"My duties be hanged. The papers are probably already being drawn up for my court-martial." Trent was keenly aware himself that he should already have been on his way to Portsmouth. But how could he ever just go and leave her in this fashion?
He continued, "My ship, the blasted navy, none of that matters just now. I suppose it doesn't even matter if you believe what I say. Whether you will it or no, Chloe Waverly, you have my love. When I am long gone from this place, I will have left my heart with you."
He reached out to stroke her hair, but she shrank away even from that feather-light touch. Despairing, he let his hand drop back to his side.
"Well, then," he said hoarsely, "I suppose it only remains to bid you farewell, my dear. God keep you."
Turning on his heel, he forced himself to walk away before he made a complete fool of himself. But he had not taken many steps when he heard a deep sob escape her.
"Will!"
He spun about eagerly when she called his name. Such a cry would have had the power to draw him back from many leagues farther than the short distance he had traveled. He made his way to her side in two long strides.
Tears flowing down her cheeks, Chloe rested one hand against his chest, tried to speak but couldn't. Yet no words were needed. His own heart quite full, Trent opened his arms, and she rushed into them. She buried her face against him, weeping down the front of his uniform while he pressed feverish kisses against the silky tangle of her curls.
"Everything is going to be all right, love, I promise you," he said. "I could not save Windhaven for you, but I swear I will build it up again."
"That is too good of you, Will, but you c-cannot put back the memories." She sniffed. "All those times I spent with Papa in the parlor and my old room—"
"You can never lose all that, Chloe. Those memories will always be a part of you. But if you will let me, I want to give you new ones, make Windhaven even grander than before."
"It can never be the same."
"But we can make it better."
"It could end up worse."
"But it could be better."
His stubborn insistence succeeded in coaxing a shaky laugh from her. She raised her head to look at him. Her eyes still shimmered with tears, but that dull look that had so frightened him was gone. It was definitely Chloe's eyes that regarded him, shining with her own particular wistfulness, that boundless supply of hope.
"Did you really mean what you said about caring for me?" she asked. "I know I adore you, but that is the sort of absurd thing I do, falling in love with someone so fast. You are far too sensible."
"Yes, I am," Trent agreed. "That is why I am about to do the most sensible thing I have ever done."
Cupping her chin, he slowly lowered his face to hers. Her eyes widened, but her lips parted, trembling with eagerness. Trent paused for a heartbeat, taking time to savor the moment before he bent to capture her lips, tasting of her sweetness for the very first time.
Lest he frighten her, he checked the turbulence of his own emotions, making the kiss as gentle as possible. When he drew back, Chloe gave a shuddering sigh.
"Oh, Will. I have never been kissed that way before. I quite like it. Could you possibly do it again?"
Nothing loath to comply, he pulled her even tighter into his embrace. Chloe flung her own arms about his neck, and this time their lips met in a kiss that was not so gentle, but filled with a passion that shook Trent to the core of his soul.
Fairly crushing her against him, he raised her off her feet, burying his face in her hair.
"Chloe," he groaned. "We have so little time, my love. I cannot even stay to marry you."
"It doesn't matter," she murmured, her breath warm against his neck. "I'll wait for you to come back, Will. Even if it takes forever."
"It will seem like forever," he said, then broke off with an oath, sensing they were about to be intruded upon. Mr. Doughty stood at the entrance to the garden, twisting his hat in his hands. The steward did not look in the least surprised to find Chloe in the captain's arms, but Trent eased her gently from him. She blushed deeply when she saw Doughty, the seaman giving her a wink and a grin.
"Beg pardon fer interruptin', Cap'n," Doughty said, wiping away his smile and coming to attention as he faced Will. "But the coachman, sir. He be wonderin' if he should unhitch the horses or if ye still mean to be leavin' soon."
Trent longed for nothing more than to send word for the carriage to be fetched back to the stables. He sighed deeply, tucking Chloe's arm firmly within his.
"Tell the coachman I shall be ready in ten minutes."
"Very good, sir." Doughty gave a feeble imitation of a salute. "And I suppose you'll be wantin' to have me clapped in arms."
