A Brother's Honor

by Ferguson, Jo Ann

  Holding out his arm to Abigail, Dominic asked, “Shall we peek within, Newton, and see if there is a reason for your mother’s anxiety?”

  Newton ran toward the door with a squeal of excitement. Clarissa followed closely in pursuit of him. Drawing Abigail’s hand onto his arm, Dominic led her after them, no longer limping as he had even yesterday.

  “You are walking much better,” Abigail said.

  “Newton believes that a tour of the grounds was just the thing I needed to work out any residual strain.” Dominic chuckled.

  “You are spoiling that boy.”

  “He is a good boy, and he misses his father. Lord Sudley has been in Town for more than three months on business for the estate, and apparently for the government.”

  “At least the family will be together once more by week’s end.” She stared across the pond that glittered in the sunlight.

  Pausing, he said, “If all goes as I hope, you will see your father again.”

  “As the noose is being slipped over his head?” She yanked her hand off his arm. “How kind of you to remind me of that.”

  He caught her hand, folding her fingers between his. “His fate is yet to be seen. All evidence of his crimes is gone, which may have been the real reason the Republic was sunk.”

  Her eyes widened. “That is true, but if you testify against him, the judge is sure to heed the word of a Frenchman over an American.”

  “Mayhap. You cannot tell.” He picked up a stone and skipped it across the water. “I must admit that I envy both you and young Newton your hopes of being reunited with your fathers.”

  Abigail was kept from replying when Newton ran back to them and tugged on Dominic’s sleeve. “C’mon!” the boy cried. “You can give her moony looks later. I want to see inside the barn.” He raced to where his sister was waiting with as little patience.

  Dominic chuckled. “He seems bent on finding as much trouble as possible to crowd into each day. If I ever were to have a son, I would want one who was as curious and mischievous as Newton.”

  “Be careful what you ask for, Dominic. You might just get it.”

  His grin became rakish. “I find that hard to believe when I have not gotten what I asked for with you, chérie.”

  “How do you know that I have not asked for just the opposite?”

  “Because of what these tell me.” He grazed her lips with his fingertip.

  “Mr. St. Clair!” Newton’s voice was sharp with frustration.

  Dominic laughed again as Abigail walked with him to where the boy waited. The barn was not large. Scents of damp and the sound of running water came from within, and she suspected it might be simply a springhouse.

  Giving Clarissa a wink, Dominic lifted the latch and swung open the plank door. Thicker odors of clammy shadows oozed out, but Abigail smiled. It had the same aromas as her aunt’s root cellar. That hole in the ground had been populated by a vast collection of spiders and crawly bugs and the occasional worm, but she had loved seeking its coolness on a humid day when even the breeze off the sea did not ease the heat.

  Newton peeked in and scowled. “I thought there would be something exciting in here.”

  “Like buried treasure?” his sister asked.

  “Or something or someone else buried in there.”

  Clarissa shuddered. “How horrible!” Then her eyes twinkled. “Do you think so, Mr. St. Clair?”

  “I suspect,” Dominic replied with a chuckle, “that your mother might have noticed one of her servants going missing if foul play had taken place here.”

  “Oh,” Clarissa said as Newton grumbled something under his breath.

  Abigail wondered how someone as prosaic as Lady Sudley could have given birth to two such fanciful children. As they walked away, clearly disappointed, Abigail paid their conversation no mind. She watched as Dominic went into the barn. Edging past the door, she waited for her eyes to adjust to the darkness.

  “Take care,” he said. “There is a spring in the center here, and the floor is slippery. It may rise and fall with the tides.”

  “We are too far inland for that.”

  “Mayhap, but it is clear that the spring bubbles up over the floor at least part of the time. Take care,” he said as he held out his hand to take hers. “I know better than to suggest you might want to go outside and wait. You are as eager as Newton to stick your freckled nose into everything.” The humor left his voice. “I recall saying that before. In the Republic’s hold. Curse your father, whose greed has destroyed so many.”

  Abigail whirled and went back out into the sunshine. She blinked in the bright light as she struggled to swallow the pain clogging her throat. How could she defend Father when she could not comprehend why he had been bringing those guns to England?

  Dominic’s hands on her shoulders were gentle and asked for nothing, save that he could offer her solace. When she leaned back against him, his arms folded over her. His cheek rested on her borrowed bonnet, but he said nothing.

  “I do not pretend to understand this hatred among those who used to be friends,” she said as she smiled sadly. “Among those who used to be family. Somewhere in England, I have distant cousins who occasionally sent a letter to my aunt and uncle. I believe my uncle once visited them.”

  “But you do not know where they are?”

  “No. They could be anywhere in England.” She turned to face him. “Yet my family in America would be glad to see the family here defeated.”

  “And both septs want to see France brought to its knees.”

  “Yes.” She sighed. “It was so much simpler to share that determination for victory at any cost before I took this voyage.”

  His fingers moved to caress her ear. “Does it disappoint you that we Frenchmen are not the beasts you expected?”

  “You can be beastly, but so can Americans be.”

