Pirate's Bride (Liberty's Ladies) (2 page)

“See, I’m standing over here. You’ve nothing to fear from me, Beth. May I have the knife?”

“No.”

“Please.”

Her hand wrapped tighter around the dagger until her knuckles turned white. Hawk inclined his head. “You may keep it then, if it gives you a degree of security.”

Did he mean that? She didn’t know what to think, what to do. It seemed hours passed as she stood there with the upraised dagger, and she guessed that to him she must resemble a madwoman.

She’d never know what might have happened if a knock on the cabin door hadn’t startled her. Suddenly Hawk had her wrist in his and attempted to wrest the dagger. But she’d held it so tightly that her fingers wouldn’t uncurl, and his profane oaths only served to make her stronger, to survive the attack she’d felt certain would follow.

“Hawk! Captain Hawk! Open the door!” came the cry of the first mate from the other side of the door as he jiggled the locked door to no avail.

“Hand over the blasted thing!” Hawk rasped, but her hand felt frozen to the hilt, unable to bend. Then it happened.

He’d moved too close to her when he pulled down her arm. She didn’t mean to do it, really she didn’t. The blade contacted with his chest and she felt the dagger push into the sinew and muscle, felt the warmth of his blood rushing onto her hand.

Captain Hawk stood still. His face turned a deathly shade of white before he crumpled to the floor, to fall at her feet.

Gazing in horror at the man, she clutched her throat, unable to scream or move, not having a conscious thought save one.

She’d killed him.

1

England
—
The Devon Coast

1771

From high above the clifftop where Lady Bethlyn Talbot sat, a copy of Shakespeare’s sonnets resting in the lap of her gown, she had a gulls-eye view of three small fishing boats sailing through the churning waters of Start Bay. Liquid brown eyes in a childlike face, framed by wind-tossed, honey-brown hair, admired the fishermen’s skills to neatly maneuver their crafts over the swelling evening tides. A wind from the east had blown in earlier, dispelling the calm of the early fall afternoon, but no one appeared to mind the bad turn in the weather. Everyone who gathered on the pebbly beach laughed and hugged the returning fishermen, oblivious to the strengthening breeze which whipped around them. Women and children gathered to help empty the fishing nets of crabs and to place the hard-shelled creatures into buckets.

Good-natured banter drifted closer to Bethlyn as the men, followed by their family members, strode up the road along the side of the cliff to the safe haven of their homes. Bethlyn could picture in her mind’s eye the flickering hearths, the children sitting down to eat with their parents, not the least bit frightened by the approaching storm because love surrounded them.

A surge of longing as strong as the evening tide washed over Bethlyn. Love was a commodity she’d known for a short time, and only from her mother.

The truth was that her father, the Earl of Dunsmoor, didn’t seem to care for her. In his presence she’d always felt awkward. The memory of the way he’d gaze down his long, aristocratic nose at her could still chill her. The only time he spoke to her was to criticize her plumpness, her timidity, to warn her not to spend all of her time with her nose in a book or writing sonnets, lest she grow boring like her mother. She hadn’t seen her father in over two years, and his admonishments still remained with her. Hadn’t he loved her mother?

The first seven years of her life had been spent at Woodsley, her parents’ home. She recalled that her father had been absent a great deal of the time, and it was during these long absences that her mother seemed the happiest. The moment her father returned, her mother’s whole attitude and bearing changed. One moment she’d be carefree, at play with Bethlyn and feeling seemingly well; the next, upon learning the earl had returned home, she’d take to her room and declare ill health. For as long as her father was home, her mother practically lived in her room, even took her meals there, and Bethlyn was forgotten.

One day her mother truly did become ill, and within a week she was dead. The earl arrived at the country estate from London in time to make funeral arrangements and to engage a governess for his daughter. Then off he went again. The next time Bethlyn saw him a beautiful dark-haired woman clung to his arm. Her father introduced the woman as Jessica, his new wife. Jessica had smiled at the shy child, charming Bethlyn with her beautiful face and even, white teeth. This was all Bethlyn was to know of her stepmother.

The next morning, Bethlyn and her governess, Miss Grosvenor, were dutifully packed off to Hallsands. Her father only nodded woodenly at her when the groomsman settled her in the carriage. Though her father treated her with indifference, she longed to believe he cared for her. She craved his presence, some connection to him because he was her only living relation.

Seven years had passed since that day. Now her life was spent in the company of a poker-faced Miss Grosvenor and Milly, the serving woman who cleaned the cottage and prepared meals, besides looking after Bethlyn. The cottage and the clifftop comprised her life. The cottage had been purchased some years ago by her father to use as a summer place. He’d used it only twice and then stayed for barely three days, declaring that the damp atmosphere wasn’t to his liking. Then back he’d gone to the waiting arms of his new wife. As Bethlyn matured, she realized that her father had placed her at Hallsands to keep her out of his way, that for some reason he hated the sight of her.

“If only…” she muttered, not quite certain what she’d have wished.

“Bethlyn!’

Bethlyn started at the sound of her name being called. A girl about her own age waved to her and Bethlyn enthusiastically waved back to Mavis Hempstead, Milly’s niece. Breaking away from the group of people, loaded down with buckets of crabs, she ran towards Bethlyn. Her dark hair blew wildly in the wind and bright, large blue eyes gleamed warmly at her friend. Pulling her shawl around her blossoming bosom, she said, “Did you see the catch my papa made today? We’ll be swimming in crab stew for the next month.”

