Chapter 9

James Drummond was drunk. He knew he was drunk because the floor of the tavern kept tilting at an impossible angle. He had broken his primary rule—don't drink alcohol for any reason. He wasn't sure why he had decided to break the rule, or exactly when he had made his way to the Mare's Nest and begun drinking. He wasn't sure if he was drinking to celebrate or to soften the pain.

He was certain only that today was Charity's wedding day. He had left Bold Venture with the intention of attending the ceremony. Instead of the church, he had come here and ordered a tankard of dark Haitian rum—rum strong enough to take the curl out of a Dutchman's beard.

Jamie surveyed the room through bleary eyes. He blinked as the rim of the pewter tankard banged against his front tooth. He ran exploring fingers across his numb lips. Some parts of his body seemed to be totally unconnected to the rest of him. He hiccupped and tried to stand. Nothing worked. The floor tilted, and he slid unceremoniously back into his chair.

"Here ye go, sir." A woman's face loomed in front of him. She seemed to be pouring something into his cup. "Drink up."

Jamie's head buzzed. What was the wench saying? He reached out and caught a strand of her tawny hair. It felt sticky."'S wrong color," he said. His finger caught in a tangle and the girl yelped.

"Let go o' me hair, ye sot!"

"Not the right color," he persisted. "S'posed to be like... like ripe wheat. An' soft... soft... soft as mornin' dew."

The dirty mobcap bobbed inches from his face. The blue eyes were as blank as glass. "Yer shilling, guv'nor! Must I call the 'keep?" Her breath was thick as a sheep's!

Jamie coughed and braced his weight against the table. He fumbled in his pocket for a few coins and dropped them down the front of her soiled bodice. "Go away," he ordered. She wasn't the one! Drunk as he was, he knew that much.

With a salty curse, she bounced away out of his line of vision. He tried to follow with his eyes, but it made him dizzy. He lifted the tankard in the general direction of his mouth. "Not the one," he mumbled to himself. "Not my Charity."

Charity was somewhere else today. Somewhere. He'd remember if he tried hard enough. Church. That was it. Charity had gone to church. But why? Why was she at church?

The rum burned his throat, and the fumes rose into his head and fueled the aching. You're drunk. You're supposed to be at the wedding! Charity's wedding! He wiped at his eye with the back of a hand, then looked at it in surprise. It was wet! It was raining in here! He held his hand out palm up to feel the rain.

His throat thickened, and tears welled up in his eyes. He remembered! It was her wedding day! Charity was marrying that old bastard, Richard Moreland. "No! Don't do it, darlin' !" The sound of his own voice surprised him, and he looked around the dim public room. He was alone.

Got to stop it! Can't let her ruin her life! Jamie's knees buckled like old leather as he tried to stand. "Charity?" He set his eyes on the door and forced his body almost erect. "Not gonna let her go through... through..." He swayed and would have fallen if he hadn't caught a scarred post with his left hand. The force of his motion carried him halfway around the upright.

His stomach turned upside down, and his feet slid out from under him. "Can't let you do it, Charity-Caroline," he murmured. "Not him!" His head fell forward on his chest, and the darkness overwhelmed him.

* * *

Charity's cheeks were waxen as Elizabeth handed her the bouquet of daisies and Queen Anne's lace. "Happy is the bride the sun shines on," she whispered. The sound of the rain on the cedar-shake roof of the church gave lie to her words.

Elizabeth forced a thin smile. "A little rain for luck my mother always said." She could not shake a dark feeling of foreboding. Richard had come to Widow's Endeavor, against her wishes, to take them to the church. Olivia was sitting in the family pew, sobbing like a new widow, and Charity moved like one in a trance. It was all Elizabeth could do to keep from fleeing the church herself.

Her cook had announced at breakfast that she was pregnant and Elizabeth must force Jamie's blacksmith to marry her. Maggie had a terrible cold, and Elizabeth's best hound bitch had broken a bone in her back paw.

Halfway to Oxford, Richard's carriage had thrown a wheel, and it had begun to rain buckets. The bride had finished her journey to the church riding pillion behind the groom on a driving horse. The hem of her gown was muddy, and the bottom half wet—the bodice saved only by Richard's best buff coat.

Harry was the only one in good spirits. He and Edith had come to Oxford the day before and were waiting at the church for the wedding party. They had soothed the Reverend Thornton and seated the guests—no easy job considering the extent of Olivia's hysteria. Elizabeth decided she needed only the church roof to collapse to make her day complete.

