The Beloved One Read online

  Mira Ashton was not exactly the sort of friend that the Reverend Leighton would have chosen for her, but as the daughter of one of Newburyport's most prominent citizens, there was little he dared say about it. The truth was, Mira — a scrawny, hot-tempered hoyden who dressed in her brother's clothes and swore like a sailor — didn't give a hoot who Amy's real father was, accepting her as a friend when most people in Newburyport wanted little, if anything, to do with her.

  This morning, Amy's heart could no longer contain the tumult that had been building within it since Lord Charles's arrival. She had to talk to somebody, and her outspoken friend was the obvious, the only, choice.

  She arrived at the Ashton's house just as dawn was painting its white clapboards in shades of rose. Inside, an argument was ensuing between Ephraim and his son Matt, and Amy could hear it clear through the heavy door.

  No doubt, the neighbors could hear it too.

  "I don't give a rat's ASS what you think, you ain't goin' down to Boston to join the rebels, you hear me?! I need you around here, and besides, if ye're gonna go fightin' the lobsterbacks, I want you doin' it in a ship, not as part of a damned army!"

  Old Ephraim was at it again.

  "Don't you dare tell me what to do, you cantankerous old goat!" Matthew yelled back. "If I want to join the army, I will!"

  "You go joinin' that army and the first thing ye're gonna do is git yerself kilt! I raised you as a seafarin' man and that's where ye'll serve America best!"

  More yelling, this time Mira's voice joining in the clamor. Taking a deep breath, Amy reached up and banged the knocker.

  Inside, the racket stopped and a moment later Mira herself opened the door, her board-straight hair hanging over one stormy green eye, her chin stuck out and her very stance belligerent. Behind her stood her brother Matt, his red hair wild, his face so angry that his spectacles were steaming up.

  "Amy Leighton!" boomed Ephraim, coming around the corner. "Come on in and have some breakfast with us. Mira's made cornbread and there's plenty left over."

  Amy had no doubt that there was plenty left over; it was a known secret that Mira couldn't cook to save her life.

  "Actually, I came to have a word with Mira —"

  "It ain't about one of those bleedin' cats the two of you keep rescuin', is it?"

  "No, Captain Ashton. Another matter entirely." God help her, what would he think if he knew it concerned one of the "lobsterbacks" he and his son wanted to kill?

  "Just gimme a moment," Mira said, grabbing her brother's waistcoat and throwing it on over her shirt. No gown and petticoats for her; no jewelry, ladylike caps, or powder on that impossibly thick straight hair. Leaving her father and brother to their argument, she slammed the door behind them, and moments later, they were at the riverfront. There, gulls wheeled above their heads, their feathers gold in the rising sun, and the incoming tide sucked and burbled around the pier.

  "All right," Mira announced, picking up a stone and skimming it out over the water. "What's buggin' ye, Amy?"

  "Can I swear you to secrecy?"

  "I swear on my mother's grave, my father's ass, and every freckle on my brother's butt that I won't say a word."

  "Good." Amy sighed and sat down on the grass, spreading her checked linen apron over her petticoats and fiddling with the hem. "Mira, you know that fellow Will brought home? The one who got hurt at Concord?"

  "The one who nearly died fightin' those blasted Brits?"

  "Um, yes."

  "Aye, of course. Whole town's been talkin' about him and waitin' for him to wake up so they can give him a hero's welcome."

  Amy cringed. "Well, he's woken up — but I don't think they're going to give him a hero's welcome." She tried to choose her words carefully. "And, he didn't nearly die fighting the king's men."

  "No?"

  "He is a King's man. A captain in the Fourth Foot."

  "What?!"

  "The brother of an English duke, in fact. He got hurt because he was trying to save Will's life, and Will felt so guilty and beholden to him that he switched his clothes with a dead rebel and brought him home thinking Sylvanus would know what to do."

  "Holy shit!"

  "Now that he's awake, he thinks Sylvanus should go before his parishioners and tell everyone who he is."

  "Damn right he should! Bleedin' hell, I'll throttle Will myself for dragging him up here in the first place! A Brit! What in tarnal creation was he thinking?!"

