Authors: Beyond the Dawn
He grinned. He strolled toward her, and she caught sight of him at once. Her shoulders jerked. She bade a hasty good-bye to her friends, then whirled to Lord Dunwood.
“Be a love, husband? Check to see if my trunks are safely in our cabin?”
Flushing with pleasure, the parrot bounded off, the feather of his hat jauntily stabbing skyward. Annette turned and clipped toward McNeil, one curl of her shining black hair bouncing upon her velvet shoulder.
“So you’ve come,” she said as she reached him.
“Yes.”
“So it’s good-bye, then, McNeil.”
He nodded. He’d seen her seldom during the past year and had touched her only a few times, politely taking her as dance partner at public balls.
She laughed with forced brightness.
“Shall I see you in London?” she asked.
The question was casual, but her voice caught, betraying her. He understood. He shook his head gently.
“Not in the way you mean.”
Her eyes fell to her jeweled hands.
“Oh.”
She was silent a moment. Then she drew herself up and forced a bright smile. Giving a brittle little laugh, she extended her hand in farewell.
“We have been an amusement to one another, McNeil, have we not!”
Her hand was still extended, trembling slightly. Ignoring it, he put his hands on her blue velvet shoulders and pulled her to him.
“McNeil, don’t.”
But even as she protested, she lifted her mouth to his. His mouth came down hungrily, and he felt the old rush of desire, the lust she would always awaken in him. He kissed her quickly but with satisfying completeness, his tongue roaming the moist familiar territory. He tasted the farewell sherry she’d sipped with her friends, tasted the almond biscuit she’d nibbled in her hasty breakfast.
He tore his mouth away. “Damn it, we’ve been more to each other than amusement. And
well
you know it.”
With an eager cry she threw her arms around him and kissed as though to remember the kiss for all eternity. Out of the comer of his eye, he saw Lord Dunwood’s bobbing feather on the deck of the ship. He pushed her away. Her eyes were bright with unshed tears. Her voice shook.
“McNeil, had you merely kissed my hand in farewell, I should never have forgiven you—
never.”
He swallowed. Softly, he admitted, “And I should never have forgiven myself, Annette.”
She gazed at him a moment longer, then whirled around and fled, sapphire blue velvet darting through a throng of dirty, shabby porters. He watched her go. A hollow feeling settled upon him. The hollowness did not begin to dissipate until a startling thought knifed through him.
If it were Flavia running to that ship, I would not stand here. I would move heaven and earth to stop her.
* * * *
It was dusk when he arrived home. The oil lamp out in front of the house was already flaring and Raven’s chaise waited with its driver. His step in the foyer brought Flavia on the run. He was about to scold her for running in her condition, when he saw her face. She looked scared and vulnerable, incredibly lovely despite the ungainly mound that pooched out under a gown of delicate pink silk.
She ran into his arms. “Garth! You’re back! I was so worried.”
He held her carefully, tensing in fear.
“Your time? Is it happening?”
She stared at him in bewilderment for a moment, then dashed the tears from her eyes and laughed.
“No, silly. Not that. I was afraid—Garth, I know I’m being ridiculous, but I was so worried you would—”
She stopped. He had to prod her.
“Would what?”
Her eyes searched his face. “I was afraid you would sail for London,” she whispered.
He was taken aback. God! So she’d known he’d gone to bid farewell to Annette! And she’d not stopped him from going by pleading her pregnancy or any of a hundred things a wife might plead. Instead, she’d endured a day of utter hell. Tenderness welled up, and respect. He swallowed hard, feeling a love for her that was even greater than anything he’d felt for her before. He drew her close and kissed the top of her head, his voice husky.
“Why would I sail to London, when everything I want is right here, Flavia—right here in my arms?”
Flavia felt a surge of purest joy. Throwing her hands around Garth’s neck, she kissed him with shameless abandon. She felt she- was soaring, and in her giddy flight, pictures flashed past; Garth toasting her at the fire in a shoddy London tavern bedchamber; Garth’s lobster red son, shattering the quiet of Tewksbury Hall with his loud birth cry; Garth’s marriage vow, ringing strong and clear in Bruton Parish Church.
She kissed him wildly, hardly aware of footfalls behind her.
“Indecent,” Raven scolded. “Behave yourselves.”
“Go away,” she and Garth murmured in unison, kissing.
Raven sighed his complaint.
“Well, I suppose I must make my own fun. Maryann!” he shouted. “Come here, my good girl.”
In her haze of happiness, Flavia barely heard the rustle of Maryann’s skirts or Maryann’s startled “Oh, my!”
“Maryann,” Raven ordered. “Pucker up, my good girl. You are about to be kissed. And
not
decently!”
* * * *
I would like to acknowledge a man who is woven invisibly into the fabric of this book. He is Gottlieb Mittelberger, who, in the year 1750, set sail from Amsterdam to Philadelphia on the mission of delivering an organ to the German Lutheran Church in New Providence, Pennsylvania. Mittelberger recorded his journey, his compassionate eye taking in everything. He leaves us a rare legacy—a brief but poignant account of the harsh life endured by the indentured servants who poured into the American colonies, willing to trade four to seven years of servitude for ship passage to the New World. Mittelberger’s journal was a huge help as I researched BEYOND THE DAWN.
JoAnn Wendt
Copyright © 1983 by JoAnn Wendt
Originally published by Warner [0446305669]
Electronically published in 2010 by Belgrave House
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
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This is a work of fiction. All names in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.