Heart Of The Sea Wolfe Read online

  “And what happened?”

  “Father died just after this man, Richard, asked for her. And when he died, Mercy did what any good big sister would do, she told Richard she’d only follow through with the marriage if he pledged to care for Mother and me as well as Mercy. He didn’t like that none, he didn’t. Guess he didn’t want an instant family....”

  Dorian winced, feeling a sudden wave of anger toward this unknown Richard. And, inexplicably, gratitude, though he wasn’t quite prepared to examine the reasons for it. “That was a cowardly and cruel thing to do to your sister.”

  “It was, wasn’t it? Mother says that Richard listened too much to his own mama, and his mama thought Mercy wasn’t good enough for him. Said she wasn’t rich enough, that she wasn’t well-connected enough, and that her son deserved better than a farmer’s daughter with a charity-case family.”

  “And what did this paragon of perfection do to support himself?”

  “I don’t rightly know, Mr. Dorian. But I didn’t like him much, and I’m glad Mercy turned him down for not wanting Mother and me. Nothing worse than being somewhere you’re not wanted, is there?”

  “No, Elias,” Dorian had agreed. “But perhaps it was for the best. He sounds like a miserable git, this Richard. He would have made your lives untenable.”

  Dorian might have pried further, but at that moment the door opened and the women came back in, the elder Payne’s glance going to that intriguing floorboard, before she hustled a protesting Elias, proudly carrying his knots, off to bed. Mercy went back outside to draw water, dishes were washed, dried and put away in a built-in corner cupboard and outside, the remains of a hard red sunset hung over the pastures, bringing this fateful day to a close.

  Twilight descended. For a little while, Mrs. Payne worked on some needlework by the light of the fire, complained about her eyesight and eventually made her way upstairs, leaving Dorian and Mercy to themselves.

  “Why,” he asked quietly, watching the woman’s painful progress up the stairs, “does your mother sleep upstairs when her knee so obviously pains her?”

  The girl rose to bank up the fire, then gave him an apologetic look from over her shoulder. “She doesn’t.”

  “Ah.” Dorian understood, and felt terrible. “She has given up her bed to me, hasn’t she?”

  “Mother was kicked by a horse when she was a little girl, and her knee was never the same. She can’t do much to help the cause of liberty, but she saw the sacrifice you made and felt that in helping you, it allowed her in some small way to contribute.”

  “All the more reason for me to be out of here and on my way to Boston as soon as possible. I would not put a lady out of her bed.”

  The girl eyed him, shook her head, and got up. She was perpetually in motion, it seemed, and Dorian wondered if she were really that burdened with tasks, or if her restlessness was in response to the mutual attraction that both felt, but neither had come right out and acknowledged, for each other.

  “Sit down,” he said gently. “You’re making me dizzy. Don’t you ever rest?”

  “Things need doing.”

  “What things?”

  She paused, lifted her shoulders, and let them drop in an expression of resignation. “You’re right, Mr. Dorian. It’s now night time, and my duties are done for the day. Would you like some ale?”

  Ale. Ambrosia, compared to that dreadful dandelion tea.

  “I would enjoy that, Miss Payne.”

  “I’ll get some, then—”

  “And I’d enjoy it more if you’d sit and have a drink with me.”

  She put her head to the side, studying him for a moment, and then her mouth twitched in a smile.

  “Are you flirting with me again?”

  “Are you always so suspicious about a man’s intentions?”

  “Are you always so rude as to ask about a woman’s suspicions?”

  “Are you going to confide in me what has initiated such suspicions?”

  She laughed, pulled up a square door cut into the planking of the floorboards, and descended down into a cellar. Dorian eyed the raised edge of the floorboard over which she’d tripped, wondering, yet again, what was beneath it that had the girl’s mother as skittish as a mare in a lightning storm. Perhaps after Mercy had retired to bed, he’d wander back out here and have a look himself, if only to satisfy his curiosity.

