Pirate's Bride (Liberty's Ladies)

by Lynette Vinet

  “And should I spare you?”

  Opening his mouth to speak, he was interrupted by the sensually soft, husky-sounding voice which came from the doorway. “Do spare the man’s life, Hawk. He isn’t worth killing.”

  All eyes turned to see the dark-haired woman with the dovelike mask on her face. Surprise rocketed through Ian, but no one but Bethlyn noticed. Thomas sat with his tongue hanging out and cast her a pleading look to save him.

  Moving forward, Bethlyn was all too aware of the stares from the crew of the Jessica. Ian’s men were used to her parading around the ship in pants and shirt. But these men were startled, yet quite unlikely to remove their gazes from the rounded curves of her buttocks. She hadn’t known why she’d packed the clothes, the wig, and the mask, before leaving Edgecomb, transporting them to Windhaven and then the ship. Now, however, she was glad she’d hastily thrown them in her carpetbag. All the more fun to taunt Thomas Eversley.

  She somehow knew that if Ian’s sword hadn’t imprisoned Thomas, the man would have thrown himself at her feet, begging for mercy.

  “You best stay out of this, Dove,” Ian warned in a silky voice. “I have plans for our guest.”

  I know you do, her eyes seemed to say. And she wanted to avoid Ian’s vengeance. She guessed his hatred of Eversley ran deep, probably stemming from incidents related to her father. She wondered if Ian really intended to kill Thomas or just frighten him. She didn’t want to find out. Thomas might be a despicable man, a man who loved profit, but most certainly he didn’t deserve to die for being greedy.

  “I have plans, too,” Bethlyn countered and smiled at Thomas, “and they don’t include his death.”

  “Thank you, dear lady,” Thomas offered, almost like a prayer.

  A low, sultry laugh parted Bethlyn’s lips. “Don’t thank me too soon, sir.” She turned to Ian and whispered something in his ear. Immediately this caused a wicked grin to appear.

  He called to Sparrow and some of his crew to lower the longboats from the Jessica and to soon begin loading them with the captured sailors. “But first, we shall have some entertainment,” he cried and nodded to Bethlyn.

  “Your life is saved, Mr. Eversley,” she said, “but not without a price.”

  Eversley’s delighted expression disappeared, and he narrowed his eyes. “What is it you want?”

  Bethlyn touched the fine lacework on his cravat, then ran her eyes down the front of the well-made gray satin jacket over the black trousers to the tips of his soft leather boots. “I want your clothes.”

  “My clothes?” he mouthed.

  “Yes, every last piece you’ve got on.” She flashed an impish smile at him. “Captain Hawk has need of such finery and will look much more handsome than you, sir. So, strip.”

  “Now? Here?”

  “Yes.”

  “But, but—”

  “Do it!”

  Thomas jumped, and he quickly began to remove his jacket, and then his shirt. Whistles and howls from the Jessica caused his face to redden, and Bethlyn wondered if he was embarrassed or angry. That was the only indication Thomas gave that he felt thoroughly humiliated to undress in front of both crews, Captain Hawk, and a strange woman.

  When he was down to his drawers, he nearly balked, but a curt nod from Bethlyn hurried him along and he was naked.

  Ian folded his arms across his chest and perused Thomas. “Not a pretty sight by far,” was his comment.

  “Now, now, Hawk. Don’t distress our guest further.”

  Bethlyn kicked the discarded clothes aside, not feeling any great urgency to even look at Thomas, but she did so only to prove that his nudity meant nothing to her.

  Thomas’s eyes burned with a red-hot fire, and he made no attempt to cover himself. He stood as naked as the day his mother birthed him and showed no emotion to be the object of ridicule and laughter from the Jessica.

  “Lower the boats!” Ian commanded his men, and immediately the boats were lowered and the Jessica’s crew was loaded, Thomas following behind them when Ian gestured him forward.

  Finally all of the crew and Thomas sat in the boats, heading in the direction of the open sea, at the mercy of the elements and any ship which happened past.

  From Bethlyn’s vantage point at the railing, she easily spotted Eversley’s pale flesh among the uniforms worn by the crew. The man was humiliated beyond belief, but still he presented a stoic facade. The burning hatred in his eyes was the only indication of what Thomas must feel, and that hatred was directed at Bethlyn and Ian.

