Sweet Vengeance

by St. Michel, Elizabeth

  She would confront him.

  Thorne was her mission now.

  Jacob had a smile on his face. Nothing could put him in a bad mood. The squall had not pushed them off course. In fact, it had blown them toward home and with that the happy prospect of cutting their journey, short of two days. Already Captain Trevett had split off with most of the squadron, sailing toward Rhode Island, leaving the Solebay as their sailing companion. Jacob descended the companionway and whistled a familiar tune thinking of Abby. She had never complained or cried or threw tantrums like a wealthy spoiled daughter of an aristocrat would do. No. She held her head up with grace and dignity, and even helped in the galley since they were sailing with half a crew and needed every man on deck in shifts.

  His whistling tune trailed off in a rapid decrescendo. That was not the real reason for the twinge of guilt that caused his chest to tighten, and that fact bothered him. She’d be leaving him soon. She’d be gone as soon as they made port. He’d secure her a place at Widow Smith’s until the trade was secured.

  This was exactly what he had planned. He should be grateful. The whole ordeal would soon be over. He’d have Ethan back. He’d have his life back. Just the way he wanted it.

  Except he wasn’t sure he wanted it anymore.

  He opened the door, expectant of Abby’s presence. In a thin linen shift with a wool shawl draped across her shoulders, she sat on the settle, her feet tucked under her, sewing. A subtle tantalizing hint of lavender mixed with her scent assailed him, yet her unnatural silence troubled him. He threw his tricorn on a hook, turned and froze. The ring. “You dare to search through my things?”

  “I dare.”

  She shoved her sewing aside and had the audacity to stand up to him, defiance thundering in every bone of her body. He thrust the ring and the miniature into the bag. “I’ve killed men for less.”

  “I know who you are, Jacob. I understand your anger.”

  “Shut-up, Abigail. Not one more word.” He advanced on her, staring down at her beautiful frightened face. He wanted to put his hands around her slender white throat and strangle her. “You have no business.”

  “You told me once, camouflage is a game we undertake, but our secrets are surely revealed by what we want to seem to be as what we want to conceal. You are the Duke of Banfield’s eldest son. From the first time I laid eyes on you I saw the resemblance. The woman in the miniature is your mother. Tell me it is not true.”

  His hands convulsed into fists. “Not one more word, I’m warning you.”

  “There is a canker in your soul, Jacob.”

  “I’m a bastard, born out of sin.”

  “Bastards are born out of women, just like everybody else. Men make the stamp of illegitimacy, not God.”

  Something shattered inside of Thorne, splintering his emotions from all rational control. A blind rage like fire swept over him. “A bastard whose father never wanted him, whose mother left England in shame, cast off by the same aristocrat who used her. As a young child, I watched helplessly, seeing her stare off to some other time and place, so sad and distant. A void I could not understand nor fill.”

  Abby saw how terribly he suffered, a deadly quiver, nothing more. She needed to goad him, to let him cleanse the infection, the canker that imprisoned his soul, bracing herself and listening.

  “She died of a fever when I was nine. And it was I who closed her eyes then stood watching as her casket was lowered into a cold grave.” His handsome jaw was taut, his mouth, drawn into a ruthless, forbidding line.

  “Do you know how that feels?” His eyes clouded, grappling with a myriad of emotions—anger, hate, bitterness, heaving resentments, bewilderment—all emotional famines.

  Pin-points of heat seared her inner eyelids. “I cannot imagine.”

  “Your concern is touching,” he said with biting sarcasm. “Born on the right side of the blanket, coddled and cosseted, you’d have no idea.” He turned away, as if he couldn’t stomach the sight of her.

  “After my mother’s death, I searched through her things, anything to be close to her. I found a box. Simple in its outward ornamentation, but the complexities inside held the underpinnings that formed the rest of my life. The ring. Written in her Bible was his name. The mother who I cherished and honored had kept him a secret all those years? How many times had I asked her who he was and she said nothing. Why?

