Rapture in His Arms (22 page)

John Lattimore flashed the duke a huge smile. “Good news, Your Grace. Your grandson has been found.”

Grayson’s heart flip-flopped in his chest. “Are you certain?” He didn’t dare to hope that Lattimore was right this time. He couldn’t bear to learn the boy hadn’t been really found. “Where is he?”

“My sources tell me he is on Bermuda, Your Grace, living on the plantation of Sir Horatio Mortimer.”

“A plantation with a man named Mortimer?” Grayson wracked his brain. “I don’t recall the name.”

“You wouldn’t, Your Grace. He is not the sort of person with whom you’d associate.”

“I see. Well, did Mortimer adopt the lad?”

Lattimore’s smile disappeared and he grew serious. “I think you had better be seated, Your Grace.”

Grayson didn’t care for the sound of that, but he impatiently sat behind his large rosewood desk while Lattimore took a seat on the other side. “Tell me,” Grayson urged. “I can take the news, the disappointment. I’ve suffered many times over the years. Is my grandson unwell?”

“No, sir, I hasten to assure you that Donovan Shay is alive and well. But the circumstances of his life are quite troubling. I don’t know how to go about telling you.”

“Just get on with it, Lattimore! I’m not a child.”

“Yes, Your Grace.” John Lattimore stroked a hand across his brow and then straightened his back. “My sources told me that Donovan was taken from Drogheda, shortly after the invasion and your daughter’s death.”

“I know all of that. I have my daughter’s letter to me, right here, in my pocket.” He touched the parchment, yellowed with age, its message written in Agatha’s elegant, flowing script. He cursed the fates that it had been delivered to him twenty-seven years too late to help his grandson. In it, she had pleaded with Grayson to forgive her for running away and marrying Liam Shay, an Irishman whom Grayson thought was beneath her. She had written because she wanted her father to know that he had a grandson, who at the time of writing had been almost six years old. But Grayson hadn’t received her letter. Cromwell’s butchery of the Irish had delayed it. Only a year past had Grayson finally received it when an old Irishman who had been a servant of his daughter’s had personally delivered it to Rockfield. The old man said he had come across it in a trunk that had belonged to Agatha. The trunk had been stored away in the attic of the house where Agatha had lived with Liam Shay and their child. Grayson had had no idea that Agatha had died—he’d just assumed that she didn’t wish to speak to him or contact him in any way after he had cruelly run her away from Rockfield.

Tears misted Grayson’s eyes but he blinked them away. He couldn’t bear thinking about how he’d treated his poor daughter, his only child. And to consider how she must have suffered death at the hands of Englishmen, her own countrymen, who invaded Drogheda, was too much for Grayson to dwell upon. He must think about the future and the grandson he hadn’t known he had. And he must find the lad—who by all reckonings must be a grown man now, about thirty-three years of age.

Maybe Donovan wouldn’t want anything to do with him. And if not, Grayson wouldn’t blame him.

“I learned that after the death of Donovan’s parents, the child was shipped to Bermuda as a slave, Your Grace.”

At first, Grayson didn’t hear Lattimore, wrapped up as he was in his own musings. But then his gaze settled upon the man in what could only be considered absolute shock and horror. “What did you say?” he asked through pale lips.

“This is very hard for me to repeat, Your Grace,” John Lattimore told him, fidgeting in his seat. “But the child was raised as a slave.”

“You mean a servant, don’t you, Lattimore?”

“No, your grace, a slave. Apparently, he works the fields for Mortimer and lives among the slaves. Donovan is known on Bermuda as Mortimer’s white slave. And from all accounts I’ve heard, Mortimer deals more harshly with him than his other slaves. For some reason, he hates your grandson and never intends to free him.”

Grayson sat, staring at Lattimore for a long time. Finally, his face turned a vivid shade of red and he slammed his fist down upon the desk and stood up. “Then we go to Bermuda and take my grandson from this monster!”

Lattimore rose to his feet and bowed low. “Yes, Your Grace. I’ll make the arrangements immediately.” Lattimore left the room and quietly closed the door after him.

