A Brother's Honor (15 page)

He opened the smaller gate and looked at her. It did not matter that they were not standing face-to-face. The fires in his determined eyes seared her. This was the expression worn by the inimitable Captain St. Clair when he commanded the
Republic
and the seas. He would not be defeated by anything. Not by his enemies, not by the storm, not by the ship exploding.

Slowly he raised his hand. She said nothing as she went to place her fingers in it. He might have vowed not to be defeated, but she sensed his disquiet. Was it the same as what flooded her to be in this place again when they had struggled so hard to flee from it?

“Thank you,” Dominic said quietly.

“Thank you? For what?”

“For standing beside me now,
chérie.
” He took a deep breath and released it as he gazed at the stones that were being scoured by the sea wind's constant battering. “It takes a braver man than I to face what waits within this stone wall.”

“You are afraid of graves?”

“Afraid that I shall never forgive myself for not foreseeing the disaster that left my men dead.” He sighed as he went to where the grass had been shoveled aside. Dropping to his knee, he patted the overturned earth and sighed. “Now they lie here beneath English soil, unmarked and unmourned, save by me.”

Abigail's eyes grew wide as she looked from his stern face to the newest graves in the cemetery. Biting her lip, she wondered if her father's crew was buried here, too. Her heart cramped as she thought of Cookie and how he had saved her life by giving her warning to leave the ship. In the past few days, she had not thought of him at all as she struggled to help Dominic reach London and to keep Dominic from luring her into his arms.

“How did you know they were here?” she whispered.

He put his hand on her shoulder as he heaved himself to his feet. Leaning on the silver-tipped walking stick, he sighed. “Where else would they be? The villagers took the bodies from the sand. You saw that, too, although you said nothing to me of it at the time.”

“I did not want to distress you.” She shivered. “I had feared that the sea had reclaimed them.”

“No. The villagers were kind enough to take them and bring them here for a decent burial. Of course, they had no idea where the corpses belonged.”

“Do you?” asked a deeper voice from behind them.

Abigail whirled to see a tall man who appeared as broad as the church. His clothes and hair were the same funereal shade, save for his reversed, white collar. When Dominic put his hand on her arm, she wanted to tell him that he need not warn her about speaking carelessly. She had no idea what to say.

“Do we what?” Dominic smiled and held out his other hand. “Are you the reverend here?”

“Yes. I am Mr. Hallock,” he said, shaking Dominic's hand. “Do you know where these corpses belong?”

“They belong to the crew of the ship that we sailed on.” Dominic glanced at Abigail, then back at the minister. “We may have been the only survivors when it exploded offshore here after we were sent far off course by a storm.”

“It was horrible,” Abigail said, knowing she must say something. “As you can see, Dominic was hurt. He has to depend on a cane to help him walk now, but both of us are healing.” She did not have to feign the sob that bubbled up from her heart as she looked at the unmarked graves, wondering again which one held Cookie's corpse. “We are so grateful for what was done here, Mr. Hallock.”

“Yes.” Dominic drew a small bag from beneath his coat and pressed it into the minister's hand. “Please see that those who helped with the burials are compensated for their work.”

“You are very generous, sir,” the minister said, clearly amazed at the offer.

“We are simply very grateful to be alive.” He smiled at Abigail.

She could not smile in return. Where had Dominic gotten that bag that clicked with coins? She wanted to ask him, but she could not when the minister would hear the question.

“Would you like to join me in the parsonage?” Mr. Hallock asked. “It is nearly time for tea.”

“Thank you, but no,” Abigail replied quickly. This was too uncomfortable, and she did not want Dominic agreeing simply to gather more information about the coast. “We need to return to Sudley Hall posthaste.”

“Sudley Hall?” The minister appraised them anew.

“We are Lady Sudley's guests,” Dominic said, his smile never wavering.

