Defiant Angel (16 page)

Both men, unlike Tiffany, were appropriately dressed for the weather. Clinton figured they were about three-quarters of an hour behind her. Riding at breakneck speed and taking a shorter route should find them at the docks shortly.

Clinton rode ahead, for the road was not wide enough to accommodate two horses abreast. His gray eyes scanned the road for any potholes or rocks to avoid. With each closing mile, his concern for her grew. He pushed aside the fear and occupied his mind with the progress made up to date.

He had received the "insurance" duly signed and sealed from Earl Thurston, and once securing that, he had sent instruction to Brent to commence the transaction and notify the creditors.

His mother, Evette, should be boarding his brother Tristan's ship and starting the long journey from Genoa to England to help with the arrangements.

His brother Austin, who was also involved in the shipping business, would soon receive his missive with instructions to return to Chablisienne and pick up some priceless cargo to be brought to England. And last, word was out to all captains of ships sailing for America to locate Rory, the youngest Barencourte brother.

As they entered the outskirts of London, Clinton drew his horse to a halt. Turning to Keegan, he instructed, "Go to the town house, rouse Billy up to make ready the carriage." Looking up at the sky, noting the darkening clouds, he added, "Make sure he packs plenty of blankets and some brandy. When I find her, she will be wet and cold. Meet me at the pier near the shipyard with the carriage. I'm betting that's where the
Falcon
is berthed."

"Aye, think ye be right, guv'nor." Keegan paused, then continued, "Guv'nor, did ye think she found 'im?"

"Don't know the answer to that, my friend."

"What's ye to do iffen she's 'ith 'im?"

Without a pause, Clinton answered, "Take her. She belongs to me; she's mine!" He wheeled his mount around and lunged into a full gallop, the horse's hooves echoing as they hit the cobblestone street.

The incessant crash of waves against the dock resounded in Tiffany's already pounding head.

Mists of sea water and rain blew against her, the wind howled in her ears. She shivered with cold, her head throbbed painfully, and her cheeks burned.

"It must be close to dawn," she said aloud, her own voice hurting her head.

The dock area showed the beginnings of life despite the inclement weather. She passed the shipyard, seeing the skeleton of a ship resting on blocks. The sound of Touche's hooves clattering against the planks of the dock rang painfully in her head. She was grateful the rain had let up, for she was drenched. The wind, however, was fierce near the water and numbed her to the bone.

She pressed on, seeing two piers jut out into the harbor, where many ships were anchored. A sleek fourteen-gun frigate bobbed proudly, anchored in the waters. Gazing up at the mast, she felt an overwhelming sensation of vertigo. All around her were schooners, pinnaces, and brigs. "There must be hundreds of ships here, and the dock appears endless," she cried brokenly, feeling the awesome task at hand.

Her presence on the dock was causing quite a stir. Riffraff and tars common to the area watched as she rode by, noting her disheveled appearance. Had she not been so exhausted, the pain in her head all-consuming, she would have realized the potential danger she was in. A voice broke through the haze of pain.

" 'Ere, 'ady, where ye be goin'?"

Straining fever-bright eyes, she focused on the man to whom the voice belonged and asked, "Sir, the way to the
Falcon,
do you know?"

The wizened tar knew quality when he saw it, and this here lady was quality folk.

"The
Falcon,
she was docked over 'ere." He pointed a withered finger, which Tiffany followed.

She saw no ship at the dock. "Where?"

"In the 'arbor, 'ady, went out on the tide."

Tiffany looked out, a sob escaping her lips. She slipped from Touche's back and on shaky legs she walked to the pier, watching the sleek frigate majestically ride the white-capped waves, its sails unfurled, filled with the wind.

Stumbling down the pier, she tried to reach the end--to close the distance between herself and the
Falcon.
Tears streaming down her cheeks blinded her eyes as she watched the
Falcon,
its three tall masts rising skyward, disappear from the harbor.

She stared at it unseeing for a long moment, then her mind screamed, It's leaving! In its leaving it took her love, her dreams, her glowing youthful happiness. Crumbling to her knees, covering her face with trembling hands, she gave vent to the agony of her loss. With a rumble of thunder and a flash of lightning, the heavens opened, spilling its tears.