  They were rebels, these Paynes. And if they were hiding something that presented a danger to the Crown, let alone their own safety, it was his obligation to see to it.

  The girl came back up, carrying a large glass vessel of dark, home-brewed ale, and Dorian pushed himself to one foot, determined to help her.

  “Sit down,” she said. “You’re a guest.”

  “And you’re burdened.”

  “You’re injured.” She glanced at his ankle. “And I’m not.”

  “You are a most exasperating young woman.”

  Her smile grew saucy; she had a sense of humor, after all. “Do you want to drink, or do you want to argue?”

  “Actually, I would like to continue flirting with you, if you’ll allow it.”

  “And if I won’t?”

  He grinned in response to the sparkle that had come into her eyes. “You will.”

  This time she laughed too, a full, exuberant sound that made her eyes shine with delight and brought little crinkle-lines to the corners of her dark and now-mischievous eyes. She got two mugs from the built-in corner cupboard, tipped the big glass jug over each one, and filled them with ale.

  She handed one to him. “To your health, Mr. Dorian.”

  “To your beauty, Miss Payne.”

  She blushed and laughed once more, the sound bringing a smile to his own face. She pulled her chair up nearer the fire. Dorian did the same. Her chair was close enough that he could reach out and touch her and he thought, briefly, of doing just that, before deciding that flirting was one thing and making what might be an unwelcome advance was quite another.

  He remembered what the boy had told him earlier.

  About how this striking young woman had been betrothed, but had ended it because her husband-to-be had no room in his heart, or his life, for her family. What a bloody sod. No wonder the girl was skittish, even when it was dead-obvious that she was as aware of the attraction between them as he was.

  Now, she relaxed in her ladder-back chair, rested the back of her head against the top rung, and stretched her feet toward the fire, cradling the mug of beer between her hands. The hem of her petticoats rose ever so slightly with the motion, revealing slim, graceful ankles above leather shoes trimmed with a pewter buckle. Dorian shut his eyes, his imagination at work. How he longed to touch that perfect ankle, to savor the feel of her clocked stockings against his fingers, to untie a hidden garter and peel those stockings off. Warm, silken skin against his palm, and legs that he knew would be as shapely as the rest of her—

  He caught himself. Yes, best to get out of here as soon as possible. The way his mind and appetites were going, he was going to end up in much the same position as foolish George, fancying himself in love with some provincial girl and making a complete and total arse of himself.

  “Ahh,” he said, sipping the cool ale and finding it quite to his taste, “This beats the tea any day of the week.”

  She ignored his comment. “What were you and Elias talking about?” she asked, not looking at him.

  “Knots.”

  She turned her head against the rung of the chair and looked at him, her eyes allowing him no room for escape. “And?”

  “You,” he added.

  She made a little noise through her teeth, the equivalent, he guessed, of rolling her eyes. “You do know the window was open, don’t you?”

  It was Dorian’s turn to redden. “I do, now.”

  “So now you know my sordid history.”

  “I know that you turned down the chance to be someone’s wife because he didn’t want your family as part of the package. Nothing sordid a
bout that, Miss Payne. In fact, it’s a most selfless and noble action, to choose family over marriage, to sacrifice one’s happiness for the sake of the ones you love.”

  “Happiness?” Again, that little dismissive noise through her teeth. “I’m not sure I would have found happiness with that ... that mama’s boy,” she said with a snort. “He couldn’t so much as buckle his shoe without asking his mother if he was doing it right. No, don’t waste your pity on what might have been, Mr. Dorian. I have no regrets, only gratitude.”

  “Nevertheless, what he did, hurt you.”

  “My family means everything to me. When Father died, Mother was left on her own save for me and Elias. Mother is lame, Elias is too young, and while I may not be the man of the house, I’m certainly the woman.”

  “I’ve noticed.”

  She turned again to look at him, her eyes flashing. “And what do you mean by that, sir?”

  “That it’s hard not to notice you.”

  “You flirt shamelessly.”

