A Bride Most Begrudging (4 page)

O’Connor scratched the back of his head, knocking his hat askew.

“Let me make sure I understand this. You came to the docks
alone
and boarded a ship of felons just to give your uncle a peck on the cheek? An uncle who is, for all practical purposes, nonexistent?”

She jerked her focus back to the matter at hand. “He died!”

“How convenient.” O’Connor straightened his hat, his narrowed gaze quickly sluicing up and down her body before resting upon her face.

She returned the favor. His bronzed skin was too dark, his blue eyes too pale, his jaw too square.

That jaw tightened. “I suppose you will now tell me peers of the realm no longer dress in the manner they used to.”

She fingered the lacings digging into her waist. The bodice was ridiculously tight. “This gown is not mine.”

“No? You mean you wore someone else’s clothing when you came on board to visit your notorious
uncle
?”

“Certainly not.”

“Then where are your clothes?”

A good question. Before they docked yesterday, all prisoners were expected to bathe. On the upper deck. In the open. She had resisted, of course. But with the help of another sailor, Arman had stripped her of her clothing, shoved her into a filthy barrel, dumped a torrent of salt water atop her, then yanked her out by her hair.

She had kicked and bit and clawed until the captain shoved an unfamiliar bodice, skirt, and headcloth into her arms. No chemise. No stockings. No shoes.

Clutching the items to her frame, she had questioned the absence of the undergarments and the soiled condition of the clothing. In response, the captain threatened to take them back and leave her with nothing.

It was then she had demanded the return of her diary. It lay in the pocket of her old skirt. The captain’s eyes had narrowed. The diary would be returned to her in exchange for a more satisfying sport with the men, he had said, starting with him.

She was shrewd enough to know when to retreat. Remembering that retreat fed her anger. She tipped her head toward Arman. “Ask him.”

O’Connor turned to him. “Where are her clothes?”

“Below.”

“Bring them to me.”

“They’re rags, matey, and not fit for man nor beast, they ain’t.”

“The clothing, if you please.”

“I want my diary back too,” Constance said.

Arman’s black eyes impaled her.

“I’ll review any belongings she brought on board,” O’Connor interjected.

Ar man spun around and headed toward the companionway. O’Connor stopped him. “Tell your captain I’ll have a word with him as well.”

The rhythmic lapping of the water against the shallop accentuated their sudden silence. O’Connor did not look her way. Standing with his head bowed and shoulders slumped, he rubbed his eyes. His sleeveless leather jerkin covered thick, broad shoulders. Its laces opened at the chest, revealing a well-worn shirt underneath, while a cloth pouch hung from the leather belt at his trim waist. Full breeches fastened just below his knees, where long stockings hugged muscular calves. Unadorned braid laced up the square shoes on his feet.

At the sound of Arman’s return, O’Connor lifted his head and straightened his shoulders. The sailor handed him a wad of fabric.

Stepping closer to a lantern, O’Connor unfurled and examined the once-beautiful silk dress she had worn that long ago day of her kidnapping. His hands, massive and strong, explored the hollows of the garment, gliding over the soft curves custom-made for her alone. The faded green bodice fluttered beneath the ministrations of his adept tanned fingers. An unwelcome burning crept up her neck and into her cheeks.

Finally, he allowed the dress to slither from his hands to the deck. Dragging her attention from the bundle of silk pooled at his feet, she watched him shake out her chemise. Another inspection of seams and construction followed.

He held up the undergarment by its shoulders and squinted over at her. “Are these your things?”

She nodded.

“Did this fit you when you boarded the ship?” She blushed anew. “It did.”

Cocking his head to the side, he scrutinized the chemise again. “You have lost a considerable amount of poundage.”

She said nothing. His strapping frame dwarfed the chemise, hanging limp within his grasp. Even so, he was right. The only fullness left on her body was that across her chest, and even that had diminished in size a bit.

As if reading her thoughts, he regarded the area in question. She resisted the urge to shield herself. She had worn gowns at home cut every bit as low as this one without a moment of self-consciousness.

