer.”

  He tensed. “The news will come as a shock.”

  She gave him a startled, wondering look.

  He took a determined breath and tightened his grip around her small waist.

  “Our son . . . is not dead. He’s alive.” The expectant smile froze on her face. Her eyes did not blink. It was as though she’d frozen into marble. Even her heart seemed to stop.

  He shook her gently. “Sweetheart, Robert is alive. He lives with me in Williamsburg. Mab Collins is his nursemaid.”

  It was well he held her tightly because she pitched forward. Her breath came in harsh, choking gasps.

  “Don’t, Garth—my God! Don’t—don’t—”

  “It’s true,” he went on, holding her close.

  Quickly he sketched in what he’d done to rescue their baby from Bladensburg. Her heart thumped wildly. Her teeth chattered uncontrollably.

  “Again. Tell me again.”

  He did so. This time, slowly and in detail. He recounted all of it, from the first moment he’d realized he’d sired her baby that foggy London night on the quay. He didn’t spare himself. He told her of his necessary betrothal to Eunice. He told her of Annette’s sacrifice, claiming the baby was hers and risking her marriage to Dunwood. When he finished, she burst into hysterical sobs of joy. He took her into his arms and began the story again.

  Flavia felt she was stretched tight as the skin of a drum by the time Garth opened the door of his house in Williamsburg and ushered her in. A case clock was chiming the hour in the foyer and her heart jumped at every stroke. She’d coached herself as the landau clattered into Williamsburg. She would resist the urge to grab Robert—oh! Trent! She wouldn’t snatch at him or scare him with ferocious hugs. She wouldn’t frighten him by weeping.

  “Mab? Trent?” Garth bellowed, his voice echoing down a corridor. She waited on pins and needles.

  A woman blustered down the corridor. She looked to be a cook, and she told Garth that Mab was on an errand. Trent was in the garden, playing with Sarah Bess.

  “Send Trent in,” Garth ordered.

  Flavia’s pulse leaped. Garth carefully led her into a drawing room that was bold and cheerful with bright red chairs and peacock-colored silk draperies. Her knees wobbled.

  “Are you all right, sweetheart?”

  She nodded stiffly, then negated the gesture by staggering to a chair and sinking into it just as her knees turned to jelly.

  Garth kissed her trembling lips, strode to the door and bellowed toward the kitchen.

  “Trent! Where are you, you scalawag? Come greet me. I’m home!”

  Flavia trembled in anticipation. At last, a child’s excited whoop sounded and small feet beat a patter down a wooden corridor. Clutching the arms of her chair, she leaned-forward, staring at the door. In a moment, an explosion of dark hair, dark eyes, sturdy chubby arms and legs charged in. The child dove into Garth’s waiting arms.

  “Cap Mac!”

  “Oh!” she cried, bursting into the tears she’d sworn she wouldn’t shed. Hastily she swiped at the tears as Garth tossed their son to the ceiling, then caught him expertly and settled him in the crook of his arm.

  More tears came, and through the wetness she could see her son staring at her, disgust on his small face.

  “She’s a crybaby,” he accused, pointing a finger at the disgrace she was trying to mop from her cheeks with a handkerchief. She giggled wetly. Talking so well? And not yet three years old? Tears washed down.

  Garth chuckled softly and brought Robert near to her.

  “Yes, Trent, she’s a terrible crybaby. Still, you will love her. I assure you.”

  Flavia gasped for breath. “Oh, Garth, he’s wonderful. He’s so beautiful. I never dreamed— oh, Garth.”

  Garth jostled her son proudly. “I’ve brought you a gift, Trent. A real mama. Are you happy?”

  Trent considered it, then decisively shook his head no.

  “I want a puppy,” he proposed instead.

  Flavia giggled tearfully. She held out her arms. “You shall have your puppy, Rob --Trent. I’ll see to it. But now you must give me a hug or you’ll break my heart.”

  He studied her, considering the proposals. Garth chuckled, jostling him and giving him a pop on the fanny.

  “Scamp. Go to your mama,” he ordered.

  With a wicked, gleeful laugh and a nonstop demand for a puppy, he dove into Flavia’s arms. At the healthy, wiggling weight of him she felt her heart would stop in pure joy. Oh his clean little-boy smells! His firm sticky cheek, still smelling of tea cakes! She began to weep again and her son demanded, “Down!” in no uncertain terms. She let him go and he went thundering out of the room, flying back to his play.

  She was speechless with happiness, feeling light as a feather as Garth drew her up from the chair and took her into the warm strong circle of his arms. Chuckling, he lifted her straight up until her lips were on a level with his. He kissed her with tender playfulness. Once, twice. Then he lowered her to her feet and kissed her with searching passion. She shivered as his mouth searched hers, searched for the response she gladly gave. After a bit, he drew back and smiled down at her playfully.

  “We’ve done passably well producing a son, Jane Brown,” he teased. “Should we collaborate on a daughter?”

  She didn’t answer. She stared up at him, her small bosom rising and falling, her chin trembling. Then she flung her arms around him and pressed her face to the rough serge of his jacket. He heard her happy tears begin.