At last the clergyman gave the signal, Harry took Charity's arm, and bride and groom approached the chancel. A great gust of wind blew open the door; Olivia screamed and shouted something about the wrath of God. Charity swayed slightly, and Lord Beauford's arm went about her gallantly. Someone ran to the back of the church and closed the door, and the wedding proceeded.

Charity glanced sideways at the squire. His ruddy face seemed redder than ever. She could feel the angry stares of his children boring into her back. She stood a little straighter, acutely aware of her wet kid slippers and the trail of damp footprints she had made on the brick floor.

Charity let her mind wander back to her mother's marriage day. It had been a real wedding, though a bit hurried. Tom Brown had been sweet on Mam for ages, her being still young enough to not have lost her looks. When it had become evident that she was carrying his child, Tom had insisted they be wed. She'd thought her mother the most beautiful woman in the world that day, big belly or not.

Mam and Tom had been good for each other, and Tom Brown had been good to her. Charity was glad she'd found some happiness in her short life. Mam would approve of her union with Squire Moreland. Well, her head had ruled her heart, and now she must learn to like the pie of her own baking.

Richard began to cough, and the parson interrupted his prayer. "Are you all right, Squire Moreland?" he asked.

Charity studied his face with real concern. He was sweating, and his florid complexion had taken on a gray hue. "Richard?"

"Hmmmp! Hmmmp!" The squire cleared his throat and took a big gulp of air. "Nothing wrong," he assured them. "Quite all right, Reverend. Go on with the service."

The clergyman returned to his position and began the prayer again. Charity took Richard's arm as he went into another spasm of choking. He waved impatiently, and the minister continued.

"Caroline Smythe-Tarylton," he intoned solemnly. "Do you—"

There was a heavy thud as Squire Moreland fell facedown on the brick floor. Olivia screamed and Charity dropped to her knees and cradled her bridegroom's head in her lap. The parson stood woodenly, frozen to the spot, as the wedding guests rushed forward en masse. Elizabeth and Harry knelt beside Charity.

"He's dead," the older woman said. Charity began to murmur a silent prayer for his soul.

"Father!" William pushed his way through the crowd.

Harry shook his head. "He's gone, William. I'm sorry."

"He's dead?" Charles repeated. "Thank God."

Elizabeth glared up at him. "Are you heartless? He's not cold yet!"

"I said God would strike him," Olivia cried. "She's the cause!" She pointed an accusing finger at Charity. "She lured him into sin with her papist ways!" Olivia covered her face with her gloved hands and began to wail.

Gently closing Richard's sightless eyes, Charity let Lord Beauford assist her to her feet. It was all so unreal, like her nightmare. Richard was dead and his good-for-nothing sons were grinning like idiots. "May God forgive you all," she said, pulling back her skirts so they would not brush against Charles. "He was a better man than any of you shall ever be." Angrily she passed through the milling guests to the front of the church. She'd rather brave the rain outside than stay here with these hypocrites.

Elizabeth followed Charity into the vestibule. "Pay them no attention, child. They're fools, the lot of them." Awkwardly she gathered Charity into her arms. "I'm so sorry this had to happen. It's a terrible tragedy... terrible." Elizabeth drew back and stiffened her shoulders. "There are things that must be done. I'll have Harry and Edith take you home." Pain was etched in the lines and surfaces of Elizabeth's face, not for the dead Richard, but for the girl she had come to care for like her own blood.

Charity shook her head. "No. Please... I'd like to be alone for a little while. I can't bear to see anyone now, not even them." For an instant she caught Elizabeth's hand and squeezed hard. "I'll be all right," she assured her. "Really. I just need to think."

"Lady Deale!" The minister's plea was strained.

Elizabeth glanced back at Charity questioningly. "Are you certain, child?"

"Go ahead. Richard needs you now." Tears welled up in Charity's eyes as she fumbled for her cloak and stepped out into the rain.

* * *

Jamie's skull was a fiery ball of raging torment. He washed out his mouth with cold water from the well and poured the remainder of the bucket over his head. The rain felt good pelting through his clothes, washing away the smell of rum. He took his horse's reins from the stableboy, tossed him a copper, and swung up into the saddle. He'd do what he should have done this morning if he'd had the guts! He'd stop Charity from marrying Richard Moreland.

