Of course, it being nearly dinner-time on a Sunday, St Jarvis was deserted, save one or two of the local cats, who cast her bored looks as she passed. Not knowing what to do, but not wanting to go home where Olive would surely berate her, Polly decided to walk down to the pier, to see if there was anyone about.
The little village of St Jarvis was built on the side of a hill; Polly's boarding house was situated at the very top beside the church, and a road ran the whole way through the village leading down to the old stone pier. Polly passed The Fisherman's Friend, whose door was latched shut, though she could hear Mr Lawless singing to himself within.
There was no sign of life when she reached the pier; all that was to be seen were empty fishing boats, bobbing in their moorings. She let out a contented sigh as she listened to the sound of water gently lapping the walls of the pier.
It was heaven here, so safe, so peaceful, so--
"Argh" Polly gave a muffled cry as someone behind her placed their hand over her mouth. The person's arm gently gripped her elbow, and a voice whispered in her ear.
"It's only me, don't fret. I just wanted to--Argh, you bit me!"
"Of course I bit you," Polly said, whirling around to face James Black, "I'd bite anyone who accosted me like that. What's the meaning of all this?"
"I've come to abduct you," James replied solemnly, his blue eyes twinkling with amusement at her outrage.
"Abduct me?"
"Yes, I have it on great authority that the only way to make a woman listen to you in St Jarvis is by means of kidnap."
Her old friend delivered this statement with such a serious expression on his face that Polly wasn't certain if he was jesting, or actually believed it.
"And," James continued, frowning a little, "I'm so desperate to speak with you, that I'm taking the advice of the local fishermen who prop up the bar in the village."
"Oh," Polly had to bite back a laugh at the forlorn look on her friend's face. A strand of his hair had fallen across his forehead, and for a moment all she longed to do was to reach out and smooth it away.
"You didn't need to resort to abduction to talk to me," she replied, unable to meet his eye as she fought the strange feeling of nervousness that fluttered within her chest. "I have been thinking that I can't hold onto my grudge forever."
"You're forgiving me?"
Her old friend looked so hopeful that it near broke Polly's heart. How could she explain the complexity of her feelings? Yes, she was forgiving him, but it did not mean that they would return to the way they had been as children.
"Yes," she said flatly, finally meeting his eye. A jolt of shock went through her as green met blue, and she shivered despite the warmth of the afternoon. Was it her imagination, or had he too seemed startled by the connection?
Polly had expected a more jovial reaction from James at her words, or at the very least a smile, but instead he frowned, his dark eyebrows knitted together in thought. Polly saw that he was struggling with something, and she suspected immediately what it was; he wanted more than just forgiveness.
"Thank you," he finally said, with the same tone a man climbing the gallows might use. "It is more than I deserve. I know that I can never undo what I did..."
"You can't," Polly agreed, "But it was years ago, so we must forget it. Honestly, James, I wish you every happiness that life can offer. Now I must get home, I've left a duchess boiling potatoes, which is not the done thing..."
She turned to leave, but before she could, James reached out and grabbed her wrist. His hand was so big that it easily encircled her whole wrist, and his fingers were warm against her skin. She knew that she should have been annoyed with him for taking such liberties, but the second that their skin touched, her brain immediately stopped working. It was ridiculous, for she was no green girl, or a young miss, but his touch affected her so much that she struggled to catch her breath.
"Are you going to attempt another abduction, Captain Black?" she asked archly, hoping that he did not hear the slight catch in her voice.
"If needs be, I'll throw you over my shoulder and row us to the Isle of Man, to make you forgive me properly."
"I have forgiven you."
It had been years since Polly had been involved in any kind of scrap or scrape, but the urge to kick Captain Black in the shins was overwhelming. Anger, the kind that had earned her the nickname Polly the Jack, surged within her and she knew that with any more provocation, all hell would break loose.
