by C. J. Archer
"Of course I don't want to be rid of you." It was the kindest thing he'd said to her in days. She couldn't help the single tear that slipped from her eye but she allowed no more. She wasn't sure he deserved them. "But I simply cannot afford you anymore, my girl."
"Afford me? What are you saying?"
"Or Jane. In fact, I cannot afford myself now. Not with Lord Pilkington's funding gone."
Min rocked back on her haunches as if she'd been struck. "Lord Pilkington has withdrawn his patronage? Oh, Father, no." It was quite possibly the worst thing that could happen, at a time when she thought nothing worse could happen. Without the money from her father's work or her plays, they had nothing. They couldn't even afford to eat.
No wonder he had accepted Ned's offer. It must have seemed like a gift from a higher power.
More like a lower one. Ned, the pond slime, had taken advantage of the dire situation and pressured an agreement from her father.
"It seems Pilkington doesn't think highly of women playwrights either," Ned said. He smiled down at her. Two days ago she'd have called his smile kind. Now she thought it condescending. "Come sit with me, Minerva. There's much to discuss." He held out his hand.
She screwed her nose up at it. "What are you talking about? Surely his withdrawal has nothing to do with me."
"Lord Pilkington believes the fairer sex should remain just that...fair," Sir George said calmly. His voice had a sort of sing-song quality to it. He didn't sound like himself at all. Min held his hand tighter. "He doesn't like women to attend the theatre let alone write for it. He says it makes them heathens."
"Heathens!" Good lord, he must have been born beneath a rock. For a man with an interest in the New Sciences, he had a decidedly ancient opinion of the theatre. Didn't he know that his queen adored plays? Didn't he see the benefits of it for the masses and gentry alike? "Father, that is ridiculous. Go back to him and plead for his patronage."
"He'll refuse it." He looked at her but didn't seem to see her. His eyes were vacant. Min's heart lurched into her throat. "He was quite angry," he went on in that strange manner of speaking he'd adopted. "He said I didn't know what I was talking about."
She frowned. Why would he say that? "Father, are you sure Lord Pilkington didn't withdraw his funding because of your paper and your...unusual theories?" It made far more sense for that to be the reason than her being a playwright.
He blinked rapidly and he seemed to focus on her once more. His features, gone slack only moments ago, stiffened again. "Of course not," he said. "He says he's looking forward to reading a copy of it. You must remember to go to the printers tomorrow, Minerva. And then visit Lord Pilkington to explain that there has been a mistake. You must make him believe you didn't write that play." He nodded and pushed his spectacles up his nose. "If you can convince him it had nothing to do with you, he might resume his patronage. Yes, yes. Good idea."
No, bad idea. "Father, what exactly did he say after your lecture?"
He waved a hand in the air. "Nothing of consequence. Something about needing time to think my theory through."
She groaned. Oh dear. Lord Pilkington hadn't understood the lecture at all. If they did give him time and a copy of the paper, the only thing he would understand was that her father's theory had been plucked from thin air. Or an imagination as active as her own.
Ned cleared his throat and stepped forward, making his presence felt. As if Min could forget he was there. "If this Pilkington is a clever man," he said, "surely he will require a great deal of convincing of Min's innocence. After all, her name is on everyone's lips."
"Ned," she snapped. "I do not—."
"He's right." Sir Geroge nodded. "Lord Pilkington will want an assurance from you that you will write no more poetry. And I'll require the same. Well, Minerva? Do you promise to stop writing plays? Will you stay away from the theatres?"
"My plays might be the only things that can save us." If she could find someone else to act as their author. "The last one earned me four pounds."
"Four pounds is not going to save us. Only my work will save us." He crossed his arms, but not in anger. It was almost as if he were embracing himself. He muttered something under his breath.
Min leaned closer. "What did you say?"
"Save them."
She looked to Ned for an answer but he shook his head and lifted his shoulders. "Them? Who?" she prompted her father.
"The lost ones," he mumbled. "Just boys. All gone. Taken by the sea."