The wind whipped furiously around, the rain fell in a torrential downpour, streaks of lightning cracked against the sky. The rumble of thunder muffled the sounds of Clinton's boots on the planks of the pier.

He reached down, closing his hand over her shoulder, lifting her up, swinging her into the protective circle of his strong arms, pulling her against the warm corded muscles of his chest. He shielded her from the harsh elements, and Tiffany instinctively buried her face against his throat. The warmth of his arms and chest was comforting, and she briefly believed she was in Alan's arms and all that had passed was only a nightmare.

Tears streaming down her face, she lifted her head. When her eyes gazed upon his face, a shock coursed through her, her mind refusing to accept what her eyes beheld.

Clinton looked down into her fever-bright eyes with gentle understanding. He took her face, holding it gently.

Tiffany shook her head in confusion, causing the pain to nearly blind her. She cried out, "Why are you here?"

"I have come to claim what is mine, Princess."

Closing her eyes, opening them again, she looked at him and whispered, "No ... I don't understand." Her head began to spin, her vision became blurry.

He spoke, his voice uncompromising, yet oddly gentle, and the last words to pierce her consciousness were "You are mine, Princess. I am the duke of Wentworth, your betrothed.''

W
hen Tiffany first opened her eyes, her lids felt as if lead weights held them. Her eyes glanced about the room, seeing nothing familiar, yet surmising the room to belong to a man.

She became aware of the luxurious black velvet that draped the canopied bed and its matching bed curtains drawn and tied at the four bed posts, allowing the sun to stream across it. Her eyes rested on the black and gold marble fireplace at the foot of the bed, where a small fire glowed in its hearth. Over the mantel hung a priceless Italian painting.

The room was spacious and elegantly decorated in a combination of blues, black, and gold. A wall of French doors lined one side of the room, where a balcony ran the full length. Soft drapes of gold velvet which lined the French doors were drawn, allowing the sun to enter.

Chairs upholstered in striped patterns of gold and black were placed around the table, which held a brandy decanter, glasses, cigar box, and flint, confirming her initial impression that the room belonged to a man.

Tiffany started to sit up but stopped; her head began to spin, and every muscle seemed to protest against her intent. She slid slowly back into the downy softness of the bed. Raising a hand to still her spinning head, she accidentally brushed her cheek, causing her to grimace in pain.

My cheek, she thought through the haze of her befuddled mind. The pain momentarily cleared her head, and memories that rushed forward crowded her mind with images of Alan, her escape, her capture. She shook her head trying to sort the jumble of thoughts that pressed on, only serving to cause the dull ache to begin anew.

She glanced at her bedclothing and realized she was clad in a man's shirt; quite a large man, for the sleeves were rolled thrice to accommodate her wrist. Her eyes widened with realization, Clinton Barencourte; duke of Chablisienne, duke of Wentworth, her betrothed!

The pain in her head began to increase. She closed her eyes trying to block out the pain and reality, yielding to the void sleep offered.

Clinton rose from his desk, handing the sealed envelope to an awaiting Keegan. "Be sure you deliver this into the earl's hands only."

Keegan nodded at the instructions, stuffing the envelope into his jacket pocket. "Shall I return for ye, gov'nor?"

Clinton rose, walking to the table, lifting up his cup of strongly brewed tea, sipping it. "No, Keegan, I'll have Billy drive us back in two days. I need you to be at Wentworth. There is much to be done."

"Aye, guv'nor." Keegan doned his cap, walking out, closing the study door behind him.

Clinton stretched out on the leather coach, resting his head against his arm, rubbing his eyes with his thumb and forefinger, for he was tired and weary, not having slept in the last two nights. He had stayed with Tiffany until her fever broke early this morning and left, once assured she was no longer in danger, to write a note informing the earl of her safety. Now she was in the capable hands of Dolly, and he could seek his rest, knowing she was on the road to recovery.

As he closed his eyes before drifting off to a much-needed rest, his thoughts revolved around the woman who would soon become his wife.

