Jennifer Wilde Read online

  My hair dry, I slipped into a thin cotton petticoat with a low-cut neckline and a very full skirt festooned with ruffles, and then I sat down at the dressing table to brush the flowing mass of copper-red locks. I would never forget Jack Reed or his kindness. I would never forget Jeff either, or Helmut Schnieder, or Lord Robert Mallory. I would never forget young Bruce Trevelyan, so gentle, so sensitive, so in love with me, or the dreadful Brennan brothers who had kidnapped me on the Trace and staked me out like a goat, hoping to lure Jeff to his death.

  So many men... but there was only one man who mattered, the man who had bought and paid for me and taken me to that rundown plantation in Carolina, the man who owned me still, body and soul. My love for him was as much a part of me as blood and flesh and bone. It coursed inside me, singing in my veins, so strong at times it was almost frightening.

  Derek Hawke was not an easy man to love. Moody, remote, frequently cold, he dwelled inside himself, keeping all emotions under tight control and almost never displaying affection or humor. He was coolly detached, and it was difficult to reach the man behind that icy wall of reserve, yet he was capable of passionate rage, as I had reason to know, and sexual passion shattering in its intensity. When he made love to me, it was with splendid fury, almost as though he despised himself for the need of release, despised me for arousing those fires banked up inside him, and afterward, when he was spent, that wall of icy reserve went up again. There were no tender words, no soft caresses, no gentle smiles of repletion. It was as though I were in bed with a stranger totally untouched by that warm glow of aftermath.

  My mind went back to that day in Natchez when I had strolled in the garden behind the inn. Finally having recovered from that night of insanity when Helmut had tried to kill me and, in so doing, brought about his own destruction, I had been in a very pensive mood, filled with a vague sadness as I moved slowly past the neatly arranged beds of flowers toward the edge of the cliff. It had been late afternoon, the sky pale and stained with yellow on the horizon as the sun began its gradual descent.

  As I stood there near the edge of the cliff, the wind lifting my skirt and blowing soft strands of hair across my cheek, Derek had come for me. Lean, handsome, stern, he looked very much the English aristocrat in his perfectly tailored black trousers and frock coat, his white satin waistcoat patterned with maroon silk flowers, his neckcloth of matching maroon silk. His gray eyes had been solemn, filled with concern for me, solemn still as he told me that he had loved me from the first.

  "It took me a long time to realize it," he said grimly, "and still I fought it. Even after I returned to England and won my case to obtain my inheritance, I felt little triumph. Without you it meant nothing. I came back for you because I had to. Life without you is life without meaning."

  He had taken me into his arms then, kissing me with an urgent passion that was incredibly tender as well, and when he raised his head I had seen love glowing in his eyes. The icy wall had vanished. The Derek who held me was a softer, more loving Derek than I had ever known before.

  "I'll never let you go," he had murmured. "The past is over, Marietta. The future is ours—together."

  Those words had filled me with joy, and I had found great comfort in them. I was willing to forget the past, to bury forever those years of turmoil and torment and, with Derek, step into a bright and sun-filled future, but I knew he couldn't forget. He couldn't forget those days in Carolina when I had been his bond servant and had caused his financial ruin when I helped Adam and Cassie escape. He couldn't forget my years with Jeff Rawlins or my disastrous marriage to Helmut. The past was still there, an invisible barrier between us. He loved me. He had come back to America to claim me, but now that I was his he was strangely discontent.

  Deep inside, I sensed the reason why. He loved me, yes, but he loved me in spite of himself. His love for me was a compulsion, beyond his control, as mine for him was, and I sensed that he would have been much happier if he had been able to forget me, if he had been able to select a cool, demure, virginal English girl to be his bride, a girl with breeding and background and blood as blue as his, a girl worthy of becoming Lady Hawke and serving as chatelaine in that ancestral hall he had finally claimed as his rightful heritage. I had a fine education, could be as cool and demure and aristocratic as any pink and blonde miss. I had blue blood, too, for my father had been the Duke of Stanton, but my mother had been a barmaid at the Red Lion Inn, and with the inbred snobbery he couldn't really help, Derek couldn't forget that, couldn't forget I was illegitimate and, worse, far from pure.

