A Brother's Honor (23 page)

“You are here at last,” he said, his voice sounding as if it echoed in the vast caverns of his body. Her head ached at the rumble. “Arthur, my friend, I am so delighted to see you unharmed after your trials on this voyage.”

“It was a challenge, but one I bested.” Captain Fitzgerald flashed a smile at Abigail, but she ignored him.

“I have heard you lost your ship and cargo to a French pirate. A true shame, for we anticipated the delivery of your cargo with eagerness.”

“But I was able to retrieve my lost
Republic
's most precious cargo. My daughter Abigail.” He smiled when she looked at him as if he had lost all sense. He pulled her forward. “Abigail, this is Sir Harlan Morris. My good friend.”

Sir Harlan Morris?

She dipped her head to him, but did not curtsy. If he was a friend of Captain Fitzgerald's, he was someone she must be wary of. Dominic had been right about Fitzgerald's treachery, as he had been right about so many other things. Panic clutched her. She was becoming further enmeshed in Captain Fitzgerald's web. She must discover a way to escape.

Sir Harlan chuckled. “So she
is
your daughter. I thought that might be so when we met last night at the Sudleys' assembly. Your description of her was excellent, my friend, so I felt quite confident about sending for your men to retrieve her.”

“You?” Abigail gasped. “You sent for Munroe and Edwards?”

Instead of answering her, he put his hand beneath her chin and tipped her face up. She tried to pull away, but his fingers tightened on her cheeks. “Lovelier even than you described her, and a redhead as well. Delightful, Arthur.”

A renewed surge of fear gripped Abigail when she heard Captain Fitzgerald chuckle with satisfaction. Before, that sound had forecast disaster for her.

Sir Harlan said, “Come to my study. We can speak in private there. I prefer this first meeting to be without too many curious eyes.”

First meeting?
Abigail frowned. What was the baronet talking about? Captain Fitzgerald's words had suggested the two men had spoken often, and she had been introduced to Sir Harlan last night.

When she stepped into the study, she saw that it opened into a lovely garden, but those doors were closed. Rich wood covered the walls, but was lost behind the multitude of paintings. Several were portraits. She identified one as a young Sir Harlan and guessed the woman next to him was his wife. A young boy stood beside the woman, who held a baby on her lap. Abigail recalled Clarissa's distasteful comments about the son Sir Harlan wished to find a wife for. She wondered which of the young men that was.

The exquisitely appointed furniture must have been carved by a master craftsman. This room was furnished with luxury, but she sensed a coldness that would never have been found even in Aunt Velma's front parlor, which was used only for weddings and funerals.

When Sir Harlan pointed to a chair, she sat, grateful. The lack of sleep last night was gnawing on her, threatening to steal her composure and leave her weeping. She held the chair's arms tightly while she listened to the two men talk with the ease of longtime friends. They sat opposite her in two heavy oak chairs. As she scanned the room, she tried to determine what horror Captain Fitzgerald intended to inflict on her.

Silent servants came into the room with trays. Abigail remained silent as they placed a bottle of brandy and a full tea on the table beside Sir Harlan. Brandy? Lady Sudley had never served anything but tea and cakes. When Sir Harlan glanced at her expectantly, she clasped her hands in her lap. She was not going to pretend she was glad to be here and offer to serve. She had no reason to distrust Sir Harlan other than his genial welcome to Captain Fitzgerald. That was enough.

The obese man looked at Fitzgerald, but the captain just shrugged. While pouring, Sir Harlan chattered on and on about events and people Abigail had never heard of. She watched Captain Fitzgerald nod and knew this was not his first trip to England. Nor was it his first meeting with Sir Harlan, so what had the baronet meant?

Staring into her cup, she wished she had had a chance to apologize to Dominic. He had been correct to warn her about Captain Fitzgerald, but she had not listened. She wanted to apologize for her foolish naïveté.

“How long are you staying?” asked Sir Harlan as he reached for a thickly iced cake.

“The rest of my cargo—”

Abigail's head snapped up. “Cargo? You brought more cargo to England?”

