The Beloved One Read online

  Mira, as though knowing exactly what Amy was thinking, flung her an impish glance from over one shoulder, and immediately, Amy sobered.

  I must stop this — he does not belong to me!

  All too soon, they reached the banks of the Merrimack River. The tide was going out and the scent of salt hung in the air, mingling with the pleasant morning warmth. Gulls cried overhead. A cormorant, regal in its black plumage, coasted in the current, and then dived for a fish.

  It was a lovely morning for a sail.

  Mira, striding along with a self-importance that belied her small stature, headed straight for the pier.

  "You two stay there while I go get the boat ready," she called over her shoulder.

  They paused, and Amy self-consciously pulled her hand from the captain's, discreetly stepping away from him.

  "Are you sad, Lord Charles?"

  "What gives you that idea?"

  "You're awfully quiet. We don't have to do this, you know. You've been ill, and perhaps I was wrong in thinking you had the strength for it. I thought the fresh air, and a chance to get outside, would do you good."

  "My dear Amy. At risk of sounding vain, which I am not, do I look as though I haven't the strength to sit in a boat?"

  "I'm sorry. I just don't want to cause you any more distress than you've already suffered, and . . . well, Mira can be a bit brash."

  "Far too brash for my own tastes, yes, but she is good medicine for you, and this will be good medicine for me." He lifted his face to the early morning breeze. "I swear, if I'm forced to sit indoors for another day, let alone the next fortnight, I shall go mad. If nothing else, this may take my mind off things."

  Mira called from the boat. "Come on! I ain't standin' here all day waiting for ye!"

  Charles offered his arm, and, taking it, Amy led them down the pier. Tethered to the supports at its end was a floating platform, and upon this Mira stood, hands on her hips, her eyes glinting with mischief and impatience.

  Charles, of course, could not know that. He walked confidently beside Amy as they strode the length of the pier, solid beneath his feet. But as they stepped onto the unsteady platform he immediately felt his balance fail him. With nothing to anchor him visually, he staggered, fell, and landed hard upon the sun-warmed wood, bringing Amy down with him. His face burning with humiliation, he allowed the two girls, both of whom were giggling, to drag him to his feet.

  "Oh, don't look so sour, you silly nob," Mira scolded, releasing his arm. "Bleedin' hell, if you English weren't so darned stuck-up in the first place, we probably wouldn't be fightin' with ye."

  "I beg your pardon?"

  Amy, catching her friend's impish grin, saw what she was up to and joined in. "Mira's right," she said, ignoring the captain's indignant scowl. "You need to learn to laugh at yourself, and now's a good time to do it. Life doesn't need to be so serious."

  "I do not find it amusing that I've been hauled to my feet by two girls who must be half my size," he said tersely, rubbing at a splinter protruding from his palm. "I do not find it amusing that I cannot see where I'm going, cannot see to walk a straight path, and cannot see where this pier ends. " His mouth tightened. "Will you laugh at me when I walk straight off this confounded heap of wood and into the water?"

  "Hell, I will," muttered Mira.

  "That's not going to happen," Amy declared, opening his palm and gently extracting the splinter. "Now come on, cheer up. The sun's shining, the wind is high, and we're going to have fun."

  "Fun," he grumbled.

  "Fun," said Mira, gripping his other hand and, together with Amy, guiding him toward the boat. Laughing, the two of them helped him down into it.

  There Charles sat, hoping to God he wasn't going to be sick with the unsteady movement of water beneath him, the sudden vertigo he felt at not being able to see. But he did not want to disappoint Amy, who, he guessed, didn't get the chance to do things like this very often. She was sitting beside him, chattering happily to Mira, and already she seemed different than she had back in that oppressive house; brighter, more buoyant, more full of fun. He liked her this way, and he found her mood faintly infectious, despite himself. He would not spoil things for her by giving in to his own fears of shaming himself.

  He heard a rope slipping, oars thunking about, and then felt water moving beneath the hull upon which his feet rested as the little boat slid out into the river. He tensed, not enjoying this feeling of being completely helpless and at the mercy of others.

