Face to Face (The Deverell Series Book 2)

by Susan Ward

  Face to Face

  The Deverell Series

  Book 2

  Susan Ward

  Copyright © 2014 Susan Ward

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 1502725754

  ISBN-13: 978-1502725752

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental

  DEDICATION

  For my father.

  And of these things, faith, hope

  and love, these three, the greatest of these is love.

  I Corinthians:13:12

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  PREVIEW LOVE’S PATIENT FURY

  EXCERPTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  CHAPTER ONE

  The beginning of March 1814 found Lady Meredith Ann Merrick aboard a pirate ship, cleverly disguised as an American privateer, running the British blockade off the coast of Virginia. In November, the British had intensified the blockade down through the southern states. It had proved merely an annoyance to Morgan. Nothing more.

  The Corinthian was now the Windrover, its flag American and, if what Mr. Boniface said was true, a legal vessel here. It seemed Morgan, and every member of the crew, had a full pardon from the American Government and a letter-of-marque providing clever cover for their exploits at sea. While it was common knowledge among the crew, the information would require secrecy from Merry.

  That disclosure only increased Merry’s confusion over everything. Why secrecy? Why an alliance with the Americans, when Morgan was so obviously British? Why the fiction of piracy if all that were true? Whatever the intrigue, it was no doubt a complicated and carefully organized plot, which Merry would never make reason of.

  Each piece she learned about Morgan only made the picture of him more mysterious. The alliance with America flew in the face of his actions and even his own words. In the months Merry had sailed with him, Morgan had displayed himself as a man more likely to evade battle than to engage in villainy and terror at sea. Not once had he utilized the Corinthian’s capacity to sink and capture British ships. He bypassed the rich merchant vessels of England.

  Though at times they passed hefty prizes, there was no dissent among the crew when the order came to evade. He ran a ship of order, cleanliness and discipline. Disease and casualty were unheard of under his command. A man of perfect order and restraint in all things.

  Restraint in all things. That caused Merry to look away from the outline of land to Morgan standing on the quarterdeck. She passed her nights alone in the cabin these days. During the daylight hours, if she saw him, he was kind and considerate of manner, but distant in that strange way he could be at times.

  It did not come unexpected to Merry that Morgan explained nothing to her about her current predicament. Not their purpose in being in America, his purpose in kidnapping her a second time, or his manner of late—a manner that seemed unwilling to spend a moment more than necessary with her.

  The sea behind them, it was the current of the James River the Corinthian was now doing battle with. The river was very wide and its power treacherous. The crew was working as hard as she had ever seen them, constantly trimming the sails, letting them out, taking them in. Even now when it was nearly nightfall.

  Rich black soil lay on the river banks, and there was an endless expanse of small round hills and rich forest that ran all the way to the river’s edge. Only occasionally a house appeared. It seemed a wild and nearly uninhabited land. It was vast and breathtaking in every way.

  Six months to the day she’d left Cornwall, she was in America. Reality was once again an impossible to grasp concept. She had never expected her dream of journeying to America to be gifted at the hands of a pirate Captain.

  The wind keened through the rigging, and the fog hung low and closed in around them. Shortly after dusk, somewhere along the shore they dropped anchor, though Merry knew not where. Nor did she know what would happen after that. If Morgan would leave the ship alone as he often did, or if he would take her with him as he had on Isla del Viento.

  She stayed topside until darkness blocked from view the riverbank and then went below to the empty cabin. Only a single candle glowed, and she pulled on a nightgown, then went to lay on the window bench.

  Rubbing her cheek against the cool surface of her pillow, her eyes fixed on Morgan’s empty bed. As she drifted off to sleep, she noted there was a certain irony in the observation that now when she wanted Morgan near, he did nothing but stay away from her.

  The next morning Indy awakened her from an uneasy sleep. “Get dressed, Merry. Pack your things. Morgan is taking you ashore.”

  She sat up quickly and stopped Indy with a hand. “Where is he taking me?”

  “Richmond, Merry.” The young pirate hesitated. Then, he added, “He said for you to pack all your things. After Richmond, I don’t know where.”

  “Everything?”

  The boy nodded and there was a telltale grimness in his eyes. Understanding came to Merry with a renewed floodtide of distress. Morgan had brought her to America and he was leaving her here.

  Merry did as ordered. She knew there was no point in fighting Morgan over this since he always had his way. Staring at the clasp of her hands resting in her lap, she waited patiently for the Captain to come to collect her.

  The minutes rolled in agonizing slowness for Merry. After a considerable wait, Morgan stepped through the cabin door. As if by magic, his gorgeous exterior had transformed, yet again, and the image he made was devastatingly appealing.

  Another new guise, another fiction, she thought as she rapidly took in the details of him. Would she ever know this man in true?

