Forever Waiting (53 page)

“A bit frayed around the edges,” John chuckled, “but no worse for wear.” He introduced George to Michael.

“Did you get the bastard?”

“My father did,” John answered somberly.

The other coaches had also arrived, and their passengers spilled out, flooding the cobblestone drive, a clamoring crowd of family and friends.

Charmaine’s voice rose above the others as she issued a spate of orders to the servants who appeared at the doorway. “Travis, please take Father Michael’s luggage up to one of the guest rooms. Joseph, could you summon Dr. Hastings? Tell him I’d like him to check on John. Millie, would you take Marie and change her, then bring her to my bedroom. Cookie, could you brew a pot of coffee and prepare us a nice spread of food? Mrs. Faraday … ”

A great hush blanketed the terrace, save Charmaine’s authoritative voice.

“I told you,” Paul said to Frederic and John, “she’s in charge now.”

Charmaine swung round to face them. “And you—” she pointed to John “—up to bed!”

“I’m ready whenever you are, my Charm.”

George chortled, but Charmaine shook her head, choosing to ignore the ribald comment. “George, Father Michael, would you help him manage the stairs?”

In no time, John was in his room. She pulled down the coverlet of their bed. John winced as he sat and slowly drew his legs up and onto it. Suddenly, she was aware of the great effort he had exerted at the quay, remembering the pained expression he’d attempted to camouflage when he’d climbed into the carriage. “Now will you tell me what happened?”

“Blackford stabbed me in the side,” he grunted, releasing the breath of air he’d held. “My father got there just in time to keep him from doing worse.”

“I knew it!” she said, concern giving way to anger. “You
were
in danger!”

“It’s over now, Charmaine. Don’t be angry with me.”

“Why didn’t you write?”

“I
did
write—at least three or four letters.”

“I only received one—from Richmond!”

“I wrote twice from New York.”

His face contorted as he readjusted himself on the pillows, and her ire flagged. “Lie still,” she admonished, brushing the hair from his forehead and dabbing away beads of perspiration.

When she’d finished, he grasped her hand and drew it to his mouth, kissing it tenderly. “I missed you, Charmaine. I promise I’ll never leave you again.”

“You’d best remember that,” she warned, “because I intend to hold you to it.”

With a soft rap on the open door, Millie brought in the wailing Marie. “Thank you, Millie,” Charmaine said. “Please, close the door on your way out.”

John looked on in amusement as his wife reclined alongside him and unbuttoned her blouse, offering the greedy infant a large pink nipple. He drew an uneven breath, the quickening in his loins oblivious to his injury. His hungry eyes consumed every inch of her. “It might be a while before I can make love to you, my Charm,” he whispered, “but I long to do so right now.”

“I yearn for you, too,” she murmured, leaning over her daughter to steal a kiss from him. His hand cupped the back of her head, and he held her lips to his for a few moments longer.

When Marie was asleep and swaddled comfortably in her cradle, Charmaine turned back to the bed. John had fallen asleep as well, and she shook her head, alarmed by his weakened constitution. Rest was what he needed.

She closed the door quietly behind her, wondering if Joseph had returned with the doctor yet. Voices drew her to the dining room. She found all of her loved ones at the table: Joshua and Loretta, George and Mercedes, Rose, Yvette, and Jeannette, Michael, Paul, and Frederic. Her eyes met Frederic’s. He rose, and she went to him, wrapping her arms around him, laying her cheek against his chest.

“Thank you for bringing him home to me—alive.”

Frederic closed his eyes. “We have God to thank,” he murmured, “and the people who love my son. I didn’t realize how many they were.”

Marie was wailing, waking John with a start. He sat up in bed and looked into the bassinet. The babe was squirming, her face beet-red. He lifted her to his shoulder and rocked her gently, to no avail. His eyes traveled to the door, wondering why Charmaine hadn’t yet appeared.

