Taming Charlotte

by Linda Lael Miller

  Raheem slouched limply against him now, perhaps unconscious, perhaps just awaiting his chance. Judging by the way he’d carried on when the dinghy was overturned, he probably couldn’t swim. Patrick could just slip away, let the pirate go under, leave him to die.

  He, Patrick, would not even have to do the man violence.

  He swore, released his captive, and watched without particular emotion as Raheem floated facedown in the water, making no visible effort to fight for his life.

  Patrick turned and started toward shore, then stopped, swearing again. Cochran’s quote echoed mercilessly in his mind. Vengeance is Mine, sayeth the Lord. Realizing he was still clutching the knife in his right hand, Patrick sheathed the weapon, swore again, and swam back to Raheem.

  The pirate was just disappearing under the surface of the water; Patrick grasped him by the collar, with another curse, and went on toward shore.

  Cochran was waiting there, sane, sensible Cochran. He waded in when he caught sight of Patrick and relieved him of his unconscious companion.

  “I’ll be damned,” the first mate said, crouching to examine Raheem as best he could, given the darkness. “It’s Raheem, isn’t it? Why didn’t you kill him?”

  Patrick was half-sprawled on the shore, gasping for breath and ready to retch up enough salt water to surround a whale. He pushed his hair back from his face and regarded his friend for several moments before finding the strength to speak. “I wanted to prolong the pleasure,” he growled.

  Raheem was lying on the beach, coughing violently and swearing in his native tongue.

  He spoke calmly to the pirate, in the colloquial Arabic he’d originally learned from Khalif. “You’re going to die,” he said. “One way or another, at my hand or at the end of a hangman’s noose back in Europe, you’re as good as dead.”

  Raheem vomited violently, then spat, “May you burn in your Christian hell, Trevarren!”

  Patrick offered no reply, but simply scrambled to his feet and, with Cochran’s help, hauled Raheem up after him.

  “Look,” Cochran said, with a laugh, gesturing toward the lighted ships that had been dominating the harbor all day. “They’re leaving! Loyal souls, those pirates, just like their captain.”

  Raheem only grunted at Cochran’s words, probably not understanding them, but he comprehended the sight of his three ships in retreat well enough. The pirate gave a bellow of protest, but it was all for naught. That night he was locked up in the wine cellar and, except for regular rations of food and water, forgotten.

  Charlotte ached in every pore and cell of her body, but the glorious sunshine that filled the room felt like some intangible balm. She caught her breath, remembering the explosion—had it been the night before?—and laid both hands to her stomach.

  “The baby?” she whispered. She could not see anyone near the bed, but she knew she wasn’t alone.

  Jacoba immediately loomed above her. “Awaken the captain,” she said to someone just out of sight—probably Mary Catch-much-fish. Then she looked down at Charlotte, her face open and kindly. “The babe is still with you, Mrs. Trevarren,” she said. “Of course, there’s no tellin’ whether the little one was harmed. We’ll just have to wait and see.”

  There was a ruckus, and then Patrick appeared, looking as though he’d just returned from a mission in hell. He was gaunt, unbearably pale, and his hair was rumpled and oddly stiff-looking. His shirt didn’t sit with its usual dashing grace on his upper body, and as he gazed at Charlotte, his throat worked visibly.

  Jacoba slipped away with surprising grace for a woman of her size, and the door closed quietly behind her before Patrick spoke.

  He moved to the side of the bed, dropped down on his knees beside it, and enclosed one of Charlotte’s bruised hands gently in both his own. Then, to her amazement, he lowered his head to her bosom and uttered a ragged sob.

  Gently, with her free hand, Charlotte touched his hair. Her heart was so full of emotion that she couldn’t speak, and tears brimmed in her eyes.

  Patrick wept, the sound low and broken, for several minutes. Then, finally, he raised his head and met her gaze. “I’m sorry,” he said hoarsely. “I’m so sorry—”

  Charlotte was puzzled. She stroked his dark hair. “Why?”

