Pirate's Bride (Liberty's Ladies)

by Lynette Vinet

  He expected her to surrender to her tears. Instead he felt surprise and grudging admiration when she straightened and, with a great deal of calm, replaced the poker by the fireplace. Then she said without a quiver in her voice, “I suggest you return to England and my father, sir. Whatever your motive was for staying in Philadelphia for so long is indeed gone. I can assure you that if you bother me again, you shall be unfathomably sorry.”

  “Oh, I suppose you intend to sic your absent spouse upon me, to have him pummel me to death?” Thomas sneered.

  “No. I shall delight in killing you myself.”

  The servants behind him tittered and giggled into their hands. More than anything in the world Thomas hated to be laughed at, and his face flamed brighter than a cherry tree. With as much dignity as he could muster, he left the room and the house of his own free will.

  Once outside, he strode into the carriage and slammed the door behind him, but his gaze stayed centered on the parlor window, seeing the servants buzzing around Bethlyn like bees until one of them resolutely closed the drapes.

  He decided he’d have to hide for the time being, not caring to leave Babcock House, but he knew that the hot-blooded wench would tell Briston, who’d feel it his duty to seek revenge. He’d take a room in a nearby town and would be quite circumspect. The Bristons would never know that he was aware of their every movement.

  In fact he might just have a bit of fun at Briston’s expense, he decided, his eyes lingering on the house a bit too long.

  “But I’ll break your spirit yet, Bethlyn Briston, I’ll break you and delight in the doing,” he whispered hoarsely and ordered the driver to return to Babcock House.

  ~

  The fire started in the dark of night.

  Ian and Bethlyn were wakened by the sound of breaking glass and the servants’ screams from downstairs. Young Annie, whose forehead was covered in blood, ran wildly down the hallways in her nightgown screaming, “Fire, fire! They’re gonna kill us all.”

  Bethlyn grabbed her robe and Ian pulled on his trousers and ran shirtless and shoeless down the long staircase to the bottom floor, pulling Bethlyn along with him. From the open door of his study, they saw orangered flames lapping at the drapes and the walls. One of the women servants rushed to them, crying that the kitchen and dining room were afire.

  Ian ordered everyone to leave the house, and within seconds the entire staff with mistress and master watched the stately Edgecomb go up in flames. It was no use to fetch buckets of water from the pump. The fire was spreading rapidly, and the heat was intense.

  Many of the servants who’d worked for the Bristons all of their lives cried openly. Tears ran down Bethlyn’s face to see the house she’d come to think of as her home burn away. Ian, however, stood with his arms around her, and shed not a tear, but Bethlyn could feel his pain and knew that it was immense.

  In the morning Edgecomb was a smoldering mass of rubble. Only the stone porticoes, like inefficient sentinels, still stood. The servants told Ian that some of them had seen two men lurking around the property before the fire, and deciding they might be hungry travelers had gone outside to offer them food, but the men had turned and run away. About an hour later, after everyone was asleep, the fire had started. Annie, who had been unable to sleep and wanted to borrow a book to practice her reading, was nearly knocked senseless by a flying brick as it crashed through the study window, followed by a lighted torch which instantly set the drapes ablaze.

  Ian nodded at the information, the bright sunshine emphasizing the small lines which fanned out from the corners of his eyes and the furrowed line above his brows.

  “We’re leaving,” he said, and turned to Bethlyn, his look expressing that she not argue. “Tonight we’ll stay at Babcock House, since Eversley is gone, and I’ll find you some clothes. Perhaps Cynthia will lend you something to wear, because I’m taking you to New York in the morning to stay with Molly where you’ll be safe.”

  “All right,” she agreed. “But why can’t we stay in Philadelphia?”

  His eyes resembled green glass, hard and without reflection. “Because someone burned Edgecomb as a warning to us. I don’t know who it was. The arsonists could have been rebels who resent my loyalist views or someone who wishes to control us by driving us from our home. Either way, the servants’ lives were in danger. You could have been killed, and I would be unable to bear that, my love. New York is the safest place for you right now.”