He meant the seamen from the Lucinda May, all drowned on her maiden voyage. All lost, as he said. Something inside Min shattered. "Oh, Father."
She touched his cheek but he was gone again. His eyes were empty of life as they stared at something in the distance. Did he see their ghosts? Is that what haunted him? Is that what drove him to find another method for calculating a ship's location? Is that what had eaten away at his conscience until there was nothing left but an empty shell where once a brilliant mind had lurked?
She should have seen it coming. She should have spent more time with him, helped him, comforted him. But she'd been too busy with her own dreams to care about his. The bitter reality twisted like a knife in her gut.
"My work is important," he muttered.
"I know."
"We must help them. Bring them back."
She kissed his forehead. "Come, Father, you need to lie down now." She helped him to stand and he allowed himself to be led to the door. She called for Jane. The maid came running and Min gave instructions for Sir George to be taken to his rooms.
When they were gone, Min turned on Ned. She threw back her head, tossing off her grief and her fears. There was no space in her for those emotions right now. She needed to be strong for her father and Jane, but mostly for herself. "I'll not marry you, Ned Taylor. You've taken advantage of Father's ill health to force his agreement. It won't be binding."
He'd been watching her father and Jane retreating up the stairs, his eyebrows knotted together in thought. Now he turned to her and the knot cleared. He looked...satisfied. "Why not? Do you doubt his state of mind?"
"Of course! You witnessed that scene. He didn't know what he was talking about. No law will hold me to a promise made by a man in that state." They both knew it would come down to her word against his, and perhaps that of a doctor if the money could be found for one, but she would fight him if she had to.
"How will you live?" Ned said. "Your father has no hope of patronage and no one will touch your plays. Nor would a sensible man partner you in such a scheme now. He would be foolish to. So," the smirk returned, "how do you propose to keep yourself and your father off the streets if you do not marry me?"
"I will marry someone else."
He pushed his chest out and laughed. "Don't be ridiculous. You were unmarriageable before this debacle. A man would have to be a candidate for Bedlam to accept the woman who writes plays and has a mad father."
Min drew in a long breath and considered saying nothing. But it wasn't in her nature to lie down and be stomped over, not when a sweet triumph was within her grasp. "As it happens, someone has made an offer. And he has more than enough money to take care of myself, Father and a house full of servants."
His eyes briefly flared but then he burst into a raucous, humorless laugh. "You really do live in a land of fantasy."
She smiled benignly, sympathetically. "Good day to you, Ned. If you would be so kind as to see yourself out."
The harsh laughter suddenly stopped. His Adam's apple bobbed furiously. Her calm condescension must have rattled him. Without a word, he strode out the door.
Min let out a long breath and collapsed onto a chair. Oh lord, what had she said that for? She couldn't very well marry Blake, even though he'd not recanted his offer. He might have denied his betrayal, but who else could have done it? No one else knew her secret. It must have been him. He was still a blackguard. A lying, heartless pirate.
Perhaps not so heartless where his sister was concerned, bu
t certainly he cared for no one else. He didn't even speak gently to his own mother. What sort of man did that?
No, she wouldn't marry him. Couldn't.
So what then? She'd rather starve than marry Ned. She could beg Lord Pilkington to reconsider, right after she lied and told him she would never write again. And then she would seek out Will Shakespeare and ask him to help her find someone suitable to act as the writer of her plays. Perhaps he would even do it himself.
There. It was a plan and it might even work. She felt relieved.
And yet miserable. Blake had broken her heart, and her father had broken his mind. Worse still, she had no idea how to fix either.
She buried her face in her hands and finally let the tears flow.
CHAPTER 23
For the first time in many nights, Min didn't sit down at her desk and write. She couldn't. The words had all shriveled and died within her. She sat by the window and ran through what she would say to Lord Pilkington in the morning. It depended very much on what exactly was the reason behind his withdrawal. Was it truly because of the rumor that she was a playwright, or was her father's lecture a major contributing factor? Nevertheless, she eventually had a speech to cover both scenarios.
