“Those are half-truths. I never wanted to spy for you.”
“Maybe not at first,” he admitted, and leered at her, “but the thought of all you might gain from spying piqued your interest. As it is, you’re less than an innocent. I don’t want to hurt you, dear Annabelle — Emmie, but I can arrange to have your pretty face ruined so that neither Ian Briston nor any other man will look at you again except in disgust and pity. I have a great many unsavory friends who take delight in harming others.”
“You’re a coward, James. You can’t do your own dirty work.”
“Tell me the name,” he demanded, and this time, by the way his hands tightened on her arms, she knew that he might decide to leave her with his own handiwork for a remembrance.
“Ian was there,” she said, her voice breaking on his name. “He is the fifth man.”
He let her go, and he smiled as he started to dress. “I shall look quite dapper as a major, thanks to you. And don’t forget our wedding. I think next week should be soon enough.”
When he finished dressing, he kissed the top of her head and left. Emmie’s lips curled in disdain, but she flashed her own smile and spoke to the closed door. “I have some unsavory friends, too, dear James.”
~
When Ian arrived home, he intended to go to Bethlyn, but Annie came out of his wife’s room and told him that Bethlyn was fast asleep.
“The missus ain’t feeling too good, sir,” Annie volunteered. “She done got her monthly and took some of that medicine the doctor gave her for the pain last month.”
Never let it be said that Annie wasn’t straightforward. Surprisingly, he wasn’t tired, though his mind had dwelled on Emmie Gray’s astonishing transformation. He went downstairs to the library and sat at his desk. A piece of paper was opened, and at the bottom of the letter he saw Molly’s signature.
A letter from his sister. He couldn’t believe it and eagerly scanned the contents to discover it was addressed to him and Bethlyn. Molly stated that she was deliriously happy. She adored Hans, loved him fiercely. Their wedding had been a quiet but beautiful affair. New York was exciting and there was always a party to attend, though she and Hans preferred staying home together. She ended the letter by saying that she had just learned she was pregnant and hoped her dear brother and sister-in-law would visit when the baby was horn.
Ian groaned, unable to believe that he’d soon be the uncle of a child fathered by a German Hessian. Good God, what had Molly been thinking to marry such a man? Then again, he couldn’t blame his sister. He’d never told her how he felt about liberty, pretending he was a loyal subject of the king. He supposed it was inevitable that Molly would fall in love with one of his enemies, since he had allowed her to consort with them, having felt that her ignorance protected her. Well, as long as she was happy.
He examined the letter, noting a spot near the part where Molly wrote about her pregnancy. Was this a tearstain? Had Molly been crying when she wrote this? But no, the spot was fresh.
Bethlyn must have read Molly’s letter. Annie had told him about Bethlyn’s condition, and now he realized that upon learning of Molly’s baby, she had wept in despair. He knew how much she wanted a child and feared she was barren.
A great sadness entered him. He longed for a child, too, but he’d treated Bethlyn with such contempt the day he demanded she produce an heir that he worried she might not want a child of his. What was going to become of them? He didn’t think they could go on living in the same house as intimate strangers for much longer.
Another piece of paper on the desk caught his attention when he put down Molly’s letter. Recognizing Bethlyn’s penmanship, he saw that she was in the process of writing Molly a reply, but near the end of the letter, she’d written a poem expressing the love of a parent for a child.
The verse was two stanzas long, and he felt a bit astonished that Bethlyn’s poem was so good. In fact it was superb, filled with a sweet, lovely quality and the right choice of words to convey a mother’s adoration and awe for her baby.
“Such a simple and unassuming style, but each word was carefully chosen for the overall effect,” he mumbled aloud, having always considered himself to be a fair judge of the literary arts.
Ian shifted in his seat and placed the letter to Molly on the desk; then he opened his desk drawer and withdrew the pamphlet which contained the Dove’s poems.
He’d read them many times before, but this time as he read, he paid particular attention to the cadence and choice of words. When he finished reading, he sat far back in his chair, a wide grin on his face and mused aloud.
