Paxton and the Gypsy Blade (47 page)

“I's hearin' horses,” Portia said. “That's a sure 'nough carriage comin' for ya. Now, girl, ya mind yo' papa an' be nice to that man,” she urged, understanding her mistress's independent ways.

Gazing out her bedroom window, Colleen could no longer see the ship. Perhaps it was so close it had already slipped into the far side of Brandborough Bay and out of view. But how could she know that Jason was aboard? She began to doubt. Where was the melody? The thundering sound of hooves had muffled the song. The music was lost, and Colleen sat there, angry at herself, confused by her ties of sentiment and loyalty, irritated at the fact that her escort-to-be was a preposterous prig and profoundly boring. For a while, a note of defiance rang through her head. Instead of completing her preparations and tending to the application of her perfumes and modest jewelry, she excused Portia and thanked her for the help. For the next several moments, Colleen sat motionless, all the while knowing that Buckley Somerset was waiting, all the while wishing that the lost melody would somehow return.

Buckley Somerset's wig, snow white in contrast to his deep olive complexion, had been fashioned in London. He sat in his ornate carriage—crafted in Paris and assembled in Charleston—and inspected the lay of the land rolling by. Much of the land he'd driven through was his, even though, of the three Somerset holdings in South Carolina, his four-section plantation was the most modest. Marble Manor, overseen by his father and lying halfway between Brandborough and Charleston, was considerably larger, and Somerset itself, certainly one of the half dozen or so most grandiose plantations in the South, belonged to his grandparents and sat just outside Charleston. Yet Buckley couldn't complain. The time was rapidly approaching when he'd control all three.

Buckley rode at peace with himself and with his place in a world that had been made for him and men of his class and station. As if God himself had planned it, the usually drab drive was actually pleasant. The horses moved swiftly and easily along the path. High above him, hanging on the thermals over the coastline, an eagle soared majestically to remind him of his own aristocratic heritage. Even the swamp itself, which for much of the year exuded an odor of putrid humidity, had been turned sweet-smelling by the grace of spring.

Buckley was a handsome man, in his own demanding way. His eyes were a fierce gun-metal gray, his face unusually, aggressively masculine. His strong features—large lips, even teeth, jutting chin, and sweeping eyebrows were contradicted only by a noticeable, badly healed break in the bridge of his nose, which, from time to time, he touched out of nervous habit.

It was a strange passion he felt for the simple country girl, Colleen, Buckley reflected, and one he was hard put to explain. There were other women, dozens, in fact, who flirted freely with him and offered him their most succulent treasures for the mere asking. His appetite was large and he'd indulged himself freely. At twenty-six, he'd tasted a wide variety of female fare, from ladies of breeding to bawdy beauties in houses of ill repute. Why, then, was he obsessed with this daughter of a Scottish doctor? Why Colleen McClagan? Her breasts weren't large. She eschewed the fashions of the day and dressed rather modestly. She spoke plainly and simply, with no attempt at wit or conversational brilliance. And yet …

And yet. Buckley had but to close his eyes in order to see her standing before him like a recurring dream he couldn't shake no matter how many other women he took. Her long, shining blond hair and bright, amber eyes were alluring in the extreme. Her chasteness—and, he was sure, underlying sensuality—fascinated him and provoked him to wild fantasies. She moved with the sudden, enticing energy and fluid motion of a colt as yet unbroken. Neither frivolous nor cloying, as opposed to the silly women who threw themselves at him with their fawning flattery, she was mysteriously and deeply private, and no matter what presents he had given her or to what balls and outings he had escorted her, she held herself aloof from him. His pursuit of a woman he had yet to kiss was ironic, but his mind was set: he had to have her. Of all the women in the colony, it was his fate to want the one who showed the least interest in him.

The father was waiting on the porch as usual when the carriage pulled to a stop and the black coachman jumped down to open the door. “Wait here,” Buckley commanded, stepping down. “Good to see you again, McClagan. Colleen's ready, I trust?”

