A Brother's Honor (27 page)

Dominic nodded and crossed the room to where Abigail was struggling not to smile. She should have realized Dominic St. Clair would end up being in command, even in jail. He spread the paper across the table and began to write. When she stood, intending to read over his shoulder, he said, “No,
chérie
, do not read it. You will be safer if you remain ignorant of what is in it.”

“If you are writing in French, I cannot read it.”

“Some words are similar enough.” He folded the page, sealed it with wax, and pressed it in her hand. “See that it is delivered to Ogier on
La Chanson
or my friend Evan Somerset.”

“How?”

“In London you can find a man named Red at the Brass Fish, a tavern near the Pool. I was on my way to speak with him when I received the message that brought me to Fitzgerald's house. Red can arrange for the note's delivery.”

“In London? You want me to go back to London?”

He chuckled. “
Chérie
, I told you once that I would be a fool not to know every man in England whose loyalty can be bought.”

Abigail shivered. Loyalty was no longer clear-cut. Sir Harlan had bought his son a bride not only with cash, but with guns which would be turned against Americans. “I have learned that. But how—”

“Try.”

“I will, Dominic, but we are almost five hours from London.”

He frowned. “Five hours?”

“By coach.”

“So far? Are you certain?”

She nodded. “When you were brought here—”

“I slept.” His lips twisted at the memory. “Fitzgerald's men must have drugged the wine they gave me. I have had no idea where we are.” He sighed. “Can you get from here to London,
chérie?
”

“I will try. I will try as soon as possible.”

His hand curved along her face. “Come back soon.”

“I will as soon as I have some information for you.”

Standing, he drew her to her feet and into his arms. “Or sooner,
chérie
. Your smile brightens my eyes, wiping away the darkness of despair.”

Unsure how to reply to such surprising honesty without revealing the pity which he would despise, she nodded. “I will.”

When he tilted her mouth beneath his, she welcomed his kiss. She sighed and pressed more closely to him as she rediscovered the tender torment of being close to him and not being able to share their passion. As his lips glided across her face, teasing, taunting, daring her to surrender, she clung to him. His fingers moved along her, cupping her breast. Against his mouth, she gasped when rapture threatened to overwhelm her.

“Abigail—”

The clink of keys in the lock brought a vicious oath from Dominic. He released her, and she walked out after Pritchard had opened the door.

As she trailed Pritchard along the corridor, Abigail held the piece of paper tightly, knowing how important it was. She was not sure what Dominic was requesting in this letter, but it would be a way to flee England. With her help, he might be successful. Her steps faltered as she emerged onto the street. Dominic had told her more than once that there was no place for her in his life on the sea. She could not think of that now. Somehow he would escape. Somehow she would persuade him to take her with him. Such a life might not be easy, but with Dominic, it would be exciting.

Chapter Nineteen

Abigail's happiness vanished as soon as she entered Sir Harlan's house. She saw Fuller in the hallway. What was he doing here? Usually he loitered in the kitchen, bothering the maids.

Then, with a stomach-twisting pulse of disgust, she realized it must be time for her daily visit with Clive.
Not all prisons have bars on the windows and rats in the corners
. She shivered at that thought.

Fuller grasped her arm and pulled her close. Boothe tried to interfere, but Fuller growled at the butler, “Get out of the way, old man! Sir Harlan wants her and his son together each afternoon.”

“Miss Abigail has just arrived back from Morristown,” Boothe argued. “She must be fatigued.”

“Yes,” seconded Abigail, wanting to give Boothe a smile of gratitude, but knowing that she must not turn Fuller's cruelty on her unexpected ally. “I am fatigued. I will return to see Clive in half an hour.”

Fuller smiled coldly. “In half an hour you will be halfway through your visit with your darling Clive.” He forced her ahead of him toward the parlor. He pointed at the butler. “Say a single word, Boothe, and you shall be sorry.”

He shoved her into the room and slammed the door. Abigail snarled an impotent curse at the closed door, but it did not relieve her frustration. With a sigh, she chose a chair next to the hearth, so she would be as far from the door as possible when Fuller returned with Clive.