  "Mira, please!" Amy grabbed her friend's arm as she leaped to her feet. "Lord Charles is a good man. He's kind, and brave, and caring of others. He is also very much in a hell of his own already. He doesn't need you, or anyone else, going over there and causing him any more trouble."

  "Oh, I'll give him trouble all right! I'll stick a gun against his ear and finish what was started at Concord!"

  "Mira, he's blind."

  "What?"

  "I said, he's blind. Just as the doctor predicted he would be if he ever regained consciousness."

  Mira's warlike stance relaxed. She was a patriot, but she wasn't heartless. With a sigh of exasperation, she flung herself back down on the grass beside Amy. "Well then, I guess he ain't much use to anybody then, is he?"

  Amy would have disputed that, but she did not want, or need, Mira flying off in an ardent rebel huff, wreaking dissent and damage like a loose cannon. "Let's just say that he's no threat to America in the state he's in," she said. "But that's not what I want to talk to you about."

  Mira wrapped her arms around her scrawny knees and cocked a brow at her friend.

  "I've got this problem, you see, and I thought that maybe you'd know what I should do about it."

  "Go on."

  "He's —" Amy was blushing now, head bent as she rolled and unrolled the hem of her apron between thumb and forefinger — "he's terribly handsome, you know."

  "You in love with him?"

  Leave it to Mira not to waste words. "I . . . I think I might be."

  "Bleedin' hell Amy, you do have a problem."

  "I know. And the thing is, he's engaged to someone else. A colonial girl, down in Boston." She looked up at Mira, her eyes desperate. "I shouldn't be feeling this way, Mira. He's not mine to dream over, he's not mine to think about, he's not mine, period — and yet I can't stop dreaming about him, I can't stop thinking about him, and just being in the same room with him is torment because I find myself wanting to do all these lustful, wicked things with him. I'm wanton, Mira, the fruit of sin, and already I'm going the same route as —"

  "Oh, not this again, I won't hear it."

  "Mira, you know as well as I do that the circumstances of my birth are no secret! This — this wantonness is just what Sylvanus always predicted for me, and it's all because I've got the blood of a —"

  Mira put up a hand. "You say he's handsome?"

  "Yes."

  "Kind?"

  "Oh, yes — he defended me against my sisters, refused to let me slave over him, complimented me on my cooking, managed to trap Ophelia and Mildred into doing some work, and set an example at table last night over how he thinks I ought to be treated."

  "Well, hallelujah."

  "What?"

  "And you wonder why the hell ye're havin' lustful thoughts about him?! Bleedin' hell, Amy, if I was in yer shoes, had a family like yours, and a man treated me like that, I'd be all over him like cream on milk."

  "Mira!"

  "Well, I would. And ye know something? I think that if he wants to treat ye nice, you damn well oughtta let him do it. Ain't no one else in that house who does, and maybe the rest of 'em will learn by his example. Hell, he might be a damned Brit, but if he can do that much for ye, then he's got my eternal gratitude."

  "So you won't say anything to anyone about him?"

  Mira hooked her hair behind her ear and chewed her lip for a moment. "Aye, I'll keep my trap shut. But you'd better not let Sylvanus keep him a secret for too long, Amy. The truth'll come out eventually, and when it does, Sylvanus is gonna
rue the fact he kept his silence."

  "Yes. That's what the captain said, exactly."

