WHEN DREAMS COME TRUE

by When Dreams Come True(Lit)

  After hours in her hot, stuffy cabin she complained to Nasim that she needed air and sunlight. Nasim agreed that she could take two turns around the deck each day for her health. He expected her to wear a dark, heavy veil that covered her from head to toe whenever she left her cabin. Furthermore, the great, hulking Gadi followed Eden like her shadow. No one was allowed to speak to her but Nasim.

  She was taking her late afternoon walk on their second day out of London harbor when Eden heard Captain Sullivan tell his crew, “Say good-bye to England for another year, lads. You won’t be seeing her sooner than that.”

  The crew didn’t pay attention, but Eden did. She crossed to the rail and stared hard at the horizon and the gray-green line of land, watching it grow smaller and more distant.

  Was Mary still saying prayers?

  “Looks like a storm is brewing too,” Captain Sullivan observed to Nasim, their conversation drifting toward Eden. “May be a rough night.”

  “What will you do?” Nasim asked in his accented English. He’d abandoned Western dress for the flowing robes of a desert tribesman that both he and Gadi preferred.

  Eden found him easy to distrust. He was a slim man with overbearing ways and eyes so dark they didn’t seem to reflect light but peered out at the world with reptilian interest.

  He was also not a good sailor. Eden had overheard him complain to Madame about the seasickness both he and Gadi had suffered on their way to London.

  “I’ll try and bypass it,” Captain Sullivan answered. “If she blows, she’ll be a mean one. I don’t like a wind blowing from the west. I’ll go off course if I must to avoid it.”

  Nasim seemed to feel this was a wise idea.

  However, in less than two hours’ time, the Channel seas were more turbulent than normal. Locked in her tiny cabin, Eden sat on her bed to keep from tumbling around the room, thrown by the motion of the ship.

  She was fortunate. A good sailor, she even enjoyed the wild movement and took no small satisfaction in the fact that Gadi’s face was already sickly green by the time he delivered her dinner.

  He was so ill, he forgot to lock Eden’s door when he left.

  She stared at the door, uncertain… and then realized that escape was impossible. Where could she run and hide on a boat?

  I will pray that God gives you the courage to free yourself.

  Mary’s words woke Eden in the middle of the night. The ship bucked back and forth now like a child’s hobbyhorse. Through the heavy, creaking timbers, Eden could hear the sound of rolling thunder. The storm was upon them.

  A heartbeat later, something crashed down upon the deck, sending a mighty shudder through the Wind Lark. The ship lurched and rolled precariously.

  She strained to hear the sailors’ shouts. Feet pounded across the deck over her head. But the ship appeared to be staying afloat.

  The courage to free yourself…

  An idea for escape rose crystal-clear in her mind. It was bold, daring lunacy.

  At first, she rejected it, but the idea would not go away.

  In the darkness of her cabin, she couldn’t even see her own hand. Gadi had forgotten to return to pick up the dinner dishes and the teacup rolled around on the floor. The door must still be unlocked.

  And Eden knew this was her only chance.

  She lifted the lid of her trunk. Feeling her way in the dark, she took the beautiful dresses made from the finest silks and laces and wadded them into a ball in the center of a velvet cape. They were her only possessions and could be sold for good money. On top of them she threw in several pairs of slippers, drew up the edges of the cape, and knotted the ends into a sack. She felt along the floor until she discovered the knife from her dinner tray.

  Then, swathing her nightdress in her veil so that it hooded her face, she slipped out the door, the sack of dresses over her back, the knife firmly in her hand. She made her way into the passageway toward the ladder. At Nasim and Gadi’s door, she paused to listen. No sound came from within the cabin. She tiptoed her way past and climbed the ladder.

  Above deck, all was chaos. The mainmast had cracked and fallen to the deck. Sailors who had battled the storm for hours now struggled to roll up the battered mainsail. Without the main mast and sails, Wind Lark was at the mercy of the storm.

