His expression became instantly sulky. He snatched her hand, ruthlessly tugged off Brant's gaudy sapphire ring, and flicked it beneath the leather blind to the street.
"I suppose 'tis," she said dryly.
The carriage lurched unexpectedly, and she fell forward, bracing her hands against his unyielding chest. His hands spanned her waist, holding her firm. His fierce gaze rested on her mouth, and she wet her lips in anticipation, but to her disappointment, he plunked her back onto her seat.
"You're angry with me," she said.
"Angry? And what would give you that idea?"
"Well, for one thing, the muscle in your jaw is twitching."
"My jaw is twitching?"
"Oh, yes, right here." She leaned over and lightly skimmed his jaw with the tip of her finger. "Right beneath your dimple. Whenever you're upset you get this little spasm."
"Bloody grand, now I have a nervous condition. Next my hair will be turning white. I swear, I've aged ten years since I've met you, Jensen Marlowe." He hooked the ribbon lacings of her bodice with his finger and tugged her closer. "I scoured the whole of Culpeper to find you and came up empty. And, lo and behold, I find you in England, one short week away from becoming Mrs. Mansfield. When I left for war, you promised to stay and wait for me."
"Oh, please, a woman will say anything when she's facing down that notorious smile of yours."
He shook his black head, but his dimple made a ghost of an appearance.
A thought suddenly struck her. "What happened to your ladyfriend?" The last word came out like a hoarse croak.
He looked momentarily puzzled. "You mean Miss Dukane? Seems she found me an inattentive boor. Told me as much. Another guest was kind enough to see her home."
"Actually, I was referring to Miss Trent."
He released his hold on her, and she sprung back against the cushions. "Our relationship was something our fathers concocted. You know how money can become the sole purpose for a suitable union."
"Don't tell me, you're the kind of man who would marry for love?"
He looked hard at her. She waved a finger in his direction. "See, there it goes again. That twitch."
Levi massaged his jaw with a sigh.
The constant rocking and pitching of the hackney were starting to take their toll on her nerves. "I need air," she said suddenly in desperation and clumsily rolled up the shade. As she thrust her head out the window, she knocked her elaborate chignon loose. She plucked the remaining pins from her hair and gave her head a quick shake so that her hair fell around her shoulders.
After listening for a time to the steady, soothing rhythm of the horse's hooves on the packed earth, she rested her arms on the sill and turned her face back to him. "I should have been there when she died."
"If it helps to know, she did not die alone. I met Rosy at your aunt's farm. She seemed quite devoted." He took hold of her waist and tugged her onto his lap. His long fingers smoothed the wind-blown tangles from her hair.
Jensen relaxed against him, tucking her head beneath his chin and resting her cool cheek against his warm throat.
"Did you miss me even a little, Duff?"
Miss him, she thought absurdly, it seemed there had been days when she had thought of nothing but him. She half-wondered if her powerful yearnings hadn't conjured him up, and she was imagining him even now. She pressed her fingers lightly to the pulse in his neck. "A little," she answered finally.
Chapter 24
Well, at least this time I'm traveling as a woman and with real luggage, Jensen thought with some consolation, as she followed Levi to the ship's dock.
Levi handed her bags to the deckhand and motioned for her to stay put as he went aboard to confirm the accommodations. It was a wonder he managed to book passage on such short notice, but then, he was a supremely capable man. He'd even arranged for a paid companion.
Jensen turned to give Emily a reassuring smile. She was glad for the company, even if Emily was a placid, meek creature with little interests beyond her embroidery frame.
The vessel, with billowing white sails, fresh paint and an immaculately swabbed deck, was far finer than the Bordeaux Merchant. It catered to wealthy Europeans, sailing to the colonies for business or pleasure.
Leaving England was always a bittersweet experience for Jensen. She felt heartsick about leaving her brother again.
Jensen watched as Levi descended the gangplank, looking so handsome with his long, black hair blowing off his face that her breath caught in her throat. She was seized with a desperate yearning to throw her arms around him and beg him to sail back with her to Virginia. Instead, she contented herself with the knowledge that in a few months time, she would be his wife.