  “You speak of your father’s crew.”

  “They would not have been forgiving if they had recaptured the Republic.”

  “Which was why I refused to let them have that opportunity.”

  She laughed. “Your gallantry would be more believable, Dominic, if I did not know already how much you wanted to bring your prize to France.”

  “You know me too well, chérie. ’Tis a dangerous enemy who knows me so well.”

  “Mayhap someday our countries will be allies again.”

  His laughter boomed. “I hope not.”

  “Dominic, that is horrid! Just because you hate the English—”

  “You misunderstand, chérie. My most trusted friend is English.”

  Abigail stared at him. What tale was he spinning for her now? “You are joking!”

  “Hardly.” He walked closer to the pond and bent to stir it with a short stick. Mud rose to cloud the water. Tossing the stick into the water, he said, “I cannot believe how many years it has been since I last saw Evan Somerset. Three? No, more than that. Back then, we ran a very profitable smuggling enterprise across the Channel.”

  Abigail stared at him. “Smuggling? Is that how you knew to suspect the Republic of carrying contraband?”

  “Partly, although I never carried guns to help my enemies slay my countrymen.”

  “I have heard of the smuggling across the English Channel.” She would not be baited into changing the subject by his insult to her father. That Father was bringing those guns to England was something she wanted to avoid talking about until she had a chance to talk to him. If she ever did … Dominic’s words had suggested that French justice would be swift and brutal. Despite her efforts to calm her voice, it trembled when she added, “Smugglers bring brandy and silk and wine to England.”

  “That is not what we smuggled.” He stood and faced her, grinning. “We dealt with slightly more exotic items. Fine art and antiquities usually.”

  Shocked, Abigail tried to guess how many more amazing facets of this enigmatic man waited to be discovered. “Did you smuggle art to or from England?”

  “Whichever dir
ection it needed to go.” He shrugged. “I am not a connoisseur of art. I left that in Evan’s hands. My ship served as a mode of transportation.” With a laugh softened by memory, he added, “We had some grand times and some very close escapes. I wonder if he still is in the same business.”

  “You don’t know where he is?”

  “The war has made it impossible for us to find a shore-side tavern and share a few lies over a pint As an Englishman, he could not send a message to me in the blockade. It could send us both to the gallows, but we both know that if we ever have a need for each other, somehow we will meet up again.”

  “If he is in England now …”

  He chuckled. “Now you are privy to my plan, chérie. Evan might be in London. If not, one of my other allies will be. I know one or two who will help us get out of England. I would rather have Evan’s help, because I know he would do whatever he must to help, as I would for him.”

  “Do you realize how lucky you are to have a friend like that?”

  “As lucky as I am to have found you?”

  “You are charming today, Dominic.”

  As his arms tightened around her, he drew her against him again. “I warned you a long time ago that I intended to charm you out of your hatred.”

  “You have.” She had no chance to say anything else as his lips found hers. When the banked waves of desire surged out to surround her, she savored the warmth of his embrace. Her hands eagerly stroked his back.

  Suddenly he released her. She wanted to ask him what was wrong, but she already knew the answer. Nothing she had said suggested she had changed her mind about what they had discussed in her room the night of the first storm. Reaching out to take his hand, she whispered, “Be patient, Dominic. Give me some more time.”

  “Time I may have little of.” He whirled her back into his arms and against the strength of his chest “Patience I have even less of. Do not forget that, chérie.”

  His kiss burned against her lips, swift and fiery, but he released her and walked back toward the house. She started to call after him, then paused.

  Whirling, she looked back at the pond. Even its muddy waters were less opaque than her mind. Her heart knew what it wanted her to do, but if her father had betrayed her, how could she trust Dominic?

  She wished she knew the answer to that.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “No,” said Lady Sudley as she set her cup down on the tray with the remnants of their luncheon, “you need not stop first at the modiste, Clarissa.”

  The young woman’s lower lip jutted with her vexation. “But, Mama, I need the gown I ordered for the soireé Papa is hosting the night we arrive.” Her face brightened as she turned to Abigail. “You will attend, won’t you?”

  Abigail glanced at Dominic, who was sitting beside them on the terrace near the rose garden, but he was staring at the low hills that were the only thing between him and the sea. His regret at being so far from his beloved ship radiated from him like the sun’s heat, stealing his smile. Grief crushed her heart in mid beat. This delay at Sudley Hall, although it had given his ankle a chance to heal, whetted his longing to return to his La Chanson. She had seen a similar craving in her uncle’s eyes when he went down the wharves to oversee the reloading of his ship before he set sail again.

  Stretching, Abigail put her fingers on Dominic’s arm. He turned toward her, his gaze slowly focusing outward again. As if oblivious to his sorrow, she said in a light tone, “We would be delighted to accept an invitation to Lord Sudley’s soirée, wouldn’t we, Dominic?”

  “Delighted,” he answered quickly, although the slight narrowing of his eyes warned that his answer was not exactly the truth. “That is, if you wish us to attend, my lady.”

  “Most certainly.” Lady Sudley’s smile was genuine. “I shall be thrilled to introduce to my friends the man who saved my children’s lives.”