  “I had always wanted to know who my father was. Other boys had fathers. I wished and dreamed of mine even fancied him to be someone famous. That day I learned my father was the Duke of Banfield. I also learned what it was to be a bastard.”

  He stared into the dark vacancy of the night. “As a boy, when I was alone, when I was lost and confused and searching for my identity—I wondered to myself what it might be like to hear a man such as Lord Banfield call me ‘son’. That my mother cherished and treasured him...so I excelled at my studies, promising myself, I’d be a better man than the father who abandoned me. The war came and all its miseries. I took to the seas, picked up privateering. I cruised the coasts of England and decided to visit my father. You can imagine his shock, seeing his illegitimate offspring.

  “The only thing I asked him was to use his power to free my cousin. The only thing I had asked him for my whole life he refused. Do you know what he said to me? He offered me lands and a title. I never took him seriously. No doubt, he must be senile. Can you imagine, a son that he abandoned? I threw it back in his face. Humphrey entered then and we silenced our altercation.”

  Jacob laughed. “First time I even knew I had a half-brother. My father suggested I get to know Humphrey and look around before I made any decision. On a lark, I showed up at your home curious to see Humphrey’s intended, to see what wealth and privilege bought. My early departure was precipitated by Captain Davenport’s presence.”

  “Does Humphrey know you are his brother?”

  He shrugged. “Best to keep him in happy ignorance.”

  At the mention of Humphrey, memories swirled like a dense fog, mocking and dancing. She must tell Thorne. “Growing up on neighboring estates and the same age, Humphrey and I became great friends. As youngsters, we played hide and seek. My favorite place was the cupboard in the Duke of Banfield’s library. One day, the duke entered. No way could I reveal my untoward presence. The door was slightly opened and of curious nature, I studied him in repose. Out of a locked drawer, he withdrew several sketches. I did not know at the time but now realize they were architectural drawings of ships, ones that you drew. Other sketches were younger versions of you. He also had the same painted miniature of your mother. He must have had an investigator following you and giving him regular reports.”

  Abby trembled. If only to meet his anger with love, to break open his heart. She pulled her wrap tighter and braced herself. “I know your father loves you.”

  He swept his arm across his desk. Charts scattered to the floor. “I don’t want to hear it.”

  Abby stepped toward him. “Once I had heard gossip that the Duke of Banfield almost gave up his title over a serving girl. I believe that girl was your mother. Not wanting him to lose his heritage, I believe she did what she felt was noble, moved to Boston with no trace of her footsteps. People make choices.”

  “Shut-up, Abby.”

  “No. You will listen to me, Jacob. My guess is the Duke of Banfield searched everywhere for her but to no avail, and eventually married.” Jacob glared at her as if she were some strange animal, a curiosity, deformed and loathsome to his sight.

  Could she reach him? Could she release the demons he locked inside? Abby searched his face, terrified of the growing aggression in him, a volcano ready to erupt. “Knowing the Duke of Banfield the way I do, and in that unguarded moment, the way he caressed the picture of your mother, the way he touched your ship sketches with such tenderness, the way he had that distant dreamy look that carried a love so great that he was lost, I know he loved her and loved her deeply.”

  “Say his name one more time…”
Thorne lashed out, “…and I’ll kill you, so help me God!”

  “Your Oxford tutor? A shipyard? How could your uncle afford the expense? I’m guessing the duke found your mother. But she made him promise not to reveal the truth to you. That she didn’t want your world rocked.”

  In two steps, Thorne’s hand shot out, her wrap fell to the floor. He twisted the thin fabric of her shift at the neckline, drawing it taut. Her chest rising and falling in rapid, harsh breaths, she stared down at the strong, roughened hand at her breasts, the same hand that had once caressed her with gentle passion. Abruptly the hand tightened and with one quick jerk he plucked the thin garment over her head, flinging it away from her body. He picked her up and threw her on the bed.

