Pirate's Bride (Liberty's Ladies)

by Lynette Vinet

  A soft whistle of disbelief through his lips caused him to move and walk as if in a trance. Ian saw no one as he meandered along the side streets though people passed him, and an occasional carriage thundered past. He wasn’t certain where he was going until he found himself at Marc’s door, waiting impatiently for Marc to open it and let him inside.

  When Marc opened the door, Mavis stood alongside of him.

  “I love her,” Ian told them before either one of them could utter a sound. “I love Bethlyn.”

  Marc and Mavis both laughed, and Marc pulled Ian inside while Mavis served up plates of pie for all of them. However, Ian couldn’t eat, because his whole being was satisfied.

  He’d already feasted on love.

  16

  Ian baffled Bethlyn.

  For the last few days he’d been more than solicitous of her, even seeming not to mind her days spent at the office. Whenever he wasn’t busy with outside appointments, he managed to be in his office with her to answer her questions. Questions she decided that Marc or Mr. Eakins could have answered equally as well.

  In fact Ian was so amenable, so kind to her, that if she wasn’t careful she might mistake this concern for love. But that was one emotion Ian Briston seemed incapable of feeling. Still, he had treated her like his equal, almost like his true wife. He managed to inquire if her room and the meals at Edgecomb were to her liking, and she had no doubt that if she didn’t care for something, he’d immediately substitute something which pleased her.

  He constantly kept her off balance, and she had no idea what she should think. Sometimes she very nearly allowed herself to imagine that they might have a future together. But she didn’t. He hadn’t touched her since before he learned her identity. She wondered if he regretted that Cynthia Connors wasn’t his wife. Bethlyn couldn’t forget seeing Cynthia cuddled in Ian’s embrace the night of the play, and his kindnesses to her the last few days made the memory all the more painful — and Bethlyn all the more spiteful to prove to him that he meant nothing to her.

  The night of the Shippens’s soiree would more than convince her husband how little she thought about him. For the past week she’d dwelled on Ian and Cynthia, hating herself for caring so much, but aching to cause him as much pain as she felt. He thought he could marry her and keep her cloistered in England while he dallied in America with his mistress. No more, she decided, as she dressed for the soiree.

  On this night Ian would free her from this disastrous marriage. She wasn’t even certain that the British suspected he was Captain Hawk. She had only his word on that, and what good was the word of a man who married a young, unsuspecting girl and left her to her own devices? She’d get on with her life and somehow forget Ian — a hard thing to do when even her dreams betrayed her by desiring her husband.

  She’d chosen her gown with special care. Molly hadn’t seen it yet, but she didn’t wish to impress Molly. She dressed to enrage her husband. All of the times she’d flirted in London with men about whom she didn’t care a fig, the slightly scandalous activities in which she’d engaged with Jeremy to catch his attention, had all been for naught. The bounder hadn’t cared, but if there was one thing she had learned about Ian Briston was that he was a prideful man.

  He hadn’t taken her earlier escapades seriously because of the distance involved. Tonight she’d put his pride to the test and force his hand by giving him a taste of all he’d missed in London.

  Smiling like a sly cat as the carriage pulled up to the Shippen House, Bethlyn held her cloak securely about her, preventing anyone from seeing the gown, and her hood hid a great portion of her hair. Molly, with Ian’s help, emerged from the carriage first, and then he held out his hand to her.

  Her hand touched his, and for a second an electrical shock jolted her. He hadn’t touched her since the night in the office when he’d massaged her neck. She barely glanced at him, but she felt shaken by the contact.

  When they entered the house, Peggy Shippen, with John Andre beside her, greeted them in the foyer. After Peggy made introductions to her parents and her sisters, Ian escorted his wife and sister into the parlor, which was ablaze with lights. Holly and red berries, in celebration of the coming holidays, were wrapped around the marble columns which separated the foyer from the large parlor.

  A servant dutifully helped Molly off with her cape, and Bethlyn couldn’t help thinking how sweet and pretty her sister-in-law looked in a deeply flounced pink gown. She’d miss Molly when she left, and a bittersweet sadness filled Bethlyn to realize she might never see Molly again after her return to England.