  Especially two young women.

  "Gotta be careful of the current in this river," Mira said importantly, " 'specially when the tide's goin' out. People drown here all the time and ye gotta know what yer doin'."

  He hoped she knew what she was doing.

  "Is it a big river?" he asked politely.

  "Aye, probably as broad across as your Thames must be in London," she said, eager to prove that an American river was every bit as good as a British one. "Of course, we ain't far from the mouth of it, so naturally, the Merrimack's quite wide here." He felt water rushing beneath him as she swung the tiller, and hoped his knuckles weren't white as he reached out and found the gunwale. "Amy, tell him what you can see. Paint him a picture instead of sittin' there like a bump on a preacher's ass."

  She did. Charles, the sun warming his upturned face, the wind playing with his hair, settled back and finally began to relax as Amy's soft voice described their surroundings. She told him how the water, which was thirty feet deep out in the channel, was a rich cobalt blue, and how little whirlpools of current were trailing in their wake. She told him about the marshlands on the opposite bank of the river, and how the grasses there were glowing green and gold in the bright morning sun. She told him how they could see the steeples of Newburyport's churches from out here, and the Beacon Oak that guided mariners in from the sea, and, as he commented upon the ringing of hammers and growl of distant saws, of the shipyards that lined the Merrimack's banks, one of which belonged to Mira's father, where the Ashtons were building a fine new brig, Proud Mistress —

  — "So my brother Matt, who'll be her captain, can blow the tarnation out of you damned Brits," Mira supplied helpfully.

  Charles merely smiled, refusing to be baited, and Amy went on describing the scenery that they were passing — the waders, sandpipers, and other seabirds near shore, feeding as the tide began to ebb; the broad mudflats laced with little channels; and there, off to starboard, the Joppa flats, where, at low tide, "you can dig the juiciest clams this side of Ipswich."

  Clams? Charles felt a fresh wave of nausea. That was one food he vowed would never pass his lips.

  "And that's Woodbridge Island coming up off to starboard, and beyond that, the mouth of the river and open ocean," Mira put in. "I think it's best to come about now, before — ho, what's this . . . shit!"

  "What is it, Mira?" said Amy, scrambling toward the stern.

  "Something's tangled around the bleedin' rudder! Quick, help me get the sail down!"

  The boat lurched and rocked as the two girls tried to right the situation. And Charles, listening to Mira's increasingly potent curses, and Amy's sounds of dismay, had never felt more helpless in his life. He gripped the gunwales as the boat swung dizzyingly out of control, stared into the black slate of darkness, and decided he would have been better off staying home, safe on his pallet.

  "You gotta knife on you, Brit?"

  "No, Miss Ashton, unfortunately I do not. Why do you need one?" he asked, deliberately keeping his voice polite.

  "There's a goddamned fishing net tangled in the rudder, that's why! We're driftin' downriver, and if I can't find a way to get it off we're in deep shit!"

  As far as Charles could discern, they already were.

  "Can you not steer it with an oar?" he asked calmly, as Amy finished lowering the sail.

  "An oar? Are you joking? With this sorta current? There ain't no way an oar's gonna do a damned bit of good —

  "Mira, off to starboard!"

&nb
sp; "Cripes!"

  There was a bone-jarring crash and Amy was thrown violently across Charles's lap. He had a sudden armful of soft flesh, scrambling limbs, and a rounded derriere before she was up and off of him, scrambling toward the bow.

  "It seems that we have landed. Somewhere," he murmured, hopefully.

  "We're stuck prow-deep in the mudflats," Amy explained. "We're going to have to push off."

  "Is it not wisest to stay here where it is safe, rather than be swept out to sea?" he asked, reasonably.

  Mira snapped, "What, with the tide goin' out? Oh, what a sight that'd make, the three of us stranded in a mile of clammin' flats! If that happens, you can bet your ass that everyone in Newburyport'll be telling my bleedin' father I ain't got no business bein' in a boat after all, and then he won't let me go sailin' with Matt on his new brig! Grab an oar, Amy, and let's push outta here — if we're lucky, the current'll carry us onto Woodbridge."

