Pirate's Bride (Liberty's Ladies)

by Lynette Vinet

  Hawk. His face and figure rose up before her eyes, and she closed them tightly, not wanting to see him or think about him. But no matter, his image floated behind her eyelids and she opened them again to find Nate smiling sadly at her. “I’ll miss your cookies,” he told her.

  Bethlyn stifled a sob. Suddenly she knew she’d miss Nate and their talks, she’d especially miss Tansy, and the way the setting sun bathed the island in a peach tint every day. With each watery mile, Windhaven became more and more a memory. But for some odd reason, Hawk seemed closer and closer to her.

  ~

  Three hours later, she kissed Jack and Nate farewell. She assured Jack she’d be perfectly fine, and he told her that if she changed her mind and decided to return to Windhaven she could find him at the High Street Market until dawn the next morning. Bethlyn knew she wouldn’t seek out the Tollivers again, as much as she’d miss them. The Tollivers reminded her of Windhaven and Hawk, and she didn’t want to think about Hawk anymore. She had to live her own life now, even if it meant confessing to Ian Briston about her involvement with the infamous privateer, Hawk. Her husband certainly wouldn’t want her for a wife then, and she’d be blissfully free of Briston, free to return home to England and start a new life. Perhaps she’d even marry again, but that idea held no appeal at the moment.

  She couldn’t imagine being intimate again with anyone but Hawk.

  After gaining directions to the offices of Briston Shipping from a street vendor, Bethlyn clutched the soggy package which contained her two gowns and headed south on Front Street. The cobblestones dug through her thin slippers with each step, and she hoped her destination wasn’t too far off. The bustling activity of the town caused her to feel qualms of discomfort. Never had she been out alone in the midst of so many people, usually sequestered within the confines of Aunt Penny’s phaeton, with Jeremy beside her. People hurried past, some carrying baskets of produce, while wagonloads of squawking poultry rolled in the general direction of the market. Children raced by her, the adults seemed to trot at a quick pace. She wondered if no one walked leisurely here. A wave of homesickness for Jeremy and Aunt Penny washed over her. She felt so alone and more than a bit frightened, but she wouldn’t allow Philadelphia to intimidate her. She had lived through too much with her father all of those years ago to cower like a timid child now. Besides, within the past month she’d become a woman at Hawk’s hands. That knowledge was enough to push her onward.

  She began to wonder how much longer to Briston Shipping when her attention was diverted by a number of British soldiers, attired in traditional scarlet uniforms, milling about the sidewalk in front of a tavern.

  They hovered around a tall, olive-complexioned young man, dressed in a red coat with two gold epaulettes. He wore a white wig, the queue held in place by a jaunty scarlet ribbon. The young man held up a sketch pad for their inspection and some of the officers burst out in laughter.

  “John, you’ve captured that American dog’s profile perfectly. I wonder what General Washington would say if he could see your sketch of him. Bet he wouldn’t be too pleased with that long nose you’ve given him,” one of the junior officers observed. The rest of the men agreed just as Bethlyn brushed past.

  “Now who is that haughty vixen?” she heard someone say.

  “I haven’t a clue,” the officer named John responded, “but I’d love to sketch her.”

  “Heavens, John, look at her. She looks like something fished out of the river. Must be a fishmonger’s daughter who fancies herself a lady.”

  Bethlyn couldn’t help but blush to hear the man speak so disdainfully about her. Her hair had dried out by now, but she suddenly realized that her silk gown was covered in dried water spots, as were her shoes. She looked a mess, but she’d never allow anyone to believe she thought so. Instead, she squared her shoulders and turned her head back toward the soldiers in a defiant gesture and said in her best modulated tones, “Good afternoon, gentlemen.”

  Some of the officers stood with their mouths open, but others, like the young officer named John, bowed gallantly.

