“She’s right,” Nora said.
Before anyone else could speak, Patrick strode imperiously into the chamber and sent his wards out again. They left, though not happily, all four of them casting meaningful looks back at Charlotte.
She looked into Patrick’s eyes and decided to delay presenting her arguments for letting Deborah, Nora, and Jayne stay on the island instead of going away to rejoin society.
“What do you want?” she asked coolly, returning to her experimentations with the shawl-turned-wedding veil.
She felt his smile like sunshine on her nape, heard it in his voice. “Regrettably, there is no time now for what I want,” he replied. “We will marry within the hour, but the delight of consummating the union will have to wait until later.”
Charlotte felt a blush rise in her cheeks and turned to look at him, the veil falling gracefully over her hair and shoulders. “Now? We’re being married now?”
Patrick made a show of taking a watch from the breast pocket of his loose linen shirt and looking at its face. “In approximately fifteen minutes. Rowling has written up a certificate. He can say the words, we’ll sign the paper, and the whole task will be over and done with.”
“The whole task?” Charlotte echoed. “God in heaven, Patrick, haven’t you the decency even to pretend, for my sake, that this is a real wedding?”
“It’s quite real,” Patrick said, with a distracted sigh. “Hurry it up, goddess. I have other things to do.”
Charlotte rolled her eyes, knowing there was no sense in arguing. Patrick Trevarren was obviously about as sensitive and romantic as any one of the oxen that dragged her father’s timber down the mountain to the mill.
He looked at his watch again, frowned as though surprised to see that it hadn’t changed in some fundamental way, and went out again.
Charlotte went into the bathing room, took her time with her ablutions, and put on a fresh camisole in light blue taffeta. She added matching drawers and voluminous petticoats, and then drew her ivory dress on over her head.
Mary Catch-much-fish appeared, as if by conjuring, to fasten the row of tiny buttons up the back, and her manner was nervous. “This big wind,” she fussed, “it goin’ to lift us all right off this island and fling us in the water!”
“It is noisy,” Charlotte agreed. For hours, everyone in the household had been raising their voices to be heard above the commotion. “But we’ll be right here when it’s over.”
Mary sat Charlotte down in a chair and began dressing her hair with uncanny skill. Her quick black hands flying, she made a soft knot at the back of Charlotte’s head, while the sides and top billowed softly around her face. Deborah hurried into the room with a basketful of pink orchidlike flowers just as Mary was pinning the improvised veil into place.
Although Charlotte was delighted with the gift, she also feared the girl might have taken a serious risk to supply it. “Oh, Deborah,” she whispered, “these are so lovely! But surely you didn’t go outside to pick them?”
Deborah smiled shyly and flushed. She was small, with pale hair and delicate features, and someday, when she’d had a chance to mature, she would be beautiful. “Oh, no. I wouldn’t dare defy Patrick that way—he would have made me stay in my room and read the entire book of Leviticus out loud if I’d done such a thing!”
Charlotte smiled to learn of Patrick’s method of discipline. She knew he would have preferred for her to think he was far more severe in his dealings. “Then where did you get these lovely blossoms?” she asked as Mary deftly arranged them around the edge of her veil.
“Nora got them,” Deborah answered in a breathless whisper, obviously in awe of the other girl’s daring. “When she went to look for Mattie the first time. You know, the monkey.”
A jolt of alarm went through Charlotte’s being. “The first time?” she echoed. Mary stood motionless now, her hands suspended in midair, listening with as much interest as Charlotte did.
“You won’t tattle, will you? Nora has already been through Leviticus five times, so Patrick might make her read the entire Old Testament if he hears about this!”
Charlotte and Mary exchanged a look.
“Deborah,” Charlotte said evenly, trying not to frighten the timid girl, “are you saying that Nora has gone out into this storm not once, but twice?”
Deborah’s soft eyes filled with tears. “I’ve gotten her into trouble, haven’t I?”
“Deborah,” Charlotte insisted.