The distance from the tavern to the church wasn't far, but far enough for Jamie to clear his head. He was disgusted with himself for what he'd done. Getting drunk was a coward's way out, and he'd prided himself on never being a coward. A babe in skirts could outdrink him, and well he knew it.

"You're trouble, sweet Charity Brown," he murmured to himself, but his lips curved upward in a smile. She was a warm, loving armful... a woman who'd risked her own life for him. Charity Brown had the countenance of an angel and a tongue like a demon's pitchfork. He chuckled, remembering the soft feel of her curvaceous body pressed against his. "I'll not let you waste yourself on that old man," he promised.

Jamie took a deep breath of salt-tinged air. The rain-laden wind sobered him, and he rubbed at his aching forehead. Damn, but you're a fool! He'd been in the wrong when Charity had come to Bold Venture. He knew it now, and he'd known it then. If he'd told her how he felt about her instead of forcing a stupid argument... A growing fear rose within him. What if it was already too late to stop her? With an oath, he dug his heels into the black's side and the animal leaped forward.

Charity rounded the corner, head down against the beating rain, almost under the hooves of the stallion. The animal reared, a massive hoof nearly striking her face as she scrambled to safety. The rider yanked him around. Charity's foot slipped in the mud and she fell facedown, instinctively covering her head with her arms. The stallion screamed, rearing again, his eyes white with terror as he lost his footing on the slick surface and toppled backward.

Horse and rider fell with a sickening thud. The black thrashed wildly as he tried to regain his feet. Jamie rolled free and seized Charity, pulling her into his arms. "Charity? Are you hurt?"

"Jamie!" she cried.

"Are you all right?" His hands moved over her body, feeling for broken bones. "Did he strike you? Can you stand?"

"I'm all right," she sobbed, suddenly unable to stop shaking. "I'm... I'm fine... I..." Weeping, she clung to his sodden, muddy shirt. "Oh, Jamie, he's dead! Richard's dead."

Jamie tilted her face up to his gently. "Moreland's dead?"

She nodded, her throat too tight for words.

He kissed her dirty forehead as if she were a child and lifted her in his arms. "Don't try to talk now," he said. "Whatever it is can wait until we get you warm and dry. I thought I'd killed you." He caught the black's dangling reins and led him a few steps to see that he was uninjured, then sat her in the saddle and swung up behind.

Charity lay back against him, her mind a blank, conscious only of his soothing words.

"I'll take care of you now, honey. Not to worry. Jamie's here."

She closed her eyes, numb to the cold rain, oblivious of the curious stares of a passing farmer. The horse moved beneath them, his body warm between her thighs. Jamie would make it right. Jamie would take care of her. Exhaustion overcame her and she fell into a deep sleep.

It was still raining when Jamie carried her into a small cabin half-hidden in the trees. He laid her gently on a low bed, covered her with a blanket, and went back outside to tend his horse.

Charity's eyes flickered as the smell of something delicious teased her nose. She opened her eyes and stared around the unfamiliar room. It was small but richly furnished; open beams showed against the whitewashed ceiling. A fire burned on the brick hearth, the dancing flames cheerful against the evening shadows. A familiar figure knelt before the fire, stirring a bubbling copper kettle.

"Jamie?" Charity pushed back the soft blanket and started to sit up, then realized she was completely naked beneath the wool covering. "James Drummond! Where are my clothes?" She yanked the blanket to her chin and glared at him. "What have you done with me? What godforsaken place is this?"

He laughed, rising to face her. "This is the fox's den, love. You've been properly snatched and hidden away." He came to stand beside, her. "You were soaked to the skin, and I feared you'd take a fever. Your dress is drying, but I doubt if it will do for another wedding. I'm not much at playing washwoman. It seems beyond salvaging."

"Oh." Charity's eyes grew large in her face as she remembered the events of the day. "Oh... Richard. For an instant I forgot. You nearly ran me down with your horse."

"Aye. Quite a fright you gave him, too. He's not used to muddy apparitions dashing beneath his feet." Jamie grinned boyishly and sat on the bed beside her.

"Richard's dead." Charity's voice dropped to a whisper, and her lower lip trembled. "He died... right there at the altar. And... they said... they said it was my fault." Childlike eyes, full of hurt, stared into his. "It wasn't... was it?"

Jamie enfolded her in his arms, holding her tenderly, as though she were made of porcelain. "No, sweet," he murmured. "Of course not. How could it be your fault? What man would die and miss the comfort of your arms?"

