Love Me With Fury

by Janelle Taylor

  Despite her daring perusal, she defensively withdrew her bold gaze from the lower portion of his stalwart frame, that secret area which had stormed her womanhood and rashly rewarded it with both pleasure and pain, that provocative area which even now sent shivers of forbidden and strange yearnings over her. Her gaze lingered upon his face, visually tracing and memorizing every inch of the handsome features emblazoned there. She ran a quivering finger over his sensual lips, then, for some unknown reason, placed a fleeting kiss upon them.

  Her fingers moved over his clean-shaven, strong jawline and toyed with his cleft chin. She captured his head between her trembling hands and positioned it to gain a better look at him. Why did he have to be so devastatingly attractive and so utterly irresistible? The Fates had certainly smiled generously upon this valiant creature! Her hands travelled down his neck, aware of the strength represented there. Unable to stop herself, she ventured over his broad shoulders and leisurely migrated down his brawny arms. A strange sadness plagued her.

  She softly whispered, “Why must you be such a villain, Stephen? If only we had met under different circumstances, for no man has ever made my heart and body sing this dangerous melody. If father would present a man such as you, I would marry him this very day! But alas, arranged betrothals do not permit such blissful miracles…”

  Abruptly noting her shocking actions, wanton thoughts, and absurd statements, Alex ordered herself to cease these foolish and wicked notions. But he was so splendid. His body was the pinnacle of masculinity and vitality. His face could send sparks of envy through Apollo himself! She could envision the pile of broken hearts which he had surely left behind. She speculated upon his attraction to her. Had it simply been inspired by her availability and sensuous allure? Had he merely viewed her naked body as a new conquest?

  “Who are you, Stephen? Where did you come from? If you lived nearby, your reputation and name would be widely known to all women. What cruel fate brought you here today?”

  She cursed him for teaching her to feel and to ponder such wishful things. She cursed fate for defensively tearing her from his side after cruelly binding her soul to his. To discover such a tempting dream and then to lose it was sheer agony. “Be gone from my sight and mind, Sir Demon, for we shall never meet again! What madness assails me that I should grieve at your loss? What vicious spell have you cast upon me that I should wantonly desire you after what you have done to me? What power and magic do you possess that tempts me to remain at your side, to crave another union with you? What strange and wicked feelings you instill within me. Damn you, Stephen! Damn you…”

  Tears of frustration and guilt pooled in those sea-green depths. She slowly and reluctantly stood up, taking one last long look at him. She turned and hurried through the dense line of trees. She whistled for her beloved Ivory; he came galloping to her. Alex gripped his flowing mane and pulled her light weight upon his broad back. She gently kneed him and raced for home and safety, never expecting to ever see the dream lover whom she was leaving behind.

  When she reached the stables, she hastily dismounted and called for Jim to give Ivory his rub-down and feeding. As if pursued by some unseen evil, Alex ran to her room. She promptly summoned her maid to prepare a hot bath for her while she angrily stripped off the clothes she was wearing, her intention to discard them immediately. Never would she ride in such a get-up again. If she had been properly attired in a velvet riding habit and had placed the uncomfortable English saddle upon Ivory’s back, her meeting with Stephen might have begun and ended quite differently. Never would she venture into that lovely paradise which had changed her life and heart forever. Never could she risk meeting that intoxicating creature again. She vowed that no man would ever gain such a frightening, powerful control over her body and will. “Never again, Stephen…”

  Even as she solemnly pledged these things to herself, she was tormented by tempting visions of that incredible man who had shown her what it was to become a woman. The knowledge that she would never see or know him again brought sudden and rending anguish, a disturbing sense of denial and loneliness. How was it possible for a complete stranger to attain such a grip upon her heart, mind, and body? It must be sheer madness, some contagious wantonness which he had injected into her! “You arrogant stud!” she swore.

