The Pirate Lord: Aristocrat. Rogue. Spy. Page 19

  The patriot disappeared down the snowy alley, rounded a corner and was soon out of sight. Bronwyn hovered, wondering if she should call him back, protest against being dragged into a conflict that was not her own. Almost losing Roddy had changed her; she was far more cautious than she’d ever been. Every step was examined first for potential danger. This request of Mr. Garnett’s was too dangerous to perform. Losing her position would be the least of her troubles if she were found out. A second charge of treason would not be so easily beaten.

  And in truth, who was to say what Lord Stagholt’s politics were now? He may have embraced his new status. A message such as this given to a man in the thick of the British aristocracy was simply too risky.

  By the time Bronwyn had opened the door to return to the kitchen, she was certain of one thing—she would not give Jon the message. She would ask Jenny to do it but she would not involve herself beyond that.

  §

  “THANK GOODNESS, you are back,” exhaled Mrs. Langley. She bustled over carrying a silver tray of canapés. “You will have to step in and serve tonight. Gregory has been called away by the General and I am short-handed. Pass these around to the guests as unobtrusively as possible. You are not to be seen, nor are you to be heard and when the tray is nearly empty, return to the kitchen. Don’t wander about with a solitary morsel remaining like some of them here do.” Langley gave the other housemaid a severe look. “The dinner bell will be ringing shortly but this lot demand constant feeding. Well, don’t stand there staring at me, girl! Hop to it!”

  Bronwyn carried the tray to the grand drawing room where the guests mingled in small groups, sipping wine from fluted crystal glasses. Gowns were glittering gold and silver and the headdresses on some of the ladies were magnificent. Jon Stag was leaning against the marble hearth with a look of boredom on his face. His ebony hair had been dressed and powdered and he wore a coat of black velvet in stark contrast to the peacocks surrounding him.

  Cecily Knowlton, with her simply dressed hairstyle, was by far the prettiest woman in the company; however, she continually touched her locks, blushed and made apologies for her appearance. Bronwyn thought Jon’s fiancée looked rather fetching in her royal purple gown and golden hair. She pressed her chin to her chest and peered at the couple under the brim of her maid’s cap, watching Jon’s reaction for signs that he was as unhappy as he claimed to be.

  Cecily lifted her smiling face to her husband-to-be and he bent over to whisper something in her ear. She laughed and pressed her hand to her cheek, blushing even deeper.

  Jealousy coiled in Bronwyn’s gullet. Unhappy was he? Jon Stag did not look unhappy. Bronwyn seethed. In truth, he looked very well satisfied with his new life.

  A swarm of hungry guests crowded round her, blocking her view of the beautiful couple. Canapés were plucked from her tray and gay chatter swirled around her as though she were invisible. Jon could not see her and she could not see him. Her tray was soon emptied and Bronwyn was forced to return to the kitchen. She would have loved to hurl it at his head.

  The dinner bell rang and the throng entered the dining room in couples or groups of three.

  Bronwyn tried to reason with her hot-blooded self as she marched back to the kitchen. She had no right to be jealous, but reason had no power over passion. He had betrayed her, not by breaking an oath or anything that resembled a formal agreement between a man and a woman, but by breaking something yet more real. She had been closer to Jon in those three nights aboard the Black than she’d ever been with anyone in her life.

  Did he love her?

  Too much time had passed to be certain of anything. It was only three nights after all. Perhaps it just sexual intimacy they shared and not love. She didn’t know enough about men to draw a conclusion. Garnett said Stag loved her. If that was true then he had no business flattering Miss Knowlton and making her believe that it was she he loved!

  Reason was not helping in this case. The more she reasoned, the angrier she became. Bronwyn flung the silver tray to the table. It flipped over, revealing the marking of the silversmith: Paul Revere. A patriot’s craftsmanship in the household of a British governor!

  “Bloody hypocrites,” she hissed.

  There was no one around. The kitchen staff and servants were busy serving the first course. Bronwyn slipped into Mrs. Langley’s cubby, found a quill and a sheaf of paper on her desk. She wrote out a brief note but did not sign it, and then hurried out to the washhouse to locate Jenny.