  Sensibly, I faced that fact. Derek didn't want to love me, but he did, and I intended to prove that I was worthy of that love. Once we were married and living in Hawke house, he was going to be very, very proud of me. I was going to make him proud. I was going to make him forget the circumstances of my birth and the events of these past six years. The Marietta he knew, the indentured servant in her white cotton blouse and ragged brown skirt, and, later on, the hostess of a gambling hall in sumptuous golden gown, would be replaced by the elegant, gracious, serene lady of Hawkehouse, the wife who entertained his friends with ease, who ran the great house efficiently, whose primary concern would be his comfort and happiness—for I was going to make him happy.

  It would take time, I realized that, but I was going to break down that icy wall and set free the troubled prisoner within. Behind that wall lived a man afraid to show tenderness and affection, afraid to let down his defenses and allow another to touch his heart. He had given his heart once, long ago, to a .woman named Alice, He had married her, and her promiscuous unfaithfulness had soured him on all women and made him wary of those emotions he had once felt for her. The treachery of his uncle and cousins had embittered him even more, turning him into the cold, cynical, often cruel man I had first known in Carolina, yet even then I had sensed that wasn't the real Derek Hawke. The real Derek I had glimpsed only rarely, on those few occasions when he had let the wall down.

  He was wary still, distrustful, holding himself in and unable to express the love I knew he felt for me. He could express it sexually, with a violent, plunging force that left us both shaken, but one day, I vowed, he would be able to express it in gentle words, in loving glances, in thoughtful, unconscious smiles. I would destroy that wall he had built around himself. With my love and devotion I would restore his faith in love, and I would banish all those fears that plagued him. He needed my love. He needed my understanding. He needed all that I was prepared to give freely, patiently, and without restraint. Derek wasn't an easy man to love, no, but he was the only man in the world who could cause this tender fury inside of me.

  Sighing deeply, I put down the hairbrush. My hair fell in rich, gleaming waves now, a dark red-gold, deep, coppery highlights shining as I smoothed my hand over it, moving a thick wave from my temple. I gazed at my reflection for several moments, thinking of Derek, thinking of the past, and my sapphire-blue eyes were sad. Sad? Why should I be sad? I was in love with Derek, and Derek loved me. We were together at last, after so much conflict, and we were going to be married. Those eyes that looked back at me so pensively should be sparkling with happiness. Those high, aristocratic cheekbones should be flushed with joy.

  "A woman in love—a woman loved properly in return—wears her happiness in her eyes, on her cheeks, on her lips," Jeremy Bond had said, "wears it like an invisible garment, a glorious garment that gives her an aura everyone can see."

  What did he know about it? I got up abruptly and stepped to the wardrobe, taking out a thin white cotton dressing robe, the long, full sleeves with lacy ruffles at the wrists, the full skirt billowing with row upon row of ruffles gathered on thin yellow ribbon. Tying the wide yellow sash around my waist, I left the bedroom, moving into the spacious parlor. Rays of sunlight slanted through the louvered windows, making hazy yellow-gold patterns on the pale rose and blue carpet, intensifying the shadows already spreading over the soft ivory walls.

  Compared to Derek, Jeremy Bond was a whim
sical, will-o'-the-wisp figure, a foolish, frivolous dandy who happened to have been blessed with preposterous good looks and even more preposterous charm. He quite clearly lived off his wits, jaunting about from place to place with a head full of grandiose schemes that, if the truth were known, were probably far from honest. He was extremely tough, much tougher than lie looked, and he was undoubtedly ruthless—I had sensed ruthlessness immediately—and he was altogether too forward, as dangerous in his way as ten Will Harts would be.

