FLAME OF DESIRE (46 page)

“Damn you, Seton. Damn you to hell,” he swore beneath his breath, pulling with all his strength upon the ropes. The chest of gold rose out of the hold to swing like a body on a gibbet.

“No, no,
señor.
The net is to go in the hold, not out of it,” chided a nearby Spanish sailor, smiling as if to say ‘this landlubber is loco.’ Richard carefully eased the netted chest back to its resting place.

Now Heather
must
come with me. Our fate has been cast to the winds
, he thought to himself. They would be two wanderers, two fugitives, but at least they would be together.

Chapter Sixty-Six

Heather wandered around the streets of London like a lost soul, torturing herself with the memories of Richard. Nausea churned in the pit of her stomach at the thought of his death. She was silent, her grief welling up inside her like a dam, ready to burst at any moment. She resolved to be brave, but it was a difficult task.

“How will I go on living without him?”

Passing by a gibbet from which hung a grotesque body of one of the rebels, she stared in horror.

“Serves him right,” said a passerby. “If you ask me, all traitors should be hung, beheading’s too easy. Hang them all, I say, and as to heretics, burn them.”

A wave of sickness washed over Heather at the words, and now the tears which she had been holding back, rolled down her cheeks. Fiercely she dashed them away, sobbing as she sank down in a heap upon the wet grass. Huddled in a ball of misery, she gave vent to her grief until her tears were spent. Anger overcame her sorrow, anger at the injustice of the world.

A town crier walked by warbling the news that Mary would be married by proxy to her Spanish prince ere two weeks had passed, and Heather couldn’t help but feel bitter. The queen had robbed her of the man she loved.

“And now she is to be a bride.”

Looking about her, she tried to judge the time of day. How long had she wandered about? The fog was continuing to roll into London, enveloping her like her grief. Rising to her feet, she collided with a rotund woman as she walked along. She could hear the crying of the street vendors as she entered the marketplace.

“Any old iron take money for,” chanted the rag-and-bone man, his bag slung over his shoulder. He tipped his hat to Heather and moved along his way.

Traveling musicians strolled along with their lutes, fiddles, and drums, but the songs could not cheer Heather. They only made her more melancholy. How could the world be happy when Richard was dead? How?

The pudding-and-pie man pushed his one-wheeled cart up to her, his eyes kind, his voice gentle. “A hot puddin’, baked as I go. You be wantin’ one, miss?’

Heather’s stomach rumbled in answer but the thought of eating disgusted her, even though she had not eaten a bite all day.

“Pies, puddin’s, and tarts, warm from me oven.” He held one forth as if to tempt her. The aroma was tantalizing, yet Heather shook her head ‘no’ and the man moved on.

Passing a clump of rosebushes, Heather paused, reaching out to the budless stalks as if they were filled with flowers, remembering when Richard had brought her roses. She had been angry with him then, thinking him a scoundrel, married to one woman and seeking the favors of another, and all the while he had loved her. How could she have wasted so much precious time? They could have been together then….

“Fool. I was a fool,” she whispered.

She wandered aimlessly for a long while, lost in her broken dreams and memories. How dashing he had looked upon his horse, riding at the queen’s side when she came victoriously into London. And at the church that day of her wedding, she had thought herself lost to Seton’s trickery, but Richard had been there. Always he had thought of her well-being above his own, and in the end his love had been his undoing. If only he had not ridden in search of her that day….

A tolling bell struck three times. She had been gone for hours. She knew that she should go home; she could not walk the streets of the city indefinitely. Walking through the fog, she started in that direction, only to hear the sound of a frantic voice calling out behind her.

“Heather! Heather! Heather!”

Turning, she saw that it was Tabitha. Sweet, loyal Tabitha, who always tried to share her grief. This was one time when her words could do nothing to soothe her, yet out of common courtesy she paused and let the young woman catch up with her.

“Tabitha, I..I don’t mean to sound unkind, but I want to be alone.”

Tabitha didn’t answer at first, merely threw her arms around Heather’s neck. Heather stepped back, her face etched in anger. “How can you be joyful?”