  Eden slipped and skidded her way on bare feet to the aft of the ship where the dinghy was tied to the side by a series of pulleys that could lower it to the water. Lifelines crisscrossing the deck had been covered or knocked down by the mainsail. She hugged the bulwark and worked her way toward the dinghy. By the time she reached it, the veil had fallen down around her shoulders and rain plastered her hair to her head. It rolled in rivulets down her back.

  Eden slit a hole in the tarp covering of the boat and stuffed the bundle of clothes inside. Her hands now free, she worked to loosen the knots tying the dinghy to the side of the ship and connecting it with the pulleys. Hurry, she had to hurry. But her fingers couldn’t seem to untie the wet hemp rope. Behind her, Captain Sullivan shouted orders at his crew. A seaman cried out as a wave swept him overboard.

  Eden kept working at the lines, too afraid to stop. Finally, the knots came loose. The boat banged against the Wind Lark and swung out again before Eden could catch it. The next time it came in toward the ship, she grabbed it and without hesitation crawled unceremoniously through the slit in the tarp, holding on to the pulley rope.

  She’d just started lowering the boat into the water when she heard a man’s voice above the roar of the storm shouting for her to stop. She didn’t.

  May you have the courage to free yourself.

  Instead, she let go of the rope. The dinghy fell to the ocean with a splash. She screamed as the boat shook and rocked on impact.

  Looking up at the ship through the slit in the tarp, she was surprised to see Captain Sullivan’s face, white and ghoulish in the night, staring down at her. He was shouting but the wind carried his words away from her.

  The ocean raised the small craft up on the next swell and sent it crashing against the side of the ship. The dinghy quivered with the force, but was then carried away by the same foaming waves.

  She held the edges of the tarp together the best she could in a vain attempt to keep the rain from coming in through the slit. The velvet cape beneath her soaked up the rainwater gathering on the bottom of the boat.

  After what seemed like hours on the ocean, she was ready to admit defeat. Her arms ached from holding the tarp.

  By dawn, the rain finally stopped. She did her best to wring out the water from the clothes to lighten the boat.

  And by the end of that first day, Eden was no longer able to worry about the dinghy’s almost constant rocking in the waves or the direction of her craft. She no longer held the tarp closed, but curled up on the bottom of the boat, her knees against her chest. She was thirsty, tired, hungry—and she knew she was going to die.

  Courage. The word rang true in her soul. She no longer worried about what she’d done or her fate if she was captured by Madame Indrani or the sultan’s emissaries. The idea of death no longer frightened her.

  She forced herself to visualize a garden. It was full of roses this time of year. Lush, full-headed roses in every shade of red known to man. If she concentrated very hard, she could even recall their heady fragrance that sometimes drifted on the evening air.

  For the space of a few seconds, she was transported to another place and time. The scent of roses replaced the brackish smell of wet tarp and seawater. Wonderful, wonderful roses with a hint of mystery folded and wrapped in their velvety petals.

  She drifted on an endless sea dreaming of gardens—full of columbines, bleeding hearts, lilies. Her lips tasted of salt. She wiped them with the rainwater on her velvet cape. She ignored the ache of hunger in her stomach.

  Instead, she planned a garden. A garden where she would be safe, secure… and cherished.

  Chapter 2

  Pierce Kirrier, the earl of Penhollow, felt a tug on his fishi
ng line. With a rush of triumph, he yanked on the pole, setting the hook. The fish fought back and Pierce, bootless, strode into the surf, letting the line play out.

  He loved the ocean and the clean smell of salt air. It was as much a part of his soul as the hills, rocks, and moors of his beloved Cornwall.

  As a lad, he’d spent every moment of every day outside exploring. He’d been happy when he’d not been sent away to school and took inordinate pride in the fact that he was a self-made man. Not for all the money in the world would he exchange what he’d learned through living life to its fullest for an education at Eton and Cambridge.

  Of course, he’d learned that lesson the hard way. There had been a time when he’d keenly felt the scorn of other members of his class. When he’d inherited the title, he’d been labeled the “beggared” earl because of his family’s bare coffers and his mother’s roots in trade.

  Now, no one laughed at him.

