In a Pirate's Arms Page 25

  “Yes. It gave everyone the excuse to leave. Except,” he turned to look at her, “that I wanted to see you.”

  “What did Amelia want?” she asked, refusing to be diverted.

  “Something about permission for an excursion to Mount Vernon.”

  “Oh. That. Yes, her friends have planned that for several days hence.”

  “Will you be going?”

  “Yes, I plan to.”

  “Good.” He grinned, his teeth showing white in the darkness. “Then you might be interested in knowing I’ve been invited along. By your father.” He paused. “I accepted.”

  “Oh.”

  “Fair warning, Rebecca.” His grin widened, deepening his dimple. “You’ve the chance to cry off. But”—he reached out to toy with a tendril of her hair—“I hope you don’t.”

  Rebecca jerked away. “You presume a good deal, sir.”

  “Do I? You are a beautiful woman, Rebecca.”

  “Oh, nonsense,” she said, edging away from him. True, she no longer considered herself unattractive; that was Brendan’s gift to her. She did not trust this man, however. “I don’t know why you say such things, sir, but I wish you would stop.”

  “Why?” He moved closer to her. “I find you attractive, Rebecca, and I think you feel the same about me.”

  “No.”

  “But I think you do, you know.” His voice turned coaxing as he continued to play with her hair, tugging at it and then releasing it, so that it bounced back into a curl. “And I think we would be very good together.”

  She sat very stiff. “I have already told you, sir. In spite of what you may have heard about me, I am no man’s for the taking.”

  “I don’t think that, Rebecca,” he said, exasperated. “That’s not what I want from you.”

  That made her look at him. “No?”

  “No.” His gaze bored into hers. “Oh, hell, I don’t know what I want,” he muttered, and with that swooped down and captured her lips.

  Chapter Twenty

  Rebecca was instantly lost, engulfed in a rising tide of feelings such as she hadn’t felt in so long, so long. Marcus’s lips moved over hers, caressing, nibbling, and when his tongue flicked out, tracing the seam of her closed lips, she gave herself up to him utterly, opening her mouth and clutching at his shoulders. Oh, she’d missed this, being held, being loved, and it was so sweet that the pain of the year past was nearly forgotten. “Brendan,” she murmured between kisses. “Oh, Brendan.”

  Marcus jerked back. “What did you say?” he demanded.

  She looked up at him with dazed eyes, wondering why he’d stopped, wishing he’d kiss her again. “Marcus.”

  His hand moved up, pulling off her cap, settling on her hair. “You are a beautiful and desirable woman, Rebecca. Never forget that for a moment.” He bent his head again, but this time he’d given her a chance. This time, some sanity had crept into the madness.

  “No,” she said, and pushed him away. She was a little surprised when he released her, and not a little disappointed. “This can’t happen.”

  “It has happened,” he pointed out.

  She hugged herself. “Once. That’s all.”

  “You’re attracted to me, Rebecca. You can’t deny it.”

  “No, I can’t,” she said. It was the simple truth. She was attracted to him. It wasn’t wantonness; if that were so, she’d have thrown herself at any man. Instead, she had withstood temptation, until now. And if he didn’t look so much like Brendan, would the attraction still be there? “I am attracted to you, but that’s as far as it can go.”

  “For God’s sake, Rebecca.” He took a quick turn about the garden, hand thrust into his hair. “Why not? There’s nothing wrong in this.”

  Oh, but there was. He was a traitor. She would not make another unfortunate choice. “Nevertheless, it will go no further. I am pledged to stay with my father.”

  He stared at her. “I beg your pardon?”

  “I said—”

  “I heard what you said. For God’s sake, Rebecca!” He reached her in one quick stride, grasping her by her arms and pulling her up against him. “Why do you want to stay with that old man?”

  “He loves me.”

  Marcus swore, making her blink. “The way he treats you? My God, Rebecca, are you blind?”

  “He loves me,” she repeated, pulling away. “He needs me. I can’t leave him.”

  “Rebecca—”

  “I know he seems hard at times, but I’ve tried him much. ‘Tis why he doesn’t show his real feelings for me.”

