by Cheryl Holt
She liked her routine with Miss Mansfield, how the days slipped by so gracefully from one to the next. There were no battles where death was always a possibility, no strutting and huffing with the Captain and his men as they proved how tough they were. She had plenty of food to eat, clean sheets on her bed, warm blankets and fires on cool evenings.
It was a magical, precious interlude that had altered her view of the world and her place in it. What was she to do?
She couldn’t bear to join the Captain. In the locales he was known to haunt, she’d be thrust into peril, with the constant prospect that some fanatical Arab would jump out of a crowd and kill her to collect the Sultan’s reward.
And what about her liaison with Robert? The ship was too small to hide a carnal relationship. Where would they meet? How would they dally?
She pined for more than furtive couplings in secluded alcoves, and she yearned for peace of mind and contentment. Was that too much to ask?
“I want to stay here,” she blurted out. “I don’t want to ever leave. I’ll speak with Miss Mansfield. If she agrees, I’m sure the Captain will allow it.”
“I’m sure he will,” Robert said from behind her. He was very glum. “What about us?”
She whipped around. “Stay with me.”
“You know I can’t.”
“I know nothing of the sort. Miss Mansfield likes you; she’d be glad to have you.”
“You’re talking crazy, Pat.”
“Why? Because I want to be happy? Because I want more for myself than fighting and destruction?”
“It’s not that.”
“Then what is it?”
She was being deliberately obtuse. The Captain had plopped down a fortune to buy Robert at the slave market, and Robert was determined to repay the debt, plus he was so accursedly loyal. He’d stand by the Captain through thick and thin, would never desert him. Not for Patricia. Not even if she demanded. Not even if she begged.
He crossed to her and quietly catalogued her features. The thorough assessment was more horrid than any indignity she’d endured so far. It underscored how much was already settled.
“Stay with me,” she pleaded. “Marry me.”
He was aghast. “Marry you?”
“Yes.”
“How could I?”
“How would you suppose? We’d march down to the vicar and have him call the banns.”
“Don’t be flip. I can’t support you. Where would we live? How would we get on?”
“I’ll ask the Captain to have you serve as his land agent. You can run the farm and oversee the accounts. You’d earn a salary. He likes you. He’ll be generous.”
“I’m not certain he’s keeping the property.”
“What? But that’s absurd! He loves this place.”
“Not really. He coveted it because it belonged to Archibald Mansfield. You remember how it was.”
Yes, she did. All too well. When the Captain had gambled with Archie Mansfield, he’d been like a child with a new toy, but now that the estate was his, the excitement had faded. It was the same with his paramours. He’d seduce a woman but would move on as soon as the thrill of the chase was concluded.
She’d assumed that this time was different, that he felt the same sense of home and connection that Pat felt herself. Neither of them had ever had anything of their own. They’d been orphans, cast to the vagaries of Fate. He’d been so satisfied with Mansfield Abbey, had taken such a fancy to Miss Mansfield. What had transpired? How could it have fallen apart so quickly?
“You have to stay with me.” She was starting to sound hysterical, but she couldn’t stop herself.
“I can’t, and I won’t.”
“And that’s to be the end of it?”
“Yes.”
“What about what I want? What about what I need?”
He shrugged. “How can it signify?”
“Do I mean anything to you?”
She braced for the worst, ready to finally hear his true opinion. He liked crawling into her bed and was tickled by the sexual acts she’d shown him, but any experienced woman could have behaved similarly.
He’d never hinted at a deep attachment, had never provided the smallest inkling of his feelings for her, so it was very probable that his esteem didn’t extend past the four walls of the tiny room where she slept.
“Of course you mean something to me,” he replied.
“What, then? Tell me, and please be very precise, because I’ve suddenly realized that I haven’t a clue.”
“I . . . I . . .”
He stumbled and hesitated, and she couldn’t deduce why it was so difficult for him to answer. Was it because he was a male and professions of emotion beyond him? Or—more likely—had he no genuine sentiment to convey?
Her heart sank. She’d been raised in the company of men, but she actually understood very little about them. She’d persuaded herself that if she was sufficiently intimate with him, she could win his abiding affection.
She knew better. She really, really did. If she’d learned one lesson in her travels, it was that men were lying dogs. He’d seemed more honorable than others she’d met, but apparently, she’d been tricked by the impressive clothes and the prissy manners.
“Just go, Robert.”
Desperate for the hideous scene to be over, she waved to the door, but he tried to pull her into a hug, which she wasn’t about to permit.
“Pat, don’t be this way.”
“What way?”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“How about that you love me, and you can’t live without me? That you’ll do whatever it takes for us to be together?”
“But how could it become a reality?”
“How indeed?”
“There are a few steps between wanting something and having it.”
“If two people are in love, they can make it work.” She hadn’t grasped that she harbored such impractical tendencies, so she was surprised to have uttered the romantic statement.
He slumped against the wall, his arms sullenly crossed over his chest, as he silently studied her. A gulf stretched between them, a crevasse as wide as an ocean that couldn’t be breached.