  "Or the tip of Plum Island."

  Charles, sitting patiently as they struggled to get the boat out of the mud, raised a brow as he felt cold water coming into his shoes. "And what happens if we miss Plum Island?"

  "You don't wanna know."

  "Well, you might want to know that the boat is now leaking."

  Even so, Mira had too much pride to change her mind. A moment later, they were out of the mud, and the little vessel was drifting helplessly downriver once more, Mira wrestling with the oars and cursing a blue streak.

  "Why don't you let me take them?" Charles offered, positioning himself in the center of the hard seat. "Though I do not question your mariner's skills, Miss Ashton, I daresay I am stronger than you, and I may yet be able to get us to safety."

  "Fine." She shoved the oars into his open palms. "If I tell ye to push hard on the right one, push hard; if I tell ye to push hard on the left one, you listen to me and listen good — and if I tell ye to back water —"

  "Yes, yes, I do understand," he snapped, trying to hide his impatience.

  But despite his best efforts, Mira's hollered instructions, and the strength in Charles's arms, they missed Woodbridge Island. The sandy plate of land swept past them, and the great river carried them ever further away from Newburyport, toward its turbulent mouth, and beyond it, the open sea.

  Plum Island was now their only hope.

  "Hold up on the sta'board oar and push on the larboard!" Mira yelled. "Now!"

  Charles could feel the tide fighting him, the ocean sucking the fast-flowing water past their boat and carrying it right along with it.

  "Harder, harder!" cried Amy and Mira in unison —

  With a lurching crunch, the boat hit sand, its stern instantly swinging around with the current.

  Mira leaped out of the boat, nearly capsizing it.

  "Hurry, Amy, help me get it onto the beach!"

  Charles, feeling helpless, could only sit there as the girls tugged and wrestled the little boat further onto the sand.

  And then all was still. Amy gave a little giggle. Mira joined her in a full-throated laugh. A moment later, the two of them were guffawing as though being stranded on some distant island was the funniest thing in the whole damned world.

  "Now what?" Charles said irately, thinking this was not funny at all.

  "Now we pull the boat onto shore, free up the rudder, and wait for the tide to come back in — and carry us with it."

  Chapter 9

  And stuck there they were.

  Though Amy and Mira soon got the rudder freed, the boat was not seaworthy, and there was nothing they could do to make it so.

  "Son of a bitch," Mira swore, kicking the hull.

  Charles was vexed past his normal level of patience. He disliked Mira's belligerence, disliked her brash overconfidence, and mostly, he disliked her unladylike language.

  "Can we not walk back to Newburyport?" he asked tersely.

  Mira turned on him. "This is Plum Island," she snapped. "Island. That means it's surrounded by water, namely, the Merrimack on one side, the Atlantic on the other, and Plum Island River in between. I don't know about you, but I sure as hell can't walk on water and I damn well ain't gonna swim it either!"

  "Mira, please," said Amy, trying to mediate.

  Charles took a deep breath. Despite his own anger, he was too much the gentleman to respond to Mira's inflammatory tone. The situation needed immediate defusing, and trading insults with the girl was not the way to do it. Very calmly, he asked, "If we're near the mouth of the river, why don't we remain here on the beach and wait for a fishing boat or other vessel to spot us on its way out to sea?"

  Amy saw what he was up to. "Yes, and we can have breakfast while we're waiting!"

  "What if my bloomin' father hears of this?"

  Charles gave a tight smile. "You can blame it all on me."

  That satisfied the young hoyden. Within minutes, tempers had cooled and they were all sitting on the beach, eating bread and cheese and passing around the jug of rum. Twenty minutes later, the jug was half-empty, the two girls were getting giggly, and Mira was bawling out sea chanteys whose verses were so ribald that Charles, keenly aware of the innocent Amy beside him, felt the tips of his ears go red.

  "So tell us what it's like, growing up in a castle and havin' a duke for a brother," Mira asked, finally tiring of her bawdy solos.

