So why didn’t she want to reach port?

  Chapter Thirteen

  It was dusk when James guided the Siren through the murky green-black waters of Raritan Bay. His emotions were mixed at his homecoming. It’d been months since he’d last set foot in New Jersey, and hopefully his father was no longer as furious as he’d been in the days leading to James’s departure. The last thing he wanted was to bring his pregnant bride into a battlefield.

  Theirs was never a warm, close relationship, and it only fractured further with Charles and Jacob’s deaths. It was as if Patrick McKenzie blamed his youngest son for not dying. He grew into a bitter shell of his former self. Eagleton suffered. Their home suffered. James suffered.

  Perhaps Patrick was willing to let Eagleton go to pieces, but James was not. He worked tirelessly to turn the company around, to save what he could. Despite his father’s criticism, despite his naysaying and reminding James he would never amount to the sort of man his brothers had been, James managed to turn around the failing shipping company. For the first time in nearly five years, Eagleton was on the verge of showing a profit. Although he had the headaches of British impressments, new markets opened both in Europe and in the Far East. The London office was small, having only opened earlier in the year, but work was steady, and James was considering expanding in the European market to both Spain and France.

  As for the Far East, the Priscilla, the flagship of Eagleton Imports, was on her way. Michael Butler, his second in command at Eagleton, had left only days before James departed for the West Indies. It would be months before he returned.

  The Far East was what he and Patrick had done battle over, what led to James’s decision to put some distance between them. His father thought it foolish to try to expand. He preferred the security in the markets he knew. He saw no need to explore other markets. No risk, no loss. He didn’t understand that without risk, there was no reward. James was more than willing to take that risk.

  The bright red painted warehouse bearing the Eagleton Imports name came into view. It was clumped with other warehouses, most larger and more weather beaten than Eagleton, along the waterfront. Ships were moored in the bay, but Eagleton had three slips — two of which were empty — so he guided the ship toward a vacant berth.

  It was slow going, easing the Siren in, and as the tide changed, it took every bit of muscle he had on board to get the ship secured in her slip. By the time lines were secured, most of the warehouses were quiet. The men of the Siren were eager to get off the ship and go cause some trouble in any one of the half dozen taverns dotting the waterfront. And from there, Brunswick’s brothels were in for a bawdy, raucous evening as well.

  “Are you coming with us, Captain?” Mr. Tims asked as James stood at the bow railing, staring at the lights hung on the front porch at Maggie Montfort’s. After spending a good portion of their gold at one of the taverns, his crewmates would then take themselves off to Maggie’s in search of comfort with one of her ladies.

  “Not this time, Mr. Tims. I’ve sent Tobias in search of a hack to take my bride and I out to Stonebridge.”

  “A good evening to you, then, Captain.”

  “And to you.” He forced a smile to his lips as Mr. Tims took himself off. It certainly was less sticky, visiting Maggie’s. Much more impersonal and uncomplicated. Uncomplicated had its moments, but at the same time, a visit to Maggie’s would serve only to complicate every other aspect of his life.

  He turned to go below, where he found Rebecca with her head down on the open book sitting on the table. Her eyes were closed, and she snored softly. He smiled as he peered around her nose at the page. It was one of his more boring books, one that often put him to sleep as well. Why the hell was she reading something so dull? He might not have an extensive library on board, but almost anything had to be more interesting to a lady than Sailmaking Through the Ages.

  “Rebecca?” He put a hand to her shoulder. She jumped, sweeping the book from the tabletop.

  “What time is it?” she mumbled, rubbing her eyes with one hand as he plucked the book from the floor.

  “It’s nearly eight. Tobias should return soon with a coach.” A lock of chestnut hair curled down along the curve of her cheek, somewhat matted from being slept on. It glinted with gold streaks in the lamplight, and its softness beckoned to him. When he made love to her and gathered those thick locks in both hands, the strands caressed him like spun silk. Since then, the urge to gather the dark mass, to let it spill through his fingers and stroke it over his skin was constantly on his back.

