Pirate's Bride (Liberty's Ladies)

by Lynette Vinet

  A slight streak of rebellion rose within her. She glanced into the mirror and noticed that her eyes were a blazing amber. “I can’t help that I’m my mother’s child!” she shrieked and hurled a hairbrush at her own reflection.

  The mirror cracked with the force. Bethlyn stood there, heaving her shoulders in outrage when Tessie and Mavis entered the room again. The two exchanged a wary glance as Bethlyn gestured to a lacework veil, resting on a delicately embroidered ottoman.

  “Place the veil over my face! “ she snapped at Mavis. “I want to get this ceremony over as quickly as possible. And when it is, I’ll be glad never to return to this hateful house.”

  ~

  Tessie handed Bethlyn a small violet bouquet on her way out of the door. Bethlyn took a whiff of the lavender blossoms and felt her stomach turn over. I won’t be ill, she resolved. Nothing will keep me from marrying Ian Briston and leaving here. Nothing.

  Bethlyn had been long away from Woodsley and forgotten the largeness of the house. With her hand fastened on her father’s arm, each step along the north corridor to the Painted Hallway and the open colonnade of the entrance hall caused her head to swim. Portraits of her ancestors blurred before her eyes, and the paintings of seventeenth-century masters like Rottenhamer and Berchem which her father had so carefully chosen were gazed at by unappreciative eyes. At one point as she descended the marble staircase, enclosed by gilted ironwork balustrades, she faltered and felt her father’s fingers dig into her flesh, pulling her onward.

  From the Painted Hall, they entered the Grotto, a small room with only one window to accentuate the splendor of the Diana Fountain in the center. The huntress’s stone image was covered with swags of garland and her long, thin arms positioned a bow and arrow in place, an arrow which was pointed straight at Bethlyn’s heart. Or so it seemed to her. But Bethlyn felt that the legendary huntress would do far less damage to her heart than the man who now dragged her into the chapel itself.

  Once inside, she heard her father breathe a long sigh. Had he thought she’d balk at the last minute? she wondered. For a second she was tempted to do just that, to cause him untold annoyance for the years he’d ignored her. She didn’t. Suddenly the urge to be free of him washed over her with new forcefulness. Her stomach and her head hurt, but she ignored the rolling nausea, the ungodly beating at the temples, and glanced around the room.

  Of all the rooms in the house, the chapel had changed not at all. Lady Jessica’s stamp was on the new furnishings, the draperies. Nothing of Bethlyn’s mother’s taste remained. However, in the chapel, Bethlyn could still look at the ceiling, painted with scenes from the Life of Christ, the picture by Verrio of Doubting Thomas which hung over the alabaster altar. A tall black marble column stood sentinel at each end of the room. Bethlyn smelled the strong odor of cedar which emanated from the wainscotted walls, elaborately carved in rows of grape motifs.

  Seated on tall chairs of needlework seats were Thomas Eversley and some of the staff, Tessie among them, with Mavis sitting nearer the back. When Bethlyn and her father moved toward the altar, Thomas rose and managed a tight smile at her. It was when she moved past him that she saw her bridegroom.

  He waited in front of a painting which represented the Marriage in Cana. As a child, this had been Bethlyn’s favorite painting. She had sat for hours in the chapel to stare at the figure of Christ as he blessed the wine and the happy young couple, newly married, in the background. The painting had represented all her dreams of marrying and being loved.

  Now, as her gaze settled through the lace of her veil on her bridegroom, she suppressed a shudder. The tall, well-formed man who took her hand from her father’s wasn’t the man of her dreams. No welcoming smile came from him. His face contained a coldness which not even her father’s could match. His eyes — were they green or black?

  At the moment she couldn’t tell, because they showed no emotion. They were dull, as dull as the black clothes he wore, the nondescript white periwig on his head. He dressed as if he attended a funeral and not a wedding.

  She hadn’t known what sort of a man to expect, but Miss Grosvernor’s words about “the boorish colonial” came back to her. The woman had been right, and she’d been too dense to admit the truth. Ian Briston was far from a prince on a white charger, come to rescue her from her father and bring her to the fairy-tale land of America across the sea. His hand felt cold, and she shivered, not missing the peculiar arch of his eyebrow as he settled her hand on his arm.