The sound of a door opening disturbed Tiffany's troubled sleep. Her eyes fluttered opened to rest on a pleasingly plump older woman who regarded her with warm brown eyes. She tugged at her lacy cap as she came toward Tiffany, who could hear the swishing of her black skirts with each step.

Tiffany lay listlessly in bed watching the woman stoop to pick up clothing at the foot of the bed. After rising and tugging again on her lacy cap, the woman spoke. "Morn', yer ladyship. Feel'n better today?"

Tiffany remained silent. It mattered not to the woman, for she chattered on as she went about stoking the fire, opening the French doors to allow some fresh air to enter.

It was not until the woman, out of the corner of her eye, caught Tiffany struggling to sit up that she turned and scolded, "Now, now, yer ladyship, you don't want to be ge'in sick again! I tell ya, his lordship'l have ole Dolly's 'ide, he will, if I don't take good care of ye." Dolly tucked the covers around Tiffany, who did not utter a protest.

The fact of the matter was that she felt as weak as a kitten, both physically and mentally. Tiffany lay back against the pillows, watching Dolly go about her business, chatting all the while.

Dolly gazed upon her charge, thinking, His lordship's lady is pretty indeed, exceptin', of 'ourse, that bruise on 'er cheek. Dolly did not know the whole of it except that this woman was her charge and the duke's betrothed, and it was her duty to see her well. Dolly, a devoted employee of the duke's, intended to do just that! Now the ladyship was especially quiet, withdrawn, to Dolly's way of thinking, and not what she'd expect the fiancee of a much-sought-after bachelor to be like. Must be the fever 'at's done it, she thought.

Dolly broke the quietness. "I be think'n some of Mame's broth be doin' her ladyship some good. Mame makes the best broth, she does, says it's her secret ingre-dients 'at does it." Nodding her capped head, she pushed the window fully open. "Ah, just smell 'at fresh, sweet air; 'bout time the weather changed, 'tis." Hirning about and walking across the room, intending to leave, Dolly paused, looking at Tiffany, "When I get back, I'll 'ave a warm bath drawn for ye. My mother always says a warm bath does one's spirit good." Receiving no response, Dolly left the room thinking it would take more than a warm soaking to lift the ladyship's spirit.

Her freshly washed hair hung over the rim of the tub; steam rose, carrying the fragrance of violets with it, filling the warm privacy chamber.

Tiffany lay submerged to her neck within the tub filled with bubbles. Her spirit battered, her body aching, and her heart broken, she withdrew deeper within herself to a place no one could touch. The bath soothed her body and enveloped her in a warm, safe cocoon that none could breach. Clearing her mind and thinking of naught save the physical sensations the bath offered, she closed her eyes, drifting off to a place where she felt nothing.

Dolly entered the chambers after an hour and helped Tiffany from the tub, drying her body with a warm, fluffy towel. Tiffany felt the ministrations of the maid and allowed herself to be turned and powdered and clothed in a fresh muslin shirt.

She was led to the fire, where she sat upon a stool, staring into the bright flames. Dolly droned on and on as she brushed the tangles from her hair. Tiffany drifted further and further into her shell. She was placidly led to bed, where Dolly tucked her in, pulling the covers about her. Tiffany gave in to the blessed escape sleep offered, where she could hide from the pain. She began to drift as if on clouds, feeling the pain separate itself from her. Lost to oblivion, she never heard the click of the door opening or the sound of footsteps across the carpet.

With eyes half-closed, she gazed up just before sleep overtook her and saw him just as his finger touched her bruised cheek. She sighed. Her last thought as her eyes fluttered and closed, slipping into the healing potion of sleep, was that the look of concern on his face belied the anger she saw ablaze in his gray eyes.

Clinton gazed down at her sleeping form, thankful sleep offered her the escape and mending her spirit needed. He had become concerned when Dolly told him she had not uttered a word or protest since she had awakened.

His knuckle caressed her injured cheek, now a purplish color. Dark brows scowled. He could imagine, even sympathize with William, for he knew how her temper raged, but he held only disgust for any man who raised a hand against a woman. He could not prevent the curse that broke his lips at the thought of her being cruelly struck down. "William has a lot to answer for!"

