Synopsis | Reviews | Excerpt
Shipping heiress Summer St. Clair flees from an arranged marriage only to end up penniless and alone in the unfamiliar streets of London. Her ordeal turns into a different type of challenge—one even more frightening—when a dangerously handsome rogue offers his protection.
Jamie Cameron pledges to be Summer's chivalrous knight . . . but he secretly longs to possess this woman of beauty and spirit. Carefully planning the ultimate seduction, he never expected her innocent charms to pierce his armor and expose his lonely heart.
From London's bawdy back alleys to the wild Scottish Highlands, Summer and Jamie wage a thrilling tug-of-war. Yet even as she succumbs to his fiery touch, Summer keeps a dangerous secret, a secret that might shatter the deep love that has grown between them.
Virginia Brown is the author of more than fifty novels in romance, mystery, and general fiction. Her bestselling Dixie Divas Mystery Series continues in 2015 with a sixth novel. She lives in a small Mississippi town that inspires her stories about Holly Springs.
Coming soon!
Chapter 1
New Orleans, Louisiana
April, 1804
"WHY,
YOU CAN marry my niece if you want her so badly, Freeman,” came the faintly
amused drawl. "It will keep her fortune in our hands, eh?”
Summer
St. Clair, walking unobserved on the second-floor landing, jerked to a halt at
that languid comment. Her fingers dug into the smooth, lustrous wood of the
bannister that curved gracefully up from the foyer below, and she couldn’t move
for a moment.
As
the two men crossed the foyer to the parlor, her uncle’s voice drifted to her
again, cool and slightly chagrined. "Something must be done soon, for Summer
reaches her majority next year. I dare not risk losing control of her money. We
need it to further our cause.”
Summer
leaned forward as they passed into the parlor, her heart pounding fiercely.
Their voices were easily heard.
"And
Talleyrand in France?” Tutwiler asked. "He will accept the money to—”
"Hush!”
Barton Shriver’s voice was sharp. "It is not to be discussed, unless behind
closed doors.” There was a pause. "France is not at war with the United States,
Freeman, but with England. There will be no repeat of the XYZ Affair since the
settlement of 1800. But I do believe that contributions will be
accepted and rewarded, and our fortunes will be made.”
A
rasping laugh greeted this statement. "Yes, and I expect Napoleon will be most
grateful once he is in possession of New Orleans again.”
Summer’s
teeth bit into her bottom lip. This was more than a marriage discussion—this
was treason! Her fingernails scraped over the bannister as she edged closer to
the bottom of the stairs, and she heard her uncle ask lightly, "What do you
offer for my niece?”
"Anything.
Everything. I just want her,” Freeman rasped, sending a shudder along
Summer’s spine. "I crave the wench in my bed...”
The
fat, sweaty swine! She’d seen Tutwiler paw other young women not quick enough
to elude him but had managed so far to avoid it herself. Other young ladies had
family to protect them, and he had not been bold enough to pursue them openly.
She had no protection. Her uncle was only too glad to sell her to the odious
creature. The thought of Tutwiler having the right to touch her made
Summer sway with nausea.
I
crave the wench in my bed...
Summer
pushed impatiently at a pale curl that dangled in front of her eyes. Curse
Barton Shriver. He was no blood kin, but her late maternal aunt’s husband was
her closest living relative. He had greedily seized the St. Clair estate upon
her family’s death, when she had been merely fourteen years old. A year later,
he had told her that she was of a marriageable age and had instructed her to
smile at men he approved of and snub those he didn’t. When she’d refused, he’d
sent her to a convent. Though she had not been raised a Catholic, the nuns had
agreed to take "a poor young lady unhinged by her parents’ death and in need of
rest and repose” in exchange for a generous donation to their order.
Shriver’s
intent had been to teach her a lesson in obedience, and it had taught her well.
She’d been locked in a small cell. "For her own protection,” "she might harm
herself,” "upon her physician’s orders,” had been several of the explanations
given the good sisters.
Summer
had languished for three months and had come out having learned an important
lesson: She was a minor; therefore she had no voice. And being a female was
another strike against her. Now she was twenty, but not yet of age. For the
past five years Barton Shriver had used her as a pawn, hinting at marriages for
her but never making a formal betrothal, always plotting to further his cause
with the most advantageous alliance. Still, she’d had no idea that he would be
so greedy or foolish as to stoop to treason.
A
light shudder racked her again, and fear deepened as she stood indecisively on
the landing. Shriver’s and Tutwiler’s voices were an indistinct murmur now, as
they lingered in the front parlor, where she could visualize them drinking what
was left of her father’s fine brandy.
A
faint sneer curled her lips. Jean Claude St. Clair would have made short work
of Shriver. That thought brought a knife-edged pain slicing along the
still-tender memories of her dead parents and brother. There were times when
the pain was so sharp that she felt as if someone had, indeed, plunged a knife
into her heart. How could fate have been so cruel as to allow her loved ones to
die from a fever and leave her alive and bereft?
With
a sigh, Summer finally stirred herself enough to tread quietly down the stairs.
The hem of her muslin gown frothed around her ankles as she slipped like a
silent wraith past the parlor, with its half-closed doors.
She
had to do something to stop her uncle from whatever he planned against the
American government—after all, her mother had been a third-generation American, and her French father had fought in the
American Revolution and become a fiercely loyal American who had
expanded her mother’s inheritance into a shipping empire. It wasn’t just her
being betrayed, but her country that was in danger. What could she do? Then it
came to her.
