Claimed by the Rogue (39 page)

She started toward him. Before she could come nearer than a step, Betty took advantage of the distraction to break free. She snatched Pippin up, ran to the rail and hauled him over.
 

Heart in her throat, Phoebe stalled. “Betty, please don’t do this.”

“Why shouldn’t I?” Holding the flailing dog over the side, the maid glared back at them. “You’ve taken everything from me—
everything
. I’m not stupid, you know. I ken what’s coming. Once we make port, you’ll turn me over to the magistrate. While you lot are tucked up cozy-like in your fine beds, I’ll be tossed into a cell at Newgate. My next rendezvous will be with the hangman. Drowning this mangy mongrel is the least I can do.”

Throat dry, Phoebe wasn’t prepared to give up, not yet. Out of the corner of her eye, she spied two male shapes—Robert and Caleb—moving toward Betty. Determined to distract her, Phoebe said, “It doesn’t have to be like that. Give Pippin back, and I swear I’ll speak on your behalf, explain that Aristide—Arthur Trent—coerced you into acting as his accomplice. The burn mark on your breast shall stand as proof of it.” Though stalling for time, still she meant every word.

Betty’s anguished cry better befitted a cornered beast than a human. “Coerced! It wasn’t only the future and being treated as a fine lady that bound me to him. I
loved
him.”

Coming at Betty from opposite sides, suddenly Robert and Caleb sprang upon her. A scream rang out.

Heart hammering, Phoebe started toward them, prepared to join the fray, but a firm hand closing about her arm held her back. “Trust me, they know what they’re about,” Anthony said into her ear.

Phoebe nodded and directed her gaze ahead. With their backs to her and darkness shrouding most of the deck, all she could make out was flailing limbs and entangled clothing. A splash announced someone had gone overboard.

“Nooooo!” This time the anguished exclamation tore forth from Phoebe’s throat. In that moment she would have given an eyetooth to be able to swim.

Two of the three silhouettes turned about: Robert and Caleb. Silent, Robert held out Phoebe’s former cloak, which Betty had worn. Turban knocked askew and smile stretching from ear-to-ear, Caleb likewise proffered a bundle of some sort—only his moved.
 

“Pippin!” Phoebe raced to the rail. “Oh, Caleb, it is I who am forever in your debt.” She reached out and took Pippin, shivering but otherwise unharmed, into her arms. Cradling him close, she divided her gaze between her two saviors. “Thank you.”

Robert answered with a rueful smile. “We saved Pippin from Betty, but our talents did not extend to saving her from herself.”

In unison, they turned toward the rail. Looking over it, Phoebe scoured the inky water, but beyond the breaking ripples, there was no sign of movement.

It seemed Betty had elected to cheat the hangman and join her pirate lover in death on her own terms.
 

Home, finally we’re home.

The following morning, Robert stood on the deck of the clipper ship with Phoebe, Pippin wrapped up in a blanket in her arms. Hand-in-hand, they watched the London Docklands come into view.
 

“We’re home, my love.” He turned to her, his heart overflowing with an abundance of love and gratitude. For the first time since his return, he felt well and truly as if he was home for good.

Arm bound in a makeshift bandage, Robert gestured ahead. “Once we set foot back in London,” he said, including Pippin in his gaze, “you may consider my adventuring days strictly in the past. Any future travels will be undertaken with you at my side.”

The promise won him her tentative smile. “I am heartened to hear it, though it may be quite a while before I will want to look upon water again.”

Winding his good arm about her waist, he drew her toward him. “What do you wish for as a wedding gift?”

She hesitated. “There is one thing.”

“Name it.”

“I want you to propose to me.”

Robert stared, wondering if somehow he’d misheard. “Phoebe, love, how can you say that? I must have asked you to marry me a score of times these past three weeks.”

She tilted her head as if studying him. “You didn’t ask. You
told
me. They’re not quite the same thing.”

“Ah, I see. There are rules to this sort of thing, are there?”

“Not rules precisely, more in the way of ritual.”

“I see.” And so he did. Phoebe hadn’t wanted to be claimed. She wanted—deserved—to be courted.