  The success of his horse breeding farm and his decision to reopen the family tin mine operation had restored his fortune. The neighboring gentry now curried his favor, hoping the Midas touch Pierce seemed to enjoy would rub off on them.

  However there was a price to pay for his success. Today was the first time in close to a year that he had taken even a moment of free time for himself. Now as he pitted his wits against that of a wily fish, he was thankful to his friend Captain Harry Dutton for literally dragging him away from his desk.

  The two men fished at a place called Hermit’s Cove. Tucked in the coast not far from Penhollow Hall, the secluded beach was surrounded by high rocky walls with a stage of rocks jutting out over the ocean. It was a place separate and remote from the world beyond it, a place for confidences.

  But Pierce wasn’t thinking of anything but bringing in the fish hooked on the other end of his line. The day was bright and sunny. A rare and unusual day for Cornwall, but the sort that often followed a major storm. He laughed with the sheer joy of living.

  “Harry, this one has plenty of fight in him. Hand me the net, will you?” He caught a glint of silver in the waves crashing against a rock. “This bugger’s a smart one. He’s trying to break my line.” Pierce began walking backward toward shore, the rough, rocky sand giving beneath his bare feet. His boots, jacket, and waistcoat lay on the beach beside the picnic lunch Lucy, the Penhollow cook, had prepared.

  Pierce held out his hand, his eyes on the taut line leading into the water. “The net, Harry. I need the net!”

  Still no response.

  Pierce shot an irritated glance over his shoulder. Harry sat on a rock, a wine bottle in his hand, lost in deep thought. Unlike Pierce who was in billowing shirtsleeves, Harry still wore his coat, boots, and neckcloth. “Harry!”

  His friend looked up with a start. “Did you want something, Penhollow?”

  “I want the damn net!”

  At that moment, Pierce’s line snapped clean in two, cut by a cunning fish and sharp Cornish rocks.

  “Damn.” Pierce stared at the spot where his line had entered only a second ago. “I had him. He’s taken my hook with him.” Slowly, he turned to confront his friend. “Where the devil were you? Didn’t you hear me shout for a net?”

  Harry hunched his shoulders guiltily. “Did you call for me more than once?”

  Pierce swore under his breath and sloshed his way to shore. He buried the end of his fishing pole in the sand and walked to the picnic basket. Another uncorked bottle of wine sat in the sand. He lifted it to his lips and took a long drink before saying, “Harry, what the deuce is the matter with you? I thought we came here to fish, and yet you haven’t thrown out your line once. You were so anxious to come earlier, I would have thought you’d have been the first in the water.”

  Instead of answering, Harry dropped his empty wine bottle, stood, and, with the air of a child reciting verse for his tutor, announced, “You can’t expect to remain a bachelor forever, Penhollow.”

  The bottle of wine halfway to his lips, Pierce stared at him. “I beg your pardon?”

  “It’s bloody time you settled down and began behaving like the rest of us!” Harry answered with surprising vehemence. “After all, you are past the time when most men face their responsibilities. Oh—I don’t mean to say you aren’t responsible, Pierce. Devil the bit, I’d never say that… but, ah, marriage is your duty and—” He paused, searching for words, then finished in a rush, “And you’ll be much happier once you do—I mean are.”

  “Are what?”

  “Married.”

  Fascinated by such a startling testimony, Pierce lowered the wine bottle. “Are you saying this based upon your experience as a married man?”

  Harry shifted uneasily. “I suppose.” Eight years ago, Pierce had been a witness to Harry’s wedding to Helen Dudridge, the daughter of a prosperous dairyman. Now, four children later, Harry had added at least two stone to his short frame and found himself in charge of more black and white Jersey cows than he cared to count. He’d also grown increasingly henpecked. Pierce had been surprised that Helen had let Harry go fishing.

  In fact, it was rather suspicious. “Harry, has my mother been talking to you?”

  “No,” Harry denied quickly, and then admitted, “But she has been talking to Helen and you know I can’t gainsay Helen.”

  Pierce walked over to the rock and sat. “Here, sit.” He scooted to make room on the same rock and offered Harry the bottle. “And take off that silly neckcloth, will you? You look like you should be sitting in church rather than on the beach.”