  “If it hadn’t been for me, none of this would have happened. I should have taken you straight to the authorities when you were dumped at my feet that night, but instead I thought up all kinds of excuses for keeping you with me. I wanted you for myself.”

  Charlotte managed a smile. “Was that so wrong?”

  He rested his forehead lightly against hers for just a moment. “Yes. You would have been safe at home by now, with your father and stepmother to look after you—”

  “Patrick,” Charlotte interrupted, annoyed. “I’m not a child, in need of a keeper. Did it ever occur to you that if I didn’t want to be with you, I wouldn’t have stayed? There were a few times, you know, when I could have left—while we were in Spain, for instance. And after the uprising, when Khalif was in power again and offered me a house in France.”

  Patrick gave a great sigh, and in many ways, it was as painful for Charlotte to hear as his sobs had been earlier. She heard an uncharacteristic element of defeat in the sound. “I can’t change the past,” he said, speaking as much to himself, Charlotte thought, as to her. “But I don’t have to go on making the same mistakes in the future.”

  Charlotte felt cold all of the sudden, and oddly afraid. “Patrick—”

  He rose to his feet, stepped back out of her reach. She could almost see the stony barrier that dropped into place between them. “Enough. I won’t see you die for loving me, Charlotte. It’s decided.”

  “Patrick!” She tried to sit up, feeling panicked, knowing he had already withdrawn from her. “Patrick!” she cried again, desperate.

  Without visible emotion, he pressed her back onto the pillows. “Rest,” he said. “Just rest.”

  With that, he moved like a sleepwalker to the door.

  “I’ve lost him,” Charlotte murmured miserably an hour later, when Jayne was sitting at her bedside, keeping her company. “Patrick is my husband, the father of my baby, the only man I’ll ever love. And he might as well be on the other side of the world.”

  Jayne sighed. “He’s undergone a few shocks lately, our Patrick. First there was the storm, then the pirates attacked the island, and you were so badly hurt that we all thought you’d die…” She paused, smiled. “Except for Gideon, of course. He must have said a thousand prayers for your recovery, and I don’t think he ever doubted for an instant that you would get well. Anyway, Patrick is still reeling from all that’s happened. He just needs some time to assimilate everything, that’s all.”

  “I hope you’re right,” Charlotte muttered, but her heart was in her throat and she had an awful feeling that, marriage or none, baby or none, her intimate association with Patrick Trevarren had truly ended this time.

  In the sunny days to come, Charlotte recovered slowly, by degrees—at least, physically she recovered. All the while her body was growing strong, some vital part of her soul was shriveling up and dying.

  It wasn’t that Patrick avoided her, exactly. He sat with her for hours on the terrace outside her room, reading to her from Shakespeare, even acting out some of the more dramatic or comical scenes. He brought her succulent fruit, and told her stories about his youth.

  Still, for all of that, he might have been a stranger, someone hired to amuse the patient. He slept in another room at night, never kissed Charlotte, or held her, or referred in any way to the incomprehensible passion that had once blazed between them.

  It was, as she had feared, over.

  Gideon was a faithful support during those difficult days, and though his grief for the lost Susannah showed plainly in his eyes, Charlotte correctly guessed that he was growing closer and closer to Jayne.

  Stella, who had aspired to a romance with Gideon herself, accepted the situation with surprising good grace,
and set her sights on one of Patrick’s young crewmen, just as Nora had. Deborah, the youngest of the group, was content to love the harmless, dashing men who peopled the novels she loved to read.

  After a month, Charlotte was back on her feet, but all the joy had gone from her life, with Patrick’s affections. She supposed she would recover someday, and make a place in the world for herself and her child, but that time seemed far in the future.

  Patrick no longer kept a vigil beside her, now that she was well and the baby was fluttering against the walls of her womb. He worked from sunrise to sunset with his men, clearing the rubble from the cane fields and preparing the ground for another planting.

  One day, when Charlotte was at particularly loose ends, she wandered into the wing of the house where Gideon had his room, and paused in his open doorway.

  A borrowed carpetbag sat on his bed, openmouthed, and Gideon was packing the shirts and trousers Jacoba and the others had made for him. He turned his head and smiled at Charlotte, eyes twinkling.