  Marcus stared at her. “Let me understand this. He has yet to forgive you for the past, and yet you claim he loves you.”

  “Yes.”

  “No. That’s not love, Rebecca. God knows what it is, but it’s not love.”

  “But you don’t love me either, do you, Mr. Brand?”

  “A moment ago you were calling me Marcus.”

  “You didn’t answer my question.” She paused, waiting, but he remained silent. “I am very flattered by your attentions, sir, but—”

  He caught her to him again and planted a quick, hard kiss on her mouth. “This isn’t the end of it, Rebecca,” he said, and, releasing her, turned on his heel and walked away.

  Her knees too weak to support her, Rebecca sank onto the bench, pressing her fingers to her lips. They tingled still from his kiss; her body still felt the imprint of his against her, his broad chest, his muscled thighs, and—her cheeks grew pink—his evident desire for her. The thought of it made her giggle. She’d never thought herself a woman to inspire strong passions, but mercy! Tonight she’d certainly inflamed Mr. Brand. And he, a traitor.

  Rebecca returned to earth with a thud. He might not fall in with her father’s treasonous scheme, but he was, nevertheless, a traitor. She must never forget that, even as something within her ached for him, yearned for him. He was betraying his country, and that meant that, no matter what she felt, what she wanted, she could never give into him. But, oh mercy, what did she do now?

  Marcus strode along in the soft spring darkness, his emotions in turmoil. Anger, frustration, exhilaration, all mingled in a combination that could not be soothed. He wanted her. God help him, he wanted Rebecca, and if she hadn’t stopped him tonight, there was no saying what would have happened. Just as well she had; he was going to do this right. The last thing she needed was to have another man seeming to want her for one thing only. She deserved better than that.

  But, the devil take it, what was this idea she had about her father? The man mistreated her, and still she clung to him. Marcus had never seen the like. If circumstances were normal he could take things more slowly, ease her away from Ezra. Not with matters as they were, though, and with Ezra’s behavior being so irrational. And that was something he’d have to deal with.

  A footstep crunched in the shadows behind him, and he whirled. A click, and the sword that was concealed in his walking stick, held at the ready, flicked out. “Who is it?” he called sharply, for footpads were a problem in Washington City and were not unknown even in Georgetown. “Show yourself.”

  “Marcus.” A man stepped forward, his bearing military, precise. “Good evening.”

  “Jeremiah.” Marcus lowered the walking stick, though he didn’t retract the sword. “What do you here?”

  “The same as you. Enjoying a fine evening.”

  Marcus remained still, weighing the possibilities of a fight and gauging the other man’s strengths and weaknesses. “Far from the legation, aren’t you?”

  “That’s my business.”

  “Come to the point,” Marcus said, suddenly impatient. “We dislike each other. I find your following me damned suspicious.”

  “You wish me to come to the point? Very well.” Dee leaned forward on the balls of his feet, and Marcus tightened his grip on the walking stick. “It is this. Stay away from Rebecca Talbot. She is mine.”

  “No, sir, she is not,” Marcus answered, crisply. “Not while I have anyt
hing to say in the matter.”

  “But you don’t.” Dee’s voice was soft, putting Marcus’s guard up higher. Danger. “I saw her first, and I’ll not let you take her away from me.”

  Marcus crossed his arms, dangling the walking stick. “Then you have a fight on your hands.”

  “One I will win. Just as England will, if there is a war.”

  “I doubt it.”

  “Oh, we shall. Even if you do build new ships.”

  Marcus glanced sharply at him. “You may be surprised, sir, at our navy.”

  “So you say.” Dee’s brows lowered. “I do not know what game you play, sir, but I am not fooled by you. If you continue to come to the legation, you’ll suffer for it.”

  “Indeed?”

  “Indeed. I shall see to it. We do not take kindly to American spies.”

  Marcus laughed, a genuine sound of delight. “Do make up your mind. First you think me a man long dead, and now a spy.”

  “You may be both.”