"I don't think you have," James replied, in a sing-song voice; the voice he had used when they were children and he had wished to goad her.
"Well what do you expect?" Polly railed at him with a decade's worth of suppressed fury. "Did you expect me to bow and scrape when you arrived at my door?"
"No—" James began, but Polly cut across him, the need to finally express her hurt superseding any desire to listen to his excuses.
"You were my best friend," she whispered, alarmed at the waver in her voice. She wasn't going to cry, she told herself--it was anger, that was all. "You said that we were family, and then when I needed you the most, you denied that you even knew me. Do you know how pathetic that made me feel? How much it hurt to think that you--of all people--thought me unworthy to even acknowledge? In all my years, I have never felt as low as I did that day, and I will never let anyone--least of all you--make me feel like that again. Do you hear?"
She couldn't say how it happened, but she found herself pulled against James' broad chest, with her tears soaking his good waistcoat. Great sobs wracked her body, and she thought that she would simply fall apart if it weren't for the two strong arms that held her. Eventually her tears stopped and she pulled away from him, wiping her cheeks with the back of her hand.
"I truly am sorry," James whispered, one hand reaching out for hers. His own face was damp with tears, and his eyes, so vivid against their red rims, were hypnotic. "I have spent ten years regretting that one moment Pol. Please believe me, no man has ever been as sorry as I."
"I know," Polly took his hand and gave it a squeeze, offering him a watery smile. "And I do forgive you James, with all my heart."
"I want your hand as well," James whispered fiercely, "I meant what I said."
"Oh hush," Polly gave a startled laugh. "You're galloping along Captain Black, when we've only jumped the first fence. There'll be no talk of rings, which reminds me."
Polly relayed the tale of how Jane Deveraux had examined his mother's ring and thought it to be worth a small fortune.
"Come to the boarding house and I'll give it back to you," she finished. "I couldn't live with the thought that I'd taken something so valuable from you."
"I don't want it back, it belongs to you. No matter what happens, it's yours," James replied simply, but so firmly, that Polly caught a glimpse of the man he had become; unyielding, decisive and used to having people obey his words. There would be no arguing with him, though if she had had the energy she might have tried. As it was, she was exhausted after her emotional outburst--and famished to boot.
"Well then come up and have dinner with us," she offered, throwing him a genuine smile. "I don't suppose you've ever had fish cooked by a duchess?"
"I have not."
"Well if you don't get move on, you never will," Polly called cheerfully, as she gestured for him to follow her back up the road through the village. There was a lightness in her step as she walked, that she suspected had something to do with the fact that her old friend had fallen into step beside her —though she was far too hungry to dissect that thought in detail.
Tomorrow, she thought happily, I'll mull it over tomorrow.
CHAPTER TEN
James had never experienced a meal quite like it. At Emily's insistence, he had taken a seat at the head of the table for dinner and found himself the object of intense scrutiny. Half a dozen ladies stared at him with unconcealed curiosity, their attention only broken when Polly had finished serving and had sat down herself.
"Is anyone g
oing to explain what's going on?" an elderly lady asked, peering openly at James, her eyes sparkling with mischief behind a pair of spectacles. "For I'm far too old to wait for things to reveal themselves over the course of time —I could be dead by the second course."
"No you won't, Mrs Actrol," Polly replied with a warm smile, as she passed a plate of mashed potatoes around the table "For there is no second course."
"Oh, you wicked child," Mrs Actrol gave a hoot of laughter, that rocked her rather ample frame. "Fine--if I cannot threaten you with my tenuous grip on the threads of life, then I don't know what I can do to make you reveal your secrets."
James resisted snorting at Mrs Actrol's words; never had a woman looked less like she was clinging on to life. In fact, the elderly lady seemed tickled pink at the turn of events; her eyes were gleaming and there were two pink spots of excitement on her powdered cheeks.