  “Hello, Mrs. Trevarren. You’re looking very well today.”

  Charlotte sighed and sagged against the doorframe. Her throat was thick and she had to wait a moment before speaking, in order to keep her renegade emotions under some semblance of control. She tried to smile. “Australia is quite some distance from here,” she said finally. “Much too far to swim or row.”

  Gideon grinned, gestured toward a wing-back chair. “Come in and sit down.”

  Charlotte obeyed. “It isn’t proper,” she protested at the same time. “I shouldn’t be here.”

  Her friend chuckled. “Since when, sweet Charlotte, have you been troubled by such mundane concepts as propriety?”

  “You’re leaving,” she said, her gazing moving once more to the satchel.

  “That ship I prayed for is about to arrive.”

  Charlotte had no doubt that what he said was quite true. Over the course of the past weeks, she’d had many occasions to see that Gideon was indeed on good terms with God. Once, for instance, when she’d been in such pain from her injuries that she hadn’t been able to bear it, he’d taken her hand and offered a few words, and she’d felt a little better.

  “Do you suppose you could pray that Patrick will love me again?” she dared to ask.

  Gideon stopped moving about the room to come and sit facing her, on the hassock. “That would be like praying for the sky to be blue or the sea to be deep,” he said gently. “No man ever loved a woman more completely or sincerely than Patrick loves you.”

  Charlotte shook her head. “He’s decided not to let himself care for me anymore, Gideon, and you know how bullheaded he can be.”

  The missionary touched Charlotte’s cheek with a gentle hand. “While you, of course, are sweet and pliant and eminently reasonable,” he teased.

  Charlotte made a sound that was both a laugh and a sob. “Gideon, don’t be impossible. I came to you for sympathy!”

  “It isn’t sympathy you need, my dear,” Gideon said, with a philosophical sigh, leaning back and laying his hands on his thighs. “It’s patience. Patrick will come to terms with his feelings for you in time.”

  “But I can’t wait!” Charlotte cried, in a frantic whisper.

  Gideon chuckled. “You remind me of my sister, Elizabeth,” he said. “Once, when we were small, our grandmother gave her some flower bulbs and a spot in the garden that was to be all Elizabeth’s own. My sister planted the bulbs and then went out every day to glare at the dirt, waiting for the blossoms to appear. After only a week, her curiosity got the better of her, and she couldn’t bear the suspense any longer. She dug up those bulbs, just to see if they’d sprouted, and after that, of course, they couldn’t grow because she’d killed them.”

  Before Charlotte could come up with a reply, Jayne burst through the doorway, her lovely face flushed with excitement and no small measure of dread, her dark red hair flying.

  “It’s here!” she cried. “The ship is here—Patrick’s already spotted her, and she’s flying the English flag!”

  Gideon shrugged and then winked at Charlotte, as if to say, Didn’t I tell you?

  “Well,” Jayne went on, her personality like an explosion in the room, “are you going to marry me and take me with you or not, Gideon Rowling?”

  The clergyman laughed. “Oh, yes,” he said, and it seemed to an embarrassed Charlotte that the lovers had forgotten her presence entirely. “If you’ll have me, beautiful Jayne, I will marry you with pleasure.”

  They met in the middle of the room and clasped hands, and Charlotte fled, cheeks crimson, heart pounding with both envy and the profound joy of knowing that even death could not prevail over love.

  Charlotte flew down the hall, wanting to see the approaching ship for herself, with no walls around her and no window glass impeding her view. Reaching the staircase, she decided the banister offered the quicker means of descent, and swung herself astraddle of it, skirts and all.

  At the bottom, she was stopped not by the familiar newel-post, but by a strong, muscular arm.

  She turned, breathless, and looked straight into Patrick Trevarren’s indigo eyes. For a moment she saw something flicker there—passion, perhaps, or laughter. In the next instant, though, the expression disappeared, and Charlotte feared she’d only imagined it.

  “I will thank you to think of my child’s safety,” Patrick lectured coldly, “if not your own.”

