My Divinely Decadent Duke
Page 29
The boy squinted at the bright sun with salt water whipping at his face, “Sir Tomas, how much longer do we have? We have been on the water for two weeks already.”
His English was impeccable since his mother arranged for him to be schooled by the missionaries on the island. He was well-read, could write, cipher, and had a superb knowledge of mathematics. “I would venture to guess we have two more weeks. The good news is that the weather gets better as we near England. So the nausea should subside.”
“What of this England where my father lives. What is the weather there?”
“This time of year, it is rainy, windy, and cold. I should have thought to order you a woolen coat.”
“Wool?” the young man questioned. “We never wear wool in Barbados.”
“You will be glad you have such a cloth in England,” Tomas laughed. “Come now, boy, let’s sit in the salon out of the wind. It might help you.”
Thorn was too quick to reply, “I am not a boy. I am a man.” He held Tomas’ eyes with his fierce ones.
“Yes, Thorn, I should have taken note of that circumstance.”
They walked to the double doors that opened to the salon. They sat at a table. Thorn’s gaze surveyed the room. Tables, chairs, a long polished mahogany bar, portholes, and more swaying lamps, yet because of the dimensions of the large room somehow the pendulum swings did not cause him an upset stomach. “I will be ordering a brandy. What will be your beverage of choice?” Tomas asked in deference to the young man’s feelings.
“I do not have a taste for strange spirits, sir. I prefer dark coffee and darker rum. Coffee will do.”
Tomas motioned to an attendant and placed the order. He turned to the handsome lad. “Something to eat? Bread perhaps? A savory piece of Shepherd’s pie?”
“I have never liked English food, Sir Tomas. I like the spices of the Caribbean,” he smiled for the first time in a while. “My mother could cook a piece of goat and make it taste like food for the gods.”
“What is your religion?” Tomas asked.
“My mother insisted on the Church of England, and it is where I was baptized.”
“Young man, I do not wish to offend, but why are you called Thorn? It is an unfamiliar name.”
“My mother could not spell my father’s name, she later told me. She said it sounded like Thorn. I can now see it is more like Althorn.” A grin crossed his mouth. “I am not sure of the last name. She mentioned it part of another name.”
“Yes, you might make such an observation.”
“Tell me about my father. What is he like? Will he reject me?” The young man’s tone sobered, as they were served brandy and black coffee.
Tomas took a large swig of the brandy, his stomach used to the ocean travels. Thorn was still gauging his body’s reaction.
The Spaniard flexed his shoulders and his mind was reeling at where to start. “Your father’s title is Duke of Althorn. He is Gordon Sedgewick, but his last name is rarely used. That’s probably where your mother got the name of Wick. I can only tell you he is one of the finest friends a man could have.” His eyes bored into Thorn’s. “I know what you’re going through. I was there, too. A fish out of water. Not knowing who I could trust.”
“You do not appear to have suffered much, sir. I see before me a prosperous man.”
Thorn glanced at the man from head to polished boot. “You like English boots. I prefer the Caribbean leathers.”
“When I met your father at the university, I couldn’t afford any kind. We happened to have the same size shoe, so he gifted me with his brand new pair. That’s the kind of man he is.” Tomas ordered another brandy. “Ready for more coffee? A sweet piece of pie?”
“Sir Tomas, how long did you say you resided in Barbados when you first came?”
“About four months,” he answered.
“Just enough time to get a taste of our food?”
“Yes, my favorite was cou cou, corn meal and okra.”
The young man smiled, “I especially like Conkies. It is a favorite treat. Coconut, pumpkin, flour, and sweet potato, with sugar wrapped in fresh banana leaves.
Thorn remembered the sensation of relaxation as rain flowed over him at the thought of his beloved island.
“What does my father look like?” the younger man asked.
“Very much like you, but with a lighter skin color. You both have the same eyes. I’d know you anywhere in the world.” Tomas tilted his head back, closed his eyes for a moment. “I am getting tired. Thorn, I need you to understand I am your friend. I will be as good of one to you as your father was to me.”
“Why did not my father come for me himself?” the furrowed frown of his forehead prominent.
“So I’m not good enough for you, young man?” he joked. “Your father contracted malaria after his visit here. He almost died. You might have heard Europeans are susceptible to the disease? He’s had a number of relapses. Best all around, to send me, since I’m so charming,” he guffawed.
“Sir Tomas, I do believe you are also a man to be trusted on such an expedition. How could you be sure I would come with you?”
“Thorn, I wasn’t. I wouldn’t have been surprised if when we were barely on the way, if you would dive overboard and swim to shore never to be seen again.”
“The thought did occur to me,” the young man smiled, “but I promised my mother. Promises are not made to be broken, especially those made on a death bed.”
He searched the boy’s face for some expression. “You are a clever young man. Behind those eyes, I see a story one day you may want to tell us.”
“Good stories are not always told. It is all about the sentiment. I admit to a curiosity in seeing the man that helped give me life. If I do not like the situation, I will find a way to leave.”
“I doubt anyone would want to hold you by force, but just let me say, your father is attending sessions in our English Parliament. He has important work to accomplish.”
“Does my father own horses?” he asked.
“Yes, fine English stock. Bays, chestnuts. No Arabians any more.”
“Arabians are far overrated,” Thorn said. “Once you have seen a Akhal-Teke horse, all others pale in comparison to their beauty and breeding.”
Tomas leaned forward and tapped his finger on the table.
“Will my father resent my Indian blood lines?” It pained to ask such a question.
“I cannot answer for him, but I would caution you to be respectful at all times. Get to know him as he will try to know you. Do not go in with a chip on that rather large shoulder.”
“Do not underestimate me, Sir Tomas. I have an inquisitive mind. I may be young, but I do believe I was born old.”
“You sound and act much older, I agree. Why not take one moment at a time. Your father could have let you lie in your hut forever, but he decided to send his best friend to protect you and bring you back. I understand your quandary, but do not let it influence your thinking. He just found out about you!”
“As I just found out about him. I am not easily won over, Senor.”
“He doesn’t have to win you over, Amigo. He is the duke and can make or break you. Should you choose to make him your enemy, you’d be no more than a foolish native.”
At those words, Thorn arose, almost toppling his chair, “We shall see, Sir Martinez. We shall see.”
He turned to the older man, “Sir Tomas, to clarify, my mother and I lived in a small house on a large plantation. We never lived in a hut. I took good care of her.”
“Point taken, Thorn.”
A word about the author…
From a humble beginning in Newark, New Jersey, a short stay at a convent in Morristown, NJ, to the board rooms of NYC, and a fantastic career for a play broadcasting company in Carlsbad, California, to the rural foothills of the Sierras of Yosemite National Park, Sandra Masters has always traveled with pen and notebook, writing her experiences. It has been the journey of ten thousand miles with a few steps left
to go. Her corporate world was left behind.
Romance is at best a gift. She hopes you’ll like her voice and passion for writing. While she also writes contemporaries, her own passion is for Regency England in the early 1800s. Admittedly, she’d prefer to be the sister of a duke or an earl…perhaps even a princess? Or a widow? Such possibilities. Hmm. Not being able to time travel, she writes about what she loves and hopes you will support her author efforts.
Sandra lives in Central California with her husband, Ron, who is her plotster, and their two dogs, Silky Houdini and Sophie Chiquita. When she’s not writing, she’s busy cooking way too much rustic Italian food for friends and family. She loves bears of all kinds and prefers to collect them in paintings and wood carvings.
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