Only too happy to oblige, he slipped down onto one knee. Looking up into her lovely, flushing face, he searched his soul for the words that he’d waited six years to say. He was no poet, but for the sake of the love he bore her, he resolved to do his best.

“I love you, Phoebe Elizabeth Tremont, with all my heart and all my mind and all my body. Rough fellow that I am, will you do me the honor of consenting to be my life mate, my soul’s companion, my wife?”

“I shall upon one condition.”

“And that is?”

She slanted him a shaky smile. “How quickly do you suppose you can procure that special license?”

The society column of
The St. James’s Chronicle
, one week later

Despite its impromptu nature—and shocking lack of lace—the wedding of Lady P to Mister B was a lovely affair. The bride wore a gown of fine white muslin, the overskirt shot with primroses, and a garland embossed with white satin roses; the bridegroom a frock coat of dove gray, a dark blue waistcoat and a smile to rival the sun’s brilliance. A wedding breakfast was held at No. 12 Berkley Square, the in-town residence of the groom’s brother-in-law and sister, Viscount and Lady M. (Persons inclined to indulge in gossip will recall that Viscount M and Lady P were themselves once affianced.) Vast quantities of lobster patties and pates, jellies and puddings were consumed. Most unusually, a great mound of freshly shucked oysters took pride of place on the buffet table. Circulating among the celebrants were a tall, turbaned Arab, a menagerie of foundling children and the bride’s spaniel dog, the latter with a blue satin bow festooning his collar.

Phoebe in his arms, Robert kicked the bridal chamber door closed behind them. Crossing to the bed, he set her down upon the rose-petal-strewn counterpane.

He dipped a hand into his coat pocket and brought out one of the two fluted glasses he’d procured. “Champagne, Mrs. Bellamy?”

Shaking the last remnants of rice from her skirts, she beamed back at him. “Yes, please, Mr. Bellamy.”

He set out both glasses and reached for the chilled bottle of champagne setting in a bucket of ice on the bedside table.
 

Glancing at the door, she lowered her voice to ask, “Do you think anyone will come in search of us?”

Robert paused in pouring to look over at her. “They bloody well had better not.”

“But they’re bound to notice we’ve gone missing sooner rather than later. We are the guests of honor, after all.”

He turned to hand her a full glass. “Let them. As I recall, Chelsea and Anthony scarcely made it through the first toast on their wedding day. Why do you think she insisted upon having this chamber prepared in advance?”

Accepting the champagne, she tried for a look of innocence. “To ensure we would be well rested before tomorrow’s journey?”

In the morning, they would set out for Robert’s estate in Sussex. Since the loss of his last cargo, he was no longer rich as Croesus, but he’d assured her he had more than sufficient funds set aside to restore his fields to profit.

He let out a laugh. “I hate to disappoint, Mistress Bellamy, but once I see you free of that very fetching gown, you shall receive little rest this night.”

Phoebe smiled back. Resting was the very last notion upon her mind. With six years for which to make up, she was hard-pressed to keep her eyes, or hands, off her handsome husband for very long. “I shall take that as a promise.”
 

They sealed the pact with a saluting of glasses, the crystal meeting with a soft clink.

Phoebe took a sip and set her glass aside. “After all your seafaring life, are you quite certain life as a country squire will suit?”
 

Robert pretended to ponder. “Hmm, let me think. Squalls, off-shore reefs and hidden shoals, fouled equipment, leaks and threats of fire, the perennial worry over replenishing drinking water and perishable foods and, of course, pirates—it is a great deal to give up. But with you by my side, I shall be most happy to live out my days as a landlubber.” He pulled back to look at her. “What of you? Shall you miss London and the foundlings?”

Phoebe hesitated, feeling a pang in the vicinity of her heart. While she was fond of all her students, dear little Lulu would be by far the hardest with whom to part. The child had made the most adorable of flower girls. Knowing that on the morrow she must bid her goodbye for the foreseeable future was the one damper on an otherwise perfect day.
 