  Ian pulled off his own dark cape to reveal his ebony attire of velvet jacket and trousers, the black boots which rose up to his well-proportioned thighs, and a white, ruffled shirt which contrasted with the bronze coloring of his neck and face. A handsome face, Bethlyn thought, and hated herself for that melting sensation which invaded her legs.

  “May I?” he invited, and his hands moved to the neckline of her cloak despite the hovering servant.

  “Of course,” Bethlyn replied demurely, but her heart thudded and her palms sweated. Her bid to escape Ian Briston was now to begin in earnest.

  Her cloak fell away, and it seemed that all the people in the room turned in unison to look her way. A gasp could be heard throughout the room, and in that second Bethlyn knew the gown had produced the effect she’d planned. Until that moment all of her gowns had concealed her attributes, and she’d made certain that if a gown was too low, a bunch of flowers or a kerchief in the neckline would prevail.

  This gown was different.

  The ruby satin of the low neckline barely covered her full breasts, the tight-fitting bodice descending into a point and accentuating her tiny waist. She wore the elbow-length sleeves, which dripped in a double cascade of gold lace, off her milky white shoulders. Her full, draped skirt was ruffled in golden lace and festooned with small red roses which were repeated on the ruby slippers. On her neck she wore a garnet-and-gold necklace, and at her ears the matching earbobs set off the beauty of her porcelain complexion.

  Her honey-brown hair was a tower of puffs and curls with shimmering rubies and gold dust scattered through the thick tresses. Never had she looked more beautiful, and Ian’s face when he bent near to her was wreathed in unmistakable desire.

  “My dear,” he said, and she heard a husky quiver in his voice as he presented his arm to her.

  It took all of her courage not to melt at the passion in his eyes, not to give in to her own desire for her husband. But Bethlyn quickly flapped open her fan and refused to take his arm. Snubbing Ian, she walked past him and headed for Captain Andre where she was summarily introduced to the young swains who materialized around them like ants at a picnic.

  She flirted outrageously and drank far too many glasses of champagne until her head swam. From the corner of her eye, she noticed Ian standing sullenly by the fireplace, and a certain smugness filled her. The feeling of power which claimed her soon evaporated when she again turned her attention to Ian after a few minutes and noticed he was in earnest conversation with Lady Cynthia.

  Her blood boiled, all too aware of the curious stares from the people in the room. Everyone knew about Ian and Cynthia’s past history and watched to see her reaction to the twosome. Well, she decided then and there, she’d give no one, not even Ian, the satisfaction of knowing she was hurt.

  Placing a hand on the arm of a young officer — Lieutenant Holmes, she believed was his name but she couldn’t be certain since her attention had been riveted on Ian earlier — she laughed and pretended to be engrossed in an inane joke he’d just told.

  “Dance with me, please,” she breathed, and the lieutenant was only too glad to whirl her about the Shippens’s parlor.

  When the dance ended, numerous young men came forward to claim her for a partner, and for the next few hours her feet moved in rhythm to the music. She was the belle of the party, and not the least bit happy about it. Her stupid game seemed to have no effect on I
an. In fact he and Lady Cynthia had disappeared, and any sense of triumph had long since faded.

  Begging a reprieve from her latest conquest, Bethlyn went to a bedroom which had been set aside for the needs of the ladies present. She didn’t feel the least bit like talking to anyone, and luckily the room was empty except for an old serving woman who dozed in a chair near the window. Bethlyn availed herself of a chamber pot which was positioned behind a large silk screen and, afterward, as she adjusted her voluminous skirts, she heard the door open and the voices of two women as they entered the room.

  “I tell you, Cynthia, the woman is the most outrageous flirt” came a high, nasal voice. “In fact, she’s outdone me on the best of my days before Lord Montague took a fancy to me. I don’t know how Ian can stand being married to such a light skirt.”

  “Now, now, Letice, you mustn’t be so harsh on the girl. She is very young.”