  With a forefinger, he caught the curl to tuck it away from her. The smile she offered held a thick hint of sleepiness in it. “Did that curl trouble you, Captain?”

  “No. Yours is some of the softest hair I’ve ever touched, and I’m not at all ashamed to admit, I rather like touching it. And intend on doing it again.” He slipped the book back onto its shelf above his desk. “And this is why these books remain here. The books in the McKenzie library forced them out for being so damn dull.”

  He offered her his arm. “If you’re ready. We might take our leave now. Stonebridge is at the far western end of Brunswick and will take us a bit of travel to reach it.”

  She sat up straight and arched her back, and he tried not to stare as her breasts strained against her bodice. Damn, they were perfect. He forced the less-than-innocent thoughts from his mind as she sat back. It wasn’t just the motion of arching her back that strained her bodice. It actually looked as if it might be getting too tight for her. She rubbed one eye. “So, you aren’t in Brunswick proper?”

  That took his mind off her breasts. At least for the moment, anyway. “No. But, I feel it only fair to warn you, moving into town is most definitely a feasible option. Remember, you’ve yet to meet Commodore McKenzie.”

  Her brows knit. “Commodore McKenzie?”

  “He will ignore you if you address him as anything other than Commodore.”

  She wrinkled her nose at him. “But isn’t that a naval rank?”

  “It is. And he was, many years ago. But he likes it, so he’s kept it. Be certain, when you are introduced, you address him as Commodore until he tells you otherwise.” He didn’t want to frighten her, but thought it best to forewarn her with what to expect at Stonebridge. “And don’t speak until he’s spoken to you. And for the love of all that is holy, do not mention any one of these three things: King George III, the war, or impressments.”

  “And about our marriage, or your child?”

  He grinned, imagining the Commodore’s reaction should Rebecca just blurt out that she was pregnant. The shock alone might kill him. No, probably best to not blurt it out, no matter how tempting. “One thing at a time. He doesn’t need to know the circumstances of our marriage. It isn’t any of his concern. I’ll tell him of your pregnancy in good time. Otherwise, he’ll be ready to have you drawn and quartered for trapping me into marriage in order to lay claim to the McKenzie fortunes.”

  Her brow furrowed. “But you said yours is not a wealthy family.”

  “I did. And we aren’t. At least, we aren’t yet. But we are as far as Patrick McKenzie is concerned, and any woman fool enough to want to marry me must be doing so in order to sink her talons into that nonexistent fortune.”

  “He sounds quite charming, your father. I can hardly wait to make his acquaintance.”

  “And you think I’m teasing you, don’t you?”

  She stared at him for a long moment, and then slowly shook her head. “No. Actually, I don’t think that at all. What I do think is I’m going to say or do something terribly wrong, and he will flay me alive.”

  “I’ll be there with you, Becca. And I promise to do my best to not leave you alone with him any more than I have to.”

  “A relief, that,” she said, her forehead still furrowed. She certainly didn’t look relieved. If anything, she looked more worried than before. Of course, knowing what he did, he couldn’t exactly blame her. He didn’t want her worrying, though, no matter how adorable she might look with her nose wrinkled the way it was and her brows pulled until they almost met.

  With that in mind, he took her by the hand to give it a gentle squeeze. “If he frightens you too badly, I can always teach you how to fire a pistol.”

  “James!”

  Perhaps she tried to look properly horrified, but her smile made it impossible to hold. It’d been a long time since a smile sliced through him the way hers did. It cut right through to the center of his being with unexpected force, almost knocking him back a step. At that moment, he would have done anything to ensure that smile — that beautiful, radiant smile — never left her lips and that sparkle never left her eyes.

  She held his gaze, the spark between them almost visible. It felt as if all the air had been sucked from the room — as if time actually stopped for a moment. Her fingers trembled against his palm, and she tugged him closer. He didn’t resist, but let her, and when her lips touched his, it was as if someone struck flint to steel.