Bethlyn stood up, laughing and clutching her book to her breasts. Mavis always had a way of brightening her day. Perhaps it was because Mavis’s natural ebullience was contagious, or the fact that her friendliness and warmth broke through Bethlyn’s natural timidity. Milly had introduced her to Mavis some years ago, and when Miss Grosvenor was occupied elsewhere, Milly would always sneak Bethlyn off to play with Mavis, even for an hour. Without Mavis as a playmate and confidante, Bethlyn’s life would have been endless days of studying and appeasing Miss Grosvenor.

“I think I should like to have some of your mother’s crab stew. Perhaps she’ll consider bringing a pot to Milly for supper tomorrow night.”

“Why wait so long? Come join us now, Bethlyn. Mama will have it fixed in no time, long before Miss Grosvenor realizes you’re gone. Aunt Milly told me this morning that the old dragon has her monthly malady and went to her room straight after breakfast and hasn’t come out all day.”

That was true. Miss Grosvenor pleaded ill health after receiving a letter this morning, and Bethlyn kept herself occupied by reading and attempting to write poetry. She knew that if Miss Grosvenor learned she’d been at Mavis’s house, she’d be quite displeased. She constantly harped to her that she was above these simple people in station and must never forget she was the daughter of an earl. An earl’s daughter didn’t cavort with peasants. But Miss Grosvenor would have been shocked to know that Bethlyn would have gladly changed places with Mavis, who had a happy, warm homelife and loving parents.

At first Bethlyn was tempted to refuse Mavis’s invitation, but after a few seconds consideration, she decided she wanted a sample of Mrs. Hempstead’s stew and ached to visit Mavis and bask in the warmth of a real family’s love. Casting a quick look in the cottage’s direction to be certain that Miss Grosvenor didn’t watch from the upstairs window, she nodded to Mavis.

Soon both girls were running down the road to Mavis’s home, and before either was ready, after much giggling and talking and helping Mrs. Hempstead in the kitchen, the hot-seasoned stew was placed before them.

The meal passed in happy talk, the kitchen bustling with the other members of the Hempstead family. Mr. Hempstead leaned back in his chair and pulled out a pipe and then regaled his brood and Bethlyn with a long forgotten folk song about the life of a fisherman.

At such times Bethlyn almost believed she was part of the Hempstead family. For years she’d been sneaking away from Miss Grosvenor and partaking of this family’s kindness to her, kindnesses she could never repay. For how did one repay others for friendship which was given freely? The only way she knew was to be friendly in return, and with these people her shyness always disappeared and no one treated her as different. She felt free to indulge in conversation, to say whatever popped into her head without thought of chastisement. The younger children climbed onto her lap and snuggled against her, and more than once she prayed that one day she’d have such little ones to love.

Everyone settled by the hearth, warmed by the firelight, forgetting that a storm raged through the night. Mavis was telling a story to the younger children, her face bright and beautiful. A surge of envy for her friend coursed through Bethlyn. Would she ever be as pretty as Mavis? She sincerely doubted it. More than once Miss Grosvenor told her that plain people couldn’t rely on looks to get them through life; they must make their fortunes through ingenuity, their minds. And she told Bethlyn she had a fine mind, which led Bethlyn to believe that Miss Grosvenor and her father, as well, did consider her less than attractive.

A loud rap sounded on the door and was thrown instantly open by a very wet Milly. Her gray hair hung limply about her head and she sneezed in lieu of a greeting before settling her gaze on Bethlyn.

“I thought I’d find you here, my lady. You better be getting on home. The dragon is breathing fire and more upset than normal.”

“I’d forgotten the time,” Bethlyn said in alarm and grabbed for her cloak off a wall hook. “Miss Grosvenor will probably make me memorize ten Bible verses for morning.”

“Then get on with you, miss,” Milly said, ushering her through the door before Bethlyn could bid anyone farewell.

The two of them ran through the rain. Bethlyn, being the younger and the faster, reached the cottage first. No sooner was she in the doorway than Miss Grosvenor pulled her into the parlor.

The woman’s hands trembled, an unusual occurrence for the normally composed governess, as she helped Bethlyn off with her thin, wet cloak. She ordered Milly to light a candle and the hearth in the damp room. “You’ll die of a chill, Lady Bethlyn. How often must I warn you to bundle up properly when you go outdoors? Such a wet and cold night as this will no doubt find you ill on the morrow.”

Bethlyn knew that a chill was the ultimate malady to Miss Grosvenor. Bethlyn guessed it wasn’t so much that the woman cared about her charge’s health, but lived in dread that the earl would dismiss her for negligence. More than once Miss Grosvenor had complained about being forced to take up residence on Hallsands, but she was being paid a more than adequate sum for her services. In that respect, Bethlyn reluctantly credited her father. He did wish her to be well educated.

When the room glowed with dancing flames and the candle had been lighted, Milly departed. Miss Grosvenor beckoned to Bethlyn to take a seat beside a small, round table while she sat across from her. “I doubt your father would be pleased to learn of your associating with those people. You’ve a position to maintain and I must chide you to remember it. Now more than ever.”

Bethlyn dutifully mumbled she would remember, but her ears perked up. What did Miss Grosvenor mean by now more than ever?

Miss Grosvenor settled her spectacles on her nose, and Bethlyn noticed her hand shook. Picking up a book from the table, she withdrew a folded square of paper from it. “As you can undoubtedly see, the seal on the letter is your father’s. I received this missive early today.” She sounded curt, more so than usual. “The earl writes to say that his wife has died.”

‘‘I’m quite sorry,” Bethlyn muttered automatically, assuming this was the proper thing to say when one learned that one’s stepmother had passed on.