Pirate's Bride (Liberty's Ladies) (48 page)

Jealousy, tempered with pain, ate away at her.

As she headed into the yard, she mumbled, “Only a few more minutes, Emmie Gray, and then the Dove will steal him away from you.”

Before reaching the stables, she pulled off the mask, not willing to endanger young Amos’s life with her secret. Seconds later, she mounted her horse and nodded to the loyal stable boy.

“Mayfair is a fine horse,” the boy said, and patted the taupe-colored filly’s nose. “But you be careful riding at night like this. Your friend who lent her horse to you may blame me if you get hurt or lost. Or worse.”

His concern touched her, and she assured him she’d be fine. Cantering out of the barn, she felt grateful to Cynthia for allowing her to borrow Mayfair. Cynthia practically doted on the animal, but when Bethlyn expressed her need of a horse, Cynthia hadn’t hesitated though Edgecomb had a stable of fine horse flesh. Bethlyn admired Cynthia for not probing. She hated to lie to her but she couldn’t tell her about her plans tonight or admit that she needed a different horse because Ian would recognize a mount from Edgecomb.

The ride to Simpson House was easily accomplished this time because there was no snow. When the house loomed in front of her, she felt uneasy, but she pushed onward and finally halted at the rear. She tethered Mayfair to a hitching post and carefully replaced her mask.

Glancing around, the full moon illuminated the surroundings. She didn’t see Ian, and grew apprehensive that he may have decided not to come. But one of the French doors to the parlor blew gently in the cold night breeze and pulled her attention to the interior. A glowing candle beckoned to her, and through the thin lace curtains she made out the tall muscular frame of Captain Hawk.

Entering through the doors, she waited, the light casting flickering shadows across the black-clothed figure and the equally dark hawk-shaped mask. It had been a long while since she’d stood in the presence of Captain Hawk, and she somehow forgot that Hawk and Ian were the same man. All she knew was that the pulse at the base of her throat thrummed like a kitten’s purr and her body tingled in his presence, a perverse reminder of all those nights she’d spent in Hawk’s arms. For a split second, she longed to throw herself into his embrace but resisted. To him, she wasn’t the woman he’d thought was a prostitute or the woman he called his wife. She was a stranger and must remember this.

“You … you are Captain Hawk.” Purposely she lowered her voice to a husky whisper, emulating Hawk’s vocal disguise.

“I am, and you are the Dove.” He made a slight bow, and gestured for her to take a seat on the divan while he seated himself across from her.

They sat in silence for a few moments, steadily perusing each other. Finally he shifted in his seat and a smile tipped the edges of his mouth.

“I’m sorry at the strange circumstances involving our meeting, but it is imperative I keep my identity secret.”

“I understand, Captain Hawk.”

“I’m certain you do now that your poetry is so popular. I heard today that many young lads are enlisting in our fight because of you. The British are less than pleased.”

Bethlyn clutched her throat, upset that nameless, faceless young men, probably no older than fourteen, were joining the colonial ranks because of her poetry. She felt responsible for pulling them away from their families at so tender an age to fight, possibly to be killed. The burden of being the Dove was becoming oppressive.

“You should be quite proud of your ability to stir men’s souls with your words. You have a rare gift,” she heard him say.

“It wasn’t my intention to cause children to leave their play for the battlefields, Captain Hawk.”

“I appreciate your concern, but nevertheless you are a driving force in our fight for independence. Tell me, why did you write your poetry? What caused you to honor the cause with your talent?”

Bethlyn swallowed, feeling a bit silly to be sitting here in this strange house and speaking to her own husband as if she didn’t know him. But what good would it do if she pulled off her wig and mask as she was sorely tempted and prove to him who she was? She’d only make him angry and more convinced than ever that she wasn’t to be trusted.

“Someone I love very much opened my eyes to the truth of the war. His cause became mine.” Your own cause, you infuriating man! she silently railed.

