by Linda Ladd
Douglas still watched her, and Alysson was totally unprepared for his next words.
"I realize that I surely must be mistaken, but I understood him to say you were married to Donovan MacBride before you sailed from London."
Alysson froze, then her face flamed with embarrassment. She inwardly cursed her father as she had done so many times in her life. She stared at the rose, unable to look at her companion. She had to tell him. What else could she do? She finally looked up, presenting him with a rueful smile.
"I can understand why you are confused, Douglas, but there's really a very simple explanation.” She stopped, knowing it was not the least bit simple. Her relationship with Donovan was so complex and bizarre. “I fear you will think me a willful and disobedient daughter after I tell you this."
"I am sure I will not,” he answered, but nonetheless he watched her with a great deal of interest.
"I was betrothed to Donovan MacBride when I was a child, just seven years old, and Father was most determined to carry out the match. My father and I often quarreled, so I suppose he wanted to get rid of me. I found out later that Mr. MacBride wanted the marriage even less than I, so even though we were married while in London, we agreed to have a legal annulment once we arrived here. It has worked out very well for both of us, but I am sure my father will be furious once he learns of it."
So that is it, Douglas thought, exulted to have wormed so much out of her so easily. It obviously embarrassed her to speak of it, and it was a very good sign that she would confide it to him as she had. He patted her arm.
"I won't say a word about it to him,” he assured her. “But is does surprise me that Mr. MacBride would give you up. I can only feel indebted to him, however, because if you were still married to him, I wouldn't have the pleasure of your company at this moment."
Alysson wondered why he didn't appear the least bit scandalized at the way she had disobeyed her father and annulled an arranged marriage. It was an outrageous thing to have done. It surprised her when Douglas suddenly leaned forward, and she felt a moment's panic when she realized he meant to kiss her. To her relief, his lips only grazed her forehead.
"I do so want to be your friend, Alysson,” he said. “And if you will only let me make you my protégée, think you could become a very famous actress."
Alysson smiled with pleasure at that prospect, but some moments later as they walked back toward the house, the warnings given to her by Donovan and Rosalie rose in her mind, making her a trifle wary of Douglas Compton's motives. He was taking a very big interest in her, after having only just met her the day before, and he'd not even seen her act yet! So far he had been nothing but a gentleman, but she would just have to make sure he was never in a position to be anything else.
Chapter 12
Nearly a fortnight after New York's gala Fourth of July celebration, Donovan MacBride stood on the deck of a slow-moving ferryboat, his eyes intent on the shore of Manhattan and the Catherine Slip. He had spent the night in Brooklyn at his estate there, but he had risen early to return to the city. It was barely past dawn, the rising sun slowly gilding the water, the morning quiet except for the screaming calls of gulls gracefully riding the wind currents over the harbor. Behind him, the plodding footsteps of the ferry horse beat a rhythmic path around its treadmill, propelling them to the far shore.
When the boat nudged into the Catherine Street Ferryhouse with the clattering ring of pawls and ratchets, he waited impatiently for the mooring lines to be fastened, then led his great stallion down the gangplank. He mounted, touching his heels lightly to the bay's flanks, then inhaled the salty air of the riverfront, feeling relaxed and comfortable in his worn leather riding breeches and plain linen shirt.
Warlock was eager to run, hooves clattering loudly as the huge horse pranced sideways on the cobblestones, but Donovan held him with a firm hand, cantering north on Cherry Street past a cluster of stores and warehouses, all shuttered and sleeping in the quiet of the morning. He turned east on Clinton, riding up Arundel to where Grand Street turned into a country lane lined with neat fence rows separating grassy fields and small farms. He could see the rooftop of the Rutgers Mansion, the sights and smells around him bringing back memories of his youth, of the war. He had not returned to his birthplace in a very long time, not wanted to see it, though he had worked for years to buy it back after his family had lost it during the war. He would rebuild it someday; he had vowed that when he was barely more than a child.
