by Beth White
© 2016 by Beth White
Published by Revell
a division of Baker Publishing Group
PO Box 6287, Grand Rapids, MI 49516-6287
www.revellbooks.com
Ebook edition created 2016
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.
ISBN 978-1-4934-0166-6
Scripture used in this book, whether quoted or paraphrased by the characters, is taken from the King James Version of the Bible.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
The author is represented by MacGregor Literary, Inc.
Praise for The Pelican Bride
“Rich in historical detail. . . . A fascinating and little-explored historical setting peopled with strongly defined characters and no lack of romance makes an intriguing start for White’s new series.”
—CBA Retailers + Resources
“White’s carefully researched story, set in what would become Mobile, Alabama, is filled with duplicity, danger, political intrigue, and adventure.”
—Booklist, starred review
“With a fast-paced plot full of dynamic characters inspired by the real settlers of the Gulf Coast, . . . White has fashioned a richly layered and engrossing tale.”
—Historical Novel Society
“Fresh as a gulf breeze, The Pelican Bride is the perfect pairing of history and romance. Finely tuned characters and a setting second to none make this a remarkable, memorable story. Beth White’s foray into colonial Louisiana is historical romance of the highest quality.”
—Laura Frantz, author of The Mistress of Tall Acre
“Not your usual setting, not your usual historical romance—The Pelican Bride breaks new ground in the historical genre. Choosing to write a story set in the French colony that became Mobile, Alabama, draws the reader into a new and exciting period. A winning beginning to a new historical series.”
—Lyn Cote, author of The Wilderness Brides series
Praise for The Creole Princess
“The second entry in White’s Southern historical series (after The Pelican Bride) combines a lushly portrayed, exotic setting with an in-depth portrait of the complex mix of cultures, races, and divided loyalties that defined Gulf Coast residents in the eighteenth century. With its focus on a little known aspect of the American Revolution, this novel will also provide plenty to discuss for history book clubs.”
—Library Journal
“Lyse and Rafael have an instant rapport that will keep readers interested. White skillfully includes thoughtful questions and concerns about Christian approval of slavery, along with difficulties presented when politics threaten to tear families apart, without turning a charming story into a history lesson.”
—RT Book Reviews, 4 stars
To Donna Sularin,
my Betsy-Tacy friend who wrote stories with me before I knew I could, and who shared her bountiful library of Nancy Drew and Trixie Belden books.
My love and admiration know no bounds.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
Reader Note
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Books by Beth White
Back Ads
Back Cover
1
AUGUST 13, 1814
MOBILE POINT
She could set fire to the letter in her pocket and it would still be true.
Smearing away tears with the heel of her hand, Fiona slid down from her buckskin mare, Bonnie, and landed barefoot in the sand. She led the horse to the water’s edge and splashed along beside her, knee-deep in waves chugging straight up from the Gulf of Mexico. At home, on the bay side of the isthmus, the beach was quieter and gentler, but here on the gulf side the wind tore at her hair and the salt mist stung her eyes. Perfect.
Her brother was on a British prison ship lurking off the coast of North Carolina.
The words from that terrible piece of paper floated like sunspots in front of her eyes. Her twin, the other half of herself, wasn’t coming home this time. Sullivan had been at sea since he’d turned fourteen, and in six years had worked his way up to lieutenant in the new American maritime service. His letters had been full of adventure and optimism, and twice he’d managed a few weeks’ leave between assignments.
But this . . . this was so final.
She knew what the British did to prisoners of war. Grandpére Antoine’s stories of Revolutionary War days, when he’d been held in the guardhouse at Fort Charlotte, were burned in her brain. Short rations, rancid water, little sleep. Beatings.
She shuddered. Their older brother Léon said a prisoner exchange might be arranged. But who would do that for an insignificant young lieutenant from the backwaters of West Florida?
There had to be a way. Every day since Sullivan left home, she’d prayed for his safety, and God had protected him so far.
There must be a way.
She threw her arms around Bonnie’s damp neck, pressed her face into the warm hide, and let the tears come. Please, God, don’t take my brother.
Bonnie blew out a breath and stood patiently, while the waves rolled in, rocking Fiona, wetting her dress from the knees down. Eyes closed, she let her thoughts drift to long-gone, lazy summer days when she and Sullivan had wandered Navy Cove beach, crab buckets banging against their legs and never a care in the world. Then came the year she went to England with Aunt Lyse and Uncle Rafa, leaving Sullivan behind. By the time she returned, he’d become a sea-crazy young man, determined to travel the world on anybody’s ship that would take him.
With a sigh, she looked up at the steely sky. What was done couldn’t be undone, even by prayer.
The wind picked up, a gust that nearly knocked her off her feet, so she took up the reins once more. Grabbing Bonnie’s mane, she hiked up her sodden skirts and swung astride the horse’s bare back. Her impulsive ride to the beach was going to make her late getting supper together. Yesterday’s storm had put the men behind at the shipyard. They’d be working until dark tonight and would come home hungry as bears.