A long silence greeted her remark. After a while, she fidgeted under his direct and probing gaze. “I wish you’d say something. I don’t like being stared at.”

He cleared his throat, seeming to come out of a self-induced trance. “Pardon me, but I was thinking how very fortunate this man is to have you on his side.”

God help her, she wanted to cry! He hadn’t said anything so kind to her in a long time, but she quelled the urge by remembering that Ian didn’t realize he complimented his wife, but the Dove.

Rising quickly to her feet, Bethlyn clutched her riding crop in her hand. “I fear I must leave. The hour grows late.”

Ian rose and stepped nearer to her and gently lifted her chin to cradle it in his hand. “I should like to see you again.”

She nearly refused, but then she remembered her plan to bring Ian Briston to heel. When she spoke, her voice fanned his cheek like a seductive summer breeze. “Yes, Captain, I look forward to our next encounter.”

“Tomorrow night at midnight. Here. I eagerly await you, my Dove.”

My Dove! Heavens! Didn’t the man have a conscience?

But she flashed her most seductive smile and hurriedly left. During the ride home she ached to scream her frustration with Ian Briston and Captain Hawk, feeling the cries rise in her throat.

And finally she did.

~ ~ ~

The next afternoon Bethlyn poured tea for John Andre in the dining room. She was genuinely fond of Andre, but this fondness was tempered by her existence as the Dove. He regaled her with stories about how people claimed to know the Dove’s identity, and how harried and furious General Howe was over his inability to ferret out the poetess.

“I was charged to investigate the wife of a minister last week, because someone in the congregation saw her scribbling on a piece of paper. Turned out she was only writing a shopping list and the poor woman nearly fainted dead away at the sight of me. This hysteria is doing more harm than good, and in the long run the Dove will regret ever writing a word of poetry whether her identity is discovered or not.”

Bethlyn stirred her tea, deeply troubled by what John told her. “I fear you may be right, John,” she said after a few moments.

“I’ve news which may be of interest to you, Bethlyn. Do you recall that loutish Lieutenant Holmes, the one who couldn’t keep his eyes off of you at the Shippens’s soiree some months back?”

“Yes.”

“His body was found yesterday morning in an alley behind an ale house. Knifed through the heart and not a farthing on him.”

“How very distressing. Are there any clues as to who killed him? I never liked Lieutenant Holmes, but I do feel sad that he came to such an end.”

John shook his head. “No one saw anything or anybody suspicious. Probably murdered for his money by some desperate and hungry colonial.”

After John left, Bethlyn forgot about Lieutenant Holmes’s unfortunate demise. She had something else to think about today, namely the midnight tryst with Hawk.

~ ~ ~

She arrived at Simpson House earlier than usual that night, but the candles already glowed in the parlor, inviting her inside. The flickering candles bathed the parlor in a warm glow which grew warmer when Hawk presented her with a cup of sweet elderberry wine. The wine tasted delicious and made her think of Tansy Tolliver’s brew, which had undone poor Sparrow. Bethlyn chuckled at the memory, amused and a bit guilty for how they’d dealt with her bodyguard on Windhaven.

“I like your laugh,” Hawk complimented her. Bethlyn reddened beneath her mask. When she was alone with Hawk, she almost believed Ian Briston didn’t exist, but he did. Ian and Hawk were one and the same, separate identities which completed a whole man. And man he was. That she couldn’t forget no matter how she tried.

“Are you always so free with compliments, sir?” she asked somewhat flirtatiously, but her voice held a slight edge.

“I say only what is in my heart.”

Arrogant bounder! She turned away from his heated gaze on her so he wouldn’t see her pain, then faced him with a brilliant smile on her lips.

“It seems that you don’t wish to discuss politics tonight,” she said.

“By all means, madam, I do.” He’d been standing near the fireplace all of this time, but now he took a Chippendale ladderback chair and placed it before the divan where she sat. Straddling the chair, he folded his arms across the top rung and watched her in all seriousness. “Please tell me your views on the war, from the heart and not some political lip service everyone so freely spouts today.”

