Taming Charlotte (33 page)

Patrick levered himself to his feet again, this time more cautiously. “I will raise my son, and no one else,” he informed her.

“If that delusion is a consolation to you,” Charlotte replied obdurately, “then go ahead and cling to it.” With that, she turned to leave the room.

“Charlotte,” Patrick growled, his tone full of warning.

She did not pause until she’d reached the doorway. There, she turned to look back at him, and felt a painful tug in her heart, as ornery as he’d been, to see him looking so broken.

“What?” She deliberately gave the word a saucy twist.

“Do not walk away when I am speaking to you.”

Charlotte laughed, hoping Patrick hadn’t noticed the strain woven through the sound. “I am not your servant, Mr. Trevarren, nor am I your pet. If I find what you are saying unacceptable or insulting, I shall walk away without hesitation.”

At this, Patrick glared at her ominously and then bellowed
a curse word and slammed one fist down on the arm of his chair.

“Kindly control yourself, Patrick,” Charlotte scolded, speaking lightly and with impudence even though she was quaking inside. “You have no earthly right to vent your black moods on me.”

He glowered and Charlotte left the room, closing the door quietly behind her.

When he was alone, Patrick swore roundly. Here he was trying to do the best thing for Charlotte, as well as for their unborn child, and she was treating him like a villain. Damn it, couldn’t she see, after all that had happened, that it was a dangerous thing to be loved by Patrick Trevarren?

From the moment Charlotte had been dumped at his feet like a sack of potatoes, her perils had only increased. She’d nearly died in the desert, trying to escape Khalif’s good intentions, and lived through a pirate attack on board the
Enchantress.
After that had come the little adventure in the palace, when Ahmed had been freed from the dungeon by his friends and had been about to rape and kill her. And if those thrilling dramas hadn’t been enough, Charlotte had promptly become a passenger on a ship of death.

True, she had escaped the sickness herself, but that didn’t mean the tiny life within her had fared so well…

Sometimes death came before birth, instead of long after, and Patrick could not bear to think of his son or daughter suffering such a fate.

He rose and made his way slowly, awkwardly, toward the French doors leading out onto the terrace, still damnably weak from the fever. Jacoba had returned with a broom and dustpan, and she fussed as she swept up the snippings of dark hair from the floor, but she was an old and faithful retainer and she knew better than to harass him directly.

Patrick steadied himself against the thick stone railing and gazed out at the spot where the
Enchantress
had gone down with all the fiery glory of an ancient warship. He imagined her settling into the sand at the bottom of the bay, beginning to disintegrate, and once again pain lanced through him.

Such was the fate, he feared, of things and people he loved.

He waited until he knew Jacoba was gone, for he felt as though his skin had been stripped away, leaving every nerve exposed, and only solitude could save him.

Then, with the same shattering difficulty as before, Patrick returned to his room, sat down on the edge of his bed. From the drawer of his nightstand, he took a stack of pen-and-ink drawings, all Charlotte’s work.

A rueful smile lifted one side of his mouth as he looked at the profiles of Brigham Quade, of his beautiful wife, Lydia, of the winsome sister, Millie, of the uncle and the brothers and the cousins. They were strong and decent people; Charlotte would be safe with them, and so would the child.

Patrick set the pictures aside again and stretched out on his bed, too weary to sit up any longer. He put his hands behind his head and stared up at the ceiling, imagining himself sailing into Quade’s Harbor some sixteen years hence.

Charlotte would be no less beautiful than she was this very day, he reasoned. Her character, already something to be reckoned with, would be fully developed by a variety of experience, adding the special grace of maturity to her face and figure. His heart constricted, just to think of first seeing her after a long separation; the daydream was painfully real.

He broadened the vision in his mind to include a lovely daughter, with Charlotte’s golden eyes and, perhaps, his dark hair. The girl would naturally be spirited, and she’d have little use for a father who had sent money and presents from all over the world but never visited, he supposed. He winced to consider her youthful, idealistic scorn.

Maybe Charlotte would give him a son, instead.

Patrick pictured a handsome lad, broad in the shoulders as he was, and as the Quade men were. The boy would have Patrick’s own dark blue eyes, he decided, playing God, but Charlotte’s maple-colored hair. It was probably too much to hope that his son would be named for him, since Charlotte would surely hold the lad’s father in low regard from the moment of her exile.

He decided the boy would probably be called Quade, and he liked that. Quade Trevarren.

What would Quade think of his father, after growing up without him?

The idea made Patrick tighten his jaw. If the boy was worth his salt, he’d spit in Patrick’s eye and tell him to go straight to hell. His mind would be shaped by his grandfather and his uncles, not by the man who had sired him.

Maybe Charlotte was right, Patrick conceded miserably. Maybe it would be better if he just stayed away from Quade’s Harbor, and from his child, forever.

The prospect filled him with fresh despair, and he slept to escape it.

Charlotte went to the garden and cried until she’d vented her emotions. Then she sent Mary Catch-much-fish up to the master suite for her drawing pad and some pencils. The young woman brought the supplies to her promptly and said, “Mr. Captain, he be sleeping. His mind need rest to mend, that’s what Miss Jacoba say.”

Although she hadn’t asked for a report, Charlotte was pleased that Mary had taken it upon herself to offer one. Maybe, she thought, Patrick would change his mind about sending her away once he’d recovered from the lingering effects of the fever and the shock of having to sacrifice his beloved ship.

Yes.

He would surely realize, when he was better, that he and Charlotte were meant to be together, for always, whether on land or on the high seas. In time he’d understand that their child, whether boy or girl, needed them both.

She took her drawing paper and went back to the magical place farther along the shoreline where she had encountered the dolphin earlier.

