Authors: Susan Carroll
"That is too good of you, Will, but you c-cannot put
back the memories." She sniffed. "All those times I spent with Papa
in the parlor and my old room—"
"You can never lose all that, Chloe. Those memories
will always be a part of you. But if you will let me, I want to give you new
ones, make Windhaven even grander than before."
"It can never be the same."
"But we can make it better."
"It could end up worse."
"But it could be better."
His stubborn insistence succeeded in coaxing a shaky laugh from
her. She raised her head to look at him. Her eyes still shimmered with tears,
but that dull look that had so frightened him was gone. It was definitely
Chloe's eyes that regarded him, shining with her own particular wistfulness,
that boundless supply of hope.
"Did you really mean what you said about caring for
me?" she asked. "I know I adore you, but that is the sort of absurd
thing I do, falling in love with someone so fast. You are far too
sensible."
"Yes, I am," Trent agreed. "That is why I am
about to do the most sensible thing I have ever done."
Cupping her chin, he slowly lowered his face to hers.
Her eyes widened, but her lips parted, trembling with eagerness. Trent
paused for a heartbeat, taking time to savor the moment before he bent to
capture her lips, tasting of her sweetness for the very first time.
Lest he frighten her, he checked the turbulence of his own
emotions, making the kiss as gentle as possible. When he drew back, Chloe gave
a shuddering sigh.
"Oh, Will. I have never been kissed that way before. I
quite like it. Could you possibly do it again?"
Nothing loath to comply, he pulled her even tighter into his
embrace. Chloe flung her own arms about his neck, and this time their lips met
in a kiss that was not so gentle, but filled with a passion that shook Trent to
the core of his soul.
Fairly crushing her against him, he raised her off her feet,
burying his face in her hair.
"Chloe," he groaned. "We have so little time,
my love. I cannot even stay to marry you."
"It doesn't matter," she murmured, her breath warm
against his neck. "I'll wait for you to come back, Will. Even if it takes
forever."
"It will seem like forever," he said, then broke
off with an oath, sensing they were about to be intruded upon. Mr. Doughty
stood at the entrance to the garden, twisting his hat in his hands. The steward
did not look in the least surprised to find Chloe in the captain's arms, but
Trent eased her gently from him. She blushed deeply when she saw Doughty, the
seaman giving her a wink and a grin.
"Beg pardon fer interruptin', Cap'n," Doughty
said, wiping away his smile and coming to attention as he faced Will. "But
the coachman, sir. He be wonderin' if he should unhitch the horses or if ye
still mean to be leavin' soon."
Trent longed for nothing more than to send word for the
carriage to be fetched back to the stables. He sighed deeply, tucking Chloe's
arm firmly within his.
"Tell the coachman I shall be ready in ten
minutes."
"Very good, sir." Doughty gave a feeble imitation
of a salute. "And I suppose you'll be wantin' to have me clapped in
arms."
In truth, the problem Samuel Doughty posed was one Trent had
given little thought to during the past harrowing hours. He regarded his
steward now in frowning perplexity. "I certainly should. I still would
like to know what the deuce brought you back here."
"I never actually left, Cap'n. I've been hiding out in
the old cow barn all this time. I knew there would be a hue and cry after me,
and I figured to just wait it out. I didn't think anyone would think to look
for me here at Windhaven."
He had been right about that, Trent thought with a grudging
admiration. Doughty always had been a most clever rogue.
"Then I realized the house was afire," Doughty
concluded. "What else could I do but sound the alarm? Leastwise, I am
powerful sorry for all the trouble I caused ye, Cap'n, and ready to take my
punishment like a man."
No one looked more penitent than Samuel P. Doughty. Trent
knew it was his duty to harden his heart against that woebegone face But how
could he also ignore the way Chloe was tugging against his sleeve, making great
pleading eyes at him?
Trent expelled his breath and swore. "Oh, get the devil
out of here, Doughty."
"Sir?" The big man gaped at him
"I never saw you come back," Trent said. "Now
get going before I change my mind."
Chloe emitted a happy cry and tugged him down to plant a
swift kiss upon his cheek, but Doughty, the great lumbering fool, just stood
there shuffling his feet.
"If it's all the same to you, sir, I'd rather not
desert. I've done a good deal of thinking about this. If you could somehow see
your way clear to pardoning me, I would like another chance."
It was Trent's turn to stare.
Doughty scratched his chin in thoughtful fashion.