  “Young is one thing. The behavior of a strumpet is something else again. She’s making a huge fool of herself.”

  Cynthia Connors laughed. “You’re just jealous because old Montague would throw you out if you even gave an indication that you were flirting. You’re acting like a gossiping dowager. Leave young Mrs. Briston alone.”

  On the two women prattled, but Bethlyn had ceased to hear them. Her cheeks burned with humiliation for her name to be bandied about. What was worse to her was that Lady Cynthia had the nerve to defend her to the gossiping mistress of Lord Montague. God, how awful fate was that Ian’s mistress defended her actions, and here she stood behind a folding screen with a chamber pot for company!

  She wanted to rush from the room and go home, never to show her face again.

  The door closed. The room fell silent except for the gentle snores of the old servant woman. Bethlyn gave a relieved sigh and came from behind the screen only to stop dead-still when Lady Cynthia turned to face her. Cynthia looked as surprised as Bethlyn. Finally Cynthia smiled, and the smile caused the woman’s beauty to overwhelm Bethlyn. No wonder Ian loved her, she found herself thinking grudgingly.

  “I don’t believe we’ve met,” Cynthia said. “I’m Lady Cynthia Connors.”

  “I know who you are.” The words came out through gritted teeth.

  “Ah, I see. I suppose you also heard what was said in here.”

  “I did.”

  “Don’t take Letice seriously, my dear. She’s a cat with very long claws.”

  “And you aren’t, I take it. How magnanimous of you to defend my actions, but I don’t need you or anyone else to speak up for me. Especially not you, Lady Connors. Good evening.”

  Bethlyn made an attempt to brush past Cynthia, but the woman had the audacity to block her path.

  “We need to talk, Mrs. Briston.”

  “I have nothing to say to you.”

  “I have something to say to you, however.” Her voice sounded gentle. “Your performance tonight in the parlor was for your husband’s benefit, I think.”

  “I don’t know what you’re—”

  “Yes, you do. You wanted to make him jealous or force his hand for some reason, but he ignored you and now you’re peeved. And well you should be. If I had exerted so much energy in capturing all those men’s hearts, I’d be peeved, too, if my husband ignored me.”

  “He didn’t ignore you.” The obvious contempt in Bethlyn’s eyes caused Cynthia to flinch.

  Cynthia placed a gentle hand on Bethlyn’s wrist. “I should like to be your friend, Mrs. Briston, I’m not your enemy.”

  “You’re the woman my husband loves!” Bethlyn felt her composure crumbling, and she wrenched her hand away. She wanted to weep again, but she’d never give Cynthia Connors the satisfaction.

  “Oh, my dear, you’re quite mistaken in that. Ian loves you, not me. I told him that a few nights ago when he came to see me. I won’t lie and tell you that Ian and I were less than friends, because it isn’t true. We cared a great deal for each other and still do. Our relationship, however, has changed. Ian is married to you, and I’m going to marry a man whom I adore. You must believe me when I tell you that Ian loves you.”

  Bethlyn’s mouth dropped open and she sank onto a large divan. Her mind whirled with Cynthia’s words, but she didn’t doubt the woman’s sincerity. However, could she believe her?

  “Do you love your husband?” Cynthia asked gently.

  Bethlyn nodded, somehow wanting to confide in the woman. “More than I ever thought possible.”

  “Then there is no problem. Tell Ian how you feel.” Cynthia made it sound so simple. She couldn’t tell Ian she loved him, because she doubted that he loved her in return, no matter what Cynthia thought. Bethlyn gave a shaky laugh.

  “There’s a large problem, Lady Connors. Ian doesn’t love me.”

  “I tell you he does,” Cynthia persisted. “Use some of your feminine wiles on him instead of those prancing jackanapes outside and discover this for yourself. You have nothing to lose.”

  The truth of Cynthia’s words hit her like a horse at full gallop. She didn’t have anything to lose now, but much to gain if Cynthia proved correct.

  Standing up, she and Cynthia hitched their arms together and giggled at the absurdity of the situation. Here she was, the wife of this woman’s former paramour, gaining advice from the woman and suddenly discovering that she genuinely liked her.