  Mira grinned. "Handsome, kind, and smart. I tell ye, Amy, if that girl down in Boston ever decides to let him go ye'd better get your claws into him post-haste. I can just see it now. Amy Leighton, a lady! Amy Leighton, sister-in-law to an English duke! Amy Leighton, finally able to look down her nose at all the people who had nothin' to do with her all these years! Bloomin' tarnation, won't you have the last laugh!" She grabbed Amy's arm. "Now, let's go. I've a mind to meet your captain and have a good gawk at him myself!"

  ~~~~

  Charles sat up on his pallet, rubbing the back of his ever-aching head and throwing off the last cobwebs of sleep.

  He had been dreaming. About Amy.

  Again.

  In this one, she'd started by massaging his pain-wracked head . . . then his shoulders, his chest, and finally that part of him that was as hard as a brick every morning when he woke up, flushed, trembling, and drenched in sweat.

  That part of him that was as hard as a brick, now.

  He cursed and rested his forehead in the heel of his hand. His anger was not with her, of course, but with himself — and his own failure to meet his lofty standards of mental discipline. He ought to be dreaming about his fiancée — and damn it, why wasn't he? — not this young woman he couldn't even see; he oughtn't even be thinking about her!

  What does she look like? What color is her hair? Is it short or long, soft or silky, coarse and curly or fine and straight? Is she thin or plump, bird-boned or solid, flat-chested or buxom, pretty or plain?

  He groaned as war raged within him, the higher planes of his mind fighting with the baser desires of his body. Those things didn't matter! He wouldn't let them matter! But the questions continued, fired at him from something deep inside of himself that he did not understand:

  What does she feel like, how soft is her skin? What does she taste like, how does she kiss, and oh, God, would she be as ardent a lover in person as she is in my dreams?

  And, some far more sobering thoughts: Why does she hold herself in such low esteem? Why do those horrid sisters hate her so? Why is her father so apathetic, why does she call him "Sylvanus," and why does everyone treat her so badly?

  "Captain?"

  He let his fingers slide from the back of his throbbing head. "Good morning, Reverend."

  "Would you like some coffee?"

  "Yes, thank you, I would indeed. "

  Sylvanus pulled out a chair. "I just roused my daughters, and they'll be down shortly to get it started."

  Charles raised a surprised brow.

  "I, uh. . . got to thinking about what happened at the table last night, Captain. I saw what you were trying to do. You were right to take us all to task the way you did, though I admit, it was a bitter pill to swallow, at the time."

  "The best medicines usually are," Charles said, carefully.

  "My daughters — it's my fault they're the way they are, you know. When my wife died, I threw myself into my calling in an attempt to escape my loneliness. As a result, I didn't devote as much time to my family as I should've done, appeasing my daughters' pleas for attention with candy and trinkets, when it was obvious that what they really needed was love and discipline." He sighed, heavily. "It's no wonder they've turned out the way they have. No wonder they're now so spoiled that I'll probably never find husbands for them. I . . . just don't know how to handle them anymore."

  Charles smiled, some of his hostility toward the reverend thawing. "Asking them to help Amy around the house is a start."

  "Yes. A start, though I suppose that making them do it will be harder than getting eggs from a rooster. Still, thank you for showing me what's really going on under my own roof, Captain. And, for listening to the troubles of an old man." He rose to his feet and lightly touched Charles's shoulder. "I'll let you get your morning in order."

  He began to walk away, but Charles stopped him. "Reverend?"

  "Yes?"

  "There is a matter that has been troubling me. If I may speak freely?"

  "Well, of course you may," said Sylvanus, sitting down once more and adopting his minister's voice as he prepared to hear Charles's problem.

  Charles ran a hand through his sleep-tousled hair. "I understand that you mean to keep my identity a secret," he said, getting straight to the point. "I must ask that you tell your parishioners who I am, immediately. I cannot pretend to be someone I'm not, and I cannot abide the thought of what your neighbors might do to you and your family should a detachment of English troops come here to bring me back to Boston — which, given the fact that I have sent a letter to my commanding officer there, is not unlikely." He turned his sightless eyes toward where he knew the minister to be standing. "For your sake, Reverend, as well as that of your family, I implore you to confess the truth."

  Charles could almost picture the reverend staring at him in dismay.

  "But Captain, you don't understand . . . this is a rebel town, ardently patriotic, and if I tell them who you are —"

  "They will appreciate your honesty, and admire you for your courage. Trust me, Reverend, it is far better to confront a problem straightaway than to hide from it, to take the offensive before it can sneak up and overwhelm you from behind." Bitterly, he added, "Had Parliament and our king only subscribed to such a theory, perhaps your people and mine would not be at war. There are lessons to be learned in history; I only pray that you heed them, as I wish that we had done."