Loretta heard Marie crying from the staircase. She’d left the large company in the drawing room, where Charmaine was entertaining the family. When the pulsating protests did not abate, she quickly went to the bedchamber and knocked. There was no answer, so she opened the door and stepped in to pacify the babe before she woke her convalescing father.

She found John sitting at the edge of the bed with Marie in his arms. He turned at the sound of her entrance, and his face dropped. “Not the milkmaid yet, Marie,” he soothed.

Loretta smiled and went to him. Marie was wriggling fiercely, working her way down his chest in search of a nipple.

“She was on my shoulder a moment ago,” he commented helplessly.

“She’s looking for her mama’s bosom,” Loretta supplied delicately.

“Well, she’s at the wrong address.”

Loretta chuckled. “Here, let me take her. She could be wet or soiled.” She lifted Marie from his arms, put a nose to her bottom, and sniffed.

John frowned. “Any other way to check?”

Loretta smiled again as she hastened toward the changing table in the adjoining chamber. “She needs her nappy changed.”

John followed her. Loretta laid the babe on the soft table. Marie immediately stopped crying. “She knows where she is,” John mused.

“They learn quickly,” Loretta replied, as she worked at the diaper pins.

Loretta changed Marie adeptly. Lifting her off the table, she offered her, clean and happy, to John. He took her into his arms. “You’re quite good at that,” he said.

“I’ve had a lot of experience—five boys.”

“How long do babies stay in those?” he asked, nodding toward the diapers.

“About two years, or a bit longer. It depends on the child.”

“You know, we don’t have any plans for that room you’re staying in. Are you sure you want to leave? Free room and board for two years, or a bit longer, depending … ”

“I would love to stay, but Joshua is anxious to get back to Virginia, and I miss my sons and grandchildren.” She eyed John pensively. “I trust you are back for good, Mr. Duvoisin?”

“Yes, I am, Mrs. Harrington. I had a score that needed to be settled. It has been, and I’m not going anywhere now.”

Somewhat satisfied, Loretta pressed on. “Charmaine is the daughter I never had, Mr. Duvoisin. I want her to be happy. I love her, you know.”

“Not as much as I do, Mrs. Harrington.”

Loretta nodded, reassured by the declaration and his apparent sincerity.

“If Charmaine is your daughter, that makes me your son-in-law,” John continued. “So why don’t you call me John? That is, if your husband will have it. I believe he has some other names for me.”

Loretta laughed heartily; this man was quick and quite irreverent. No wonder her mild-mannered husband didn’t like him. “Very well. As long as you call me Loretta.”

Rebecca closed the door to the cottage and leaned back into it. She was home, but it offered no security. She closed her eyes for a moment, hoping the spinning room would settle, certain the floorboards below her feet rocked like the ship. When the wave of nausea ebbed, she headed listlessly toward her bedroom. She would remove her beautiful dress and never wear it again.

The door banged open behind her, causing her to jump, and Wade strode into the room, eyes furious, jaw set. He slammed the door behind him, and Rebecca flinched. “Where the hell have you been?” he growled.

There was no point in lying. “On board the
Tempest
,” she whispered.

He swore under his breath, eyes raking her from head to toe. “You little slut!” he blazed, satisfied by the pain he read on her face. But she raised her chin a notch, and he struck out again. “Are you his mistress now?” When she frowned in confusion, he pressed on in disgust. “Those fine clothes must have bought a great deal.”

She looked down at the lovely gown, blinking back tears. Without a word, she walked toward her bedroom.

Wade charged across the kitchen and blocked her path, swatting away her hand as she reached for the doorknob. “Damn it, Rebecca! Answer me! How could you have done this to me—to yourself? That’s what we ran from—why we stowed away! We’ve built a new life here. How will we face our friends now? Doesn’t that matter to you?” When still she refused to respond, he ran his hands through his hair. “It matters to me!”

“I’m glad they’re more important to you than I am!” she sobbed. Unable to bear his abuse any longer, she shoved him out of her way and pushed into her room. Slamming the door shut, she fell facedown on her bed and wept.