  In a blur of unreality, she saw Jacob strip off his shirt, and she stared blindly at the rippling muscles of his powerful shoulders and arm. When his hands went to the waistband of his pants, she took a burning ember and blew it into a raging fire. “You put up walls of hate, afraid to let your heart feel, to believe what I’m telling you is true. Your mother didn’t want to entrap him with a child and by going away she made the ultimate sacrifice. Did you ever think it might have been your mother who was responsible? The one who kept secrets? Yet her sacrifice became the duke’s agony, and her agony, and your agony.”

  The bed shifted beneath his weight as he stretched out on top of her naked body, his heavy weight covering her. Pain slashed across his features.

  Panic tickled through her veins in icy little dribbles. The storm she had cultivated was now a reality—a grim, living reality. In a shivering trance of fear, Abby refused to give up. “Jacob, you need to see through all of this.” She stared at his cynical, ruthless face while her tortured mind superimposed other, gentle memories of him. She saw him pointing out letters in the alphabet, his face full of compassion. She saw him sharing the glory of the crow’s nest, she saw him bending over her the day he rescued her from the sea, his face white with alarm. She saw him gazing tenderly into her eyes when he made love to her. She remembered him just a month ago, the way he stood on deck and proudly announced their wedding date.

  She was right. Jacob did love her. She did not delude herself that she had a choice to tell him of his history, however painful it was. She loved him. Love, hate−both were competent puppet masters, pulling the strings to command the movements of their lives. No. Beneath his feelings of abandonment and his bastardy, Jacob maintained his scorn. That he was punishing her for being an aristocrat was certain. He shifted between her legs, and Abby’s fear gave way to a deep, shattering sorrow. Her eyes ached with unshed tears for the boy who had lost so much. She looked in his eyes and hesitantly laid her trembling fingers against his rigid jaw. “I−I’m sorry,” she whispered, her throat clogging. “I’m so sorry.”

  “I don’t want your apologies and I don’t need your pity.”

  His mouth came down on hers with savage brutality. He wedged his knee between her legs, grasped her hips, lifting them. Her eyes flew open. His harsh, bitter expression reeled above her just as he drew back and then rammed himself full length into her tight passage. A dry sob burned her throat as she offered her body as a vessel for his anguish. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders, taking it all in, anything to release him from the torment and anger of a lifetime.

  With a violence bred of rage, he stamped out his rejection and hurt and pain into Abby. Rock hard and fully aroused, he drove into her, again and again, desire pulsing through his swollen rigid flesh, his gut ablaze with a need for her so ferocious he could not stop the impulse if he wanted to. His head dipped toward her honeyed breast and he suckled until she cried out, her breath hot upon his neck. He stroked, caressed, fanned the flames he’d created, anything to punish her for the past she threw in his face. He wanted to bury himself inside her as deeply as he could and not come out until he got his fill. His fingers stroked her in time with his thrusts, his hand swept down her body, slicked across the small, sensitive piece of flesh at the core of her, rewarded when she raised her hips to him and whimpered. He’d make her pay.

  Except when her fingers raked through his hair, her tender touch inflamed him. The sweet offering of her body, the submission to his rage, her head thrown back, the adoration in her eyes, completely exposed in her trust of him. He plumbed the hot fire in her loins, a heat he never imagined, her body arched to meet his deep plunging thrusts.

  “I love you, Jacob,” she gave way in a half-whisper, a half-cry, and it unraveled the last thread holding him together. Instantly Jacob covered her mouth with his, taking all that she was giving and reacted to the spasmodic tightening of her muscles, pouring his seed into her womb.

  Afraid that his weight would crush her, Jacob gathered her to him and rolled onto his side, taking her with him. Lying there, with Abby cradled in his arms, his body still intimately joined to hers, he experienced a peace, unlike any he’d known in years. The blackness in his soul faded. He could feel it like the sun burning away the shadows, bringing light and warmth to a place that had known only darkness and ice for years. To see himself in his own reflection. He brushed back a wayward silky tress and cupped her chin in his hand until her blue eyes met his.

  “Thank you, Abby.”

