Pirate's Bride (Liberty's Ladies) (59 page)

~ ~ ~

One evening Bethlyn sat in the garden behind the house and plucked a wild daisy from the earth. Her fingers stroked the fragile petals before pulling each one off and saying as she did so, “He loves me, he loves me not, he…”

“Loves you very much.”

She spun around at the voice behind her, and in an instant Ian had wrapped her trembling body in his arms. She cried, sobbing out her happiness. “Promise me you won’t leave me again,” she pleaded after Ian had led her to sit beneath a spreading elm tree.

He kissed away a tear. “I’d like to promise that more than anything else in the world, sweetheart. But I can’t. You do understand.”

Yes, she understood, and that was the reason for the gnawing ache in her heart. She wanted to beg him to choose between her and his country, but knew that wouldn’t be fair. Ian loved both of them, and once he’d given his love, he didn’t relent or would ever think of being unfaithful, Wasn’t this the very reason she loved him?

Nodding, Bethlyn let Ian raise her to her feet and then they entered the house and headed for Bethlyn’s room, which was away from noise and household traffic. Soon snug and engulfed in passion in the large, soft feather bed, the war seemed a long distance away.

~ ~ ~

Ian found a beautiful fieldstone house on an old country lane whose banks were dark with wild violets. Bethlyn fell in love with the place instantly, enchanted by the high ceilings in every room and the view from the bedroom which overlooked a running stream.

The house wasn’t grand or large like Edgecomb, but to Bethlyn and Ian, Wild Violets, as they’d come to name the place, represented their love and the cherished moments of being together. But all too soon their idyllic existence ended on a warm summer afternoon when word came that Benedict Arnold, who had somehow convinced friends in high places to put him in command of West Point and its garrison, had intended to surrender his post to the British for twenty thousand pounds. Arnold had escaped before he could be arrested.

The courier who’d arrived out of nowhere seemed to leave the same way. From the way Ian hung on to the message Bethlyn knew something serious had happened, and a cold fear clutched her heart. Ian told her before she even asked.

“Poor Peggy,” she mumbled.

“There’s more,” he said, and cleared his throat. “John Andre has been captured with the incriminating documents on his person. It is assumed that he’ll be hung as a spy.”

Bethlyn rose abruptly from her chair and dropped her knitting onto the floor, She clutched her throat. “Not John. Oh, Ian, he’s such a sweet, kind, and gallant man.”

His hand massaged his forehead. “I know. I remember those nights he dined at Edgecomb.”

“You must help him some way.” She grabbed onto his arm, her eyes pleading.

“I’ll try,” he said, but from the despairing tone of his voice she knew already that it was hopeless.

~ ~ ~

Bethlyn received word from Ian, who’d gone to General Washington’s headquarters to plead for Andre’s life. The General, for all his great regard for the young English officer, refused to back down. Andre was going to be hung as a spy.

Bethlyn crumbled the letter in her hands and wept her utter hopelessness. She felt that Andre, as did many other people, was being made to be the scapegoat for Arnold’s treason. Andre was a British officer, doing what any other officer would have done in a like situation. Arnold had contacted Andre first about handing over West Point, not the other way around.

She felt helpless, but she wanted to do something for John Andre, the man who had been her friend and admirer. The thought of directly begging Washington to save his life crossed her mind, but she discounted it. If Washington wouldn’t budge for Ian, then he wouldn’t listen to her. What could she do then? What might possibly have a lasting impact on the populace and General Washington?

The Dove.

The answer was so simple she felt startled, but she knew the Dove could arouse people to take a stand whereas Bethlyn Briston could not.

Sitting at her desk, she reached for a quill and began to pen what she felt was the most important poem of her life.

~ ~ ~

 “This is a stunning surprise,” the spy known as Mariah commented and sipped his wine.

“What is?” Annabelle Hastings stirred, her sleepy eyes coming awake. She found Mariah sitting against the pillow, reading a pamphlet. Her fingers traced the curve of his thigh. “Oh, that’s one of those rebel pamphlets, espousing drivel about independence. Why do you bother to read such trash?”

Mariah cocked a dark eyebrow over one of his equally black eyes at her. “Because this one is most intriguing. It seems that the Dove is in New York and bemoaning the capture of Andre. This poem is quite a tribute to him, but rather a strange turn of face, don’t you think? Months ago the Dove was a patriot and now is in Andre’s comer.”

Annabelle clutched the sheet. The Dove was Bethlyn Briston, and Ian’s wife. She’d thought she’d forgotten Ian Briston, but now warring emotions stirred within her breast. Hatred was the more powerful, but the love she felt for him vied for the upper hand. She mustn’t allow Mariah to see she might still desire Ian Briston. He’d never understood her obsession for the man even after she’d learned Ian had had Emmie Gray investigated and had never trusted her. More than once Mariah had told her she should consider herself lucky to escape Briston. But Annabelle didn’t feel lucky at all. She’d lost the only man she could ever love.

Mariah, she discovered, for all of his covert dealings, was a basically kind and generous man. A handsome man, too. She didn’t know his ancestry or his true name. He was so dark that she wondered if he might be part Indian. He never told her about his past, but he always told her that he cared for her. And Annabelle believed he did.

No man had ever been so wonderful to her or treated her like she was so fragile she’d break. Mariah made her feel feminine and beautiful. He adored her and worshiped her body with his masculine and finely shaped hands. Her pleasure was his pleasure, and Mariah introduced her to gentle but sensuous lovemaking — nothing coarse or crude as she’d known with Holmes and Eversley. The man was everything most women could ever hope to find in a lover.

