Love Me With Fury (8 page)

Even as she solemnly pledged these things to herself, she was tormented by tempting visions of that incredible man who had shown her what it was to become a woman. The knowledge that she would never see or know him again brought sudden and rending anguish, a disturbing sense of denial and loneliness. How was it possible for a complete stranger to attain such a grip upon her heart, mind, and body? It must be sheer madness, some contagious wantonness which he had injected into her! “You arrogant stud!” she swore.

As she soaked in the hot tub of fragrant bubbles, she relived every moment of the past afternoon. Envisioning Stephen’s face, those new and fiery longings returned to haunt her. As tears of self-betrayal and sacrifice eased down her cheeks, Alex painfully admitted to the exquisite pleasures and fulfillment which she had discovered with him…feelings and sensations which she wanted to know again someday.

Recalling his lordly demeanor, she vowed softly, “If we ever meet again, Stephen, you will feel the wrath of
Lady Alexandria Hampton! Father was correct; there are men I have yet to meet. If our paths ever cross again, you will be in for the shock of your miserable life! I can hardly wait to see the look upon that smug face when you discover my identity and realize your great crime! I will let you squirm in fear of what action I will take to avenge myself!”

She began to wash her sun-kissed golden skin. She asked herself why she did not feel dirty and soiled as she had proclaimed to him she had felt. As she imagined the wrinkled hands of some lord or rough duke with whom her father might betrothe her caressing those same curves which Stephen had touched and stroked into sublime surrender, shudders swept over her entire body. After knowing Stephen and experiencing real passion, how could she settle for anything less? God help her, for she could not!

Debating a coerced marriage with him, she quickly realized how dangerous such a rash move would be. A ruthless, volatile streak ran in him, one she would be stupid to challenge. He was not a man to cross. He would make a deadly and destructive enemy. Still, he owed her…

Perhaps he could be tricked or enticed into marriage…She instantly scoffed, “You could have any woman alive, Stephen. Why should you be interested in me? Sure, a lot of men have asked for my hand, but a man like you…You’re dreaming, Alex,” she warned herself. “What could possibly set you apart from his endless list of conquests? Intimating
revenge is one thing, but enforcing it is quite another,” she fearfully concluded.

When her lengthy bath was over, she leisurely dressed in a satin nightgown and stretched out upon her feather bed. The hour grew late; the sun vanished. The spring air became chilly and Alex closed her window and snuggled under her covers. When the evening chimes sounded, she refused to go down to dinner, pleading a headache and fatigue. More time passed.

When her concerned father came to her room to test this excuse to avoid him and to renew their discussions, he found Alex fast asleep. Her face was pale and her cheeks were rosy. She slept so deeply and soundly that neither his knock upon her door nor his hand upon her forehead awakened her. Detecting no excessive warmth upon her brow, he assumed that she was indeed exhausted. He quietly left her to her dreams after placing an affectionate kiss upon her temple.

After dining alone, Lord Charles Hampton went to his library to complete the final preparations for his daughter’s departure, one which would unknowingly be her permanent move to America. He wished he dared to reveal his plans to his willful child, but he could not for fear of an innocent slip into the wrong ear.

He pulled open a desk drawer and sought the hidden compartment which held a sheet of paper upon which a pre-arranged code for secret messages between
himself and Henry Cowling was clear in bold black ink. He diligently made notes upon small scraps of cloth which would be artistically shaped into tiny balls to fit unnoticeably into the centers of several flowers upon the fashionable hats which Alex would carry to America with her, messages which Henry would then pass on to another traitorous Englishman helping the American cause.

Charles mulled over the crisis which was making this deception necessary. His shipping firm was taking devastating losses every day. With the continued conflicts between France, Great Britain, and other adversaries, he would eventually be financially ruined. His export/import company had been crippled by the King’s Orders-in-Council and that arrogant Frenchman’s Continental System, by greedy privateers and dangerous pirates, and by America’s retaliation to each of these threats to her own survival and prosperity. He would inevitably lose everything, and to be penniless and disgraced was a reprehensible, unbearable fate.

Great Britain, particularly King George III, was to blame for his desperate and uncontrollable attempts to ward off such a distasteful situation. Lord Hampton knew his actions were treasonous and grimaced at that nasty thought.

Once Alex was safely settled in Philadelphia with his dead wife’s brother, he would rapidly make plans to join them there. From past experiences and personal contacts, he fully trusted Captain Burns who craftily
used his American ship the
Moon Maiden
to feign being a British privateer. Burns would deliver his daughter to Henry in complete secrecy and safety, Lord Hampton confidently concluded.

