A Perfect Lady, page 25
part #3 of The Mackenzie Brothers Series
Rebecca nodded, and then waited for everyone to leave before she parted her gown to offer her breast. As his little mouth closed about her nipple, she jumped at the strange pressure. But then he fell into a rhythm, and she settled back against the mountain of pillows.
He was amazing to look at. She counted ten fingers. Ten toes. She marveled over how tiny he was, small enough to cradle in one arm. Her son. How beautiful.
Leticia sat in the chair at her bedside. “You should bring in a nursemaid.”
Rebecca tried unsuccessfully to smother her yawn with one hand as she rocked the baby’s cradle with the other. “I should, but I haven’t the time to find one. If he keeps me up one more night, I might go mad.”
“Have you decided on a name yet?”
She shook her head. “No. Part of me wants to name him for his father, but the other part of me is far too furious with James to give him that honor.” She looked up at Leticia. “But on the other hand, if something’s happened to James…”
She couldn’t bring herself to finish the thought. James had been gone nearly three weeks. The only thing she knew for certain was he was not in Brunswick. It pained her to think, but she wondered if he’d fallen in the bay and drowned. That was what happened to Zeke Carmichael a week earlier. He’d slipped off the bulkhead and drowned not more than twenty feet from shore. And according to Charles, it happened quite a bit. Often the unfortunate soul was carried out on the tide, to wash up somewhere on the coast. If that happened, James’s body would most likely never be found.
That left her with a hollow, gray feeling. It made sense, of course. He’d had a bit to drink before he left. All it took was one misstep and —
Tears pricked her eyes as she gazed down at the baby. Finally asleep. It was the first time since the previous afternoon. All night, she walked the floor, with him screaming in her arms. She was very near tears, ready to scream, to cry, to toss him out the window, when Leticia arrived.
Thank God for Leticia, who took him outside in the fresh air and allowed Rebecca to sleep for a few hours.
“That would be the only reasonable explanation,” Leticia replied quietly. “I know Captain McKenzie. He would never simply leave you.”
“Even if he didn’t want to be with me?”
“Nonsense. Why would you think he didn’t want to be with you? He married you, didn’t he?”
“He did because otherwise my father was going to hand him over to the British Navy.”
“That hardly matters,” Leticia told her, shaking her head. “I’ve known him since we were children. One cannot make James McKenzie do something he doesn’t want to do. Besides, one would have to be blind to not see how he cares for you.”
Rebecca sighed softly. “I think you see something that simply isn’t there. But something you think he should feel instead.”
“Nonsense,” Leticia retorted. “I know what I see. Perhaps he might not say it, but he loves you, and I know he would not simply up and leave you. Something had to happen. Something beyond his control. And if he is still alive, I would wager my own life, he will find his way back here. Mark my words. He will come back.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
James drew his fingers through the pale pink sand. Pembroke Parish, Bermuda, was a beautiful place, but his thoughts were nearly eight hundred miles away as he stared balefully out at the water. Rain swept in sheets up the beach, pounded into him, but he didn’t care. He just wanted it to end. Wanted to get back on a ship. He’d sell his soul to get back behind the wheel of a ship bound for the States.
“Captain McKenzie?”
He turned at the soft voice coming from over his shoulder. Conrad McElroy was barely out of boyhood, his face dotted with the peach fuzz he kept trying to coax into facial hair of any sort. He squinted through the rain, his dark blond hair pasted to his skull like a helmet. “Mother said it’s time to come out of the rain.”
Despite his black mood, James grinned. He knew better than to cross Mother McElroy. She would scold him as easily as she did one of her own five boys. A certain scolding awaited him as it was, since he was soaked practically to the bone from sitting in the rain.
Rope-thin and lanky, Connie was a good three inches taller than James, all long arms and legs. His stride was equally loose-limbed and easy. Nothing troubled Connie. James envied his easy, happy-go-lucky quality. It seemed his own thoughts were determined to drive him mad.