"Oh, Jamie, it was so awful." She clung to him as he rocked her, taking refuge in his strength. "Hold me, Jamie. Just hold me," she begged.

"As long as you need me." A wave of protectiveness swept over him. What was it about this woman that made her different from all the rest? "Don't cry, sweet. It will be all right, I promise."

How long he held her like that, warm and soft in his arms, he never knew. He only knew it filled an emptiness he had believed would never be eased.

"This is not Bold Venture," she said, startling him out of his near trance. "Where are we?" Gently she twisted free from his arms.

"I told you, this is the fox's den." With a sigh, Jamie began to massage his cramped shoulder. He'd taken a slug there once, and holding it still for so long had brought on a muscle spasm.

"Are you all right?" Charity was suddenly aware that he was bare from the waist up. The firelight turned the russet of his curling hair to auburn and fueled the glowing mischief in his eyes. "Does it hurt?" Tenderly she fingered the old scar.

Jamie tilted his head to kiss her fingertips. "Would you care?"

"You know I would." She wiped at her eyes. "I'm sorry. I just couldn't..." The words caught in her throat. She could still feel his warm skin against hers... feel the safe, loved feeling of his embrace. "I shouldn't be here. Elizabeth will be looking for me."

His strong fingers caressed a stray lock of Charity's flaxen hair, trailing down to brush her bare shoulder, sending threads of hot tingling desire through her fevered body. "I sent Elizabeth a message. She knows you're safe."

"Am I?" Her voice was husky in the semidarkness. Her mouth was suddenly dry, her pulse pounding. Could he hear the loud beating of her heart?

Jamie leaned down and pressed his lips to hers. "Sweet Charity," he whispered. "This is your wedding night." Slowly he pulled back the blankets, revealing her trembling body. "Let me love you," he begged. His mouth sought hers hungrily and their kiss deepened.

Her lips parted and the tip of his tongue teased hers. Her arms tightened around his neck, pulling him ever closer. "Jamie... you'll be my undoing." Vaguely she was aware of the rustle of clothing as he slid beneath the blanket to lie close to her.

"Darling, I won't hurt you," he promised. "I won't do anything you don't want me to do."

Another long kiss, and Charity nestled against him languidly, letting the misty-warm enchantment seep through her mind and body. Right and wrong had no place here tonight. If she must pay for this hour, she would do it gladly.

Her head fitted naturally into the hollow of his shoulder; her hand explored the silky mat spreading across his muscular chest. Embers of heady intoxication took fire in her blood; she pressed wantonly against him, molding her flesh to his as their kisses grew more intense.

His mouth deserted hers and blazed a trail of moist, hot kisses down her pulsing throat and across the satin skin of her tumescent breasts. Charity drew a long shuddering breath as desire inflamed her arching body. Was this the act she had been avoiding all her life? This sweet, sweet agony? "Jamie," she whispered. "I've wanted you. God forgive me, but I've wanted to lie beside you and have you touch me like this... kiss me like this."

"And I've wanted you. Since the first minute I laid eyes on you." His fingers brushed her nipples lightly, teasing, caressing the swollen buds. "Do you want me to kiss them?" he moaned. Urgently she guided his head down to her breast.

A cry of joy escaped her lips as he took the nipple in his mouth, sucking gently, letting his hands slide over her shapely body to cup her rounded buttocks and mold her against his burning flesh.

"You were made for love," he said hoarsely. "For me, just for me."

"Oh, Jamie... Jamie, I love you!" she cried, nuzzling the warm mat of his chest, daring to tease the surface of his tight, male nipples with her darting tongue.

"I want to see you," he murmured. "All of you." Throwing back the blanket, he rose and gathered her in his arms, carrying her easily to lay her on the white wolf pelt before the fire. "You're beautiful," he said thickly. "Too beautiful to be real."

A faint sheen of moisture glistened on his shoulders as he bent over her to cup a full breast in his trembling hand.

Her answering laughter was low and warm. "I'm real enough," she promised, drawing him down to cover her naked body with his own.

The heat of the fire enveloped them; they were no longer two, but one. Charity strained to meet him as he entered her swiftly, and the brief pain was lost in growing waves of passion. The earth fell away as they rose together in a swirling, all-encompassing act of glory. And when she knew she must die from the joy of it, the glory culminated in a burst of falling stars...