Before returning his attention to his task at hand, Charles absently wondered if Madison had acted upon his last message. If so, the treacherous and daring feat had not yet been uncovered or announced. Perhaps Madison hadn’t sent anyone to steal that vital packet in Grantley’s office. He was relieved that his personal identity was known only to Henry Cowling and President Madison. From Henry’s letters, Madison had agreed never to entrust his name to anyone, including his unknown accomplice, that sly and dauntless agent who could slip in and out of England with ease. He was either extremely brave or very reckless.

Charles mused upon this elusive and intrepid spy. Who was he? How did he carry off such deadly, intricate missions without a trace? He shuddered in fear at the thought of being connected with such a fearless American, or perhaps another traitorous Englishman. He sighed wearily, wanting this taxing situation resolved very soon, as well as the onerous affair with Alex.

Alex…with any luck, some masterful and worthy American would sweep her off her feet! He really couldn’t blame her for rejecting a loveless, pre-arranged marriage. She was proud and wanted to choose her own destiny. He could only pray that
some virile, strong, magnetic man would vanquish that troublesome problem for him. For certain, it would require a man of steel nerves and an iron will to tame his defiant daughter! “I pray your Lancelot is real and that you find him soon, Alex,” he murmured softly, totally unaware his prayers had already come true…

“0’ for a falconer’s voice
To lure this tassel-gentle back again.”
—
Romeo and Juliet,
William Shakespeare

Spencer Farrington gradually became aware of the throbbing pain within his wracking head. He groaned as he tried to sit up. The stabbing sensations which shot fiercely into his injured head instantly sent him back to the ground. He carefully opened his eyes, shielding the last rays of sunlight from them with his arm.

At first, he was disoriented and alarmed. Why did his head want to split wide open? Where was he? What had happened? Had his ship been attacked and overrun? Had he been wounded, captured? Why was it so quiet and cool?

Slowly and painfully, his dazed mind and fuzzy vision cleared. He cautiously remained upon his back for a while, bringing his knees upwards and planting his bare feet near his nude buttocks. Assorted facts began to filter into his spinning head.

The pond…Angelique…her vengeful attack! It all came hurling back to reveal his carelessness and her deceit.

Disregarding the excruciating agony which shot
through his head, he forced himself to sit up and to look around. Naturally she was gone. He quickly glanced down at his nude body, surprised it was not covered with hundreds of vindictive scratches from that sneaky little she-cat. His hands flew to his handsome face to check it for damage: none.

That vicious, conniving bitch would rue the day she had dared to attack him and then leave him vulnerable to danger or death! So much for thinking her dimwitted or fragile! At least she hadn’t betrayed him to her family or alerted the British authorities; the late hour proved those facts. Neither had she returned with a gun to slay him. Very strange indeed…

He chuckled satanically as he noted the smudgings of her virgin’s blood upon his limp manhood and sinewy thighs. He briefly enjoyed the fact he had also caused her pain and humiliation in return. How dare she play the wanton and willing female with him, and then try to kill him!

He frowned, wrinkling his brow, calling attention to the bandage. His hand went up to touch the binding around his head. He jerked it off, gaping at the dried blood upon one side of it. “What the devil!” he exploded in astonishment. His torn shirt lay beside him. His startled gaze went from the shirt to the bandage and back again.

Why had Angelique bothered to dress the same injury which she had spitefully inflicted? He recalled her look of sheer terror as he had opened his eyes and witnessed her impending action. Had she panicked and struck him harder than intended? Was she contrite
afterwards? Had she only feared the crime and punishment which might be handed down to a common serving girl for brutally slaying some highborn lord? If she hadn’t meant to kill him, surely she wouldn’t have troubled herself to bind his wound.

When he found her, which he most assuredly would, he would learn the truth! He rolled into the refreshing, invigorating water which had grown chilly with the evening breeze. He rubbed his hands over his body, removing both her blood and his own. Drops of fresh blood were visible upon his fingers when he touched the tender and swollen area upon his left temple. She would pay dearly for this unforgivable act! He had grossly misjudged her courage and guileful nature. She had looked so delicate and innocent; yet, she most certainly was neither.

“Damn you, Angelique! Damn all wily females! Before I leave here, you will feel the full measure of my wrath and power. If you think today was degrading and painful, just wait until we meet again, my lovely and cunning vixen. You’ll never be able to run fast or far enough to elude Joshua Steele or Spencer Farrington! Be forewarned, my little nymph; your day of payment is coming!”