Why didn’t she love him?

“What do you make of the Dove and this poem?” she heard Mariah ask.

Annabelle shrugged and sat up, her long hair reaching to her waist. “Perhaps she likes stirring up trouble.”

“She? I didn’t realize you had any inkling the Dove was a woman.”

“Eversley told me.”

Mariah leaned forward and cupped her chin in his hand, causing her to look at him. “Annabelle, do you know who the Dove is?”

When his eyes probed hers, Annabelle found it impossible to lie to Mariah. Sometimes she wondered if the man held her in some sort of thrall. “Maybe,” she reluctantly admitted.

“Thomas Eversley would pay dearly for that information, and the British have been most eager to catch this woman for months. Why didn’t you tell someone? Why didn’t you tell me?” A note of hurt was in his voice and his eyes expressed his disillusionment with her. “I believed we had no secrets from each other, Annabelle.”

“God, Mariah! You can’t expect me to tell you everything I know or all I’ve ever done in my life. You certainly withhold information about your past.”

“That’s different. There’s money to be gained with this information.”

“Yes, but I was under the impression that you were a spy because you were loyal to the Crown. Do you mean to tell me that all you really want is money?”

Mariah sighed and leaned against the pillow, folding his arms behind his head. Such a hardness appeared in his eyes and such ragged pain shadowed his face that Annabelle flinched.

“Suffice to say that money is all in life when trust has been displaced.”

“You’re saying that you don’t trust me.”

“Not any longer,” he admitted, and those eyes gleamed with raw hatred. “I don’t trust any woman, least of all you. I think you’re still in love with Ian Briston.”

“You’re wrong.” Her vehement protest sounded hollow to her own ears. “I don’t give him or that bitch he married a thought.”

“Annabelle, Annabelle,” he crooned sadly. “When will you ever realize how much the man loves her? I could have given you so much love and joy if you had only let me. But your insides are festering with jealousy for Bethlyn Briston, and this shall be your downfall. You never had Briston’s heart, his wife did and does. Believe me, I’ve done some despicable things in my lifetime, things I sincerely regret, but I’ve been smart enough to let go of an obsession, whereas you have not. I feel sorry for you. I truly pity you.”

Mariah rose from the bed and started to dress in his usual black garments. “Where are you going?” Annabelle asked, fearing she knew the answer.

“Away.” He took his ebony cape from a wall peg and twirled it around his shoulders. Coming to the bed, he leaned over and gently kissed her lips. “I wish you good fortune, but I doubt you’ll be sensible enough to seize it if it comes your way again.”

She watched his broad and masculine frame fill the doorway, and then he left.

For the first time in a long time Annabelle wanted to cry.

Mariah was gone and she’d miss him, but she would never rush after him and beg him to stay. She just didn’t love him.

Ian, however, she would always love. But he didn’t want her, and he was the only man who hadn’t wanted her. She hated the rejection more because he’d chosen his wife over her.

But she hated Bethlyn Briston more than anyone, and if she never could have Ian as her own, then Bethlyn wouldn’t either.

~ ~ ~

General Clinton’s aide was most grateful for Annabelle’s information about the Dove. After her departure, he notified the general because of the gravity of the situation. Clinton mulled over all he’d been told, but shrugged and leaned back in his chair.

“Arrest the wench,” Clinton stated, and the aide instantly obeyed.

29

Bethlyn told her inquisitors nothing, and for that she earned a cell with a mildewed feather mattress and a cracked chamber pot for amenities. No one had harmed her. In fact, General Clinton had been most accommodating by pouring her a cup of tea which she hadn’t been able to swallow, and inquiring after her husband’s health. However, his smarmy smile had faded when his aide had no luck in gaining an admission from her that she was the Dove. So now she sat on the cold stone floor of her cell rather than sit on the foul smelling mattress which she felt certain must be crawling with bugs.

She wanted to cry but wouldn’t give her captors that satisfaction. However, she did pray for Ian to learn of her arrest and come to her. Her body literally ached to see him again, but since he’d left for Washington’s headquarters nearly a month ago, she’d received only the one message about Andre. And Andre had been hung on October second, more than two weeks ago.

Where was Ian? Why hadn’t he returned by now? She felt so alone and frightened without him. Yet even if he did receive word that she’d been arrested, could he help her? At the moment her only hope was that Hans and Molly would soon receive the message she’d sent by a servant to them when she was arrested at Wild Violets. But even that hope was dashed when Hans and Molly appeared by her cell some two hours later.

Molly dabbed at her eyes with a kerchief and held on to Bethlyn’s hands which reached through the bars to hers. “What a travesty this is,” Molly noted in high indignation. “You’re the wife of Ian Briston. a loyalist, and Clinton dares to treat you like a criminal. I shall have my say with the man, believe me!”

“Hush, Molly,” Hans warned, his concern for Bethlyn clearly expressed on his face. But it was the glimmer of knowledge shining in his eyes which conveyed to Bethlyn that he knew she was the Dove. His thick accent sounded harder to understand when he sadly shook his head and said, “I can’t help you. You’re not to be released under any circumstances until your trial proves your innocence. I’m sorry, Bethlyn. Forgive me for not being able to do anything.”

Bethlyn sighed, fearing as much. “Then I shall be in here a very long time.”