  As the longboats slipped away, Bethlyn shivered from a sudden chill when Thomas pinned her with his glowering gaze. She hoped he’d never discover their identities, not wanting to be the recipient of such fierce, simmering hatred.

  Shivering again, she returned to the cabin.

  26

  How boring, thought Annabelle Hastings, and demurely sipped her champagne. She wondered why she’d ever agreed to come to this New Jersey country estate with Malcolm Carstairs, a young man who’d been friends with the Babcocks’ late grandson. She’d met him a few months ago and, since inheriting her fortune, he’d visited her a number of times.

  She supposed Malcolm was considered handsome, and he was rich, an added inducement. However, Annabelle didn’t have to snare a wealthy man for a protector or as a husband any longer. Her future was secure.

  Glancing around the large parlor of the Potter mansion, she was struck by the beauty of the furnishings, the elaborately laid table — which featured every type of mouth-watering delicacy — and the black-coated servants who hovered with champagne bottles in hand, filling empty glasses. A rotund William Potter had escorted her and Malcolm to his cellar earlier, and they’d marveled at the quality of his stock. Annabelle considered life fascinating. A few months ago, she’d never tasted Bordeaux or had any knowledge of fine wines and champagnes, now she knew quite a lot. My, how a great deal of money will change a person, she thought wryly, and lifted her glass in a tiny toast to the memory of the departed Babcocks,

  Malcolm, in conversation with William Potter, glanced her way. He was Tory through and through, apparently not the least bit worried to be seen with a woman thought to be on the rebels’ side. But she guessed Malcolm was far from being so smitten by her that such a thing would be overlooked. Her newfound wealth did weigh heavily with him. She could never admit to him that she was, in reality, a British spy. Only Holmes and a nameless contact of his had known.

  And now poor Holmes had met his doom, thus eliminating him from the picture. She’d paid an unsavory henchman quite a large amount of money for this service, but the fee was worth it. Holmes wouldn’t bother her again, and she’d never have to worry about Ian Briston learning her secret.

  Her heart seemed to stop beating whenever she thought about Ian. She’d never been in love with anyone before him, however, the way he’d spurned her when she threw herself at him distressed her immeasurably. The emotions of love and hate for the cad warred within her breast. When she’d calmed down a few days after he’d rejected her, deciding that she’d crawl on her hands and knees to beg his forgiveness — all the while hoping that he’d take pity on her, pick her up, and make love to her — Ian’s secretary called on her.

  Marcus Gibbons, in his extremely polite way, informed her that he would be handling the estate matters since Briston and his wife had taken an extended holiday. Annabelle had felt shocked and hurt that Ian hadn’t told her good-bye, and she ached to inquire where the Bristons had gone and when they’d return, but she’d learned diplomacy over the last few months and didn’t ask. Mr. Gibbons didn’t offer the information, either.

  Now she sat among strangers to ease her loneliness and the pain in her heart for a man who didn’t want her but a man she nevertheless was determined to possess.

  Malcolm excused himself from William and came to sit beside her on the cabriole-leg sofa.

  “Are you enjoying yourself, Miss Gray?” he asked softly, almost shyly, but his reticence and use of
her last name didn’t keep her from thinking he was interested in her for her fortune.

  “Indeed I am, Mr. Carstairs, The gathering is quite nice and my accommodations are comfortable. Thank you for inviting me for the weekend. I know it isn’t proper to have come here with you.” She purposely lowered her eyes to appear innocent. “But I’ve been so terribly lonely since my dear friends passed away.”

  Malcolm patted her hand and shot her a sympathetic smile. “I understand, Miss Gray. They were my friends, too.” After a few moments, he said, “I hope you don’t mind if I leave you alone for a bit. William insists I join him and some of the other gentlemen in a game of cards in the library. I’m certain the ladies assembled will keep you occupied. William’s fiancée should be coming downstairs shortly. I trust you and she will find each other’s company pleasing.”