  “Well?” the little redhead said suspiciously when she entered the dark little room. “Have you chosen your side?”

  “I have to get a message to Lord Jonathon Stagholt. Can you deliver it?”

  “Why can’t you deliver it yourself?”

  “I am his fiancée’s maid and still on trial. It would be inappropriate for me to approach his lordship with a private message. My lady will demand to read its contents. It is better coming from you. Or one of the men, if he can be trusted.”

  Jenny leaned against the counter, drying her hands on a towel. “No, I’ll take it. Lord Stagholt usually goes out to the stables to check on the horses after the first course. I’ll have to be quick to catch him.” She held out her hand.

  Bronwyn folded the missive in half and handed it to her. “Do not tell him who gave it to you. He may not agree to the meeting if he knows it is from me.”

  Jenny did not question this statement. The girl was well-versed in knowing as little as possible. The subterfuge of this war wracked the nerves.

  There was nothing to do now but wait for the meal to be over and then Bronwyn would be face to face with Jon Stag. Her stomach filled with butterflies. What she intended to do when she saw him, Bronwyn considered would be the worst of her many sins.

  It appeared that losing her virtue to a pirate had turned her into a woman for whom Hell hath no fury. But then again, Bronwyn admitted, her nature had never been temperate. She only had to think of Jon kissing Cecily to be filled with cold rage. He had forgotten her, just as she knew he would—despite his claims to the contrary.

  The need for revenge pounded in her veins, and in that need were echoes of Jon Stag. He would have done the same in her place. Sneak up on a man with flattery and deceit—and then strike.

  It was a shock to Bronwyn to discover that she’d developed the instincts of a pirate. Perhaps those instincts were buried within her all along, just waiting for Jon Stag to bring them to life.

  They were more alike than she had ever thought possible.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  THE NIGHT was moonless and the wharf was blanketed with snow that was still falling. Jon pulled the collar of cloak up over his neck and wandered the empty dock. The tide came in on hushed, melodic waves. On a night like this it was difficult to believe a bloody war was being waged not too far away. He hated being on land and hated the men who controlled the land more.

  Escaping his godfather’s mansion after dinner had not been easy. A number of excuses had to be fabricated to avoid the round of cigars and brandy in the study. Worth every blasted lie, Jon thought as he sucked in a deep breath of fresh sea air. He opened the note he’d received after the soup had been cleared away.

  Garnett will be waiting for you on the sea path. Be there.

  The note was not written by Garnett. It was not his hand nor was it his style. No matter, Jon thought. He jumped at the chance to get free of the dancing and tedious gossip that was de rigueur at every social gathering he’d been forced to attend since leaving the Black Adder.

  There were other reasons—odd reasons—that he couldn’t stay in the mansion a moment longer than necessary. Jon had felt irritable from the moment he returned from the theater. It had been an innocent evening in which nothing happened. Nothing at all. The life of an aristocrat was utterly uneventful. And then he went in search of Cecily’s gloves and something stirred; a buried memory of Bronwyn.

  And that’s when the trouble began. Discontent set in and he wanted out of everything
—all of it. The promise he’d made to his father would be honored after a fashion. Though he had not bargained for marriage, Jon hadn’t heartily objected to it either. Tonight, it felt like he’d agreed to his own death. Tonight, he felt like he’d been buried alive.

  A figure was waiting up ahead in the snow. Jon slowed his step and his hand tightened reflexively on his cane. He had taken to carrying one when the wound in his side failed to heal properly. It served two purposes in that regard—when needed, the cane became a club.

  This must be the mysterious contact. She lifted her face to the sky to catch the fast falling flakes of snow. They stuck to her lashes and lips. Her hood fell back.

  Bronwyn.

  Jon’s voice choked in his throat.

  She turned with painful slowness, almost unwilling, and met his eyes.

  “Bronwyn,” Jon said out loud. His heart was pounding ridiculously fast. “What are you doing here?”

