Breathless from climbing the stairs after her new husband’s promised visit, Holly sank into the ever-welcoming rocking chair. Her hands clutched the wooden arms as if they were the only thing she dared cling to—something solid, familiar . . . and not Royce Kincade. She drew a shuddering breath even as her common sense chided her for a mix of anger and doubt that made no sense.
The man had married her. She had no right to feel uneasy. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t made his reason clear. At the vast cost of a merchant ship, Nick Black had purchased her respectability—using a ship’s captain who seemed so honest and forthright she would have sworn he’d never take the bait. And yet he had.
What nonsense! Captain Royce Kincade had sailed the world for Nick Black. He could not possibly be a saint.
Oof! The babe seemed as upset as she. That kick felt like a blow from a fist. No, ’twas more like a somersault. Holly squirmed, trying in vain to find a comfortable position.
You’d think it was all his fault, her inner voice taunted. The man’s just told you he’s made arrangements fit for a high-flying courtesan instead of the modest demands of a wife, and for some reason you’ve taken offense.
Holly huffed, more than ready for a battle with her better judgment. He was likely following Nick Black’s orders, she countered.
Now there’s a plumper if I ever heard one!
Holly heaved a sigh. She had to admit the thought of Captain Royce Kincade slavishly following Nick Black’s dictates simply didn’t fit his character. The captain had spoken to her with the cool authority of a man accustomed to giving orders, not taking them. In five days he would be leaving for Boston, he’d told her, followed by Charleston and several ports in the West Indies, before returning to London, probably not until spring of the following year. He would come to Boone Farm to say goodbye the night before he sailed. By that time he would have completed the financial arrangements needed to keep her and the babe in comfort, and he hoped to have word of a suitable cottage as well.
His words had been blunt, spoken crisply, though undoubtedly more gently than the tone he used on deck. Holly had no difficulty interpreting his unspoken message as well. The captain’s attitude had been all business, with no hint of emotion. The requirement of marriage to a pregnant courtesan accomplished, he was now free to practice his trade. Complete with whatever women he had stashed away in Boston, Charleston, Jamaica, and his other ports of call.
Well, perhaps not the last. In all likelihood the good captain was a Scots Presbyterian, brought up in as stiff-necked a religion as one could find. Oh yes, that was more like. Royce Kincade’s upright character mocked her, even as he gifted her with his charity, acquired his miserable ship, did his duty. Smiled softly while gritting his teeth. No wonder he was offering stability one moment and gone the next, leaving her to fend for herself. He might have accepted Nick Black’s offer, but the price must have included a sharp blow to his conscience.
She should be glad to be rid of him!
He’ll be leaving you with all the friends and funds you could possibly need.
Be silent! Holly spat at her inner voice. If I want to feel sorry for myself, I shall!
A tear slid down her cheek, dripped off her chin. She was in a house full of women who understood her fears, all of them now worse off than herself. She had stalwart friends and the support of Nick Black’s man of business. That she was sitting here whining, and big as a house, was nothing but her own fault. Her once lively mind seemed to have gone the way of her body, reduced to a heap of sluggish doubts and fears. Indulging in maudlin fantasies that benefitted no one.
Holly seized her wayward maunderings, reining them in with ruthless intensity. Eyes narrowed, lips firmed into a thin line, she fought to find the girl who had vowed to be the best wife a man ever had.
Hard to do when he’s thousands of miles away!
But he would be back, and then . . .
Holly’s hands flew to her mouth, her eyes went wide. What if he never came back? What if he and his precious ship were swallowed up by a hurricane? Taken by pirates?
Oh, dear God, not that. No matter how prideful, stiff-necked, and business-like the captain might be, she wanted him back. Had they not been joined by ancient ritual? He was hers.
The Venturer, Dockside, London
Head in his hands, elbows on his desk, Royce Kincade contemplated his sins. Every last one of them, from childhood misdeeds to women he should have shunned, from sailors to whom he should have been kinder to his crowning escapade of marrying a lightskirt and acquiring a ready-made family. His sister, he hoped, would be sympathetic, but if this revelation ever reached his Aunt Nell and his Gramma Hay . . . Hell and the devil! Stoic lowlanders they might be, but he feared the news would give them both an apoplexy.