Roy glanced nervously behind him. “Almost, sir. Almost.” He gestured for his guest to enter, and followed hard on his heels. “No more than a minute. If you'd be so good as to come in, I assure you that my daughter will be ready in no time. Meanwhile, I trust you'll join me for a spot of sherry.”

There was nothing Buckley wanted less than to spend time drinking with McClagan. “I think not, than you,” he replied shortly.

“Of course. Of course,” Roy stammered. Flustered, he pushed a chair forward. “Perhaps you'll sit? I'm sure your trip—”

“I'll stand, thank you.”

“Of course. Exactly. Well!”

Spring had renewed the countryside, but not the interior of McClagan's house. Everywhere Buckley looked there was the usual dust and clutter, books strewn about, and, God save his soul, collections of bones and bottles filled with obscene-looking pieces of flesh. The place was quite simply appalling, and why the poor girl had chosen to remain there so long escaped him. Loyalty to her poor, cringing, cowering fool of a father, no doubt, as well as a lack of adequate contact with the better things of life. A faint smile played over his face. How much more loyal would she be to him, who could remove her from her distressing circumstances! How much more—

“Something … amusing, sir?” Roy ventured cautiously.

Buckley didn't like people interrupting his thoughts. “I beg your pardon?” he asked archly.

Roy blushed furiously, wished he'd had Portia clean up better, wished Colleen would appear, wished that he could think of something, anything, to say. “Well!” he virtually exploded, blurting out with false joviality the first thing that came to mind. “I understand that General Cornwallis himself was a guest at your house last week.”

Buckley smiled condescendingly. His black velvet suit and plum-colored crepe blouse spoke of wealth and impeccable taste. Standing several inches over six feet, he towered above the stoop-shouldered doctor. “Yes,” he drawled, “I'm afraid I trounced him rather severely at whist. But that's another story. Do you think you might suggest that she hurry along?”

“And may I suggest that that won't be necessary?”

Startled, both men looked around to see the very picture of beauty itself standing in the open door to her bedroom. Roy beamed with pride and heaved a sigh of relief. “Dear God!” Buckley exclaimed, inhaling sharply.

“Mr. Somerset,” Colleen said, curtseying shallowly, “welcome again to our humble home.”

Her walk was exquisite, her simplicity dazzling. The sight of her slender, graceful neck, the shape of her sensuous mouth, and the incredible amber of her eyes filled Buckley with wonder. His heart beating wildly, feeling as clumsy and awkward as a country bumpkin, he went to her and kissed her hand. “No house graced by your presence,” he murmured, “could ever be called humble.”

All was ready. Portia handed Colleen a veiled bonnet in case, later, the mosquitoes swarmed, then fetched a basket of fried chicken, cucumber-and-onion salad, and cinnamon rolls from the kitchen.

“You shouldn't have bothered,” Buckley said as Colleen passed it to him. “My servants have prepared a feast of pheasant for us.”

“But I prefer chicken, thank you,” Colleen said, knowing that her modest meal would irritate him. “Besides,” she added with a coquettish smile, “I must have a basket to be auctioned off.”

The prospect of being forced to participate in the rustic custom of luncheon auctions bored Buckley nearly to distraction, but he smiled gallantly and took her arm. “I can assure you,” he promised, “that I shan't be outbid. Good day, Doctor,” he added with a hint of a nod in Roy's direction.

“Papa,” Colleen murmured, kissing him good-bye.

“Be gracious,” Roy whispered in her ear. “And dare ye not discuss a word of politics,” he added as Buckley whisked her out the door.

The ship. Where is the ship? Where is the song?

Colleen sat well to her side of the carriage, listened without paying attention to what Buckley said, and made what she trusted were appropriate, if noncommittal, answers. The winding road took them from the McClagan property to the coast, where the rolling, bud-green farmland gave way to a series of flat, reedy marshes. For the mile south to the village of Brand-borough, the well-worn dirt coastal road, barely wide enough to hold the carriage, separated the marshes from the beach. Colleen breathed in the clean, tangly smell of salt water and looked beyond the sand dunes that rose out of the ocean like miniature islands. Her eyes swept the seascape for a sign of the ship, but it wasn't to be found. She struggled to bring herself back to reality, and to Buckley.