  She moved toward him like an angel in a winter night’s dream. A vision. He had come to accept that he would never see her again and here she was on the sea path, in his world.

  Jon moved to her quickly, without thought for his fiancée, his father, his title—none of that signified; they were washed away like castles in the sand.

  “Lord Stagholt.”

  “You know me then,” he said gruffly, halted by her cool greeting.

  “Yes. I know you. How have you been?”

  “How have I been?” he repeated dumbfounded. “I’ve been miserable. How have you fared these past six months?”

  “Tolerably well.” Her smile was tense and polite. “Roddy has recovered. I thank you for that from the bottom of my heart. He said you were wounded in the attack.” She indicated the cane. “I hope not seriously. I pray you do not think me ungrateful—”

  “I’ve told you before—I do not want your gratitude.”

  “No, of course not. I remember.” She seemed to gaze past him. “There was a time when we were close. No vows were exchanged, no pledges made and no hearts have been broken.”

  This list was recited as if she were a solicitor at law. Bronwyn was releasing him from his obligation to her—as if he desired such a thing. “Is that the only answer you have for me?”

  “No.” She lifted her beautiful dark eyes to his. “Allow me to offer my congratulations on your upcoming wedding, my lord. I wish you great joy.”

  Women astonished him. How did they manage to ferret out information in the least conducive of situations? They were born spies, women were.

  “How in blazes did you hear about that?”

  “Do not swear at me.” Her anger had been kindled which was better than this polite façade. “Your lady wife gave me the glad news.”

  “Sweet hell—you are Cecily’s new maid!” He met her startled eyes with an insolent smile that he knew she would loathe. “You were in her room when I was searching for her gloves. I thought your backside looked familiar.”

  She flew at him, roused to a full fury at last. Jon caught her upraised fist before it landed squarely in his nose. “I know all your tricks, my lady. If I allow you to land one well-deserved hit you will take three. You would not stop until I was flat on my back crying for the surgeon.”

  Bronwyn tried to jerk her wrist free of his grip. Jon reacted by pulling her in tighter and locking her in his arms so she could not escape.

  “Bronwyn, Bronwyn ... oh God, I have missed you.”

  He pressed his mouth to her lips. She wrestled him in earnest, refusing to kiss him. “How dare you! Do you mean to make me your mistress? I am not for the taking, Jon. You shall have to find another to warm your bed if your wife will not do.”

  Jon released her roughly. “What would you have me do—live like a monk? The marriage is for financial and political gain. My father has demanded it.”

  “Live like a monk?” She laughed scornfully. “I would not dream depriving the maids of America such a virile, lusty gentleman as Lord Stagholt.”

  He was in no mood to coddle her temper or apologize for doing what had to be done. “What is making you angry, Bronwyn? That it was not you I asked to marry? Or does the very sight of me throw you into a rage. I was asked to propose marriage to a lady my father deemed worthy of his name and crest, and I obeyed.”

  Bronwyn’s full perfect lips quivered, surprising him. All anger had dissolved from her face and he was faced with a girl who appeared broken in every way it was possible to break a woman. “I am angry because you are marrying a woman worthy of bearing your name,” she said with soft fierce pain. “And that woman will never be me.”

  The muscles in his jaw twitched. He longed to tell her everything and take away her pain, but he could not—not if he hoped to keep her safe. “We were both playing a role, Miss Barlow.”

  “You have a short memory, Captain Stag. If you recall, in those final moments aboard the Black, I told you what I felt for you was real.” She lifted her chin and squared her shoulders. “None of that matters now. I am here to give you a message from Hezekial Garnett. They need you to captain a ship—the Marguerite. She is anchored nearby and there is a launch waiting at the jetty to take you to her. Mr. Garnett said they need a privateer in the North Atlantic to intercept the British Navy. They want you to leave tonight.”

  “And he sent you with this message? The fool! Garnett knows the risk. He should not have put you in this position.”

  “You are concerned for my safety?” Her voice was soft with disbelief. “You should be thinking of your fiancée and how she will suffer if you are killed or arrested. I warned Mr. Garnett I would not try to persuade you to abandon your duty. But as your friend, I felt I should give you the message.”

