JoAnn Wendt (31 page)

“Whip me, then! See if you kin make me cry one peep! A whipping don’t matter. I’ll run again, I will. First chance I gets.”

“Now then, lass,” Harrington put in.

McNeil scowled Harrington into silence. He smiled coldly. Jerking in fright, Mab Collins cast her eyes to the floor. McNeil considered the matter. She must be punished, she must be brought into a cooperative spirit. But he doubted beating would work. She was a London drab. No doubt, cuffings had been daily fare as she grew up. One more beating would only be water off a duck’s back. No, he had to go deeper. He sat mulling it over.

“Are you afraid of the
dark,
Mab Collins?” he asked coldly.

Her head jerked up. Some unnameable emotion skittered through her eyes. “I ain’t afraid of nothing.” But the tremor in her voice contradicted her.

“Do you like to
eat?”
he continued malevolently.

Her wary eyes widened. She covered her fear with brassiness.

“Don’t everybody?”

“Good,” he said pleasantly. He turned to Harrington. “Lock her in the attic. It’s dark as sin there. She is to have water but no
food.
Leave her there until she decides to behave like a proper bondslave.”

She gasped. Harrington puffed and reddened.

“Y’can’t do that,” she cried out. “ 'Tis against English law! I know my rights, I do!”

McNeil yawned. Dismissing the matter with a bored wave of his hand, he turned to Harrington. “Tell cook I want lunch. Those delicious Cornish pasties will do. A cold glass of buttermilk, a wedge of cheese and,” he added malevolently, “a thick slice of plum cake with lemon sauce.”

Mab Collins stared at him in shock. As he’d rattled off his menu, her tongue had darted to the corners of her mouth. No doubt she was famished, having run off before breakfast.

Tugging at her sleeve apologetically, Harrington led the shocked girl off. McNeil was pleased that it took her to halfway up the stairs to retrieve a portion of that pridey spirit.

“Git your filthy hands off’n me,” he heard her say shakily. “I kin walk by meself, I can.”

Harrington’s low apology drifted into the study. “Come now, lass. No one means you ill—”

“Stuff it in yer hat.”

* * * *

To McNeil’s surprise and grudging admiration, Mab Collins stuck it out for three whole days before capitulating. He wasn’t fooled by the contrite manner in which she resumed her duties. The chit still had a peck of pride in her. But he was satisfied to see she was scared silly of him. He was also satisfied to note that she and Trent took to each other. Happy laughter pealed in the nursery, and yet, Trent was somehow being made to toe the line. He no longer wailed his demands, and he’d come to some new understanding about sweetmeats and the long-suffering kitchen cat: they were
not
his to snatch at will.

* * * *

Garth closed negotiations on a new ship in December and shook her down on a trial cruise in the Chesapeake, testing her responses to various winds and weather. He would assign a shipmaster in January. But he was finicky about his ships. He liked to match ship to master as carefully as any good marriage broker matched bride to groom. A well-matched pair meant smooth sailing; an ill-matched pair . . .  sourly, he thought of Eunice.

Taking tea in Annette’s drawing room on a rainy afternoon, he’d offered to transport the ever-present Lord Dunwood back to Baltimore on one of his shakedown sailings. Annette had shot him a black look; but the young man accepted with alacrity, and McNeil choked back a chuckle. Already he’d overstayed, Dunwood admitted sheepishly. His elderly mother was expecting him back. He must oversee preparations for a Christmas ball.

When Dunwood scurried out to alert his valet at The King’s Arms, Annette whirled round in the splendor of her damask and rosewood drawing room. She planted her fists on her hips, and McNeil found himself the recipient of a look that was pure fury.

“No doubt you think you are being clever, McNeil?”

His grin built slowly.

“I missed your bed.”

Her chin shot up.

“And you shall continue to miss it. I’m finished with you! Lord Dunwood proposes marriage. He respects me. You?” She tossed her head. “All you ever propose is bed.”

Ignoring her pique, he moved toward her, crossing the Oriental carpet. At his movement, she whirled round and took refuge behind a settee, her skirts rustling.

“No,” she snapped. “McNeil, no. Do not presume—”

He went round the settee after her.

Flaring, she seized her skirts and marched around the settee, out of reach. She whirled and faced him.

“Behave yourself. You act like a child.”

But he knew it was in his best interest
not
to behave. “Behave” and he’d end up out in the icy rain. Misbehave and he’d gain a rainy afternoon spent in Annette’s warm featherbed. He moved toward her.