He tenderly brushed away a curling tendril from her cheek, feeling its silky texture. He gently traced the delicately carved line of her jaw, marveling at the petal softness of her creamy skin. He watched the soft rise and fall of her breast against the muslin cloth of his shirt. How he envied that simple garment which enveloped her in a way he longed to do. He raised his eyes to her lips, parted in repose, and suppressed the urge, so strong, to cover them with his. He shook himself from where his mind led him. She was so small and vulnerable lying in his massive bed, and although the urge to sweep her into his arms and kiss her rode high, he did not, for he was not a man to prey on a woman wounded. Reluctantly he turned from the bed and walked over to the table, pouring a glass of brandy. Opening the French door, he walked into the night, sitting down in a wrought-iron chair on the balcony.

Night had fallen, with the promise of warmer nights to come filling the air. He withdrew and lit a cheroot, inhaling deeply. Letting out a stream of smoke, he resettled himself, stretching his long legs before him. Lifting his glass, he drank deeply of the brandy. His thoughts traveled. He wanted this woman even more now than he had in the beginning. He admitted that he was motivated by his lust. He would not deny he possessed a strong urge to bed her. God, she stirred his blood! Boiled it, to be exact. He could hardly wait to physically claim her, to satisfy his strong sexual need to have her.

He pulled on his cigar, blowing out a curl of smoke while vivid images of their coupling flashing in his mind. He knew as only an experienced man would know that she teemed with passion. He promised to stir and unsettle her until her desire for him overwhelmed her.

He stood leaning against the railing, smiling to himself, thinking, while all this is true, something else has happened. Feelings, alien to him, that he never felt before, nor possessed for any other woman, had begun. It happened at Chablisienne, in the meadow.

He lifted his glass, sipping his brandy, thinking of that afternoon. Yes, it was then when he saw a part of her, a side of her that touched his heart. That evening, at dinner, while he sat across from her watching her charm and flirt with his peers, he felt another alien feeling--jealousy!

He shook his head, and a smile crossed his face. A man of thirty-two who could turn the odds to his advantage, change the hands of fate, and make long shots pay off was passionately in love!

He laughed aloud thinking life had certainly been simpler when he wanted her. Instead, he found himself snared in her web, caught under her spell! And what had begun at Chablisienne, tonight he surrendered to.

He stood, tossing his cigar over the railing, watching its red tip disappear into the night, and shook his dark head, smiling. Only a fool would deny these feelings, but he was not a fool. He was in love with her and felt no less for it.

Inhaling the night air deeply, he began thinking her escape and unchaperoned presence with him would necessitate a speedy marriage. The time he wanted to court her properly, to win her heart and love, was no more. He had not wanted events to turn out as they had. He had hoped to win her, then offer for her and marry. Now he would have to marry first and then court and woo her to win her love.

While this did not meet with his plans, it did not prevent him from seeking this end, it merely changed his strategy. While he did not possess her heart, for she believed her girlish infatuation for Thurston was love, he blessfully had her body.

A grin split his face as he recalled her delectable body and sweet, tempting derriere. A blessing indeed! And while he was counting his blessings, he counted on his experience in knowing a passionate nature when he saw one. Tiffany possessed an earthy passion, much as he did, and he doubted not that once he released her libido, all reason would fly, and she would succumb to her natural urges.

Once she experienced the unbearable pleasure he could give her, she would become a slave to it. A very wicked smile crossed his visage as he lost himself to the carnal images his mind conjured.

Nodding his head in agreement with his thoughts, he began to carefully formulate his strategy. During their brief courtship, before they married, he would begin to tease, tantalizing her budding passion. He would create an ache within her and spark her tinder. After they married, he would fulfill the promise, release the ache, and light her a fire that would engulf her, a fire only he could ignite. And when her passion came full force, then he would have the key to her.

He wanted her body, her soul, and her love; not the girlish infatuation she felt for Thurston but the love that would blossom and open, enriching their life together as man and woman, a love that would take deep root and grow so they could feed from it in their golden years.

Aye he thought, I will love, cherish, and court her all the days of her life, and I will settle for no less than all of her, for I would give no less than all of me.