He arrived in Bermuda two weeks ago. Actually, “washed up” in Bermuda was more appropriate. After catching Weaver by surprise in his ship’s wheelhouse, things had gone from good to bad, then from bad to catastrophe. Apparently, Weaver’s men were willing to put up with his barbaric ways because he paid them well beyond what any of them ever expected.
And if Weaver had been angry that James slipped free twice while he was under command of the British Navy, he was seething with fury now that he’d lost his billet.
Oh yes, Weaver was no longer a British Naval officer, having been drummed out of the navy over a list of serious infractions. Now he was rogue, and determined to eke out some sort of revenge on those he held accountable for having his billet stripped.
No Naval regulations meant James had walked into an entirely unfair fight. One he would not walk away from so easily. Weaver meant to kill him, and his crew made themselves perfectly clear. They were more than willing to help, if it meant coins in their pockets.
After two days of in the rotting hold, James was aching for a fight, and Weaver proved to be a formidable opponent. They battled like Spartans — each latched to the other, trying to force the other man to cry quarter through any means necessary. Weaver sliced open the back of James’s left leg in desperate attempt to flay the muscle from the bone. For his trouble, James fit a short dagger blade perfectly between two ribs.
Fists split skin against bone, dislodged loose teeth, blackened eyes, and flattened noses. And as long as the crew thought their Captain was winning, they remained at a distance. But once James got the upper hand, he found himself having to fight Weaver and whatever lackey took offence and tried to get into the mix.
Bit by bit, James lost his upper hand. Bit by bit, they pressed him up against the railing, where a black and white roiling night sea beckoned. Weaver cut through the sea of lackeys, his silver sword blade glinting in the moonlight.
“I only wish I could stay and watch you drown, like the dog you are.”
Then, his blade gleamed menacingly in the moonlight, leaving behind a silvery trail as he swung it down and buried the forged tip into the joint of James’s right shoulder.
Pain burst into shards of fiery metal, each one spearing more flesh. The blade’s twist brought a muffled shriek of pain, and when the sword drew back, it was smeared thickly with ruby colored blood. Thick and sticky, it made his knees weak.
One swiped at his hand, catching the pistol he hadn’t tightened his grip upon. The pistol hit the floor and vanished from site.
“What should we do with him cap’n?”
Weaver, nursing several broken ribs and a cracked front tooth, glared at James as if he were no more than a rat to be butchered for fun. “Throw him into the sea.”
Panic bubbled in his belly. Before the storm hit, Bermuda had been on the horizon. But now, he had way of knowing where in the open ocean the island could be found. To be thrown into the open ocean was a death sentence.
Well, he’d be damned if he’d let one of them take the satisfaction of throwing him overboard.
No one bid him halt as he raced along toward the ship’s bow. He didn’t slow down, but instead, vaulted over the rail to fling himself into the sea. Once in the water, he cleaved strong arms through the waves, putting as much distance between him and the ship as possible. It was only through sheer will and mighty dumb luck that he made it to Bermuda. And that was thanks to the skinny lad with the amazing strength and good heart. James finally accepted his fate at the hands of the sea, when the longboat appeared in front of him.
Connie asked no questions, but hauled the heavier, bleeding man into his boat and brought him safely to shore. There, Connie enlisted his mother’s help. Mother McElroy bundled James up and tucked him into bed, where she clucked over him, fussing over him and babying him as if he was a mere child. He slept for two straight days.
By the third, he was antsy to begin moving. But Mother McElroy wouldn’t hear of it. “Not until you get your strength up, Captain. Then, and only then, will I allow any of my boys on their ships.”
McElroy Distillers was the largest such operation on the island. Rum was their chief export, and it didn’t take long for James to discover a soft spot for Bermudian rum. The only ship left in port was the Rosa, and Mother McElroy was adamant that Connie was nowhere near ready to try his hand at captain.