  God! she found herself thinking. He’s my last hope for happiness and I repulse him, too.

  The marriage vows dimmed in her memory. At one point, she heard Briston’s voice promising to cherish her, the next her own. Was she really trembling so? An awful chill seized her. In a daze she realized the ceremony had ended and she was being led to the back of the chapel by her new husband. A servant served everyone chilled wine in gold goblets. She watched Ian lift his cup to her in a toast and knew she was supposed to drink from her cup. But the smell of the wine, the taste of it, was too much for her stomach to bear. No sooner had she swallowed than it bolted on her.

  Bethlyn made a choking sound and rushed on unsteady legs into the Grotto, clutching at her stomach. Perhaps she could make it to her room before she was sick. Maybe …

  She fell to the floor, retching, and sobbing for the indignity.

  “My God!” she heard her father’s voice, coated with disgust. “Someone clean up this mess!”

  “Yes, my lord.” Mavis ran quickly past, followed by Tessie. Bethlyn knelt on the floor, her dress ruined, the floor spotted. No one made a move to help her. She was seemingly forgotten by all, watched like a freak at a village fair.

  She realized that her veil hung limply across her head, having been thrown back by someone when she became ill. Had it been her father? She glanced up, mortification showing in her face. No, not him. He watched her in repulsion. She felt a comforting arm on hers and found Ian Briston beside her. She truly wanted to die.

  She sobbed weakly. “I’m.. . I’m … sorry. For … give me.”

  The chastisement she expected didn’t come, not realizing that her father had been pushed aside and any other comments he’d have uttered had been sufficiently quelled by a sneer thrown his way from Briston. “Don’t apologize, my dear. Can you put your arms around my neck? I’ll carry you upstairs to your room. Would a servant lead the way?”

  Before she knew it Briston lifted her in his arms and followed a maid to her room. In due time she was laid across the bed and the veil removed from her face by Briston.

  He smiled down at her. “I’m certain one of your maids can help you undress. You must rest now and regain your strength.”

  “I’m very seldom sick,” she mouthed, feeling she must reassure him of her good health. Maybe he wouldn’t want her if he thought she was sickly.

  Tessie appeared then and immediately came to Bethlyn. “Oh, my lady, I knew you were too sick to marry today. Your pretty dress is ruined, too.”

  “Take extra special care of your charge,” Briston said to Tessie and patted Bethlyn’s hand. “I’ll check on you later,” he told Bethlyn.

  “Thank you,” Bethlyn said, feeling ill again and trying to pretend she felt better. “I look forward to recovering quickly and leaving Woodsley.”

  He didn’t reply to that, just stared at her and smiled benevolently at her like she was a small child.

  When he was gone, she said to Tessie, “I think he is a kind man. I will make him a good wife.” Then she was sick again.

  ~

  Ian leaned a black-satin-clad arm against the cool Italian marble mantelpiece in the Oak Drawing Room.

  The rich brown carpet at his feet matched the heavy embroidered drapes on the windows, a direct contrast to the light-colored and unadorned furnishings in the room, the sort of no-nonsense furniture on which a man could stretch out, feel comfortable. With the orange-and-blue flames licking at the logs in the fireplace, the room exuded a warmth, an informal
ity Ian found lacking in the museum-like Woodsley.

  Swirling the rich Madeira in a wine goblet, he surveyed the bottom of the cup, seeing in the depths things which weren’t apparent at first glance. Like this room. He didn’t doubt his mother had furnished the Oak Room with the earl in mind. Probably she’d wanted a refuge for her husband, a place where they could be together in loving camaraderie. Somehow Ian couldn’t imagine the earl sitting in loving camaraderie with anyone. Not Jessica. Most certainly not with the girl he claimed as his daughter.

  The relationship between Talbot and Bethlyn bothered Ian a great deal. Clearly, the man resented her. Upon meeting the earl that morning, Talbot had made no effort to hide his eagerness to have her married and gone from Woodsley. At first Ian believed the man wanted only to marry off an unattractive daughter. Heaven knew the poor girl would have had an awful time finding a man if one hadn’t been readily available for her, Ian decided. The memory of her face, deathly pale with red-rimmed eyes was clear in his mind. However, Ian sensed an undercurrent of something else when the earl became angered at the girl becoming ill.