In time, he retrieved the dress from the deck and fingered its finely woven fabric. After checking the pockets, he shoved the clothing beneath his arm. “The diary?”

Arman handed O’Connor a small, worn book. O’Connor spent several minutes studying the publication. “Where is her diary?”

“That’s all we found,” Arman answered.

“That is the diary I spoke of,” Constance said.

O’Connor looked at her. “This is no diary. This is a collection of nonsense.”

She bristled. “It is an almanac containing many delightful and entertaining particulars.”

He snorted. “For what purpose?”

“It provides me and a great number of other ladies with a wealth of scientific information.”

He opened the volume and turned to one of the leaves. Holding it up to the lantern, he read an entry.

“At London one morning ’neath the sun’s shining glow,

I found my cane’s length in its own shadow,

As I held it upright; ’twas the tenth day of May:

Now tell me exactly the time of the day?”

He looked at her over the rim of the book. “You must be jesting.”

“Can you provide the solution?”

“Nine hours, thirteen minutes, and sixteen seconds into the morning.”

She rolled her eyes. “You saw my answer.”

“
Your
answer? These are your figures scribbled in the margins?”

“They are.”

He threw back his head and laughed. The deep, warm, rich sound of it chafed her ears. She took a deep breath and met his gaze square on.

“O’Connor,” the captain shouted. “Back again from this morning?” Snapping the almanac shut, O’Connor shoved it under his arm with the clothing. He held out his hand. The captain grasped it.

“Good evening to you, Captain. This wench says she comes unwillingly.”

The captain glanced at her. “You’re here to claim her, then? I’d heard Emmett lost her in a game of chance this afternoon, but I couldn’t quite credit it. You have the receipt?”

O’Connor handed it to him.

Her mouth went slack. A game of chance? They bartered for her in a
card game
?

She snapped her mouth shut.
Was this your answer, Lord? This is what you consider being released? But that’s not what I meant and you know it! I want to be freed!

The captain scanned the piece of parchment, then cackling, handed it back to O’Connor. “By trow, Emmett must be sorely vexed. Particularly since he paid out so much sot weed to purchase her.” He clapped O’Connor on the back. “What took you so long to fetch her? All the other men have long since collected their brides.”

“I had things to attend to.”

A suggestive grin spread across the captain’s face. “Ah, yes. I’d almost forgotten. You purchased a bride of your own this morning, didn’t you? Were so desperate for one, in fact, that you sent your brother clear to England to handpick one for you.” He gave a low coarse laugh. “And you’re just now coming up for air? Decided you’d like to try this one on for size? Ho, ho! Emmett’s going to throw bung by the cartload when he recovers from his drunken stupor!”

Constance’s mind whirled. Was the captain referring to Mary? Mary had left with the blond man, but it was O’Connor here who had signed the purchase papers. Oh, poor Mary! Still, O’Connor couldn’t very well try and force Constance into a marriage contract if he was already wed to Mary.

“I’ve not married the woman my brother recommended but merely purchased her,” O’Connor said.

Constance’s breath caught.

The captain howled. “Oh, that’s even better! By my troth, but I can’t wait to see Emmett’s face when he hears.”

O’Connor’s nostrils flared. “Where are this female’s papers of transport?”

The captain’s expression sobered somewhat. “She came on board the vessel with fraudulent letters to the prisoners in an effort to procure their escape. We seized her before her plan could be carried out.”

She gasped. “That is untrue!”

She caught a glimpse of suspicion on O’Connor’s face. Surely it was the captain he doubted, not
her
?

By heaven, she must locate the Crown-appointed governor of this godforsaken place haste, posthaste. Only then could this unconscionable injustice done to her be righted.

A sinking sensation began in the pit of her stomach. What if she finally managed an audience with the governor and he didn’t believe her? She was no more than a warm female body in a colony desperate to be fruitful. What if the governor refused to believe her simply because it suited his purposes, and the Crown’s, to have her here?

This overgrown provincial American might be her only chance at freedom. After all, he evidently owned her. So if he believed her story, wouldn’t it be within his power to set her free?