Now, what to say to Shakespeare. Would he—?
A shadowy figure suddenly swung onto her balcony from below, halting her thoughts and her heart. She jumped up, toppling her chair, and let out a small yelp. Then she saw it was Blake and was glad she'd not screamed loud enough for Jane to hear. This intruder was one she needed to manage on her own.
She opened the window and he climbed through. "What is the meaning of this?" she demanded, pressing a hand to her heart which had re-started with a vengeance. Whether it was beating rapidly from the fright of his sudden appearance or from his mere presence, it was difficult to tell. "You scared me half to death."
"I'm sorry," he said, studying her face with a concerned frown. "Have you recovered?"
"Quite." She crossed her arms beneath her bosom, feeling a little exposed dressed in only her shift and housecoat. She wished she'd left her hair up because he seemed to be fixated with it. His gaze had shifted to the tresses flowing over her shoulders and had not moved. "Blake, why are you here?"
"Um..."
"Is there something in my hair?" she said, running her hand through it.
He finally met her eyes. "No. It's just that...I like it unbound." He cleared his throat. "Why am I here? To speak to you of course. We didn't get to finish our conversation this afternoon."
"That would be because your sister was ill," she said tartly. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"Would you have stayed if I had?"
"No."
"That's why."
She sucked in her top lip then let it go with a pop. "You should have told me."
He watched her for several heartbeats then nodded. "You're right. I would have wanted to know had our positions been reversed. I'm sorry. And I'm sorry about my mother. She can be...difficult."
"She's enduring a difficult time. It must be awful watching one's child fall ill and not be able to help her. Is your sister better?"
He lifted one shoulder and let it drop heavily. "The fever has broken. She's still weak but the worst is over."
"That's a relief." She turned her back on him so she didn't have to see those penetrating eyes. Their blueness might be dulled by the lack of light—only a single candle burned on the desk—but their effect on her was not diminished.
He came closer and stood behind her. She couldn't see him but every sense was heightened by his nearness, her body alert to every twitch of muscle, every breath. She shivered, not from cold but from the pleasure rippling through her, raking across nerves already raw from a most trying day.
"You need a fire, Min," he said, mistaking the cause of her shivers. He stepped around her and she felt the loss of his nearness immediately as cool air replaced him. He opened the tinder box beside the fireplace and removed some tinder and a flint. "If you don't keep warm this winter, you'll get ill." He struck the flint and a spark lit the dry tinder in the grate. "If you can't afford—."
"We can."
He glanced at her over his shoulder. "If you can't afford wood then come to my house. I'll leave instructions for Greeves to supply you with some from our stores. In fact..." He rose and faced her squarely. "Why don't you just marry me. That way I'll know you've got everything you need."
She blinked at him. But he appeared to be entirely sincere. She sighed. It wasn't fair. He wasn't supposed to be kind. It made her answer so much more difficult to say.
Until she remembered what he'd done.
"I went down to the docks before I came here," he said before she could speak. "Many of the captains of my acquaintance had heard about your father's lecture and Lord Pilkington's cancellation of his patronage." His fingers lightly brushed hers until she closed her fist, blocking him. His fingers curled and withdrew. "I can take care of you. And your father. You need to marry me now more than ever, Min."
"I am very aware of my family's perilous situation. But that changes nothing. I cannot marry you." She said each word carefully, concentrating on each syllable because if she allowed herself to think of what she was refusing, she might crumble and give in. "We've already discussed this, Blake. You don't belong here and I don't belong on a ship. One of us has to give up something dear and neither of us is prepared to do that. In my case, my father and the theatre, and in yours the adventure."
He said nothing. Because he knew she was right? His face shut down, his features became sharp, rigid, and his eyes hooded as they looked at her ear instead of directly at her face. It would seem he did agree with her.
It was very far from being a relief to know it.
She drew in a shuddering breath and tried to ignore the gaping hole opening up inside her. There was something else to say. "And then there's the matter of your betrayal."