“I think it’s time I meet the Dove. We have a great deal in common.”
22
“Captain Hawk wants to meet the Dove.”
Bethlyn’s mouth fell open, her face registering surprise and a bit of shock. Her chair creaked when she leaned forward, and she shook her head in bafflement at Thomas Paine. A devilish glint sparkled in his eyes, and he seemed to enjoy her reaction at his announcement.
“But … but why?”
“Why not?” Paine answered, adjusting his spectacles. “I can’t but wonder why you never thought that Captain Hawk might want to meet the Dove. You are aware, Mrs. Briston, of the sensation your poetry has created in Philadelphia. Suddenly Emmie Gray is nothing more than a passing fancy, while your poems excite the populace with the idea that liberty is within their reach. Apathy for our cause is lessening, and all because of the Dove. I visited Valley Forge recently, and believe me when I tell you that the Dove is a great favorite of the soldiers, as well as General Washington.”
Bethlyn’s head spun. She knew that her poems were fairly popular, but she had no idea of their impact until this moment. General Washington had read her poems and liked them. This was all too much for her to take in at once, especially the news that Ian was so moved he wished to meet with the Dove.
“Just what did my husband tell you when he saw you, Mr. Paine?”
“Only that he realized that all of the people in Philadelphia I would be the only one bold enough to have such inflammatory material printed and distributed. Ian and I became friends upon my arrival in Philadelphia a few years ago, and he trusts me to keep his secret, as he and Mr. Gibbons keep mine. After all, someone had to be aware that he is Captain Hawk. In case he never returned from a mission, I was to inform his sister. He wanted me to divulge the Dove’s identity to him, but I resisted. That Ian is a rogue to even ask me such a thing. Trust me when I tell you that he is fired up to meet you, or rather, the Dove.”
He would be, Bethlyn thought resentfully. First, Emmie Gray and now the Dove had captured his attention, while as for herself, Bethlyn Briston, she might as well not exist. Too caught up in his own obsession, she decided. And why did he need to meet the Dove anyway when he had dear Emmie Gray to fuel his love of liberty with her heroism and her kiss?
Jealousy poked sharp talons within her breast at the lengths Ian would go to find a woman who thought as he did. Why couldn’t Ian want her for herself? “The Dove doesn’t want to meet with Captain Hawk.”
Paine looked disturbed. “But you must, my dear. Ian has no knowledge of your identity, so I don’t see the harm in meeting him. Personally, I think this situation is most intriguing. Consider the possibilities, if you will, and I guarantee that you’ll change your mind.”
She had considered the possibilities; that was the problem. Ian was probably so smitten with the Dove, someone who saw things in the same light as himself, that he’d be more than ready to sweep the Dove into his passionate embrace. Over the last weeks she’d imagined Ian in Emmie Gray’s arms; now to think of him with another woman caused her to grit her teeth.
“But the woman is yourself, you silly fool,” a voice cried in her head. “Make Ian desire the Dove and then reveal your identity. He’ll be so mortified and humiliated that he’ll give you anything you want, even your freedom if you wish it.”
Her freedom. Why had she thought about that? Months ago she’d
have given practically anything to be free of Ian, but she’d changed her mind, admitting her love and glorying in his love for her. Then Emmie Gray entered their lives, changing everything. She’d realized that Ian couldn’t totally give his heart to her, because he mistrusted her, and would no doubt mistrust her for the rest of his life. She felt very tired of being ignored, of having Ian not see her as a person in her own right but associating her with where she was born and her father. He deserved some humiliation for his callous treatment of her, his disregard.
Coming to her bed each night to get her with child was one thing, that was her duty as his wife. But to touch her, to make her mewl with pleasure like some wanton woman and cause her to think he might still love her, and then leave her to her own devices the rest of the time … Well, she’d had enough!
She wasn’t like Emmie Gray, thank God, and didn’t intend to be. She was herself and also the Dove. As the patriotic poetess, she’d make him want her fiercely and desperately, then she’d prove to him how he’d misjudged her.