"Well, Duff, the arrangements have been made. And I'm sure you will find them more to your taste than traveling in steerage," he said with an amused smirk.
He took Jensen's arm and led her away from the group of passengers waiting to board. Emily began to follow, but a withering look from Levi rooted her to the spot.
They stopped in the shade of an abandoned shop in a narrow alley.
"I wish we were sailing to Virginia together. I think I shall miss you terribly, my sweet little thing," he said, his voice thick and unsteady. He reached into his jacket and removed a small dagger sheathed in leather. "I hope you won't need this," he said, slipping it into her reticule. The salty air whipped the hair into her face, and he brushed it tenderly away. "I'm confident this business will be resolved quickly."
"When you say business, you aren't talking about a duel are you? Brant is an expert marksman. He's the one who taught me to shoot."
His large hands circled her waist, yanking her off balance until she was teetering on her toes. She leaned heavily against the warmth of his body. "Your confidence in me is overwhelming."
"But . . . ."
His mouth effectively ended the conversation with a kiss. His tongue, forcing her lips apart, explored her mouth with such intimacy she yearned for more. Tangling her fingers in his ebony mane, she lifted herself on tiptoes to press her breasts against his hard chest.
With a fierce groan, he clutched her to him, cradling her between his hips. His body shuddered with need.
The clang of the boarding bell, signaling the boat's imminent departure, took Jensen away from the sweetest sensations she'd ever experienced. She reluctantly drew back, but he tightened his powerful embrace and captured her lips again, his kiss almost punishing in its ardor.
When he finally lifted his face, she could see he was struggling to regain his composure. He set her firmly on her feet and straightened his neckcloth. He raked his fingers through his hair and squared his shoulders. "Hurry on board, Jensen. And believe me when I say, I will be sorely disappointed if you are not waiting for me in Virginia," he said this in a soft drawl, but there was an implicit warning in his words.
***
The mist hovering over St. James's Park was beginning to thicken as Levi stepped onto the grass.
Brant's second, a burly man with rust-colored muttonchops, held the wooden box containing the dueling weapons. The man offered his hand to Levi. "Roger Mason," he said, introducing himself.
He shook the man's hand. "Levi North. May I see the pistols." Roger lifted the lid. Levi took one of the ivory inlaid guns and surveyed the lawn. "And where might Mansfield be?"
Roger Mason pointed a thick finger toward the ancient, wooden bridge that spanned the creek. Brant was heading toward them with the affected, stiff bearing of a military officer.
"North, did you pick out your headstone, yet? A crude granite would suit well." Brant laughed heartily at his own joke.
Levi noted that Brant had taken the time to shave, although his eyes were ringed with black bruises and his nose was twice its usual size.
"Let's get this over with, Mansfield."
"Right." Brant removed his coat and draped it neatly over a branch. Then he took his gun and inspected the flintlock. Satisfied, he lifted his gaze to Levi. Hi
s pale eyes sparkled in amusement. "You're in a hurry to get to the colonies, are you? Hoping that sweet Jensen will be waiting for you at the dock." He polished the muzzle of his gun on his sleeve.
"Mansfield, you are tedious." Levi threw his heavy, black coat to the ground, put the pistol in his waistband, and tied his hair back with a leather thong.
Brant removed his wig, tossed it to Roger, and raked his fingers through his cropped hair, making it stand on end. "In consideration for your saving my life, I would be willing to let you back out of this. I'd even compensate you for your outlay to her uncle."
Levi ignored the suggestion. Pulling the pistol from his waistband, he weighed the weapon in the palm of his hand and contemplated it as he sneered, "Mansfield, you're hardly worth the powder and shot."
"Bloody bastard!" Brant raged, a vein in his forehead throbbing furiously. "You're delusional. You can't possibly think Jensen would ever be happy with a savage like you. She may be wild and impetuous, but she is also a lady."
"Is that so," Levi responded with a humorless curl of his lip. "I didn't see you treating her like one."