Instinct
spurring her, she reached the front door. She knew where she would go. There
was only one person who might be able to help her...
Her
hand touched the coroneted latch of the door, and then Summer saw Chantal. She
put a finger to her lips and quickly shook her head. The maid’s smooth
coffee-colored face shuttered, and she gave a short nod of her brightly
turbaned head. Chantal knew about Shriver and his rapacious clutches, but she
was just as caught in his web as Summer was.
With
Chantal’s silent benediction, Summer eased out the front door. Sunlight struck
her in hot, bright rays as she crossed the smooth tiled patio bordering St.
Charles Avenue. The courtyard was tiny. A profusion of bougainvillea, begonias,
and other bright, gay flowers flowed gracefully over stone urns and from
terra-cotta pots. Wrought-iron balustrades laced the front of the two-story
house that had just been re-painted a luscious shade of blue.
Summer
passed through the tall gate and shut it with a click. She felt a mounting
sense of urgency as she scurried down the banquettes that ran alongside the
houses, which crouched close to the narrow streets. She had to reach Garth. He
would know what to do.
Garth.
Just his name made Summer’s stomach flip and her heart do funny things in her
chest. He was so handsome—a big blond Adonis. If only he would do more than
chuck her under the chin and call her "little duckling.” But Garth Kinnison
didn’t seem to know she existed except as the daughter of the man who’d helped
him buy his first ship, a sleek, two-masted schooner that could outmaneuver
pirates and still carry a full hold of cargo.
The
St. Clair shipping lines had long boasted of plying routes to anywhere there
was trade. But now that France and England were at war again after the
short-lived Peace of Amiens treaty, it was much riskier. And it was said that
Napoleon was about to become the French emperor. Did that mean he would try to
wrest back the lands he’d just sold?
Her
uncle obviously seemed to think so. And it looked as if he meant to help the
Corsican. Shriver had expressed French loyalty to his Creole neighbors. Yet he
had been instrumental in helping to arrange the Louisiana Purchase, using St.
Clair money to further his own private interests along the way. It had given
him the power he sought so eagerly, and his known willingness to trade with
both sides had given him a notoriety that frequently embarrassed Summer.
Many
of the older aristocratic families were unwilling to snub Summer openly because
of her father, but gradually, she had been left out of social events because of
her uncle and his sordid business practices. Now Shriver’s influence was
far-reaching—and the St. Clair name was growing soiled. Even worse, he skimmed
the profits from the shipping business to exploit his own shady schemes.
Summer
hailed a carriage when she was far enough away from the house not to be seen.
As it careened down the narrow streets, she stared blankly out the windows,
barely aware of her reflection: blonde hair streaked with brown, blue eyes like
her mother’s, a blur in the glass. They traveled through a part of town that
she didn’t frequent, that indeed, she rarely saw anymore. Such sights were not
to be looked upon, Chantal often scolded, not by a delicate young woman of
quality such as Summer Léonie St. Clair, and she shouldn’t visit the
riverfront.
The
St. Clair docks teemed with the bustle of enterprise and bawdy seamen, but
Garth wasn’t in the offices as he should have been. Anxiously, Summer asked
where he could be found.
"I
believe he’s on his ship, Miss St. Clair,” the harried clerk answered. He
paused with an armload of papers, giving her a keen stare. "Is there some
trouble?”
Everyone
knew the daughter of the former owner and that she would one day own these
lines. Summer had spent long, happy hours here as a child, sitting on her
father’s lap and doodling on scrap paper. Now Shriver ran the business with a
heavy hand.
"No,
I just need to discuss something with the captain. I’ll find him, Perkins.
Thank you.”
As
she walked down the crowded quays to find the Sea Dancer, Summer
began to wish she had not so impulsively come to the docks alone. Men stared at
her boldly, and her chin lifted faintly as she tried to ignore them. She should
have brought Chantal along with her. No decent woman walked out without her
maid or a chaperon.
When
she found the vessel bobbing in the deep channel against a wooden quay, Summer
heaved a sigh of relief. It was still being loaded. Yawning hatches stood open
and ready to receive more goods. The wooden brow was down, slung from ship to
quay. She lifted her skirts slightly to keep the hems from dragging over the
filthy planks as she skimmed up to the main deck. The ship was empty, save for
the watch, who nodded politely and said that Captain Kinnison was still ashore.
"He
had a meeting with Mr. Tutwiler, I believe. Shall I tell him you were here,
Miss St. Clair?” the sailor asked.
Summer
paused. She needed to see Garth now, but she certainly didn’t need to allow
Tutwiler or her uncle to see her here. "No, perhaps I’ll see him later,” she
said, and the man nodded.
Summer
started back down the brow, then decided to leave Garth a note. She didn’t want
to risk running into her uncle in the offices, and it was urgent that she get a
message to Garth before Shriver was able to put his awful plan into action.
Turning,
she went back up the gangplank, ducked into the hatch, and climbed down the
narrow, musty companionway to the lower deck and the captain’s cabin. She knew
the way well. She’d frequently visited with her father.
When
she’d written the note, she left Garth’s cabin and started back up the narrow
ladder to the main deck. Then she heard men’s voices on the upper deck and
recognized Freeman Tutwiler’s raspy accents. Freezing in place, she realized
she couldn’t allow Tutwiler to see her on the ship and tell her uncle. She fled
back down the steep ladder and into Garth’s cabin.