  It was all the answer he needed.

  Epilogue

  Garth awoke at first light, keenly aware of the date, keenly aware of which ship would sail to London on this date and which titled lady would be aboard.

  He stirred uneasily. He couldn’t deny that the port of York pulled at him today. Guiltily, he shifted upon his elbow and gazed at Flavia sleeping peacefully beside him. He felt the familiar fierce surge of love for her—for this “Jane Brown” he’d taken to wife a year ago in Bruton Parish Church. She was his. She was safe. Safe . . . Not a week after arriving in the colonies, the duke of Tewksbury had been recalled to London to answer charges of conspiracy to smuggle. A wealthy and powerful man, His Grace had easily eluded the net of human justice. But he’d not eluded a higher justice. His Grace had suddenly fallen ill and succumbed to a mere child’s disease—measles.

  The duke’s death had freed Flavia to reach out for her beloved family. Garth had expected her to demand an immediate sailing to London. But, no. Tenderly solicitous of her sister, Valentina, and unwilling to do anything that might hurt Valentina’s position as the widowed duchess of Tewksb
ury, Flavia wrote first to her Uncle Simon, telling him all. The old man, shocked and overjoyed to know she was alive and not dead of smallpox, had thought the matter through, then carried the good news first to Valentina and then to Flavia’s parents, wisely counseling all into secrecy. A deluge of loving letters poured across the Atlantic. Seeing Flavia’s ecstatic joy, Garth had determined to take her on a visit to London as soon as the war with France ended, as soon as sea routes were completely safe again.

  Watching the rise and fall of her bosom as she slept on, Garth drew a guilty breath. The port of York drew him like a magnet. Still, he watched Flavia sleep. He hated to leave her, even for a day. Especially now. Her delivery time was approaching, and as it did, he felt the cold chill of fear. Childbirth had its dangers, did it not? What if he lost her?

  No, damn it! He’d not think such things.

  To assure himself, he reached out and touched her cheek. Her skin was soft as a child’s. She looked lovely, her mass of red hair curling upon the white pillow. Only a tinge of blue beneath her eyes hinted at the strain of pregnancy. And, of course, the large mound that sat where her small waist had been.

  At his touch, she moved. Sleepily, she opened her eyes, panicked a moment trying to find him, then found him and smiled.

  “Garth, are you going out?”

  “Business,” he lied.

  Her gaze slid away for a moment, then lovingly returned to his face.

  “You’ll be back by evening? Raven and Maryann dine with us tonight.”

  He bent and kissed her cheek. It was warm, rosy with sleep. She smelled of heather—fresh, sweet, young.

  “If Raven’s coming, I certainly shall be back. I refuse to leave you alone in the company of that lunatic. Whenever he gets a moment alone with you, he demands you become his mistress.”

  Her soft sleepy giggle flowed musically to his ears. “Raven is only teasing.”

  “Half-teasing,” he corrected.

  She giggled again, then sighed and patted her abdomen.

  “A fine mistress I’d make in this condition.”

  “I’m satisfied,” he said softly.

  Her eyes filled with love.

  “Truly?”

  “Truly and absolutely and forever”

  With an order to go back to sleep, he kissed her, tucked her in, then got up and dressed.

  Flavia curled into the featherbed, her face to the wall. Her heart pounded with anxiety. She, too, was aware of what date this was and what ship sailed and which particular titled lady-passenger would be aboard. Unbidden tears collected in the corners of her eyes. She brushed them away as unworthy. I will not be jealous of Annette. I will not think ill of her. Didn’t Annette save Trent from the duke? Still, tears came.

  Love me, Garth.

  Don’t love her.

  Don’t go to her.

  * * * *

  The last-minute disorder that precedes embarkation was in evidence upon the wharf. Ship officers barked at sluggard porters, fearing to miss the tide. Curses and shouts split the air as porters collided with one another on the gangplank. Well-wishers mucked up the works, getting in the way as they bade passengers farewell.

  McNeil scanned the wharf for Annette and found her standing in a circle of friends. Dressed in a travel costume of sapphire blue velvet, she was reigning over her departure like a queen. Her dazzling smile went everywhere. Only occasionally did her glance skip out, anxiously searching the wharf.

  He grinned. He strolled toward her, and she caught sight of him at once. Her shoulders jerked. She bade a hasty good-bye to her friends, then whirled to Lord Dunwood.

  “Be a love, husband? Check to see if my trunks are safely in our cabin?”

  Flushing with pleasure, the parrot bounded off, the feather of his hat jauntily stabbing skyward. Annette turned and clipped toward McNeil, one curl of her shining black hair bouncing upon her velvet shoulder.

  “So you’ve come,” she said as she reached him.

  “Yes.”

  “So it’s good-bye, then, McNeil.”

  He nodded. He’d seen her seldom during the past year and had touched her only a few times, politely taking her as dance partner at public balls.

  She laughed with forced brightness.

  “Shall I see you in London?” she asked.

  The question was casual, but her voice caught, betraying her. He understood. He shook his head gently.