  “I enjoy your spirit. And you are quite beautiful. Resourceful. Easy to be around.”

  “Why are we having this conversation?”

  “What else is there to talk about?”

  “The world was turned upside down this morning, and you’re asking me what else there is to talk about?”

  He sipped from his ale. “An event that will be dissected and discussed for years to come, I should imagine, So let us leave others to do that, and talk about things of less gravity on a day that was most dreadfully weighed down by it.”

  “Very well, then.” She took a sip from her mug and eyed him from over the rim. “And what about you? Why aren’t you married?”

  “How do you know I’m not?”

  “You wear no ring.”

  “I’m encouraged that you took the time to notice.”

  “Encouraged?”

  “Yes, to continue this conversation in the hopes it might lead to more laughter from you. I like the sound of your laughter. It makes me want to laugh right along with you.”

  “You still haven’t answered my question,” she said pointedly.

  “Which one?”

  “The one asking why you’re not married.”

  He shrugged and told her a truth. “I’m a second son. A twin, in fact, born several minutes after my brother Daniel. He inherited everything, including an expectation to marry well, whereas I—” he took another long drink, savoring the brew in his mouth—“am free to chart my own course.”

  “So marriage isn’t part of those plans?”

  “Not unless I happen to find the right woman.”

  “And do you flirt shamelessly with ever woman you meet?”

  Their eyes held, and he could see in hers that she expected an honest answer and was hoping for a truth he was all too happy to give.

  He gave her both the honest answer and the truth. “No.” He reached out across the short space and touched her hand. “No, I do not.”

  She did not flinch or pull away. Instead, she looked down at his fingers resting against the back of her hand, turned her palm over, and took his hand in her own. It was tiny, that hand, but he already knew its strength, its abilities, and having it in his own felt like the most natural fit in the world. He glanced at her face, in profile to his own. At the shadow of her lashes against her cheek, the slight tilt of her nose and the firelight in her dark eyes, and wanted her with a craving that was more than physical.

  He could almost hear Brendan Merrick admonishing him, were he here. “You’re the Sea Wolfe, Dorian. Stop working so hard to make up for your ancestor’s transgressions. Faith, it’s your life to live, so stop trying to be something you’re not and enjoy it.”

  And what would that mean in this circumstance? That since that other, long-ago de Wolfe had been a pirate who shared the same epithet, that he too might as well be a pirate as well, and take what he wanted?

  He slid a glance at Mercy Payne. He knew what he wanted.

  God, it’s been too long since I’ve had a woman.

  But Mercy Payne was not the sort of woman one sampled and left. She wasn’t even the kind that a fellow could set up as a mistress, an arrangement that suited many of his acquaintances but had never been quite the responsibility and commitment he’d wanted to entertain. No, Mercy Payne was the sort of woman one took as a wife.

  Family included.

  Take what you want.

  He shut his eyes, reverting back to the safety and familiarity of being a nobleman, not a pirate. Don’t think of how pretty she is, how good she smells, how tiny and fragile her hand is within your own and how much you’re stripping the clothes from her body in your imagination. Tomorrow you’ll be on your way and this day, and this woman, will be but a memory.

  “What do you think will happen next, Mr. Dorian?” she asked quietly, interrupting his thoughts and bringing them squarely back to the present.

  “Hopefully, you’ll allow me to kiss you.”

  She blushed and self-consciously withdrew her hand. “I was talking about what happened between us and the Regulars today. The bloodshed. There’s no going back now, is there?”

  “No. There’s no going back.”

  “The troops must surely have made it back to Boston by now....”

  “The lucky ones,” he said, thinking again of Lord Charles lying against that stone wall, an image he could not get out of his mind, the details of which he would spare poor Juliet when he got back to Boston. There were some things his friend’s betrothed did not need to know. Things that would only make the grief all the more difficult to bear.

  “What do you think General Gage will do?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine. But I daresay today’s actions will not be tolerated, and punishment is coming.”