She tried to hide her terror as the door opened. The laughter from Clive's guards warned her it would be more difficult than usual to keep him from hurting her. She did not rise, for Clive could construe any motion as aggression.

Every attempt to hide her fear vanished as the trio burst into the room. Fuller and his assistant Greene were struggling to restrain Clive, but Clive's fist knocked Greene off his feet.

Fuller screeched, “Get up, Greene! Help me!”

Jumping to her feet, Abigail said in a strained voice, “Calm down. You are making him worse.”

Fuller stamped toward her, leaving Greene to deal with Clive. He put his finger directly in her face, but she batted it away. With a growl, he stated, “Don't tell me how to do my job.”

“I shall not, if you do it!”

“No,” he drawled. “You do it.” Before she could answer, he walked out, motioning for Greene to follow.

She gasped in horror. They were leaving her alone with Clive! She ran to the door, but it closed before she could reach it. A key twisted in the lock. She put her hand on the latch, but she was torn away from the door.

The arm around her waist tightened until she could hardly breathe, as Clive stroked her hair. He continued to be fascinated with its bright color. That added to her fear, but she gently pushed on his arm and said, “Let me go. You are hurting me.” She repeated those two sentences over and over as she tried to breathe. She did not know what he would do if she collapsed. She must not let him kill her. If he did, Dominic would die, too, for Sir Harlan would have no reason to keep him alive.

When his grip loosened, she sucked in a deep breath. He released her, not moving until she reached again for the door. She edged away from his broad hands, and his puzzled gaze stalked her around the room. A vacant smile appeared on his face as he lumbered toward her.

Abigail gasped. She had been maneuvered easily into a corner. Had she and everyone else underestimated Clive's intelligence?

“Pretty,” he mumbled as he stepped closer. “Pretty.”

“No,” she whispered. When she saw rage on his face, she added hastily, “Not pretty.”

“Pretty.” Childish petulance filled his voice. He reached for her. “Pretty. Mine.”

Her eyes widened. She had never heard him use that word. Suddenly she understood why Fuller had locked her in here with Clive. By leaving her and Clive alone, Fuller hoped she would have to scream for his help. That would set Clive off more, and Fuller could come to her rescue to gain his employer's gratitude. Or would he even come to save her? She wondered if Clive's other bride-to-be had died because of Fuller's pride.

“Abigail,” she said as she caught Clive's outstretched hand. Pressing it to her shoulder, she whispered, “Abigail.” She put his hand on his chest. “Clive.” Slowly she repeated the action endlessly until he began to mouth the words with her. She smiled, believing she was reaching the child within the man.

Suddenly he pulled his hand away. When he raised it, she fought her instinct to cower. If she did, he might go on another rampage. His heavy hand settled on her hair, and he stroked it jarringly.

“Pretty. Pretty. Pretty Abig.”

“Yes.” Hoping she would not make the situation worse, she put her hand on his shoulder. “Pretty Clive.”

She struggled not to cringe when she heard a bizarre sound; then she realized he was laughing.

He patted her head hard. “Pretty Abig. No pretty Clive. Pretty Abig mine. Clive be good boy. Pretty Abig mine.”

Abigail swallowed her shock. Never had she heard him string so many words together. If she had not been about to be forced to become his reluctant bride, she could have felt pity for him. He had been shut away and ignored for most of his life, until, like her, he had gained value in his father's eyes.

“Do you want to see more pretties?” she asked.

“Pretty Abig?”

She shook her head, wondering how long she could communicate with him before his frustration overwhelmed him and set him off into a rage again. “No,” she said, pointing to the doors to the garden. “Pretties out there.”

“Yes. Yes.”

Abigail took his hand before he could shake his head off his shoulders in his enthusiasm. He reminded her of the toddler who lived next door to Aunt Velma, but Clive was not a child. Keeping up a steady patter about the “pretties” they would see, she led him out the doors. She steered his uneven steps around the chairs on the terrace and across the perfect grass. How it must infuriate Sir Harlan, who insisted that everything be kept exactly as he wanted it at this house, that he had a son with so many imperfections.