“Are you the gentleman who rescued Lady Sudley's youngsters from that highwayman?” He did not give Dominic a chance to answer. “I pray that you have persuaded him to perpetrate his crimes elsewhere. We have had a rash of robberies here lately. Small things missing. A pie or a few eggs. It appears the cur has taken to greater crimes than what he had before.”

Abigail hoped her wide-brimmed bonnet would hide any hint of the color she knew must be flashing up her cheeks. When Dominic drew her hand within his arm and bade the minister a good day, she was sure she said something, but she could not recall the words after they had left her lips.

As Dominic handed her into the carriage, Abigail sat and stared straight ahead. She did not shift her eyes even when he sat beside her, closed the door, and slapped the carriage to signal the coachman to return them to Sudley Hall.

His arm around her shoulders turned her toward him. “I borrowed the money in that bag from Lady Sudley.”

“Oh.”

“To pay for markers for the graves. I did not want them to go unnoted in this land they hated so desperately.” He sighed as he had by the graves.

“But you told Mr. Hallock to give the money—”

“I thought dividing it among the villagers would ease your distress in the wake of your brief career as a thief.” He cocked an eyebrow at her. “And neither your father's crew nor mine cares if there is a stone over their heads.”

Abigail opened her mouth to reply, but a sob erupted from her. She buried her face against his waistcoat. The tears she had not cried in the cemetery raced down her face.

“
Chérie
, do not weep,” he whispered against her bonnet.

“How can I not?” she answered as softly. “Cookie saved my life, and now he is dead.”

“He did not die because of you, but because of his loyalty to a man who did not deserve it.”

She raised her head. “What do you know of my father or of Cookie or of anything? Cookie was a gentle, amusing man who was my friend. He was no adventurer, seeking great wealth on the sea.” Her voice broke. “He went to sea as a youngster, but this was supposed to be his last voyage before he retired and married his sweetheart whom he always called Widow White.”

“You cared for him more than you do for your father, didn't you?”

“I came to know Cookie much better. Father was always busy with sailing the ship.” She stared at a button in the middle of Dominic's waistcoat. “Cookie took time to listen to my concerns, no matter how trivial. I shall miss him for as long as I live.”

“As I shall my men. They were good men. Loyal as your Cookie was. Brave and unwilling to back down even when death faced them.” His finger tipped her chin back. “Like you,
chérie.
”

“Like you, Dominic.”

“Who would have guessed that we could find something in common when we have so much that is at odds?”

She was amazed when she could smile. “That is not the only thing we have in common.”

“No, it isn't.” He circled her face with his hands, tilting her head back so her bonnet slipped off her hair.

He drew her to him as his mouth claimed hers. She gripped his arms, yearning for them around her as she softened against him. When he lifted his lips from hers, she murmured a protest.

He needed no further invitation, and she tasted sweet, desperate passion on his mouth. Her pulse throbbed with the yearning to be a part of him, to melt to him like a wax candle in the midday sun. His mouth touched her hair, her cheeks, her mouth, bringing each to life with the magic of his touch. She lost herself in the powerful heat of his embrace. Combing her fingers up through his hair, she ceded herself to her longing to be in his arms.

Splaying her hands across his back, she whispered, “By week's end, we shall be in London. Then we can leave England.”

“It may not be quite that quick.” He chuckled. “I have to get word to
La Chanson
and work out a place to meet.”

“And then we will leave.”

“We?”

Abigail slid out of his arms as a sudden icy flood surged through her. “Nothing has changed, has it? You are still Dominic St. Clair, pirate and freebooter who cares only for his ship. You can barely wait to return to your life of killing my countrymen.”

“I have told you that my life is my ship.”

“How simple it is to complicate your life only with something that will never have a chance to ask more of you than you wish to give.”

He clasped her shoulders and scowled. “You know that is not true,
chérie
. You have complicated my life in so many ways.” His tongue traced her lips before he whispered against her ear, “I might have halted your father's crew from committing suicide if I had paid more attention to the battle and less to my anxiety about what would happen to you if we were defeated.”

