“Well, did you hear her?” Corisande blurted out to her sisters, who looked like rumpled ragamuffins as they yawned and stretched, while Estelle was already clambering from the bed. “Up with you and go give Frances a hug!”
Estelle and Linette needed no second urging but skittered from the cabin, as Oliver followed after them, shaking his head. But Marguerite stood looking at her doubtfully.
“I can’t go out there like this, Corie,” she said, glancing down at her dirty flannel nightgown. “And my hair isn’t brushed—”
“I’m sorry but I can’t do anything for your hair,” Corisande said wryly as she took off her cloak. “Here, put this on. It’ll do until you get home.”
Smiling gratefully, Marguerite whisked the cloak around her shoulders and darted from the cabin, leaving Corisande to pick up the chest and fit it snugly under her arm. Wondering if poor Oliver had had to awaken Donovan, too, she hastened up the steps, smiling at the brilliant sunny day that greeted her, smiling in anticipation of seeing him.
Her eyes swept the deck, but he wasn’t there. She imagined he must have joined the noisy crowd milling on the dock. It appeared much of the parish had turned out to welcome them home, no doubt everyone having heard of her sisters’ plight.
She could see Frances beaming from ear to ear, laughing and crying at the same time as she hugged first Estelle, then Linette and Marguerite, then all three at once. And there was her father, beaming as broadly as Frances and surprising Corisande that he would have braved such a crowd. But she still didn’t see Donovan—
“Corie.”
She spun, her eyes meeting Oliver’s, and at once her smile faded as she saw his somber face, his perplexed eyes.
“Lord Donovan left the moment we docked, maybe a half hour ago now. Didn’t say much except to thank me an’ that he had things to do at home. I know ‘tesn’t my business, but did ‘ee have a quarrel with the man— Corie?”
She’d fled, barreling down the gangplank nearly straight into Frances, taking only an instant to give the housekeeper a hug before she thrust the chest into her arms.
“Take that home, Frances, and help Papa find a safe place for it—one we won’t forget!”
Frances looked from her to the wooden chest, sputtering in confusion, but Corisande had already moved on to her father. He was surrounded by her sisters, so she could only throw him a kiss, then she was ducking her way through the crowd, praying that Pete was still where she’d left him in the Trelawnys’ stable.
Chapter 37
“Y-you’re leaving, my lord?”
“Yes, for London,” Donovan said tersely to Henry Gilbert, whose large Adam’s apple bobbed up and down as he swallowed in surprise. “I’ll send word to you as to what needs to be done as soon as—”
“Needs to be done, my lord? Forgive me for interrupting, but I don’t understand.”
“You will, Gilbert, you will,” Donovan said cryptically almost to himself, striding into the library. He had hoped not to encounter anyone, pack a few things and be on his way, but damned if Henry hadn’t just been setting out for Porthleven, having heard that the Fair Betty had returned.
It seemed the agent had hired a fisherman to watch for the ship and then let him know as soon as it was sighted—Gilbert’s loyalty amazed him. But better he be loyal to look after Arundale’s Kitchen and the tinners’ welfare when Donovan was gone. Just because he wouldn’t be returning to Cornwall didn’t mean he wasn’t going to honor his part of the agreement.
“Brandy?” he asked, and Henry looked even more confused although he nodded. Donovan poured two brimming drinks and handed one to the agent, then lifted his glass and half emptied it in a swallow while Henry sipped his cautiously, no doubt recalling well the time he had nearly choked. As Donovan remembered it, they had just made a toast to his marriage…
“Will Lady Donovan be accompanying you?”
Donovan didn’t readily answer, tossing down the last of his brandy.
“M-my lord?”
“No, Gilbert, she will not be accompanying me.” He set down the glass with a hard thunk on the desk, his gaze falling upon a small stack of letters. “These arrive today?”
“No, yesterday evening, my lord, but you’d already gone to Porthleven. I heard some news at the mine today, though, that I think might interest you. About Jack Pascoe.”
Donovan looked up, his scrutiny so intense that Henry appeared suddenly quite uncomfortable.
“If…if you care to hear it, my lord. You seem in quite a hurry—”
“What news, man? Of course I’m bloody well interested!”
“Well, my lord, Jack Pascoe’s dead. An accident at Great Work mine, or so they’re saying. It seems he’d been drinking before he came to work his core late last night and he started boasting that he’d brought the king’s excisemen down upon Oliver Trelawny and that one day they’d catch him red-handed and your wife, too, my lord, please forgive me for saying so. I heard all this from Jonathan Knill, whose brother works at Great Work and—”
“So what happened to the bastard?” Donovan broke in with impatience, making Henry Gilbert jump.