She
looked around wildly, then spied the tall cabinet built into the wall. It took
only a moment to secrete herself in the cedar-redolent cabinet and shut the door. The air was stuffy, and she batted
gently at the clothes hanging around her as she sat with her knees
scrunched up and her chin resting on them. It was uncomfortable, but necessary.
She
crouched and waited, her muscles cramping as she heard the men enter the cabin.
Her neck began to ache from being bent into an awkward position, and she
shifted to get more comfortable. Something pressed into her back, and she gave
a start when she saw a faint glimmer of eyes in the shadows. Then she relaxed.
It was only a gold-headed cane, with the face of a lion and two glowing topaz
chips for eyes.
Her
fingertips brushed against the chain she wore around her neck. A small, simple
gold necklace with her initials, entwined S’s, dangling from the links,
it had been a twelfth-birthday gift from her father, and her hand closed over
it as if for luck. Briefly closing her eyes, she whispered a prayer that she
would somehow manage to get away from her uncle and the hateful Freeman
Tutwiler. Then her attention was diverted by recognizable voices.
Garth’s
deep baritone sent a shiver down her spine, and she smiled in the dark cabinet
as she heard him discussing business details with Tutwiler in a faintly
contemptuous tone. She didn’t bother to listen to the words but only waited
impatiently for them to finish so she could throw her woes on Garth’s broad
shoulders. He would rescue her, be her knight in shining armor.
Garth
would help her. She’d make him help her. And then maybe he would take
her in his arms and finally declare that he loved her and had only been waiting
for her to grow up so he could marry her. Then he would kiss her, and her life
would be good again.
And
then, she thought grimly, Barton Shriver will have
to leave New Orleans astride a rail—tarred and feathered!
The
vessel rocked gently, bumping against the quay. It was too warm in the closet,
and the men’s voices droned on and on. Her eyelids grew heavy, and she yawned.
Summer
never knew when sleep overcame her, or when the ship left the New Orleans port
and sailed down to the Gulf.
Chapter 2
London,
England
May,
1804
"WHY
WON’T YOU take me?” Summer stared up at Garth Kinnison with disbelieving eyes. "Why?”
The
ship carrying Summer as an inadvertent stowaway had just anchored at the port
of London. She’d been put into a jolly boat with Garth and carried to shore,
but she still could not quite believe he would do this to her. Despite her
confession of her infatuation for him, Garth Kinnison adamantly refused to
allow her to remain on the Sea Dancer.
He
helped her from the bobbing boat to the security of a long dock and then joined
her. His first mate, Oliver Hart, stood close by. Summer didn’t even notice the
light rain as she looked up at Garth. Her rib cage hurt where her heart slammed
painfully against it.
"Why?”
she asked again, her voice a hoarse whisper.
"Summer,
you’re a pretty girl,” Garth said gently, stroking her soft cheek and gazing
down at her with an enigmatic expression, "but I cannot keep you with me.”
Anger
edged her voice as she spoke. "You’ve brought me this far, instead of putting
me off in Pensacola—I insist that you keep me with you.”
His
voice was impatient. "I told you, girl, that Spanish Florida was no place to
leave you to wait for a ship back, even with a hired chaperon. They still have
civil conflict on occasion. Now I’m sending you to board a ship in Southampton.
I’ve given you a letter of introduction to a friend, and he will see you are
taken where it is safer.”
Summer’s
stare was disconcerting, and she knew it. "But you could have left me
elsewhere, and you didn’t,” she persisted, despair edging her voice. "I’ve been
no trouble—I don’t understand you.”
Cupping
her chin in his hard, callused palm, Garth said, "The West India docks are
crowded, and I have a perishable cargo. London’s legal quays leave cargo open
to smuggling and plunder, and I can’t afford that. I have a lot of work to do,
and you’d only be left to your own devices. Besides, Shriver’s too powerful a
man to make my enemy.”
"Is
that why you won’t take what I said seriously? I heard him say those
things about money for Napoleon, and—” Her protest ended in a slight gasp when
he grabbed her arm and snapped at her to be quiet before a zealous Englishman
overheard them.
"It’s
nothing to worry about, Summer,” he added in a kinder tone when she rubbed
sullenly at her bruised flesh. "Now, be a good girl, and go back home.”
Summer
said in a small, fierce voice, "I will be sold to Tutwiler in a depraved marriage,
and you don’t even care.”
She’d
tried to make him care on the long voyage, but he had avoided her as if she
carried a deadly plague. There was a bitter irony in that. Other men had leapt
at the chance to court the heiress to the St. Clair shipping company. Not
Garth. He seemed to care little that wedding her would make him rich.
"I
can’t stop an arranged marriage, girl. Neither can you. ’Tis the way of the
world for young ladies.” He gave a shrug of his brawny shoulders. His pale eyes
were hooded as he said softly, "Take a lover after you wed. It’s done all the
time.”
Jerking
her head up, Summer glared at him. "Maybe I will. Are you available?” she shot
at him and saw with chagrin the amusement glittering in his eyes.
"Perhaps,
when I return to New Orleans, and you are a little older.” A laugh threaded his
voice, stiffening Summer’s spine with humiliated fury. "Go with Oliver. He’s
found you a maid to chaperon your return, and I’ve provided you with a heavy
purse.”
His
amusement strengthened her resolve as nothing else would have done. So much
for my fair knight, she couldn’t help thinking bitterly. Her chin lifted.
"Present
your bill to my uncle, and he will see that you are repaid,” she said in a taut
voice. She would not cry. She had humiliated herself enough by pleading
with him to keep her.