"Why you son-of-a--I treated her like a queen." For confirmation, Brant turned to Roger who was nervously tugging at his sideburn as he scanned the park. Receiving no response, Brant trained his vicious glare on Levi again. "After this is through, Jensen will be back with me."
Levi stared at him blankly and then proceeded to load his pistol.
"Hadn't we better get this going before the authorities get wise," Roger implored.
With a grim smile distorting his thin lips, Brant took his position back to back with Levi. "'Tis a shame the fog is so heavy. I'd prefer to have a clear view when you bleed to death," Brant said before counting out his paces.
Brant's hand, quivering slightly from the sudden explosion of pain in his leg, fired his shot wide, striking a tree. "You cheating whoreson, you fired before ten." He clutched his thigh and fell to his knees. "You're witness to it, Mason."
A stunned Roger wrung his hands. "Afraid, Mansfield, it was all on the up and up. I've never witnessed the like. Brandished the pistol like no one I've ever seen."
"If he's such a damn good shot, why the hell am I still alive?" Beads of perspiration were breaking out on his ashen face. "You did that on purpose, you colonial dog. It's shoot to kill, not maim."
"I'm game for a second round, if you'd like me to finish the job."
Hastily binding the wound with his cravat, Brant muttered a string of violent curses. "Mason, get the hell over here and help me up," Brant grunted in pain as he hoisted himself to his knees. Using Roger as a crutch, he hobbled toward his opponent. "If you think this is the end of it, North, you are sadly mistaken."
Levi returned the spent gun to Roger and turned a bored expression on Brant.
"I've had her, you know. God, she was luscious, sprawled under me all silken and golden," Brant said with a harsh laugh. "She didn't tell you that, did she? That I'd bedded her? No, I can see by your eyes that she didn't." Brant grimaced as he shuffled closer. "Perhaps if I'd mentioned this earlier, all this could have been avoided. After all, an arrogant bastard like yourself wouldn't be happy with another man's leavings." He looked down for a moment at his fine, silk neckcloth, now so fully saturated with blood drops were beginning to splatter onto his boot.
"I can't imagine she came willingly." Levi shrugged into his coat, instinctively patting the knife in his pocket, thinking to finish the job he'd started.
"By God, man, I'm an Englishman. Do you think we are rutting pigs like you colonists?"
"Mason, you'd best get your friend out of my sight. I've shown him all the mercy I'm going to."
Roger threw Brant his jacket. "Let's go, Mansfield, it's over."
"I just wanted to give him something to think about when he beds her, Roger."
Levi's long arm shot out, taking a stranglehold on Brant's collar. He jerked him to his toes, so that Brant's face was just inches from his own. "Let me give you something to think about." Brant's eyelids fluttered at each distinctly uttered word. "How do you suppose it might feel to have a tomahawk slice through your thick skull?" Dropping him ruthlessly to his knees, Levi turned to walk away.
"Damn you North, this is not finished. Not near finished!"
***
The putrid odor of sewage, mingling with the dense sea air at the overcrowded French port, made Levi long for the fresh air of Virginia and his sprawling plantation.
Having that one, sweet taste of Jensen at the dock had been a huge mistake. He walked over to the wooden barrel and splashed icy-cold water on his face, hoping to get his mind off her and back onto the business at hand.
Below deck, he found Captain Harrington, an old acquaintance of Fenton's, double-checking the cargo list. "We'll be docking soon. I suppose you'll be heading off in search of your tobacco right away. You better watch your back. Those privateers are a crafty lot." The captain grinned, displaying a sparse set of teeth. His face was more weathered and cracked than the hull of his dilapidated ship. Still, it was a trustworthy face.
Levi retrieved his pistol from beneath his cot and began to clean out the barrel. "If it's all the same to you, Captain, I think I'll just hang around on deck until nightfall." The captain shot him a bewildered glance. "I'd rather no one spotted me leaving the ship."
With the dark of night to shroud him, Levi left the schooner and headed toward the seamiest section of the small village. The streets were eerily quiet. Too early in the evening, yet, for the patrons to start their drunken brawling, Levi surmised.