  Ruefully, I reminded myself that I had resolved to waste no more time thinking about him, but it had, after all, been a most unusual encounter and Bond had a very strong presence. Presence? Yes, he had that. For all his whimsy, for all his blarney, he was an extremely commanding figure, undeniably virile and charged with potent sexual magnetism. I had felt that magnetism, of course, I was female, it was only natural, and loving Derek did not render me blind to any male allure but his. I had felt his magnetism, but I had not responded to it in the least. I had seen the man for exactly what he was, a charming rogue who would bring emotional disaster to any woman foolish enough to take him seriously.

  Still, I had been rather hard on him. When he saw me in Will Hart's arms, he had jumped to the obvious conclusion and hadn't hesitated an instant, came charging to the rescue like a murderous savage, lips spread back, teeth bared, his eyes gleaming with murderous intent. He hadn't fought like a whimsical dandy. He had fought like a tough, hardened, experienced brawler who would kill if need be. Hart had been no match for him, although he was much heavier, far more muscular. I supposed I should have been at least a tiny bit grateful to him, but the man was so thoroughly infuriating I had lashed out at him like a shrew. It was just as well, I thought. If I had shown the least bit of gratitude, displayed the least bit of weakness, there was no telling what kind of advantage the rogue would have tried to take.

  Sunlight touched the crystal pendants dangling from the chandelier and gleamed on the cut-glass bowl holding the roses I had gathered from the garden this morning. The apartment was lavishly appointed, furnished with opulent splendor, but Derek could easily afford to lease such a place. He was a very wealthy man now, his estate bringing in thousands and thousands of pounds each year. There were a number of tenant farms, a tin mine in Cornwall, a coal mine in Wales, several pieces of prime real estate in the city of London. No wonder his uncle and two cousins had tried their best to cheat him of his rightful inheritance. It had taken so many years for him to finally win what was his, and it had taken a great deal of money, too, money he had tried to raise in Carolina, working in the cotton fields alongside his slaves, money he had finally acquired after becoming a smuggler, risking God only knew what kind of danger.

  He was in danger now, too. I hadn't been able to find out exactly what kind of nefarious deed Hart and his colleague in the navy blue coat were planning, but I had learned enough to know they meant Derek some kind of harm. I felt that familiar tremor of alarm. If anything happened to Derek ... but nothing was going to happen to him. I intended to tell him what had happened, giving him a carefully expurgated version, and Derek would certainly take every precaution. Hart and the mysterious Bert might be dangerous ruffians, but Derek was perfectly capable of taking care of himself. He could, I knew, be as hard and lethal as a cold steel blade if he had to be.

  Hearing footsteps outside, I stepped into the foyer with walls covered in pate yellow silk. The door opened. Derek stepped inside, bearing a large white and gold box with Lucille's signature printed elegantly on top. I moved toward him. He grimaced.

  "Bankrupting me, I see," he remarked, indicating the box with a curt nod of the head. "I ran into the delivery boy outside the gates, relieved him of his burden. I've the feeling whatever this contains is terribly expensive."

  "Terribly," I admitted.

  Derek strode into the parlor, setting the box down on one of the low mahogany tables that flanked either end of the pale rose velvet sofa. He gave a heavy, exasperated sigh and brushed an errant lock of jet black hair from his brow. He wasn't really exasperated, I knew, if there was one thing Derek didn't quibble about, it was money. He encouraged me to spend as much as I liked.

  "Another gown?" he inquired.

  I nodded. "A matching cloak as well,"

  "It figures."

  "You know very well I'm worth it, Derek."

  "I suppose."

  "You know I am," I said teasingly.

  "All right, you're worth it."

  "You said that very grudgingly."

  "I've had an extremely busy, extremely frustrating afternoon, Marietta. I'm really not in any mood for playful chatter."

  "Pardon me."

  "I'm not in any mood for feminine pouting either. If you must look like a wounded doe, please get out of my sight. Go try on your new gown or something."

  "You really are irritable," I remarked. "Still no passage?"

  "Still no passage," he retorted. "Those goddamn rebels have fouled up everything. People are afraid the conflict's going to spread down here and there's a great deal of unrest. Passage to England is at a premium, very few ships are going there, and those that are have been booked solid."

  "How much longer are we going to have to remain in New Orleans?"