She’d ridden a ways down the beach, lost in thought, when Bonnie suddenly shied and stopped. Absently Fiona kicked her in the ribs. Bonnie shook her head and refused to move.
“What’s the matter, girl?” Fiona leaned to the side. Bonnie had almost stepped on a pile of seaweed all but covered with wet sand.
Wait, not seaweed. Material. Clothing. A body. A roll of surf washed up, stirred the folds of cloth, but the body did not move. Dead?
Oh, please not dead.
She slid down, throwing the reins to keep Bonnie in check. The body was facedown and hatless. A young man, judging by the thick, wet dark hair. Kn
eeling, she flipped him over just as another wave crashed in, sousing her. Coughing, shivering, she struggled to her feet and grabbed the man’s arms to drag him farther up onto the beach. He was tall and muscular, unbelievably heavy, inert as a sack of potatoes, and the tide was rolling in fast, but she managed to get him out of the reach of the waves. Bonnie wandered after her, snuffling in irritation.
“I know,” she panted. “This wasn’t in my plan either.” Léon was going to grumble about supper being late.
She let go of the young man’s arms and dropped to her knees, then put her ear to the wet wool covering his chest, praying for a rise and fall of breath. Maybe . . . maybe there was a faint thud under her cheek.
Tugging and shoving, she got him turned over, facedown again, and pressed the heels of her hands against his back. Push, push, push, wait. He didn’t move. She tried again.
He seemed to be dead.
She sat there with her hands flat against the broad back. What would her brothers have done? She’d heard them talk about breathing into the mouths of men pulled from the sea. Should she try that?
All but blinded by tears, she hauled the poor man onto his back and pushed his hair back from his face to look at him.
She stifled a scream. “Charlie!” Grabbing his face in shaking hands, she tried to make sense of what made no sense. Charlie Kincaid would be across an ocean, in England, not washed up on a beach in West Florida. “Charlie, Charlie, don’t be dead! Father in heaven, don’t let him be dead!”
Not knowing what else to do, she put her mouth to his and breathed, willing him to come to life. Again she blew air into his lungs. When nothing happened, she sat up panting, searching the familiar but man-grown face. The same, but not the same, as the boy she had known nine years ago. His face had lengthened with slashing angles of brow, cheekbone, and jaw, and he’d grown into the commanding nose. But there were the same ridiculously long, dark eyelashes and a mouth made for smiling and teasing a bookish, horse-crazy little girl.
“Wake up, Charlie,” she muttered, “or I’m going to tell your grandfather you’re ditching your lessons again.”
She bent to seal his lips with hers again, but his chest lurched under her hands. He gave a strangled cough, and water bubbled from his mouth. Relieved, terrified, Fiona scrambled to shove at his shoulder and back until she had him half turned. He continued to cough, weakly at first, then with hoarse, agonized gasps. Fiona pounded his back with all her strength, helping him rid his lungs of the suffocating seawater. “Don’t die, don’t die, don’t die.”
Finally she heard him whisper something.
She paused to bend close to his lips. “What?”
“Sto . . .” He wheezed.
“What?”
“I said st . . . stop hitting me,” he choked out. “Headache.”
Abruptly she straightened. “You’re alive! Oh, thank God, you’re alive!”
Charlie winced. “Yes, but would you mind . . . lowering the volume?” He opened his eyes, those familiar, piercing cerulean eyes that she saw in her dreams.
Well, one was blue, and the other had that odd hazel-brown splotch. Perfect, Charlie was not. “It’s so good to see you.”
“Er . . . you too.” He coughed. “Do I know you?”
“You don’t remember me?”
He stared at her, his face sunburnt, sand-encrusted, and bearing a deep, bloody gash over his left eyebrow. But of course he was Charlie. She didn’t know anybody else who had those oddly colored eyes. No wonder he didn’t recognize her, though, for nine years had made a significant difference in her appearance.
As if following her thoughts, Charlie’s gaze traveled downward from her face, and one eyebrow rose with that droll quirk she’d loved so much. “I think I’d remember you if we’d met before.”
Suddenly aware that she all but sat on him, Fiona jumped to her feet. “Oh, you! You haven’t changed one bit—except it used to be Maddy you were drooling over.”
“Maddy who? If there’s another one as pretty as you, I’ve landed in heaven.” He got an elbow underneath him and levered himself to a semi-sitting position. “What’s your name?”
She stared at him in chagrin. “You really don’t remember?”
“Right now I barely know my own name.” He looked around irritably. “If I haven’t broken down the pearly gates, where are we? Did I fall off my horse?”
Fiona looked around and found Bonnie ambling closer, probably looking for food. “This is my horse, Bonnie. You seem to have washed in from the Gulf. There was a storm last night.” She paused. She’d heard of people losing their memory after a head wound. “You had to have been on a ship.” But where was it? Frustrated, she scanned the empty horizon. There wasn’t a hunk of wood or other detritus anywhere to indicate the type of vessel he’d arrived on. She shifted her gaze to the east, where an Indian trail ran toward Perdido Pass and on to Pensacola. Could he have come overland and then gotten injured and washed into the Gulf during the storm?