Paul entered his bedchamber and breathed a sigh of relief. It had been an exhausting three weeks, and he was glad to be back home, in his own room and in his own bed. But as he sat down to pull off his boots and unbutton his shirt, he felt forlorn, the empty room, desolate. Tired as he was, he pushed off the bed and walked out onto the balcony.

Rebecca Remmen
,
what are you doing tonight?

He hadn’t seen her slip off the
Tempest
. Then again, he’d been preoccupied with helping his brother and making the arrangements to get everyone home. During the nine-day voyage from New York to Charmantes he had guarded his silence, speaking very little to her to bolster his stowaway story and protect her honor, even though he had tarnished it. Everyone on the ship had accepted his explanation, seemed to believe him, though John had raised a dubious brow.

Paul wondered over his own deception. When he feared his brother was dead, he’d had a reason to pretend disinterest in Rebecca, but now he was free to court her. So why hadn’t he done so? There was nothing stopping him from bringing her home to his bed tonight. His heart thundered in his ears as he relived the heady memory of her naked in his arms, inexperienced, yet meeting his ardor with uninhibited carnal zeal.

But Rebecca wanted more than his bed. She wanted to be his wife, wanted his love. Was marriage to her so intolerable? No, he realized without trepidation. He would savor making love to her each night, would be content to claim that right. He had thought of little else the last eighteen days—since the night of their unbridled union. Never had a woman obsessed him so, not even Charmaine. Even if Rebecca ignored him, he would enjoy having her here if only to look at her. He admired her stubbornness, and he burned to tame her. But mostly, he longed to hold her, to comfort her, to make her happy.

Tomorrow, he would visit her, just to see her again, to be intoxicated. Finally, he was able to settle into bed, and after a while, sleep.

Diabolical dreams beset him, fragmented visions of Rebecca running frantically through a sinister forest with hooded fiends close on her heels, dogs barking and tracking her down. She was crying, calling for him, and his heart raced. He awoke in a cold sweat and jumped up.

The consuming need to know she was all right spurred him to action. In less than ten minutes, he was dressed and in the stable saddling a confused Alabaster. He thanked the gods the night sky was clear and the moon bright. It was nearly one o’clock in the morning when he rode down the deserted dirt road and stopped in front of the Remmen cottage. A soft glow spilled out of the kitchen window. Someone was still awake. He tied Alabaster to the picket fence, strode up to the small porch, and rapped on the door.

Wade was drunk and scowled darkly at him. “What the hell do you want?”

“May I come in?”

“No,” he growled, his words slurred, “you may not come in!”

“I would like to see Rebecca,” Paul pressed.

Wade’s wicked laugh ended in a hiccup. “Of course you would,” he sneered sarcastically, astounded by the man’s imperious gall. “She’s only seventeen years old! If you think I’m going to stand back while you satisfy your lust on her, you’d better think twice! You just try to step into this house—you just try to touch her—and I swear I’ll break your goddamn neck!”

“You’re drunk,” Paul said softly, disheartened Rebecca had told her brother about them.

“You’re damned right I’m drunk!” he cried. “How do you think I felt this afternoon when my sister stepped off that ship, dressed in the most elegant gown a rich man’s money could buy? What do you think everyone else was thinking? She disappeared for three weeks, and suddenly, she’s back? They all know she’s a whore now—
your whore!”

Paul’s blood boiled, but he knew Wade was right. Many were at the landing stage today; surely they had come to the same conclusion. And the dress! Paul had only longed to make her happy. Now he realized he’d unconsciously wanted everyone to know she belonged to him, the gown an emblem of his desire. But in so doing, he had exposed her to public censure, Wade a harbinger of the castigation yet to come. Fleetingly, he thought of Yvette and Jeannette, and what his reaction would be under similar circumstances.
I’ d throttle the bastard!

“I want to speak with Rebecca,” he insisted.

“And I told you to go to hell!” Wade snarled.