The Wild Wellingham Brothers: High Seas To High Society / One Unashamed Night / One Illicit Night / The Dissolute Duke

Lucinda and Alice had both visited her that morning and both had looked at her with something akin to wariness.

‘You did not tell us of your skill with a knife and sword, Emmie—’ Lucinda stopped. She said the name with uncertainty, as if just the mention of it might conjure up the steamy Caribbean underworld. ‘Why, when you sent that knife across the clearing and hit that man I could barely believe it—’ Again she stopped and her mouth fell into an even greater gape. ‘It was you wasn’t it, on the dockside with the Earl of Westleigh. It was you, who saved me? You’re Liam Kingston?’ She blushed profusely. ‘I should have known it was you. The gloves. Your height. Lord, it was you all along.’

Emerald could do nothing more than nod, though, as she chanced a look at Asher’s mother, she was surprised by the gratitude that shone from her eyes.

‘You have saved us all from harm, my dear, and I do not know how it is we will ever be able to thank you.’

The thought did cross her mind that such generosity was misplaced, given she had brought the McIlverrays to England in the first place, but she took Alice’s offered hand and held it tightly, and the older woman did not pull away or look askance at the scars that blemished the skin beneath her knuckles.

They had seen exactly who it was she was and still they thanked her. For this moment she felt humbled by the generosity of a family who had much reason to hate her. Unbidden tears welled in her eyes. How she wanted Alice and Lucinda and Taris to like her.

Asher’s family.

At least then, when she was gone, they would remember her fondly. She dabbed at her eyes and was horrified when still more tears welled. She never cried. Never.

Turning her head into the pillow, she was glad when she heard them leave.

When the last rays of orange were fading from the far-off hills, there was a knock on the door.

This time it was Taris who came into the room. Carefully. She could tell that he was not often here, given the number of times he bumped into things. The table in the middle of the room and the chair near the fireplace. He always stood against the light of the window, she thought, as he stopped there.

‘Asher tells me that you blame yourself for this.’ His fingers swept up across his eyes and he was still. Waiting. Emerald took a breath. It was rare in England to find people who came straight to the point and she liked him for it.

‘If Asher had not met my father—’

He stopped her. ‘You do not strike me as a woman who qualifies her life much with “if”. If I had not done this…if only I had done that…’

Despite everything she smiled. What was it Taris had said of blindness? Other senses were heightened? Certainly he seemed to have the measure of her and it was easy to be comfortable with him.

‘My father was a man who felt that the oceans were his own. Any oceans, but more especially those around the Turks Island Passage. If he had not seen the Caroline that day—’ She stopped as she saw his lips twitch and rephrased her words. ‘Your loss of sight was a direct result of my father’s greed.’

‘My loss of sight was a direct result of my own need to protect my brother; if it had not happened in the Caribbean, it might have happened somewhere else. On the high mast of an ocean-bound ship or in the slow roll of a carriage on the hills before Falder. Fate, Emerald, or destiny. Call it what you will. I do not blame him and I do not blame you. There is, however, something that you could do for me.’

‘Yes?’

‘Marry Asher.’

She almost laughed, but stopped herself at the last moment. He was deadly serious. She could see it in every line of his face.

‘I think marriage is the last thing that your brother would want from me.’

‘You are the only one who can save him.’

‘Save him from what?’

‘From himself. He blames himself for everything.’ He reached down to feel the seat of the chair beside him and lowered himself into it before continuing. ‘When Melanie caught a cold, she went to bed with camphor and honey drinks. When it got worse, the doctor was called. And when it got worse still, my mother held her hand while she breathed her last. If Asher had been at Falder, the result would have been exactly the same. He could not have saved her. But a healthy person can die inside just as easily as a sick one and that is what he has done. Ever since.’

Emerald was astonished. She could barely believe what he was saying to her. The power of it! And Taris was close to his brother. Close enough to truly know what drove him, what hurt him, what made him who he was. Could what he said be true? Could she help him in the same way that he had helped her?

‘Don’t give up on him. Not yet. Can you at least promise me that?’