Ultimately, he shook his head. “I’m not the man you need, Patricia.”
“I thought you were. My mistake.”
“You spent your life around brigands.”
“And I hated every moment of it.”
“No, you didn’t. I’m merely someone different from the norm, and you’re attracted to me because of it, but I could never care for you in the fashion you deserve. Even the Captain said so.”
“What the hell does he know about it?”
“He knows that you should have a tough man by your side, a man who can protect and defend you.”
She scoffed. “I don’t need protecting.”
“Every woman does, and every man has to feel that he’s up to the challenge.”
“And you’re claiming you’re not?”
“I’m not claiming it. It’s true.”
He looked so dejected, so young and out of his element, and a day earlier—even an hour earlier—she’d have comforted him. She would have been the strong one, the resolute one, who would have fixed every problem, but the last few minutes had altered their connection. In fact, the last few minutes had dissolved it entirely.
If he was sad, if he was hurting, it was none of her concern.
“Good-bye, Robert.”
“It doesn’t have to be good-bye!”
“It must be.”
Was he mad? Why couldn’t he perceive the future as clearly as she did? Eventually, he’d have the funds to buy his freedom and to marry. He’d establish himself in the society he’d left behind when his brothers had tried to murder him. His bride would be educated and refined, elegant and sophisticated. Someone like . . . like . . . Miss Mansfield. Patricia would be a fond memory, a youthful indiscretion.
She had been the whore. Another woman would be t
he wife.
“Listen,” he said. “I’ve been talking with the Captain. He’s training me.”
“Training you to what?”
“To fight. To guard you.”
Her temper spiked. “You fool, I never wanted you to be a brawler. I wanted you just as you were.”
“Well, I’m tired of being the whipping boy for every bully who strolls by. I’m ready to strike back for a change.”
“There are more important things than battling for every scrap.”
“Not to me.”
“If that’s what you believe, you’ve become as deranged as the Captain.”
She had turned to go when he implored, “Will you wait for me, Patricia?”
“What?”
“I plan to work hard, to save my money. When I have enough, I’ll send for you. I’m begging you to tell me that you’ll wait for me.”
He held out his hand, beseeching her to take it and consent, but she couldn’t. She had this ridiculous vision, of herself as a wrinkled old woman, tottering through the halls at Mansfield Abbey.
He’ll be coming for me any day now, she imagined herself croaking to Miss Mansfield. Any day! Just see if he doesn’t!
“No, Robert, I won’t wait for you. You’re determined to walk this path that has you so enthralled, so have at it. I wish you happy.”
Actually, she didn’t wish him happy, at all. She hoped he was miserable without her, that he married a harpy and regretted it throughout a long and wretched life.
She spun and stomped out.
“I’ve been very pleased during my sojourn at Mansfield Abbey.”
“Have you?”
Helen stared across the desk at Captain Westmoreland. He was attired in an exquisite suit that Mr. Haversham had sewn for him, and she was curious as to why he’d worn it. It hung like a mantle of his new prestige and status, a beacon announcing that he wasn’t the lowly bandit he’d been when he’d first arrived. In the dark blue coat, the stylish tan trousers, the white shirt with its frilly cravat, he looked like a prince, like a god-come-to-earth, like someone she’d never known.
He was a stranger, and she tried to match him with the exotic, adamant man who’d stolen her heart, but she couldn’t find that fellow anywhere.
It was obvious that, in his mind, he’d moved on, that any link he’d had to Mansfield—and thus to her—had been severed. His destiny had called, and he’d answered. She knew him so well, and she could sense his distraction, his thoughts so preoccupied with departure that it seemed as if he was scarcely in the room.
She couldn’t blame him for going, for making the only possible choice, but oh, how it wounded her to ascertain that everything in his world had been more important to him than her.
She felt frozen, as if ice flowed in her veins. Her fingers were cold, her smile brittle.
“I’ve given the issue a good deal of consideration,” he advised, “and I’ve reached a decision.”
“How nice.”
She couldn’t figure out why he was dawdling. Why couldn’t he just go? Didn’t he appreciate that every second of delay was torture? Each word, each glance, pricked like the blade of a sharp knife.
Mr. Smith had sought her out to explain that they were about to leave and that the Captain had to speak with her. She’d come as he’d commanded—for who could defy him?—but what could he still have to communicate?
Hadn’t every remark of any consequence been uttered the prior night?
He peered over at Mr. Smith. “Have you the papers?”
“Yes, Captain.” Smith laid some documents on the desk, and he shoved over a bottle of quills and a jar of ink.
“Mansfield Abbey is your home,” Westmoreland started, “and I’m aware of how much you cherish it.” He paused. “So I’m giving it to you.”
She cocked her head, not sure she’d heard the last phrase correctly. “What did you say?”
“I’m giving you Mansfield Abbey.”
“Thank you for thinking of me, but I don’t want it.”
Why would a refusal pop out of her mouth? Was she insane? According to the terms of their agreement, she was due to reside at Mansfield through the following spring, and then she’d be deposited back in her original predicament of having no options and nowhere to go.