She backed away, shaking a furious finger at him.

“I am
not
your plaything, McNeil. I’m a human being. I have feelings. I have—”

He caught her jeweled finger and drew it to his mouth, gently kissing the tapered nail, then each knuckle. He took her hand and buried his lips in the softness of her palm.

She whispered, “Don’t, McNeil. Please. Let me go.”

He drew her into his arms and kissed the rosy flush on her throat, kissed her white shoulders. She struggled to pull away, but it was merely a token struggle, and he ignored it. He thrilled to the feel of her soft breasts against his hard chest.

“McNeil, I won’t let you—”

Her whisper faded as he kissed her mouth. He knew her body, knew it well. He felt the familiar shiver of her rising desire. Slowly, her jeweled hands crept up his chest, curling around his neck. It had been a long time... most of November. . . into December. He kissed her hungrily.

The fire crackled in the grate. The mellow smell of burning hickory wood scented the air. Rain pattered on the roof, and occasional icy dots of sleet hit the window.

She shivered in his arms. As he raised his head and looked at her, Annette’s eyes slowly opened.

“It’s warmer upstairs in my bedchamber,” she whispered, then caught herself and began to plead, “Oh, no, Garth, I—Lord Dunwood.”

He kissed her.

“Much
warmer, Annette.”

* * * *

McNeil & McNeil’s new ship was small, but sleek and fast. It was a provisions ship, built for quick sailings to the Caribbean. The times were changing and so must shipping, Raven had pointed out. Garth agreed. The tobacco economy in Virginia was fading. Trade in grain was on the upsurge. A new strain of grain had been developed in Maryland. The grain was mildew-resistant—a phenomenon! For the first time, grain could make it to the Caribbean without rotting during the sailing. Planters were quick to visualize profits. The West Indies colonies were crying for grain and willing to pay dearly for it. Tobacco land in Maryland and Virginia was being plowed under to make room foe grain. Grain sprang up everywhere, and McNeil & McNeil meant to take a bite of those excellent profits.

Garth sailed the new provisions ship up to Chestertown for Raven’s wedding. Annette accompanied him. Having taken her stand during Lord Dunwood’s visit to Williamsburg, she’d recovered her amiable good humor and was back in his bed where, in his opinion, she damned well belonged.

When they dropped anchor off Water Street in Chestertown, he and Annette found the rural eastern shore buzzing with news of a bizarre murder. It was all anyone wished to talk about. Annette found the murder dull. She found a different, somewhat related story much more amusing.

It seemed that at the wedding party of the rich planter, Ira Gresham, a woman fainted and caused quite a stir as guests sought to aid her. During the to-do, some callow ruffian abducted the bride. He boldly galloped off on his horse, clutching the shrieking bride. Chaos had erupted. The wedding celebration had disintegrated. Riders thundered off in all directions, searching for the bride and her abductor. The bridegroom was reported to have been purple with fury.

But the bride and her cavalier could not be found. Some hours later, the bride managed to drift home on her own, looking none too chagrined for her ordeal. The tartest-mouthed gossips snickered that the shocking state of the bride’s gown made it all too evident that the bride had begun her honeymoon
without
her bridegroom.

Her lilting laughter ringing, Annette tucked the risqué anecdote into her memory, swearing to Garth that she couldn’t wait to regale all of Williamsburg with it.

Raven’s wedding proved to be a lavish affair. The Tates spent a fortune on wines, delicacies and costly favors. Everyone who was anyone in Maryland society attended. The Tate mansion bulged with guests, sometimes six or eight to a bedroom.

Garth found his brother little reformed. Not an hour from the altar, Raven pulled him from the congratulatory throng and into the privacy of an empty gaming room. When the oak door thudded shut upon the merriment, Raven began belaboring the same old subject.

“About Jane Brown, Garth. You must ride over at once and—”

“No.”

Raven flung his hand impatiently.

“You don’t understand. Garth. The Chester-town murder? It was Jane Brown’s master who was slain. She was there! She saw the whole thing.”

Garth sighed his annoyance. Beyond the closed doors, violin music was beginning. A gay tune lilted, lifting above the hubbub of happy excited voices.

“Then you’re well quit of the bondwoman, Raven. Be sensible. You are now a married man. You do not need scandal mucking up your life.”

“When I want your advice, Garth, I’ll
ask
for it! At the moment, all I am damn well asking you for is help.”

Garth set his wineglass on the billiards table with an angry clunk. The witless pup. Did he think life was so simple? Bark loudly at what you want, and it shall be dished up to you posthaste?