Captain Fitzgerald laughed. “Do you think that I have been doing nothing since the
Republic
was stolen? The French could not hold me when they had no proof of anything, so I came to England and arranged to purchase another ship. I have the
Torch
being unloaded in the Pool. It should be unloaded by the week's end. As soon as it is reloaded, I will be sailing for America. McCormick urged me to hurry. I need to have his cargo back to him before the end of October.”

Leaving for America? Such a short time ago, that had been her most precious wish, but she could not go when Dominic was imprisoned and faced death. She must persuade Captain Fitzgerald to change his mind. With a smile, she said, “You will if you can elude the French blockade better than you did last time.”

Captain Fitzgerald bristled and snarled a curse.

Sir Harlan stirred brandy into his tea. “Of course, your daughter will stay here, Arthur, while you tend to your business in London.”

Abigail sat straighter. If she remained here, she might be able to find help to free Dominic.

Captain Fitzgerald replied, with a sly glance at her, “You are too kind. I had not envisioned that you would open your house to her now. I had anticipated I would have to take my daughter with me and bring her back on my next voyage.”

“Nonsense. Why endanger her?” He laughed, his belly rocking. “And how else will she be available for fittings? I shall arrange for a modiste to come here. The sooner the preparations are made, the sooner the wedding can be held.”

“Wedding?” gasped Abigail. Clarissa's comment about Sir Harlan came back to her. “
He comes to London seeking a possible wife for his horrid son.
”

Sir Harlan's cold blue eyes settled on her, but he spoke to Captain Fitzgerald. “I assume by her question that you have not mentioned any of the details to her.”

Her fingers tightened on her cup as Fitzgerald said, “She would have had difficulty keeping such news a secret, so I thought I would wait until we reached Morris Park.”

“So she knows nothing?”

“Nothing!”

Abigail refused to be left out any longer. “What are you talking about? Whose wedding?”

“Why, yours, my darling daughter.”

She leaped to her feet. When she started to storm past him, Captain Fitzgerald caught her wrist so tightly she winced.

Standing, he ordered, “Calm yourself, Abigail. After all, you do not want to look like a hoyden when you meet your future husband.”

“You are insane!” she cried. “If you think I would marry anyone
you
selected, especially his horrid son—”

“Horrid?” Sir Harlan pulled his bulk to his feet.

“That is what I heard in London. I shall not marry him.”

“Silence!” Captain Fitzgerald pushed her back into her chair. Glaring at her, he added, “You will find, Sir Harlan, that she needs to be handled firmly. But you must be accustomed to that.”

A strange sadness crossed the round man's face, but it hardened. “Yes, I am accustomed to that. Mayhap her strong will shall prove more effective with Clive than the last chit who … Never mind.”

“Clive?” she whispered, afraid to hear the answer to her question. “Is Clive your son?”

“Yes.” Sir Harlan had resumed drinking his tea as if nothing were amiss.

“If you think I am going to marry an Englishman—”

Captain Fitzgerald snapped, “You know nothing, girl. Be silent. We have no interest in hearing from you.”

She rose, her chin jutting with defiance. “You shall hear from me. Even if you were my father, Captain Fitzgerald, I would not marry whomever you have chosen.”

Sir Harlan pushed himself to his feet. His round face rutted with bafflement. “She is not your daughter? Then who is she?” He scowled. “Are you trying to foist a diseased doxy on me to cheat me?”

“She
is
my daughter.” Captain Fitzgerald gripped her arm and shook her as a smile strained his tight lips. “The child of my adulterous wife, but legally mine. She has been raised by my brother and his puritanical wife, so she has not shared the carnal ways of her mother.”

“And her mother?”

“Dead.”

Sir Harlan smiled. “Very good.”

Furiously, Abigail snarled the French curse that Dominic had used so often. She was not sure what it meant, but she suspected Sir Harlan did when his face reddened. How dare he be pleased that her mother had died because she could not love the man who coveted her! She fought to escape Fitzgerald's hold.

He laughed at her fury. She was shoved into the chair again. Rubbing her aching arm, she started to stand. When Fitzgerald's hand rose, Sir Harlan grasped it.

“Do not strike her, Arthur,” he ordered.