"Allow me to explain," James said, his deep voice causing every lady's head to turn in his direction. "I am Captain James Black, late of His Majesty's Navy and currently in the employ of the Duke of Everleigh. Polly and I were acquainted as children, and we have recently renewed that acquaintance."
He used his most authoritative voice, and if he had been speaking to anyone else bar Polly's irascible authoress guest, he knew that his statement would have settled matters but, alas, Mrs Actrol was not to be deterred.
"Ah, you are the same Captain Black who called a few nights ago?" she questioned innocently as she cut into her fish, "That same Captain who was told there were no rooms available, when at my count, there were four."
"The very one," James inclined his head, the corners of his lips twitching with a suppressed smile of amusement. He had never faced an interrogation quite like this; all soft smiles and impeccable manners. Give me a drunken brawl in a tavern any day, he thought to himself, as he speared a piece of asparagus with his fork.
"Curious..." was all that Mrs Actrol could say in reply, sensing that in James she had met an opponent who could resist her probing questions.
"James' mother was my teacher," Polly volunteered, obviously wishing to divert the conversation to safer ground. "Mrs Flora Black, she ran a penny school in Newcastle, that was how we met."
"Flora Black?"
Mrs Actrol's veneer of benign curiosity slipped away at the mention of James' mother, her mouth was open with shock and she peered at James, raking him from top to toe with her blue eyes.
"As I live and breathe," the authoress said, placing her fork down upon the table. "You do have the look of her."
It took all of James' strength to resist spitting his mouthful of fish onto the pristine table cloth in shock. It would never do to disgrace Polly at their first meal together, nor disgrace himself in front of his employer's wife. Olive, Duchess of Everleigh, was watching the proceedings through almond shaped eyes which looked as riveted by the turn of events as James was.
"Did you know my mother?" he finally asked, excitement bubbling within. He knew nothing of his mother; she had never mentioned anything about her past, and before the secret of who his father was had been revealed, James had never thought to question it. Now, older and wiser, he knew that his mother must have run away to Newcastle after she had conceived, and that somewhere out there, he had another family. He only wished that he had been more curious about her origins when he was a boy, for once she had died, her secrets had died with her.
"A little," Mrs Actrol smiled with nostalgia. "She summered here three times, just when Mrs Barker first opened the boarding house. She was a beautiful young woman, with a very bright mind. Her father was a Reverend, in Sussex I believe, who didn't much care for the bluestocking movement. She used to tell him that she was visiting with friends, when she did not return for her fourth summer, I simply assumed that her father had somehow found out."
As Mrs Actrol finished her tale, there was only one set of eyes that James sought out; Polly's. Like his own, hers were misty with tears at this unexpected revelation, and James had never felt so understood by another living soul. Only Polly could know what this meant to him; she was the only person who remembered his mother had even lived.
"Isn't that a turn up for the books," Polly interjected, standing to clear the plates from the table. "And another surprise is how delicious that fish was--cooked by a Duchess, no less!"
Her cheerful chatter broke the spell of silence around the table, and mercifully the other guests began to talk amongst themselves about the Duchess of Everleigh's hitherto unknown culinary skills. James felt a wave of gratitude to Polly, for distracting her guests from the curiosity that was his life, to more mundane matters. He too stood and began collecting plates, ignoring Polly's admonishments to sit back down. He followed her from the dining room into the kitchen, his shoulders sagging with relief as the door closed behind him.
"Oh, James," Polly took the plates from him and set them down on the table top, before pulling him into a warm embrace. No words passed between them, but he could feel her heart beating against his chest and that was all the comfort he needed. James leaned his head against Polly's, inhaling the sweet scent of her and after a few minutes had passed, his feelings changed from grief to desire.
She fitted perfectly into his arms; her forehead just reached his chin, allowing him to nuzzle the crown of her head. As if she sensed the change in the atmosphere between them, Polly made to step back, but James held her tight against him.
"I must put the kettle on, for tea," she said, her halting speech and the quick rise and fall of her chest revealing that she too was affected by their closeness.