When Clive paused by a tree, she ran his hand along the bark. He laughed when it tickled his palm, and her pity grew. She tried to guess how old Clive was. At least a decade older than she was, but he acted as if he had never touched a tree. She suspected he had not.

Tessie's comments about Sir Harlan's older son who had been the heir suggested that Clive's brother had died within the past few years. She glanced at Clive's delighted face. Until his brother's death, he may have been shut away in some windowless attic where he could not be seen by anyone.

“Pretty Abig.” He pointed at the tree and struggled to find a word.

She laughed, but halted when his face twisted with rage. Instantly she understood. Too many people had laughed at him. Keeping a smile on her face, she ran her fingers along the bark and said, “Tree. Pretty tree.” As she had before, she repeated the words over and over.

Again the sound like a rasp being drawn across rusty iron came from him. He touched the tree. “Pretty.” Another new word seemed beyond his limited capabilities.

“More pretties?” she asked.

“Pretty.” He held out his hand and smiled expectantly.

Abigail's eyes flooded with tears as she saw how he longed for affection. Not the lust his father yearned for him to have in order to obtain Sir Harlan another heir, but the longing for friendship. She put her hand in Clive's. When he closed his fingers too tightly, she loosened them with a gentle smile. He nodded, but she was unsure how much he understood.

Watching his face so she could gauge any change, she walked with him to where rosebushes were lush with bright red flowers. She simply said, “Pretty.”

His thick fingers touched the bright blossoms, sending petals cascading to the ground. She saw the joy on his face. This was what Clive wanted. To be surrounded by “pretties” and escape from his prison. She wondered how Sir Harlan could be so indifferent to his son's needs.

She shivered as she folded her hands behind her back and watched Clive examine the flowers with a child's curiosity. Unlike Clive, she had been fortunate enough to have Aunt Velma and Uncle Jareb to love her. She had always adored her uncle, although she had never suspected he was her true father. She ached for such a giving love again. She turned to look toward Morristown. In the prison there, she had a precious love that might be as doomed as her uncle's ship.

Renewed pain cut through her as if she had touched the thorns on the vines. If she did not do as Sir Harlan ordered, he would see Dominic hanged. Her love would be gone, and she would be forced into Clive's bed.

She touched her bodice and heard the crackle of the page she had secured there. Dominic's letter to the man named Red at the Brass Fish had not been lost. Somehow she had to find a way to go to London and see Red. She smiled when she realized she might have just the way.

Anxious to do what she must to help Dominic and realizing that they must return to the house before Fuller discovered what was happening, Abigail urged Clive toward the garden doors. He grumbled, and she said, “We will see pretties again, Clive. All right?”

He stroked the soft petals he had gathered from the ground. She wondered how many promises had been made and forgotten by those who guarded him.

He reached for her hand. When he saw the petals in his hand, he looked from them to her.

She smiled. “Pretties for Clive.”

“Clive good boy?”

“Yes,” she said with sympathy. “Clive is a very good boy. Next time we will get more pretties.”

“More?”

“Yes. Next time,” she repeated firmly. She was beginning to understand how to deal with him. Once she set boundaries he could accept, he was docile. It was only when he was frustrated that he exploded into violence.

He babbled something she could not understand as they walked back to the house. When he paused as if expecting her to answer, she smiled. The only words she understood were their names and his favorite word.

When they entered the parlor, she paused. Fuller and Greene had already arrived. Fuller was looking about the room with a horrified expression. She shuddered as she realized he was looking for her corpse left behind by Clive.

“Lose something, Mr. Fuller?” she asked quietly.

He whirled, fear straining his hard features. When he saw her smile, he growled.

Clive lurched across the room with his drunken gait. Holding out his prize, he announced, “Pretties. Clive pretties.”

Fuller knocked the petals from his hand. When Clive let out a screech, Fuller asked, “Clive want pretty? There is pretty. You want pretty? Abigail is pretty.”