“Captain McKenzie will be at the Rosa’s helm,” Mother McElroy declared, a fist on one hip in a pose that meant she’d take no argument. “And at the end of the journey, if he feels you are ready, then — and only then — we will talk.”
That was a week ago. Since then, storm after storm battered the small island in the Atlantic. The seas were too rough to even consider trying to leave port. Suicide. And he didn’t want to die.
However, he knew he was up against the inevitable. The baby was due in early to mid-April. They were closing in on the end of March. The urge to be home now ate at him, chewed away at his insides, kept him from sleeping at night. There were times when he just felt washed out and thorough drained. He tried to ignore the hopelessness and the sadness. He could mourn his father once he was back in New Jersey. That would wait. Returning home before the birth of his child could not.
“How does the shoulder feel?” Connie asked, leading him down the pink sandy pathway through the dense foliage.
“It’s still stiff, but I have almost full movement. As soon as the weather breaks, we take to the sea.”
“Why are you in such a hurry?”
“Because imagine the most beautiful woman you’ve ever seen.”
Connie cast a crooked grin over one bony shoulder. “Is she naked?”
“She can be. Mine, however, is not.”
“Fat?”
James snorted. “Hardly. No. She is simply the most beautiful woman to ever grace this planet. Dark hair. Blue eyes. And that isn’t even the most beautiful thing about her.”
“She has huge — ” Connie held his hands out over his chest.
“No!” James choked on his laughter. “That isn’t the most beautiful thing about her.”
“So what is, then?”
James smiled. “She carries my baby in her belly. And I’ll be damned — pardon my language — if I miss my child’s birth. No way in heaven or hell that I will miss that.”
Connie glanced up at the skies. Earlier, they’d been gray. Now, they were much lighter. “It shouldn’t be much longer, Captain. We might even be able to leave tomorrow.”
“I certainly hope so.”
The McElroys lived just outside St. George’s, Bermuda’s capitol, in a house that was so simple, so plain, it was difficult to imagine one of the island’s wealthiest families resided there. From the kitchen came the most delicious-smelling aromas of spicy island cooking. James sniffed. Then sniffed again. Cinnamon. Nutmeg. Ginger. So many earthy, sweet scents combined to create a perfume that made his mouth tingle.
“Captain McKenzie, are you trying to catch your death in this weather?”
James grinned. Ellen McElroy was tiny, barely five feet tall, and weighed no more than a hundred pounds soaking wet and fully clothed, yet she need only clap her hands and people rushed to do her bidding. Each of her sons towered over her, but she didn’t need to so much as raise her voice before they were solemnly, “Yes, Mother”-ing her.
He was no different. “Of course not.”
“You do realize sitting out in this weather won’t make it clear any faster.”
“He’s anxious, Mother. His wife is having a baby soon.” Connie kicked off his wet boots, tossing them onto the small carpet laid out for wet shoes.
Ellen’s scowl softened, her pale blue eyes lighting up. “Your first?”
James nodded. “Our first.”
“I don’t suppose I can fault that. Although, I’d wager your wife would much rather you alive and late, than dead and missing out on everything.” She wagged a finger under his nose
“Duly noted and you are correct.” James bent to remove his boots as well, and then followed Connie and his mother out of the front room.
A fire crackled on the hearth in the cozy parlor, and Ellen clicked her tongue against her teeth as she settled into the pale green leather armchair nearest to it. “It keeps getting brighter. Shouldn’t be much longer. I can’t recall the last time we had so much rain.”
With a smothered groan, James sank onto the sofa. The dampness made his shoulder ache, although the wound was just about healed. A glimpse into a mirror earlier told him what had been a nasty purple-black eye was now almost normal again, and the ugly gash over his right eye was now a mere memory. The jagged scar would always remain, but it shouldn’t frighten Rebecca too badly when she saw it.
Rebecca.
He wanted to groan again. Damn it all, he missed her. The narrow bed in which he slept was an uncomfortable reminder of the miles between them, and the dull ache in his gut never completely left. He dreamed of her nightly, only to wake up with the quilts tangled around him.