  “Your imagination is boundless,” Marcus said, amused no longer. “I have no wish to prolong this conversation. Good night, sir.” He began to turn, and then stopped. “And be warned. If you continue to follow me, I know how to use this.” He raised the walking stick and the sword clicked out again. “I will not hesitate.” He waited, and then turned again, walking away with feigned nonchalance, though the skin between his shoulder blades crawled. Dee would have no scruples about attacking him from behind. Only when he had gone some distance, with no footsteps following, did he relax.

  Dee was a threat, he thought, swinging onto the stairs at his lodgings and opening the door. A threat to him and what he needed to accomplish; more importantly, a threat to Rebecca. As he returned Mrs. Sally’s greeting and listened patiently to her prattle on about her activities, he pondered the matter. Somehow, Dee would have to be dealt with.

  “Oh, Mr. Collins, don’t we have just the perfect day for this?” Amelia said, smiling up at Gilbert Collins as they stood together on the wharf, awaiting the boat to take them downriver to Mount Vernon. “It will be ever so nice to be out of the city for a time.”

  “Indeed,” Marcus said, very low, in Rebecca’s ear.

  She started, looking at him with wide eyes. “Oh, Mr. Brand. I didn’t hear you.”

  “My apologies. I didn’t mean to startle you.” He made her a correct bow, but the look in his eyes as he straightened, intent and warm, flustered her.

  She looked away, feeling more than a trifle warm herself. “I am sorry my father talked you into this.”

  It was his turn to look surprised. “Why? Do you not want me here, Rebecca?”

  “I never said—it has naught to do with me. I mean—you must find this dreadfully boring. All these young people.” She gestured towards the group of people gathered together, chatting. They were a mixed lot, ranging from a very young lady new to society, to her parents, Mr. and Mrs. Bayard, along to act as chaperons. Everyone was well-known to Rebecca; some she even considered friends. And yet she felt as if there were a wall between her and them. Only with the man beside her was that sense of distance lessened. “It is good of you to come.”

  “I wanted to. I never have seen Mount Vernon, you know, except from the river.” Something glimmered in his eyes; a smile, perhaps. “And I am not ancient yet.”

  “I didn’t mean—”

  “In fact, I am acquainted with some of the gentlemen. Mr. Collins, for one.”

  “Oh.” Rebecca averted her head. Three days had passed, and still she hadn’t decided what to do about Marcus. If he were a spy, he should be stopped. A quiet word from her to Mr. Collins, who worked under the Secretary of State, would likely take care of that. If only she weren’t so drawn to Marcus.

  “Is he your sister’s beau?” Marcus went on, apparently unaware of Rebecca’s discomfort.

  “Mr. Collins? Mercy, no. Papa has decided—”

  He looked at her, brows raised inquiringly. “What? That I would be a perfect match for her? Yes, I know about that. Your father is not a subtle man, Rebecca.”

  “I am mortified.” Rebecca put her hands to her flushed cheeks. “I shall die of it.”

  Much to her surprise, he chuckled. “Your father has the right idea, Rebecca. But the wrong daughter.”

  “Mr. Brand—”

  “Marcus.” His hand shot out and gripped her arm, gentle in spite of its firmness. “My name is Marcus. Say it.”

  My name is Brendan. The memory drifted back to her, sweet and painful. “I cannot.” With great dignity, she withdrew her arm. “It wouldn’t be polite.”

  “Hang being polite,” he said in a low growl. “Rebecca—”

  “Becky?” Amelia’s voice, high and questioning. “Time for us to go aboard.”

  “Yes, Amelia.” Rebecca stepped away from Marcus, both glad and sorry for the reprieve. “I shall be there directly. Let me see to the food. Please leave me alone.” This in a hiss to Marcus, who followed her across the wharf.

  “Why do you end up doing the work?” he asked, not a whit abashed.

  “Someone has to.”

  “Yes, but why you? Aren’t you to have a life, too, Rebecca?”

  “Ruth, is all ready?” she said, briskly.

  “Yes, miss.” Ruth dropped a quick curtsey to Marcus. “Me and Jacob, we’ll get everything on the boat.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Ship,” Marcus muttered, taking her arm as she turned away. “This is a ship.”

  She glanced at him, trying again to free her arm, but without success. “What is the difference?”