  The little twerp was leaving her alone. How dare he bring her here and desert her! But she really didn’t care for Malcolm, more than eager to have him gone, but the slight stung. Instead she lifted her gaze and said sweetly, “Please enjoy your game. I shall be fine.”

  Promptly he left her.

  For a few minutes she passed the time with a matron who bored her to tears with details of how to make an effective poultice against croup. Another woman’s ears perked up and began to give her own remedy. Finally the chattering women took their leave to the buffet table and sat happily stuffing their faces, forgetting Annabelle.

  Having decided to go upstairs and crawl into bed, she couldn’t move a muscle when a beautiful ebony-haired woman entered the parlor. Her gown was fashioned with the most daring bodice Annabelle had ever seen, and the red satin material was quite expensive. The woman carried a large black fan, imprinted with scarlet roses — a rather garish-looking thing, Annabelle thought, but somehow it suited her and no doubt had cost a pretty penny.

  Could it be? she asked herself, and openly stared at the woman who was immediately surrounded by some of the Potter females, twittering and giggling together like a gaggle of geese. Another woman joined the group and Annabelle heard the older Potter sister introduce the young woman as Della Trammel, William’s fiancée.

  It was her! Annabelle remembered the time she’d encountered Della Trammel. She’d visited Holmes at the small boardinghouse where he shared a room with the woman, eager to impart information he might find useful, And there was Della, all done up in a frilly orange gown, less expensive than the dress she now wore. The two women had warily stared at each other until Holmes pressed some money in Della’s hand and insisted she go shopping, which Della was only too glad to do.

  Annabelle hadn’t asked Holmes about Della, but she’d been curious. Holmes volunteered that Della was a prostitute and meant nothing to him. He needed a woman to pleasure him, now that she was staying with the Babcocks and was more or less unapproachable — a situation Annabelle found to her liking, not at all upset that Holmes had turned his attention elsewhere.

  But now flutters of trepidation settled in the pit of her stomach to realize that Della Trammel was staring at her. Does she remember me? Annabelle worried, and hoped that Della Trammel had forgotten her. She wouldn’t be able to explain to her or anyone else why she’d visited a British soldier that day when she was supposedly the brave and patriotic Emmie Gray, darling of the colonial cause.

  Get out of here! her mind screamed, and she would have fled, but at that moment, Della blinked as if coming out of a trance.

  To Annabelle’s chagrin, Della approached her, stopping a few feet away. “Good evening,” Della began in a surprisingly cultured tone from the nasal one Annabelle remembered. “We’ve met once before.”

  Should she deny it? Her temples throbbed. God, how awful to have her dual identity destroyed by a doxy! She didn’t know what to say, so she asked, “How are you?”

  Della sighed, her words tumbling out. “I was fine until I saw you.” She sat next to Annabelle, who questioningly arched her brow, but Della didn’t notice. Her hands trembled as she held on to the gaudy fan, and her lower lip followed suit.

  “I hate to beg,” Della confessed. “But I’ve done my share in the past to get what I wanted. When I was little I’d hold out my hand on the street and hope for a few coins to bring home to my mother, who was always sick, and maybe have a bit left over to buy some food for my little brother and me. Usually there wasn’t. Then I learned a different type of begging, but begging just the same. I sold my body to any man who’d pay my price. Then Holmes came along and treated me like I was a lady. I know he wasn’t a perfect man, but he saw that I had food to eat and clothes to wear. He taught me how to speak and behave like a real lady. Sometimes I believed I was one.”

  Where is all this incessant chatter leading? Annabelle grew more tense by the second. Perspiration dripped from her upper lip, and she daubed at the moisture with her kerchief. “I can understand how you would,” Annabelle commented, feeling that she had to say something in regard to this strange outpouring. Was Della playing some sort of absurd game with her? Did the woman plan to blackmail her? She had no interest in hearing about the woman’s unsavory past. She had one of her own to forget.

  Della bit at her lower lip. “I beg of you, ma’am, please don’t tell anyone about me. I’m going to marry William Potter next month, and I care deeply for him. He isn’t handsome like some men, but he loves me. Everyone believes that I’m a widow who left England in search of a new life. If any of them were ever to learn about … what I did … they’d never forgive me. I have money. I can pay you for your silence.”

