Pirate's Bride (Liberty's Ladies) (44 page)

“No, I didn’t do that!” she cried at last.

“Stop lying. There were five of us at that meeting who pretended to be Tories and hobnob with the king’s own. First to be arrested was Forrest, then Dennery. I received word from Marc this morning that Simon Price was arrested last night. Then there is Mr. Babcock, but nothing shall be done to him since he died in his sleep last night. So, that leaves me, the last remaining Tory of the group. Am I to be protected because you love me, my dear, or should I prepare for the worst?”

“I’d never turn you in, I’d never do any of that.” She was shocked and dumbfounded by his accusation. “You must believe me.”

“I don’t, Bethlyn. I can never trust you again.” He shook his head in dismay. “I wanted to believe you’d explain why you followed me. I gave you the chance. Remember the day you confessed to the robbery. The night of the meeting, I found the horse’s tracks in the snow when I returned home. The tracks led right into the stables, and Amos had just finished rubbing down Star. He said nothing, and I didn’t ask, because I needed to believe in you.”

“Ian, you can believe in me. I never betrayed your friends.” Bethlyn threaded her arms around his neck, an urgency in her voice. “I needed to know where you went when you left the house, and when I listened at the window, I understood for the first time about the war. I know now why you’re fighting. I even wrote some—”

“Stop it, Bethlyn!” His hands grabbed her arms, nearly shaking her. “Do you think I’m such a fool to believe that you’d embrace my politics? I assure you, I’m not.” Suddenly his hands slid to possessively wander across her buttocks. “I do believe that I love touching you and can’t get enough of your tempting flesh. You’ve betrayed my friends, helped my sister run away, probably to be used and abandoned by a mercenary enemy, and, lest we forget, you stole from me. But still I want you. What is this power you hold over me?”

Ian appeared so lost that her heart went out to him.

She’d hurt him when she’d only wanted to protect him and to allow Molly to find her happiness. His accusations of betraying his friends cut deeply into her, but in his present state of mind, she doubted he’d hear her out or believe her innocence. He didn’t trust her. Didn’t it always seem to boil down to trust with them?

“I admit that you’re my weakness,” she heard him say in a tortured voice. “So, I shall be forced to live with you, or die without you. I can’t give you up yet; I shall make a pact with you, as we did when you first arrived at Edgecomb.”

“What sort of a pact?” Bethlyn already knew she wasn’t going to like it whatever it was.

Ian twirled a long strand of her hair between his fingers. “We shall remain married, and you will not admit to your contacts that I am Captain Hawk or that I am less than loyal to our dear Majesty.”

“None of this is true,” she broke in, pleading. “I have no contact. “

He spoke over her words. “I want a child by you, an heir, as double insurance that you won’t turn me in. After all, the child will need a father, and you wouldn’t want the stigma of my crimes to blemish him. The fact that I wish to sire a child by you hasn’t a thing to do with my feelings for you. I’ve a large amount of capital and would prefer to leave it to my own flesh and blood, rather than let the Crown take it. Until you conceive, you may dance with your Captain Andre and beguile your many male admirers with your charms, as it would appear odd if you shunned the season’s activities.”

His eyes held a warning. “No one is to touch you. I need to know without a doubt that any child you bear is my own. Under the circumstances I’m being more than generous to you. After the child’s birth, you may cavort and sleep with whomever you choose. I don’t care what you do or with whom you do it, as long as you bear me an heir.”

She felt as if he’d kicked her in the stomach, staring in stunned disbelief, in shock to realize that Ian was serious. No matter what he thought she’d done, she wouldn’t be able to live such a life-style. He was prepared to use her as a breeder and then to abandon her.

He intended to ignore her, something she wouldn’t tolerate. For most of her life she’d been ignored. Did the pompous man also believe she was so naive that any dalliance he may have had or considered having with Emmie Gray had gone unnoticed by her? He must think she was blind. Fury welled within her to be treated so shabbily by the man she loved.