Le Désir Du Bohémien, the alehouse Captain Marlatt was known to frequent, shared an alley with an abandoned, ransacked glazier's shop. Crystalline veins of embedded glass crunched underfoot as Levi walked past the storefront. He tucked his queue of hair beneath the collar of the shabby, black coat he'd bought off one of the ship's hands. Ducking his head beneath the low doorway, Levi entered the dim tavern.
He slammed down his first tumbler of whiskey. It was warm and bitter, but it helped wash away the taste of the dried, salted fish he had choked down for days on board ship. A tap on his shoulder instinctively caused him to lay his hand on the pommel of his knife. Swiveling on the stool, he found himself face to face with a heavily made-up barmaid.
"My, my, my," she said. "You look like the devil himself," she continued in heavily accented English, as she pushed her ample, white breasts higher.
"And you must be an angel come to save me," he said and motioned to the tavern keeper for another round of whiskey as she made herself comfortable on his lap.
She rubbed her fingers lightly over the stubble along his jawline. "What's your business here in town, Monsieur?"
"I'm looking for someone. Maybe you can help me?"
"Oui, I am certain I can do something for you," she suggested, as her hand slid down his chest toward the drawstring of his sailor's breeches. He caught her wrist up and smiled.
"No doubt. Unfortunately, my time ashore is limited."
"Ah, but there is always time for amour," she said, as her free hand squeezed his thigh.
"Your offer is very tempting." He swept a finger over the soft, pale crests of her breasts. She drew in a sharp breath. "Would you happen to have heard of a gambler named Henri Marlatt?"
The name had barely left his lips when she flew off his lap, her skin paling beneath the layers of rouge and powder. "Merde, did he send you to spy on me?"
"So, you do know him."
"I must really be going. It's getting late," she said, snatching up her skirts.
"Not so fast." He hooked his leg around her rump, sending her toppling back in his direction. She braced her hands against his chest, her eyes flitting nervously to the door. "He did not send me to spy on you, in fact, I've never met the man. I'm looking to buy some quality tobacco, and I hear he has some to sell."
Her face was close enough now for him to see how young she was under the mask of makeup. "I cannot tell you anything, Monsieur." Her t
rembling hands clutched at his shirt. "I beg you, let me go."
He dropped his leg. In her haste to leave, she nearly tripped over the underfed, mangy looking youth who had been watching the whole scene with amusement.
Flashing an impish grin, the boy limped toward Levi. "You certainly 'ave a way with the ladies."
"Yes, I'm really good at scaring them away," Levi said with a chuckle.
"I heard you askin' 'bout Captain Marlatt," the youth said with a thick cockney accent, as he eyed the glass of whiskey with undisguised longing. Levi shoved the glass in his direction.
He drained it and wiped his face with the back of his grimy hand. "The name's Quince." The boy smiled crookedly.
"They call me Hawk." Levi ordered him another whiskey and inclined his head to an empty table in one of the dark recesses of the tavern. "Can you tell me where I might find the Captain?"
Quince slurped down the whiskey like it was water. "Depends on what you want him for."
"I'm in the market for some colonial tobacco. I have some very interested buyers."
"A bleedin' shame you weren't two days faster gettin' 'ere. The Captain just emptied his warehouse." From his threadbare jacket he pulled out a cigar and ran it under his nose, whiffing the aroma appreciatively. "Cap' always gives me a little of his goods for doing him some favors."
"May I?" Levi took the cigar and inhaled deeply the familiar scent of his tobacco.
Quince snickered. "I thought sure you looked like someone who would be more interested in a game of cards than speculatin' in tobacco. Ah, but the Cap' only deals in big stakes, and you don't look like your pockets run that deep."
Levi grinned and leaned across the table toward Quince. "How does someone go about getting themselves invited to join one of these games?"
Quince raked his hands through his greasy hair and eyed his companion's shabby dress critically. "Don't take much. Just money. You ain't actually thinkin' about it, are you?"
"Could be," Levi said with raised brows.
"Marlatt's a regular shark at Faro. You must be feelin' pretty lucky if yer thinkin' of takin' 'im on."
"Get me in the game, and I'll make it worth your while."
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