by Susan Ward
She went with him topside and into a boat.
Ocean spray lightly misted her clothes and hair as she sat beside Morgan, while the men rowed. When the boat reached the shore, he lifted her into his arms, carried her until she was beyond the water, set her on her feet, then casually held out his hand.
She paused for a moment, and stared at those long, tanned fingers. Cautiously lifting her gaze to meet his eyes, those black orbs simmered with amusement. Irritated with herself, she realized the offer of his hand was an order, not a request. Flushing hotly, she took his hand.
It was a dazzling night, luminous of moonlight, fires, and stars. The passion of the celebration swept Merry’s flesh even before she was within the gathering. It brought an unreal wakefulness to her senses. The sky above seemed blacker and more littered with brightly glowing stars than any night sky she had before seen. The smell of the countryside, richer than any she had ever breathed, and the air was crackling with strange spirited strains of music. The long pits she had seen from the cabin were filled with chunks of roasting meat and surrounded by dancing revelers, inebriated faces engaged in vivacious chatter and men engaged in the not so discreet pursuits of pleasures.
The women were strange to Merry, their boldness with the men making her drop her eyes in heated embarrassment. She caught enough of a look at them to realize Morgan had dressed her similarly in their costumes. Her simple attire was everywhere.
She swallowed a tight lump in her throat, sharply insulted and humiliated by these clothes, which were his affront.
“How dare you dress me as though I were common?”
Morgan halted in mid-step. “Since I have no idea who or what you are, there is no cause to accuse me of insult.”
“I am not common, and you have dressed me as such.”
Morgan’s only answer was a chuckle that sent shivers up Merry’s spine. How foolish she had been to come with him without a fight.
Before tonight he never appeared to take much notice in her. That he was doing so now screamed danger and, too late, she was hearing the warning. Behind that elegant and handsome male exterior was a mind capable of committing any atrocity.
His black gaze flickered over her as he held out his hand again in a commanding, economical gesture.
“You don’t want me to leave you here on the path, Little One. You are much safer at my side. Come.”
There was no logical reason for her willingness to obey, but Merry found herself taking his hand. Staring at the ground, more than mildly furious with herself, she realized some unfathomable impulse inside of her betrayed her with this man, even in his most aggravating moments.
Frantically, Merry studied the people around her, wondering if she could find assistance to help her escape her captivity. As though he could read her thoughts, Morgan’s hand tightened as he guided Merry beside him on the path.
Disappointment settled heavy in her stomach as she realized it was unlikely she’d find any willing to betray Morgan to assist her. All around them, eyes followed with something akin to awe or worship. The Irish celebrated Morgan being here, when logic warned that they shouldn’t. She would not find an ally against him among these people. She could see it on their faces when they turned to take note of his towering form moving among them.
There were many tiny clusters within this one giant gathering. They moved past several groups, until Merry’s eyes fixed on one gathering and knew instantly that was where he taking her.
High on the hill was a larger cluster where Brandon Seton, Shay, and Tom Craven were joined by no less than a dozen of the rebels.
It was made comfortable by an open fire pit. Elegant even amid the barren countryside by all those finer, always tasteful, and often out of setting luxuries, which seemed a necessary part of existence for Morgan.
He had impeccable taste in all things, she realized. She recognized the patterns of the china, silver, and crystal, chosen in a manner that could put to shame the finest London hostess. The excellent selection of wines and brandies, and the delicious foods that would be served with the meats sizzling above flames. The soft fur draping the ground, with closer inspection, she realized was sable, its darkness speckled by bright brocade pillows, tossed freely for comfort.
She took it all in, in a sweeping glance that only confused her more. There was more here tossed on the ground than these Irish locals would make in lifetime. Yet it was clear, they resented Morgan not at all. Not for his wealth, or his extravagant displays of himself, or his obvious heritage. He was such a commanding figure, so baffling in this, his ability to be whatever he wanted to be in all circumstance. Even here, where what he wanted to be should not have worked well.