He probably should have thought of that.
Without raising his head, Royce opened his eyes and glared at the letters he had just completed—the ones informing his closest relatives he had married a widow with a child. Well, by the time he returned, it would be true. Almost.
Royce straightened up, his gaze sweeping his cabin, illuminated by the light of the two overhead lanterns. His mind’s eye reached out to the foredeck, climbed the tallest mast to the crow’s-nest, where he viewed Venturer from prow to stern. His. All his.
Or would be in less than two years’ time.
And all because of a foolish girl who had not practiced the precautions she’d learned at the Aphrodite Academy. Oh yes, he hadn’t hesitated to find out all he could about his bride. He wasn’t that much of a fool. A tavern wench miraculously polished into a lady by the Baroness Rivenhall. Her child’s father, the scion of an enormously wealthy banking family.
Royce’s lips curled as he enjoyed a chuckle at the Everard family’s expense. Their wealth and prestige had not kept Charles Everard and his father from nearly pissing their pants when he paid them a visit accompanied by Nick Black. The amount of the hastily written bank draft had exceeded even Black’s expectations. For Royce, it meant the added boon of not having to pay out a penny of his own for the cottage Guy Fallon had finally found. Or for maintenance and the servants to staff it for years to come.
Astounding. His conscience might prick him as far as his family was concerned. But for what he was about to receive, he feared he would have stooped far lower than the price Nick Black demanded. Royce folded the letter to his Grandmother Hay, scrawled the address, then paused, wondering if he should write one more note before sending for the cabin boy, who would make a final run to the shipping office before they sailed on the early morning tide.
He had returned from Boone Farm not three hours ago. What more did he have to say?
Truthfully, he hadn’t said much. He’d given Holly the bank book for the account he had set up in her name, and he’d tried to describe the cottage on the fringes of Bloomsbury, north of the British Museum. Though farther from the docks than he might have liked, it was but a short carriage ride from her friends, Cecilia and Belle, who resided in Mayfair.
Yes, she should be pleased, though he was beginning to fear his wife was nothing more than a statue as cold and unbending as the ones Lord Elgin had shipped back from Greece. She had sat there, expressionless, murmuring aye or no without showing a flicker of emotion as he’d granted her carte blanche to hire whatever servants she felt she needed, and as he’d told her a bit more about Venturer’s ports of call. The only time she had displayed any emotion other than cool appreciation was when he mentioned the Triangle trade. She’d gone all wide-eyed and demanded to know if he carried slaves. Shocked, he’d assured her his voyages never went anywhere near Africa, and she’d seemed to relax. Odd though. He hadn’t expected her to have two thoughts to put together about the slave trade, politics, or any other serious concern. Perhaps there was more between her ears than he’d thought.
He had even remembered to offer reassurances about the ordeal she was about to face. All too many women did not survive childbirth—they both knew it. So when, with an unexpected flash of inner fire, she had asked for his promise to give the child a proper home even if she were no longer around, he, who had seen the caprice of death on all-too-many occasions, had blanched. And solemnly promised.
So what more was there to say? He had no idea how to address a letter to her anyway.
Dear Mrs. Kincade. Hell’s hounds! She really was.
Dear Wife. Even scarier.
Dear Holly. Better, though rather too familiar for someone he scarcely knew. But there really weren’t any choices left.
“Dear Holly,
“The opportunities to send letters are few and far between, but I will attempt to keep you informed of my whereabouts.” I wish . . . I pray . . . Royce paused, his fingers nearly crushing the quill as he sought the right words, settling for, “I trust all will go well with your lying-in. Do not forget to ask Guy Fallon for money if you should need more than I have provided.”
He frowned at the page. Was it possible for a man to be more impersonal in a letter to his wife? A wife he was about to leave for close on a year?
Wife.
He’d actually done it. Visions of his wedding day came flooding back.