  "I'm not certain. There's a ship leaving in two and a half weeks, The Blue Elephant, preposterous name for a ship. It's huge, the sides covered with flaking blue paint, but it looks seaworthy enough. It'll be loaded to the gills with frightened loyalists from Natchez."

  "You think you might be able to book passage on it?"

  "I might. Chap who had already taken a cabin decided to stay on for a few more months, ordered the captain to sell the space to the highest bidder. The captain's being extremely canny about it, taking sealed bids, refusing to indicate what the top price might be. Insufferable bastard. I'd gladly have throttled him."

  "You bid?" I inquired.

  Derek nodded, stepping over to the mahogany sideboard to pour himself a brandy from the cut-glass decanter. He was tense, frustrated, in a very bad mood, his gray eyes grim, his mouth tight, a deep furrow between his arching black brows. He had always been an impatient man, impatient to get things accomplished, impatient with people less exacting than he, He splashed liquor into the glass and took a deep swallow, staring out the window with grim preoccupation.

  "Did you make a high bid?" I asked.

  He turned around to glare at me. "Of course I did," he snapped. "I'm quite as eager to get out of this city as you are, Marietta. I have a great many responsibilities back in England."

  "Perhaps we'll be able to leave on The Blue Elephant, I find the name rather charming—a great blue elephant ponderously riding the waves. Don't scowl like that, Derek. I hate to see you scowl."

  Derek took another swallow of brandy, ignoring my remark. He was wearing elegant knee boots of polished black leather and snug navy blue breeches, the cloth molded against his long, powerful legs. His light blue satin waistcoat was stitched with navy blue leaves, his navy-blue frock coat cut superbly to emphasize his broad shoulders and slender waist. A severe black silk neckcloth nestled under his chin. The fine, London-made clothes somehow only stressed that buccaneer air he had, and he looked like nothing so much as a handsome, aristocratic pirate, cool and capable of merciless plunder.

  "The dress is really splendid," I said brightly. "Lucille outdid herself. It's red brocade, a rich, rich red—I know you don't like me to wear red, Derek, heaven knows why—but when you see me in this you're going to be very pleased. I intend to wear it tonight."

  "I'm not interested in your clothes. Marietta."

  "Damn you, Derek! Sometimes you're—absolutely insufferable!"

  "You knew what kind of man I was when you cast your lot with mine." His voice was cool, totally unperturbed.

  "Sometimes I think you take pride in being difficult."

  Derek put down his empty glass and removed his frock coat, tossing it onto one of the pale blue velvet chairs. "No, Marietta," he sai
d patiently, "I don't take pride in it. I don't particularly relish being the way I am, but I have no intention of becoming the chatty, fawning Romeo you seem to desire."

  "I'd hate it if you fawned over me!"

  "Indeed?"

  "I wouldn't want you to chatter either."

  "No?"

  "I wouldn't mind if you were a bit more like Romeo."

  He frowned, pulling off the black silk neckcloth. "Sweet words under the balcony are not my style," he said. "I've never been a romantic man, Marietta. I've never been overly demonstrative. I don't know why women demand constant reassurance. You know perfectly well how I feel about you. Would I be here with you if I didn't feel that way?"

  "That's not the point."

  He gave me an exasperated look and took off his waistcoat, tossing it on top of the coat and neckcloth. The shirt he wore beneath was of very fine, very thin white lawn, the sleeves full and billowing, the tail tucked loosely into the waistband of his breeches. I gazed at him, loving him so, wanting to hold him close and smooth away that furrow over the bridge of his nose. I was so very lucky, I told myself, the luckiest woman alive. He might be difficult, but there were very few women who wouldn't gladly have changed places with me.

  "I'm sorry," I said quietly. "I know you've had a difficult afternoon. I know how hard it's been selling all that property you owned here, tying up all the loose ends so we can leave."

  "I'd rather have been here with you," he replied.

  That surprised me. "Really?" I said.

  "Making love to you is far more pleasant than haggling over property with potential buyers who expect to make a killing. I enjoy making love to you. As a matter of fact I'd like to do it right here, right now, right over there on that sofa."