“I am sorry to be so intrusive in your heinous life on the sea.” She wrenched herself away from him. Settling her bonnet back on her mussed hair, she folded her hands primly in her lap.

“
Chérie.
”

When she did not answer, his finger gently turned her face back toward him. She knew he could see the tears filling her eyes anew because he shook his head before saying, “Mayhap it would be better if we concentrated on what we do not have in common rather than what we do.”

“Yes,” she answered, although she feared he would not hear her answer over the crystalline shattering of her heart.

“Enemies who must work together to escape a mutual enemy,” he said, his gaze not releasing hers.

“Yes.”

“Enemies and comrades.”

“Yes.”

He turned to look out the other window, and she clenched her hands until her fingers ached. Everything he had said made sense. Everything he said she knew was the right thing to do. Nothing had changed, so why had her mind amended his words to
enemies and lovers?

Chapter Eleven

The sound would have woken Dominic even if he had been sleeping. He had been lying in his dark room, staring at the underside of the wooden canopy of his bed, and trying to sleep when the thunderstorm first rumbled up out of the west.

Then he heard the scream.

He leaped from the bed, paying no attention to the twinge in his ankle on his first step and how it grew into a serrated knife by the time he reached the connecting door between his room and Abigail's. He threw it open.

From out of the darkness, something flung itself at him. He recoiled, then realized the slender arms were Abigail's. He reached for her, but she slid to the floor, her arms about his waist, her face pressed to his bare abdomen. The heat of her tears washed along his skin, but he could only think of the soft warmth of her ragged breath and how she pressed so enticingly against him. Above the modest neckline of her linen nightgown, the curve of her breasts brushed his legs. Each of his muscles grew taut as she turned her face against his stomach, her moist mouth and cheeks sending liquid flame to every inch of his body.

He struggled not to press her back onto the rug and lose himself deep within her softness. His fingers trembled as he stroked her hair that had fallen free to drape across her shoulders.

“Abigail?” he whispered.

“The darkness!” she moaned. “It is smothering me. Help me escape the darkness.”

When he turned to light a lamp, her arms tightened on him.

“Do not leave me,” she begged.

As he looked down at Abigail, who still clung to him, he wondered if he would ever be able to breathe again. In the thin light pouring through the windows, her hair flowed in a river along her back, pooling on the pristine white of her unadorned nightgown. Intriguing shadows of her slim legs drew his gaze toward her bare toes. Knowing what he risked, he stroked her silken hair again.

She tilted her face back, and he was mesmerized by the raw desire in her eyes. Her fingers glided along him in an eager invitation to share that passion. He struggled to bridle his reaction to her bewitching touch. To take advantage of this situation when she was so obviously distressed …

He captured her face in his hands and brushed his mouth over hers. The luscious pulse of her uneven breath swirled into him. A low moan floated from her when he took her earlobe between his teeth before the tip of his tongue traced each whorl. Fire flared within him, an uncontrollable blaze. As he found her mouth once more, the flame cascaded along him, scorching away every thought but of her bewitching touch.

He gasped when she came to her feet and her lips swept across his cheek, his nose, his chin, the swift throb in his throat, leaving scintillating sparks. When her tongue teased the shockingly sensitive skin of his eyelids, he twisted his fingers through her hair. He sizzled with a craving to taste her soft skin.

With a groan, he brought her mouth back to bis. This time, he threw aside gentleness as he gave himself to the craving to sample each pleasure waiting for him. His tongue sought to explore every shadowed secret of her mouth. Its slick warmth seared him to his very soul.

Lightning flashed, and thunder resonated through the room.

Through Abigail's head, sweeping away every bit of rapture with the power of the storm's winds, came a memory from her childhood. “Aunt Velma!” she had screamed with every ounce of her terror. Then her aunt had come to comfort her. Where was that comfort now?

Another peal of thunder rang through the night's black blanket. It threatened to consume her in inescapable fear. Hands caught her shoulders. Lightning burned into her eyes, blinding her.