  Her fingers came to rest at the nape of his neck, but weren’t still. With each pass of her fingernails against his skin, gooseflesh rippled down his back. Each stroke sent sensations running riot through his entire body, made him so very aware of how the linen of his shirt scraped over his shoulder blade, of how the fabric could seem so light, and yet so heavy at the same time.

  Her lips were so soft. They were quite possibly the softest lips he’d ever kissed, and as hers parted, another shiver tore down his spine. Her tongue, small and equally soft, was tentative as it flicked over his lower lip. He wanted to groan at the caress, and did just that as her tongue slid silkily along his. Every sinew in his body tightened in reaction to her, and when he swept her up into his arms to spirit her to the narrow bed for the last time, her silvery laugh was the most beautiful music he’d ever heard.

  “Do you suppose the coach is waiting for us?” Rebecca’s voice was heavy and dreamy, her head resting in the slope of his shoulder while she trailed her fingertips lightly over his chest.

  “If Mr. Tobias knows what’s good for him, it will be,” he replied. He let his fingers wander down the length of her hair as he fought off a drowsiness of his own. The last thing he cared about was Tobias and the coach. He hadn’t lied to her earlier — he couldn’t resist touching her.

  A low laugh rose to his ears. “And if it isn’t?”

  “Are you so anxious to meet the Commodore?” He couldn’t resist teasing her, even when she lifted her head to glare at him. It was an ineffective glare, as she still smiled.

  “No. But I am anxious to be on dry land.”

  “Very well.” He flipped her easily onto her back and slid over her, threading his fingers through hers to press her one hand into the mattress. He dipped toward her, wanted to sample her delicious kiss one last time.

  Until she mentioned it, he’d forgotten about Tobias and the coach. Once he had her in his arms, the only thing that mattered was whisking her to the bed and out of her gown and corset and stays. However, since the hour was growing late and —

  A fist banged on the door. “Captain?”

  Smothering a groan, James let his forehead come to rest in the warm slope of Rebecca’s shoulder. “Yes, Mr. Tobias?”

  “Is everything all right in there? I’ve been waiting topside nearly thirty minutes for you.”

  “Everything is fine, Mr. Tobias. We’ll be there in a few minutes.” He lifted his head to smile down at her. He didn’t want to move, didn’t want to leave her, and would have been perfectly happy to remain exactly where they were for the rest of the evening. It was far more comfortable than Stonebridge would be, far homier.

  With more than a little regret, he rose from her and helped her dress before dressing himself. Less than thirty minutes later, they were bundled into the waiting coach and rocking their way away from the harbor.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Rebecca’s gut threatened to devour itself as she stared up at the run-down, three-story, white building. The upper floors were pitch-black. This was James’s home? The place he called Stonebridge? This ramshackle building actually had a name? It barely had a roof. He said he wasn’t serious about the roof falling in. If this wasn’t falling in, what was it?

  But James was climbing down from the coach and waiting for her. She peered out the window again. The house reminded her of Windemere, when it was under construction. She’d been about five, perhaps six, and her family lived in the carriage house. It took two years for Windemere to be completed, but even at only its halfway point, it didn’t look nearly as foreboding as Stonebridge did now. Two years. Their child would be walking, possibly talking, by the time the house might be finished. What was she supposed to use for a nursery?

  Still, since he was waiting, and since she couldn’t put it off forever, she gathered her skirts to climb down. How on earth did she hide her dismay at the thought of going inside that dilapidated house? It hardly looked safe, never mind homey. Thank God the child’s arrival was still months away.

  Wood creaked ominously as the hack driver unceremoniously deposited their valises on the front porch. While James paid him, Rebecca took a deep breath and mounted the stairs. The wood groaned again, and the second step wobbled, so she tightened her grip on the railing. The last thing she wished to do was take a tumble down the stairs.

  A thick layer of dust coated the inside of the front window, and a spider made itself at home in the window’s corner. She was trying to peer through the smeared glass pane when a face suddenly appeared on the other side.

  She leapt back, her scream tearing free, and she tripped over her hem in her haste to back away. Her backside met the rough wood hard enough to send a jolt of pain shooting up her spine. The door ripped open with such force, she wouldn’t have been surprised to see it tear from its hinges.