“H-he slipped, my lord, slipped and tumbled down the main shaft. At least that’s what the tinners said when the accident was reported. But I think—well, they’ve no love for informers around here—”
“So I’ve discovered,” Donovan muttered, the pain suddenly so fierce inside him that he suddenly wanted nothing more than to escape it. To hell with packing! He could buy what he needed along the way and in London. The sooner he was out of this house, out of Cornwall, the better. “Help yourself to the brandy, Gilbert,” he said tightly, thrusting the letters into his coat pocket. “A pity that such fine stuff should go to waste.”
He stormed from the library, and Henry Gilbert hastened after him.
“But—but, my lord, some of those letters I believe are bills. If you’re going to London, shouldn’t I see to—”
“Take them all, man!” Donovan spun so suddenly that Henry knocked into his arm, causing the letters to scatter to the floor.
Cursing, he sank to his haunches to help the agent retrieve them, noticing that one of letters was water-stained, the original writing upon it nearly faded, although more recent writing clearly indicated it had been forwarded from Arundale Hall. His heart seemed to stop when he saw that the letter had come from Lisbon, his fingers trembling as he tore it open and began to read.
“This one is addressed to you, my lord…from Miss Lindsay Somerset.”
“What?” Donovan’s voice was so hoarse—God help him, his daughter had been found! She was safe in Lisbon!—that he could barely speak.
“From Lindsay Somerset, my lord.”
“Are you sure it isn’t for my wife?” Donovan took the letter, hardly able to focus upon the feminine scrawl for the emotion clouding his eyes while Henry Gilbert could only stare at him. “What are you looking at, man? Didn’t you say you had bills to pay?”
“Yes, yes, my lord, I do. I most certainly do.” Henry fled with a handful of letters back into the library, leaving Donovan standing alone in the entry hall.
Hell and damnation, what could Corisande’s friend want with him? He pocketed the letter about Paloma and angrily ripped open Lindsay’s, cursing when the top half tore off in his hand and fluttered to the floor. He swept it up, deciding he wasn’t even going to read the damned thing. Why should he? He had other things to think about…his daughter to think about…yet he began to read anyway almost in spite of himself…
I hope you don’t think it too forward of me to write to you, my lord, but it is only because I so dearly love Corie and want the best for her. I’ve heard only the most wonderful things about you here in London, and I told Corie so in my last letter—ah, but it’s not my purpose here to recount all of that. I wanted you to know how wonderful Corie is, too—though I truly hope you’ve already discerned that for yourself —but she has such a fearsome temper at times that I felt I must write to you a
nd explain—
“Fearsome temper?” Donovan said with a snort, reading on.
…explain that, well, Corie would never admit it, no, not even to me, but she’s very afraid, you know. I wondered a long time why she seemed so set upon scaring away any young man who came near her, but when you look at her father—what became of the poor man after her mother died—
Donovan glanced at the other torn half of the letter in his hand, but he had no stomach to read further. No stomach because suddenly he was so furious with himself that he didn’t know what to do.
Damn him for a fool, how could he not have seen it? That time last week when he had tried to kiss Corisande and she had panicked, then cried herself to sleep? How she had tried so desperately to run from him the other night—even attempting to jump from the balcony—and he had demanded why she was afraid of him? But maybe she hadn’t been running from him as much as from something else…maybe feelings that frightened her so…feelings he had sensed all along ran as deep and as fierce as his own…
Cursing his blindness, cursing himself for having spoken to her so callously last night on the ship when she had come to thank him, Donovan stuffed the torn letter in his pocket and sprinted outside, his heart thundering in his ears as he headed for the stable.
***
“What do you mean he’s not here?” Corisande began to think she would have to shake an answer from Henry Gilbert, who was gaping at her so fearfully, his Adam’s apple bouncing. “I’ve no pistol, Henry! I’m not going to shoot you! I just want to know where Donovan—”
“Th-the stable, I think. A few moments ago—I imagine to get his horse. He…he said he was going to London.”
“Oh, Lord.”
She fled back outside, wondering wildly if she had missed him. Henry Gilbert had been so engrossed in his work when she burst into the library, who could say if it had been a few moments ago or maybe a quarter hour ago that Donovan had left? She must have frightened the poor man to death, too, papers flying into the air as he dropped to his knees and ducked behind a chair. It had been so comical she might have laughed, but she didn’t feel at all like laughing.
She’d never ridden so hard, exhausting poor Pete. He would never make it any farther, not to Helston, and certainly not to London. She ran to the stable, her lungs hurting, already so out of breath.
She couldn’t believe Donovan would leave her without even saying good-bye—ah, yes, she could, and she couldn’t blame him. Yet it still made her angry all the same and—and, oh, please, please, may he still be in the—
Corisande gasped, spinning so crazily out of the way as a horse and rider galloped through the stable doors that she lost her balance and fell flat on her face, the wind knocked from her. For a moment she could only lie there, coughing at the dust and bits of hay settling around her, but suddenly she was hauled to her feet, coming face to face with Donovan.
“Corie? Good God, woman, are you all right?”
She stared up at him, so grateful that she’d caught him in time, so giddily happy that he hadn’t left yet for London, so…so angry that he was going to leave without saying good-bye!