But
when she was tucked into a hired post chaise—a bright yellow vehicle pulled by
a pair and managed by a postboy—and given into the care of a hard-faced woman,
Summer almost surrendered to tears. Garth did not want her. He would not rescue
her from Freeman Tutwiler.
First
mate Oliver Hart stuck his head inside the door of the coach and said softly,
"Remember, miss, that your last name could invite trouble for you. Do not use
it. The captain has arranged passage for you under the name of Miss Smith, and
Mrs. Beasley will watch over you well.”
"I’ll
remember,” Summer said coldly. Even her name was a hindrance. Her father had
been French, and she was in a country at war with France. Besides which, if
anyone connected her to the St. Clair shipping fortune, she might find herself
in grave difficulties. Just the year before, a young heiress had been abducted,
compromised, then ransomed back to her frantic parents for a huge amount of
money. It was doubtful that Barton Shriver would bother to redeem his niece; he
would consider it a blessing that she had been removed. Well, she’d dealt with
the fortune hunters her uncle had teased with her inheritance and knew how to
avoid them well enough. A villain was a villain.
"I’ll
remember,” Summer repeated.
The
first mate shut the door with a farewell nod.
The
coach jerked forward, and she gave a last glance back at Garth as he stood with
the wind ruffling his blond hair. When she’d first awakened in his cabinet and discovered
that he’d sailed out of port with her aboard, she’d thought her prayers had
been answered. She’d stayed hidden until she was sure they’d sailed too far to
return her, and then confronted him, certain he would take her with him, maybe
marry her.
But
he hadn’t. He’d at first been furious, then resigned, and had told her she
would have to go home. He’d kept to his word, it seemed.
Slicing
a glance toward her uncommunicative chaperon, Summer settled back against the
worn squabs of the coach in dull acceptance of her fate. Rain pelted the coach,
and she could hear the coachman swearing softly on his high perch above. The
sharp scent of saltwater and fish thickened the stale air of the coach. It was
chilly. Huddling into the voluminous folds of her cloak and shifting the
satchel of clothes Garth had bought for her, Summer stared out the windows at
the dreary series of vast warehouses.
Cargoes
of wine, sugar, timber, raw silk, ivory, coffee, tea, and aromatic woods such
as cedar and mahogany were stacked as high as they possibly could be, and huge
hoists lifted them from vessel to dock or to drays. Despite the drizzle, men
worked to load and unload cargo, and the noise was tremendous. Hammers thudded,
saws grated on wood, tackles groaned with shrill, unremitting whines, and bells
clanked tinnily. Though a familiar sight, it was chaotic, frightening. Men
shouted, whips cracked, coaches rumbled on the stones, and the penetrating odor
of fouled water seemed to seep into her very bones.
Scrunching
down in the seat, Summer slid another glance toward her companion. Mrs. Beasley
seemed respectable enough, but something in her broad, stolid face made Summer
shift uneasily on the seat. Oh, well, she would only have to suffer the woman’s
presence for a short while.
Summer
glanced out the window again and saw her blurred reflection in the glass pane.
She was fiercely glad to see that her woebegone expression had hardened into
one of grim determination.
She
thought suddenly of the time a young man had told her she had a face like an
exotic cat’s. She’d laughed at him then, but now she could see a faint
resemblance. Her wide blue eyes slanted slightly at the outer corners, and her
face was oval, with a small chin and mobile mouth that could stretch into a
feline smile at the slightest notice—or at least, had smiled often before her
parents’ death. The last few years had been so unhappy, she rarely smiled
anymore.
And
there was certainly nothing to smile about now, as the post chaise rocked
wildly over narrow, curving roads that led out of London toward Southampton.
Daylight gave way to gray mist, and timbered buildings gave way to foggy
expanses of brush and trees punctuated by the occasional hut or pub illuminated
by wavy light. The vehicle swayed alarmingly, hooves a loud drum against the
hard-packed road, the jangle of traces and rumble of wheels a steady roar in
her ears. It gave a shudder suddenly, then skewed violently to one side before
sliding to a stop in a precarious tilt. Thrown to the floor in a heap of skirts
and cloak, Summer struggled out from under wool in time to hear the postboy
damn a mail coach for running them off the road.
There
was the sound of slurping mud and more curses, and in a moment the coach slid
slightly, then righted with a shudder. Slivers of light poked through the
cracked window. Her chaperon had somehow remained on the hard horsehair seat,
but her bonnet had slid down over her face, and her skirts twisted around her
knees. Summer swallowed a giggle as Mrs. Beasley pushed the bonnet up, and a
limp fabric flower dangled against her nose so that she swatted at it as if it
were an annoying fly.
"Great
bloody fools,” the woman muttered, then glared at Summer. "You needn’t look so
amused, missy.”
Whatever
she might have replied was forgotten as the coach door was wrenched open, and
Mrs. Beasley turned and shook a finger in the postboy’s face. "What are you
great idiots about, nearly killing us with your ham-handed driving? I’ve a mind
to demand our passage money back, I do.”
The
boy merely shrugged. "Pyrford’s jus’ ahead. It’s got a good inn with a common
room. Wait there, and I’ll let ye know when we git th’ coach outer th’ ditch.
That’s all that kin be done.”
When
Mrs. Beasley seemed inclined to argue, Summer said quickly, "Oh, do come along.
I’m weary, bruised, and would like a hot meal.” She stepped down from the coach
and stood in a light rain, then pulled up the hood to her cloak, picked up her
satchel, and began walking along the slick, rutted road. Mrs. Beasley followed
reluctantly.