“As it happens, I’ve been thinking of establishing a sort of rural retreat for former charity children, an agricultural academy where boys and girls both might learn farming and animal husbandry. I’d start with a small group at first, of course—Lulu and a few of the others. What do you think?”
 

Biting her lip, she searched his face for some sort of reaction. Most husbands would frown upon a wife committing herself to such industry. Some might even forbid it.

Fortunately for her, Robert was not “most” husbands. Unruffled, he sat on the edge of the bed beside her. “It’s a splendid idea. As soon as we’ve settled, I shall set up a time to present your plan to my steward.”

“Oh, Robert, truly?” Beyond relieved, she reached out to embrace him.
 

“Yes, truly.”

Pulling back to look at him, she saw that his earnest eyes confirmed he meant every word. “I too have given thought to our near future. I know that you have some quite…modern notions of how a marriage should go, no doubt seeded by my sister, but what say you to us setting up our nursery without delay?”

She pretended to prevaricate, though in truth nothing would delight her more. Joined in marriage to the love of her life, she was more than eager to begin their family forthwith. They’d already waited six years. Why delay so much as a single day?

Still, she couldn’t resist teasing him just a bit. “Ah, so I see how it is, sir. I’m not even out of my bridal gown and already you’re scheming to see me barefoot and breeding before our first six months are out.”
 

“Well, yes to the breeding bit, but I have something specific in mind as well.”

“I know that look, Robert Bellamy. What secret are you keeping from me this time?”

“Not a secret so much as a surprise. A wedding gift, one I’m particularly anxious to present.”

Phoebe couldn’t imagine what more in the way of gifting he might have in mind. The warehouse arson had been a great loss, but it had hardly beggared him. He’d already given her more pearls, emeralds and diamonds than her jewelry case could accommodate. By tacit agreement there’d been no rubies, though. Invariably intertwined in her mind with her last disastrous betrothal, the scarlet stone was one Phoebe vowed never to wear again.

“Considering it’s from you, I’m sure I shall love it whatever it is.”

“Not what, but
who
.”

She hesitated, turning the possibilities over in her mind. “Pippin is a bit jealous-natured where I am concerned and somewhat inclined to cling since his kidnapping. I’m not certain adopting a second dog is such a good idea.”

He broke out in a laugh. Taking her face between his callused palms, his eyes smiled into hers. “Dearest darling Phoebe, it’s not a pet I have in mind, but a child. What say you to us adopting Lulu as our daughter?”

Amazement and, above all, joy struck Phoebe simultaneously. Grateful to be sitting, she was not at all certain her legs would have held her otherwise. “Do you mean it?”

“I do. I’ve already approached the board with my—our—petition. If you want her, she can be ours within a fortnight.”

Tears gathered. Smiling through them, she reached out and folded her hands over his. “
If
I want her! Beyond you, I’ve never wanted anyone more. Oh, my love, how can I begin to thank you?”

“You already have.” Gaze gentle, he traced his thumb along her smiling mouth. “Your happiness is all the thanks I shall ever want or need.” He lifted the garland from her head and set it aside. “For now, I should very much like to get on with the business of making love to my wife. That is, if she does not object overmuch.” Angling his face to hers, he tipped up her chin.

Feeling the delicious throbbing beginning to build, Phoebe laid her hand along his jaw. “I know for fact she does not object in the least.” She wound both arms about his neck and pressed close, glorying in his solid warmth and the newfound sense of perfect, impenetrable connection they’d forged. “I have it from a reliable source that Mrs. Bellamy is most eager to begin her wifely duties posthaste.”

About the Author

Hope Tarr is the award-winning author of twenty-five historical and contemporary romance novels including
Operation Cinderella
, the launch to her popular
Suddenly Cinderella
Series, optioned as a major motion picture by Twentieth Century Fox. Hope is also a cofounder and current curator of Lady Jane’s Salon®, New York City’s first and only monthly romance reading series now in its sixth year with nine satellite salons nationwide, all of which donate their net proceeds to a 501c(3) charity. (The original New York Salon supports
Win
, formerly Women in Need).