by Jo Goodman
“Good God.” Samuel looked suitably impressed.
Pei Ling handed the medallion back to Kit. “It is very fine honor, young sir. Also very fine that you send to Nathan.”
Kit’s hand closed over the medal and he bent his head again, embarrassed by the attention. He shrugged and stared at his feet. A lock of dark blond hair fell over his forehead.
Nathan took pity on him. “Why don’t you go out to the stable, Kit? Pooley said he was looking for someone to help him with the horses. He probably could use you.”
“Oh, yes, sir.” He tossed the medallion to Nathan. “Thank you, sir.”
The adults managed not to smile at Kit’s eagerness until he was out of the room. Nathan turned the medallion over in his hand and fit his forefinger against the indentation. “I was on horseback at the edge of the fire. I still don’t know what made me turn. It might have been the heat, my mount, perhaps something I heard—or none of those things. But I did turn, and the impact of Brig’s shot knocked me down. I know I was unconscious for a while and that probably helped save me as well. Brig came out of his hiding place long enough to take my coat as proof for Lydia that I was dead. When I came around the fire was licking at my boots and the heat was searing my lungs.” He could laugh at the memory now, and did. “I thought I was in hell. It wasn’t until I found Kit’s packet in my shirt pocket that I realized I was alive. The bullet was still imbedded in the medallion.”
“He came back for me then.” Lydia looked at the raised flesh on her forearms. “I can’t seem to help but shiver when I think about it.”
“Quite a feat in this weather,” Samuel said flatly, dabbing at his brow again.
Pei Ling rose to her feet. “Samuel cannot appreciate miracle when he so hot,” she said. “I prepare cool bath for him now.” Making a slight bow to Nathan and Samuel, she left the room.
“When are you going to marry her, Papa?” Lydia asked baldly.
The heated flush in Samuel’s cheeks deepened. “I’m not.” He held up his hand to stay Lydia’s objection. “It’s not what you think, Lydia. We both know I was saddened by your mother’s death, horrified at the manner of her murder at Brigham’s hands, but it would be a lie to say that I’m mourning her. I would take Pei Ling as my wife tomorrow if she would have me. The truth is, she won’t. She says it’s quite acceptable for me to have a Chinese mistress, but not a Chinese wife. She will stay with me as my mistress, honor me with her love and fidelity, but she won’t marry me. I can’t make her change her mind.” His light blue eyes flashed a warning to Lydia. “And it’s not your place to try to influence her. Pei Ling and I will manage.”
“I would never interfere,” Lydia said solemnly.
Nathan bent his head and kissed her on the temple. “Liar,” he whispered, when his mouth was close to her ear.
Lydia’s smile was serene and inscrutable. “Nathan and I have another present for you, Papa,” she said. “I’m going to have a baby.”
Later that evening when they were in bed, Lydia turned on her side to face Nathan. Her knees were drawn up and they bumped his. “I think Papa was pleased, don’t you?”
He reached for her hand under the covers and threaded his fingers through hers. His thumb brushed back and forth across the fleshy pad of her palm. He said dryly, “I’d say pleased was an understatement. But then, I’m only judging Sam by how loud he shouted when you told him.”
Lydia laughed softly. “One would think it’s never been done before.”
“It hasn’t…not by us.” His eyes were suddenly grave. “You really don’t mind that our child will be Currency?”
“I’m Currency, Nathan.” She squeezed his hand. “Irish’s daughter, remember? He never had a pardon. If there’s such a thing as convict stain, then it’s mine to pass on, not yours. You’re not a prisoner any longer. You never were.”
Nathan shook his head. “It’s a state of mind,” he said. “You’ll never be Currency, and a thousand pardons from the governor can’t change what was done to me in Van Dieman’s Land.”
Nathan heard no bitterness in his voice and his smile was gentle. “Our child will be loved,” she said. “Let’s think about that and forget Sterling and Currency.”
Easing his hand out of Lydia’s, Nathan placed his palm across the faint swelling of her abdomen. “Do you ever feel the babe?”
“No, not yet. Molly says it will be a few more weeks before the quickening.” At his look of disappointment, Lydia smiled indulgently. “I’ll be sure to let you know as soon as it happens. But if I have to come out to the paddock, the men will rib you mercilessly.”
“I don’t care.”
Her eyes darted over his face. “You really don’t, do you?”
He bent his head, touched his forehead to hers, and whispered huskily, “I really don’t.”
Lydia snuggled closer, folding her arms around his back. His hand moved from her belly to her breast and cupped the underside. “I love you, Nathan Hunter.”
Sometimes the words were still difficult for him to say, not because he didn’t feel them, but because he felt them so deeply. It was one of those times.
“I know,” Lydia said, her mouth a mere moment from his. “Just show me.”
He did so gladly, loving her slowly at first, gently, savoring the closeness, the touching, building a fire against her skin with his fingertips, raising desire with his mouth. Whispering, kissing, a timely caress, were the small exchanges that gave pleasure in the beginning and brought peace in the end.
Afterward Lydia slept in his arms and Nathan watched her, listened to her breathing, and was eased by the comforting warmth of her body and the fragrance of her hair. It was Lydia who made him a free man, not because she had tirelessly petitioned the governor for his pardon, but because her love was unconditional. In the eyes of the law Nathan Hunter was no longer a prisoner, but in his heart he was bound to Lydia for life.