  He was turned out in stark elegance, buckskin breeches with a style unfamiliar to her, knee high boots, an expertly tailored white shirt with high pointed collars but no cravat, and a dark, flowing great-coat.

  She assumed this was the appropriate uniform of wealthy men in America, and she liked the simpler lines, the less stiff and ostentatious presentation, so unlike those of the men of her class.

  “Come. I will explain everything in the carriage,” Morgan said, gathering her bag before stepping briskly toward the door.

  It was hard not to feel lost as she silently followed behind him down the plank to the waiting carriage. Even the heady pleasure of being in America couldn’t diminish her fear of the future, or the hideous anguish of knowing he intended to leave her here. She had fought for months to be free of the ship. She was at last getting her way, and her love for him was a pitiless traitor that made her desperately want to stay. It was better for her Morgan would leave her here. Merry tried to console herself with that thought. Consolation was not easily found.

  The jetty she stood on was a lone structure surrounded by nothing but forest. If there were a village anywhere nearby, Merry couldn’t see it, though a handsome carriage, with a lone black servant, waited only a handful of steps away on the rough dirt road.

  Merry had never once considered Morgan would own slaves. She knew slavery was a common practice in the American states, a hideous practice she de
spised, but in the flexible workings of her mind she had never allowed it to be part of her youthful idealism of America.

  Morgan handed her into the carriage, and then settled in the seat beside her as the coachman snapped shut the door. Reading her thoughts to perfection, he said, “If you want to sip of America, Merry, you will have to sip all of her.”

  The look she gave him only made Morgan laugh. It was then he said, “This adventure can play out one of three ways, my dear. First, you can tell the first soul you find that I am Morgan. I should point out, rude though it is, I am more convincing in a lie than you are in the truth. I doubt that option would help you at all. Second, you could run from me the minute my back is turned. But I do not think it would result in a pleasant consequence and certainly would not get you home from a country at war with yours.” He shifted his face so his burning black stare could fix on her. “Or you can do exactly what I say and permit yourself to enjoy this adventure. It is up to you how your days in America play out.”

  Thoughts of running were the farthest thoughts from her mind. She realized in dismay she would obey him without pause, regardless of what her pride chided her to do.

  In a bitter little voice, she whispered, “Do I even have a choice?” and then she turned away to stare out the window.

  Amused, he said, “There is always a choice, Little One. I just gave you three. The question is are you wise enough to choose the smart choice?”

  She would have spoken then, but Morgan intercepted her words by saying gently, “This is my home, Little One. Where I live when I am not on ship. I’ve lived here ten years. I am known as Captain Devereaux. I have a thriving commerce and a respectable home in Virginia. You will find it a pleasant arrangement I have made for you here. You have only to allow yourself to enjoy your stay here for this to be pleasurable, my dear.”

  “So now you are Captain Devereaux? And what happened to the real Captain Devereaux?” Merry asked with withering suspicious.

  “A total fabrication, Merry. Only a fiction. You will find most people will accept most lies as truth if they are artfully delivered and well accompanied by coin.”

  “What part of this fiction am I?” Merry asked hotly.

  Morgan grinned. “It would be unseemly for a respectable man of commerce to return home with a young woman without chaperone. Even in America. It could prove dangerous to me and later unkind to you. There is only one logical fiction, Little One, which will protect both me, and your virtue from disrepute among people of convention. You are going to have to act the role of my wife while here.”

  The memory of that last night on Isla del Viento flashed through her head. She jerked as far into the seat’s corner as she could and she screamed, “I will not pretend to be your wife. I want no part of this lunacy.”

  Her fury only amused Morgan. “I think you will find your life here a pleasant diversion, my dear.”

  With that Morgan ended the conversation, closing his eyes in a manner dismissive, and went to sleep.

  They traveled for some great time in silence. Merry concentrated on the view outside the window. The road was bumpy as it followed the twist and turns of the James River. It narrowed in some places and widened in others, but always the countryside varied. It was late morning before they began to pass the rare plantation or smaller farms, but still nothing Merry would term a city here.

  It was nightfall before they stopped at a muddy road crossing where a small community blossomed. Outside the carriage window was a large white house where a simple shingle-sign proclaimed The Hawke and Dove Inn.

  “This is Richmond? The commonwealth’s capital?” she asked. It was unimpressive in every way.

  Offering his hand to assist her from the carriage, Morgan said, “No, Little One. We are a day’s journey from Richmond. This is but a traveler's stop along the way.”

  She followed him into the inn, where the innkeeper greeted Morgan warmly. “Captain Devereaux, returned at last I see. Are you just passing through, or are you staying with us this night?”

  Morgan’s manner was friendly, but reserved. “I will require a room. But I would prefer to eat below in the taproom, if you would have your wife see to our meal.”

  She had shared a cabin with Morgan for months, but something about a single room in an inn sent Merry into panic on the heels of the fiction he expected her to play.