"Let them wait," James urged, for he could not. With a confidence that just yesterday would have seemed foolish, he bent his head towards hers and captured her lips with his own. She tasted so sweet, her soft lips were like honey, intoxicating him so that every sensible thought left his head.
Just hours before he had vowed to court Polly slowly; to go at a pace that suited her and not rush her into anything she was not ready for. He had waited a decade to find her, he had reasoned —what harm could a few more weeks do. Now that he had her in his arms, with his fingers running through her luscious auburn locks and her body pressed against his, the very idea of going slowly was laughable.
There was a church next door, he knew that, he could simply sling her over his shoulder, force the Reverend to perform the necessary victuals, and have her in his bed in less than an hour.
The idea was most appealing.
He must have growled, or moaned, or made some sort of untoward noise that revealed his base desires for her, for she suddenly pulled away, visibly shaking with nerves.
"We must not," she whispered, her hand unconsciously going to her lips, which were swollen from the force of his kisses. "Whatever will the ladies say if they're kept waiting for their tea?"
"Hang their tea," James offered, rather unhelpfully he knew, but elegant conversation was beyond him. In all his years he had never experienced a kiss like that; one that had reached into his very bones and turned them to jelly. Despite his misgivings, James allowed Polly to pull away from him, sensing that if he pushed too hard she was liable to bolt. From the flush of her cheeks he knew that she felt just the same as he.
"Though if there is a cup on offer, I wouldn't say no," he continued cheerfully, as Polly placed a kettle full of water upon the wood burning stove.
"Oh, of course you must," she replied brightly, over the whistling of the kettle as it began to boil. "Take yourself into the parlour, I'll bring it in myself."
She ignored his offer of help, shooing him out of the kitchen with an impatient hand. Her demeanour was so bright and gay, that if it wasn't for the becoming flush on her cheeks and the swollen beauty of her mouth, James would have sworn that the kiss had never happened.
He took himself into the parlour where Mrs Actrol pointed to the free seat beside her on the sofa. Another round of interrogation was the last thing he desired, but luckily Mrs Actrol was engrossed in conversation with the
Duchess on matters political. James allowed the talk of Whigs and Tories to wash over him, too overcome by the turn of the day's events--particularly its last few minutes--to engage in idle chatter.
When Polly bustled into the room, he sat up a little straighter, watching her as she moved amongst the ladies, to make sure that she was alright. She showed no outward signs of distress, which was a relief, for he knew that he had rather taken liberties which were not his to take. Not yet, at any rate.
The only sign of what had passed between them was the slight blush on her cheeks as she handed him his cup and saucer, and how quickly she turned her gaze away. He was nervous on her behalf; knowing that if any of the guests even guessed at what they had done, that she would suffer endless questions from them--and not a little embarrassment. Luckily, no one appeared to have noticed their prolonged absence, or that Polly's hair had come a little undone from its pins. In all, he rather thought that they had both gotten away with their romantic interlude, that is until he stood to leave and Mrs Actrol beckoned him to lean down so that she could whisper in his ear.
"I haven't seen a girl so thoroughly kissed in a long time," she whispered, bestowing him with a most unladylike wink.
James was so startled that all he could do was nod in reply.
"It was lovely to meet you, Captain Black," Mrs Actrol continued in a louder tone. "I do hope that you visit again."
"Oh, I intend to," James replied, and to Mrs Actrol's obvious delight, he gave her a discreet wink back.
He glanced at Polly, who was pushing a strand of loose hair behind her ear, and inwardly reaffirmed his vow. He would be back, and one day soon, he would be seated here with Polly at his side--his wife in every way.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
For days after her encounter with Captain Black, Polly's lips felt tender and bruised. A feeling that was most likely a figment of her imagination, for when she checked the mirror--which she did regularly--they looked perfectly fine.
The Captain of Betrayal Page 8