It was a just sentence, and in Lydia’s hands, a loving one.
The End
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VIOLET FIRE
Violet Fire
Shannon blinked rapidly as she stepped out of the Century’s hold and quickly turned her face from the sun’s beckoning warmth. The peculiar fragrance of fresh air, the harsh energy of raised voices, the snapping of canvas above her head were working against her, compelling her to confront life. Shannon Kilmartin wanted none of it. Someone nudged her in the small of her back and she moved forward docilely to let the next person on deck.
Unbidden, the questions she had asked so often during the voyage came to her mind. Would the earl have insisted she accept transport if he had known what she would encounter? Had he given any thought to the dark and airless hold, the wormy, meager rations that were fouler than anything she had eaten at Newgate?
Following a roughly issued command, Shannon shuffled along the deck, stumbling slightly as she attempted to work muscles that had atrophied from disuse. Until she stepped out of the hold and felt an alien sun prickle her skin, she thought she was dead to all feeling. She was profoundly unhappy to find she had been wrong.
A sudden stirring in the crowd waiting on the wharf caused Shannon to lift her head sharply. She steeled herself, not wanting to view the men who waited below as they prepared to purchase the bondage papers of felons such as she. Her vacant gaze grasped the throng as a whole
but was blind to individual faces. She sensed curiosity and impatience, attitudes of men anxious to get on with the business that lay before them. She wondered about this raw, demanding land that had an insatiable appetite for laborers. Hands were hands, she thought absently. The land had no conscience. It cared not one whit if the hands that worked it had committed atrocities. The men who stood on the wharf were responding to the call of their land, burying their natural distaste and employing England’s refuse to appease it.
Shannon dropped her gaze and stared at her own hands. How would they look without the iron bracelets? She had become so accustomed to their weight, to the restricted movement, that the idea of being without them seemed remotely foreign.
“Mama!”
Shannon heard the cry, but it hardly impinged upon her consciousness. The childish voice screamed again, and this time she joined her companions in searching out its source.
There was a titter of laughter as a child squeezed beneath the legs of an impeccably turned out planter. There was a strident shout to stop the girl, but she was like a bead of mercury, eluding the hands that reached out to capture her. The planter was knocked to the ground as two men leaped from the crowd to catch the child.
“Mama!”
Shannon realized with some horror that the girl was heading toward the ship. Everyone on the gangway was jostled as the child scrambled up the sloping board. Poor infant, Shannon thought. What was she running from? She held her breath as the girl faltered, lost her balance, then regained it only moments before she would have tumbled over the edge of the board and into the water. Just when Shannon thought the danger was past, the child’s bonnet was knocked askew by an unkind wind and lifted into the air.
Shannon stood rooted to her spot on the crowded gangway, her throat closed against the tiniest sound of protest as the girl made a leap toward her. There were more shouts when the child attached herself to Shannon’s side. Small hands gripped her soiled skirt, and Shannon’s weary legs buckled at the force of the assault.
“Mama! Help me!”
It was the only thing Shannon heard before she followed the tumbling child into the water. She flailed about to push the child to the surface and stopped only when she saw a pair of hands reach for the girl and pull her to safety. That was all right then. She could rest now. Shannon opened her mouth and let the blessed water rush in. She would have welcomed death if not for the strong hands gripping her skirt and dragging her to the surface.
Brandon Fleming gulped large drafts of air, catching his breath as he looked clearly at the woman he had rescued for the first time. Only the white line about his mouth revealed his resentment.
Damn her! Damn her to hell! Everyone was watching him; he knew it without raising his head. But only one pair of eyes mattered to him. He searched for his daughter. He took in her pale face, the orange tendrils of hair matted to her small head. Beneath lids that were puffy from crying, a pair of blue eyes begged eloquently for her cause. He looked again at the still figure at his side. You don’t deserve your daughter, you bitch.
Then he set about saving her life.
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Also by Jo Goodman
The Dennehy Sisters Series
Only My Love
My Heart’s Desire
Forever in My Heart
Always in My Dreams
Only in My Arms
The McClellan Series
Crystal Passion
Seaswept Abandon
Tempting Torment
The Thorne Brothers Trilogy
My Steadfast Heart
My Reckless Heart
With All My Heart
The Marshall Brothers Series
Her Defiant Heart
His Heart’s Revenge
The Compass Club Series
Let Me Be The One
Everything I Ever Wanted
All I Ever Needed
Beyond A Wicked Kiss
The Hamilton Family Series
More Than You Know
More Than You Wished
Single Titles
Scarlet Lies
Violet Fire
Sweet Fire
About the Author
Jo Goodman is a licensed professional counselor working with children and families in West Virginia’s Northern Panhandle. Always a fan of the happily ever after, Jo turned to writing romances early in her career as a child care worker when she realized the only life script she could control was the one she wrote herself. She is inspired by the resiliency and courage of the children she meets and feels privileged to be trusted with their stories, the ones that they alone have the right to tell.
Once upon a time, Jo believed she was going to be a marine biologist. She knows she is lucky that seasickness made her change course. She lives with her family in Colliers, West Virginia. Please visit her website at www.jogoodman.com.