Clearly no more enlightened than she, Charlie shut his eyes and lay back as if too exhausted to even look at her any longer.
Now what was she going to do? She wasn’t strong enough to lift him onto the horse, and she couldn’t drag him back home to Navy Cove by herself.
“I could go get Léon,” she said doubtfully.
“So there’s a Maddy and a Léon, and a horse named Bonnie. I’ll just call you Duchess.”
She whirled to look at him, and found one eye open—the solid blue one—and his lips curled in a smile. “Then you do remember me!” As the only girl in a family full of boys, she’d been called “Duchess” since she was just a little thing.
“I don’t think so.” The smile faded. “That isn’t really your name, is it?”
“Of course not. But I told you about it the night we blew up the—never mind.” Drowning in memory and anxiety and confusion, she dragged in a breath. “I’m Fiona Lanier. My cousin Maddy and my aunt and uncle all stayed at your grandfather’s estate the summer I was eleven years old.”
“If I hadn’t gotten brained and nearly drowned, I’m sure I would remember you,” Charlie said gently. “But don’t you think we ought to get off the beach? Because, and I hate to mention it, I think the tide is going to carry us back out to sea before very long.”
“Oh!” With a start Fiona realized he was right. The surf had crawled inland until the waves had almost reached Charlie’s feet.
He was on his elbow again, clearly intending to stand up.
She shrieked. “No! You’ll faint!”
But he rolled to his knees. “I’ll be fine,” he managed, panting. “Do you have a saddle for that horse?”
“Of course I do, but it’s at home. I just came out for a quick ride on the beach.” Suddenly she remembered the letter. How could she have forgotten Sullivan? She wrung her hands. Now she had an injured British aristocrat to care for, and Léon was going to be mad as a wet hen.
“All right, well, bareback it’ll be then.” Charlie was on his feet, swaying like a man coming off a five-day bender. He lurched at Bonnie, who quite understandably pranced away from him. Charlie landed on his rear and began to curse in Spanish.
Laughing in spite of their predicament, Fiona grabbed Bonnie’s reins. “Shhh, it’s okay, girl. He looks like a lunatic, but he can’t hurt you.”
Charlie snarled and began again in French.
She let him run down, then said, “I’m sorry she hurt your feelings, but she doesn’t like to be mounted from the right.” She reached down a hand. “If you can stand again, I’ll give you a leg up.”
“She didn’t hurt my feelings, it’s my bum that aches.” But he laughed and grasped her wrist, coming to his feet with surprising agility. She let him regain his balance with a hand on her shoulder. He was so tall that the top of her head barely reached his lips. She looked up at him, trying to find the boy she’d known in this mysterious stranger.
He stared back at her, his expression just as muddled as she
felt. “I do know you, somehow,” he muttered. “I just can’t remember . . . You said my name is Charlie, and that’s right. You mentioned my grandfather. Where is he? Did he bring me here?”
“No, he’s—” Did he know he was English? Did he know there was a war between their two countries? “I don’t know how you got here. This is Mobile Point, the isthmus that separates Mobile Bay from the Gulf of Mexico. I live about two miles across on the bay side, at Navy Cove.”
Charlie squeezed her shoulder in friendly fashion. “All right, then, duchess of Navy Cove, if you’d be so kind as to cup your hands, I’ll endeavor to boost myself onto your trusty steed. Then I’ll swing you up, and we’ll away.” He grimaced. “We’d do it the other way ’round, except I fear I’m not exactly in fine fettle at the moment.”
The deed was accomplished with more comedic effect than grace, but in a few moments Fiona grasped Charlie’s extended hand and let him pull her up behind him onto Bonnie’s back. She put her arms around his waist and took the reins, clicking her tongue to give Bonnie leave to walk.
She had ridden astride behind her brothers all her life, but this . . . clutching Charlie-the-stranger round the waist just to stay on, her shins bare and feet dangling, was another kettle of fish entirely. Not only was it awkward and uncomfortable, but she had enough sense to know that it was highly improper. Mama would not have approved. Maddy would definitely not approve. Léon would likely challenge Charlie to pistols at dawn.
None of them must ever know. She and Charlie would enter the barn from the back, put the horse away, and hope nobody saw them. She could pretend Charlie had walked all the way from New Orleans. Or something.
There had to be some way to explain his presence, his injury, his obvious Englishness.
Oh, dear Lord, what was she going to do?
By the time they rode the scant mile across the sandy, jungle-like spit of land, Charlie felt as if an army of Goths had marched around in his head, leaving death, decay, and destruction in its wake. No wonder he couldn’t remember this beautiful girl named Fiona, much less her cousin Maddy or her brother Léon. She had rattled on about her family behind his shoulder, as if silence terrified her.