  Annabelle was so stunned she could barely speak. Della Trammel was afraid of her! So afraid she was willing to pay her not to divulge her secret past, something which she had no desire to do, because she empathized with Della and understood all too well the circumstances which can drive a person to desperate acts.

  A weight dropped from Annabelle’s shoulders. “Your secrets are safe with me. I wish you every happiness in your marriage.”

  “Oh, thank you.” A relieved sigh burst from Della’s throat and she vigorously fanned herself. “I am so grateful.”

  Annabelle studied Della, and finally curiosity got the best of her. “How did you enchant a wealthy and cultured man to such an extent that he wants to marry you?”

  Della grinned, apparently eager to talk, and she heedlessly rushed on. “As I told you, Holmes had a hand in tutoring and refining me. But I owe my happiness to Mrs. Briston for the money she gave me—”

  She broke off, and Annabelle jumped at the mention of the name Briston. “Mrs. Ian Briston? What does she have to do with anything? What money?”

  “Oh, dear.” Della put her hand to her mouth in dismay. “I shouldn’t have said that. I promised her.”

  “What did you promise, Della?” Annabelle prodded in a silky soft voice she used with people from whom she wanted information. “Evidently you need to speak about this to someone, otherwise, you’d not have slipped.”

  “Well,” Della drawled out the word and looked about, making certain no one was in hearing distance. A sly gleam danced in her eyes. “I knew something about the high-and-mighty Mrs. Briston that she didn’t want her husband to know, so I told her I’d tell him unless she paid me to keep silent. And she paid me more money than I ever dreamed to ask for. That’s why I can afford expensive clothes and everyone accepts me as wealthy. She made everything possible for me, but I promised I’d never tell anyone about where the money came from and also that I’d never set foot in Philadelphia again.”

  Della looked pleased with herself, but Annabelle waited in agitation to hear about the secret for which Bethlyn Briston had paid a small fortune. “What is it you know about Mrs. Briston?” Annabelle burst out in a harsh whisper.

  Della was flustered for a moment, then said crossly, “I don’t know why you should care.”

  Ah, so the wench was still a conniving whore beneath all of her finery and pretty manners. Well, she’d make Della tell her. Annabelle placed a finger on her lips and consider
ed the strumpet. Finally she spoke, her voice sounding soft but clipped. “Such information may prove quite useful to me. However, if you don’t wish to part with it, I believe that your dear William and his family might be more than interested in your past. And I won’t charge them a thing for mentioning it.”

  All color fled Della’s cheeks, and she trembled violently. “No, you mustn’t!”

  “Tell me Mrs. Briston’s secret.”

  Swallowing hard, Della admitted being transported to Philadelphia on a ship which was captured by the fearsome Captain Hawk. Mrs. Briston was also on the ship and probably a doxy, though some of the women didn’t believe she was because of her manners and bearing. Hawk took a liking to her, and soon she was Hawk’s woman.

  “Is that all?” Annabelle asked, pretending disinterest. It would never do for this strumpet to know just how much value she placed on such startling information.

  “I’d think that’s enough! Mrs. Briston paid me a great deal of money to keep her secret.” Della folded her arms in a huff, practically pouting.

  Annabelle rose nonchalantly from the sofa and shook out her gown. She yawned. “Thank you for your company, but I fear I must retire. I am most sleepy. Good night, my dear.”

  She knew Della watched her depart the parlor, most probably a bit stunned that the news didn’t have more of a profound effect on her. But Annabelle’s calm demeanor belied the way her insides trembled.

  Hastening to her room, she closed the door and locked it, not wanting to be disturbed by anyone. She undressed and slipped into bed but couldn’t sleep.

  Bethlyn Briston and Captain Hawk. Her mind repeated this like a litany. No matter how many times the names rolled around in her head, she still couldn’t believe it. But Della knew this was true; she’d been a witness to all of it.

  No wonder Bethlyn had paid Della to keep silent. Such information would damn her in the eyes of the British authorities — and her own husband. No matter where Ian Briston’s real sympathies lay, Annabelle didn’t think he’d like knowing his devoted wife had slept with the notorious privateer, Hawk.