Taken aback, Bethlyn froze. What did he want her to say? She’d already expressed to him how she felt. She knew precious little about the war other than the reasons behind the fight, a fight she found herself supporting more and more each day.

“I … I , .. I feel the war was a long time in coming.” She inwardly cursed herself for stuttering, somehow finding her composure again. “America should have asserted her independence long ago rather than remain tied to a heartless and uncaring country.”

Ian nodded. “All true, but you mentioned that someone had changed your thinking. I profess that something else caused you to heed the cry of freedom. What might that have been?”

What did he want of her? She didn’t like the way this conversation was progressing. It was almost as if he wasn’t interested in her views as much as her personal life, or rather the Dove’s personal life. As much as she would like to ignore the question, she wouldn’t. She’d tell him flat out what had changed her mind.

“To put it simply, Captain Hawk, I like to think of myself as a bird, a dove, if you will. A creature who is totally free, unhindered by human bonds. In my life I’ve known many restrictions, and I feel people in America are different than Europeans. There’s a delightful wildness about them, they’re not afraid to try their wings and fly. Only people with an innate sense of self can dare to rebel against injustice. You are one of those people and must understand how I feel.”

“Yes,” he said softly. “I do understand. We’re very much alike, madam, more alike than I first realized.” Reaching out, he took the wine from her and kissed the inside of her wrist before his tongue swirled like a gentle mist on the sensitive flesh, tasting her and branding her as his.

Her silly heart pounded so hard that she was deafened. She ached to glance away from him, to pull her hand away, or make some sort of remark to still the sexual tension which suddenly oozed around them like red-hot lava from an erupting volcano. Feeling desire well within her wasn’t what she’d planned. Oh, she had wanted to entice him, to arouse him, but somehow the tables had turned and she found herself falling into a sensuous trap of her own making, because she was weak where Ian Briston was concerned. Weak and too aroused to resist him.

Her jealousy and all of the reasons for coming here fled when he rose from the chair and willed her to her feet with his piercing gaze. Her will was gone. He held her spellbound as he had done from the first moment she saw him on the
Black Falcon
. Nothing mattered at that moment, nothing but having him love her again. And she didn’t care if the man who loved her was Captain Hawk or Ian or King George himself. She only knew that she couldn’t hate this man who slowly drew her to the fireplace and undressed her with such arousing skill that, as each piece of clothing slithered down her naked flesh to fall at her feet, she whimpered and clung to him, unaware that they both were still masked.

“Easy, my love,” he said, and undressed quickly. “Our need is great and will soon be replete.”

Lowering her to a layer of animal furs on the floor, he kissed her like a starving man, devouring her with his lips. His hands upon her naked flesh scorched her in their quest to reach and fondle the lush velvet mound of her womanhood.

Bethlyn’s arousal peaked, driving her into a frenzy of wanting when he placed his hard and throbbing shaft into her hand. She stroked him and knew she pleasured him by his husky moans in her ear.

Mind-shattering ecstasy was but a few strokes and touches away. She couldn’t wait a moment longer, her body craving his complete possession.

“I … I need … you now.” She could barely speak, but it didn’t matter because her body had already conveyed to him her desire.

Skillfully, he parted her legs and slid into her, plundering the soft satin folds of her body. The breath died in her throat. By instinct she arched towards him, clutching him to her, knowing that the end was near, regretting it and aching for it at the same time.

Glorious rapture for both of them came with a sudden powerful thrust. Nothing prepared her for the throbbing surge of his release or for the intense mind-drugging pleasure which washed over her, leaving her drained and suddenly defeated when he gathered her in his arms.

“Next time, my dove, we shall take our time. I promise I will bring you to heights of pleasure you can barely dream.”

She closed her eyes, blocking out the masked visage of Captain Hawk. She didn’t want to see him or the man behind the mask. A tear fell from the comer of her eye and dribbled down her cheek to land on the fur beneath her.