  Splaying her fingers across his bare chest, she lifted her head to look at him and studied him intently, somehow fearful of losing him. “What about you, Ian? Aren’t you going to stay in New York with me?”

  He pulled her close and shook his head, thrusting out his jaw defiantly. “I thought my last voyage would be the end and that I could live peacefully and contentedly here with you, but I see that Captain Hawk will have little rest until this war is won.”

  She knew what that meant, and her heart cried.

  ~

  New York was a most exciting place to live. There was much hustle and bustle and a myriad of stores to occupy one’s time. Nothing, however, was as wonderful as being with Molly and Hans and their baby daughter, Greta, named after Hans’s mother.

  Ian and Bethlyn found the charming old Dutch house in which the Grubers lived to be quite lovely, and the countryside outside of New York where the house was situated was a welcome relief from the busy city and the red-coated British soldiers who traipsed about. Ian also made friends with Hans, though Bethlyn knew Ian would never approve of his brother-in-law’s mercenary soldiering for the Crown. However, Ian couldn’t admit this was the reason for his distant attitude to either Hans or Molly. Bethlyn finally had noticed how Molly hid her pain at Ian’s rejection of her husband, and Bethlyn intervened, telling Ian to see Hans as the fine young man that he was, and not as America’s enemy, for one day the war would be over.

  The week before Ian left New York, insinuating that Briston Shipping took him away, he and Hans had parted on friendly terms. Parting with Ian tore at Bethlyn’s heartstrings, and she silently cursed the cause for which Ian so ardently fought. For his sake she managed not to look crestfallen and to smile and wave as the carriage taking him away rolled down the tree-lined lane. But his passionate farewell kiss still lingered on her lips, and this was all she had for comfort when she cried herself to sleep that night.

  ~

  The days, the weeks, and months dragged by endlessly. A week before Christmas, Mavis and Marc arrived with their curly-haired imp of a son. Nothing was more heartwarming than the sight of little Marc and Greta stretched out side by side on a blanket in the cozy sitting room before the blazing hearth. Everyone was so happy and filled with the spirit of the holidays, but Bethlyn wasn’t. Mavis noticed her forced gaiety, as did Marc.

  When Molly and Hans left the room, Mavis took her hand. “Ian will be all right,” she said encouragingly. “He’ll return to you soon.”

  “Mavis is right,” Marc agreed, and smiled, looking boyishly handsome. “No one has ever been able to capture the Hawk but you, Bethlyn.”

  Tears of gratitude, mixed with fear and longing, sparkled in her eyes, and Bethlyn clutched both of her friends’ hands. “I love you both for trying to cheer me, and I know in my heart that Ian is safe. But I haven’t seen him in seven months. I miss him so much.”

  “He’ll be with you soon,” Marc assured her.

  “I hope so, I do hope so.”

  ~

  That December Benedict Arnold was found guilty of using army wagons to haul private goods and of illegally granting a pass to a trading ship. Bethlyn received a letter from Peggy Shippen Arnold, elaborating on how her husband was much maligned and also that she had been corresponding with John Andre, who begged to be remembered to Bethlyn.

  Somehow the memory of John’s kindnesses to her and the warm hours they spent at Edgecomb seemed a long time ago. Bethlyn suddenly felt very old and alone.

  ~

  One evening Bethlyn sat i
n the garden behind the house and plucked a wild daisy from the earth. Her fingers stroked the fragile petals before pulling each one off and saying as she did so, “He loves me, he loves me not, he…”

  “Loves you very much.”

  She spun around at the voice behind her, and in an instant Ian had wrapped her trembling body in his arms. She cried, sobbing out her happiness. “Promise me you won’t leave me again,” she pleaded after Ian had led her to sit beneath a spreading elm tree.

  He kissed away a tear. “I’d like to promise that more than anything else in the world, sweetheart. But I can’t. You do understand.”