“Grow up. Raven! You’ve taken a wife, you’ve vowed fidelity. Break Maryann’s heart—break the heart of that loving girl, and you prove yourself still a fool schoolboy.”

With an abrupt movement, Raven jerked around and banged his wineglass onto the billiards table. Wine sloshed. He ignored the damage, his color rising.

“Lecture me on matrimony and the treatment of women, will you! God, Garth, you’ve got crust.” He drew a ragged breath. “I suppose when
you
wed that cold fish you caught in Amsterdam,
you
will behave like the model husband. I suppose
you
will collect your slippers from under the Vachon bed and take them home?”

Garth flushed.

“We’re discussing you, not me! And leave Annette out of this.”

“We’ll discuss
you,
and we’ll leave Annette
in
this,” Raven contradicted, his voice heating. “Don’t preach morality at me, brother. From you it rings hollow.”

Garth’s pulse thudded angrily in his throat.

“Lower your voice. The guests—”

Raven ignored the warning, flinging up his arm in melodramatic fashion.

“You want to discuss ethics, Garth?” he challenged. “Very well! Let’s discuss the ethics of breaking hearts. Annette Vachon loves you, and yet you feel free to treat her like dirt. You haven’t even the decency to tell her of your forthcoming marriage to Miss Wetherby.” Raven snorted. “Knowing you, Garth, you’ll duck out on a shipping and leave Vachon to read the news in the
Gazette.”

Garth burned with anger. Not the least of his anger was that he’d been toying with doing exactly that.

“Enough, Raven! I warn you!”

Raven laughed harshly.

“Enough? Not enough by half. You are a taker, Garth, not a giver. And your morality stinks!”

Garth’s fist shot upward, almost cracking Raven’s surprised face before he seized control of himself and drew his fist back to his side. He was shaken. He’d not hit Raven since Raven was ten and had carelessly set fire to a neighbor’s hen house.

He turned on his heel, a blinding surge of blood rushing into his head. He made for the door with a furious, “As to this bondslave, Jane Brown, I order you to forget her. You’ve made your bed, Raven. Now lie in it!”

“I won’t give up Jane,” Raven shouted back, wrenching off his white powdered wig that had gone askew, whipping the wig to the table, where it sent the wineglasses crashing. “I love her, damn you! I love her!”

Just as Garth grabbed for the door latch, the door slid hesitantly open. Maryann peeped into the room, giggling a shy, sweet giggle.

“Whom do you love?” Maryann said, throwing a quick, shy smile at Garth, then gazing at her bridegroom with unabashed adoration.

Garth held his breath. In the long, strained moment that followed, Raven pulled himself together by degrees. Then, smiling his rakish smile, Raven strolled to Maryann, took her glowing face in both of his hands and kissed her mouth.

“I love
you,”
he swore. “Only
you.”

Maryann blushed with joy, looking almost pretty in her gown of ivory satin, with a wreath of orange blossoms woven into her plain-colored hair. She threw Garth an ecstatic look, and as he left the room he caught her soft, “Oh, Raven, you are my
world.
My whole
world.”

“And you,” Raven lied charmingly, “are my world.”

Garth gritted his teeth in anger. He’d be damned if he would help Raven break that sweet girl’s heart! Raven could beg until the cows came home. He would not help him procure that bondwoman. In fact, he thought with vengeful satisfaction, perhaps he could put an end to the matter.

A covey of fan-fluttering, chattering ladies floated toward him. He shook off the scene with Raven, put a smile on his face, greeted the ladies and set himself to playing the role of brother-to-the-bridegroom. But his mind dwelt on the problem. Supposing he bought this Jane Brown, supposing he sent her to New York or to Barbados, where Raven would be unable to trace her . . . He needn’t bother to see the bondwoman himself, he thought, as he bowed over a dowager’s proffered hand, then amiably greeted her husband. He could put the matter in the hands of his business agent.

He caught a flash of gold brocade across the crowded ballroom. Annette. Extricating himself from a woman who was gushing about Raven’s made-in-heaven marriage, McNeil accepted a glass of wine from a servant and waited for Annette to work her way across the room. She looked dazzling. The neckline of her gown exposed a good deal of bosom, drawing looks of frank admiration from men and collecting stares of envy from less well-endowed women. He smiled in amusement, watching people react to her. But his smile felt stiff. Raven’s accusations stung:
You haven’t even the decency to tell Annette . . . You’re a taker.