He dressed, thankful she had not realized the joke in stealing his clothes. It was nearly dark. He would seek out this mystery girl later. Tonight, there were more pressing matters upon his mind, matters which had been stalled by his meeting with her. His head ached; he cursed her anew. His schedule was already tampered with by the lateness of the day. Because of
his mission, he couldn’t even take something for his throbbing head or grant his body a much needed sleep. He left the pond, once again relieved by her oversight in leaving his horse behind. He absently wondered if these mistakes were accidental or intentional. Perhaps she was pleading for his forgiveness and leniency.

Once home, Spencer bathed again. But unlike Alex, he did not turn in for the night. Instead, he headed toward London to pursue the crucial information which had unexpectedly spurred this sudden trip. He only halted his journey about halfway in order to rest his horse and to sleep for a few hours, hoping it would assuage his physical torment which steadily increased with each mile travelled. Each time his chestnut roan put his hooves down upon the hard ground, a new wave of agony would shoot through his skull. With each twinge of pain, he cursed and doomed the girl by the pond.

Early that next morning, he reached his destination. In London, he made his way to the Boar’s Head Inn late in the afternoon. Dressed as a common seaman, little notice was given to him by the other men who were present for their nightly row of drinking, whoring, and merrymaking.

Once the King’s dragoons were well into their cups, he furtively moved closer to them, listening intently for any news which might prove useful to him before he boldly attempted to steal certain maps and documents from Lord Grantley’s office.

The inn was crowded and noisy. The air was filled with the odors of hot food and smelly men. Crude and
simple talk was being passed around. Raucous laughter filled the room each time a burly seaman or lusty officer managed to pinch a buxom barmaid or fondle a plump bottom on a serving girl.

After his annoyed reaction, a persistent doxy got the message that Spencer wasn’t interested in her charms. It also took some doing to discourage a ruddy-faced seaman who wanted to drink and chat with him. The evening seemed endless and fruitless. Following the departure of all soldiers, Spencer returned to his lonely and dark room to wait until the next night.

His time here was limited; he might be seen and recognized. Once his theft would be brought to light, he knew someone would recall that Spencer Farrington had been around that particular night. He had no choice but to make a try for that file. How much stock could he place in that secret message to Madison? Who was this nobleman who could be trusted so highly and completely by both sides? Why did Madison insist upon keeping his name a secret from everyone, including him? Very curious indeed…

Then again, Madison was like that. He practiced the policy that a man could not reveal what he did not know, an often vexing trait which Madison had learned from his predecessor and good friend Jefferson. Each American spy worked independently of all others, then reported to Madison who filtered through the information to sort out the facts and fallacies.

Unable to sleep or to keep his mind off of Angelique, Spencer focused his attention upon past and present
troubles. He briefly speculated upon Madison’s idea to involve Edmond Genet, the ex-French diplomat, in their covert schemes. Surely Madison would realize how unwise and dangerous that ploy could be. Genet was now married to Clinton’s daughter. SincetheNew England states had seriously mulled over the idea of rejoining the British Empire, that connection was perilous.

For a moment, Spencer wished his superior was either Washington, Adams, or Jefferson. Madison was a good man, an intelligent and honest one. But he was too easy-going and far too trusting. He made an excellent second-in-command, but he lacked the skills and qualities to be in the control of this situation. Too many selfish, disloyal men were hopping upon his political carriage for their own gains.

Madison’s worst mistake was in sitting patiently and confidently in his office while handing out responsibilities and passing orders along to men who either ignored them or altered them to suit their own ideas of what was best for their country—or themselves. With powerful men like Clay, Webster, and Calhoun demanding reprisals upon Great Britain, it was extremely doubtful that Madison could hold them off much longer.

Hopefully these secret papers contained facts which would help Madison make the best decision for all concerned. Those men from the Ohio Valley didn’t have Madison fooled; they only wanted a legal excuse to gobble up Canada. The same was true of those Southern War-Hawks; they lusted after the Spanish-held
Florida territory. Greed and lust for power! Was this the new trend? Spencer pondered.

He fumed at several American inconsistencies. That Embargo Act and those Non-Intercourse Acts had been futile and foolish if America refused to comply with them or remained unwilling to enforce them. What country would respect or fear another one who had been intimidated, humbled, and crippled?