“This is a preposterous proposition, and I refuse to consider such a thing,” Bethlyn stated heatedly, barely aware when Ian broke his hold of her, and she crumpled onto the mattress.

“Ah, that rebellious streak must be tamed, sweetheart.”

“And how do you intend to do that?”

“Need you ask, Bethlyn? I know that I’m as much your weakness as you are mine, and don’t bother to deny it.”

She couldn’t deny it, he was right.

“You really won’t want me after I give you a child?’ she asked, hoping against hope that he’d suddenly see the folly of such a stupid idea.

He shrugged. “Perhaps I will, then maybe I won’t. The possibility exists that if I avail myself of your body as often as I wish, I may grow tired of you. Either way, I’ll be occupied elsewhere.”

“Occupied with Emmie Gray?” The woman’s name slipped out before she was aware she’d said it.

“So you know about Emmie.”

“Of course. I saw her at the meeting, remember. I also visited her yesterday. We had an enlightening conversation.”

“Now you understand why everyone admires her.”

“I don’t like the woman, Ian, but my feelings are unimportant. I must know if you love her.”

Bethlyn clutched the sheet to her breasts, her eyes wide and filled with pain, but defying him to say he did. How could he love Emmie Gray after the glorious night of passion they’d shared?

A great shuddering sigh wracked his composure. “At this moment, Bethlyn, I love no one. Not even myself.”

21

The next few weeks were the most miserable of Bethlyn’s life.

She barely saw Ian except when he visited her bed where he took her with little passion. But no matter his treatment of her, he always saw to her pleasure, a bitter pleasure given the circumstances. So many times she was tempted to literally crawl on her hands and knees and beg his forgiveness, somehow convince him that she wasn’t guilty of spying. But she didn’t.

As much as she still loved him, she had her pride. Throwing herself into the social whirl, she attended more balls, picnics, and soirees than she cared to count. Behind a brilliant smile and witty conversation, she hid her pain. At one such glittering affair given by Cynthia and her new husband, Cynthia ushered Bethlyn upstairs to her bedroom. The woman pointedly inquired what was wrong, why did Ian stand like a statue all evening long while countless gentlemen twirled her around the dance floor.

Bethlyn couldn’t admit that Ian didn’t love her any longer, that he most probably had never loved her to treat her so shabbily. But Cynthia didn’t believe her story that the Bristons had had a minor tiff. “A tiff which has lasted almost two months?” Cynthia raised a finely arched brow. “I think not.”

Bethlyn needed to confide in someone, and finally she broke down, weeping huge tears as she explained Ian’s displeasure because she’d helped Molly leave, the only part of her problems she could divulge.

“The man is a beast!” Cynthia cried, and embraced Bethlyn. “I shall give him a good dressing down.”

“No, you mustn’t! I don’t want him to feel guilty about his treatment of me. If he forgives me, I want it to be because he loves me. Otherwise, I don’t want him at all.”

Cynthia contemplated the young woman with red rimmed eyes and smiled gently. “Sometimes a man must be pushed in the right direction.”

Days later, Bethlyn mulled over Cynthia’s words. She knew she might be able to use her feminine wiles on Ian and had no doubt that her body was a great temptation to him. More than once she’d caught him casting lustful glances at her when he thought she didn’t see him. He couldn’t forget their nights together and neither could she. But she refused to seduce him. If he wanted to make things right between them, he’d have to apologize to her.

So preoccupied with her marital troubles, Bethlyn barely registered the fact that pamphlets containing the Dove’s poetry swamped Philadelphia, Before February was over, pamphlets had been printed and distributed, eagerly read by all those people who craved liberty and some who expressed sentiments that the Dove, whomever this person might be, should be sniffed out and hung as a traitor.

John Andre made Bethlyn aware of the Dove’s popularity when he dropped in for tea one afternoon with the lovely but shallow Peggy Shippen as his companion.