“Yes!” Deborah cried. “Yes, she’s outside—I begged her not to go, but she said she couldn’t leave Mattie to die in the storm—”
Charlotte spoke softly to Mary Catch-much-fish. “Go and tell Captain Trevarren about this, please. Someone will have to go after Nora and bring her back.”
Mary nodded and rushed anxiously out of the room.
The world seemed to go dark as Charlotte sat there, listening to the furious banshee screams of the wind. There might have been a great commotion going on downstairs as word reached Patrick that one of his wards was not only flouting his orders but risking her life in the process, but Charlotte didn’t hear it.
Perhaps half an hour had passed when Jacoba came for her, carrying a candelabra in one hand and looking as serious as if they were holding a funeral in her master’s house that day, instead of a wedding.
“Was Nora found and brought back?”
“She and that dratted monkey came in just five minutes ago,” Jacoba answered as she led the way out of the master bedroom and along the hallway. “The beast is safe, but I do believe the bridegroom is this minute giving Miss Nora a lecture she’ll recall even when she’s been a hundred years in heaven.”
Charlotte sighed. She felt sorry for Nora, having been on the receiving end of Patrick’s ire once or twice herself. If her own experiences were anything to judge by, the other girl would come away with blisters on her ears.
When she and Jacoba reached the main parlor, where candles had been set about to give their soft, flickering light, Nora was huddled near the pianoforte, sniffling, looking like a colorful bird with its feathers ruffled. Deborah, Jayne, and Stella stood around her, stalwart in their support even though they surely agreed that Nora had been foolhardy to leave the house for the sake of a monkey.
For his own part, the groom looked more ominous than ever. He glared at Charlotte, as if daring her to rebuke him for correcting his ward, and she did not take the challenge. He had not done the girl actual violence, and the island was his province. As the natural protector, he had the right to make certain decrees and expect them to be abided by.
Gideon stood somewhat shakily in front of the fireplace, dressed in clothing that was too large for him, since he had none of his own, and holding a small prayer book. The worn volume had been given to him by Jacoba soon after he regained consciousness, for his own had, of course, been lost at sea.
Charlotte and Patrick took their places in front of him, Charlotte feeling as shy and awkward as any virgin bride, Patrick standing tall. Out of the corner of her eye, Charlotte saw that his jaw was set in a grim, forbidding line.
Gideon looked at Patrick and then, somewhat sadly, at Charlotte. “Are you certain this is what you want to do?” he asked her, in a quiet but nonetheless forceful voice. “There are other options, you know.”
“Just get on with the ceremony,” Patrick snapped, catching his hands together behind his back, like a soldier at parade rest.
“Charlotte?” Gideon persisted, ignoring the captain’s peremptory words.
She drew a deep breath and then let it out slowly, imagining herself in Australia, helping to convert Aborigines. She wouldn’t be very good as a missionary, she decided, since she loved luxuries like pretty clothes and scented baths.
Still, Gideon was not an unappealing man, and he would be a devoted, if not passionate, husband and a wonderful, steady father. She would have an interesting, challenging life with him.
Charlotte glanced up at Patrick. On the other hand, she loved
Mr. Trevarren with her entire soul, impossible though he was. There were still so many mysteries about him that she wanted to solve, so many intimate bridges to cross and inner landscapes to explore.
“This is what I want,” she said finally, and was pleased by the subtle sigh Patrick gave at her words.
“Very well, then,” Gideon said gruffly. Then he cleared his throat and went on. “Dearly beloved,” he proceeded, in a solemn voice, “we are gathered here, in the sight of God…”
The rest of the ceremony passed in a dizzying rush for Charlotte, while the storm grew in intensity. Just as Gideon pronounced Charlotte and Patrick man and wife, something huge plunged through a window and its protective shuttering, in some other part of the house, adding a grand crescendo to the wedding.
Charlotte had not expected Patrick to take the time to kiss her, since he’d been in such an all-fired hurry to get the marriage over with. She was therefore surprised when he lifted her completely off her bare feet and took her mouth with his own. Before letting her down, he conquered her with his tongue, telling her without words that her next pleasuring would go far beyond anything she’d known before.