The picnic, to be held in a meadow a little over a mile south of Brandborough, would be amusing, she tried to convince herself as Buckley told her how his father's latest stroke meant that control of more than half of one of the South's mightiest business empires had effectively been passed on to him. His growing domain, however, was of no interest to Colleen. She was unimpressed by his fine clothes and his expensive, powdered, perfumed wig. She ignored his declarations of self-importance, and when he spoke of his ties to the British command and the signficance the Crown placed on Somerset loyalty, she held her tongue. And though she feigned interest, she couldn't keep her eyes from the great expanse of the ocean, nor could she stop searching for the long-awaited ship that she hoped bore Jason home to her.

“Drab business, these matters of property and state,” Buckley said laconically, “but necessary under the circumstances, for they concern another issue of great importance to me and, I trust, to you. Of course,” he said, sliding toward her and taking her hand, “tradition has it that the matter take the form of a question.”

He certainly hadn't wasted any time, Colleen thought. The question for her was: Should she tell him no immediately, or attempt to humor her father by telling him she'd consider it, and then turn him down later? Whichever she did, she hoped he'd get it over with quickly and move away from her, because his touch annoyed her as much as the political opinions he espoused.

“The question,” Buckley continued, absolutely certain that no woman, not even Colleen McClagan, could refuse his proposal, “has already been posed to your father, who was quite pleased by the prospect.”

Or
, Colleen thought, grasping at straws,
I could simply evade the question for as long as possible
. “When we arrive in town,” she said, flashing him her warmest smile, “do you think it would be possible to take a small detour and ride by the docks?”

“What?” Buckley asked, taken aback.

“I said, when—”

“I know what you said,” he snapped, irritated by the abrupt change of subject. “But for what purpose?”

“I spotted a ship approaching this morning, and since I've been expecting something important from London, I thought we could ride by to see if it's arrived.”

Buckley fumed inwardly, but forced himself to smile. She was such a child. A beautiful, willful, naïve child, totally beyond the temptation of property and station. How utterly refreshing! His heart filled and his head whirled. To think that one day, and soon, he would win her, carry her away as his bride … “Of course,” he acceded, patting her hand and then moving to sit across from her so he could see her face better. “It won't do any harm to pass by. But remember,” he added playfully, wagging a finger at her, “there's still that question …”

Dear God, but what kind of an idiot does he take me for? How is it possible for such preposterous buffoons to hold the high positions they do? Very well, fool. We shall see who plays this game best
.

“… and I don't intend to let the day get by without asking it.”

“Can't the questions wait, Buckley? Can't we just enjoy the ride along the sea? Don't you love the way the sandbars form such graceful designs, the way the sea oats bend in the breeze?”

Buckley couldn't have cared less about sandbars and sea oats, but the look on Colleen's face was another matter entirely. Content for the moment to feast on her beauty—his time would come, his time would come—he sat back and dreamed, as he so often had, of what their first night together would be like.

Home. Can it be true? My God, but I'd forgotten how beautiful this corner of the world is
.

The water was incredibly blue, the shoreline green beyond green. Brandborough had grown in the four years Jason had been gone. Six new buildings stretched the main street farther inland, and new houses had been added at either side. Horses and buggies and draymen's wagons clotted the waterfront, where his heart leaped in his throat—
No! No! It can't be!
—the British flag flew over the customs house.

The boatswain's pipe shrieked, a command rang through the air, and the anchor chain rumbled through the hawsehole. Aloft, the crew was busy reefing sails; below, a profusion of lighters nudged the
Shropshire
. Behind him, unheeded as he stared at the shore and waited for a ladder to be rigged, a fife and drum accompanied the measured tread of soldiers lining up in ranks preparatory to disembarkation.

“Jason Paxton! Down here, damn your eyes!”

Jason searched through the clot of small boats and spotted a barrel-chested man with one leg waving his hat at him. “Elton!” he called back. “How long does it take a fellow to get ashore around here? I've been on this tub for eight weeks. Must I wait eight more?”