by Linda Ladd
"I sure be glad to get to meet a fine colonial gull like yerself, missy.” She reached down and pumped the astonished lady's hand, and Brace took one look at Donovan's blanched face, a muscle twitching furiously in his cheek, and decided he had better do something and quick. He laughed, clapping his hands as he stood.
"Bravo, Miss Tyler, we have all heard what an accomplished actress you are, but that accent was magnificent! Don't you agree, Richard?"
Richard's look of disbelief slowly settled into an amazed grin. He shook his head. “I swear I thought you really talked that way! You certainly had me fooled, Miss Tyler."
Brace's eyes held Alysson's for a second, and she took heed of his warning look.
"Why, thank you, Mr. Atkinson,” she answered graciously in perfect English diction. “Mr. MacBride insisted that I display for you one of my accents, and I do like to please him. He's such a charming host."
Mr. Atkinson didn't appear to hear her mocking inflection, so intent was he on admiring her beautiful face, but Brace heard it, and so did Donovan. Donovan clenched his jaw harder, and Brace spoke quickly.
"Now, Miss Tyler, you promised me a turn around the deck before you retire, and I intend to hold you to it.” He smiled at her. “If you'll excuse us, gentlemen, Miss Atkinson."
He guided Alysson off before anyone could object, and he did not slow his pace until they were out of the dining room and in the companionway that led to their stateroom. Then he stopped and looked down at her.
"I think perhaps my brother deserved what you just did,” he said, shaking his head. “But I better warn you that he's going to be angry as hell about it."
Alysson sighed, already regretting that she had allowed her anger to get the better of her good sense. “I am sometimes quite impulsive, Captain MacBride, as you can probably tell, but do you think he'll be really angry?"
"He'll be furious,” Brace returned without hesitation. “Not many dare to provoke him on purpose, except perhaps my brother and me, and he rarely lets us get by with it.” He smiled as they neared the door of the stateroom. “My advice to you is to go straight to bed and stay there until morning. He'll have calmed down by then. But"—he paused, grinning—"if he's rubbing that scar on his eye when you get up, stay abed. That's a sure way to know when he's angry."
Alysson thanked him, watching as he strode off, wondering why he had helped her. He hardly knew her. She entered and gazed longingly at the bolt on the door. She shivered, not daring to slide it into place, although a barrier between her and Donovan MacBride sounded most tempting at the moment. What in heaven's name had possessed her to act in such a way? It had been a foolish thing to do!
Now that she was alone, she was very afraid of facing Donovan's wrath, and she hastily took Brace's advice. She undressed quickly and slipped into a soft white nightdress, then climbed into her bunk and pulled the curtains together, hoping he would stay a long time with the Atkinsons before he retired. Feeling a little more secure now that she was safely in her bed, she slowly unpinned her hair, releasing the braids and pulling long brush strokes through the heavy tresses. Brushing her hair usually calmed her nerves, but this night, that effect was not to be had as she vividly remembered the look in Donovan MacBride's eyes as she had left the dining hall on the arm of his brother. He wouldn't dare lay a hand on her, would he? A delicate shudder shook her frame at the mere thought, as she remembered the strength of his fingers around her arm. No, Brace wouldn't let him hit her, would he? And now that they were nearly out of the river channel and into open sea, it was unlikely that he would put her off the ship. If he did, what would he tell the other passengers? No, he couldn't do that without embarrassing himself.
She plumped the pillow behind her and, still holding the brush, her lips curved in a tiny smile as she remembered the stunned look on his handsome face when she had called him Donnie.
Her satisfied expression faded abruptly as the outer door opened and shut, and she froze in alarm, holding her breath as rapid footsteps crossed the cabin toward her. The curtains across her bed scraped back with a screech of metal, and Alysson cringed, staring with wide green eyes at the dark fury on Donovan's face. He was not rubbing the scar, but only because both his fists were clenched at his sides. Terrified by the dangerous look in his eyes, her first impulse was to get away from him. She lunged for the end of the bunk, intending to dart around him, but he had her before she could make her escape, jerking her up and giving her a brutal shake that sent her hair swirling over her shoulders and back again.