A mile farther along, he caught sight of a white square of paper nailed to the base of a tall elm tree that stood along the roadside, and he drew Warlock up beside it. He stared at it for a long moment, then reached out with one gloved hand and tore it from the tree.
Alysson stared back at him out of her glorious green eyes, looking young and innocent and unbelievably beautiful. The artist's etching had caught the sweet, childlike essence of her with uncanny ability. Her likeness on the playbill had caused an immediate stir of interest among the populace of the city since Compton had ordered it plastered to every lamppost, tree, and public billboard in New York. Adam Sinclair and Rosalie Handel had been given top billing, as was their due, but it was the words beneath the picture that made his fist clench where it lay upon his knee. “Introducing Miss Alysson Tyler,” he read, “the most beautiful and charming English protégée of Mr. Douglas Compton, esteemed owner of the Park Theater."
He grimaced, and with jaw clenched tight, he folded the stiff parchment into fourths and tucked it into the inside pocket of his brown leather vest. He spurred Warlock into a gallop, hugging his thighs to the sleek powerful muscles moving beneath him. Unwanted visions of Alysson came drifting across his mind with extreme clarity, especially the way she had looked dancing in Douglas Compton's arms the last time Donovan had seen her. All pink and white and soft, and too damn desirable for any man to resist.
He cursed beneath his breath, remembering the way she had trembled in his arms, how sweet and smooth her skin had tasted. He had thought to forget her once he was away from her, but he hadn't. He couldn't drive her from his mind no matter how hard he tried. Never had a woman ruled his thoughts in such a way. But she refused to come to him. She wanted him as much as he wanted her, although she was too young and stubborn to know it. Instead, she preferred to let Compton proclaim her as his new possession for the whole bloody city to see. The rumors about them were already flying high and low in the coffeehouses, especially the Tontine, which he frequented. Some already said they were lovers. He didn't believe that, and he'd be damned if he would ever let it happen.
He gritted his teeth, his mood black as he turned the stallion into a weed-choked road that wound between twin rows of tall silver-leaf maples. The wind set them aflutter as he rode along glinting their silvery lights high above his head. He slowed his horse to a walk on first sight of the burned-out shell of his childhood home. Charred red bricks blackened the wall behind the crumbling portico balcony above the front doors. He and Olivia had eavesdropped on their parents there, laughing behind their hands as his father had kissed his mother good-bye when he left to join the army. His eyes went to the ancient white oak that leaned close to the side porch where they had pushed Jeremy in a wooden swing before he could walk. The swing was gone now, except for a frayed end still dangling from the high limb. Bitterness boiled up inside him, leaving a foul taste in his mouth.
He dismounted and tied his reins over a broken slat of the picket gate, then looked around as he tugged off his riding gloves. Somewhere nearby a bird trilled a happy song despite his presence, but there was no indication that anyone else was about the place or had been for a long time. His eyes wandered over the dilapidated facade of the great manor house as he climbed the steps to the stone porch, its stately white pillars still intact, though covered with encroaching ivy. The windows were securely boarded as he had ordered, and the sign prohibiting trespass was nailed to the front door. He took the heavy iron key from his pocket and turned it in the lock, opening the
door into his dark, haunting past.
The vestibule was dark and cool, golden motes of dust dancing in a slanted ray of smoky light entering the fanlight above his head. He looked around the fire-gutted interior, remembering that night, remembering it all, then moved across the hall, his boots clomping loud and hollow on the wooden floor. A door stood ajar beneath the charred front staircase, and he passed through it to the kitchen hall. He stopped on the threshold, staring at the large kitchen with its cooking fireplace and brick walls. It was there they had lived afterward. For three long years he had lived in that one room with his mother and sister and two brothers. Never enough food, never enough wood to stay warm in the frigid months of winter. It was a miracle they had survived at all.
A board creaked behind him, and Donovan whirled, pistol in hand, but he relaxed as he recognized the man in the doorway.