Spencer sighed heavily. If he could personally do anything to help America recover and prosper, he definitely would give it his best effort, perilous or not. In all honesty, the President was a cunning genius. Madison’s political writings had stirred the hearts of countless men, earning him much respect. He could claim great pride and intelligence in his past work with the
Constitution,
in his daring stand against Britain’s offenses, and in his
Federalist Papers.
It was an honor and a privilege to be working for and with such a great man. If only he wasn’t so nonchalant and trusting…

No matter, there were many other questions and doubts which plagued Spencer tonight. That unseen file was said to be in Lord Grantley’s office for safekeeping until the King himself came to London to study it four days hence. What if that furtive message was inaccurate? What if this whole set-up was only a scheme to infiltrate the American spy system? What if it was a trap to catch him? If only he knew who had sent Madison this urgent message. With that information, he could check out his unknown source’s honesty.

Spencer realized only too well that if he were
captured or exposed he would break his grandfather’s heart. He would blacken the Farrington name for all time. He would be viewed as an American spy, not a loyal and intrepid American hero. Possibly due to his family ties and holdings here in England, he might be treated as a traitor, not an American patriot. In any event, he would surely face execution by hanging, following a humiliating public flogging. No doubt dear, sweet Angelique would enjoy that fate for him!

There she was again, haunting his mind and stirring his body with desire for her. Damn Angelique and damn the danger! If that mystery folder really contained the important information, it was vital to attain it at all costs.

Endlessly his brain returned to the mysterious, but lofty, Englishman who sparked his intrigue. Who could be in the position to know about this file and its contents? Why would he pass such valuable information to the American government? Did it truly contain reports from Admirals Nelson and Wellington? Suggestions from Spencer Perceval, Robert Jenkinson, and Castlereagh? Notes from General Isaac Brock in Canada about New England’s defenses and unrest? Papers stolen from John Quincy Adams in Russia? George Canning’s favorable ploys to settle the conflicts with American commerce?

Many of those men were powerful Tory Ministers or smug men with the King’s ear. As for Adams, there was no telling what secrets his stolen papers revealed. If that file existed, it was explosive; it was absolutely essential to put it into Madison’s hands!

War was a dreadful and costly affair, more costly and savage when the two warring sides claimed members from the same families. If King George’s plans could be peacefully and craftily deterred, a bitter and demanding confrontation might be prevented. Friends and family members would not be compelled to take sides and to battle against each other. There was no easy choice. Spencer’s mission was clear.

Shortly after midnight that next day, the tense and alert Spencer slipped into Grantley’s office without a single hitch. It almost seemed too easy for him, inspiring feelings of disquiet and suspicion. His keen instincts and astute mind were watchful and alive against a possible deception. He followed the coded instructions which he had received. All went as planned.

He found the safe right where the message had indicated. He used the combination which had been smuggled to Madison; it also worked beautifully. He removed the bulging brown folder and stuffed it into his billowy black shirt. He didn’t waste any precious time by even glancing over the contents. Another time and place would be wiser and safer. He stealthily made his way out of the darkened office, expecting an attack at any moment. None came. Nothing! Luck was surely riding with him tonight—or could this be some elaborate hoax to pass along phony information? But then again, his unknown contact had vowed that no one was supposed to know of the file’s existence or location.

He thought it best not to return to his room at the
inn and promptly rode for Farrington Manor. It required nearly two days to reach home by the roundabout trail which would deny anyone the chance to follow him, just in case. He would not risk endangering his grandfather’s life or holdings at this late date. That lovable old cuss didn’t deserve the troubles and burdens Spencer could unintentionally heap upon his silver head.

Once home, he concealed the notorious file in a secret compartment in his sea trunk. Now that he had his mission completed, there were only two other matters to hinder his impending departure: a serious talk with Will and a search for a certain little viper with beautiful skin and nasty fangs.

For the past few days, Spencer had attempted to shut out all thoughts of both people and the problems which each represented to him. He contrived a truce with Grandfather Will, giving his word he would seek out a proper wife and would settle down within two years. Will was overjoyed with that piece of news. At long last, there would be a woman and children to carry on the Farrington line. His old heart bubbled with happiness.

Spencer and Will shared a tranquil dinner. Over a brandy in the morning room, they talked about days of yesterday and made plans for their future. Spencer cunningly avoided any talk about politics and the portentous war which was brewing on both sides of the Atlantic Ocean. Will brought him up to date on the current gossip and their business holdings. For the first time ever, they conversed and planned as two
men, as a family. In this genial setting, the evening passed swiftly.