As the day wore on, the rain decreased to a mist and then finally, mercifully, stopped. Weak sunlight filtered through the clouds, and by nightfall, the black sky was littered with thousands of sparkling stars.
After supper, James made his way out onto the terrace outside his small room, and sank onto the low stone railing. The air was clean and fresh, the world new from its most recent bath, and small puddles still dotted the terrace’s stone floor.
He held a tankard of rum in one hand, and brought it to his lips as he stared out at the ocean in the distance. Its surface sparkled under the moon’s pearly light, calm and flat. Tomorrow couldn’t come soon enough. He’d been gone a month. Dear God, he wanted to see his wife, wanted to lay his hand on her heavy belly and feel their child move inside her. He would never grow tired of that amazing feeling of life beginning — would never grow tired of seeing Rebecca in such a state. She was beautiful, both slim and heavy with child. Beautiful and sensual, and once he had her in his arms, he was never going to let her go.
And he was going to make damn certain she knew just how much he loved her and that she never doubted his love. He’d spend the rest of his days spoiling her and making up for those early days, when he made it plain and simple how he blamed her for their wedded state. Now, he wanted to go to St. Kitts and thank her father for forcing his hand.
Perhaps they would do that, once the baby was born. Whatever Rebecca wanted, he’d make damn sure she got. Hopefully, he’d be on the list of things she wanted.
Chapter Twenty-Six
A warm breeze wafted in through the open nursery windows, carrying on it the scent of lilac. Rebecca rocked Garrett gently, smiling down at him as she inhaled deeply. She loved the lilacs that bloomed pale purple just below the windows. She didn’t know how long they’d remain in bloom, but hoped it would be for the entire summer.
Garrett James McKenzie was six weeks old and growing into the rolls of fat on his arms and legs. His blue-eyed gaze followed her intently, and that shock of dark hair had grown thicker since his birth. After a rough start, he slept for greater stretches of time, much to her relief.
She hummed as she rocked him, and as his eyelids fluttered, she murmured, “Little one, you will never know how I wish your papa could see you now.”
Although she tried her darndest to believe James would return, after nearly two months, she had to accept the inevitable. She mourned him, tears pricking her eyes at the slightest thing, and the hollowness in her heart seemed to have taken up permanent residence. She heard his deep laugh at the oddest times — usually just before she fell asleep. When she dreamed of him, which was almost nightly, she awoke with a renewed sense of loss, of emptiness, that nothing could replace.
Her son helped. It was a comfort to look into those eyes, which reminded her so much of James. Garrett bore so strong a resemblance to his father that she found comfort in knowing she would never forget James’s face.
“Mrs. McKenzie?”
She looked up at Amanda, standing in the doorway. “Come in.”
Amanda stepped into the nursery, her forehead wrinkled and her brows knit. “Am I disturbing you?”
“Not at all.” She bent to set Garrett in his cradle. He gurgled and kicked, but otherwise seemed content. “What is it? You look troubled.”
No. Troubled wasn’t the word for it. Amanda’s cheeks, normally rosy from the amount of time she spent in the sunlight, hanging washing, were pale. Almost waxen, really. And her eyes held something of a haunted look, as if she’d seen a ghost. A sense of unease settled itself about Rebecca’s shoulders like an itchy blanket. “Amanda, what is the matter?”
“You need to come below, Mrs. McKenzie. You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
“Believe what?” She glanced down at Garrett. His eyelids fluttered, and slid shut. She covered him with a light blanket as the curtains fluttered above the cradle.
“Please.” Amanda caught her by the hand to tug impatiently on her arm “You must come with me.”
“Oh, very well.” With a heavy, exasperated sigh, Rebecca allowed the maid to tug her out of the nursery and down the corridor. The stairs proved to be a bit trickier, as Amanda was in such a hurry that she didn’t stop to consider Rebecca was one step above. It wasn’t until Rebecca almost crashed down on top of her that she apologized and slowed her gait.