  “I believe we make very odd companions,” Cynthia said as they left the bedroom and made their way to the parlor. Bethlyn couldn’t agree more.

  ~

  Ian was nowhere to be found. Bethlyn searched through the rooms, filled with people, and Lieutenant Holmes arrived to help her but it seemed Ian had disappeared. The words to tell him that she loved him burned her lips, and if she didn’t find him soon to tell him how she felt, she feared she might lose her courage.

  “Perhaps your husband is in the garden,” Holmes suggested.

  Bethlyn peered through the frosty windowpane. “I doubt it. The weather is much too cold.”

  “Shall we look anyway. He might very well be there. It is stuffy in here.”

  The room did feel close with all of the people milling about. Bethlyn searched for Molly, and she saw her in a dimly lit corner in conversation with the man Bethlyn recognized as the soldier she’d seen her sister-in-law with that day in the garden and decided that Molly was in capable hands.

  “Let me get my cloak,” she told Lieutenant Holmes, not quite certain she wanted the man’s company in the event she found Ian, but not wanting to wander around the garden alone either.

  Moments later, they were outside. The bitter cold stung Bethlyn’s cheeks, and she suddenly couldn’t help but to wonder how many of the soldiers, American and British, fared on nights such as these. Would this war never end?

  She shivered and Lieutenant Holmes noticed. “You’re cold, Mrs. Briston, er, Bethlyn,” he said, his teeth flashing in the moonlight like a hungry wolf’s.

  She hadn’t given him permission to call her by her first name, but she didn’t rebuke him. She needed to find Ian and somehow set things right between them. Nearing a hedgerow, Bethlyn stopped, deciding that Ian wasn’t in the garden. They should go back inside.

  “We’d best go in,” said Bethlyn, and began to turn back towards the house, but she met with the arms of Lieutenant Holmes. The man pulled her against him, kissing her in a way which hurt her mouth, and his hand groped inside her cloak until it made contact with her breasts.

  “Stop, let me go!” She attempted to wriggle free, but Holmes only laughed and held her tighter. His long, lean face leered at her.

  “You’re no lady, so stop pretending to be one. No lady flirts as you do and then expects a gentleman not to take her invitation seriously.”

  His lips descended once more against hers, and she found she was powerless against Holmes, who was a large man. Her game-playing had gone awry, and she didn’t know how to stop this man from pushing her onto the grass and raping her.

  She felt unable to breathe and grew dizzy. The
blood pounded so hard in her ears that when she heard the words she wasn’t certain she hadn’t imagined them.

  “Let her go.”

  The deadly intent of the voice caused Holmes to instantly loosen his hold. He backed off, all too aware of the larger man who waited behind him in the darkness. Bethlyn fairly staggered when Holmes turned around to face Ian.

  Making a military bow, Holmes said, “Sir,” and started to pass Ian, but Ian’s hand shot out and rooted Holmes to the spot. “Come near my wife again, and I’ll make certain that your face matches the color of your uniform.”

  “Yes, sir, I’ll remember that,” Holmes declared, but a taunting quality tinged his tone, almost as if he thought Ian to be a coward. Bethlyn wondered just how brave Holmes would be if he knew that the man whose wife he’d just manhandled was the notorious and feared Captain Hawk.

  “And, Holmes,” Ian warned the young man who prepared to walk away. “Don’t be so cocky. General Howe is a personal friend of mine. I just might decide to tell him what happened tonight. I sincerely doubt that you’d like to lose your rank.”

  Holmes’s shoulders sagged in defeat, and he hurried inside the house.

  Bethlyn let out a ragged sigh, and rushed to Ian, expecting him to enfold her in his arms. “Thank God you got here when you did. I dread to think what would have happened.”

  A muscle twitched in his cheek. “Do you? I think you might have enjoyed whatever the lieutenant might have had in store for you.”

  “Ian, I…”

  “You know damned well you acted like a hussy tonight, so wipe that outraged look off of your face.”

  “I refuse to be insulted like this. I’m going home!”