That got a response. His eyes widened and he stepped towards her. No avoidance now, he simply bored right through her with his piercing gaze. "I didn't do it!" He caught her shoulders and shook her. "You must believe me!"
"Why must I?" Her voice was far steadier than her nerves.
He stopped shaking and simply stared at her. "Because it pains me that you think I could do that to you. I've grown to like you, Min." He made a gruff, derisive sound in the back of his throat—directed at himself she felt sure. "And I want you to like me."
"A pirate who wants to be liked? Good Lord, that'll be a challenge, what with all the killing and pillaging."
His jaw shut with an audible snap of back teeth. "Does my sincerity mean so little to you that you'd sneer at me?"
"I'm finding it difficult to tell sincerity from half-truths." Her words came out clipped. She couldn't look at him but he caught her chin and stopped her from turning away. Her blood throbbed along her veins, heat melted her insides. Anger and hurt still edged her heart but it was Blake's presence that filled it, swelled it.
She ripped herself free from his grip and stepped back, clear of his power.
He stepped forward and closed the gap once more. "Let's discuss what is truth and half-truth," he said. She took another step away but he matched it with one of his own towards her. "The first truth you need to understand is that I did not tell a soul that you wrote that play."
"But—."
"I didn't." He said it with such finality, such...urgency, that she believed him. Almost.
Nevertheless, she stepped back once more, away from his influence and a glare so intense it burned.
But he followed her again, a predator stalking its pray. "The second thing you need to understand is that your situation is dire. You have no income and no prospect of one."
"Not if—."
He clamped a hand over her mouth.
She bit it.
"Ow!" He shook his hand. "You bit me!"
"You tried to stop me from saying my piece."
He rolled his eyes ceiling-ward. "I am surr
ounded by women with something to say."
She shifted her weight. "All is not yet lost. I intend to speak to Lord Pilkington and Shakespeare tomorrow. It might not to be too late to find a solution."
"Shakespeare cannot act as the writer of your plays. Nor can anyone else."
"Why not?"
"After the docks, I went to see Style to plead your case. He says if he ever finds anyone pedaling your plays as their own, not only will he not employ them, but he'll ensure they'll not be employed by anyone else either. By that I assumed he meant he'd spread rumors about them. Nasty ones."
Good lord! Style had turned out to be a most monstrous person! Shakespeare couldn't afford to help her, even if he wanted to. The man had his own career to think of. "But how would Style know if a play was mine or really Shakespeare's or someone else's?"
"Style claims he'd know a play of yours. He says he'd recognize your writing style."
"He did? Oh." She swallowed back her disappointment. "Well." She suddenly felt very tired. Tired of fighting, tired of reasoning, tired of nothing going her way. What had she done to deserve such ill luck? "Is that all you came here to say?" she asked.
"No. There's a third truth that I think will convince you to accept my proposal." His eyes turned the color of a stormy sea.
His self-assurance rallied her. It was far easier to refuse an arrogant man than a kind-hearted one. She planted her hands on her hips. She would not be intimidated. "And that is?"
He traced the corner of her mouth with his thumb. "That I care about you."
"Care." Her hands slipped to her sides again. She went numb. His tender touch began shredding the last remnants of her resolve. He wasn't playing fair.
"There's more," he said huskily.
"There is?"
"Yes. I want you, Min."
"Oh. Care and want. I see." But she didn't. All she saw was a man who desired her but wasn't prepared to give up anything for her. He didn't love her. Not enough to be with her always.
"No," he said, thickly, "I don't think you do." He kissed the corner of her mouth. Tasting, searching. "You drive me to distraction." Another teasing kiss and then he retreated and looked down at her. His eyes simmered. "I need to have you. Now. Here. The way I need air to breathe." His hand spread across the small of her back, pressing her to his hard body. "It's wrong." His hands rubbed her arms, as if he were trying to warm her. But she wasn't cold. Not when his heat surrounded her, stroked her, caressed her until she was lulled and ready. "So very wrong to take you like this." He buried his face in her hair and inhaled. "But I can't help myself." He nipped her earlobe, her throat.