  Charlotte allowed him to lift her unceremoniously off the banister, but raised her chin to a defiant level when she stood on the steps, her face on a level with his. “Don’t be tiresome, Mr. Trevarren. I’ve never obeyed your commands before, and I don’t intend to start now.” She moved to pass him, but he took her arms in a painless but inescapable grasp and held her in place.

  “There’s a ship coming in,” he said. “It’s English, probably headed for Australia. I want you to sail to Sydney and then book passage from there to the United States.”

  Charlotte stared at him. “And you? Where do you plan to be while I’m doing this?”

  “Here,” he said. “Mr. Cochran will travel with you, as your escort and protector.”

  Charlotte’s knees gave way, and she dropped to a sitting position on the step, feeling desolate. Patrick crouched in front of her and, to her surprise, touched her face gently.

  “I know it seems to you that I’m being unreasonable,” he said, in a hoarse voice. “But believe me, Charlotte, you and the child will both be better off this way.”

  Grief welled up inside her, overflowed in tears and fury. “That’s just your opinion, Patrick Trevarren! Being sent away from you is like being told I’ll never see the sun again!”

  Pain moved in Patrick’s face, but he clearly would not be swayed from his decision. “Is that any way for a ‘new woman’ to talk?” he asked gruffly. “What would your stepmother say if she heard you carrying on like this?”

  Charlotte sobbed. “I don’t care what anyone else says, Patrick—I was born to be with you, and you were born to be with me, and if we’re separated, we’ll both suffer terribly!”

  He kissed her forehead, in the same mild way her father or uncle might have done. “How can you say that?” he asked. “Have you forgotten that your problems began when you met me?”

  “The moon will go out, Patrick,” she whispered. “The sea will dry up. Please—don’t do this to me, don’t do it to yourself!”

  Patrick sighed, kissed her again, with no more passion than before, and then rose to his feet, towering over her. “It’s for the best,” he said. And then he walked away and left her sitting there, huddled against the banister, bracing herself for the end of the world.

  Hours later, when the sea had long since swallowed the sun, the English ship sailed into the harbor and several small boats appeared. The vessel had been running short on fresh water, and seeing lights on the island, the captain had decided to make a visit.

  Raheem was brought up from his prison in the cellar—this was the first time
Charlotte had really laid eyes on the stranger who had been so obsessed with possessing her—and put under formal arrest by the officers of the Victoriana. Crewmen took him back to the main ship, carefully bound.

  We’ll be traveling together after all, the pirate and I, Charlotte thought miserably. Patrick had ordered her belongings packed for a long journey, and Mary and Jacoba had obeyed his command, though sullenly.

  Captain Michael Trent was a handsome man, tall, with rugged features and hazel eyes, and he gave Charlotte an openly appreciative look when they were introduced that night, at a formal dinner in Patrick’s fancy dining room.

  He’d be glad to see Mrs. Trevarren safely to Sydney Town, he said. Once there, he would personally arrange her passage to America, making certain to select the best ship and captain available.

  She would be back in her own country, safe and sound, in a matter of weeks.

  Patrick, who should have been pleased that his wishes were being carried out so smoothly, scowled throughout the meal.

  Later that night, when Charlotte lay grieving in her marriage bed, Patrick came to her for the first time since before the disastrous explosion that had nearly taken her life. Saying nothing, offering no promises or excuses, he stripped off his clothes, stretched out beside her, and took her in his arms.

  She felt him tremble as he held her close against his side.

  “Don’t send me away,” she pleaded, but with quiet dignity.

  “I have to,” he answered. He rolled over, so that she was pinned gently beneath him, one of his muscled legs stretched across her thighs. “Say that you don’t want me here, Charlotte,” he said, “and I’ll go.”

  She wondered that one relatively small person could contain the emotions she was feeling then without bursting. Charlotte was angry, and she was wildly frustrated, but she also loved this man, adored him with an intensity as mysterious and far-flung as the heavens themselves.

  “Stay,” she whispered, plunging her fingers into his hair, bringing his head down so that their mouths touched and then engaged, powerfully and with desperation.