  "I have nothing by which to compare it, so I cannot answer such a question."

  "I hear that you nobs grow up with nannies and governesses and tutors — that so?"

  "Yes."

  "What are yer other siblings like?"

  Normally, Charles was very private about family. But the rum had made him feel pleasantly relaxed, these girls presented no threat or intrusion, and perhaps it would take his mind off Amy's proximity to his left shoulder — and the way that very proximity was affecting him — if he talked about the four people he missed most in this world.

  Well, the four that he missed most besides Juliet, he thought, fiercely correcting himself.

  He kicked off his shoes, pushing his stockinged toes into the warm sand. "Well, first there's Lucien, the eldest," he said, visualizing Lucien's austere face with its smoldering dark eyes and flowing black hair. "He was quite young when he inherited the dukedom, and thus has a keen sense of responsibility — especially toward the rest of us. Unfortunately, he is can also be an autocratic monster with a Machiavellian tendency to manipulate others for what he calls 'their own good,' a trait which does not make him an easy man with whom to get along. Or," he admitted with a rueful grin, "to live with. The people back in our local village of Ravenscombe call him The Wicked One."

  "Why?"

  "Because he's a lethal duelist, a master strategist, and the last man on earth you'd want as an enemy."

  "Oooh, I'd love to meet him," Mira said.

  "You just might, because the moment he learns of my fate, he'll be on his way over here to bring me straight home to England."

  "Despite the fact there's now fightin' goin' on?"

  "Yes, If my brother is determined to come for me, there is no force on earth that will stop him." He grinned confidently. "Mark me on that."

  Amy, beside him, broke off a piece of cheese and pressed it into his hand, her fingers accidentally brushing his. "You have a sister too, don't you?"

  "Yes, Nerissa. She's the youngest of us all."

  "I wanna hear about yer brothers," Mira said. "Are they all like Lucien?"

  Charles made a noise of amusement. "Thank God, no. I'm the second oldest, and then there's Gareth. He's the black sheep of the family and leads a group of ne'er do wells who've styled themselves after the Hellfire Club and call themselves the Den of Debauchery. Gareth is irresponsible and dissolute, and Lucien despairs of him ever making anything of himself besides a general public nuisance — but I have rather more faith in him than that."

  "And what do the villagers call him?"

  "The Wild One."

  "He sounds fun," Mira said. "Is he betrothed?"

  Charles
laughed. "No mama in her right mind would want their daughter married to Gareth. His reputation is not undeserved." He leaned back, his elbows sinking into the sand, the sun warming his upturned face. "And then of course there's Andrew, my youngest brother, who aspires to be an inventor and is, according to the last letter I received from him, hoping to construct a flying machine."

  "A flying machine?" cried both girls in unison.

  "Yes. A preposterous notion, isn't it? However, I suppose that if anyone can do it, Andrew can. He has a clever brain, and did very well at Oxford."

  "What's his nickname?"

  "The Defiant One."

  "Why?"

  "Because he is fiery and independent, and is ever at odds with Lucien."

  There was long silence. And then, softly, Amy said, "And what did the villagers call you, Charles?"

  Everything stilled inside him. He sat up, feeling a sudden rush of self-loathing and loss. "The Beloved One," he said quietly. Head bent, he picked up a handful of sand, letting it trickle out through his fingers. "Because I always did everything right, always lived up to what everyone expected of me, always succeeded at whatever I put my mind to — and never let anyone down." He turned his face toward the salty breeze. "Until now."

  Even Mira, recognizing the pain in his voice, went uncharacteristically silent.

  Amy, beside him, reached out and touched his hand.

  An uncomfortable silence ensued.

  Mira got to her feet, making a big pretense of brushing the sand from her clothes. "Well, I think I'm gonna walk over to the other side of the point and see if any boats are goin' past," she announced briskly, realizing, perhaps, that two was company and three a crowd. "You two sit and chat for a while. I'll be back — later."

  Charles waited until she had gone, and then rested his forehead in his hands.