Ian arrived home early, an unexpected event of late, and took a seat on the sofa next to Bethlyn as John rattled on about General Howe’s aggravation over the poems.

John took the pamphlet in question out of his breast pocket and laid it on a side table. “I tell you that Howe is getting a great deal of flak over the Dove. People loyal to the king are demanding that he discover this person’s identity and put an end to all of the patriotic prattle which has erupted.” John wolfed down a crumpet and grinned in amusement. “I’ve never seen the old boy so flustered. The Dove is more popular than that wench Emmie Gray.”

Bethlyn stiffened, not giving Ian an extra look, when Peggy made a haughty sound of disdain. “Personally I think the uproar is ridiculous. Poetry can’t possibly change the tide of the war. The British will be victorious,” she stated emphatically, as if her knowledge about the war extended beyond the parties and dancing with British soldiers into the wee hours of the morning. “I can’t imagine life if the colonials win. Things will be so horribly dull.”

Peggy smiled at Bethlyn, expecting her to agree, but Bethlyn stirred her tea, not acknowledging Peggy’s remark.

“What do you say about all of this, Ian?” John asked. “Have you read the Dove’s poems?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“I find her style to be quite refreshing, simple and unaffected. Granted, the work is overlong but never ponderous or dull. She flings herself at liberty as a moth flies into a flame. I can understand how her enthusiasm would capture people’s attentions and disturb General Howe.”

“You sound like a champion of the Dove,” Peggy commented, a hint of slyness in her voice. “What makes you believe the Dove is a woman?”

“Because of the softness and gentleness expressed beneath the surface,” Ian explained, pouring a glass of brandy. “This woman is not only a poetess, but a true patriot. I recommend that she be taken seriously.” He lifted the glass a bit, almost as if he toasted the Dove.

Bethlyn placed her teacup on the table beside the sofa in fear she’d drop it. Tremors ran the length of her spine, the reality of the Dove’s sensation hitting her with full force. Here she sat under the nose of a British captain and his Tory companion while her husband, a hunted man in his own right, favorably commented on the merits of a work she’d anonymously penned, something for which she could be hanged. Even if she’d ever considered admitting to Ian that she’d written the poetry, she knew she could never tell him now.

Though John and Peggy apparently didn’t recognize his fascination with the Dove, Bethlyn did. When the conversation switched to gossip about the wife of an officer who was involved with a lowly soldier, Peggy taking delight in disclosing every juicy detail of the affair, Bethlyn noticed that Ian pretended to listen. He commented in the appropriate places, but she could tell his mind wasn’t on the discussion.

From the feverish gleam in his eyes, the gleam she’d seen so many times when he spoke about his country’s fight for independence, and the way his gaze lingered on the pamphlet on the table, she guessed that Emmie Gray was about to be displaced by the Dove. Almost tempted to crow her delight, she restrained herself at the irony of the situation.

Ian had found a new heroine. Herself.

~ ~ ~

Three days later Bethlyn sat beside Ian on the Briston pew in Christ Church for the burial services of Mrs. Babcock. The old lady had also died in her sleep, and though she’d been in poor health since the death of her grandson, it was felt that her husband’s passing had hastened her own departure from this earth.

Out of the corner of her eye, Bethlyn watched Emmie Gray, who sat on the pew in front of them, dab a finely made linen kerchief to her eye. Her black mourning gown, embroidered with a thin braid of gold at the cuffs and hem, made a startling contrast against the paleness of her elegantly coiffed hair, covered by a gossamer wisp of black tulle. Bethlyn hadn’t recognized Emmie at first, taking her for a wealthy relative of the Babcocks until she’d remembered that the old couple had had no living relations after the death of their grandson. Now Emmie Gray resembled a confident and wealthy woman, totally unlike the demure, shy girl Bethlyn had first seen at Simpson House.