  “Not in the way you mean.”

  Her eyes fell to her jeweled hands.

  “Oh.”

  She was silent a moment. Then she drew herself up and forced a bright smile. Giving a brittle little laugh, she extended her hand in farewell.

  “We have been an amusement to one another, McNeil, have we not!”

  Her hand was still extended, trembling slightly. Ignoring it, he put his hands on her blue velvet shoulders and pulled her to him.

  “McNeil, don’t.”

  But even as she protested, she lifted her mouth to his. His mouth came down hungrily, and he felt the old rush of desire, the lust she would always awaken in him. He kissed her quickly but with satisfying completeness, his tongue roaming the moist familiar territory. He tasted the farewell sherry she’d sipped with her friends, tasted the almond biscuit she’d nibbled in her hasty breakfast.

  He tore his mouth away. “Damn it, we’ve been more to each other than amusement. And well you know it.”

  With an eager cry she threw her arms around him and kissed as though to remember the kiss for all eternity. Out of the comer of his eye, he saw Lord Dunwood’s bobbing feather on the deck of the ship. He pushed her away. Her eyes were bright with unshed tears. Her voice shook.

  “McNeil, had you merely kissed my hand in farewell, I should never have forgiven you— never.”

  He swallowed. Softly, he admitted, “And I should never have forgiven myself, Annette.”

  She gazed at him a moment longer, then whirled around and fled, sapphire blue velvet darting through a throng of dirty, shabby porters. He watched her go. A hollow feeling settled upon him. The hollowness did not begin to dissipate until a startling thought knifed through him.

  If it were Flavia running to that ship, I would not stand here. I would move heaven and earth to stop her.

  * * * *

  It was dusk when he arrived home. The oil lamp out in front of the house was already flaring and Raven’s chaise waited with its driver. His step in the foyer brought Flavia on the run. He was about to scold her for running in her condition, when he saw her face. She looked scared and vulnerable, incredibly lovely despite the ungainly mound that pooched out under a gown of delicate pink silk.

  She ran into his arms. “Garth! You’re back! I was so worried.”

  He held her carefully, tensing in fear.

  “Your time? Is it happening?”

  She stared at him in bewilderment for a moment, then dashed the tears from her eyes and laughed.

  “No, silly. Not that. I was afraid—Garth, I know I’m being ridiculous, but I was so worried you would—”

  She stopped. He had to prod her.

  “Would what?”

  Her eyes searched his face. “I was afraid you would sail for London,” she whispered.

  He was taken aback. God! So she’d known he’d gone to bid farewell to Annette! And she’d not stopped him from going by pleading her pregnancy or any of a hundred things a wife might plead. Instead, she’d endured a day of utter hell. Tenderness welled up, and respect. He swallowed hard, feeling a love for her that was even greater than anything he’d felt for her before. He drew her close and kissed the top of her head, his voice husky.

  “Why would I sail to London, when everything I want is right here, Flavia—right here in my arms?”

  Flavia felt a surge of purest joy. Throwing her hands around Garth’s neck, she kissed him with shameless abandon. She felt she- was soaring, and in her giddy flight, pictures flashed past; Garth toasting her at the fire in a shoddy London tavern bedchamber; Garth’s lobst
er red son, shattering the quiet of Tewksbury Hall with his loud birth cry; Garth’s marriage vow, ringing strong and clear in Bruton Parish Church.

  She kissed him wildly, hardly aware of footfalls behind her.

  “Indecent,” Raven scolded. “Behave yourselves.”

  “Go away,” she and Garth murmured in unison, kissing.

  Raven sighed his complaint.

  “Well, I suppose I must make my own fun. Maryann!” he shouted. “Come here, my good girl.”

  In her haze of happiness, Flavia barely heard the rustle of Maryann’s skirts or Maryann’s startled “Oh, my!”

  “Maryann,” Raven ordered. “Pucker up, my good girl. You are about to be kissed. And not decently!”

  * * * *

  I would like to acknowledge a man who is woven invisibly into the fabric of this book. He is Gottlieb Mittelberger, who, in the year 1750, set sail from Amsterdam to Philadelphia on the mission of delivering an organ to the German Lutheran Church in New Providence, Pennsylvania. Mittelberger recorded his journey, his compassionate eye taking in everything. He leaves us a rare legacy—a brief but poignant account of the harsh life endured by the indentured servants who poured into the American colonies, willing to trade four to seven years of servitude for ship passage to the New World. Mittelberger’s journal was a huge help as I researched BEYOND THE DAWN.

  JoAnn Wendt

  Copyright © 1983 by JoAnn Wendt

  Originally published by Warner [0446305669]

  Electronically published in 2010 by Belgrave House

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  No portion of this book may be reprinted in whole or in part, by printing, faxing, E-mail, copying electronically or by any other means without permission of the publisher. For more information, contact Belgrave House, 190 Belgrave Avenue, San Francisco, CA 94117-4228

  http://www.BelgraveHouse.com

  Electronic sales: ebooks@belgravehouse.com

  This is a work of fiction. All names in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.