  “You are cold for a friend. I remember when we were more than friends. We were lovers.”

  She appeared nonplussed. “That was months ago. Much has changed since then. I am a lady’s maid now and Roddy is a stable boy. He has been given a cot in the quarters over the carriage house with the other boys. I’ve been given a room in the servants’ hall with two other girls. It is a good situation for us … I would not like to lose it, Jon.”

  “You will not. If that is what you want.”

  “Thank you.”

  Jon broke the awkward silence. “I still don’t understand why Garnett came to you.”

  “He said they couldn’t get close to you. I expect it is dangerous given your new acquaintances and status in the British Army. He seemed to think I could persuade you to abandon your fiancée.”

  Jon held his place and his breath. “Why would he think that?”

  “He said you are in love with me.”

  The snow fell silently around them. It covered her hair in thick wet clumps and swirled in the thin golden glow from the mansion. This was the perfect opportunity to tell her that Garnett was right—Jon was in love with her. It was the perfect moment—and Jon stood in rigid silence.

  “Well. I have delivered the message,” Bronwyn said softly. “That is all that was asked of me. I have kept you long enough from your party sir; if you will excuse me.”

  “No, I will not bloody excuse you.”

  He said it quietly but she took his meaning. Bronwyn lifted her eyes to his. They stood on the sea path without speaking. Time seemed to stand still.

  “What more is there to say?” Her voice was a whisper, lighter than the snow.

  “You can’t remain in Gage’s employ if I leave tonight,” he said grimly. “I have to know you will be safe or I’ll worry about you every second.”

  A look flickered across her face, a look of happiness and despair colliding. It was destroying her to say good-bye again almost as much as it was destroying him. Almost. Bronwyn still had Roddy and as long as the boy was thriving, she would be happy.

  “Mr. Garnett wanted me to convince you to take the assignment—and—and I cannot!” The reply was not in answer to him but in response to some inner demon she seemed to have vanquished. “I came here to do that very thing for the worst poss
ible reason. I was jealous and angry at seeing you with Miss Knowlton. I planned to manipulate your feelings for me and the patriot cause to encourage you to leave her. I wanted to make her suffer as I have suffered.”

  “You are jealous of Cecily Knowlton?” His voice was tinged with astonishment.

  “Yes! Yes, I am jealous! You smile at her and flatter her and my blood boils. I wish I could be as coolly unaffected by what happened between us as you are. Seeing you again is tearing me apart. Go and join the fight or stay and marry Cecily—either way, your life will carry on without me. You are a lord and I am a lady’s maid. We are not at sea now. We must conform to the expectations of our class.”

  “A thing neither of us is very good at doing.”

  “Please, Jon. I am trying very hard. I know the right thing to do,” she whispered, almost pleading with him, “but I can’t do it where you are concerned. I dream of you and I would likely do harm for your sake but I can’t have you and I must forget you. Fate has thrown us together, perhaps as a test. Yes, that is it—I am being tested and I must not fail this time.” She shook her head sorrowfully. “I am guilty of envy on top of everything else. I can’t seem to get it right no matter how hard I try.”

  “Then stop trying,” Jon said fiercely. “Stop trying to be good—be who you are and tell me what you want from me—nay, demand it!” Jon couldn’t unravel the complexity of his feelings for her. It was like navigating the Black through the fog. He needed a beacon to guide him.

  Bronwyn raised her face to the falling snow and blinked back scalding tears. “I want Lord Jonathon Stagholt to choose me. I want him to love me and take me back to England with him—not Cecily Knowlton.” She dashed the tears from her cheeks.

  Jon couldn’t speak. The force of hearing how she felt about him, baldly expressed, had scared the hell out of him. Bronwyn Barlow did nothing by halves; she loved and hated with equal force. Captain Jon Stag was the same but Lord Jonathon Stagholt did not have that freedom. He had to keep his feelings for her on a short leash. This world was not their own. Aboard the Black, it had been different. Here, Jon felt the noose tightening around both their necks if they stepped out of line.