  Why did Talbot hate her so?

  Shrugging his broad-shouldered frame, Ian glanced out of the long, Palladian-style window at the garden, bereft of blooms. In the distance he spotted a broad walk, flanked by rosebushes and sloping lawns. From his vantage point could be seen the tumbling waters of a cascade and, beyond, a heavily wooded hillside reached skyward. An orangerie and a summerhouse dotted the landscape. Ian couldn’t help but be impressed by the beauty and immense size of Woodsley. For all its grandeur, however, he found the place lacking in warmth, in caring. Was that why he detected an eagerness to be gone from here in the voice of the girl he’d just married? Did she realize to what extent her father disliked her? Of course, she must, Ian found himself thinking. Just because the girl was homely didn’t make her stupid.

  A wave of pity for Bethlyn Talbot, or Bethlyn Briston as she was now known, washed over him. He didn’t want to feel anything for the girl. He’d arrived at Woodsley with every intention of marrying her, of turning on his heels and leaving, minus the bride. An ache to see the well-controlled demeanor of the earl crumble with the knowledge that he’d been royally cuckolded by the son of the man whose wife he’d stolen filled him like a poison. During the sea voyage with Eversley that was all he thought about. He’d intended to leave his bride as soon as the marriage ceremony was over, but the girl had fallen ill and spoiled it all for him.

  He couldn’t forget her pitiful young face, feeling such compassion for her, an emotion he never expected to feel for Talbot’s daughter. The sight of her being wretchedly sick before him, her father, the whole household, must have been quite humiliating for her. Yet, she’d been rather dignified about the whole thing. At least she hadn’t broken free with a gale of sobs. She’d cried softly to herself, but he could accept that. One thing Ian hated was an hysterical female. Somehow he knew that Bethlyn Talbot very seldom gave vent to her emotions, that she kept herself in check out of self-preservation. Living with a man like Nathaniel Talbot she would be forced to not show weakness. She was so young, so very young.

  He shook himself, deciding he was veering from. his reason for being here. He mustn’t allow the girl to get to him. Guiltily he realized that her future rested in his hands now, and he had no clear idea what he should do beyond following his plan to leave Woodsley and never look back. Briston Shipping, in part, legally belonged to him now. He’d followed the terms of his mother’s will and married Lady Bethlyn. No one could deny he’d honored his mother’s request. But he didn’t want a wife, Bethlyn Talbot or any woman who’d cling to him, to be dependent upon him for her happiness. The fact of the matter was that he felt unable to love and couldn’t set himself up as his father, a man betrayed by the wife he adored.

  As Ian poured another helping of wine, Talbot and Eversley entered the room. Eversley stood respectfully at a distance, playing the faithful solicitor to the hilt. Ian wanted to laugh at the man, suspecting that Eversley would knife the earl in the back if the man ever caught on to his pilfering. However, Ian didn’t care if Eversley stole from the earl’s accounts, as long as he never attempted to steal from Ian’s coffers. It was agreed that Briston Shipping would be run like two separate companies, under one name. As long as the British end was run adequately well, Ian didn’t worry about Thomas Eversley. In fact, if the crafty Thomas could steal funds from under the earl’s nose, Ian wished him luck.

  Talbot crossed the room to stand beside Ian. He inclined his head. “A physician has examined your wife. He finds she has caught a malady, peculiar to the servants of late. He feels that within a week she’ll be well and able to travel. I trust you’ll be comfortable at Woodsley until then.”

  Ian placed the wine goblet on the mantel and squarely faced his father-in-law. “Thank you for your hospitality. However, I shall be forced to decline.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  The moment for which Ian had waited was now at hand. His palms perspired with anticipation. He spoke calmly, without emotion, like the earl. “Quite simple. I leave immediately for London to sail home. I’ve a shipping company to maintain, as you well know. The company was the reason for this unfortunate union between our families.”

  “You can’t leave, man,” Eversley broke into the conversation. “The will stated…”

  “Only that I marry the earl’s daughter, which I have dutifully done,” Ian spoke sharply to Eversley. “No one can fault me. I lived up to the terms of my mother’s will.”

