Captain's Bride (43 page)

“One of you men cut him loose,” he directed the
circle of slaves, motioning toward Nathan. “The rest of you go on
back home.”

“The boy’s a runaway, sir. Law’s clear on that. He’s
bound to be punished.” The heavy male voice bore the smooth accent
of a well-bred southern gentleman.

“And just who might you be?” Nicholas asked, still
holding the pistol to the overseer’s head.

“I’m Thomas Jervey. I own Magnolia Gardens plantation
just south of here, and I’m head of the Committee for the
Preservation of Southern Society.” Jervey sat astride his big bay,
flat white hat perched atop his head—the epitome of the southern
planter. Like most of the southern aristocracy, Jervey was
obviously a man of conviction. A man who believed in what he was
doing.

“All right, Mr. Jervey,” Nicholas said. “We’ll return
Nathan to Summerfield Manor. Tomorrow you may come and speak with
Mrs. Summerfield. If she gives you permission, the punishment will
stand.”

“No!” Glory screamed, sliding down from her horse.
Already on the ground, Josh caught her up before she could reach
the circle of men.

“Let the captain handle this, Glory,” he whispered.
“He knows what he’s doing.”

Trembling all over, hard-pressed just to stay on her
feet, Glory nodded and felt Josh loosen his hold.

“Do we have a bargain, Mr. Jervey?”

“I don’t like bein’ coerced, Mr.—”

“Blackwell. Nicholas Blackwell.”

“Ah, Captain Blackwell. Yes. I’ve heard of you. I
believe we may have even met on one occasion. I’m surprised a man
of your stature would interfere in local jurisprudence.”

“I don’t normally. But Glory’s my wife now. What’s
important to her is important to me. Besides, Nathan’s a relative
of sorts.”

“It’s a sad day indeed when a white man comes out
with an admission like that.”

“I’m sorry if I’ve offended your sensibilities. Now,
do we have a deal?”

“Jonas?” Thomas Jervey asked.

“Don’t do it, Mr. Jervey. Ain’t right bargainin’ with
no nigger-lover.”

Nicholas cocked the pistol, pressing the cold metal
even harder behind the man’s ear. “You sure about that, Fry?”

Jonas Fry spun and jerked at the same time, grabbing
Nicholas’s pistol hand. A shot was fired; then several more
sounded. Josh pushed Glory to the ground, his own spent weapon
acrid with the smell of burned powder. Jago crouched as he drew his
blade and held it menacingly. Mac pointed his spent weapon at the
dirt. When the smoke and dust cleared, the circle of men had
scattered; some had flattened themselves against the earth. One
moaned softly.

One lay silent.

Stifling her terror, fighting the beckoning dark of
unconsciousness, Glory rushed to Nicholas’s side. At first she
thought he was dead and it was all she could do to breathe. As she
knelt beside him and carefully shifted his head into her lap, blood
from the wound in his chest oozed through her trembling
fingers.

“I’ll go for help,” Josh said, darting for his
horse.

Mac knelt beside her, his ruddy face grim. He opened
Nicholas’s bloody shirt to look at the wound. Mumbling something
beneath his breath, he stepped away, eyes fixed on the ground.
“I’ll get some clean rags,” he said softly. “We need t’ stop the
bleedin’.”

Glory brushed damp tendrils of hair from Nicholas’s
cheek. His breathing sounded hollow; his chest rose only a fraction
with each uneven breath. A weak pulse throbbed at the base of his
throat. He hadn’t moved at all.

Glory leaned over him. Tears welled and slipped down
her cheeks. “Nicholas, please don’t die.” Her hand trembled so
badly that she clenched her fist to still the motion. “You can’t
die now. We have our whole lives ahead of us.”

His fingers closed over hers, brown against her
fairer skin. His eyelids fluttered open. He ran his tongue over his
lips and swallowed, straining to speak.

“Don’t try to talk,” she pleaded. “You have to save
your strength.”

He lifted his head, determined to make himself
heard.

“Please, Nicholas. You’ve got to lie still.”

“Tell me . . . you . . . love me,” he whispered.
“Tell me. . . .”