"Smuggling just don't seem to have the same appeal it once did. And I'd be
lucky to find any of me old mates still about after that last raid."
"But what about your dear, gray-haired old mum?"
Chloe asked.
Doughty gave a sheepish grin. "Like as not, she'd break
a gin bottle over my head if I was ever to turn up on her doorstep again.
Besides, I been worrying about you, Cap'n."
"Me?" Trent said.
"Aye, what sort of scurvy knave would you end up with
as yer new steward? One as would likely muck up the job of polishing your brass
and not have the least notion how to disguise the taste of your salt pork when
it's been sitting in the barrel too long."
"That's very true," Trent said gravely. "He
probably wouldn't know how to whistle me up a wind either."
"So if you would mind not hanging me this time, Cap'n,
I'd be mighty grateful. Perhaps just a flogging or—"
"Whatever are you bothering me about, Mr.
Doughty?" Trent growled "By your own admission, you never left. Now
be about your business and see that my things—whatever is left of them—have
been bestowed aboard the carriage."
Chloe gave Trent's arm a fierce hug. Doughty stared at him,
and for a moment tears actually stood in the big man's eyes.
"Aye, aye, sir." He snapped off the smartest
salute he had ever given. He lumbered off to do Trent's bidding, breaking into
that familiar cheerful whistling.
Trent found he had actually missed the irritating sound. He
turned back to Chloe, who was beaming up at him, brimful of pride and
happiness. But her smile faded with the consciousness of how little time
remained to them. Trent would have drawn her into his arms, but she pulled
away, knowing one thing remained that she had to do.
Skittering back to the bench, she searched the bushes
frantically until she found her discarded statue of Saint Nicholas. Rushing
back to him, she pressed it into his hands.
"Here," she said. "I want you to have
this."
Will glanced down at the statue and protested. "No,
Chloe. This is the last gift your father ever gave you. I could not possibly
accept it."
"Oh yes, you must. I don't need it any longer."
Chloe fought back a fresh rush of tears, willing herself not to think of all
the dangers Will might face in the months ahead. "You will need the
protection of Saint Nicholas more than I."
Trent pulled her back into his arms. "I will need
nothing but the memory of your face, looking up at me this way. 'Tis enough to
bring any sailor home from the sea." He bestowed upon her another fierce
kiss, only breaking off to say anxiously, "You really will wait for me,
Chloe? Can you truly keep believing that no matter what, I will return to
you?"
"Oh, Will," she said, smiling and reaching up to
tenderly stroke his cheek, "keeping the faith is what I do best."
Epilogue
Christmas Eve, 1818
It seemed far too warm for Christmas. A gentle breeze sang
through the rigging of the merchant vessel Chloe where it rocked at anchor near
the harbor of Kingston, Jamaica.
The deck, normally bustling with activity, stood quiet in
the mid afternoon sunshine, a calm fraught with an air of expectancy and
breathless waiting. Mrs. William Trent experienced more difficulty than usual
in keeping her restless children from hanging over the side rail and tumbling
into the blue waters below.
Seated atop an empty rum barrel, Chloe balanced baby Horatio
on one knee, striving to think up yet another tale to keep her older two
offspring occupied. It was most difficult considering that they knew Mr.
Doughty would be returning from shore at any moment in the longboat. Marie and
young Will took a great interest in the cargo he would carry, which was sure to
contain sweetmeats and other mysteriously interesting packages.
In desperation, Chloe dredged up her statue of Saint
Nicholas to show them, although it was a struggle to keep Horatio from stuffing
it in his mouth, which was where everything went these days. Prying Saint
Nicholas loose from those chubby little hands, Chloe told of the legend her
father had woven for her on a Christmas Eve so long ago.
"And ever since the day Saint Nicholas gave each of
those three young ladies a bag of gold, he has evermore been considered the
protector of all maidens everywhere."
"And sailors, too. Doughty said so, Mama." Young
Will leaned up against Chloe's knee, his blue eyes gone dreamy. The boy
wholeheartedly embraced anything hinting of legend far more swiftly than he
learned his alphabet.
"Yes, that is right, Willie," Chloe said.
But Marie, ever her papa's daughter, folded her arms across
her chest. "Humph," she said with all the skepticism her
five-year-old voice could muster. "I don't see how one man could do all
that."