She’d have a great laugh at his expense, hurting him the way she’d been hurt. She’d turn and walk away from him, leaving him panting after her, begging her to stay. But she wouldn’t look back. At that moment her freedom, if she wanted out of this disastrous marriage, appeared more than assured. If she’d learned one thing about Ian Briston during their time together it was that he was prideful. And a prideful man hated to look foolish.
The corners of Bethlyn’s mouth turned upward into a smile, intrigued by the whole scenario she’d played out in her mind, and she directed her attention to Thomas Paine. “Kindly inform Captain Hawk that the Dove will meet with him, wherever and whenever he chooses.”
~
Bethlyn should have known that Ian would choose Simpson House as their meeting place. Mr. Paine had passed this information to her, telling her that Hawk wanted to meet her at midnight. She’d waited two days to learn this news, growing more than frustrated with the whole charade. They lived in the same house, ate at the same table, and shared the same bed when Ian visited her room, but they inhabited separate worlds, only allowing the other to enter on occasion. Such an existence wasn’t to her liking, reminding her of the lifestyle her parents had led. The only difference was their lack of children.
As she dressed in her room, watching the clock’s hands inch toward midnight, a great sadness consumed her and shadowed her eyes. Once again her flux had come and gone. Probably Ian would be more than glad to be rid of her when he realized that she undoubtedly was barren. Not conceiving a child must rest on her shoulders, she decided, having years ago overheard her father rant to her mother that the woman was always to blame if she didn’t conceive. He’d screamed to his wife about the lowly girl she’d given him. Where was his son?
Even now the memory tugged at something deep within her, causing tears to form in her eyes which she willed not to fall. She’d been no more than five when her father’s harsh words had inflicted a deep, raw wound which had never properly healed.
Where is my son? The words rolled around in her brain, but it wasn’t her father’s voice she heard, rather Ian’s.
Shaking herself to drive away the tormenting thoughts, she pulled on her dark cape and adjusted a black wig she’d found in Molly’s wardrobe, one Molly must have worn at a costume ball. Her reflection showed a dark-cloaked and ebony-haired figure, but she still thought Ian might recognize her. It was when she placed a mask, silver and white, on her face that a wide smile expressed her pleasure. Ian would never be able to identify her as his wife now.
She’d fashioned the mask, which she’d also found among Molly’s things, into a dove’s features, extending the nose outward a bit, shaping it and then covering it with a piece of white satin. Deciding to appear more mysterious, she had sewn silver beads, slanting them at an angle, at the eye holes. Taking in her reflection she saw that she was more than a perfect foil for the black-masked Captain Hawk.
A giggle escaped her and then when she looked at the clock she saw it was twenty minutes to twelve. Sailing out of her room, she didn’t worry about the servants. All of them were asleep at this hour. Ian presented no problem, either. He’d spent last night in Philadelphia, supposedly with Marc and Mavis, because he’d had problems with the design of a new ship, but Bethlyn presumed he was staying at Babcock House with Emmie Gray for company.
Jealousy, tempered with pain, ate away at her.
As she headed into the yard, she mumbled, “Only a few more minutes, Emmie Gray, and then the Dove will steal him away from you.”
Before reaching the stables, she pulled off the mask, not willing to endanger young Amos’s life with her secret. Seconds later, she mounted her horse and nodded to the loyal stable boy.
“Mayfair is a fine horse,” the boy said, and patted the taupe-colored filly’s nose. “But you be careful riding at night like this. Your friend who lent her horse to you may blame me if you get hurt or lost. Or worse.”
His concern touched her, and she assured him she’d be fine. Cantering out of the barn, she felt grateful to Cynthia for allowing her to borrow Mayfair. Cynthia practically doted on the animal, but when Bethlyn expressed her need of a horse, Cynthia hadn’t hesitated though Edgecomb had a stable of fine horse flesh. Bethlyn admired Cynthia for not probing. She hated to lie to her but she couldn’t tell her about her plans tonight or admit that she needed a different horse because Ian would recognize a mount from Edgecomb.