The
inn at Pyrford was on the banks of a slow-moving river. In spite of the slight
drizzle that dampened her as she walked, Summer grudgingly admired the soft
countryside with its deep woods and shady glades. The air smelled clean and
sweet, with a hint of wood smoke. Puddles soaked her shoes and stockings,
drenched the hem of her skirts, so that she was glad to see the village inn
just around the next curve of road. Behind her, Mrs. Beasley plodded along,
feet squelching in the mud, muttering under her breath with each step.
When
she entered the common room of the inn, she was shown to a table looking out
over the river. A fire burned on the hearth, heating the room. Summer wrinkled
her nose at the acrid bite of smoke as Mrs. Beasley lowered herself onto a bench
next to her with a gusty sigh.
The
innkeeper approached their table, showing a gap-toothed smile. "What kin I git
fer ye, miss?” he asked, the question directed at Summer.
She
ordered a pork pie and fruit; Mrs. Beasley asked for steak-and- kidney pie, a
pudding, and several tarts. "And a bit of ale to wash it down with,” she added
with a pleased smile.
Eventually,
a steaming hot pork pie that was more crust than meat was set in front of
Summer, along with a dish of small, shriveled fruit covered in custard sauce.
Summer was so hungry, she didn’t care.
Mrs.
Beasley ate noisily, then heaved herself up from the chair and across the room.
Glad to see her go, Summer ate slowly, leaving a few bites of the pork dish so
she wouldn’t seem a glutton. Her mother had always insisted upon such manners.
Summer shut her eyes. Maman. She had looked so cold and still on her
funeral bier, but her life had been warm and vivid.
Sighing,
Summer opened her eyes and wiped her hands on a shabby square of napkin.
Propping her chin in one palm, she gazed out the window at the rain-pocked
river. She heard the innkeeper set down a tankard of ale on a nearby table and
turned her head, slanting a glance from beneath her lashes. There were only
three other people in the inn: two shabby-looking men in a corner and one dark,
dangerous-looking man sprawled indolently in a chair near the fire. Her gaze
moved toward him, and she saw that he was looking at her.
She
looked away, but not before she had an impression of dark eyes, black hair, and
a strong, masculine face. It was his eyes that startled her, riveting, staring
at her, a faint smile curving his lips. He lifted his tankard of ale in a
silent salute to her, and she flushed.
Who
did he think he was? Or she was? She was no loose female to be impressed
with idle admiration. Still, it was hard not to steal glances at him from time
to time.
Shifting
and crossing long, lean legs clad in the snug-fitting pantaloons and Hessian
boots of a dandy, the man displayed an air of shabby gentility until she
glanced at his face. It was a strong, hard face, with one dark brow that
slashed straight over his eyes, and high, rugged cheekbones that angled sharply
down to a chiseled mouth that looked ready to smile. It was a most handsome
face, a rogue’s face. A face women would admire. How could they not?
Summer,
however, was in no mood to admire a man, not when the sting of Garth Kinnison’s
rejection was so strong and achingly sharp in her mind and heart. She looked
back at Mrs. Beasley, who had come from somewhere across the room to sit by her
again. The woman’s fleshy face looked grim, and Summer suppressed a twinge of
annoyance at Garth for sticking her with such a gargoyle.
Daylight
began to wane. Summer looked up as the innkeeper lit the lamps, grumbling about
the cost of oil, and she saw the postboy come in the door. Finally!
She
stood and reached for her still-damp cloak, but her relief was short-lived. The
postboy abruptly announced that the post chaise could not be fixed, that an
axle was broken, and they had sent to Woking for another.
"It’s
almost dark. Ye’ll ’ave to stay th’ night ’ere, I’m afraid,” he added,
shrugging at Summer’s dismay. "There’s no ’elp for it.”
Mrs.
Beasley rapped a heavy hand on the table. "There are rooms over the pub here. Shall
I bespeak one from the innkeeper for us, miss?”
"Yes,
please,” Summer murmured dispiritedly. She sank back into her chair. She didn’t
care suddenly if they ever got to Southampton. At least this chill, weeping
weather fit her mood. Besides, why rush the inevitable interview with Barton
Shriver? He would be furious at her truancy and would perhaps hasten the
marriage to Tutwiler. I crave the wench in my bed... A
shudder tickled her spine.
When
Mrs. Beasley returned, announcing that a room had been procured, Summer lifted
the purse she had hanging beneath her cloak and stared hesitantly at the
unfamiliar currency. Mrs. Beasley’s eyes glittered slightly at the sight of the
money, but she only helped Summer select the two shillings and three pence from
the jumble of strange coins to pay for their meal.
Summer
stood up and pushed back her chair. When she turned to go upstairs, her glance
dragged across the figure still reclining lazily in front of the fire. The man
looked directly at her, his jet eyes under one straight black brow raking her
with interested curiosity. A bolt of alarm shot through her at the man’s intent
scrutiny. Drawing her cloak more closely around her as if she could hide, she
looked quickly away from his gaze.
Curse
him. What did he want? She felt flustered under that
heavy stare and stumbled over the hem of her cloak as she walked through the
maze of scattered tables. Her face heated. She thought she saw him smile, a
quick flash of white teeth in a dark face. Plague take him!
She
could still feel his eyes on her as she reached the stairs to the second floor
and could not resist a backward glance. To her dismay, the rogue stood up and
swept her a mocking bow, his actions graceful and provoking. She set her teeth,
and her face flamed.