Flicking back one dark curl, she turned, preparing to
consult that ultimate authority aboard the Chloe. Captain Will Trent, late of
His Majesty's Royal Navy, came strolling across the quarterdeck. Even without
the glitter of his epaulets, Chloe thought fondly that her husband still
presented quite the striking figure, more handsome than ever.
"Papa!" With a happy shout, young Will launched
himself at Trent's legs. The captain took it in his stride, accustomed to
withstanding this onslaught with as much aplomb as he balanced upon a pitching
deck during a storm.
While Trent delighted his young son by scooping him up to
perch high onto his shoulder, Marie faced her father, hands planted on her
hips. "Captain! Mama has been telling us the most incredible story."
"What is it this time?" Trent asked with an
indulgent laugh.
"All about this magic Nicholas person. That he takes
care of sailors and ladies and everything. Do you believe such a thing can be
true, Papa?"
He met Chloe's eyes over the children's heads. His mouth
curved into that tender smile that ever had the power to make her heart stand
still.
"Oh yes, Marie," he said huskily. "It is all
quite true. Old Saint Nick performs his duties admirably well."
About the author:
Author Susan Carroll began her career in 1986, writing
historical romance and regencies, two of which were honored by Romance Writers
of America with the RITA award. She has written twenty six novels to date. Her
St. Leger series received much acclaim. The Bride Finder was honored with a
RITA for Best Paranormal Romance in 1999. Ms. Carroll launched a new series
with the publication of The Dark Queenl set during the turbulent days of the
French Renaissance. Ms. Carroll was born in Latrobe, Pa. She spent much of her
childhood in South Jersey where she graduated from Oakcrest High School in Mays
Landing. She attended college at Indiana University of Pennsylvania, where she
earned a B.A. in English with a minor in history. She currently resides in
Illinois.
Discover other titles by Susan Carroll in the Amazon Kindle
store
Masquerade
Rendezvous
Escapade
The Painted Veil
Winterbourne
If you enjoy reading books set during the Regency time
period, you might also like
Brighton
Road
,
an award winning
romantic comedy. Continue reading for a sample chapter:
Chapter One
Out of the mists he
came—his windswept hair darker than a raven's wing, the pulse at the base of
his throat throbbing with all the fury of the passionate blood coursing through
his veins. His scarlet-lined black cape swirled about his broad shoulders as he
reached out his arms to her. Even though the castle ruins loomed behind him,
even though its sinister shadow cast a blot upon the bright beauty of the moon,
Gwenda felt safe as she hurled herself into his strong embrace.
Lost in the depths of her dream, Miss Gwenda Mary Vickers
stirred upon the hard wooden settle in one of the White Hart's private parlors.
Her chestnut curls tumbled over her spencer, the folds of the rose-colored
jacket scrunched up to form a pillow. Gwenda clasped to her bosom the heavy
volume she had been attempting to read when she had fallen asleep. Hugging the
book tenderly, she mumbled, "Oh, Roderigo. Roderigo, my love."
His fingers, warm and
rugged, crooked beneath her chin, forcing Gwenda to look up at him. Even as she
did so, his features blurred, becoming obscured by the mists, but she sensed
the full curve of his lips drawing closer to her own.
With a low groan, Gwenda rolled over, still clutching the book.
Balanced precariously on the settle's edge, she moistened her lips in eager
anticipation of her dream lover's kiss.
His arms tightened
about her. He pulled her closer, ever closer. She could feel the heat of his
breath. His mouth was but a whisper away
—
Thud! Gwenda tumbled off the edge of the bench, landing hard
upon the inn's polished wooden floor. The fall jarred her instantly awake.
Gwenda sat bolt upright, shoving aside the heavy book that had somehow landed
on top of her. Before she could so much as draw breath, she heard a low whine,
and then a warm, rough tongue shot out, bathing the side of her face with
affectionate concern.
"Down, Bertie," Gwenda commanded firmly, thrusting
aside a large, lean dog, his glossy white coat spotted with black. She rubbed
her bruised hip and blinked, trying to get her bearings.
Her gaze traveled upward along the coaching prints set upon
stout oak walls, the fireplace swept clean of ash for the summer, the mantel
laden with plates and mugs of gleaming copper and pewter. From outside the open
window she could hear the clatter of iron-rimmed wheels and horses' hooves
announcing more arrivals and departures from the bustling inn yard.