  Dutifully, Harry practically clawed the knot in his neckcloth loose before plopping down on the rock beside Pierce. He took a healthy swig from the bottle.

  Squinting into the sun, Pierce stared out over the ocean. A small fishing boat floated far past the rocks. Perhaps that fisherman would catch the fish he’d failed to bring in.

  He took the bottle from Harry and had a drink. “Now, what is all this marriage nonsense?”

  Harry had the good grace to look penitent. “Your mother, Pierce. She’s relentless.”

  Pierce made an impatient sound. “Don’t I know. She’s paraded so many women in front of me, and in such an obvious manner, I’m beginning to feel like Cornish King,” he said, referring to the top stud in his stables and his pride and joy. Horsemen from all over England and Europe came to use him as a stud.

  “You really can’t blame her,” Harry said, taking the bottle back. “It is your responsibility to beget an heir and all that. You’re not getting any younger.” He cast a critical glance at Pierce’s flat stomach and then his own bulging paunch. “Although you don’t seem to be aging.”

  Pierce laughed and pushed his hair back from its perpetual place over his forehead. He came to his feet. “Well, neither you nor Mother need have any fears. I understand my responsibilities. I’m just not ready to marry yet.” He turned his back on his friend and looked out over the ocean. The boat was still there; there was a small flicker of movement from within. For a brief moment he wondered what it would be like to be a simple fisherman with no one hounding him to marry.

  “It’s the way women are,” Harry said. “The sight of an eligible, unmarried male gets their hunting instincts up. It’s the same sort of feeling we have when we flush out a nest of grouse.”

  “They want to shoot us dead?” Pierce asked dryly.

  Harry heaved a weary sigh. “Not quite… but close. Helen and your mother think you should make an offer for the Willis chit. They want me to convince you to do so. They thought you would listen to another man’s opinion.”

  Pierce rolled his eyes. “Have you been in the sun too long? Victoria Willis is barely out of the schoolroom. I’d spend the rest of my life bored to death.”

  “But you need someone young and she looks like a good breeder.”

  “Harry, we’re talking about a woman.”

  “Yes, thoughtless of me, but you understand. After all, we’re both in the breeding business—you with the horses and me with those damn
cows. What’s really important,” he said, warming to his topic, “is that her great uncle is a duke and she’ll bring you three thousand a year which is the best you can do in Cornwall. To do better than three thousand, you’ll have to go to London.”

  Pierce shook his head. “I’ll not go to London for a bride. My father did that and my mother has always resented living so far out in the country.” He walked back to the water’s edge, feeling the cold waves lap against his feet.

  “What your mother resented was being left behind in Cornwall while your father went to London and had a fine time,” Harry answered with the candor of long-standing friendship and the effects of good wine.

  “Aye, you’re right. But I’ll not follow in his path. Besides, Harry, there has to be more to marriage than dowries and family ties. Look at you and Helen. She isn’t related to a duke.”

  “No, but she had an income of one thousand pounds and High Road Dairy.”

  “A man doesn’t marry for a mere one thousand pounds.”

  “Perhaps you don’t, but I did. Look at me, Pierce.” Harry got up to his feet with a slight hiccup." I'm not tall and handsome like you. I don’t have those sharp blue eyes that drive the women crazy and I’m not even as smart as you are. I graduated from Oxford, but I haven’t opened a book in years.”

  “You had a successful military career.”

  “My father purchased my commission to get me out of his house, and I hated it. People shoot at you and the Iberians are completely uncivilized. No, one thousand pounds a year and command over a regiment of cows sounded like a fortune to me at the time and I was happy to marry for it.”

  “And now? Was the price worth it?”

  Harry swayed a moment, mulling his question. “Sometimes I’m happy.”

  Pierce snorted and walked over to the hamper to pull out a fat roasted capon wrapped in a towel. He pulled off a leg and tossed it to Harry before ripping off the other for himself. “I should think you are happy all the time. Helen is a lovely woman and you’ve got your children. Married life is good to you.”