  And deserved, he thought.

  She went quiet. Flames crackled in the hearth, and from outside came hoof beats as a horse trotted past the house. Dorian took another swallow of beer, crossed his leg over his knee, and balanced the mug on his kneecap. He didn’t want to think of Lord Charles, or Gage’s retribution, or even of foolish George and Sir Geoffrey’s wrath at Dorian’s failure to find him.

  Really, all he wanted to think of was Miss Mercy Payne’s mouth.

  And how much he wanted, quite desperately in fact, to kiss it.

  But she sat staring into the flames beside him, her thoughts her own. She had allowed herself a few brief moments to enjoy his flirtation but perhaps the sorrow and weight of the day had brought her guilt for enjoying his attentions, and guilt had caused her to withdraw. Could he blame her, really? He had lost friends today but surely, so had she. Perhaps it was inappropriate to be thinking of her mouth, and how much he already missed holding her hand, when so many had died. When the course of history itself had been changed by this day’s events, the world turned, quite literally, upside-down.

  She drew her feet in, tucking them back beneath her skirts, and he sensed a disquiet about her now.

  “I should go to bed, Mr. Dorian,” she said. “But I’ve enjoyed your attempts to lighten this evening with your kindness toward me. Thank you for that. You made me feel ... worthy again.”

  He inclined his head. “It is I who is in debt to you, Miss Payne. I daresay that if you hadn’t come out when you did, I would have been trampled or left to bleed to death. You are the true meaning of your name, and I thank you for showing me some.” He smiled. “Mercy.”

  She glanced at his hand, and he wondered how she would react if he touched it again; but no, the moment was gone. Lost.

  She finished her ale and got to her feet.

  With some effort, he got to his own.

  “I can take you back to Boston tomorrow, if you wish.” She looked suddenly sad, and he wondered if there was a part of her that would miss him. That would lament what could never have been, except in their imaginations. “At least, as far as the Neck. I doubt they’ll let me go any further.”

  “Thank you, Miss Payne. I would be most gr
ateful.”

  But as she went up the stairs, leaving him to the fire, his thoughts, and that floorboard with its hidden secrets, Dorian wondered if gratitude was quite the word he would have chosen to describe how he felt about the idea of parting from her.

  Chapter 6

  Mercy eased open the door to her bedroom and found her mother awake and waiting for her.

  “I thought you were going to sleep downstairs tonight.”

  “I’m tired, Mother,” she said, removing her cap, unpinning her short-gown and taking it off. She folded it and placed it on the chair near the hearth and untied her petticoats, stepping out of them and laying them over the short-gown. Her shoes and stockings followed. She stood in her stays, muslin shift and bare feet. “I want a proper bed beneath me.”

  It was not quite the truth. Mercy didn’t trust herself to remain downstairs near Mr. Dorian, who had shown no inclination to retire to bed. Sitting with him beside the crackling fire was too dangerous, the opportunity to lose her heart to him, to let him take a kiss she had found herself all too willing to give, too tempting.

  “You trust that man down there? What if he finds the bag?”

  “He has no reason to go looking for it. I’m sure it’s perfectly safe.”

  “Oh, Mercy, I don’t feel right about this, I don’t. You don’t even know the man.”

  “No, I don’t. But even if he were to find it, how far is he likely to get on that bad ankle?”

  Her mother chewed on her lower lip then let her shoulders drop in despair. “Very well, then. Turn around and I’ll unlace you. Let us both get some sleep. It’s been a long and awful day.”

  Mercy turned, presenting her back, and gazed out the window into the night as her mother unlaced her. The stays went the way of the rest of her clothing, and clad in nothing but her shift, Mercy unlaced her mother and blew out the candle. The two of them climbed into bed together.

  “Feels like old times, daughter.”

  “Yes ... the last time I climbed into your bed was when Father died.”

  “You had nightmares. And so did I.”

  “We got ourselves through it though, didn’t we, Mother?”