She trembled with the need to give herself to this man, and with anger that things were so. How much easier it would have been to love Gideon, how much more sensible and peaceful. But no. Not Charlotte. She had to adore, even worship, a man who had already consigned her to a harem once, and openly stated that he would not be tied down to one home or one woman.
Patrick interrupted her thoughts with a crisp order. “Jacoba, take the women to the wine cellar.” He paused to glower down at Charlotte, then toss a scathing look in Nora’s direction. “You will stay there, all of you, until the storm passes.”
Even Charlotte, intrepid as she was, would not have thought of defying Patrick after she heard the tone of those words. He meant every one of them, as a holy vow, and it would take an army of angels to save the foolish woman who disobeyed them.
Charlotte gestured for Nora and the others to come along, and obediently followed Jacoba down a rear stairway, made of stone, into a dank chamber that reminded her of the dungeons in Khalif’s palace. All in all, the memories the place brought back were not ones a bride would have expected to entertain on her wedding day.
“You were beautiful,” Deborah said, with admiration, when more candles had been lit and they were all settled, as comfortably as possible, in that grim cellar.
Nora sniffled, her face still mottled with humiliation and fury. The monkey she’d risked death to save came screeching out of the darkness and flung itself into her lap like a small and frightened child.
“I hope Patrick Trevarren has a toothache for the rest of his life,” Nora said. “Not only did he shout at me until I thought the very roof would cave in—he said I have to copy out the whole first act of Julius Caesar before Tuesday! When I asked what he meant to do if I refused, he said I’d be wiser not to find out!”
Stella sighed, and practical Jayne tossed her mane of beautiful auburn hair and said, “Do stop your fussing, Nora. You deserved what you got. Great Scott, you could have been run through by a bough in this wind.”
Jacoba frowned at both girls. “Jayne, I’ll thank you not to swear. As for you, Nora, well, you’re just lucky you have the captain to look after you. With your flighty ways, you’d surely have come to ruin by now if it weren’t for him. In any case, I do daresay I’ve got enough on my mind, what with this house about to fall down around my ears, without the lot of you carrying on like schoolgirls.”
“Do you think we’ll be killed?” Deborah dared to ask, her voice small and shaky. Just then, she seemed even younger than she was. “Will the house really collapse?”
Charlotte reached out and took the girl’s hand. “No, love. We won’t be killed. Jacoba was exaggerating just now—the walls of this place are as sturdy as the island itself.”
“I think we should sing,” Stella announced.
“Oh, Lord,” fussed Jayne. “Isn’t it bad enough that we’re sitting out a hurricane in a musty cellar with a monkey for company? Do we have to listen to you bellowing too?”
Charlotte smiled. “We might as well enjoy ourselves,” she said, with a shrug of one shoulder. Moments later, they were all singing a silly song at the tops of their voices—except for Jacoba, that is—the monkey included.
Soon the men came, all except Patrick and Mr. Cochran, bringing blankets and a fresh supply of candles, along with baskets of food, and milk cans full of water.
Hours had passed when the wind died and the great house finally stopped trembling on its foundations. Charlotte was lying awake on a large crate, wrapped tightly in her blanket, when she heard the door creak open.
“It’s over,” she heard Patrick say. He sounded weary.
She sat up, tossed the blanket aside, and went to him. “Are you all right?”
He looked away, and she saw a muscle flex at the base of his throat. “Yes,” he answered hoarsely, “but the cane crop is gone, and so is every outbuilding on the property.”
Charlotte laid her hands lightly against his upper arms, which were hard under his torn and dirty wedding shirt. She told him, with her eyes, that she wanted to help him forget the lost crops and general wreckage, at least for that night.
I need you, he conceded, with nothing more than a look.
“Everyone,” Mr. Cochran said in a merry voice, “back to your own soft beds! The worst is over.”
Patrick stood looking down at Charlotte for a long time, then he took one of her hands into his, raised it to his lips, gently kissed the knuckles. They were alone—even the monkey had gone—when he whispered, “Oh, Mrs. Trevarren, why must you be so beautiful?”