  The minute Morgan made to step to the taproom, she turned to the innkeeper and said, “Sir, would you perhaps have two rooms?”

  Before the man could answer her, Morgan said, “Oh, my dear, you are not still angry with me.” Laughing, fixing a tired and exasperated smile on the innkeeper, he added, “You must excuse my wife. She is quite out of sorts with me. On the day we wed, I refused to allow her mother to live with us.”

  The old man let out a hearty chuckle. “Congratulations, Captain. I did not know that you had wed. And you are certainly a wiser man than me, in both your selection of wife and in the things you permit. I’ve had my mother-in-law strung around my neck for near a quarter century.”

  Furious at being reduced to little more than the brunt of a joke, Merry snapped without caution, “I am not his wife. I demand that you take me to the American authorities.”

  The two men only laughed harder. Morgan said, “It is not a crime, my dear, not to permit you your mother. You’ll have to excuse her, Pomfret. As you can tell, she is not American and unfamiliar with our laws here.”

  Staring at the innkeeper, Merry exclaimed, “I am telling the truth. I am not his wife. He kidnapped me.”

  It was no use. None at all. By the time she finished her tirade, more than a few were staring at her as though she were half insane.

  It was then she noticed Morgan’s accent was no longer British. Like his manner of dress, so effortlessly his voice had changed. It had slipped into the slow, drawing tones she heard all around the tavern. It showed on the face of the innkeeper, his wife, and the giggling serving girls that Morgan was a man much revered by the locals. Her claims were merely dismissed as the whimsical ravings of a new bride.

  Color crowed her cheeks as fury nipped in her stomach.

  Taking her hand, Morgan said, “Every rose has its thorns, Pomfret.”

  “Aye. But I’ll trade yours for my mother-in-law any day.”

  Once seated at the table, Morgan gave her a small smile. “That showed spirit, Little One. But it would serve you better to trust me.” He finished the charade by touching her fingers to his lips.

  That earned her a sheepish smile from the serving girl setting the table with their dinner. Merry jerked her chin away, as she jerked back her hand and focused her attention on the taproom.

  The meal was a hearty stew made of venison, though Merry could not find the stomach to do more than pick at it. Their meal complete, the landlady came to show them to their room.

  Morgan ordered another ale before lifting his tankard to his lips. His eyes met Merry’s gaze over the top of it. “Go along, my dear. Mrs. Pomfret will see to your needs.”

  Merry’s eyes widened in surprise. He was sending her off with the innkeeper’s wife without himself as guard. How confident he was to let her from his captivity. Or, was his mood desirous of something more than maintaining his relentless hold over her.

  Of course. They were ashore. He was off to seek pleasure elsewhere.

  Morgan arched a brow. “Go, Little One. I will join you soon. There is no need to be distressed or delay the rest you need.”

  Temper made her stiffen but, to her greater dismay, she obediently followed behind the older woman.

  Her face must look more troubled than Merry realized, because before Mrs. Pomfret opened the door, she said soothingly, “He will not stay angry forever, Mrs. Devereaux. No husband ever does.”

  With that, Merry was left in a bedchamber that was clean and old-fashioned. It smelled faintly of the inn-brewed ale used to gloss the fine oak floors and furnishings. It was on the second floor and looking out the window, she realized ther
e was little use in trying to make an escape.

  There was nothing to assist her to climb to the ground and beyond the sparse scattering of structures near the inn, there was nothing but darkness and forest here. At least, for this one night, she was forced to participate in Morgan’s revolting farce.

  Sinking to the floor, she shooed the pug away from her bag, and reluctantly admitted to herself that even if the whim to run from Morgan claimed her, she doubted her feet would carry her.

  Six months and not a single escape attempt had she made. Whatever his strange power over the world, he possessed an equally strange power over her, as well. She had not run from him, not once, and, even now—furious with him over the fiction he expected her to play—the impulse of her heart was only to run toward him.

  Pulling on a nightgown, she climbed into bed and glanced toward the whatnot resting against the wall. There, she spied an aged newspaper tucked in the pages of a worn bible. The floors were cool and creaked beneath her feet as she retrieved it. Perhaps focusing on the Richmond Enquirer would push the thought of Morgan from her mind.

  The American paper proved a pleasant diversion for Merry. It was several months old, but after months at sea, the news came to her new. The American campaign against British Canada had failed miserably. There were stirringly patriotic stories of local young men having joined the Virginia militia, and the pages were thick with advertisements unlike any she had ever seen. There were editorials advising the citizenry not to purchase smuggled British goods, and others counseling against the recklessness of a growing American debt.

  The clock chimed two before Merry rolled over for sleep. It had not occurred to her until she doused the candle that she had purposely stayed awake waiting for Morgan. His absence was more than a little distressing, since she did not doubt he was with a woman. He did not care for her at all. Why else would he bring her to America to leave her? Turning her face into the pillow, she cried herself to sleep.