  Nathaniel’s mouth quirked into a scowl. “If you think to pawn the girl off on me after you’ve made her your wife … well, I won’t allow it.”

  “She is your daughter, sir. A fact I think you have conveniently overlooked many times in the past. How can you stand there and see your only child bartered and practically sold to me as a wife? She is barely out of the nursery and not ready for the intimacies of marriage.”

  “What difference does age make?” Thomas asked. “The girl simply lies there and does her duty by you.”

  Ian turned on Thomas, a fire in his eyes which belied the calmness of his voice. “You’re a crass fellow for all your polished manners, Thomas. She is a human being, not some commodity to be bought and sold. The girl is abed with an illness. How do you expect me to take her to wife now?” His piercing gaze moved towards the Earl. “I wonder, Your Grace, if you have purposely saddled me with an ailing wife.”

  Nathaniel Talbot surprised Ian then by laughing a deep hearty laugh, his eyes holding a hint of respect for Ian. “I assure you that my daughter will recover in due time. It appears I underestimated Jessica’s son.”

  “It would seem so,” Ian said stiffly.

  “You’ve bested me, son. I didn’t think you had it in you. “

  “I’m not your son.” Ian’s voice contained contempt, something which brought the earl up sharply. The man’s amusement disappeared.

  Ian grabbed for his cloak, eager to be gone from here and to put the whole sordid mess from his mind when Thomas blocked the doorway.

  “What about the girl? Some sort of an arrangement for her welfare must be made. As the earl’s solicitor, I insist upon it.”

  Ian glared at Thomas with burning reproachful eyes. There was nothing in Thomas’s bearing to cause him to dislike him. Actually, Thomas was well groomed, handsome, and finely dressed for a forty-year-old solicitor. Ian realized money was Thomas’s weakness, though the man made a vain attempt to hide it. He couldn’t shake the feeling that Thomas would love to see him falter, that perhaps he begrudged him his inherited company while Thomas had been forced to struggle through years, of poverty to become a solicitor. Perhaps even the arranged marriage gnawed at Thomas. Might not a man with high aspirations, a man who loved the feel of gold in his palms, have harbored the desire to marry Talbot’s daughter if he’d been rich enough?

  The thought flashed through Ian’s mind that with Thomas and her father constantly beside her, Bet
hlyn might need some protection. Until that moment he hadn’t known what to do about his bride. The whole ordeal had left him numb. The reaction he’d expected from Talbot about leaving her at Woodsley wasn’t the one he’d gotten, and now he felt responsible for the girl’s welfare. His plan for revenge had turned sour and he didn’t feel the exhilaration he’d expected.

  “Would you like Lady Bethlyn to stay at Woodsley, Thomas?” Ian asked with dispassion.

  Thomas was actually salivating. Ian supposed he was thinking about all the money Bethlyn might bestow upon him for legal advice, at empty business ventures in which he’d come away the richer. But being a dutiful solicitor and careful with his words, Thomas cast an eye at the earl, who shook his head in disgust.

  “Wherever the lady shall be the happiest is my wish, sir. “

  “Well spoken.” Ian laughed heartily and slapped Thomas on the back. “When I arrive in London later this afternoon I’ll pay a call on my great-aunt Penny.” He turned towards Talbot. “You remember her, Your Grace. She is my mother’s aunt on her father’s side. Mother visited her that time she came to London, the time she met you.”

  “I remember,” Talbot said blandly.

  “I’ve heard through mutual relatives that she is quite lonely in her London townhouse. I believe Bethlyn would brighten her life up a bit if she went to live with Aunt Penny. Of course, I’d dispense a large yearly sum to keep my wife in the style to which she is accustomed. She can take any servants she wishes. I’ll incur all her expenses, of course. This agreement is satisfactory with you,” Ian said.

  Talbot bowed stiffly, but his face barely suppressed his shock, his anger. Ian had finally gotten a rise out of the older man and he’d cherish the memory of it to his dying day. “Another thing,” Ian continued. “Both of you must understand that Bethlyn’s household is her own. Aunt Penny is there to see to her safety and never doubt that the old woman is quite right in the head and takes no lip service from anyone. At least, that’s what I’ve heard about her. Whatever my wife wants to do is her business. Neither one of you will have a say in her private matters. Have I made myself clear, gentlemen?”