She took in a breath and nodded because she didn’t trust herself enough to speak and then she smiled. He would not see the movement.

‘Thank you.’

‘You saw me nod?’

‘I felt it. In the shift of light.’

‘Where is Asher?’ she added as he stood to leave.

‘He went to London on business. We have a number of ships due out to India.’

Emerald heard frustration in his voice. ‘In Jamaica I had dealings with a witch doctor who could heal just about anything—even some loss of sight.’

He laughed, a rich deep sound that resonated around the room. ‘You are the very first person to mention my affliction in the same breath as divulging a cure, Emerald. Yes indeed, you should suit our family well.’

And with that he was gone.

Asher spent the next week trying to make sense of everything that had happened, trying to dull the effect that Emerald Sandford had made on him and trying to get his life back into some sort of order.

On the third day in London he found himself in an establishment off Curzon Street; the moment he walked through the front doors, he knew it was a mistake.

Angela Cartwright, a handsome red-haired woman met him as he removed his gloves and hat, the neckline of her gown perilously low. Last time he had been here he had admired her obvious endowments. This time all he could think about were smaller breasts topped with shell-pink nipples and a liberal smattering of freckles.

Emerald.

To be thinking of her in a place like this worried him and he resolved to put her from his mind.

‘Why, your Grace, it has been some time since we have seen you here. All of six months, would it not be, Brigitte?’

A beautiful girl, standing against the far wall of the parlour, came forward, her light blue eyes alive with laughter and her brown hair caught in an intricate style at the back of her head before the length of silk tresses fell to her waist.

‘Indeed, your Grace. I think you were here last time with your friend Lord Henshaw. Is he well?’

‘Very.’ Accepting brandy, Asher drank heavily, reasoning that tonight he needed all the fortification he could get.

‘Perhaps I could show you the conservatory, your Grace,’ she added as she renewed his drink from a crystal decanter. ‘It is the latest addition to our household and has been very well received.’

On the edges of her practised French accent lingered the twang of the Covent Garden markets. Normally the contradictions would have amused him, but tonight he was vaguely angered by it, and bothered too by the over-embellished furniture and paintings depicting cherubs in various stages of undress. This place was the most exclusive of all the London brothels, yet it felt cheap in a way that it hadn’t before. And the churning dread in his stomach had absolutely nothing to do with anticipation.

In the conservatory, any inhibitions that Brigitte had displayed seemed largely gone and when he felt her fingers suggestively cup his genitals he moved back sharply.

Lord, why was he here?

Why was he not home at Falder with the green hills all about him and the beating ocean in the distance? And Emerald Sandford in his bed, warm and willing and beautiful? Because she was a liar and a cheat and the daughter of Beau Sandford and because everything she had ever told him had been based on her skewed version of the truth.

A room to one end of the structure had been fashioned into a bedchamber, its large four-poster draped in lawn. When Brigitte raised her arms to loosen her hairpins, he marvelled that the sight did not affect him in the least. All he wanted was gold mixed with red and entwined with the lightest of corn.

Emerald.

He made himself come forward and draw a finger against the warm smoothness of Brigitte’s skin, trailing his touch along the base of her jaw and down again into the softer places. A swelling bosom and milk-white complexion, the fat abundance of womanhood warm and pliable in his hands as she tipped back her head and groaned.

Emerald. He wanted Emerald. He wanted her joy and her fierce independence. He wanted the feel of her against him as they lay under the full light of a new moon, his ruined fingers curled into hers. Disorientated, he stood back and looked around. Uncertain. Desperate. To leave.

‘I am sorry,’ he said quietly, jamming a coin into her hand before moving away.

Away from the wrongness of Curzon Street, its inherent loneliness tempered only by rich fine drink and impossible dreams. This was not the way to forget Emerald. This was not the way to claw back a future and find again in his life a place where sheer emptiness did not consume him.

When he was outside he laid his head against the side of the building and thought.

The port beckoned as it always had with its freedom and smell and foreverness. The infinite blue of the waves and a horizon that did not finish. Adventure, new lands, the riches of the colonies spilling into his holds, spices, silks, tea.