  “I must insist that matter be kept quiet.”

  Her smile faltered. “But why, Mr. St. Clair? I cannot imagine any reason why you would not want your heroics known throughout the Polite World.”

  “Dominic is,” Abigail said with a quick grin toward him as if this were a longstanding jest, “surprisingly shy about such things. He prefers to keep such things to himself.”

  Newton bounced to his feet, slashing an imaginary sword. “Like Robin Hood.”

  “A bit.” Dominic downed what remained in his cup and set it beside Lady Sudley’s. “I simply believe that a man should not be praised just because he does his duty.”

  “You have a rare modesty, Mr. St. Clair.” Lady Sudley’s smile returned. “However, it shall be as you wish. I would not repay your chivalry by making you uncomfortable.” Rising, she clapped her hands. “Now, Clarissa, it is time for your embroidery lesson, and, Newton, your tutor asked me to send you to him as soon as we finished our midday repast.”

  When both Clarissa and Newton grumbled before following their mother into the house, Abigail chuckled.

  “You would not find it so amusing,” Dominic said, offering his hand to help her from her chair, “if you were the one who had to study inside on such a lovely day.”

  “I spent many days sitting in a corner with a book that did not intrigue me as much as the chance to go with my uncle to his ship.”

  He did not release her hand as he led her across the terrace and out toward the enthusiastically blooming roses. “So you, too, know the siren song of the sea?”

  “I liked being with my uncle. He always told me the most amazing stories about his voyages, and I never tired of them, even when I was no longer a child.”

  “Why did he and your aunt raise you?”

  Abigail had been about to bend to enjoy the fragrance of a rose that was the color of freshly churned butter, but drew back. “My mother died shortly after I was born.”

  “From your birth?”

  “I don’t think so. I was almost six months old when she died.”

  “Then how?”

  She was glad for his hand around hers as she delved back into painful memories. “I honestly don’t know. Once or twice a year, when I was very young, I asked Aunt Velma about it. She always told me that my mother’s death had been a tragic accident. Nothing more.”

  “But you don’t believe that?”

  “I want to believe it. I might have, if Aunt Velma had met my eyes when she told me that. Sometimes even a child knows that something is not quite right.”

  He said nothing as he turned toward the pond. She was glad, because she did not want to chance an ear overhearing this conversation. As raw as her emotions were around this unhealed wound, she feared she might speak the very word that would damn them.

  Only when they were at the edge of the pond and walking toward the springhouse did he murmur, “So you never asked again?”

  “Aunt Velma always acted as if she wanted to cry when I did, so it seemed best not to ask. I did sneak out of the house several times a year to plant flowers on my mother’s grave. I wanted to know her and to know my father.”

  “But instead you were left with your aunt and uncle.”

  “Who loved me dearly. They had no children of their own, so they needed me as much as I needed them.”

  He laughed shortly as he stopped by the door to the small barn that held the spring. “Mayhap your childhood was a blessing. You were better off than you would have been if Fitzgerald had raised you.”

  “Dominic!”

  “Spare me the lecture about your father’s saintliness. You are the first to admit that you do not truly know him. Mayhap it is time for you to admit as well that he is not the paragon you considered him when he intruded into your life whenever it was convenient for him, bringing you trinkets from far-off places.”

  “He seldom brought me gifts.” She glanced at him and away. “Don’t look at me like that.”

  “Like what?”

  “As if you had proven your point. Just because my father is not sentimental does not mean he has no affection for m
e. I am his daughter. He is my father. There is a loyalty there that cannot be ignored.”

  “Is there?” When she started to walk away, he stepped in front of her. He did not touch her, but she was held by the sorrow in his eyes. “Chérie, I have come to wish that your father could have been a respected enemy. A respected enemy is to be treasured almost as much as a friend.”

  “You are talking nonsense.”

  “Am I?” He took her hand and pressed it to the center of his chest. “Listen to my heart if you will not to your own. Even though we pledged it to be so, you and I will never be friends.”

  “That is true.” Her fingers trembled beneath his palm, and she wanted to sweep them across his broad chest.

  “Are we enemies still?”

  “I wish I knew how to answer that.”

  His smile sent something whirling like a sea storm through her center. “You know the answer, chérie. We are enemies because there is one who will separate us forever.”

  “My father?”

  “He remains between us although he is far from here, in France. You have to accept that your father is not the man you believed him to be. You saw the guns in the hold. You know there are no Americans here, save for you and probably a few people from your government. What kind of man sells guns to his nation’s enemies and—”

  Putting her hand on his arm, she was shocked when he brushed if off. “And what? What makes you hate my father so much?”

  “That is simple, for again you know the truth. Although you say nothing of it, I see it in your shattered eyes when you speak of your father. You comprehend no better than I do how a man could leave his daughter to his enemies.” His fingers stroked her cheek. “Chérie, I can forgive him for his loyalties, even though he is a traitor to your country. I can forgive him for his brutality when we hailed his ship. I cannot forgive him for leaving you without protection.”