  Barely two minutes later she came to a gray building which consisted of three floors. The shingle on the front proclaimed it as Briston Enterprises. Bethlyn’s heart beat loudly and for a second her knees quaked. This wasn’t how she imagined meeting her husband after all these years. She’d wanted to impress him, to allow him to see that the shy, plump child he’d married was gone and a beautiful, self-assured woman had taken her place. But at the moment, she looked neither beautiful nor self-assured. In fact, she most closely resembled a dried-out water rat, but she couldn’t help her appearance. Ian Briston would have to accept her wretched appearance, now that she’d come all of this way. Or not accept her at all, which was quite fine with her. However, the man did owe her a warm bath, dry clothes and a roof over her head. She was his wife.

  Entering the cool interior of the foyer, she was amazed at the beautiful but practical furnishings. Persian rugs dotted the oak floors, and industrious heads bent over Sheraton desks. At her approach one of these heads glanced up at her. A pudgy little man eyed her curiously over the horn-rimmed glasses perched on his long, thin nose.

  “May I be of assistance?” he offered in a curt, businesslike tone.

  “I should like to see Mr. Briston.”

  His watery eyes raked her from head to foot and he sniffed. “Mr. Briston isn’t in.”

  “Then may I speak to Mr. Gibbons?” she said, remembering the name of her husband’s secretary, the man who always chose her birthday, Christmas, and wedding anniversary gifts.

  “He’s not in today.”

  “I see. Do you know when Mr. Briston shall return?”

  “I can’t say, miss.”

  “It’s Mrs. — Mrs. Ian Briston.”

  The man cocked an eyebrow at her. “What did you say?”

  “I said my name is Mrs. Briston. I wish to speak to my husband upon his return. I don’t mind waiting in his office.”

  “I just bet you won’t mind waiting.” The little man stood up, his pale face turned red. “I don’t know what sort of game you’re playing, but I want you out of here now, otherwise, I’ll call in the law.”

  Bethlyn was so stunned for this hireling to speak to her in such a fashion that all she could do was stare with an open mouth. Finally she turned cool eyes upon him. “I assure you, sir … What is your name?”

  “Mr. Eakins.”

  “Mr. Eakins, sir, I am Bethlyn Briston, wife of your employer. I advise you to please treat me courteously.”

  “You are an audacious strumpet!” Eakins intoned and gestured to a large, brawny man who sat by a corner desk. “Escort this young woman out of here, Demming.”

  Demming firmly placed a large hand around Bethlyn’s upper arm and pushed her to the door. “You’re making a mistake. Mr. Eakins!” she cried and would have fought, but she didn’t dare, for the cold-eyed Demming was more than twice her size and three times her weight. “I’m Ian Briston’s wife!”

  “Bah! If you knew anything about Ian Briston, woman, you’d know that he isn’t married and never has been. Away with you now!” Mr. Eakins returned to his desk and his work while Demming shoved Bethlyn bodily out of the door and forced her to stumble onto the street. The door was slammed tightly closed.

  Never had she been so humiliated. She found herself kneeling on the cobblestoned street, the object of curious glances by the passersby. If she wouldn’t have been so stunned by being ejected from her husband’s business, a business which she herself partly owned, she’d have risen to her feet and angrily entered the office again to rebuke that horrid little man with such scathing language that he’d be unable to speak.

  However, her circumstances of the last few weeks, the sense of loss she felt over Hawk, and the sudden knowledge that her husband must never have mentioned his marital state, caused her to nearly weep right there on the street.

  “Get out of the way, you stupid wench!” the driver of a large carriage
screeched to her. She barely had time to glance up to see the large coach thundering toward her, her first inclination was that the horse and the turning wheels would soon splatter her body upon the cobblestones. She froze, but in an instant she found herself on the sidewalk, pressed against a red-coated chest as the coach flew past her.

  “Have a care!” her rescuer screamed to the fleeing coachman. “Are you all right? Please, miss, tell me you’re not hurt. You’re so still I can scarcely feel you breathing.”

  Through a fog Bethlyn realized that the man who held her in his arms spoke to her. His hand smoothed back her tousled hair from her eyes while a comforting and strong arm held her securely around the waist. Her heart beat so hard that she could hear the deafening beats within her ears. Even her mouth had grown dry from fear. However, she slowly grew aware of the man and the fact that more curious faces stared at her.

  “I should like to sit down somewhere,” she mumbled weakly.

