Dark Prelude (4 page)

His companion furrowed his brow
thoughtfully. Before answering, he lifted his tankard and slowly
drained it dry.

Watching them, a stout barmaid propped
grubby elbows on a keg while her lazy eyes sauntered from one man
to the other. A pair of dandies they were. Looking so much alike
they might be twins but for a certain ruthlessness in the
expression of the one who spoke. And his hair a shade lighter than
the other, fair as wheat in the field at harvest. Rowdy gents
despite the fine clothes.

Had emptied a keg of rum and spent the night
in the inn with two girls she found for ‘em. Gentleman! Humph! Had
broke up the place fightin’ over who would have the redhead. And
paid a tidy sum for it too. In the end, ‘twas the fair haired one
had tipped her a crown and gone off up the stairs with the redhead.
And the other had closed his door with the little twit what came
with her. But this mornin’ when she woke ‘em as directed, ‘twas the
other one in bed with the redhead. And drinkin’ ale so early in the
day. Gentlemen! Humph!

Morgan Toller wiped the foam from his lips
and smiled. “I think, my dear brother, when Wilhelm Schlange makes
plans, someone should be wary.” He cocked his tawny head to one
side. “What did you think of the redhead?”

“A disappointment. All the flame was in her
hair.” His eyes sparked and he had a devilish smile as he recalled
how he had enticed his brother to make an exchange. “The mousy one
was by far the better woman.”

“For once we agree.” Morgan’s laugh had a
raucous ring. “Now what shall we do about this trip to the
colonies?” he asked as he motioned the barmaid with a sweep of his
arm and followed by pointing to his empty tankard.

The woman shrugged, wiped her hands on a
soiled apron and waddled across the room like a fat duck headed for
a pond. “Ye gentlemen enjoy yer evenin’? she asked with a broad
grin showing the ragged gap of one missing front tooth.

“Ahh. We did indeed, Sallie.” Roman smiled
and winked, his face and inventive mask of masculine charm that set
women in a dither. “But I’m sure it would have been a far better
evening if I could have persuaded you to share it with me.”

“Posh! Be off with ye sir! The thought of
it!” Sallie blushed and wrung her apron in a pair of plump hands,
but her grin grew even wider.

“Can’t you leave the ladies alone for a
minute, brother?” Morgan rolled his eyes upward, then wrapped his
hands about the tankard and looked impatiently at Roman. “Before
the
Eastwind
sails, tell me what you intend doing. Do we go
or not?”

Morgan could not suppress another chuckle.
At thirty-two, Roman was a year his senior but hardly more a
ladies’ man than himself.

“I believe we have run dry every diversion
on this side of the Atlantic and I’ve a hankering for a warmer
place myself. And I must admit my curiosity is aroused when Uncle
says he requires us for a matter of extreme importance.” Roman
reared back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. One
brow arched up. “He’s not well, from the look of him.”

“You don’t think the old tyrant’s about to
die, do you?”

Morgan halted his drinking long enough for
the concern to show on his face.

“No. The rogue is mean as a snake. He may
never die.”

Roman let out an audible breath. Fond as he
was of the old gentleman, he knew Wilhelm’s calculating shrewdness
and attitude of invulnerability must eventually succumb to age.
“But he is old and it seems to have occurred to him for the first
time that he must attend to the future of the Schlange estate.
Could be he wants us to take over more of the shipping
business.”

Roman clenched and unclenched his fist. “He
has relinquished management of the estate to that blustery Eric. A
move I thought never to see. Still the man has a way with
crops.”

Morgan stroked his chin, still showing a bit
of red from a morning shave with a razor not quite stropped enough.
“And when have you heard from Eric and dear lovely Martha? I’m sure
she’s kept you bombarded with letters. One would think she has her
eye on you and an ear tuned for wedding bells.”

Morgan could not hide the start of a smile.
Mention of Martha never failed to prompt a testy reply. The
affections of Martha for his brother were a source of amusement for
him. He knew for a fact Roman had only a brotherly affection for
Martha and would never marry her, if he ever wed at all.

“Blast you, Morgan!” He shoved his near full
tankard aside. “You know full well no letters have followed us.” He
glared suspiciously at his brother. “What pot have you
stirred?”