In truth, the problem Samuel Doughty posed was one Trent had given little thought to during the past harrowing hours. He regarded his steward now in frowning perplexity. "I certainly should. I still would like to know what the deuce brought you back here."
"I never actually left, Cap'n. I've been hiding out in the old cow barn all this time. I knew there would be a hue and cry after me, and I figured to just wait it out. I didn't think anyone would think to look for me here at Windhaven."
He had been right about that, Trent thought with a grudging admiration. Doughty always had been a most clever rogue.
"Then I realized the house was afire," Doughty concluded. "What else could I do but sound the alarm? Leastwise, I am powerful sorry for all the trouble I caused ye, Cap'n, and ready to take my punishment like a man."
No one looked more penitent than Samuel P. Doughty. Trent knew it was his duty to harden his heart against that woebegone face But how could he also ignore the way Chloe was tugging against his sleeve, making great pleading eyes at him?
Trent expelled his breath and swore. "Oh, get the devil out of here, Doughty."
"Sir?" The big man gaped at him
"I never saw you come back," Trent said. "Now get going before I change my mind."
Chloe emitted a happy cry and tugged him down to plant a swift kiss upon his cheek, but Doughty, the great lumbering fool, just stood there shuffling his feet.
"If it's all the same to you, sir, I'd rather not desert. I've done a good deal of thinking about this. If you could somehow see your way clear to pardoning me, I would like another chance."
It was Trent's turn to stare.
Doughty scratched his chin in thoughtful fashion. "Smuggling just don't seem to have the same appeal it once did. And I'd be lucky to find any of me old mates still about after that last raid."
"But what about your dear, gray-haired old mum?" Chloe asked.
Doughty gave a sheepish grin. "Like as not, she'd break a gin bottle over my head if I was ever to turn up on her doorstep again. Besides, I been worrying about you, Cap'n."
"Me?" Trent said.
"Aye, what sort of scurvy knave would you end up with as yer new steward? One as would likely muck up the job of polishing your brass and not have the least notion how to disguise the taste of your salt pork when it's been sitting in the barrel too long."
"That's very true," Trent said gravely. "He probably wouldn't know how to whistle me up a wind either."
"So if you would mind not hanging me this time, Cap'n, I'd be mighty grateful. Perhaps just a flogging or—"
"Whatever are you bothering me about, Mr. Doughty?" Trent growled "By your own admission, you never left. Now be about your business and see that my things—whatever is left of them—have been bestowed aboard the carriage."
Chloe gave Trent's arm a fierce hug. Doughty stared at him, and for a moment tears actually stood in the big man's eyes.
"Aye, aye, sir." He snapped off the smartest salute he had ever given. He lumbered off to do Trent's bidding, breaking into that familiar cheerful whistling.
Trent found he had actually missed the irritating sound. He turned back to Chloe, who was beaming up at him, brimful of pride and happiness. But her smile faded with the consciousness of how little time remain
ed to them. Trent would have drawn her into his arms, but she pulled away, knowing one thing remained that she had to do.
Skittering back to the bench, she searched the bushes frantically until she found her discarded statue of Saint Nicholas. Rushing back to him, she pressed it into his hands.
"Here," she said. "I want you to have this."
Will glanced down at the statue and protested. "No, Chloe. This is the last gift your father ever gave you. I could not possibly accept it."
"Oh yes, you must. I don't need it any longer." Chloe fought back a fresh rush of tears, willing herself not to think of all the dangers Will might face in the months ahead. "You will need the protection of Saint Nicholas more than I."
Trent pulled her back into his arms. "I will need nothing but the memory of your face, looking up at me this way. 'Tis enough to bring any sailor home from the sea." He bestowed upon her another fierce kiss, only breaking off to say anxiously, "You really will wait for me, Chloe? Can you truly keep believing that no matter what, I will return to you?"
"Oh, Will," she said, smiling and reaching up to tenderly stroke his cheek, "keeping the faith is what I do best."
Epilogue
Christmas Eve, 1818
It seemed far too warm for Christmas. A gentle breeze sang through the rigging of the merchant vessel Chloe where it rocked at anchor near the harbor of Kingston, Jamaica.