"It's good to see you,” he said, clasping a man's hand as he slid the small gun back into his holster. “Were you followed?"
Adam Sinclair shook his head. “No. I doubled back twice, then came through the back wooded lots. There's an overgrown carriage road behind the springhouse."
He sat down at a dusty trestle table, looking up at Donovan. “I know it's dangerous for us to meet like this, but we had to talk."
"Does Compton suspect that you're working for me?"
"No. He's a cautious man about revealing information, but he's trusted me ever since I passed him that communiqué the President let you release to me. He tells me just about everything his agents pass along to him."
Donovan leaned back against a wooden support pillar, watching his old friend. They had met years ago when they served a stint at Fort Niagara together. He knew something serious must be bothering Adam for him to chance such a meeting.
"Do you have something for me?” he asked, and Adam nodded.
"Yes, I learned two days ago that there's a new British agent operating in Washington. Compton calls him Agent Z. I don't know his real name, but I do know he's courting the daughter of a congressman from South Carolina. That should help you pin him down for surveillance."
"Good. I'll send that along in my next dispatch. Anything else?"
Adam hesitated, then raised eyes full of worry. “I'm very concerned about Alysson Tyler."
Donovan sat down across from Adam, dark eyes watchful. “Why?"
"Compton wants her. He's doing everything he can to seduce her."
"And has he?” Donovan's voice was low and hard.
Adam looked at him strangely, then shook his head. “Not yet, but I think he'll try to make her his mistress."
"She'll never agree to that."
"How do you know?"
"I know."
Donovan watched Adam stand, obviously uneasy. He paced a few steps away from the table, then looked back, his hands on his hips.
"I want her out of the theater and away from him. You know what kind of bastard he is."
The anger in Adam's voice betrayed his strong feelings, and Donovan frowned.
"Why are you so interested in Alysson's welfare? Does she pose a threat to your cover?"
A tense silence followed; the two men stared at each other.
"She's mine, Donovan,” Adam said finally. He sighed heavily, running both hands through his thick silver hair. “She's my daughter."
Donovan didn't move. “She's what?"
"I swear it's true. That's why we've got to get her away from him. I can't bear having him around her, seeing him touch her."
Donovan stiffened, a quiet rage filling him at the thought of Compton's hands on her. He stifled it, wanting to know more. “How can she be your daughter?"
Adam sank down on the bench again, his face stricken. “It's a long story. God, I can hardly believe it has turned out this way myself."
"Tell me."
"Twenty years ago, I went to London to appear in a play, and during that time I met Judith, Alysson's mother.” He swallowed hard. “She was so lovely then, so very young, and she enchanted me. I think I fell in love with her the very first time I looked at her.” He stopped, remembering, and Donovan remembered too, the first time he had seen Alysson in the black nightgown, her long golden hair spread over her shoulders.
"She was from a wealthy family,” Adam went on, “and already betrothed to Lord Tyler. He was titled and important, and I had nothing to offer her. Her father wanted the match between them, so we eloped. We only had a month together before her father's men found us and dragged her back for the wedding."
"Couldn't you have stopped them?"
Adam made a derisive sound. “He made certain I couldn't. Hampstead's men beat me within an inch of my life and threw me on a ship to New South Wales. The bloody bastard sold me into slavery."
Donovan stared at him, trying to digest all he was being told. If Alysson really wasn't Tyler's daughter, it would change a great many things between them.
"If she married Daniel Tyler after she was taken back, how can you be sure that Alysson is your child?"
Adam met his eyes with steadfast confidence. “She is mine. I have no doubt whatsoever. Judith was already pregnant when we eloped. Alysson told me herself that she would be nineteen on May fifteenth and that makes it all fit."
Donovan began to rub at the scar on his eye, trying to think. “Do you mean you never knew about her or tried to see her until now?"
"I was in New South Wales for ten years before they let me buy my freedom. When I was able to return to England and made inquiries, I was told Judith was dead. I heard that Tyler had a daughter somewhere, but I could never find out where she was."