“He’s not dead. Richard Morgan is not dead.”

“What mockery is this? He is dead. I just left Tower Hill and they told me…”

“He escaped. Rafael Mendosa came to the house to tell you.” Her voice lowered to a whisper. “He is on a ship, waiting for you to come to him. A ship bound for Spain!”

Heather was afraid to believe. She had thought this morning for only a brief time that he had been spared, only to be cruelly disillusioned.

“Tabitha, please. I know that you are trying to be helpful, to give me hope, but there is none. There is none!” Shrugging off the other woman’s hands, Heather walked along by herself.

“No. No. I am telling you the truth. Richard Morgan is alive. We have no time to talk about it. Come with me. The docks. You are to meet him at the docks.” Tabitha tugged at Heather’s arm, pulling her in the opposite direction from which she walked.

“Alive? Alive?” Like a sleepwalker she followed  after the servant girl.

“You cannot take the time to go back to the house for your things. I will tell your mother what has happened. She will understand. And if she does not, well, it is what you must do anyway.”

The fog was much thicker now, like wisps of smoke, curling around them as they walked. It was nearly impossible to see one’s hand before one’s face, and had Heather not known the city streets so well, they might well have been lost. It was a long walk to the docks, with nary a light to guide them; still, the smell of the water beckoned them on.

“I can’t believe it,” Heather said aloud, looking toward the heavens to offer up her thanks. “Richard alive.” Even a figure stepping out of the fog to block their way did not take away her smile.

“Who goes there?’ asked the voice.

Heather answered without a second thought, “Heather Bowen.” At her words the man reached out to grab her. She shook free of his arms.

“It’s her,” he yelled to another. “The one we’re after. Catch her.” As Heather fled down the cobblestones, the two men gave chase, Tabitha following in Heather’s tracks. They didn’t stop to question why they were being pursued; for the moment, that did not matter.

The fog proved to be Heather’s friend as she ran across the street to crouch behind a large hawthorn hedge. The sound of running feet passed by her and she peered through the foliage to watch as the darkened figures sped by.

Who are they?
She thought in panic.
Why are they after
me
?
Had they mistaken her for someone else? No, she had spoken her name quite plainly. Had it something to do with Richard? Yes, that was it. They thought she would lead them to Richard. Never!

Filled with the need to protect Richard, to see him again, she slipped from her hiding place as soon as it seemed to be safe. Running down the roadway, darting in and out among the bushes, she felt like a mouse trying to escape from a cat. Brambles clutched at her skirts, roots and branches seemed to reach out and trip her. Once or twice she turned her ankle on the rough and stony ground, only to get up again to renew her flight.

She was afraid to call out to Tabitha, fearful that her voice would fall upon the wrong ears and she would be caught, thus she sped down the cobblestones in silence. Here and there a flickering light led her way, but for the most part the fog seemed like an immense gray cocoon.

“I have to reach the docks!” she whispered as she ran. It was the thought that kept her going, even when she tripped over one of the cobblestones and hurtled to the ground with a shriek. The fall knocked the breath from her body, and she lay upon the damp ground--pain streaking through her--fighting with every ounce of strength and courage she had to get back up again.

“Heather?” The voice was faint, barely more than a whisper. From where she lay, Heather could see the shadowy figure of Tabitha hovering above her. “I heard you cry out. Are you all right:” Reaching out her hand, she helped Heather to her feet.

“My ankle. I can’t walk on it. I must have sprained it.” She tried to walk but could manage only a limp. “We must hurry. If you heard my cry, then whoever is trying to subdue me must have heard it too.” She hobbled a short distance, only to wince in pain. “Ohhhh.” What a time to be injured.

“Lean on me. Together we can make it to the docks.” Much like revelers at the fair indulging in the three-legged race, Heather and Tabitha made their way down the roadway, ducking into doorways from time to time or dodging behind trees and hedges. Heather breathed in the scent of triumph in the smell of the waters.