"You've made me look like a fool twice now, and I'll be damned if I'll let you do it again!"
Alysson struggled under his biting grip. “Leave me alone! You're a monster! I hate you!"
She sobbed it out, more out of fear than pain, and Donovan thrust her back on the bunk, his fingers going to the scar below his eye.
"Not as much as you will hate me, English, you can count on that, because I mean to have my revenge for your treacherous little trick and all the trouble it's causing me. Revenge is sweet, indeed, and you have only just begun to taste it."
Alysson stared up at him in mute fear, and Donovan kept hard eyes on her for one instant longer, then jerked the curtains together again. He paced across the room then, running both hands through his black hair. He moved with agitated strides to the liquor cabinet behind his desk and splashed a stiff shot of whisky into a glass. He took a drink, glancing again at the girl's bunk. Never had he been so angry at any one person, never since he could remember. He drank again, struggling to control his uncharacteristic rage. He wanted to go back and shake her again. He wanted to throw her down and make her sorry for ever having met him.
He took off his coat and loosened his black silk cravat, then sat down on the edge of his bed. He was still churning inside with a fury that he could barely believe. He, who had always found it easy to hide his real feelings from others, who rarely let his temper show, much less get the best of him. What was it about the bloody English girl that affected him so powerfully? One after another, she had wrung emotions out of him; first the thundering, shuddering desire that had gripped him body and soul from the first moment he had laid eyes on her, and now the unreasonable, simmering rage over her lies and attempts to make a fool out of him.
He lay back and put one hand over his eyes, trying to calm the riot in his mind. He froze as a low sound drifted from across the room. Weeping, carefully muffled in a pillow. An artful attempt to make him feel guilty, no doubt. A shade of that very response nibbled at his conscience, and he clenched his jaw harder. Damn her, how could she look so innocent, so incredibly young and sweet, and be such a conniving liar? He remembered the look in her eyes when he had threatened his revenge, huge and green and frightened, and the way she had pulled the blanket up to her chin in a childlike gesture, as if she had expected him to beat her senseless.
What in the devil was the matter with him? He thought suddenly. Here he was close to feeling sorry for her, when it had been she who had humiliated him in front of his friends! And intentionally!
He closed his eyes, consciously relaxing muscles that were rock-hard with tension. He tried then to close his ears to the pitiable sound of her tears. Probably another one of her specialties, after accents, he told himself firmly. What had she said that first night? “I can be anything I want. I am an actress.” He would do well to remember those words flowing so sweetly from those soft, pink lips. She had smiled so enticingly, all the while knowing exactly who he was, what she meant to do, spreading herself out to tempt him, make him forget all caution, and he had, damn her! Her innocent expressions and pitiable tears were only tools of her craft, as false as everything else about her.
A defensive crust solidified around his heart, squeezing out any compassion he might have felt. Her tears were counterfeit. He should remember instead the real tears he had seen in his life. He squeezed his eyes tight as an ancient pain oozed from the blackest pits of his mind. Roaring orange flames against the black night sky, his
mother kneeling on the cold ground, sobbing, her arms around her children as they watched their home torched by the redcoats. His heart constricted with a greater agony as another horrible image burned into his brain: another night, more tears, and the terrible sickness inside him as he watched the Hessian mercenaries cut his father's body from the gallows.
No, there was no room left in his heart for a lying English actress who used her tears and lips and beautiful body as weapons to achieve her own ends. Alysson Tyler was cast in the same mold as her villainous father, and Donovan would never, ever let himself forget that.
The next morning Alysson awakened at dawn when she heard Brace stirring at the other end of the cabin. She rose as he left for his watch, then dressed quickly, vowing to be up and away before Donovan MacBride awoke. Even the thought of facing him after what had passed between them the night before sent her cold with dread. Tiptoeing, she made her way across the quiet cabin and out the door, breathing deeply as she came out on the deserted main deck. She moved to the port rail, looking out over a rolling gray sea, over which the sun was just beginning to burn away the morning mists.