Grayson Chandler paced his library, his feet sinking into the thick Persian rug. What had his grandson’s life been like these last twenty-seven years? What horrors had he endured? A pain knifed through his heart to imagine all Donovan had suffered—and all because his grandfather hadn’t acknowledged his mother’s marriage to an Irishman.

“Merciful God in heaven, forgive me,” he begged, on the verge of tears. If only he hadn’t sent Agatha away in a blinding rage with Liam Shay to Ireland. If only he had accepted the marriage, then Agatha would still be alive, and Donovan, his grandson, would be living at Rockfield and would be a well-educated young man, capable of assuming Grayson’s duties, his title, and fortune, upon his death. Grayson hadn’t known who would inherit his wealth and title after he died, and he hadn’t much cared until now. But now he knew he had a grandson, an heir for Rockfield.

He gazed up at the portrait of his daughter on the far wall of his library. How pretty Agatha had been with all those blond curls, so like her mother. “I’m going to bring back Donovan,” he whispered to the portrait. “I’m going to find your son, my Aggie, and bring him home to Rockfield. I swear on all that’s holy, I will.” Grayson Chandler turned away and strode purposely out of the library. He shouted for his valet to begin the packing for the voyage to Bermuda immediately.

Within days, the news of the marriage of Jillian Cameron to Donovan Shay spread through the area like hundreds of leaves before a gale force wind. Though some people might have disapproved of the hasty wedding, many understood the reasons for it. And before the week was over, well-wishers were stopping by to convey their congratulations. Among them were Elliot Layton and Sabrina who arrived and stayed for a light lunch. Jillian couldn’t help noticing the disappointment on Sabrina’s pretty face each time she looked at Donovan. Though Jillian felt sorry for her, she was also relieved that Donovan expressed only a friendly interest in her.

After they had left, Donovan went out to the fields. From the upstairs window, Jillian could see him atop Goldenrod in the distance. Her heart thumped wildly in her breast each time she saw him. They had been married for almost a week, spending each night in rapturous lovemaking, and still she never tired of looking at him. Donovan was perfectly formed, his physique powerful and strong. Many men would have been dwarfed by the large stallion, but Donovan’s broad frame suited the animal’s size. Man and beast complimented each other.

Jillian colored to remember the night just past, when she and Donovan had made love until nearly dawn. She giggled and began to hum, causing Lizzie, who was dusting the mantelpiece, to stare at her in a knowing fashion. But Jillian didn’t care what Lizzie thought, or anyone else for that matter. She’d learned quite a bit over the last few days, things she wouldn’t have imagined that went on between a husband and a wife. Donovan was a lusty but caring husband, and Jillian surprised herself by looking forward to the nights. She knew that she pleased him with her willing response to his lovemaking for he told her often how beautiful she was, how wonderful she made him feel.

And lovemaking was wonderful. Now, she understood what she had missed during her marriage to Edwin. Yet she didn’t resent Edwin or her father for insisting upon the marriage. For if she hadn’t married Edwin, then she would never have come to live at Cameron’s Hundred and wouldn’t be Donovan’s wife now. And though she didn’t believe herself in love with Donovan, she craved his hands upon her, and more than ached for his heated kisses. She couldn’t imagine being any other man’s wife now but Donovan’s.

Just standing by the window and watching him caused a warmth to flow through her body. She glanced at the clock on the mantel and saw that it was fifteen minutes past three. Anticipation curled through her. Only a few more hours until bedtime.

An impatient knock sounded on the front door. Lizzie hurried to answer it, and came back minutes later with a half scowl on her face. “’Tis Mr. Tyler Addison to see you, ma’am. He’s waitin’ in the parlor, and he ain’t lookin’ too happy.”

“Finish your dusting,” Jillian told her with a smile, “and when you’re done, you can sit on the porch and fan yourself. ’Tis very warm today, don’t you think?”

“No more so than usual, but I thank ye.”