“Oh, God.” Glory closed her eyes against the pain.
Touching his cheek with her hand, tears blurred her vision and ran
in rivulets to dampen the front of his shirt. “I love you,
Nicholas. I wanted to tell you so many times. I’ve loved you since
the first day we met. I loved you the night you saved my life on
the
Black Spider
. I loved you on the strand. I loved you in
Boston and at Blackwell Hall. I couldn’t stop loving you. Even when
I wanted to, I couldn’t. I’ve always loved you, my darling
Nicholas. I always will.”

But Nicholas couldn’t hear her.

His eyes had closed. His fingers relaxed their hold
and slipped from between her own. His head slumped softly against
the folds of her skirt.

“ ‘The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. He
mak-eth me to lie down in green pastures; he leadeth me beside the
still waters. He restoreth my soul.’ ” The minister’s voice droned
on, soft with sympathy above the bowed heads of the people who had
gathered to pay their last respects.

“ ‘He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for
his name’s sake. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the
shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for thou art with me; thy rod
and thy staff they comfort me.’ ”

Glory stood facing the oak coffin that rested on the
mound of fresh earth in the tiny cemetery on the hillside below
Summerfield Manor. A cloud blocked the sun. A single cloud, casting
rays of shadow over the mourners in the graveyard. A damp breeze
whipped her skirts and ruffled the black tulle veil she wore.

No tears wet her cheeks.

The time for tears had passed.

“ ‘My cup runneth over. Surely goodness and mercy
shall follow me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the
house of the Lord forever.’ ”

Glory twisted the folds of her dark gray bombazine
skirt and stared straight ahead, eyes fixed on the garland of
yellow roses draped across the coffin.

“Earth to earth, dust to dust, ashes to ashes.”

Not long ago she had stood in the same spot, staring
at another casket, one of fine mahogany, which held the remains of
her father. She swallowed past the lump in her throat.

“Are you all right?”

She felt the pressure of his hand as it nestled atop
her own in the crook of his arm. Nicholas still looked wan and
pale, but he was alive—unlike Jonas Fry who lay cold and still in
his coffin.

Glory nodded. “I’ll just be glad when all this is
over and we can go home.”

“So will I.”

Across from her, Glory saw her mother watching her
through her own dark veil. She’d changed since the last time they’d
been together. She seemed more vulnerable now. Glory had been right
about her mother: Louise Summerfield had been just as upset as
Glory when she learned of Jonas Fry’s scheme to have Nathan
returned. Her mother had come to terms with the past, it seemed.
She just wanted to get on with her life, someday make a home for
the soft-spoken, graying man who stood beside her—Caleb
Harcourt.

She and Glory had talked for hours after it was
certain Nicholas would live. They’d become closer in these past few
days than they had been in years. Louise had spoken to Glory about
Caleb, seeking her approval. After Glory had left Charleston, her
mother had met Caleb Harcourt through Eric Dixon’s family and the
two had fallen in love. Since the period of mourning for Julian had
not yet ended, Louise and Caleb had been unable to wed. In order to
spend time with him, she had delegated more and more tasks to Jonas
Fry. But all that would change now. Soon Caleb would be helping her
run the manor.

Glory liked the quiet older man, so unlike her
father. He’d spent most of his adult life as a merchant in
Charleston, but he’d been raised on a plantation.

“I can learn again,” he’d said with a wry grin. “For
a woman like Louise it will be worth it.”

Louise had blushed like a schoolgirl.

Glory was happy for them. Her mother deserved this
chance at love.

Louise had even made peace with Nathan. To Thomas
Jervey’s chagrin, she’d given Nathan his freedman’s papers, and he
had already embarked on a ship heading north.

“You’ve always been there for me, Glory,” he’d said.
“Someday it’ll be my turn.”

“Pay me back by helping your people.” She had hugged
him and waved till he rode out of sight. This time when he reached
New York, he would be safe there.

Nicholas’s wound had been less serious than it had
appeared at first. The bullet had passed all the way through his
chest, a safe distance above his heart and lungs. Now it was just a
matter of rest and recovery. He’d been abed three days, but today
he had demanded she let him accompany her to the funeral,
determined to lend his support.

Her mother seemed quietly pleased at his sense of
duty. “Jonas Fry was a loyal employee of this family for over
twenty years,” Louise had said. “It’s only fitting he be buried on
Summerfield land and attended by family.”

And so it was.