Merry stood rigid at Morgan’s side as he made a gentlemanly round of introducing her to the rebel men.
Their stares were openly bold and appreciative of her, without even a mild hint of reserve. The way they looked at her should have insulted her. Yet, she found that it didn’t. Their praise-filled words floated around her on musical voices full of vigor like Shay’s, voices that were honest and kind. They were rough men, earthy and without adornments, wildness and gentleness somehow blending at once on the surface of their flesh and in their speech. Their manner was flattering of her and direct in their treatment.
Merry liked the men of Ireland, instantly.
Seated tensely at Morgan’s side, a little ill at ease in this utterly unfamiliar setting, Merry watched everything unfolding around her. She tried to make reason of why Morgan had brought her here with him.
Color burned her face as her gaze fixed on a member of the crew, apart from the gathering supported against a tree, a young woman in his arms, straddling his bent leg, clinging in a knotted tie of limbs as they were madly engaged in a frantic flurry of kisses and caresses.
Morgan’s arm slipped around her, bringing her to rest against his side, the clasp protective and supportive. He must have been able to feel the tension curling in her. When she sought his eyes, their wine hazed depths sent her a smile, and then his fingers brought his wine glass to her lips.
“I know some of this is shocking to you, Little One,” he whispered, he mouth close to her ear. “But, if you want to sip of Ireland, you must sip of all of her.”
He fed her slowly, brushing the droplets from her lips as his fingers on her back began to move in slow glides. Quickly turning her face from him, she noticed a flood of curious stares studying them from the circle around the pit.
Uncertain at first, Merry was reluctant to be drawn into the rapid and turbulent conversation. On her left was an attractive blond man, who she learned was Shay’s uncle and one of the leaders in the rebel band.
Being told of their relationship by Morgan, she could see that there was a connection of blood in the lines of his face and the liveliness of his eyes. He had the same splendidly vivacious manner. It took Ryan Shay little effort to get a smile from her. Once having gotten that, he got the rest in the short space of time it took Morgan to send for a plate of food for her.
Their conversation was intensely fast and far beyond frivolous, hotly political and focusing on the turbulent events around the world. She was from England, the center of the world and the center of its wars. These men of Ireland wanted her insights and opinions as no man outside her family ever had, discussing such matters that were never discussed with her on English soil. In the stuffy drawing rooms of London, in the constant blur of social amusements, in nineteen years, not a soul had ever asked her what was in her head.
Being a Merrick, she had come by a wealth of knowledge never shared, but nurtured in the quick intelligence of her mind. Fighting to remain silent through the fast moving exchange proved a useless endeavor. Before she could stop herself, she was standing toe to toe arguing politics with the infamous Captain Morgan and a rebel band.
They moved in a flurry from Wellington and the battles in France, to the difficulties Prevost was confronting in Canada, to the problems in Flanders, to Vice Admiral Cochrane and his wa
r in America.
“How can you be certain that if the battles in France end, England won’t concentrate her armies on her former colonies, lass?” asked Ryan persistently. “The Times keeps stirred the flames of fury toward the United States. When I was last in London, the mood was not to be merciful.”
“We don’t have men for an invasion force,” said Merry in frustration. “We can’t even send reinforcements for our positions in Canada. We are wasting men and money, which would be better put to service in Europe. Rather than to support a series of intolerable forces of will, which we have imposed by our Orders in Council. We have provoked a war we are not prepared to fight, for the worst reason of all.”
“All reasons for war don’t meet the cost of war. What is the worst reason for war, Little One?” Morgan asked, his black eyes alertly searching her and sharp.
“You should know the answer to that better than I, sir,” she said, feeling her mood shift and dim, now that Morgan’s full attention was upon her.
“Me?” Morgan was smiling. “Why should I know better than you?”
Staring at Morgan, not trusting his tone and fearing his attention, Merry whispered reluctantly, “I am a woman.”