His kisses on her eyelids were as soft as butterfly wings. She opened her eyes to stare dreamily into his. "So that's what it's like." Her lips curved upward in a shy smile, and she snuggled deeper into the thick pelt. "Was I... was I all right?" She blushed rosily. "For you, I mean?"

Jamie kissed the full lips tenderly. "I really was the first, wasn't I?"

She nodded. The glow in her eyes spoke volumes. "I'm glad it was you."

"I'm glad it was me too," he whispered.

Charity rolled over on her stomach and moistened her lips and the tip of her tongue as she inspected the room more carefully. "You still didn't tell me where we are," she insisted. The log room was solid but plain, making the elegant furnishings all the more puzzling. A fine walnut writing desk stood against one whitewashed wall. The chair with the carved feet was the equal of one she had seen at Lord Beauford's home.

Jamie leaned back and folded his arms over his chest. "I told you it was the fox's den," he teased. "You speak so easily of London intrigue, don't you recognize a smuggler's hideout when you see one?"

"But... this furniture... these things are so fine."

He laughed. "I'm glad you approve of my taste. Many things pass through my hands. Some I keep, some I use for a while before delivery. This"—he indicated the wolfskin they were lying on—"was meant for sale in Paris. It's worth more than you can possibly imagine on the right market."

"But you kept it."

"Maybe it appeals to my savage nature." Without warning, he pounced on her and they rolled over, laughing together, then kissing playfully. "Charity, Charity, I do love you," he admitted.

"How much?" she dared, reaching down to stroke his swelling member. Delicious sensations of desire teased her mind.

Could they repeat the experience so soon? "How much do you love me?" she repeated.

She did not need to ask again.

* * *

Three days and nights they remained at the cabin. For Charity there was no yesterday, no tomorrow... only the joy of this moment with the man she loved. They laughed and talked together as easily as children, slipping naturally into an intimate relationship... making love as though they were the first man and woman on the earth.

Only once did Charity bring reality to their secret place when she asked, "What will Elizabeth think of me?"

"Elizabeth keeps her own counsel. She has, no doubt, offered an excuse as to why you could not attend Moreland's funeral. You are probably prostrate with grief in your bedchamber." Jamie's eyes showed a flicker of amusement as he poured steaming tea from an elegant silver teapot. "Elizabeth is more than my partner, Charity. She is a true friend. She will make no judgments on our behavior."

Charity's hand trembled as she took the fragile saucer. "Richard Moreland was a good man. I should have been there."

His lips brushed her forehead. "You were fair to him in life. A man can ask no more. Will you deny yourself happiness?"

She leaned against him and sighed, conscious of his clean, male scent. His arms tightened around her. She was happy, happier than she had ever been. Why then was there a nagging voice of warning at the back of her brain? She rose and kissed him, pushing back the gray shadows of doubt. "It is beautiful here," she said.

The door stood open to the shady clearing before the cabin. Pine boughs hung nearly to the ground above soft green grass. Charity blushed. They had proved the softness of the grass at twilight. She had come back into the cabin looking like some woodland nymph, her hair full of pine needles, her gown stained further by the woodland floor.

Jamie had laughed at her distress arid produced yet another gown, fit more for the governor's ball in Williamsburg's palace than a hidden cabin in the wilderness.

"Have you no ordinary clothes?" she had protested.

"Not unless you'd care to be a boy again," he had leered archly. "Captain MacKenzie does favor a firm bottom in trousers."

She had thrown the rose satin gown at him, and they had ended upon the bed, minding neither the pine needles nor the bits of grass and bark.

Charity looked up into the eyes of the man who held her. Would she ever know him... truly? Could they bridge the gap between their worlds? He broke into her thoughts with a quiet statement.

"We must leave here at dark."

"To go home?" Was he taking her back to Elizabeth? A knot of tension filled her throat, and she tried to make her voice sound normal. "Is it necessary that we travel by night like brigands?"

"We're not going back. We're going to Philadelphia. I have business there, and you may as well come with me."

"Business? What kind of business?"

His eyes darkened, and the hint of tightness passed over his lips before he forced a grin. "Come now, Charity, where's your sense of adventure? You've never seen Philadelphia, have you?"

"No... but..."

"You'll love it. There's no better place in the Colonies for a honeymoon."

The knot tightened and she met his eyes with hopeful ones. If there would be a honeymoon, would there not first be a wedding?