  Yes, she understood, and that was the reason for the gnawing ache in her heart. She wanted to beg him to choose between her and his country, but knew that wouldn’t be fair. Ian loved both of them, and once he’d given his love, he didn’t relent or would ever think of being unfaithful, Wasn’t this the very reason she loved him?

  Nodding, Bethlyn let Ian raise her to her feet and then they entered the house and headed for Bethlyn’s room, which was away from noise and household traffic. Soon snug and engulfed in passion in the large, soft feather bed, the war seemed a long distance away.

  ~

  Ian found a beautiful fieldstone house on an old country lane whose banks were dark with wild violets. Bethlyn fell in love with the place instantly, enchanted by the high ceilings in every room and the view from the bedroom which overlooked a running stream.

  The house wasn’t grand or large like Edgecomb, but to Bethlyn and Ian, Wild Violets, as they’d come to name the place, represented their love and the cherished moments of being together. But all too soon their idyllic existence ended on a warm summer afternoon when word came that Benedict Arnold, who had somehow convinced friends in high places to put him in command of West Point and its garrison, had intended to surrender his post to the British for twenty thousand pounds. Arnold had escaped before he could be arrested.

  The courier who’d arrived out of nowhere seemed to leave the same way. From the way Ian hung on to the message Bethlyn knew something serious had happened, and a cold fear clutched her heart. Ian told her before she even asked.

  “Poor Peggy,” she mumbled.

  “There’s more,” he said, and cleared his throat. “John Andre has been captured with the incriminating documents on his person. It is assumed that he’ll be hung as a spy.”

  Bethlyn rose abruptly from her chair and dropped her knitting onto the floor, She clutched her throat. “Not John. Oh, Ian, he’s such a sweet, kind, and gallant man.”

  His hand massaged his forehead. “I know. I remember those nights he dined at Edgecomb.”

  “You must help him some way.” She grabbed onto his arm, her eyes pleading.

  “I’ll try,” he said, but from the despairing tone of his voice she knew already that it was hopeless.

  ~

  Bethlyn received word from Ian, who’d gone to General Washington’s headquarters to plead for Andre’s life. The General, for all his great regard for the young English officer, refused to back down. Andre was going to be hung as a spy.

  Bethlyn crumbled the letter in her hands and wept her utter hopelessness. She felt that Andre, as did many other people, was being made to be the scapegoat for Arnold’s treason. Andre was a British officer, doing what any other officer would have done in a like situation. Arnold had contacted Andre first about handing over West Point, not the other way around.

  She felt helpless, but she wanted to do something for John Andre, the man who had been her friend and admirer. The thought of directly begging Washington to save his life crossed her mind, but she discounted it. If Washington wouldn’t budge for Ian, then he wouldn’t listen to her. What could she do then? What might possibly have a lasting impact on the populace and General Washington?

  The Dove.

  The answer was so simple she felt startled, but she knew the Dove could arouse people to take a stand whereas Bethlyn Briston could not.

  Sitting at her desk, she reached for a quill and began to pen what she felt was the most important poem of her life.

  ~

  “This is a stunning surprise,” the spy known as Mariah commented and sipped his wine.

  “What is?” Annabelle Hastings stirred, her sleepy eyes coming awake. She found Mariah sitting against the pillow, reading a pamphlet. Her fingers traced the curve of his thigh. “Oh, that’s one of those rebel pamphlets, espousing drivel about independence. Why do you bother to read such trash?”

  Mariah cocked a dark eyebrow over one of his equally black eyes at her. “Because this one is most intriguing. It seems that the Dove is in New York and bemoaning the capture of Andre. This poem is quite a tribute to him, but rather a strange turn of face, don’t you think? Months ago the Dove was a patriot and now is in Andre’s comer.”

  Annabelle clutched the sheet. The Dove was Bethlyn Briston, and Ian’s wife. She’d thought she’d forgotten Ian Briston, but now warring emotions stirred within her breast. Hatred was the more powerful, but the love she felt for him vied for the upper hand. She mustn’t allow Mariah to see she might still desire Ian Briston. He’d never understood her obsession for the man even after she’d learned Ian had had Emmie Gray investigated and had never trusted her. More than once Mariah had told her she should consider herself lucky to escape Briston. But Annabelle didn’t feel lucky at all. She’d lost the only man she could ever love.