She was in a private parlor of the White Hart. On the floor,
to be precise. She had been cooling her heels here for the past three hours,
ever since her carriage had snapped a brace a few miles outside the village of
Godstone Green. The Hart's congenial landlord had very kindly offered her a
book with which to pass the time. What was it now? Gwenda consulted the book's
title page. Daniell's travelogue,
Views
of the East
. Mr. Leatherbury's tastes in literature did not quite match her
own. Small wonder that she-had fallen asleep. Then she had begun to dream, only
to fall off the high-backed settle just as ...
Gwenda's green eyes darkened; her usually good-humored
countenance tensed into a scowl. Fending off further attempts of her dog to
console her, she heaved herself to her feet and plunked back down upon the
settle.
"Damn!" she muttered. Her brother, the most holy
Reverend Thorne Vickers, would have blanched with horror if he had heard her,
but Spotted Bert was far more forgiving of her vagaries. The dog merely cocked
his head to one side, arching a disreputable-looking ear that was much the worse
from too many encounters with ill-mannered cats.
"It is too provoking to be endured, Bertie," she
said. Bert emitted a sympathetic bark and thrust his head upon her lap. Gwenda
absently scratched him behind the ear. "I could have been in the throes of
the most hideous nightmare and I might have slumbered through the day
undisturbed. But let me be caught up in the most delicious of dreams and it
never fails. I always wake up at the best part."
Her hand stilled, coming to rest upon the dog's head. She sighed,
feeling bereft, as though she truly had been deprived of Count de Fiorelli's
kiss Although she could never bring his features clearly into focus, she knew
his name well. The Italian nobleman had appeared in far too many of her
fantasies, both sleeping and waking, besides having emerged as a character in
many of the novels she wrote for Minerva Press. He might have borne a different
name and title in both The Mysteries of Montesadoria and The Dark Hand at
Midnight, but he was still, as ever, her Roderigo: brooding, passionate, and
courageous.
Gwenda smiled at her own nonsense, ignoring Spotted Bert as
he nudged her hand with his cold nose, indicating his earnest desire that she
resume the scratching. Although she had been writing Gothic tales of love and
terror for the past three years, she would have stoutly denied she was a
romantic. Confirmed spinsters of one and twenty years were not supposed to give
rein to flights of fancy. But there was always one foolish corner of her heart
urging her to allow the bright colors of her imagination to splash over drab
reality. Even now she was tempted to stretch back out upon the bench, shut her
eyes tight and seek to recapture the dream. But experience had taught her that
that never worked. It was possible to drift, right back into nightmares, but
never dreams. She would have to content herself with falling back upon her
imagination.
But that was the difficulty Her imagination never balked at
conjuring what it would be like to have one's side skewered by a villain's
sword, but that soul-searing kiss always eluded her. Despite two broken
engagements, she had never experienced anything like it. Both Sir Jasper Pryor
and Marlon Lambert had been content to kiss her hand. Perhaps that was why she
had never married either one of them.
Only once had she ever been kissed upon the mouth by a man,
and that had been by her cousin Wilfred, the Christmastime she was fifteen. For
a wager, her youngest brother, Jack, had made Wilfred do it by holding a sword
to his back. With Wilfred's mouth so cold with fear, his hands clammy, his
embrace had reminded Gwenda of a dead mackerel.
She could have used that dream kiss to bring greater
authenticity to the romantic scenes in her books. But she could not spend the
rest of the day bemoaning it. She reached down to pat Bert but found him gone.
The animal's attention had been claimed by something he had spied through the
window. His entire body taut with anticipation, a low, joyous growl erupted
from Bert's throat. Gwenda recognized the sound only too well. It was a warning
the dog reserved especially for his feline enemies.
"Bert!" she said, attempting to collar the dog.
But it was too late. With a bunching of his powerful hindquarters, Spotted Bert
cleared the sill and bounded outside. Gwenda reached the window in time to see
a barking flash of black and white tearing between horses' legs in hot pursuit
of a caterwauling fluff of gray.
She started to shout but immediately recognized the futility
of the effort. Bert would not pay her the least heed. He would return when he
was ready, to lament fresh scratches or with his tail wagging with victory at
having forced his opponent to take refuge in a tree.
Gwenda scanned the crowded inn yard, hoping for some glimpse
of her own coachman bringing her the welcome intelligence that the carriage
would be ready soon for her to continue her trip to Brighton. Her family would
be expecting her by five at the house Papa had rented in the Royal Crescent,
and as matters now stood, it would be long after dark before she arrived,
especially since she saw no sign of Fitch or her footman.