As his driver pulled into the curb near him, he walked briskly across and ordered the coach to the docks. His newest sloop was a few weeks away from completion and he would benefit from a good bout of hard work.

Chapter Fourteen

She found the map on her bed after returning from a walk around the kitchen gardens with Alice.

Asher. He was back. He must have waited until he knew her to be gone from this chamber before depositing the parchment. It had been eight days since she had seen him and the exhaustion that had kept her in bed had dissipated into intermittent tiredness, and then disappeared altogether as the wounds at her waist healed into an itchy red.

Unrolling the parchment, her eyes skimmed across the tangents indicated. True west of Powell Point on the tip of the Ship Chan Cay. And a date. 1808. The year after her mother had gone. The year her father had acquired the Mariposa and dispensed with his life as a lord.

Tucking the paper into the middle of a book to make certain that the edges were unseen, a new and more worrying thought struck her. Was this Asher Wellingham’s final goodbye gesture? Had he not said he would give her the map and provide transport home?

A knock at the door made her jump. The footman outside bowed his head as she caught his eye.

‘His Grace requests your company, my lady. He asked me to bring you to him directly.’

Resisting the temptation to go to the mirror and tidy her hair, she pulled at the material in her skirt so that it fell to a more decent length, a slice of pain worrying her side at the movement. Only a scar where the bullet had been extracted, the doctor hurried from London both skilful and competent.

She had been lucky in more ways than one; the McIlverrays were all dead and no longer a threat and the local constabulary was treating the whole incident as highway robbery. Asher with his wide connections had made certain that no trace of scandal ensued. Nothing to touch her. Nothing to hide from.

She smiled as she saw him standing against the open French doors. The gardens behind framed the blackness of his hair, and his clothes were casual, breeches tucked into brown boots and his white shirt open. Her heartbeat began to race as she pushed down the familiar, aching, breathless want for him.

Don’t touch him.

Don’t let him near.

Don’t let him see how much he has hurt me, could still hurt me.

‘Good morning, Emerald. You look well.’ He made no move to take her hand or come closer. There were no hooded glances or any suggestion of a shared intimacy. Rather he held back, unstintingly correct as he acknowledged her presence.

Today his eyes were the darkest that she had seen them, not even a shimmer of gold visible.

‘Thank you for the map.’ It was all that she could think of to say. After everything.

Wariness crept into his face. ‘You will return to Jamaica to search for its bounty?’

‘Yes. It should be easy to read the co-ordinates.’

‘How?’

‘How?’

‘How will you do that?’ His question was inflected with a controlled impatience and she was silent. What ship could she use? No one would give her credit in Jamaica and, with the loss of St Clair, she had neither property nor chattels to bargain with. A further lump blocked her throat. He would be rid of her this easily?

‘I am not certain.’ She made her voice even, indifferent, as though the matter of a vessel in which to travel was but a small and trifling consideration.

‘As I said, the Nautilus is due for a sea run.’

She could not quite understand what it was he was telling her.

‘If you needed passage, I could provide it.’ His voice held an iron edge of control as he spoke again.

‘Why?’

‘Because you were a virgin.’ So easily said. So dismissive of emotion.

She marched over until they were face to face. ‘I am not pregnant.’ The sheer stupidity of her remark made her blush, but his detachment was more hurtful than anything else and she didn’t want him to think that he was bound to her by non-existent ties.

‘My offer is not conditional on the production of an heir.’ She felt the whisper of his breath on her cheek before he moved back, and wanted to reach out and touch the warmth.

This whole conversation was so absurd she suddenly felt tired by it all. The hope. The lack of hope. The seesaw of emotion. The second-guessing as to how he felt. Love me? Love me not? Like the old game she had played as a child with the few other children who were allowed in her company. All she wanted to do was to step forward into his arms and feel their strength around her. Keeping her safe. From everything.

The low wheeling of a gull pulled her attention skywards. Today the weather was fresh, though a bank of clouds sat heavy in the west. There would be rain again later. She was certain of it. Unmindful, she drew her hand across the ache in her side.

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