  Mariah, she discovered, for all of his covert dealings, was a basically kind and generous man. A handsome man, too. She didn’t know his ancestry or his true name. He was so dark that she wondered if he might be part Indian. He never told her about his past, but he always told her that he cared for her. And Annabelle believed he did.

  No man had ever been so wonderful to her or treated her like she was so fragile she’d break. Mariah made her feel feminine and beautiful. He adored her and worshiped her body with his masculine and finely shaped hands. Her pleasure was his pleasure, and Mariah introduced her to gentle but sensuous lovemaking — nothing coarse or crude as she’d known with Holmes and Eversley. The man was everything most women could ever hope to find in a lover.

  Why didn’t she love him?

  “What do you make of the Dove and this poem?” she heard Mariah ask.

  Annabelle shrugged and sat up, her long hair reaching to her waist. “Perhaps she likes stirring up trouble.”

  “She? I didn’t realize you had any inkling the Dove was a woman.”

  “Eversley told me.”

  Mariah leaned forward and cupped her chin in his hand, causing her to look at him. “Annabelle, do you know who the Dove is?”

  When his eyes probed hers, Annabelle found it impossible to lie to Mariah. Sometimes she wondered if the man held her in some sort of thrall. “Maybe,” she reluctantly admitted.

  “Thomas Eversley would pay dearly for that information, and the British have been most eager to catch this woman for months. Why didn’t you tell someone? Why didn’t you tell me?” A note of hurt was in his voice and his eyes expressed his disillusionment with her. “I believed we had no secrets from each other, Annabelle.”

  “God, Mariah! You can’t expect me to tell you everything I know or all I’ve ever done in my life. You certainly withhold information about your past.”

  “That’s different. There’s money to be gained with this information.”

  “Yes, but I was under the impression that you were a spy because you were loyal to the Crown. Do you mean to tell me that all you really want is money?”

  Mariah sighed and leaned against the pillow, folding his arms behind his head. Such a hardness appeared in his eyes and such ragged pain shadowed his face that Annabelle flinched.

  “Suffice to say that money is all in life when trust has been displaced.”

  “You’re saying that you don’t trust me.”

  “Not any longer,” he admitted, and those eyes gleamed with raw hatred. “I don’t trust any woman, least of all you. I think you’re sti
ll in love with Ian Briston.”

  “You’re wrong.” Her vehement protest sounded hollow to her own ears. “I don’t give him or that bitch he married a thought.”

  “Annabelle, Annabelle,” he crooned sadly. “When will you ever realize how much the man loves her? I could have given you so much love and joy if you had only let me. But your insides are festering with jealousy for Bethlyn Briston, and this shall be your downfall. You never had Briston’s heart, his wife did and does. Believe me, I’ve done some despicable things in my lifetime, things I sincerely regret, but I’ve been smart enough to let go of an obsession, whereas you have not. I feel sorry for you. I truly pity you.”

  Mariah rose from the bed and started to dress in his usual black garments. “Where are you going?” Annabelle asked, fearing she knew the answer.

  “Away.” He took his ebony cape from a wall peg and twirled it around his shoulders. Coming to the bed, he leaned over and gently kissed her lips. “I wish you good fortune, but I doubt you’ll be sensible enough to seize it if it comes your way again.”

  She watched his broad and masculine frame fill the doorway, and then he left.

  For the first time in a long time Annabelle wanted to cry.

  Mariah was gone and she’d miss him, but she would never rush after him and beg him to stay. She just didn’t love him.

  Ian, however, she would always love. But he didn’t want her, and he was the only man who hadn’t wanted her. She hated the rejection more because he’d chosen his wife over her.

  But she hated Bethlyn Briston more than anyone, and if she never could have Ian as her own, then Bethlyn wouldn’t either.