  As she soaked in the hot tub of fragrant bubbles, she relived every moment of the past afternoon. Envisioning Stephen’s face, those new and fiery longings returned to haunt her. As tears of self-betrayal and sacrifice eased down her cheeks, Alex painfully admitted to the exquisite pleasures and fulfillment which she had discovered with him…feelings and sensations which she wanted to know again someday.

  Recalling his lordly demeanor, she vowed softly, “If we ever meet again, Stephen, you will feel the wrath of Lady Alexandria Hampton! Father was correct; there are men I have yet to meet. If our paths ever cross again, you will be in for the shock of your miserable life! I can hardly wait to see the look upon that smug face when you discover my identity and realize your great crime! I will let you squirm in fear of what action I will take to avenge myself!”

  She began to wash her sun-kissed golden skin. She asked herself why she did not feel dirty and soiled as she had proclaimed to him she had felt. As she imagined the wrinkled hands of some lord or rough duke with whom her father might betrothe her caressing those same curves which Stephen had touched and stroked into sublime surrender, shudders swept over her entire body. After knowing Stephen and experiencing real passion, how could she settle for anything less? God help her, for she could not!

  Debating a coerced marriage with him, she quickly realized how dangerous such a rash move would be. A ruthless, volatile streak ran in him, one she would be stupid to challenge. He was not a man to cross. He would make a deadly and destructive enemy. Still, he owed her…

  Perhaps he could be tricked or enticed into marriage…She instantly scoffed, “You could have any woman alive, Stephen. Why should you be interested in me? Sure, a lot of men have asked for my hand, but a man like you…You’re dreaming, Alex,” she warned herself. “What could possibly set you apart from his endless list of conquests? Intimating revenge is one thing, but enforcing it is quite another,” she fearfully concluded.

  When her lengthy bath was over, she leisurely dressed in a satin nightgown and stretched out upon her feather bed. The hour grew late; the sun vanished. The spring air became chilly and Alex closed her window and snuggled under her covers. When the evening chimes sounded, she refused to go down to dinner, pleading a headache and fatigue. More time passed.

  When her concerned father came to her room to test this excuse to avoid him and to renew their discussions, he found Alex fast asleep. Her face was pale and her cheeks were rosy. She slept so deeply and soundly that neither his knock upon her door nor his hand upon her forehead awakened her. Detecting no excessive warmth upon her brow, he assumed that she was indeed exhausted. He quietly left her to her dreams after placing an affectionate kiss upon her temple.

  After dining alone, Lord Charles Hampton went to his library to complete the final preparations for his daughter’s departure, one which would unknowingly be her permanent move to America. He wished he dared to reveal his plans to his willful child, but he could not for fear of an innocent slip into the wrong ear.

  He pulled open a desk drawer and sought the hidden compartment which held a sheet of paper upon which a pre-arranged code for secret messages between himself and Henry Cowling was clear in bold black ink. He diligently made notes upon small scraps of cloth which would be artistically shaped into tiny balls to fit unnoticeably into the centers of several flowers upon the fashionable hats which Alex would carry to America with her, messages which Henry would then pass on to another traitorous Englishman helping the American cause.

  Charles mulled over the crisis which was making this deception necessary. His shipping firm was taking devastating losses every day. With the continued conflicts between France, Great Britain, and other adversaries, he w
ould eventually be financially ruined. His export/import company had been crippled by the King’s Orders-in-Council and that arrogant Frenchman’s Continental System, by greedy privateers and dangerous pirates, and by America’s retaliation to each of these threats to her own survival and prosperity. He would inevitably lose everything, and to be penniless and disgraced was a reprehensible, unbearable fate.

  Great Britain, particularly King George III, was to blame for his desperate and uncontrollable attempts to ward off such a distasteful situation. Lord Hampton knew his actions were treasonous and grimaced at that nasty thought.

  Once Alex was safely settled in Philadelphia with his dead wife’s brother, he would rapidly make plans to join them there. From past experiences and personal contacts, he fully trusted Captain Burns who craftily used his American ship the Moon Maiden to feign being a British privateer. Burns would deliver his daughter to Henry in complete secrecy and safety, Lord Hampton confidently concluded.