“You…you cad! Scoundrel! Reckless horseman!”
“Reckless horseman?”
“You could have killed me! Killed me! And I came all this way to find you!”
“You came to find me?”
“Yes, that’s only fair, isn’t it? After all the times you had to come after me? But then Gilbert said you were going to London and—and without even a good-bye and…and you’re going to annul me, aren’t you?”
“Actually,” he said huskily, drawing her into his arms, “I’d annul you just for the chance to start over with you again as my bride, Corie, if I thought it might help me win your love.”
As tears filled her eyes, Corisande plucked at Donovan’s coat; she had suddenly grown so flustered. “I…I don’t think that will be necessary, my lord.”
“No?”
She shook her head, swallowing hard so that she might continue to speak. “I think I’ve been quite won over already…quite won over. I’m just so very sorry, Donovan, that it took me so—”
She didn’t have to finish. Donovan’s kiss was so warm, so tender, that she felt her heart filling with unimaginable joy. And when he finally pulled away from her, long, long moments later, he had the funniest, wryest smile on his lips.
“I wasn’t going to London, you know.”
“No?”
He shrugged. “No. Couldn’t leave you. That’s all there is to it. I guess you’re stuck with me, woman, for better or worse, informer or not—”
“Oh, no, Donovan, I never believed you were an informer! I only said that because–”
Again Donovan silenced her, this time with a finger placed gently to her lips. Later, he thought, later he would tell her about Jack Pascoe, but not now. Not now.
“That’s all behind us, Corie. Are we agreed?”
She nodded, and he drew her close, hugging her fiercely to him as he murmured against her hair, “And no more fair trading, are we agreed? After seeing that revenue cruiser, I can’t bear the thought that—”
“Agreed.”
She’d answered so hoarsely that he drew back to look into her face, only to discover tears coursing down her cheeks.
“Corie?”
“I want you to find your daughter, Donovan, I truly do, and I’ll do anything I can to help you. I’ll love her as if she were my very own. But for you to go behind enemy lines—”
“There won’t be any enemy lines, not in Lisbon,” he said softly, watching surprise light her face. “Paloma’s been found. My daughter’s been found. We have only to go get her, Corie. Will you come with me to bring my little girl home?”
Corisande reached up to cradle his face, her lips sweetly, so sweetly touching his, and Donovan knew that he needn’t have asked. But he couldn’t help himself from asking for one final agreement when she drew away from him a moment later, her beautiful eyes shining.
“One last thing, Corie. Would you promise here and now that you’ll never call me lambkins?”
“Only if you promise never to call me a shrew.”
“Oh, you’re no shrew, woman.” Donovan hugged her against him, his smile as teasing as her own. “Just lively. And I wouldn’t want you any other way.”
“Miriam Minger is a master storyteller who illustrates the full gamut of emotions felt by her characters. Emotions so strong that you are pulled into the pages and into their lives.” – Inside Romance
MY RUNAWAY HEART
MIRIAM MINGER
Copyright © Miriam Minger
All rights reserved. With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the author.
This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
ISBN: 978-0-9828835-7-0
Other Electronic Books by Miriam Minger
The O’Byrne Brides Series
Wild Angel
Wild Roses
Wild Moonlight
The Man of My Dreams Series
Secrets of Midnight
My Runaway Heart
Captive Brides Collection
Twin Passions
Captive Rose
The Pagan’s Prize
Dangerous Masquerade Collection
The Brigand Bride
The Temptress Bride
The Impostor Bride
To Love a Billionaire Series
The Maiden and the Billionaire
The Governess and the Billionaire
The Pirate Queen and the Billionaire
The Highland Bride and the Billionaire
Contemporary Romantic Suspense
Prologue
The English Channel
April 1813
“Do we set her ablaze, Cap’n? She’s listing so far to port already, it won’t take long—”
“Light the torches.”
The damning words were spoken so low that they were almost sucked up by the roar of the wind, but the captain made no effort to repeat them. And the stumpy Irishman scrambled to obey his command. As another howling gust tore at the captain’s hair, the icy sting of salt spray plastering his shirt to his body, he gripped the starboard railing and peered through the gathering dusk at the doomed merchantman, Superior.
Galleys loaded with officers bobbed around the crippled ship like ducklings reluctant to leave their mother’s side, although one longboat had turned into the wind to head for England. A harsh smile touched his face. “What do you say, Walker? Think they’ll see the flames in London?”
“Ha! With all those munitions aboard? Damned if they don’t hear the explosion all the way to Boston.”
The captain didn’t respond, falling as grimly silent as the raven-haired American standing behind him. Torches hissed to life along the quarterdeck. Bright orange flames curled and clawed at the wind with malevolent fingers. First one, then another, then a dozen torches were hurled across pewter-dark waves to the Superior, her billowing white sails soon writhing like tortured souls in a maelstrom of hellish fire and heat.
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