The deck, normally bustling with activity, stood quiet in the mid afternoon sunshine, a calm fraught with an air of expectancy and breathless waiting. Mrs. William Trent experienced more difficulty than usual in keeping her restless children from hanging over the side rail and tumbling into the blue waters below.
Seated atop an empty rum barrel, Chloe balanced baby Horatio on one knee, striving to think up yet another tale to keep her older two offspring occupied. It was most difficult considering that they knew Mr. Doughty would be returning from shore at any moment in the longboat. Marie and young Will took a great interest in the cargo he would carry, which was sure to contain sweetmeats and other mysteriously interesting packages.
In desperation, Chloe dredged up her statue of Saint Nicholas to show them, although it was a struggle to keep Horatio from stuffing it in his mouth, which was where everything went these days. Prying Saint Nicholas loose from those chubby little hands, Chloe told of the legend her father had woven for her on a Christmas Eve so long ago.
"And ever since the day Saint Nicholas gave each of those three young ladies a bag of gold, he has evermore been considered the protector of all maidens everywhere."
"And sailors, too. Doughty said so, Mama." Young Will leaned up against Chloe's knee, his blue eyes gone dreamy. The boy wholeheartedly embraced anything hinting of legend far more swiftly than he learned his alphabet.
"Yes, that is right, Willie," Chloe said.
But Marie, ever her papa's daughter, folded her arms across her chest. "Humph," she said with all the skepticism her five-year-old voice could muster. "I don't see how one man could do all that."
Flicking back one dark curl, she turned, preparing to consult that ultimate authority aboard the Chloe. Captain Will Trent, late of His Majesty's Royal Navy, came strolling across the quarterdeck. Even without the glitter of his epaulets, Chloe thought fondly that her husband still presented quite the striking figure, more handsome than ever.
"Papa!" With a happy shout, young Will launched himself at Trent's legs. The captain took it in his stride, accustomed to withstanding this onslaught with as much aplomb as he balanced upon a pitching deck during a storm.
While Trent delighted his young son by scooping him up to perch high onto his shoulder, Marie faced her father, hands planted on her hips. "Captain! Mama has been telling us the most incredible story."
"What is it this time?" Trent asked with an indulgent laugh.
"All about this magic Nicholas person. That he takes care of sailors and ladies and everything. Do you believe such a thing can be true, Papa?"
He met Chloe's eyes over the children's heads. His mouth curved into that tender smile that ever had the power to make her heart stand still.
"Oh yes, Marie," he said huskily. "It is all quite true. Old Saint Nick performs his duties admirably well."
About the author:
Author Susan Carroll began her career in 1986, writing historical romance and regencies, two of which were honored by Romance Writers of America with the RITA award. She has written twenty six novels to date. Her St. Leger series received much acclaim. The Bride Finder was honored with a RITA for Best Paranormal Romance in 1999. Ms. Carroll launched a new series with the publication of The Dark Queenl set during the turbulent days of the French Renaissance. Ms. Carroll was born in Latrobe, Pa. She spent much of her childhood in South Jersey where she graduated from Oakcrest High School in Mays Landing. She attended college at Indiana University of Pennsylvania, where she earned a B.A. in English with a minor in history. She currently resides in Illinois.
Discover other titles by Susan Carroll in the Amazon Kindle store
Masquerade
Rendezvous
Escapade
The Painted Veil
Winterbourne
If you enjoy reading books set during the Regency time period, you might also like Brighton Road, an award winning romantic comedy. Continue reading for a sample chapter:
Chapter One
Out of the mists he came—his windswept hair darker than a raven's wing, the pulse at the base of his throat throbbing with all the fury of the passionate blood coursing through his veins. His scarlet-lined black cape swirled about his broad shoulders as he reached out his arms to her. Even though the castle ruins loomed behind him, even though its sinister shadow cast a blot upon the bright beauty of the moon, Gwenda felt safe as she hurled herself into his strong embrace.