The inn yard appeared in more of a state of confusion than
usual. A stage from London had just arrived, letting down its passengers for
their twenty minutes of rest and refreshment. Just behind them an elderly
gentleman was demanding a mug of ale and a change of horses for his post
chaise. But most of the uproar stemmed from a large party that had just rattled
into the yard, consisting of several carriages, a low perch phaeton, and some
young bucks on horseback, all obviously traveling together on some sort of
excursion. As the ladies were handed down from the coaches, waiters, ostlers,
and postboys flew in all directions to provide the Hart's customary lightning
service.
Even the host himself appeared harried. Mr. Leatherbury
combined the mannerisms of a jolly country squire with a brisk efficiency in
dealing with his guests. He mopped his cherubic countenance with a large
kerchief as he bent his rotund frame into a bow to a tall man wearing a
curly-brimmed beaver who alighted from the phaeton.
In the midst of such bustle, Gwenda feared that the landlord
had forgotten about the lady he had ushered into the private parlor hours
before. She thought of sending her maid to make inquiries about the progress of
repairs to her carriage, but as usual the pert French girl was nowhere to be
found. Colette was likely off flirting with one of the handsome young waiters
again.
Gwenda drew back from the window, eyeing with little
enthusiasm the book that lay discarded upon the floor. If she didn't want to
spend the rest of her afternoon absorbing more details about Indian mosques,
perhaps she had best go to check on the carriage herself.
Returning to the settle, she retrieved the spencer that had
served as her pillow and attempted to smooth out the rose velvet garment whose
pile had been sadly crushed. She shrugged herself into the short-waisted
jacket, then eased it over her traveling gown of dove-gray jaconet. She
buttoned the frog enclosure, noting with a grimace how the spencer appeared to
band tightly over the curve of her bosom, as all her apparel did.
Gwenda had oft heard herself described as "a handsome
figure of a lady." She had always supposed that meant she had a chin a
little too forthright for her to be considered beautiful, was too tall, and had
full breasts. Her mother was forever reminding her not to hunch her shoulders
forward. It was an old habit that had evolved from her youthful
self-consciousness over being buxom when her friends yet appeared boyishly
slender. Her mama had tried in vain to help Gwenda correct her posture.
"A general's granddaughter should always maintain a
proud military bearing," Prudence Vickers would remind her sternly. But
Mama, not quite so amply endowed, had no notion of how self-conscious one felt.
Those high-waisted clinging gowns that were now the fashion made Gwenda feel
like the figurehead on the prow of a ship.
Remembering her mother's admonishment, however, Gwenda did
try to straighten a little. Without benefit of a mirror, she attempted to fluff
some order into her wayward mass of curls, then headed for the door.
But she had not taken two steps when she realized she had
forgotten something. Rather guiltily, she glanced down to where her stockinged toes
peeked out from beneath the hem of her gown. It was another of her bad habits:
forever discarding her shoes, then forgetting where she had put them.
In the sparsely furnished inn parlor, it took her little
time to locate one of her Roman sandals by the settle. She sat down, then
slipped her foot into the soft blue leather, quickly crisscrossing the lacing
up her calf and tying it into a neat bow.
But the second sandal proved more elusive. She finally found
it dropped behind the fireplace andirons as though someone had sought to hide
it. She could well believe that
someone
had. Gwenda pursed her lips as she examined her footgear. The leather bore
signs of many teeth markings, and the damp, frayed lacing was nigh chewed
through. Now she knew how Spotted Bert had whiled away his time when she was
napping.
"Blast you, Bertie," she muttered as she sank down
on the settle, trying to figure out how she was going to wear the mangled
sandal. She had hoped the dog had finally outgrown his penchant for gnawing on
any unguarded shoes he could find. When the lacing broke off in her hand, she
stifled an oath of vexation just as she heard the parlor door open behind her.
Gwenda hoped it would prove to be the errant Colette.
Knowing that because of the settle's high back she could not be seen from the
door, she started to peer around the wooden side to make her presence known.
But instead of her maid it was the plump landlord who bustled in, saying,
"Right this way, Lord Ravenel, and I shall have some refreshments sent in
immediately."
To Gwenda's embarrassment, Mr. Leatherbury ushered in a
strange gentleman who was so tall he had to duck to avoid banging his head on
the oak lintel of the door. She shrank back behind the settle, quickly pulling
her skirts down.