His gifting her with the estate solved every problem and settled her future. She ought to have grabbed onto the suggestion like a magnet to metal, but the offer seemed extremely sordid, as if he was paying her for services rendered. Perhaps he reimbursed all his paramours when he finished with them and the fact that he’d tender such a valuable property indicated that she’d performed better than most, but the realization was scant comfort.
“The deed is done, Helen,” he quietly informed her. “When I was in London over the summer, I had the solicitors draw up the papers. Mr. Smith had them appropriately signed and sealed. The estate is yours.”
So . . . the bastard had been planning his escape for ages. While she’d been alone in the country and missing him every minute, he’d been conferring with his lawyers as to how he could be shed of her most expediently.
She felt as if the air had rushed out of her body. If she stood, her legs wouldn’t support her.
She shrugged with resignation. “As you wish.”
“There’s one condition.”
“And that is . . . ?”
“Patricia would like to remain with you.”
“She doesn’t want to return to the ship?”
“No.”
An understandable decision. Helen scowled at Smith. “What are your feelings in this, Mr. Smith?”
At her question Smith appeared stricken, but he hastily shielded any reaction. “I have no opinion, Miss Mansfield. The Captain needs me, and I’m happy to do whatever he asks.”
How could he abandon Patricia? How could he walk away simply because Westmoreland demanded it? Hadn’t either man an ounce of sense? Of shame? To what was the world coming? Didn’t integrity matter anymore? Not obligation? Or duty? Or devotion? Or fidelity?
“You’re the Captain’s man, through and through, Mr. Smith,” she needled. “We wouldn’t want you to upset him, would we?” At her sarcasm they both bristled, but she ignored them. She was beyond caring about them and their idiotic male sensibilities. “The condition, Captain, is easy to accept. Patricia may stay as long as she likes . . .”
She glared at Smith, letting him read her mind as she finished her thought. . . . if it will help to keep her away from you.
With no difficulty, he received her message, and she was elated to see him flush with humiliation.
“Will there be anything else, Captain?” she inquired.
Suddenly his cravat seemed to be choking him, and he tugged at it and cleared his throat. “I don’t believe so.”
“Then may I be excused?”
He didn’t respond, but stared and stared, his discomfort plain. He recognized how badly he’d mucked up the situation, but there was no way to mend their rift. His greatest fault—or virtue, depending on one’s point of view—was his absolute veracity. He was excruciatingly blunt, and he never said what he didn’t mean.
He was through with her, and if she had troubles later on, he couldn’t be bothered over them. She wondered if he fathomed how very much like his father he was. He and the Duke were two peas in a pod, which was so very sad. How apropos that Captain Westmoreland would pick the Duke over herself.
She blandly matched his stare, her face blank and not exhibiting a hint of emotion, even though she was dying inside.
Don’t go! Don’t leave me! she yearned to shout, but she said nothing. She did nothing. He’d made his bed. He could lie in it with his precious father.
“Well?” she pressed.
His cheeks reddened, and she might have detected a touch of regret, but she was positive it was a trick of the light.
“If there’s any news to share—”
Egad! The blasted oaf wouldn’t mention their affair in front of
Smith, would he? Could he be that crass? If he uttered a single word, she would march over to the fancy weaponry displayed on the wall, would grab a pistol and shoot him right through the middle of his black heart.
“There won’t be any news.”
“But if you need me, and I—”
“Trust me, Captain Westmoreland, should I ever require assistance, you would be the last person I would ask.” She rose. “Have a pleasant journey.”
Despite her rebuff, he persisted. “Helen, you must promise you’ll contact me. I’ll come straightaway.”
“I’d sooner jump off a cliff than have you back here. Good-bye.”
Regal as any queen, she strode out, but once she was far enough away that he couldn’t hear, she raced up the stairs to her room. Numb, bereft, she lay down and gazed up at the ceiling, pondering how quiet the house would be without him.
How would she bear it? How would she carry on?
Noise erupted in the yard as horses were brought out. Orders were given, banter exchanged with the grooms. His voice was easy to discern, and he sounded so calm, so eager to be away.
She couldn’t resist creeping to the window to watch him ride off. She huddled behind the curtains as he checked his saddle, as Smith mounted, then he mounted, himself. He jerked on the reins and kicked his horse into a canter. Within seconds, he was disappearing down the lane and just a tiny speck on the horizon.
She’d assumed he would pause to take a final glance around, that he might smile fondly or wave in farewell, but he never looked back.
“You’re certain?”
“Yes.”
“Dammit! The bitch!”
Adrian observed as Archie snatched up a perfectly decent decanter of brandy and smashed it against the wall. Shards of glass flew everywhere, and amber liquid spewed down the plaster and onto the priceless rug.
“Let me see the letter,” Archie said.
Adrian surrendered it, as he decided that the annoying maid, Peg, had outlived her usefulness. There was no reason for her to continue on at Mansfield. When he returned there, he’d have to ensure that she vanished.
“The bloody thing is a scrawl,” Archie complained. “Was it written by an illiterate?”
“Yes, but at least it was written, or we wouldn’t have known what happened.”