They had left the coast of England behind sometime during the night, and as she looked out over endless miles of Atlantic Ocean stretching in every direction, as far as the eye could see, she felt a great diminishment of spirit, a depression that weighted her heart like a lead boulder. Her head ached from the hours of weeping despair, and she shuddered to think how her eyes must look. How could she bear the rest of the voyage being in such proximity to a man who hated her so much? He was so cruel, so totally unfeeling, and she swallowed convulsively as she remembered the look in his dark eyes when he had threatened revenge on her. Tears welled, and she wondered how she could have more after all she had shed through the night.
She was alone on the deck except for a handful of crewmen attending to the morning watch, and she avoided them as she walked forward to the carved figurehead. The Halcyone sailed with a brisk easterly at her stern, and Alysson closed her eyes as a fine sea-spray blew upward from the plunging bow. It felt cold and salty and good against her hot face, and she raised her fingertips to push against her swollen eyelids, well aware she had to perform for Rosalie soon. The dreamed-of audition, her chance to become an actress, and she felt terrible and looked even worse.
For over an hour, she stood alone in the bow, welcoming the wind that whipped at her cloak. She knew that Billy Brock had come to the forecastle deck and was busy erecting a small dressing room with the help of the ship's carpenter, but she did not turn to greet him. It was only when Odette's cheerful voice hailed her that Alysson turned around.
Odette's happy smile faded at first sight of Alysson's face. “What is it, Alysson? You look terrible. Is it the mal me mer? Are you ill from the waves?"
"No, I just didn't sleep well."
Odette made sympathetic clucking sounds, then took Alysson's arm and led her toward the finished dressing room. “Do not fret, mon amie. I am very good with the cosmétique. Mademoiselle Rochet taught me herself. It will be easy to hide those circles under your eyes. You will be pretty before Rosalie comes for you, you will see."
Alysson ducked beneath the canvas flap that Odette held up for her. Billy Brock was arranging the dressing tables and costumes inside, and he smiled at them, although his eyes lingered on Alysson's red, puffy eyes.
"Billy, fetch me some powder and the pots of lip rouge. Poor Alysson is not well, and for her big day, poor petite. Hurry now!"
Alysson sat down in front of a mirror nailed to a crossboard and smiled wanly as Odette fussed with her hair, brushing out the tangles and braiding it. When Billy brought a small case to her, Odette set it on the table and picked out a small jar of theatrical makeup.
"You see, Alysson, we have everything we need to make you look good again. Here is the lip rouge and black kohl for your eyes."
She knelt beside Alysson, applying makeup gently beneath Alysson's eyes, then blending it carefully over her cheekbone. “Voilà. You see, the shadow is gone, and now we will rouge your cheeks like so."
Alysson was amazed at how much better she did look, but even more, she felt grateful to have a friend who cared enough to help her. Donovan MacBride had made her feel worthless and despicable with his hostility and harsh words. She needed a friend.
"Thank you, Odette. Thank you for helping me."
Her words were heartfelt, and Odette squeezed her hand. “But, of course, I will help you. Did you not help me when I was a éméchée and could not act? But listen, I hear Rosalie outside."
Worry overtook Alysson's face, and Odette smiled encouragingly. “You will be wonderful, I know it!"
Outside, Rosalie examined the makeshift dressing room with a critical eye as Edgar and Milton wrestled a trunk of costumes inside. It was not the Park Theater in New York, but it would have to do, and actually, it mattered little. She had agreed to do a play on shipboard for the sole reason of giving her new players some much needed practice.
She sighed. Milton and Edgar were both good, of course, with years of experience on the stage, but the others were young and green, with hardly any experience at all, except for what Alysson Tyler had done in the countryside. Odette and Billy, however, were another story. She had seen talent in them, of course, but their accents were their biggest drawback. It would take time and constant coaching, and Odette's French accent would be easier for audiences to accept than Billy's atrocious cockney. He was already speaking better, though, and many of the bit parts he would play had few lines, if any. She had given him the role of Romeo so he would have to practice.