The animal did not reappear, to her disappointment, but after a while Mathilda came and cozied up beside Charlotte, who was sitting comfortably on the rock, as if they’d always been the most intimate of friends.

Though Patrick’s rejection had bruised her heart sorely,
Charlotte couldn’t help being amused and uplifted by the monkey’s visit. When Mathilda kept trying to snatch away Charlotte’s pencil and paper, she finally gave her some of her own.

Mathilda was comical in her efforts to mimic Charlotte and draw a picture, and in spite of her heartache and confusion, the erstwhile Mrs. Trevarren was soon laughing so hard that tears came to her eyes.

That night, when the moon was high and Mathilda had long since disappeared into the foliage along the shore, Charlotte consumed a lonely, if delicious, dinner and then returned to the master bedroom.

She wasn’t sure why she made that choice, except that something inside wouldn’t allow her to abandon Patrick, even though that was clearly what he wanted.

In Charlotte’s heart, Captain Trevarren was her lifelong mate, if not her legal husband, and the fact that he’d fathered her child created a bond that could not be severed. She put on one of her own nightgowns, which Jacoba and Mary had boiled for her and dried in the afternoon sunshine, and pulled aside the thick netting to approach the bed.

Patrick was sleeping soundly, his head tilted back, his imposing chest bared to the moonlight. Even in his weakened state he looked so magnificent that Charlotte’s breath caught and she thought she would suffocate before she got it back again.

Gently Charlotte drew back the light covers and crawled into bed beside him. He was arrogant and impossible and bull-stubborn, it was true, and yet she seemed to love him more for his foibles rather than less. Her pride was intact, and so was her formidable sense of honor, and Charlotte felt no shame in loving this man who evidently did not love her in return, but only a deep, poignant sorrow.

He stirred but did not awaken, and Charlotte lay close to him, one arm resting protectively across his middle. In the morning, Patrick might well rant and rave and send her away again, but tonight she would take her rightful place beside him.

She was a long time drifting off to sleep, and in the depths of the night Patrick awakened her with leisurely, methodical kisses. When she responded, he mounted her, gently spreading her limbs with a motion of one leg,

“Charlotte,” he whispered, and the name contained a tangle of meaning. It was at once a plea, a reprimand, a surrender, and a challenge.

His strength was returning, he wanted her, and to Charlotte and her eager body, those things were cause enough for celebration. She ran her hands over the taut, damp flesh of his back and replied with an age-old invitation that required no words.

Patrick groaned and sought her entrance with his manhood.

Charlotte sighed and arched her back to receive him.

“I need you so much,” he said unwillingly as she took him smoothly inside her and held him captive for a long, delicious interval. He braced himself, pressing his hands into the mattress on either side of Charlotte, withdrew, and then slowly lunged.

Charlotte gave a soft sob of pleasure and welcome, for in this singular and private arena, Patrick was her master. She spoke to him quietly, eagerly, as he began to move upon her, inside her, encompassing her.

She threw her arms back over her head in utter surrender as her hips began to rise and fall under his, and she chanted his name over and over again, in an untamed litany.

She wanted to give Patrick everything she had, and take all he had to give, she wanted the loving to go on forever and to culminate in merciful satisfaction. She was contradiction itself, pitching under Patrick with wanton abandon and at the same time feeling certain she’d been transformed from a mortal woman to a favorite angel.

Charlotte was heaven’s own in those moments, and the long cry of release she gave when Patrick finally appeased her was also a prayer of passion.

His powerful body flexed against her a moment later, and he uttered a low shout as his essence spilled into her warm depths. When he’d spent himself, he collapsed beside her,
kissing her eyelids. He must have felt her tears, found their salty flavor on his lips, but he made no direct mention of them.

“Oh, Charlotte,” he said, with infinite sadness, “what are we going to do?”

She knew he didn’t expect an answer, and she didn’t have one to offer. She laid her hand on his hard stomach, still moist from their exertions, and caressed him in tender silence. Soon, sleep claimed them both.

The next morning, Charlotte awakened to find Patrick glowering at her, as grumpy as ever. He acted as if she’d spoiled his virtue or something, and she decided to punish him.

Boldly she took him into her hand.

She saw both desire and stubbornness battle in his face; he wanted to resist her seduction and yet his body was already surrendering, already welcoming the delicious discipline of her strong, nimble fingers. When she lowered her head to lash him with her tongue, he muttered a beleaguered curse and stiffened.

Charlotte looked up, saw his Adam’s apple climb his neck and descend again. His eyelids came down and he moaned her name, pleading, but she was not inclined toward mercy.

C
HARLOTTE LEFT PATRICK LYING DAZED IN HIS BED THAT
morning and matter-of-factly went into the next room to take her bath. Mary and Jacoba had washed and pressed more of her clothes, brought ashore before the
Enchantress
was set ablaze, and she put on a pretty dress of cambric embroidered with small pink flowers. Without so much as a glance in Patrick’s direction, she moved haughtily through the bedroom to stand on the terrace and brush her hair in the sunlight.

She could feel his impatience and irritation building, and she smiled when he finally shouted,
“Charlotte!”

She took her time responding to the summons. When Charlotte went to stand at the foot of Patrick’s bed, she was pinning her braided tresses into a coronet, her arms upraised for the task.

Patrick focused his eyes on her breasts, swallowed visibly, and then barked, “If you think what you just did to me is going to change my mind about sending you home to Quade’s Harbor, you’re wrong!”

Charlotte blushed. Pleasing Patrick in the way she had
was a particularly private matter, and she was embarrassed by his voluble reference to it. “I didn’t think any such thing,” she said. And it was true that she had not been scheming, but simply indulging an instinctive desire.