The ride to Simpson House was easily accomplished this time because there was no snow. When the house loomed in front of her, she felt uneasy, but she pushed onward and finally halted at the rear. She tethered Mayfair to a hitching post and carefully replaced her mask.
Glancing around, the full moon illuminated the surroundings. She didn’t see Ian, and grew apprehensive that he may have decided not to come. But one of the French doors to the parlor blew gently in the cold night breeze and pulled her attention to the interior. A glowing candle beckoned to her, and through the thin lace curtains she made out the tall muscular frame of Captain Hawk.
Entering through the doors, she waited, the light casting flickering shadows across the black-clothed figure and the equally dark hawk-shaped mask. It had been a long while since she’d stood in the presence of Captain Hawk, and she somehow forgot that Hawk and Ian were the same man. All she knew was that the pulse at the base of her throat thrummed like a kitten’s purr and her body tingled in his presence, a perverse reminder of all those nights she’d spent in Hawk’s arms. For a split second, she longed to throw herself into his embrace but resisted. To him, she wasn’t the woman he’d thought was a prostitute or the woman he called his wife. She was a stranger and must remember this.
“You … you are Captain Hawk.” Purposely she lowered her voice to a husky whisper, emulating Hawk’s vocal disguise.
“I am, and you are the Dove.” He made a slight bow, and gestured for her to take a seat on the divan while he seated himself across from her.
They sat in silence for a few moments, steadily perusing each other. Finally he shifted in his seat and a smile tipped the edges of his mouth.
“I’m sorry at the strange circumstances involving our meeting, but it is imperative I keep my identity secret.”
“I understand, Captain Hawk.”
“I’m certain you do now that your poetry is so popular. I heard today that many young lads are enlisting in our fight because of you. The British are less than pleased.”
Bethlyn clutched her throat, upset that nameless, faceless young men, probably no older than fourteen, were joining the colonial ranks because of her poetry. She felt responsible for pulling them away from their families at so tender an age to fight, possibly to be killed. The burden of being the Dove was becoming oppressive.
“You should be quite proud of your ability to stir men’s souls with your words. You have a rare gift,” she heard him say.
“It wasn’t my intention to cause children to leave their play for the battlefie
lds, Captain Hawk.”
“I appreciate your concern, but nevertheless you are a driving force in our fight for independence. Tell me, why did you write your poetry? What caused you to honor the cause with your talent?”
Bethlyn swallowed, feeling a bit silly to be sitting here in this strange house and speaking to her own husband as if she didn’t know him. But what good would it do if she pulled off her wig and mask as she was sorely tempted and prove to him who she was? She’d only make him angry and more convinced than ever that she wasn’t to be trusted.
“Someone I love very much opened my eyes to the truth of the war. His cause became mine.” Your own cause, you infuriating man! she silently railed.
A long silence greeted her remark. After a while, she fidgeted under his direct and probing gaze. “I wish you’d say something. I don’t like being stared at.”
He cleared his throat, seeming to come out of a self-induced trance. “Pardon me, but I was thinking how very fortunate this man is to have you on his side.”
God help her, she wanted to cry! He hadn’t said anything so kind to her in a long time, but she quelled the urge by remembering that Ian didn’t realize he complimented his wife, but the Dove.
Rising quickly to her feet, Bethlyn clutched her riding crop in her hand. “I fear I must leave. The hour grows late.”
Ian rose and stepped nearer to her and gently lifted her chin to cradle it in his hand. “I should like to see you again.”
She nearly refused, but then she remembered her plan to bring Ian Briston to heel. When she spoke, her voice fanned his cheek like a seductive summer breeze. “Yes, Captain, I look forward to our next encounter.”
“Tomorrow night at midnight. Here. I eagerly await you, my Dove.”
My Dove! Heavens! Didn’t the man have a conscience?
But she flashed her most seductive smile and hurriedly left. During the ride home she ached to scream her frustration with Ian Briston and Captain Hawk, feeling the cries rise in her throat.
Pirate's Bride (Liberty's Ladies) Page 34