Morgan chuckled. “Have you not learned,
brother, that if you do not want a pot to boil, you must not light
a fire?”

“I’ve lit nothing but I do not trust your
mischief.” He scowled and came halfway out of his chair before
tamping down his anger. He did not need to start another ruckus.
They had done enough damage last night. Another brawl might land
them in shackles. Still there was simmering anger when he
continued. “Whatever you have done, I warn you, Morgan, you are the
one playing with fire if you think I will not even any score of
yours.”

Morgan laughed heartily. “I am quaking in my
boots, brother.”

Roman released his clenched teeth and
snarled a reply, “I advise you not to rest easy, Morgan. I’ll…”
He tapered off, the sting gone out of his wrath. He had no way of
knowing if Morgan had truly unleashed some roguery his on him or
was merely deviling him with talk. Looking away, he drew a stern,
deep breath, then looking back at Morgan with resignation, swigged
of his ale.

Morgan noted his brother’s concession,
knowing that soon enough Roman would devise some sport to even the
score. Theirs was a lifetime of trying to outdo one another with
pranks and he could not have said who had the lead.

“If we are sailing with Captain Langham
today, we’d best notify him we’ll require our cabins.” Morgan’s
teasing expression turned serious. “It’s a long ride to the harbor.
I prefer to arrive in time to stow our gear on board and to find an
inn near the docks where we can dine before we sail.” He rubbed his
flat, hard belly and grinned. “I for one do not relish galley food
for the next few months. Nor the bleakness of an ocean voyage when
I am not in charge.”

Roman threw his head back and laughed. “With
ale this early and a night such as ours, I would have thought your
appetite sated.”

Chuckling again, he watched Morgan shake his
head no. Meaningless liaisons like the one last night, were
becoming unrequietingly boring to Roman. Unlike Morgan, he welcomed
the long voyage as a respite from months filled with too much
folly. Perhaps Langham would let him take some time at the
wheel.

His brows drew together in contemplative
thought. A man ought to occupy his time with tasks that proved his
worth. Wilhelm had preached hard work to them since boyhood. The
lessons had sunk in; both had taken to hard work. Only to Wilhelm’s
dismay, they showed no signs of relenting from equally hard
play.

Roman slowly stood and stretched his limbs.
He was over six feet tall, as was his brother, and hard muscled
from his days as a mate on Wilhelm’s ships. While he waited for
Morgan to finish his drink, he strolled nonchalantly around the
table to stand near the fireplace.

“Aye. And Roman, a dual purpose.” Morgan
looked over his shoulder at his brother and continued jovially, “I
wanted to give you opportunity to find a gift for Martha. You
surely would not disappoint the lass by arriving empty-handed.” His
hearty laughter rocked the room and turned a number of heads their
way. “Perhaps a ring.” Morgan sloshed his cup and lifted it to his
mouth to empty the last of the brew.

Roman stood back a pace, but his cheeks
burned with a flush of red. For a long moment he stared at Morgan’s
back and then a blacker mood took him. A wicked smile curled his
lips as he drew back his arm and slapped Morgan squarely between
the shoulders.

“Let’s be off, man!”

Morgan fell forward from the blow, choking
on a swallow of ale and splashing the rest across the table. “What
the devil, Roman! A word would have sufficed!” he snapped, and
angrily blotted his coat front with a napkin.

Perhaps he had gone a bit far with his
mischief. But then with a sly grin replacing his scowl, he decided
the result had been worth it. Roman was glowering again. Still, it
might be wise if he did not turn his back on his brother again for
a while.

***

Across London, dawn heralded a brief promise
of spring as soft pink rays filtered through the window to
surrender a rosy warmth to Silvia’s room. Sleepily rubbing her
eyes, she slipped silently from beneath the covers, but any vestige
of drowsiness left as her feet touched the cold floor.

In the corner a sturdy old carpet bag bulged
with the belongings she had packed last evening. Carting a trunk to
the docks without alerting Uncle Hollister to her departure would
be impossible. But then she hardly had enough to fill a trunk and
Mr. Wickes had said her wool clothes would be too hot for the
climate on Schlange Island. He had assured her that once on the
estate, fabric would be available to sew a few dresses.