  She curled her finger through his hair and kissed him gently before laying her cheek upon his chest. There he held her close, reveling in the feel of her as he cradled her with his body, her heart beating next to his.

  “I am so sorry for not trusting you, Abby, for every failure and every wrong and for the heartache and sorrow.”

  “There is nothing to forgive. You needed to figure things out. I pointed the way.”

  “You really believe my father−”

  “Without a doubt. My instincts tell me you must have surprised your father when you showed up on his doorstep. He was probably nervous, excited and joyful. He offered you lands and a title. If he didn’t care about you, he would have had you thrown out.”

  “I never gave him a chance−”

  “No you didn’t. He even insisted on you staying. He wanted you, loved you. I’m sure he knew of your privateering activities and was secretly proud. Jacob, you have so much love, find somewhere in your heart to love your father.”

  “I have a lot of making up to do,” Jacob sighed. “Now tell me from the start how a duke’s daughter was on the merchantman, Civis?” He listened asking questions, going back to where they had left off that night in the garden. He listened to her talk about her home, her brothers, her mother’s death and more. The floodgates opened.

  “You see, Humphrey had agreed to the ruse of our engagement to put off my father’s insistence I marry. My last argument with my father…”

  “Guilt. That’s the real reason why you are driven to get back home, Abby. Not so much for revenge as it is to seek forgiveness from your father.”

  “How clear you make that revelation.”

  They talked about her capture aboard the Civis up until Jacob rescued her, life in Nassau, Joubert, the French planter and her subsequent saving of Pascale, her attempt to get Jacob and the crew released. They talked about Percy Devol.

  Jacob frowned. “You realize that Percy did not act alone. More are involved. They may hide for the time being, lick their wounds because your family survived but they will strike again. Of this, I am certain.”

  On into the hours of darkness they talked of a myriad of topics. She drew circles on his chest and he was already hard for wanting her again. With a growl, he rolled her on her back and made delicious sweet love to her. Time passed slowly, for he made love to her again and again, and then held her while she slept. Jacob exhaled and glanced at the sky framed through the transom windows. Night still loitered in the west, holding fast to a dark amethyst ribbon studded with stars, but eastward the upper crown of the sun stole over the horizon. He was overwhelmed by what had happened and never had he felt so content. That this beautiful woman had risked much, to taunt him, to suffer his wrath and to relieve him of his torment
s was more than he deserved. Without fear, she reached into his soul and ripped out years of latent festering wounds, the liberation like a meteor exploding through the sky. That she did so proved without a doubt that she was far braver and wiser than any woman he had ever known.

  That she loved him slammed into his chest.

  That he had to give her up destroyed him.

  Jacob let out a long breath he didn’t know he had been holding.

  He asked himself−did it hurt more to love someone, or to force himself not to love her?

  But love her he did.

  The ramifications of letting her go? He knew the answers. A family, a home of his dreams, a place he belonged. Her. Those many answers burned his tongue. It was a profoundly alluring fantasy, though−fulfilling the primal desire to find his perfect mate, finding the one woman who filled his needs, who belonged with him and to him, who completed him.

  She was well-bred, natural for position and privilege. Regardless of the title and lands his father could give him, he was an American and his life was set on a different path. No bargaining with his maker could change that fact. The idea was ludicrous. With the entire British Navy looking for him? An enemy of the crown? The king would have him swinging from the gallows in a heartbeat. He could not offer her the life she deserved, her rightful place in society. Holding onto him was not an option. He had to let her go, had to protect her foolish heart. Was there anything in the world more painful than hurting Abby?

  Of course, marrying Humphrey was the right course. No doubt his half-brother was a decent man. No doubt he would cherish and honor her. Love her? The muscle’s in Thorne’ neck corded. No. The thought of any man touching her…even Humphrey, made him want to bloody his half-brother to a pulp.

  Without a doubt, he was an American, born and bred and his loyalty lay there. Blood and sweat were forging new ideas, concepts less tangible but nonetheless, promised glimmerings of freedom far from the chokehold of aristocracy. No. Jacob was not of the world of entitlement.