  “Certainly, miss. Come this way. Are you able to walk?” Bethlyn nodded, but her legs almost gave way when they started off, growing a bit stronger under the man’s guiding hand.

  Minutes later they stopped at the tavern she’d passed earlier. This time none of the soldiers was about, and the man lowered her to a sitting position on a bench outside. Suddenly a cup of water was pressed into her hand, and she drank it down, feeling better after a minute or so. At least she wasn’t frightened any longer, only terribly weary. Glancing up at the young man, she recognized him as the soldier with the sketch pad. In fact, now that she could see him up close and saw the insignia on his uniform, she realized he was a captain. He sat beside her, an attentive arm placed around her waist.

  “Are you feeling better? You’d have been killed by that bloody colonial and he probably wouldn’t have stopped.”

  Bethlyn managed a smile of gratitude to the handsome young man. “l owe you my life. If not for you, I’d be dead now, I suppose.”

  “Don’t even think such a thing, miss. I’m glad to have been there to help you.”

  “May I have the pleasure of your name, Captain?” Instantly he rose to attention and bowed to her, taking her still trembling hand in his.

  “Captain John Andre at your beck and call, miss.” He planted a warm, sweet kiss on her hand.

  “Well, Captain John Andre, I’m most pleased to meet you. I’m Bethlyn Briston.”

  “Are you related to Ian and Molly Briston?”

  “Yes, I’m Ian Briston’s wife.”

  A look of complete surprise passed across his face. “I had no idea Ian was married. I’m acquainted with both Ian and his sister, Molly. Many nights have I spent at Edgecomb and delighted in their company.”

  Bethlyn didn’t bite back the sarcastic retort which rose to her lips. “It seems you’re not the only one who didn’t know of my husband’s marital status. That beetle-faced little man at the office didn’t know, either.” She sighed tiredly. “I would love a nice bath and clean sheets to sleep in. I’ve traveled a long way to find my husband.” She startled and glanced around. “My package…”

  “You mean that brown sack? I’m afraid the carriage claimed it. I noticed it was torn and trampled. If you wish I’ll go back and retrieve it for you.”

  Bethlyn shook her head; nothing was going right for her today. She’d just lost her two best gowns and nearly been crushed to death. What other unforeseen tragedy could happen?

  “I wish I could find my husband,” she muttered.

  “Then find him you shall,” Andre said in a rush, and rose to his feet. “I’ll get a carriage for us and before you can say Jack Rabbit, you’ll be at Edgecomb, safe within the loving bosom of your family.”

  Bethlyn wasn’t certain how loving and safe she’d be, but tears misted her eyes at John Andre’s kindness to her. Once again he came to her rescue. “I do appreciate your help, Captain Andre.”

  White teeth flashed in his olive-complexioned face. “Call me John. All of the fair ladies in Philadelphia do, and you, Mrs. Briston, are the fairest of the fair.”

  “Ah, I believe you have the soul of a poet.”

  Andre made a slight bow. “Among other things, dear lady.”

  ~

  “A wife? I don’t believe it!” Molly Briston sat in the parlor of Edgecomb with Bethlyn and John Andre. An amused smile lit up her pretty face, which was framed by dark wispy curls. Her eyes, the color of hazelnuts, filled with curiosity at the disheveled young woman who claimed to be her sister-in-law.

  Bethlyn sipped her tea slowly. A large lump lodged in her throat. God, Briston hadn’t told his own sister he’d been married seven years ago! She felt so humiliated she wished to find a hole in the floor and sink fast away. However, she hid her emotions as she’d done all those years ago with her father when she’d been hurt. “You’re quite shocked, Molly,” she said kindly. “But it’s true. The marriage took place shortly after my stepmother died.”

  A shadow of sadness passed quickly across Molly’s pretty face. “She was my mother. I still miss her and remember her. However, Ian commands that I never mention her name in this house. That’s a very hard thing to do.” Molly suddenly brightened and embraced Bethlyn. “I’ve always wanted a sister, and now I’ve got one. How delicious! And how thrilling it will be when Ian sees you again.”

  “Yes,” Bethlyn commented, pleased that Molly accepted her, but she didn’t believe for one moment that Ian Briston would be so glad to see her again.