She saw Odette and Alysson come out of the dressing room together, and she moved to them, eager to see Alysson perform.
"Here is your script, my dear,” she said to Alysson. “Would you like a moment to look over your lines? You may choose whichever scene you wish."
"I know the play well, Madame Handel,” Alysson answered, already decided on which scene she would do. One which fit her melancholy mood. “I believe I'd like to do Juliet's death scene."
"As you wish, dear. I'll have Billy read with you."
Rosalie moved to the rail where Edgar had placed a chair for her. She looked around, glad that most passengers were not yet stirring abovedecks. They would do well to have all their rehearsals early, so they would be afforded some privacy, if privacy could be had on a ship at sea. She watched as Alysson and Billy spoke together, thinking they made a handsome pair, both so young and pretty. She settled back to watch as Alysson lay down on the deck, feigning Juliet's drugged sleep. She nodded approvingly as Alysson opened her eyes, placing her fingertips to her brow in a gesture of confusion. Rosalie was quite amazed by the range of emotions that flitted over Alysson's face, showing so well the return of memory. Alysson's voice came softly, yet held the drowsiness of one just awakening.
"'O comfortable friar! Where is my lord? I do remember well where I should be, and there I am. Where is my Romeo?’”
Rosalie winced as Billy began the part of Friar Laurence.
"'I ‘ear some noise.’ “Billy stumbled the words out nervously, reading slowly from the script. “'Laidie, come from ‘at nest o’ death...’”
Rosalie exchanged a look with Edgar, who grinned and shrugged, then both turned as Billy finished and made his exit, and Alysson's face reflected her sorrow at finding her lover dead.
Rosalie's lips parted as the girl crawled on her hands and knees to where an imaginary Romeo lay, her face ashen with grief as she reached out as if to touch his hair. Her expressions were extraordinary, revealing every nuance, every feeling, and Rosalie watched in awe as Alysson began again, real tears glittering in her eyes.
"'What's here? A cup, closed in my true love's hand? Poison, I see, hath been his timeless end.’”
Rosalie watched a sudden anger slowly overtake Alysson's sorrowful face.
"'O churl! drunk all, and left no friendly drop to help me after? I will kiss thy lips: haply some poison yet doth hang on
them, to make me die with a restorative.’”
Alysson seemed to cup a man's face in her palms, her kiss gentle, and Rosalie sat spellbound as she raised a tear-stained face, her next lines uttered soft and brokenly.
"'Thy lips are warm!’”
There was a pause, and it took Rosalie a moment to realize Alysson was waiting for someone to cue her line. She looked around to find the others caught in rapt fascination at Alysson's performance.
"'Lead, boy: which way?'” Rosalie called out the watchman's lines herself, and Alysson finished the scene.
"'Yea, noise? Then I'll be brief. O happy dagger!'” Alysson snatched up an imaginary knife with both hands and held it high in front of her with outstretched arms.
"'This is thy sheath;'” she cried, plunging it down into her breast,” ‘there rust, and let me die.’”
Her face contorted for a moment, then the expression faded slowly, and she fell forward and lay still.
No one said anything for the first moment, then the sound of sporadic applause sounded from behind them, and Rosalie turned to find several seamen showing their appreciation with a great deal of enthusiasm.
Alysson smiled at them as she got up, looking eagerly at Rosalie for her reaction. Rosalie looked at her a long moment, thinking she had never seen it done better. She nodded brusquely.
"Not bad for a beginner. It'll take some rehearsal, of course, but the role is yours."
Chapter 5
For the next fortnight, Alysson lived and breathed for the morning sessions when she took on the life of Juliet, though a tragic life it was. She spent all her time with her new actor friends, totally avoiding any contact whatsoever with Donovan MacBride. She made it a point to leave before he rose for the day and to retire very early so she would be safely sleeping in her bunk when he returned from the evening repast. She hardly saw Brace MacBride either, since he apparently took his role as captain most seriously and was rarely in the stateroom at all, other than to sleep.