“What will a few bruises matter if they teach her to obey?” asked Captain Fitzgerald.

“I do not want to give him any ideas.”

“Him?” she whispered.

Neither man answered her as they continued to argue.

“Sir Harlan,” she asked when she could not tolerate their bickering any longer, “what is wrong with your son that he cannot find his own bride?”

Rage turned the baronet's face nearly purple. When he turned toward her, she pressed back against the chair. His hand rose and became a fist. She cringed, knowing that no one would halt him.

At a knock, Sir Harlan froze. He grabbed the bottle of brandy and filled an empty cup. He downed it quickly. His smile returned to his lips as, waving his hand, he said, “Open the door, Abigail.”

Wanting to tell him she did not run errands for British baronets, she stood. To balk now would mean being beaten. She could see that in his eyes. She had to cooperate until she could find a way out of this house. Then she would seek out allies for Dominic. Had he had a chance to alert them before he was called back by the missive from Captain Fitzgerald?

As she went to the door, the heavy knocking became more insistent. She opened the door and stepped back with a frightened cry. Her eyes widened as she stared at a creature out of her worst nightmares.

The man lurking in the hallway was as tall as Dominic, but was twice his breadth. Blond hair, unwashed and greasy, hung along his face, which was obscured by several days' growth of beard. He hunched as he lurched toward her with a shuffling walk, as if his feet were too heavy to lift. His hands drooped at his side. From him came a shrill sound which hurt her ears. As her horror grew, she realized he was humming.

“Sir Harlan?” she called without turning. She did not dare to, because she was not sure what this hideous creature would do. Noticing two bulky men behind him, she wondered why they were there.

“Pretty.” The blond man stopped humming as he reached out to touch her hair. “Pretty.”

“Go away,” she whispered. She tried to flee, but a chair blocked her escape. Was this how Captain Fitzgerald intended to break her to his will? She would lower herself to beg to escape this beast “Help me. Don't let him near me! Please.”

Captain Fitzgerald put his hand on her shoulder, but kept her between him and the huge man. “Watch your tongue, daughter. You are insulting Clive Morris, your betrothed.”

“Betrothed? You want me to marry
him?
” With revulsion, she stared at the man's slack jaw and his vacuous eyes.

When she took a step sideways, his huge paws caught her. His heavy hand patted her hair as if she were a favorite pet kitten. Over and over he repeated the same word. “Pretty. Pretty.”

Appalled, she looked to one of the other men for help. None of them moved as they watched with what she did not want to believe was pleasure. She would have to escape alone. When she tried to pull away, Clive's arms tightened around her. His fingers moved from her hair to touch the ribbons on her bodice. She cried out in disgust.

His face altered with a fury that was stronger than any she had ever seen. She heard shouts of warning, but Clive's fist caught her on the cheek. She fell to the floor.

Sobbing, she paid no attention to the scuffle behind her. She hid her face against her arms and wept out all her pain. She cried for herself and for Dominic and for the love denied them by these men who had no idea of what love was.

The door closed. A sharp order from Sir Harlan made her look up at his rock-hard scowl. He held out his hand. “Get up, Abigail,” he repeated.

Knowing she had no other choice, she put her fingers on his hand and let him assist her to her feet. Fearfully she looked about, but the monster was gone.

When Sir Harlan gripped her face, she groaned. His lips tightened with anger, but she could not be sure if he was furious at his son or at her. Glancing past her, he asked Captain Fitzgerald, “Does she always bruise this easily?”

“I don't know.” He poured himself some brandy, but offered none to Abigail, who could have used its golden warmth to soothe her. “I have not been around her enough to know.”

“Do you, Abigail?”

She drew herself out of Sir Harlan's pudgy arms. Going to the tea tray, she dipped a napkin into the hot water. She pressed it to the tender spot on her left cheekbone. “I am afraid I bruise very, very easily, Sir Harlan. The legacy of being a redhead.”

He cursed vividly. “How can I have my son marry a woman who has a blackened eye? What would the
ton
say?”

“A bit of rice powder will cover it, and she will be wearing a veil,” Captain Fitzgerald said, refilling his cup. “Do not worry about it, Harlan.”