She slipped her arms around his lean waist. “I don’t have any shoes on,” she whispered, letting his question pass because she didn’t know how to answer it.
He laughed as he lifted her hem and saw ten toes glowing like dust-smudged alabaster in the dying light of the candles. “Remind me to lecture you unmercifully for your disobedience,” he said, whisking her up into his arms and starting toward the doorway.
“Speaking of that—” Charlotte began, frowning.
She felt his sigh as he carried her up the stone steps and into the main part of that enormous, wind-battered house. “If you’re about to berate me for shouting at Nora earlier, wife, save your breath. Had I allowed her to get by with endangering herself like that, what would have kept the others from going off on tangents of their own and very likely getting themselves killed? There are times, my beloved, when expediency must take precedence over more gracious inclinations.”
Charlotte could not refute his reasoning. In times of crisis the lives of everyone on the island depended on cooperation, and there could only be one leader. Undeniably that was Patrick.
She nuzzled his throat mischievously as he carried her through the dark house.
“Are you sorry you married me?” she asked, only half teasing.
“Right now,” Patrick replied, mounting the main staircase with agile speed, “I’m very glad you’re my wife. I need to lose myself in you, Charlotte, more than ever, and I can do that with a free heart because this time you really are Mrs. Patrick Trevarren.”
She nibbled at his earlobe. “I am indeed.”
“Don’t tease me,” he warned, pushing open the door to the master suite with a none-too-gentle motion of one foot. “I’m already hard as the mainmast on a sailing ship, and it’s all I can do to get you as far as the bed before I take you.”
Charlotte trembled with naughty anticipation. In this one area of their life together, she was willing to be submissive at least part of the time. “Then perhaps you should be satisfied immediately, Captain, so that you can take your proper time making love to me.”
He set her on her feet, lifted her chin with one hand. “You are a sorceress,” he said, his voice husky with emotion and the plain needs of a man. “Just touching you, just being close to you like this, makes my
blood burn in my veins. What have you done to me, Charlotte Trevarren?”
She unfastened his breeches, button by button, slowly, slowly, pausing to cup him in her hand now and then and listen to his involuntary moans of pleasure. Finally she turned her back to him, a wordless instruction to undo her dress, and he was awkward in his obedience.
When the dress was gone, Charlotte took off her petticoats, her camisole, and then her drawers. Patrick stood staring hungrily at her breasts, still fully clad himself, as if entranced.
Gently Charlotte smoothed his breeches down over his sleek, muscular hips, then pressed him into a chair without undressing him further. His manhood rose high and hard against his belly, awaiting her.
Charlotte was wanton in her joy, and she came to stand astraddle of Patrick’s lap, lowering herself onto him inch by pulsing, vibrant inch.
Patrick groaned and let his head fall back as she rode him, and when he tried to quicken the pace, she withdrew. He uttered a hoarse plea and she gave him his pleasure again, but sparingly.
“Oh, God, Charlotte,” he finally gasped, when she had subjected him to an agony of pleasure. “Please—give me what I need…”
She deliberately misunderstood and leaned forward to brush his lips with a hard, ready nipple. He took it hungrily, greedily, and suddenly Charlotte’s own instincts overtook her. She whimpered as Patrick took command, continuing to suckle even as he bent her back on his lap and invaded her silken shelter with the tips of his fingers. When he began to stroke her rhythmically, as well as move inside her, Charlotte went wild.
Patrick teased her for a while, then finally gave up her breast, grasped her hips in his powerful hands, and raised and lowered her on his shaft in earnest.
Charlotte could not have been silent in her surrender even if she had the wits to try, because the pleasure was so keen. It consumed her, like a fire, and made her beg hoarsely for satisfaction and then cry out, long and loud, while her body flexed repeatedly, in a graceful fury of passion. Patrick came violently as she sank against his chest in exhaustion, bucking beneath her and stirring a series of smaller releases that made her groan in surprised reluctance.
Taming Charlotte Page 29