  Before returning his attention to his task at hand, Charles absently wondered if Madison had acted upon his last message. If so, the treacherous and daring feat had not yet been uncovered or announced. Perhaps Madison hadn’t sent anyone to steal that vital packet in Grantley’s office. He was relieved that his personal identity was known only to Henry Cowling and President Madison. From Henry’s letters, Madison had agreed never to entrust his name to anyone, including his unknown accomplice, that sly and dauntless agent who could slip in and out of England with ease. He was either extremely brave or very reckless.

  Charles mused upon this elusive and intrepid spy. Who was he? How did he carry off such deadly, intricate missions without a trace? He shuddered in fear at the thought of being connected with such a fearless American, or perhaps another traitorous Englishman. He sighed wearily, wanting this taxing situation resolved very soon, as well as the onerous affair with Alex.

  Alex…with any luck, some masterful and worthy American would sweep her off her feet! He really couldn’t blame her for rejecting a loveless, pre-arranged marriage. She was proud and wanted to choose her own destiny. He could only pray that some virile, strong, magnetic man would vanquish that troublesome problem for him. For certain, it would require a man of steel nerves and an iron will to tame his defiant daughter! “I pray your Lancelot is real and that you find him soon, Alex,” he murmured softly, totally unaware his prayers had already come true…

  IV

  “0’ for a falconer’s voice

  To lure this tassel-gentle back again.”

  —Romeo and Juliet, William Shakespeare

  Spencer Farrington gradually became aware of the throbbing pain within his wracking head. He groaned as he tried to sit up. The stabbing sensations which shot fiercely into his injured head instantly sent him back to the ground. He carefully opened his eyes, shielding the last rays of sunlight from them with his arm.

  At first, he was disoriented and alarmed. Why did his head want to split wide open? Where was he? What had happened? Had his ship been attacked and overrun? Had he been wounded, captured? Why was it so quiet and cool?

  Slowly and painfully, his dazed mind and fuzzy vision cleared. He cautiously remained upon his back for a while, bringing his knees upwards and planting his bare feet near his nude buttocks. Assorted facts began to filter into his spinning head.

  The pond…Angelique…her vengeful attack! It all came hurling back to reveal his carelessness and her deceit.

  Disregarding the excruciating agony which shot through his head, he forced himself to sit up and to look around. Naturally she was gone. He quickly glanced down at his nude body, surprised it was not covered with hundreds of vindictive scratches from that sneaky little she-cat. His hands flew to his handsome face to check it for damage: none.

  That vicious, conniving bitch would rue the day she had dared to attack him and then leave him vulnerable to danger or death! So much for thinking her dimwitted or fragile! At least she hadn’t betrayed him to her family or alerted the British authorities; the late hour proved those facts. Neither had she returned with a gun to slay him. Very strange indeed…

  He chuckled satanically as he noted the smudgings of her virgin’s blood upon his limp manhood and sinewy thighs. He briefly enjoyed the fact he had also caused her pain and humiliation in return. How dare she play the wanton and willing female with him, and then try to kill him!

  He frowned, wrinkling his brow, calling attention to the bandage. His hand went up to touch the binding around his head. He jerked it off, gaping at the dried blood upon one side of it. “What the devil!” he exploded in astonishment. His torn shirt lay beside him. His startled gaze went from the shirt to the bandage and back again.

  Why had Angelique bothered to dress the same injury which she had spitefully inflicted? He recalled her look of sheer terror as he had opened his eyes and witnessed her impending action. Had she panicked and struck him harder than intended? Was she contrite afterwards? Had she only feared the crime and punishment which might be handed down to a common serving girl for brutally slaying some highborn lord? If she hadn’t meant to kill him, surely she wouldn’t have troubled herself to bind his wound.