"That's because he had them both out in Cornwall at some peasant cottage."
"Cornwall? Why?"
Donovan looked at Adam's face, already tortured with regret, his dark blue eyes full of anguish. It would do little good to tell him the suffering his wife and daughter had endured during those years. Adam looked ready to break apart as it was.
"Does Alysson have any idea about any of this?"
"The first time we met, she asked me if I knew her mother. God, she even showed me the cross I gave Judith as a wedding present.” Adam's voice cracked. “It took everything I had to deny knowing her; I had to because Compton was standing right there.” He brought down one fist hard, the loud bang sending dust swirling up from the table. “I'm telling you, Donovan, Compton is fascinated with her. He's had plenty of women, and I've seen how easy it is for him to manipulate them, but it's different with Alysson. I can see it in the way he looks at her. If it wasn't for Rosalie's influence on her, he'd probably already have had her. And lately he's even considered marriage! He's intrigued with the idea of being the son-in-law of a titled Englishman."
Donovan thrust back his chair, his face dark with anger. Adam watched a muscle flex and relax in Donovan's cheek.
"She won't do that, Adam."
"You underestimate the man's charm, then. He's promised her everything but the moon, everything she has always wanted, turning her head with offers of fame and fortune on the stage. She's so young and eager to succeed. I'm telling you, we've got to get her away from him."
"She can't marry him. She's married to me."
Adam's mouth dropped, and he could only stare at Donovan.
"Married to you!"
"That's right."
"How can that be? How can you stand to have Compton courting her the way he is if you are—"
"I can't explain it all, but you can rest assured she'll never marry Compton."
"How can you stop it? No one knows you're married, do they? Alysson doesn't act as if she's married. I can't believe you are."
"Believe it. We were supposed to have an annulment, but I never saw to it. We're married, and we're going to stay that way."
Adam kept shaking his head. “But you've always said you would never marry. Are you willing to make such a sacrifice?"
"It's not a sacrifice. I wouldn't do it if I didn't want it that way."
Adam's surprise t
urned into heartfelt relief. “You love her, then?"
"I want her away from Compton before she gets hurt, and I want her with me. Lear opens in two weeks; I'll take her then."
"Two weeks! Are you mad?"
"I'm not taking her opening night away from here, dammit. She's dreamed about it too long,” Donovan said firmly, and Adam stood in protest.
"But what if Compton manages to seduce her first? She's your wife, man."
"You'll just have to make damn sure that he doesn't,” Donovan said through clenched teeth. “Do what you have to do. Just keep him away from her. Do what you can to turn her against Compton without endangering yourself, and I'll tell Rosalie to do the same."
The deadliness in Donovan's tone silenced Adam, and neither man spoke for the next few minutes.
"How is she?” Donovan asked at length.
"She's fine,” Adam said, then grinned proudly. “And she has extraordinary talent. You should see her in the role of Cordelia."
"I've seen her."
Adam hesitated. “Are you sure you can get her to leave the theater? She loves it so, and Compton can give it to her on a silver platter."
"She won't have a choice in the matter,” Donovan returned abruptly. “Now listen closely because I have some information I want you to pass along to Compton. The outlook for war is building, and I want them to think our troops along the Canadian frontier are being strengthened. Doesn't Compton have close contacts with the commanding officer at Fort Erie, near Niagara Falls?"
"Yes, he lived in York for a time. He has a lot of friends up there. Indians, too."
"All right, then we can assume he'll send it there."
Adam listened carefully as Donovan related the false data, but it was Alysson's danger that controlled his thoughts. Even later, after Donovan had gone, and Adam walked to the springhouse at the back of the old mansion where he had left his horse, he worried that Donovan was waiting too long. Alysson was growing fond of Compton, he could see it. But by God, he thought, swinging up into the saddle, he would strangle Compton himself before he let him lay a finger on his daughter.