Mac, Jago, and Josh had turned Matthew Bigger over to
the Charleston authorities. Since he’d been in no other trouble,
there was a chance he would receive a light sentence. Glory hoped
so. In some ways, as Lester Fields had said, he wasn’t a bad
sort.

“Bye, darlin’,” he’d said with a grin, his face still
battered from Nicholas’s beating. “I wouldn’t mind goin’ to jail if
I could’ve tasted that sweet body of yours just once.” Josh had
been outraged. Jago grinned as if he understood, and Glory was just
thankful Nicholas hadn’t been anywhere near.

Mac and the crew of the
Black Witch
had left
for New York as soon as the doctor was sure of Nicholas’s recovery.
Black Neptune
, another of Nicholas’s ships, would be at the
Charleston docks in three weeks. By then Nicholas would be well
enough to travel, and Glory would have had some time with her
mother and a chance to visit old friends.

The funeral service ended, and Nicholas led Glory
back up to the house. For propriety’s sake she’d made an
appearance, but she felt no grief for Jonas Fry. She wouldn’t have
wished him dead, but the fact that he was brought her little pain.
She hoped the man her mother hired to replace him would be more
sympathetic to the Negroes’ plight.

“You look a little peaked,” Glory told Nicholas,
laying a hand on his brow to check for fever as they climbed the
sweeping staircase to their third-floor room.

“I believe you may be right, Mrs. Blackwell. I’d
better get back to bed right away.” His eyes moved from her face to
the swell of her breast beneath the dark gray mourning dress she’d
worn after her father died. They darkened to that heated, hungry
look she knew so well.

“You’d better come with me,” he told her. “Just to be
certain I’m all right. Besides, I want you out of that dismal
dress.” His look said the dress wasn’t all he wanted her out of,
and Glory felt her own desire swell. They moved along the hall and
into Glory’s bedchamber. She’d put Nicholas in the wide four-poster
to convalesce, but so far she’d slept on the narrow settee each
night for fear of opening his wound.

“Turn around,” he ordered, as soon as they’d closed
the door.

Glory did as she was told and felt firm fingers
unbuttoning the back of her dress, then releasing the tabs holding
together her petticoats. She stepped free of the frothy folds,
pulling the dress off at the same time. She turned to face him in
snowy corset, chemise, and lacy drawers.

Nicholas groaned. “I’d almost forgotten how lovely
you are.”

“I love you,” she whispered.

“I don’t think I’ll ever tire of hearing you say
that.”

“I love you, I love you, I love you.” A bubble of
soft laughter escaped.

Glory smiled seductively. She slid down her drawers
and faced him clad in dark gray stockings and velvet garters, a
demicorset, and a lacy chemise that barely covered the curves of
her bottom.

“Vixen,” he whispered, pulling her against him. He
kissed her soundly, until she felt him sway.

“I think we’d better get you in bed.”

“Not unless you’re coming, too.”

“Try to keep me away.”

He let her remove his clothes, first his dark brown
coat, then his pleated white shirt. He sat on the bed while she
worked open the buttons of his breeches. Bending over, she felt a
rush of heat, first to her cheeks, then to her loins, as Nicholas’s
hand moved up her thigh to tease the rounded curves of her
bottom.

She slid his breeches down his long hard legs and
felt his muscles bunch as her hand brushed against the now-stiff
shaft between his legs. Licking her lips, she let her fingers play
over the rigid flesh, fascinated as always by the size—and the
promise of pleasure it held.

Nicholas eased himself up against the headboard.
“Come here.”

“Not yet.” Giving him a seductive glance, she wet her
lips and lowered them to the tempting flesh at the juncture of his
sinewy legs. She teased and caressed him with her mouth and tongue,
wanting to give him pleasure, delighted by his soft low groans of
passion. She licked and sucked and drove him to near distraction,
finally bringing him to shuddering climax. As he lay spent and more
than a little surprised at her boldness, she finished undressing
and joined him on the bed, careful not to touch his injured
chest.

“You’re even more of a vixen than I imagined,” he
whispered, cupping an upturned breast. He teased the nipple with
his teeth, then circled the hard bud with his mouth. Glory felt a
rush of pleasure that went all the way to her toes. When he pulled
away, she traced a finger down his chest to the flat spot below his
navel, then was surprised to feel his shaft hot and pulsing
again.