  ~

  After bidding a fond farewell to John Andre, Molly showed Bethlyn to her room on the second floor of the large and luxuriously furnished mansion. Bethlyn had been able to see very little of the outside of the house, since she and John had arrived after dusk had fallen. She had seen that it was a grand, elegant-appearing structure. Two massive chimneys stood on either side of the three-storied mansion. The third floor contained two dormer windows while the other windows were in the Palladian style.

  A newel staircase led up to the second-floor landing, and Molly opened the arched doorway of a room at the end of the hall. “I hope you like this bedroom. It’s the prettiest guest bedroom in the—” Molly halted, and two red splotches marred the perfection of her face. “But you aren’t really a guest now, are you? Perhaps you’d care to stay in the bedroom next to Ian’s, the one which was my mother’s?”

  “This is fine,” Bethlyn assured her, and smiled. She didn’t feel as if she were the wife of Edgecomb’s master, and she doubted she’d be staying long. The guest bedroom was fine with her. Molly left her to get acquainted with the room. The walls were painted a buff color, and the ceilings were pearly white, while the paneling was a warm brown. She especially liked the green-and-yellow-print counterpane and the lime-green drapes on the double windows which flanked a large marble fireplace.

  On one side of the room stood a hand-painted silk screen which depicted delicate-looking birds, perched on thin vines with a volcano in the background. Moving the screen aside she found a white porcelain bathing tub with brass-clawed feet. Moments later, Molly came back, followed by two servant girls who carried buckets of warm water which they promptly poured into the tub. Under Molly’s arm was a fine lace nightdress.

  “I’ll loan you one of my nightgowns and I’ll have Sally alter one of my dresses for you until we can go shopping tomorrow. I know of the sweetest little dressmaker. She makes absolutely wonderful clothes. I do look forward to shopping with you, Bethlyn. You’ve just arrived from abroad and must be up on all the latest fashions. Oh, how lovely it will be to have a woman to shop with, to share secrets!”

  Molly’s gushings caused Bethlyn to feel extremely guilty. The dear girl never questioned her as to how she’d come to Edgecomb with nothing, not even a decent pair of shoes. She was so trusting and kind that Bethlyn embraced her and assured her they’d be the best of friends.

  She sincerely hoped this would prove true, but she doubted it would come to pass. Not if Ian Briston had a say in the matter.

  13

&nbs
p; Weariness propelled Ian Briston from the foyer and up the flight of stairs to his room. He was even too tired to eat and had never been so aggravated in all the years he’d run Briston Shipping. Couldn’t anyone do anything correctly? he wondered. Must he personally oversee every small problem? He and Marc had returned earlier that evening after a day spent seeing to the outfitting of a new ship. No sooner were they in his office than Eakins had barged in, intent upon telling him about an incident which had happened during the day, but Ian had waved the man away; in fact, he actually almost growled to silence him. He’d felt unable to concentrate on trivialities and informed Eakins he’d have to brief him in the morning. Leaving the office, he headed for home, a sticky feeling clinging to his clothes despite a sudden cooling of the warm Philadelphia temperature. The mid-November heat was unusual, and he hoped that fall would soon arrive. Ian had grown tired of the city already and longed to feel his feet on the deck of a ship once more.

  He wanted something else, too, or rather someone, but he didn’t dare think about her.

  So, climbing the stairs, he resolved to wash away the accumulated sweat and grime of the day, then crawl into bed and sleep — and forget. Removing his frock coat, he moved soundlessly along the carpeted corridor, stopping abruptly by one of the guest bedrooms. He noticed that the door was ajar.

  A flickering candle, burned down to the nub, barely illuminated the covered figure sleeping on the large bed. But from the shapely contours and curves of the person, Ian discerned that a woman rested beneath the thin coverlet. Strands of light hair fanned the pillow and hid the profile of the woman, but Ian couldn’t help but smile. A surge of desire and amusement rushed through him. Suddenly he no longer felt tired, because he knew that the woman who slept so peacefully wouldn’t be sleepy for long. The moment he’d kiss her, she’d awaken and open herself to him like a dewy flower.