  Sylvanus was silent for a moment. "I will consider your advice, Captain," he murmured, deeply troubled, and left the room.

  Charles sighed. He had done what he could. He lay back on the pallet, staring up into the darkness, feeling the depression he'd tried so hard to keep at bay pulling him back into its abyss. His head still hurt. His thoughts were turning back toward Amy. Bored, frustrated, and with nothing else to do, he shut his eyes and willed himself to go back to sleep until Awfeelia and Mil-dread rose to make the coffee, which, if he were allowed a guess, wouldn't happen for at least another hour.

  He'd just drifted off when the door banged open and footsteps came into the keeping room.

  "Lord Charles?"

  "Amy." He smiled sleepily and rose up on one elbow, the blanket sliding down one shoulder. "Good morning."

  Temporary silence. Charles was unaware that Amy had a friend with her, and he was totally oblivious to the sight he presented to the two girls, his hair tousled by sleep, his pale blue eyes clear as aquamarine as a shaft of sunlight drove through the window and caught him full in the face. A sighted man would, of course, have squinted; Charles did not, and instead, Mira and Amy were treated to a brilliant, wide-open view of clear, intelligent eyes, romantically down turned at the outer corners and fringed by long straight lashes tinged with gold.

  "Hell and tarnation above, Amy, ye sure weren't jokin'! He's bleedin' gorgeous!"

  "Mira!" cried Amy, horrified.

  Charles was hard-pressed to hide his amusement. He knew, of course, or had at least suspected, that Amy had a girlish infatuation for him, and he'd tried his best not to embarrass her by calling attention to it. He determined not to do so now.

  "And whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?" he asked, still supporting himself on one elbow and blinking the sleep from his eyes.

  Mira, standing there with her mouth open, was transfixed by that slow, deliberate blink. In a heartbeat, she saw what Amy had described: studied thoughtfulness, kindness, compassion. The way the man lowered those long eyelashes over those translucently clear eyes, then slowly brought them back up again, did something funny to her insides. Cripes, no wonder Amy was smitten!

  "Mira Ashton, patriot," she announced. "I'm Amy's friend. She tells me ye're a blasted Brit who took it upon himself to be merciful to Will, so I guess I'll take it upon myself to be merciful to you. Besides, I hear ye're being nice to Amy, and since everyone else in this house treats her like donkey dung, I figger the least I can do is be civil
to ye — redcoat or not."

  "Mira!" Amy gasped.

  "Well, it's true. Where are those two bleedin' leeches, anyhow?"

  Despite himself, and his irritation with both the girl's language and her rather vexing use of the word "Brit," Charles got to his feet and bowed, his spirits suddenly quite buoyed. If Amy had friends like this, maybe he shouldn't be worrying about her, after all.

  "Still in bed, I daresay," he said.

  "Good. Amy came up with an idea, and I'm here to see it carried out. We've decided we're gonna take you out sailin' so you can't sit here feelin' sorry for yerself."

  "Take me sailing?"

  "Aye, sailin'. My father builds ships, and I've got my own little boat. It ain't more than fifteen feet long, but it'll get us to where we wanna go."

  Reluctantly, yet intrigued despite himself, Charles asked, "And where is it we wish to go?"

  "That don't matter none. Now get your lazy carcass off that pallet, take Amy's hand, and come with me. I wanna get her outta here before those two bitches wake up and start hollerin' orders!"

  Chapter 8

  Eager to escape the house before Amy's sisters rose, the three waited only long enough to grab some bread and cheese from the larder, a jug of rum, and the blanket the captain had slept beneath, as well as a cloak for Amy and the new frock of warm blue frieze she'd made for their houseguest.

  "It's likely to be chilly out on the water this time of year," Mira had warned, importantly.

  Amy didn't know whether to be grateful toward or annoyed with Mira as, her hand tucked rather gingerly in the crook of Lord Charles's elbow, the trio left the house. She was horribly embarrassed by what Mira had said. And the captain himself was rather quiet. Was he still feeling unwell, going along with this scheme only for her, Amy's, sake? Had Mira's remark about his being "gorgeous" offended him?

  Oh, Lord, maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all.

  And now Mira, her stride faintly belligerent, was walking several paces in front of them, deliberately leaving Charles and Amy to their own devices.

  Amy took the opportunity to stare up at the captain as she strode along beside him, and felt her heart ache with unrequited longing. How easy it was to forget that he belonged to someone else. How tempting it was to pretend that he, a prince among men, a god among mortals, belonged to her, Amy Leighton, who was beneath the contempt of even the town's humblest bachelors. And how very, very proud she was to be on the arm of such a man as he.