He
must think her interested, when she was only wary of a man who sat in a shabby
inn with his booted feet propped on a table and a sword dangling from his side.
He looked more like one of the highwaymen she’d heard roamed the high roads of
England than any kind of a gentleman.
Swirling
around, Summer stumbled over the bottom step of the sagging stairs and heard
his soft laughter. She did not look back again but lifted her skirts in one
hand and fled up the dingy staircase to the second floor.
Weary,
heartsick, frightened, and more alone than she had ever been in her life,
Summer St. Clair lay down fully clothed on the corn-husk mattress and fell
asleep almost immediately.
SHE
DIDN’T KNOW what woke her. Perhaps a faint scratch along the floor or a guarded
whisper. But whatever it was, she awoke just in time to see something at her
window—dark, wavering forms that were menacing and terrifying.
A
loud scream burst from her throat as she sat bolt upright, and the figures at
her window—there were two, she could see that—scrambled out the open shutter
with muffled curses. She screamed again and heard pounding footsteps in the
hallway outside her room. She was completely alone. Mrs. Beasley was not on her
cot across the room.
Half-sobbing,
Summer stumbled to the door and saw that the bolt had already been drawn. She
yanked open the door. The innkeeper stood there in his nightshirt, nightcap
askew.
"What
is it?” he demanded, and Summer pointed mutely to the window.
As
the innkeeper dashed to the open window, someone appeared in the hallway with a
lantern, and light danced into the room in shifting sprays.
"Who
was it? What happened?” the lantern holder asked, and the innkeeper turned
with a disgruntled oath.
"Robbers,
is my guess.” He glanced toward Summer. "Are ye missing ennything, miss?”
Suddenly
Summer realized why someone had been in her room. She walked to the chair where
she had placed her cloak and reticule and was not at all surprised to find only
her cloak and small satchel still there. Nevertheless, she knelt and looked
for the heavy purse under the chair.
The
innkeeper grunted. "Ye won’t find it, is my guess.”
He
was right. Summer straightened and looked at him. "Can’t you catch them?”
"They’re
far and away by now, though I guess we can put the constables after ’em right
enough,” he said in a grudging tone. He eyed her narrowly. "Did they get it
all? All your coin?”
Summer
nodded. "Yes,” she said, "everything I had.”
"Ah,”
the innkeeper murmured, his manner deferential and sympathetic. "Then ye’ll have
to be sendin’ a message to yer family, I suppose, so that ye can pay yer bill.”
"I
have no family,” she forced out miserably, "no one to help me. Not here.” She
looked around wildly. "And my maid is gone... Ah, sacré
bleu!” she spat, using Chantal’s favorite expression without
thinking.
Staring
at her suspiciously, the innkeeper growled, "Ye don’t be French, d’ye? We be
fightin’ th’ French.”
Summer
stared at him. "No, I’m American.”
"Ye’re
American?” the innkeeper pursued, his beetling brow lowering as he began to see
his payment fade away. His jaw thrust out, and he growled, "Then how d’ye
expect to pay fer yer night’s lodging, may I ask?”
It
was then Summer realized her mistake. She stammered out a feeble plea for
mercy, but it was only a few minutes before she found herself on the front
stoop of the inn. Her cloak, the innkeeper said, and the pitifully few clothes
she had in her cloth bag, would be applied to payment for the hours she had
stayed there.
Numb,
Summer could only stare at him. He closed the door in her face, and she stepped
off the stone stoop into the squelching mud of the yard. At least it had
stopped raining, she reflected as she looked around her. The clouds were gone,
and a thin moon cast a dim light on the muddy ground as she picked her way
across the brick courtyard.
It
finally occurred to her to wonder where Mrs. Beasley had gone, though in truth,
she suspected she had taken her purse and fled. No doubt, she was in league
with the dangerous man from the common room. There was little Summer could do
about it now. Her most pressing problem was to find a place to sleep that was
reasonably warm and dry.
She
looked around. Her teeth began to chatter, and she wrapped her arms around
herself and hunched her back against the wind. She’d have to find something
before she turned blue. Certainly not the stable, not with the ostlers sleeping
there. She’d be about as safe as a hen in a fox’s den.
Summer
spotted a low building that she assumed was a coop for the fowl she’d seen
clucking and pecking around the side yard, and trudged toward it. But the
innkeeper’s geese took a hearty dislike to her presence and drove her out amid
a loud honking and beating of wings, nipping at her with painful beaks. She
tried to stand her ground, but one wily old gander arched his neck so
menacingly and hissed so savagely at her that she finally retreated, but not
before flinging a handful of mud toward the enraged fowl.
She
spent the remainder of the night propped against a low stone wall that bordered
the river. It was, surprisingly enough, the driest spot she could find, as a
mulberry bush had kept the ground from becoming too soaked. Huddled beneath the
bush with a root for a pillow and wet branches for a quilt, Summer fell into a
light, troubled sleep.
SOFT
SUNLIGHT pricked at her eyelids, and Summer sat up suddenly, confused. There
was no rocking of a ship, nor was she in her familiar bed, and then she
remembered the horror of the night before. Her stomach rumbled, and recalling
the bits of pork pie she had left on her plate, she wished she had not been
quite so fastidious.
Wiping
her hands on her skirt, she emerged from the spreading branches of the mulberry
into the sunshine. It was one of those rare days that seem spawned in paradise,
with golden light filtering over the countryside and all of nature as in tune
as a symphony.