  When he found her, which he most assuredly would, he would learn the truth! He rolled into the refreshing, invigorating water which had grown chilly with the evening breeze. He rubbed his hands over his body, removing both her blood and his own. Drops of fresh blood were visible upon his fingers when he touched the tender and swollen area upon his left temple. She would pay dearly for this unforgivable act! He had grossly misjudged her courage and guileful nature. She had looked so delicate and innocent; yet, she most certainly was neither.

  “Damn you, Angelique! Damn all wily females! Before I leave here, you will feel the full measure of my wrath and power. If you think today was degrading and painful, just wait until we meet again, my lovely and cunning vixen. You’ll never be able to run fast or far enough to elude Joshua Steele or Spencer Farrington! Be forewarned, my little nymph; your day of payment is coming!”

  He dressed, thankful she had not realized the joke in stealing his clothes. It was nearly dark. He would seek out this mystery girl later. Tonight, there were more pressing matters upon his mind, matters which had been stalled by his meeting with her. His head ached; he cursed her anew. His schedule was already tampered with by the lateness of the day. Because of his mission, he couldn’t even take something for his throbbing head or grant his body a much needed sleep. He left the pond, once again relieved by her oversight in leaving his horse behind. He absently wondered if these mistakes were accidental or intentional. Perhaps she was pleading for his forgiveness and leniency.

  Once home, Spencer bathed again. But unlike Alex, he did not turn in for the night. Instead, he headed toward London to pursue the crucial information which had unexpectedly spurred this sudden trip. He only halted his journey about halfway in order to rest his horse and to sleep for a few hours, hoping it would assuage his physical torment which steadily increased with each mile travelled. Each time his chestnut roan put his hooves down upon the hard ground, a new wave of agony would shoot through his skull. With each twinge of pain, he cursed and doomed the girl by the pond.

  Early that next morning, he reached his destination. In London, he made his way to the Boar’s Head Inn late in the afternoon. Dressed as a common seaman, little notice was given to him by the other men who were present for their nightly row of drinking, whoring, and merrymaking.

  Once the King’s dragoons were well into their cups, he furtively moved closer to them, listening intently for any news which might prove useful to him before he boldly attempted to steal certain maps and documents from Lord Grantley’s office.

  The inn was crowded and noisy. The air was filled with the odors of hot food and smelly men. Crude and simple talk was being passed around. Raucous laughter filled the room each time a burly seaman or lusty officer managed to pinch a buxom barmaid or fondle a plump bottom on a serving girl.

  After his annoyed react
ion, a persistent doxy got the message that Spencer wasn’t interested in her charms. It also took some doing to discourage a ruddy-faced seaman who wanted to drink and chat with him. The evening seemed endless and fruitless. Following the departure of all soldiers, Spencer returned to his lonely and dark room to wait until the next night.

  His time here was limited; he might be seen and recognized. Once his theft would be brought to light, he knew someone would recall that Spencer Farrington had been around that particular night. He had no choice but to make a try for that file. How much stock could he place in that secret message to Madison? Who was this nobleman who could be trusted so highly and completely by both sides? Why did Madison insist upon keeping his name a secret from everyone, including him? Very curious indeed…

  Then again, Madison was like that. He practiced the policy that a man could not reveal what he did not know, an often vexing trait which Madison had learned from his predecessor and good friend Jefferson. Each American spy worked independently of all others, then reported to Madison who filtered through the information to sort out the facts and fallacies.

  Unable to sleep or to keep his mind off of Angelique, Spencer focused his attention upon past and present troubles. He briefly speculated upon Madison’s idea to involve Edmond Genet, the ex-French diplomat, in their covert schemes. Surely Madison would realize how unwise and dangerous that ploy could be. Genet was now married to Clinton’s daughter. SincetheNew England states had seriously mulled over the idea of rejoining the British Empire, that connection was perilous.

  For a moment, Spencer wished his superior was either Washington, Adams, or Jefferson. Madison was a good man, an intelligent and honest one. But he was too easy-going and far too trusting. He made an excellent second-in-command, but he lacked the skills and qualities to be in the control of this situation. Too many selfish, disloyal men were hopping upon his political carriage for their own gains.