Hadn’t she looked every bit the grand lady in that gown? Until the moment when she’d walked down the gap left between that odd assortment of chairs and even odder array of wedding guests, he hadn’t truly noticed how beautiful she was. Hadn’t understood how the poor drab creature he’d first met had ever been a courtesan of the first stare. Waves of shock mixing with flickers of anticipation had his wits so scrambled he almost missed repeating the first of his vows.
Beauty is skin deep. The old admonition nipped at his brain, bringing his soaring thoughts back to the reality of the moment. He, captain of the Venturer, was about to embark on a months-long voyage, while the courtesan, now his wife, gave birth to the child of another man.
There! That ought to be enough of a home truth to keep his flights of fancy in check.
But the nights ahead of him would be long and lonely. Surely a dream or two . . .
If he went down that road, by the time he returned he’d have transformed his wife into a angel. Which she most certainly was not. So he’d best be wary, keep his dreams in check, and count only on the solidity of Venturer’s deck beneath his feet. That, after all, was why he’d married a stranger big with child.
Nonetheless . . . he owed her a bit more than a roof over her head and financial security. Hell and the devil, he was responsible for her now. And for the child. He didn’t have to love her to care what happened to her.
Women died in childbirth.
A shiver rippled up his spine. Royce bent his head to the letter and wrote:
I doubt any ship will beat me to Boston, so send news of your safe delivery to Charleston. Use the address: Captain Royce Kincade, The Venturer, and send it in care of the Harbormaster, Charleston, Virginia, United States of America.
If you should care to write to me again, here is a list of my ports of call and the approximate dates I hope to be there, although the timing, I fear, is very much subject to change. Mother Nature can be exceedingly capricious.
A sharp rap on the door, and Thomas Blount’s round, wind-burned face drew his attention. “Writing a billy-do already, are you, Cap’n?”
“Go the devil.”
“Without a doubt,” Blount agreed cheerfully. “And envying you your bride every step of the way. A grand woman, Cap’n. You should be down on your knees giving thanks to God for such a beauty.”
“Handsome is as handsome does.” And where had his granny’s words popped out from? He didn’t mean it, truly he didn’t.
“Mind your tongue, laddie,” his First Mate growled. “You’re a better man than that. We all do what we must to stay alive.”
As he’d done to acquire Venturer for his own. Royce flinched, as if he’d taken a thrust from a knife. “If that’s all you have to say, Mr. Blount, you may leave.”
Thomas Blount’s lips curled, he shook his head. “I came to tell you all’s in order. We can ship out as soon as the tide turns.” He nodded toward the parchment lying on Royce’s desk. “Best finish the thing and send it off.”
Royce, ashamed of himself, waved his Mate away. Blount backed out, closing the door, very softly, behind him.
Royce re-read the list of ports he had penned, then . . . how to close? With a grimace, he rejected the common ‘Your obedient servant.” He had never been able to understand how any man could settle for such a weak-willed expression. ‘Your humble servant’ was even worse. He’d never be that to any man. Or woman. He might work for Nick Black, but never, by God, would he be anyone’s servant.
He settled for, “Your husband, Royce.” A small blob of ink marked the spot where he had almost written “Kincade,” before lifting his pen in the nick of time to avoid a formality between them that definitely needed to be breached.
Royce waved the closely written page in the air, hastening the drying of the ink, then quickly folded and sealed the letter, before bellowing for the cabin boy and sending him off with enough coins to ensure quick passage to Boone Farm. Fortunately, the postal system operated with as much efficiency as the British merchant fleet. Holly would have his letter in tomorrow afternoon’s mail.
Royce closed his eyes, leaned back in his chair. He might be surrounded by all the familiarity of the Venturer, but his life had made a monumental shift. The deck heaved beneath his feet, as if they were caught in the midst of a howling hurricane instead of safely moored to a dock in a crowded harbor cut into the banks of the Thames.
Hell and damnation! For the first time in his long career, the call of the sea failed him. Instead of the challenge of command and the merciless demands of Mother Nature, he saw only endless days and nights until he returned to explore the full extent of what Nick Black’s Machiavellian machinations had wrought.