“The ability to understand politics is not beyond the female intellect. If anyone here thought that tonight, you have destroyed that incorrect belief, remarkably well.”
His compliment made her insides shudder. The touch of his eyes made her burn. When Morgan wanted to beguile, he certainly could. He was not beyond the rare and skillful acts of charm. The clever thoughts he concealed, too often, behind his unfailingly disarming allure he could wield as a hacksaw or a scalpel.
Merry gathered every scrap of coldness that was shooting through her in warning and wove it against her foolish body’s unwanted response to the undeniable appeal of the man.
In a voice she hoped sounded cold and disinterested, Merry said, “Because we are fighting a war with America that was born of British male arrogance. You are British. And you are...”
“...arrogant?” His black eyes were sparkling like fire embers.
Wishing heartily that she hadn’t been so stupid as to let down her guard with Morgan, she said in a voice embarrassingly thin, “I was going to say male.”
He threw back his head and laughed. He brushed a wayward curl from her brow. Morgan’s gaze shifted from her to the men and began to sparkle.
“Is she not everything I said she was, Ryan?” Morgan asked, resting his long body more closely against her.
Merry’s face reddened beneath the touch of Ryan’s eyes just as he said, “She’s a highflier, indeed, Varian.”
The world affairs took a natural turn to the conflict in Ireland. It had been a prelude, the necessity to know where England’s energies were drawn as they discussed their current political problems, and course of action.
As she listened to Morgan’s practical suggestion on how they should proceed with the Chief Secretary of Ireland, she fell silent. Staring down into her wineglass, Merry realized, as the hours drifted away, she understood Morgan even less.
All afternoon, she’d watched from his cabin the long boats going ship to shore packed full of supplies and leaving empty. He was giving the rebels supplies to aid their struggles against England. If what Ryan Shay had said was true, Morgan was not even allowing them to pay
Having long followed the exploits of Morgan in the Times, she could run through his crimes like a butcher’s bill. Yet somehow, the world had missed this. Morgan supported the Irish rebels and had done so for half a decade. It only added to the mystery of this man.
Shay had said that Morgan had slipped into the world with a silver cutlass in hand, but after a fortnight with him, Merry knew with certainty it was a silver spoon instead. No matter what words sinister, seductive, or obscurely menacing danced from his lips, the low voice that carried them was unmistakably cultured. She had watched him enough to know that his habits were meticulous. Like a gentleman with a subtle grace he did each thing. His wide and varied reading material, betrayed not only an intelligent, but also an educated mind. Whatever Morgan was, at some point, Merry was certain he had entered this world British and highly privileged.
Giving supplies to the rebels seemed an intensely personal act against England, when Morgan should have no interest in politics, at all. He was a man of no country. He was a pirate.
She recalled Shay’s words earlier that morning: Nothing about the mon ever makes sense. Would she ever understand Morgan? And why did she have the fearful suspicion that her fate depended upon understanding him?
Searching Morgan’s face alertly, she asked, “Why do you hate England?”
His heavy lids widened, just a trifle, above his black gaze. Delicate surprise augmented his eyes.
She’d listened quietly throughout the discussion of Ireland. More than an hour passed, in deep thought, without her saying a word. Now, when she did speak, it was in direct question of him, when he was not a man who allowed inquiries about himself. It was a bold thing to do, given who he was.
A tremor passed through her body as Merry realized this was not wise. Morgan must have felt it. She unexpectedly found his hand moving to her face, the slow decent of a fingertip across her cheek, and the warmth rising in her skin to meet it. His palm rested in a cup on her face, his thumb gliding the line of her chin as he studied her for awhile.
Finally, quietly, he said, “I don’t hate England, Little One, I hate her cruelty. Her cruelty and what she means to do to you.”
Flickers of light from the fire bounced against Morgan’s great black eyes, and were held there, shimmering. It was unclear to Merry whether the reflection in them was inward or outward. His voice and expression had betrayed neither.