Could it be true? She would leave without a
confrontation? An uncomfortable impulse made her press her ear to
the door. Guttural snores sounded through the house like the
grating croak of a dozen bullfrogs. To date she had managed to keep
her plans a secret, not daring to tell a soul lest Uncle Hollister
hear of it.

The two weeks had passed with creeping
slowness while Silvia counted days as anxiously as a child awaiting
a visit from St. Nick. Now the day had arrived but with no joyous
celebration. Instead only the ceremony of sorting through her
things and discarding youthful dreams along with items she could
not carry.

Tiptoeing cautiously around the room, she
gathered the last of her dresses and folded them into the bag. Then
with a doleful sigh slipping from her lips, she walked to the
window and peered out. Her mind whirled in a maelstrom of emotions,
for a moment spinning sadness, then excitement, then sorrow that
she had no one to bid her goodbye.

Outside, the beginning of a fog floated in
close to the ground, blanketing the streets with a thin ghostly
mist and choking out the rays of sunshine with its dulling
grayness. All the better, she thought pensively as she trailed a
finger along the glass pane. In the cover of the fog she would be
able to walk to the harbor unseen.

Her uncle had taken to leaving the house
early and having his breakfast at the tavern where he no doubt
washed it down with ale. When he left she could be on her way.

Since the night he had frightened Silvia in
her room, she had struggled with an unnamable fear and avoided her
uncle as much as possible. Doubts about leaving him, or of leaving
London, had vanished during the strained days since that evening.
But for having the sailing date in her mind, she could not have
tolerated her plight at all.

Silvia pushed the bag beneath the bed and
held her breath when she heard shuffling footsteps in the hall.
Today he must not stop. She could not face him today. Surely if he
saw her he would know, he would see her nervousness and know. She
quickly climbed back in bed and pulled the heavy covers to her
chin, hoping he would pass.

Quivering beneath the covers, her breath a
mere whisper of sound, she waited to hear him leave. But the
footsteps stopped and there was a thundering knock on her door.

“Missy. I heard you up.”

Her face whitened as his rough voice started
a surge of panic in her veins. The door creaked open slightly as
Silvia watched from half closed eyes. He poked his head inside but
stood behind the threshold. There was an apologetic look in his
red-veined eyes.

“Missy, don’t hold it hard against me. I
meant no harm.

Was the liquor leadin’ me to do the wrongs
I’ve done. An’ I’ve had the last of it. I won’t be liftin’ the cup
again. Rest easy on it.” He paused and lowered his head. “You hear
me, Missy?”

Silvia bit her lower lip to stop the erratic
pounding of her heart. How many times had she heard him say there
would be no more drinking? As many times as he had come in drunk
again.

He sniffed. “You hear me, Missy?”

Silvia sighed deeply and mumbled, “I hear
you Uncle Hollister. I’m glad. No more lifting the cup.”

His eyes swept to the foot of the bed where
the carpet bag had been hastily stashed. Momentarily his expression
hardened and he glanced at her sharply.

“I’ll be going out now. Business you know,”
he declared with an ineffectual ring of kindness to his voice.

“Goodbye, Uncle Hollister,” she said gently
as he closed the door and trudged nosily down the stairs.

When the front door closed, Silvia hastily
pulled her bag from beneath the bed. She penned a brief message to
her uncle telling him goodbye and asking that he not be concerned
for her welfare.

With trembling fingers and eyes brimming
full of warm tears, she propped the note on her dresser, knowing it
would be evening before it was read.

A little gasp of sorrow sounded in her
throat as she reached the bottom of the stairs. Then with a
determined toss of her chin, Silvia reached for the doorknob.

Locked! He had locked her in! Her blood
pounded in her temples. She was a prisoner. She pulled at the knob
and pounded the door until her hands were sore then cried out in
despair. The ship would sail without her.

Slumping to the floor, she smothered a sob.
The windows on the street floor were barred. Tears welled in her
eyes. All was lost. She had not been stealthy enough. He had
guessed her plans to leave and proved it in the cruelest way. She
felt a wrenching emptiness in her heart as she stood and twisted
the knob again with all her might. But there was no use. There was
no way out.