Turning to Tabitha, she laughed with the pure tinkling sound of happiness, only to collide full force with a man blocking her way. “Who are you?” he asked, clutching her arm. This time Heather was not so foolish to answer. “I said, who are you?” Struggling against the arms that held her, Heather found that this man was well-muscled and strong. She was no match for him. She was trapped.

“Please….” She whispered, all her hopes tumbling about her.

Again he asked, “Who are you? I am looking for a young woman. I must find her.”

Though the man who held her had a Spanish accent, Heather was still frightened. “I am not the one you are seeking. Let me go.” He would find that she was indeed the woman he searched for in a moment. Her heart pounded in her breast as she tried to pull free of his hands. Where was Tabitha? As if answering her question, the tall girl pushed between Heather and her captor.

“Leave her alone. Let her go!”

“Tabitha!” the man exclaimed in relief. He looked down at Heather, turning her loose. “And you must be Heather. Come, we have no time.”

“Rafael!” Tabitha’s voice was tinged with worship and happiness. “Heather has twisted her ankle.”

“Ah, poor s
eñorita
,” he said, picking Heather up in his arms. “Follow me, Señorita Tabitha.”

With his help they made it to the docks, only to hear the man with them curse loudly in anger. “I told them to wait. I told them not to sail without us.”

Heather tried in vain to see the reason for his ill temper. All she could see was a ship slowly pulling away from the docks; then she realized. “Richard’s ship!” It was leaving without her.

“Keep your arms around me,
Senorita
Heather, tightly. “ He took a leap forward, grabbing hold of the ship’s tiller as if by superhuman effort. Hanging there, pulling himself up on the thick pole of the bonaventure mast, he watched as the sailor pulled Heather aboard the ship, then reached down his hand to clutch Tabitha’s hand, drawing her upward. Her last thoughts were that it was crazy, what she was doing. She had no business being aboard this ship. What madness possessed her? Thomas Bowen would give her a sound beating for this foolishness, and yet at this moment all else was unimportant except that she was going with Rafael Mendosa.

Heather too felt the exhilaration of the chase, giving herself up now to the host of strong arms which reached to help her onto the deck of the ship. So close, she had been so close to disaster.

“Heather!” She recognized the voice of the man she loved, and succumbed to the overpowering emotions she felt at that moment. As she as swept into his strong arms, her mouth ached to feel his lips, her body burned to hold him again. A wave of happiness washed over her as she fell into Richard’s arms.

Chapter Sixty-Seven

Water, as far as the eye could see,  the changing colors of the vast ocean—pale blue of the same hue as the summer sky and the deepest blue--so dark it was almost indigo. Heather sighed with happiness as she stood beside Richard at the rail of the
Canción
.  They were headed south with the wind at their backs. South to Spain and a new life.

The breeze tore at her hair, and the salt spray splashed her face as she gazed out at the ocean. She felt the strength of Richard’s arms draw her closer. It was as if it were the most natural thing in the world to stand at the railing and kiss each other. The sailors rushing about them only turned to each other and winked as if to say: ‘Ah, to be so in love.’

“Will you be glad to have your feet again upon land?” Richard asked, nuzzling her neck as he whispered the words.

“On land or on the sea, I am happy as long as we are together,” she answered, admiring this handsome man of hers. She looked upon him with admiration. His face was sun-bronzed from the days at sea, making a startling contrast to his blue eyes and black hair. She liked him minus his beard; his jaw was firm and strong. If his face was thinner from his weeks in prison, well, it only seemed to make him all the more attractive.

Heather admired his narrow hips and well-muscled chest, his strong legs which now stood slightly apart as he kept his balance on the rolling deck. The fabric of his shirt molded to his muscular chest, and she remembered the feel of those arms as he held her. Even though he was dressed as the others, in the same sailor’s garb, she could always tell his tall figure as he walked about the deck or climbed the rigging. She loved him so. Each day of pain, each moment of sadness and disappointment had been worth enduring, for now they were together. There was only this time, this place, and the arms of the man she loved. Looking up at him, she met his eyes boldly and smiled.

“Ah, when you smile at me that way, I forget everything, Heather. I love you. And yet the fact remains that we are homeless, you and I. I have naught to offer you but myself.”