The captain regarded her through half-closed lids. “We were given an order from Lieutenant-Colonel Windem to keep her. She is such a rebel as not to be permitted to stay in the mother country.”

“How dare you!” she cried. “My father—”

“May I see the order?”

The captain returned his attention to O’Connor. “The order came by word of mouth.”

O’Connor tightened his lips. He handed the keys to the captain.

“Release her. I am ready to take her home.”

The captain moved to unlock the fetters. “By all means. I almost hate to see her go, though. It’s a mighty feisty wench she’s been, and she can certainly put on the airs. Too bad I didn’t join you in your gaming. Maybe Emmett would have lost her to me and I could move to the next port and sell her all over again!”

Stiffening, Constance squared her shoulders. She and O’Connor stared at each other over the captain’s bent frame. Sighing, she held her peace and watched the fetters come off.

“Miss Morrow?”

“
Lady
Morrow.”

O’Connor offered her his elbow.

“Do you believe I am who I say I am?”

He said nothing. Merely shifted the straw hat resting atop his long sable waves, then once again extended his elbow.

“I need to speak with the governor. Will you take me to him?” He gave a brisk nod. “Of course.”

She looked at his elbow, then back up at his eyes. “When?”

“It’s the middle of the night,” he said, a touch of impatience flickering across his face. “Not a very good time to ask the governor for a sympathetic ear.”

She bit her lip. He was right, of course.

Lifting her chin, she said, “I’ll not marry you until I’ve spoken with the governor.”

O’Connor raised a brow. “Have I asked you to marry me?”

“Well, no, but I assumed—”

“Don’t assume.”

She studied him for a moment, then hesitantly placed her hand upon his arm and accompanied him off the ship.

“We are going to your home?” she asked.

He nodded.

Leaving the shore behind, she and O’Connor zigzagged through a forest of trees growing, at every footfall, larger and nobler than the last.

The sheer number of trees held her speechless. She had heard the colonies held a wealth of timber, yet she hadn’t expected such profusion. Even the moon, resplendent in its full phase, seemed to blaze in an unprecedented fashion, providing them with an abundance of light.

At length, they entered a natural alley lined with trees whose circumference hinted at ages of two hundred years or more. Blending together with the shrubs, they arched overhead, forming a bower. Beams of moonlight filtered through its leafy roof, illuminating the pathway hemmed in by the lush foliage and trees.

Closing her eyes, she inhaled. Sweet smelling scents she could not identify filled her. She savored the pure and delicious aroma just before stumbling across a root.

Her eyes flew open as O’Connor grasped her elbow in support.

“Thank you,” she said.

“You are all right?”

She flexed her ankle. “Yes.”

Carefully placing her foot on the ground, she looked up. Their gazes caught and held.

An owl searching for dinner used his dense downy plumage to fly close to them without making a sound. He hooted his irritation at their intrusion of his domain. Constance squealed, jumping toward the American and away from the piercing screech. O’Connor emitted a grunt of amusement.

She tightened her lips. “When can I see the governor?”

“As soon as I can find the time to take you to his plantation.”

“When will that be?”

“Probably in November.”

Jerking her elbow out of his clasp, she took a step back. “November! That’s five months from now. I can’t wait that long. I have to see him tomorrow.”

“Impossible.”

She gasped. “I demand it!”

“Demand all you want. I’ve a tobacco farm to run. That takes precedence over running around the countryside on some wild goose chase. Meanwhile, I suggest you acclimate yourself to the fact that by the law of this land, I own you and I will do as I please.”

“But, the ship,” she sputtered. “The captain. You said, I thought, my lack of papers and … Well, you
must
let me speak with him tomorrow.”

“Talking with the governor will do you no good. He won’t free you without my consent.”

“Then give him your consent. Or leave him out of it all together. Pray, just free me and be done with it.”

He shook his head. “I am not a fool, little Lady of the Realm. I will send a message to your so-called father. If and when I hear from him will be time enough to release you.”