  “What the devil’s going on here?” An old man, with a wild shock of pure white hair swirling about his lined, red face, stormed out onto the porch. He was short and bandy-legged, but his fury made up for his lack of size. “Who are you, girl, and what are you doing here?”

  “She’s with me, Commodore.”

  Captain Patrick McKenzie’s jaw went slack as he lifted his furious gaze from her to James, now on the bottommost step. He folded his arms over his barrel chest. “When did you get into port, Jamie?”

  Forgetting about the ache in her back and her slightly bruised pride, Rebecca stared over her left shoulder at James. Tension corded every line of his body; his shoulders were stiff, his back ramrod straight, his biceps bulging against his shirtsleeves as he crossed his arms to stare at Patrick. “Just today.” His voice was as tight as the rest of his body.

  Both men seemed to have forgotten she was there, which was fine with Rebecca. Patrick sniffed and rubbed the silver stubble rampant over his jaw. “Thought you said you’d rather die than come back here?”

  “At the time, death was preferable. But now,” James shrugged, “my circumstances have changed.”

  Patrick’s cold-eyed stare slanted back toward Rebecca and the urge to scoot further away from him surged through her. “Her?”

  She rose, brushing dirt and broken leaf bits from her bottom as James said, “Partly. And you will take care in how you speak of her, Commodore. She is my wife.”

  Patrick’s jaw went slack again. “Wife? My son?” A rattling laugh shook his entire body. “You finally got yourself caught didn’t you? You rutting son of a bitch. Some dockside trollop finally pinned one on you, didn’t she?”

  Rebecca stared at him, unable to believe what her ears told her she’d just heard. A muscle twitched in James’s jaw. “Take care, old man,” he growled, stepping closer to his father. There was so little resemblance between the two men, she never would have believed them to be father and son. James towered over him by at least half a foot, and was broader as well, but Patrick didn’t back down.

  “Take care? You bring some blood-sucker to my door, and I should take care?”

  “A blood-sucker?” James let out a rough bark of laughter as he cast a glance at her. “What blood-sucker would want me? What do I have to offer that would have women scheming for ways to trick me into marriage? This palace? A life on board an all-male crewed merchant ship?”

  I want you. The words were on the tip of her tongue, although she didn’t know how they arrived there. But she held them back as Patrick muttered something beneath his breath that sounded very much like “Bloodsucking bitch” and stomped his way back inside.

  She bit the inside of her cheek as he disappeared into the darkness. No one had ever treated her with such obvious contempt, and she didn’t know how to respond. She looked over at James, who looked no happier than she felt. “It would seem he doesn’t care for me.”

  “Perhaps it would be best if we just went back to the harbor.” James pulled a hand through his hair, leaving it poking up in all directions. “If I’d been thinking, I’d have never left that damned cabin.”

  For the first time since they set foot on dry land, Rebecca’s nausea returned. She swallowed hard against the rising sour taste in her mouth. She wished he hadn’t insisted on them leaving the Siren either, as the thought of having to share space with Patrick McKenzie depressed her.

  However, when James offered his arm, she took it and allowed him to steer her into the house, where the darkness hanging over them was even thicker than the night. It pressed in on her from all directions, and Patrick did not make her any more comfortable. He sat in the parlor, in a faded blue damask armchair by the window, and glared at them.

  “Ignore him,” James whispered as they passed the doorway. “Let me show you to my — that is, our room. It isn’t much, but you’ll be comfortable.”

  Considering the Spartan appearance of his cabin aboard the Siren, she wasn’t at all surprised to find his room plain. It wasn’t quite as rundown at the rest of the house, although the carpet had bare patches, through which pale gold maple flooring shone through. The draperies and hangings were a faded blue, but intact, and the furnishing themselves were heavy mahogany. She studied one chest, running a finger along the beveled edge, leaving a trail in the thick dust. A good cleaning and a layer of polish and it would be lovely.

 

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