“Me? England has done nothing to me. Only you have.”
The amused curl of his lips looked almost to hold a blend of anger and sadness. “I suspect you’ve spent all your years fighting the wind of British male arrogance, condescension, and the limiting, stifling social rule to protect who you are. You fight so much because you’ve learned to fight hard to protect yourself, because you are more than what they expect you to be. You have a mind that could argue politics in the House of Commons, but I doubt the London dandies would be pleased to know that, if they were ever wise enough to discover it. England demands that you be little more than a pretty creature who spends her days in marriage, amusing yourself with social gatherings, children and water-colors. You, however, have other wants. England fights to take your freedom and you fight not to let her. The stuff of tragedies. A war where no one wins.”
Furious, she countered, “You are wrong. You’re the only one to take my freedom.”
“Did I take it? Or am I giving it to you, Little One?” he said pointedly. “Would you be in England this night, arguing politics as you have here? Or, would you be dancing, hating it, and fighting to keep free of men who force you to listen to insipid drivel because it is fashionable, and you are not supposed to want more? If you had opened your mouth and proved that you had a brain, would the man at your side be charmed, outraged or censorious? I don’t expect you to be other than who you are, Merry. I enjoy being in the company of a woman who, in all ways, reveals herself to be remarkable. Whether socially proper or not, in ways I find to my liking. You tell me, Little One, which circumstance are you free in? The one where you are yourself, or the one where you are trapped into being what others demand? Which circumstance is cruelty?”
Was there anything beyond the discovery of Morgan’s heartlessly capable mind? Without knowing anything of who she was, Morgan was perfect in his insights of this.
It made Merry’s temper flare because no matter how much about him she learned, she couldn’t weave it together in a pattern that made sense. There was no rhyme or reason to be found in him. He eluded understanding as effortlessly as he read the world around him.
As though he could read her thoughts and were amused by them, his large hands fanned her face, holding her beneat
h his black eyes that were so intense, at this moment, they were too hard to meet. Merry pulled free of him, quickly turning her face.
Rapidly she shifted her gaze away from him. She realized they were being watched, by every man around the pit.
Merry’s expression was all too familiar to one man. Shay sprang from his place on other side of the pit. He looked at Morgan and asked if he could dance with her. He nearly fell flat, when the captain lifted his glass to lips and gave a slight move of his head in ascent.
“Come on, Merry lass, dance with me,” Shay boomed. “Let’s celebrate this night, and celebrate being Irish.”
At first Merry declined, no longer in a disposition that desired dancing, furious that Morgan had given Shay permission to ask her. Furious that he’d just treated her as though she were nothing, a possession he owned and could hand off to another, as he was doing so now. But Shay was a force that could not be denied. He cajoled, he wheedled, he implored, and in the end Merry took his hand.
Peevish, Merry went the few strides to the area of the hills crowed with dancing. She felt strange in the music, even stranger, watching the wild movements around her. It was so odd, so full of passion and without control. How would she manage this when even a waltz with her could be disastrous?
Reluctantly she took Shay’s hands. For a big clumsy man, he was sure-footed and smooth in this, graceful and certain in his movements. She watched, tried to follow his dancing legs, and then, her own mirth came, making her body less strained, her steps more fluid. The joyful energy bathed her in its warmth. She felt herself surrendered to the wild spirit around her that was so like her own.
Before she knew it, Merry Merrick, the daughter of the esteemed Duke of Dorset, was on the Irish coast, dancing with a rebel band.
Laughing, her leg flurries sent her off balance and his hand brought her body into him. Instead of shocking her, she was surprised she found the contact agreeable. An arm snaked around her waist as Merry was turned away from the boy and pulled into dancing with one of the rebels. It was scandalous, the way the man’s arms encircled her waist. She had always hated dancing. She had never allowed men to touch her, but here she found pleasure in matching the jaunty steps, her forehead falling against his chest, her hair a wild cloud around her.