Lost in the depths of her dream, Miss Gwenda Mary Vickers stirred upon the hard wooden settle in one of the White Hart's private parlors. Her chestnut curls tumbled over her spencer, the folds of the rose-colored jacket scrunched up to form a pillow. Gwenda clasped to her bosom the heavy volume she had been attempting to read when she had fallen asleep. Hugging the book tenderly, she mumbled, "Oh, Roderigo. Roderigo, my love."
His fingers, warm and rugged, crooked beneath her chin, forcing Gwenda to look up at him. Even as she did so, his features blurred, becoming obscured by the mists, but she sensed the full curve of his lips drawing closer to her own.
With a low groan, Gwenda rolled over, still clutching the book. Balanced precariously on the settle's edge, she moistened her lips in eager anticipation of her dream lover's kiss.
His arms tightened about her. He pulled her closer, ever closer. She could feel the heat of his breath. His mouth was but a whisper away—
Thud! Gwenda tumbled off the edge of the bench, landing hard upon the inn's polished wooden floor. The fall jarred her instantly awake. Gwenda sat bolt upright, shoving aside the heavy book that had somehow landed on top of her. Before she could so much as draw breath, she heard a low whine, and then a warm, rough tongue shot out, bathing the side of her face with affectionate concern.
"Down, Bertie," Gwenda commanded firmly, thrusting aside a large, lean dog, his glossy white coat spotted with black. She rubbed her bruised hip and blinked, trying to get her bearings.
Her gaze traveled upward along the coaching prints set upon stout oak walls, the fireplace swept clean of ash for the summer, the mantel laden with plates and mugs of gleaming copper and pewter. From outside the open window she could hear the clatter of iron-rimmed wheels and horses' hooves announcing more arrivals and departures from the bustling inn yard.
She was in a private parlor of the White Hart. On the floor, to be precise. She had been cooling her heels here for the past three hours, ever since her carriage had snapped a brace a few miles outside the village of Godstone Green. The Hart's congenial landlord had very kindly offered her a book with which to pass the time. What was it now? Gwenda consulted the book's title page. Danie
ll's travelogue, Views of the East. Mr. Leatherbury's tastes in literature did not quite match her own. Small wonder that she-had fallen asleep. Then she had begun to dream, only to fall off the high-backed settle just as ...
Gwenda's green eyes darkened; her usually good-humored countenance tensed into a scowl. Fending off further attempts of her dog to console her, she heaved herself to her feet and plunked back down upon the settle.
"Damn!" she muttered. Her brother, the most holy Reverend Thorne Vickers, would have blanched with horror if he had heard her, but Spotted Bert was far more forgiving of her vagaries. The dog merely cocked his head to one side, arching a disreputable-looking ear that was much the worse from too many encounters with ill-mannered cats.
"It is too provoking to be endured, Bertie," she said. Bert emitted a sympathetic bark and thrust his head upon her lap. Gwenda absently scratched him behind the ear. "I could have been in the throes of the most hideous nightmare and I might have slumbered through the day undisturbed. But let me be caught up in the most delicious of dreams and it never fails. I always wake up at the best part."
Her hand stilled, coming to rest upon the dog's head. She sighed, feeling bereft, as though she truly had been deprived of Count de Fiorelli's kiss Although she could never bring his features clearly into focus, she knew his name well. The Italian nobleman had appeared in far too many of her fantasies, both sleeping and waking, besides having emerged as a character in many of the novels she wrote for Minerva Press. He might have borne a different name and title in both The Mysteries of Montesadoria and The Dark Hand at Midnight, but he was still, as ever, her Roderigo: brooding, passionate, and courageous.
Gwenda smiled at her own nonsense, ignoring Spotted Bert as he nudged her hand with his cold nose, indicating his earnest desire that she resume the scratching. Although she had been writing Gothic tales of love and terror for the past three years, she would have stoutly denied she was a romantic. Confirmed spinsters of one and twenty years were not supposed to give rein to flights of fancy. But there was always one foolish corner of her heart urging her to allow the bright colors of her imagination to splash over drab reality. Even now she was tempted to stretch back out upon the bench, shut her eyes tight and seek to recapture the dream. But experience had taught her that that never worked. It was possible to drift, right back into nightmares, but never dreams. She would have to content herself with falling back upon her imagination.