"Fiddlesticks,”
Summer muttered resentfully at the world in general.
She
could see the front door of the inn from where she stood. Horses milled about in
the yard, steam blowing from their nostrils and tails whisking in the air, and
people came out of the inn well-fed and content, ready to resume their
journeys.
It
was hard for a young woman who had been gently bred and reared, existing in
luxurious surroundings all her life, to watch with an empty stomach and dirty
face as those fortunate enough to be well-fed and clean went about their
business. Summer sighed and perched on the top of the wall ridging the river
below.
Swinging
her feet, she banged the heels of her fraying slippers against the stone wall,
her hands folded tightly in her lap. She had nowhere to go. She had no money.
Her only hope was to return to the port of London and pray that the Sea
Dancer had not yet sailed.
Ridiculous
that passenger ships sailed from one port and cargo from another. Why weren’t
the ports closer together?
Straightening,
Summer dragged her thoughts back to her present predicament. She was truly in
dire need. All she could think to do was clean herself up as best she could,
then approach a decent-looking person with her sad tale and a plea for help.
Summer
peered ruefully down at her clothes and soiled hands. "Well,” she murmured,
"it’s the cold river for you, my girl.”
Cautiously,
she edged her way along the stone wall furred with moss and lichen, until she
found a spot close enough to the water to allow her to lean over without
falling in. Pulling herself to the top of the stones, she balanced
precariously. Her skirts hung over the edge, and she drew them up; her white
stockings were stained, her pumps muddy. If she could just dampen her feet the
slightest bit, she could wash the mud from her flimsy shoes.
The
stones scraped her palms, and she felt shaky as she drew her legs up under her
and poised, trembling, on the wall. She poked one foot out toward the water.
"Hold,
lass,” came a strong male voice, startling her. The stones were wet and
slippery; to her dismay, she felt herself sliding from the wall toward the
flowing river currents.
"Hold,
lassie,” came the voice again, closer this time and commanding. "Dinna jump!”
Summer
could have replied that she had no intention of doing anything so foolish, but
she was busily occupied with trying to keep her balance. A small, frightened
shriek burst from her throat as she felt herself falling; she clenched her
teeth together and braced for the cold splash that would greet her.
The
splash didn’t come.
Instead,
hands gripped her by the skirt just before she teetered over the edge, holding
her as she swung wildly. Glancing around, intending to grab at her rescuer,
Summer instead found herself fighting him. It was the dark-haired,
dangerous-looking man from the common room in the inn, the rogue who had stared
at her for so long, had watched her purse...
"You,”
she managed to gasp out, eluding his efforts to haul her back over the wall to
safety. "Thief! Robber!”
Instead
of appearing angry or worried that she’d recognized him, the man laughed. His
dark eyes glittered, and he flashed a cocky grin. He held her easily when she
tried to avoid his reaching hands.
Panting
with fear, Summer kicked out at him with one foot, but it put her too much off
balance. She heard the rip of material and felt the gathering rush of a fall,
then heard the man’s rough curse as he tried to grab her.
It
should have been easy for him to hold her, yet when he tried to adjust for the
shift of balance, he lost his own. Summer pitched forward and felt her would-be
rescuer go with her, over the stone wall and into the swift, cold waters of the
rain-swollen river.
It
wasn’t very deep, but it was deep enough to thoroughly drench them both.
Floundering about, trying to scream for help, Summer choked on the fast-moving
water, her hands slapping helplessly against it. Oh, why hadn’t she ever
learned to swim? If she could just find her footing, she could make it to the
side... Summer’s slick-soled slippers skidded from under her,
and she plunged beneath the water’s surface again, choking as dark water
swirled over her head.
Dimly,
she heard someone snapping at her to "Close yer mouth before ye bloody well
drown,” and felt a hand snag a fistful of her hair and lift her, still choking
and sputtering, from the water. Then she was hauled unceremoniously onto the
muddy bank, coughing.
She
coughed until her rib cage ached; water seeped from her nose and dripped into
her eyes. Flopping back miserably, she lay gasping for breath, her eyes closed.
"D’ye
think ye’re a bloody mermaid?” a voice growled at her from only a few inches
away, and Summer opened her eyes to glare up at her rescuer.
His
straight brow was drawn down into a furious scowl, and his jet-black hair was
plastered close to his skull; he looked even more dangerous. She shuddered and
closed her eyes again.
"No,”
she choked weakly. "I can’t swim.”
"The
devil ye say. Then I guess ye were just thirsty. Wha’ were ye about, lass,
jumping in the water if ye canna swim?” the irritated voice demanded. "Were ye
tryin’ to drown yerself?”
Her
eyes snapped open again, angrily this time. She was incensed that he would think
she meant to kill herself in a shallow river. "If I were trying to drown
myself, I believe I could do better than a ditch, with all of England
surrounded by ocean.”
Sitting
down and leaning back on his elbows, his clothes clinging to his body in wet,
uncomfortable folds, James Cameron allowed her a grudging grunt of
acknowledgment. He glanced at his wet clothes glumly. He should have known
better. The next young woman he saw poised on the edge of a stone wall and
bending over a river would go unrescued. There was no glory or gratitude in it,
that was certain.
It
was just that she’d looked so desperate from a distance. He had heard
what had happened to her, of course, when he’d come down for his breakfast.
Then he’d stepped outside to see the hapless female perched atop the stone
wall.