  “A ship is large enough to carry boats. Careful, there.” He helped her step onto the gangplank with such care that she felt almost delicate, a novel sensation for one as tall as she.

  “Rather a circular definition, sir.”

  “Indeed,” he said, but his eyes glimmered again. His gaze swept over the river schooner, taking in the raked masts, the jutting bowsprit, the neatly curled lines and clean decks. “She’s trim.”

  His hand on her elbow, she walked across the deck to a hatch cover and sat, his care still making her feel dainty, cared-for, protected. Cherished. “You like ships, sir?

  “Always.” He braced his hand on the mast as the lines holding the schooner to the wharf were let go and she moved with the current. “I grew up near Bristol, used to see the ships coming up the Avon when I was young. I would climb the highest tree, and pretend I was in the crow’s nest.”

  She followed his gaze to the top of the mast and shuddered, remembering Brendan’s habit of perching so high, and her fear for him. In the end, though, it wasn’t a fall that had claimed him. “Have you family still in England, sir?”

  “No.” His eyes darkened. “There was only my mother, and she’s gone.”

  “And your sister.”

  “Who? Oh, yes, her, too. Haven’t seen her in so long I’d forgotten.”

  Rebecca frowned. His life sounded lonely, much like Brendan’s. She really didn’t want to hear anymore. Dangerous, to be close to a man again. Especially this man. “I am curious, sir, why you continue to live here when you still love England.”

  Something in her tone must have caught him, for the look he gave her was decidedly wary. “I left England long ago. This is my home now.”

  “And yet you speak fondly of it, sir.”

  “Perhaps. But it’s past.” He held his hand out to her, and waited. After a moment, she placed her hand in his, as if without her conscious volition. As if he had somehow drawn her to him. “The past is past, Rebecca.”

  She looked up at him, helpless, her gaze caught by the same force that had drawn at her hand, and felt something inside her give way. Some hard little knot of pain eased, dissolved, leaving her feeling lighter, younger. Hopeful, for the first time in years. She could have let it go long ago, but she hadn’t wanted to, she realized dimly. Until this man came along. “Yes,” she said, her fingers curling ever so slightly on his. “The past is past.”

&n
bsp; The fifteen mile journey downriver passed quickly, the ship moving well with the steady breeze and the brisk current. They passed Washington City and saw the President’s House on the banks of the river. Past Alexandria, like Georgetown a thriving port, the views grew rural, of stretches of forest and open, rolling land on either side. Occasionally there was a glimpse of some great plantation house, high on a hill, and of workers toiling in the fields. Rebecca had not been this way since her return home in disgrace nearly a year ago, and now she saw it through new eyes. She had not expected to enjoy this excursion but, unexpectedly, she was.

  In late morning they docked at last at Mount Vernon’s wharf, and tumbled out onto the property, Amelia surrounded by her friends. “She’s well-liked,” Marcus commented as he and Rebecca followed behind the others, climbing the hilly path between high, wooded banks. “Especially by the young men.”

  Rebecca smiled. Among the group of young people indulgently watched over by Mrs. Bayard, Amelia stood out, a bright spring jonquil in her yellow frock and matching bonnet. The young men were clustered about her, but, in a testimonial to Amelia’s character, so were the young ladies. “She is a sweet girl,” she agreed. “I feel very proud of her.”

  “An odd thing to say.”

  “Why?”

  “You talk as if you’re her mother, rather than her sister.”

  “Her care has been my responsibility for many years, sir.”

  “And always will be,” he muttered.

  Rebecca stared at him. “I beg your pardon?”

  “When is it your turn to live, Rebecca? When do you have a life?”

  She averted her head; she’d had a life already, and look to what it had led. “I’m quite happy.”

  “Are you?” He stopped, and, as he was holding onto her elbow, she had no choice but to stop as well. Farther ahead on the path, the others moved on, out of sight beyond a curve. “Look at me.”

  “Mercy, Mr. Brand—”

  “Look at me.” He swung her around to face him. “You deserve more, Rebecca. You deserve to have your own life, not to live in someone else’s shadow.”