Jillian took one last look at her husband in the fields, and she went downstairs to meet Tyler. As she was straightening the hem on her yellow-and-white day gown to make herself presentable, she suspected that he had heard about her marriage and had come to upbraid her for it. She was right.

“I can’t believe you married a common slave, Jillian,” he berated her after she had said hello and before she even offered him a chair. “Donovan Shay is a ruffian, an uneducated man. I believe you have lost your good senses. What is it you see in him? You can’t possibly love this oaf. He isn’t a gentleman, for God’s sake!”

“I suggest you leave before I have you bodily thrown out of my home, Tyler. Your words and behavior are ungentlemanly.” She pursed her mouth and primly folded her hands together, but her hazel-colored eyes contained fire. Tyler, seeing the sudden transformation from the usually docile Jillian to one he didn’t recognize, realized that the woman was besotted with the humble wretch she had married. Just to imagine Jillian wrapped in Donovan Shay’s embrace was enough to make him ill. How had this happened? he wondered. Why had she chosen Donovan Shay over him? All of Jamestown was talking about the marriage, and about the wager he’d lost when he had bragged to his drinking cronies that Jillian would marry him, Tyler Addison. And he had believed she would because of Benjamin. But somehow he had miscalculated, underestimated Jillian and her dimwitted but brawny slave. He hated the snickers behind his back, at the Goose and Gander. Somehow he would gain his revenge upon Donovan Shay for winning Jillian as his wife.

But he knew he had somehow stepped over the line by barging in here and hurling nasty remarks. Jillian was too protective of her husband—not a good sign. He must tread easily with her, or he feared she would be lost to him forever.

Tyler took a deep breath and bowed low. “Forgive me, Jillian, I am sorry for speaking out of turn. I had no right to say what I did. I have been upset since I heard about your marriage, and no matter which man you chose as your husband, I would have resented him. I had hoped you would choose me.” He shot her a wan smile. “’Tis my misfortune not to have pleased you. Can you forgive me? Will you accept my good wishes for a happy life with your husband?”

Tyler’s sudden turnabout bothered Jillian, but she was feeling so happy and contented lately that her anger drained away. “I do forgive you, and I am grateful for your good wishes. Now please sit down and we shall take refreshment. I wish to hear about Benjamin.”

A huge smile split Tyler’s lips to be once again in her good graces. “You are a charming hostess, Jillian,” he said in praise while she poured a cup of cider for him. “Benjamin grows taller and stronger each day. You really should visit him. Now that Dorcas is gone, he misses you and cries for you.”

Sadness crept across Jillian’s face like a dark shadow. She loved Benjamin, but she had been so involved in being Donovan’s wife the last week that she had forgotten almost everything and everybody but her husband. She must see Benjamin soon. “I shall stop by within the next two weeks and pay a call. Perhaps you might allow Benjamin to return home with me for a few days. A change of scene might perk him up.”

“That is most kind of you,” Tyler noted and hid a smirk. Perhaps the boy would be most useful to him yet. For the next fifteen minutes, Tyler regaled Jillian with amusing anecdotes about Benjamin, repeating the boy’s childish remarks, even embellishing the incidents in the hope that he would touch Jillian’s soft heart and she would visit sooner. It was this charming scene of Jillian and Tyler, in animated conversation and laughter, that met Donovan’s gaze when he walked unannounced into the parlor.

Jillian and Tyler glanced up and saw him at the same time as he stopped short in the doorway. His simple clothes were stained with sweat, his golden-red hair was ruffled from the brisk ride to the house from the fields. In comparison to Tyler, who was immaculately groomed and whose watery blue satin jacket looked cool and crisp despite the day’s heat, Donovan resembled a peasant. But Tyler’s good looks weren’t responsible for the rapid beating of Jillian’s pulse. It was Donovan, only he didn’t know it.

“I didn’t mean to be interruptin’,” Donovan apologized. To Tyler’s dismay he walked into the room anyway.

A delighted smile wreathed Jillian’s face, and her eyes held a softness for her husband. She stood up and went to stand beside Donovan. “I’m not certain if you met Tyler Addison on my visit after my friend Dorcas died.”