It
had occurred to him that she might do one of those inexplicable female things
that were inherently melodramatic and usually ineffective; gallant that he was,
he had hurried to her rescue and ended up in the river with her.
There
had been an expression of intense concentration on her small, fierce face that
had convinced him of her grim determination at the time. Now she just looked
like a half-drowned kitten. An enraged kitten, at that.
She
sat in a puddle of wet clothes and pale stringy hair that dripped ceaselessly
into her eyes, and she glowered at him as if it were his fault she was wet.
"How do you expect me to get any help now,” she demanded angrily, "when I look
like a goose caught in the rain? No one will want to come near me.”
"If
you’d just keep your mouth shut, you might get an offer from someone who’s
half-blind and addled to boot,” Cameron muttered as he rose to his feet. He
gazed down in disgust at his boots; when he moved his toes, he heard a loud
squelching sound. His shirt was ruined; his coat was beyond hope. Only his
pants were reasonably serviceable, but they clung to the long muscles of his
legs like a second skin, outlining every portion of his lower body to the
discerning eye. His gaze swung back to the girl.
She
looked much the same as he; her muslin dress was smoothed over her curves and
almost transparent from the water. He noted that the thin material hid little
from his view, and he didn’t mind staring. She was slender. Her ivory skin
prickled with gooseflesh at the moment but looked as if it would be very soft
to the touch. She had a small waist, gently flaring hips, and her quivering
legs were long and well-formed. Not bad at all, he mused.
Jamie’s
gaze drifted again. Thin material did nothing to hide faint rosy nipples
tipping her round breasts, puckered from the chill water. His brow rose. What
perfect little breasts she had: small, firm, uptilted, and the tight crests
seemed to beg for the touch of his hand. Or lips.
A
happy smile slanted his mouth, and his gaze lifted to her widening eyes. She
stared at him with apprehension, and her tongue flicked out in a feminine
gesture to moisten lips that were already wet.
There
was a strange look in her eyes, as if she didn’t know where to glance or what
to say. Jamie felt a familiar tightening in his groin, and he knew it would be
quickly evident in the tight, wet pants. Maybe it was better if she didn’t know
how easy it was to interest him. He knelt down, resting on his heels, his arms
crossed casually and braced over his knees.
"The
best thing to do under these circumstances,” he said calmly, "is to get dry
first. Then we can decide whose fault it was.”
Her
head tilted back, and her mouth quivered slightly as she said, "It was yours.
There’s no need to discuss it further.”
"Fine,”
he said lightly. "It was my fault. Now come with me, and we’ll put on dry
things.”
The
lass hung back with a miserable face. "I... I can’t. My money
was stolen last night, and the innkeeper—”
"I
know. Don’t worry about it. I think that under the circumstances, he’ll be most
amiable. I’m certain he’ll give you back your clothes, seeing as how you’re in
need.”
She
shook her head, and water droplets sprayed everywhere. "I don’t think so. He
was very annoyed when last I saw him.”
"We’re
old friends,” he assured her. "I’ll explain.”
She
stared at him narrowly. "Are you certain it was not you in my room last
night? I saw you watching me earlier.”
"Lass,
if it had been me in your room, I would not have been after your purse,”he said with a grin, "and I would not have left so quickly.”
A
pulse beat rapidly in her throat and her eyes widened, and he felt her
uncertainty all the way to his bones. She cannot be that innocent, he
thought, and for a moment only stared at her.
AS
HIS DARK, liquid gaze focused on her, Summer crossed her arms over her chest
and lifted her chin. Her heart thudded hard against her chest at the predatory
light in his eyes.
During
the weeks at sea, she had enjoyed just watching Garth from afar. She had
flushed the first time he’d stripped to the waist and climbed agilely up the
rigging. A fiery heat had suffused her face and neck with color and made her
throat tighten, and Garth had noticed her owl-eyed stare and sent her below
decks.
The
next time, she had managed to school her reaction more carefully.
Admittedly,
Summer had very little experience with men. She’d not been prepared for the
funny, tight feeling in her chest when she looked at Garth, or for the dreams
that had come to her in the night as she lay in her chaste bed, feeling curious
flushes in her body that she couldn’t explain. It was odd, how her body
frequently reacted in ways she’d never thought existed, as if it were rebelling
against all she had been taught. Like now, when this dark-eyed stranger looked
at her with knowing eyes, and her body became strangely hot.
It
was crudely evident from the tone of his voice and the flare in his eyes what
he meant. She might be innocent, but she had listened enough to other young
ladies to hear plenty of conjecture about what went on between men and women.
She had thought about it and thought about it and finally come to the private
conclusion that sex was something a man wanted that a woman merely endured, and
that sometimes it took only a few minutes, and sometimes all night. Whichever,
men never seemed to tire of doing it or talking about it, even in oblique ways,
such as this man was now doing.
She
swallowed the lump in her throat.
"Sir,
I find offense with that remark.” Her gaze was steady, half-defiant, half-wary.
"I am not what you may think. I am a decent woman who finds herself in a
difficult position at the moment.”
That
one black devil’s brow lifted slightly, and her rescuer favored her with a nod.
"My apologies if I have offended you, milady,” he said, sweeping her a bow
that was only half-mocking. "My offer still stands, if you wish to take it.” He
offered her his bent arm as if they were at an elegant ball and waited.
Sighing, Summer slipped her small-boned hand into the
crook of his arm, resting her fingers on the hard bulge of his muscle. She had
little choice. And perhaps this arrogant, brash man could be persuaded to help
her get back to the port of London.
