Rapture in His Arms (28 page)

“Let me go! I must find my husband!” she cried and tried to wrench away. Her fear and anxiety glittered emerald bright within her eyes.

“Mistress, your husband was not there!” It was Bacon’s voice shouting in her ear, and finally, she turned and looked up at him when his words became clear. “My men checked each and every house and building before burning began. No one was in the jail.”

Jillian leaned limply against Nathaniel Bacon, but he, too, was unsteady. He swayed and gained his balance by leaning against a tree. “You are speaking true?” she asked.

“Aye, mistress, I speak the truth. Now, please return to your home for you are in sore need of rest and nourishment. There is naught for you here, naught for any of us.” His shoulders seemed to collapse under a cumbersome burden, and Jillian very nearly felt sorry for him. He left her standing by the tree, and that was the last she ever saw of him.

Her eyes were strangely dry as she walked out of Jamestown and found her horse. She didn’t wait for daylight, but returned to Cameron’s Hundred that night—alone.

“My, but you’re looking so much better today,” said Sabrina Layton with a sweet smile as she fixed Donovan’s bedcovers. “Your color is better, and the fever has finally broken. I should think you shall be well and hearty soon, but you mustn’t overdo.”

She flounced into a chair beside his bed and picked up her needlework from the bedside table. Donovan smiled at the pretty picture the young woman made as she busied herself with her chore and diverted him from his illness with her chatter as she’d done each day for a number of weeks now. He’d almost died, but because of the grace of God and Sabrina’s expert care under the guidance of an old slave woman with a knowledge of healing, his life had been spared. But spared for what? he wondered. He ached to see Jillian again, to know if she had already forgotten him, but Elliot Layton had insisted he not work himself into a lather about his wife. No one must know he was alive for the moment, Elliot told him, and Donovan, trusting the man, hadn’t questioned him. Apparently, Bacon had died of dysentery and the colony was in turmoil. Berkeley was attempting to round up leaders and officers in the revolt, thus Donovan owed a great deal to the Laytons who were loyalists, harboring a rebel captain. He didn’t want them to get into any trouble because of him.

He was also filled with questions, especially about the two men he’d seen during his illness. How many times he’d seen them, especially a distinguished-looking older gentleman, Donovan didn’t know. Sometimes he thought he had dreamed them during his delirium. But the older man had stood beside his bed, or he had thought the man was there, and grabbed his hand. He could still feel the man’s cool flesh contacting with his heated palm. He even imagined the man had crooned softly to him some sort of lullaby he seemed to recall from the dim recesses of his long ago past. But as Donovan regained his strength, he began to believe he had imagined the men, for they came no more.

“What are ye working on?” Donovan asked Sabrina when she ceased her chatter at one point. She held up a lace handkerchief which she was embroidering with the letter L. “Your father will like it, I’m certain,” Donovan said.

“’Tisn’t for father,” she admitted with a guilty flush.

“Ah, an admirer, I take it.”

“Of a sort,” she told him and this time her cheeks flamed like berries on a vine.

A knock interrupted their conversation, and Elliot Layton peered around the door. “I should like a word with Mr. Shay, my dear.”

Sabrina immediately jumped up, as if she’d been waiting for this interruption. “Of course, Father.” She smiled at Donovan before leaving. “I will check on you later.”

Elliot stood uncertainly by the foot of the bed, but his smile contained warmth and graciousness. “’Tis good to see you’ve come through the crisis, son.”

“I am grateful to all of ye for keepin’ me alive. I can never thank ye enough.”

“We don’t require your thanks. Your good health is our happiness.”

Donovan’s brow wrinkled into a frown. “Mr. Layton, I don’t understand something. How did I get here from the prison in Jamestown? Who brought me here?”

“I was wondering when you would ask, and I have the answer you seek.” Elliot ambled to the doorway and motioned toward someone who stood outside in the hall. Two distinguished-looking men entered the room, and Donovan immediately recognized them as the very same men he’d seen in this room during his illness. So, he hadn’t imagined them.

Elliot introduced the older man to Donovan as Grayson Chandler, Duke of Rockfield. The young man was his solicitor, John Lattimore. Donovan inclined his head to the men, wondering what they had to do with him. Then Elliot informed Donovan that it was they who had spirited him away from Jamestown. And with that odd news hanging in the air, Elliot left the room as did John Lattimore. The duke remained and waited beside the bed until Donovan asked him to be seated. Grayson Chandler’s kind eyes crinkled into a smile. “I suppose you are baffled by my presence.”

“Aye, sir, I am,” Donovan replied guardedly. He had never trusted the English, especially aristocrats.

The duke reached into the inside satin pocket of his jacket and withdrew a gold locket. He opened it and reverently handed it to Donovan who noted a small miniature painting of a beautiful blond-haired young lady, approximately sixteen years old. “She’s very lovely,” Donovan complimented the portrait’s subject, unable to dismiss the sudden surge of familiarity the face produced within him.

“Do you recognize her, son?”

“I—I’m not certain—”

“You should, Donovan, for she was your mother, Lady Agatha Chandler, until she married your father. She was also my daughter. And you are my grandson.”

Though Donovan was sitting upon the bed, the room spun dizzily for a few seconds. Had he heard Grayson Chandler correctly? He must be mistaken. His mother had been Irish, not English. He, a man who had grown up detesting all things English, couldn’t possibly be English and an aristocrat to boot. The idea was ridiculous, so absurd that Donovan would have laughed aloud if it had not been for the duke’s serious demeanor. “Pardon me, sir, but I think ye might have the wrong man,” Donovan imparted, not able to accept the situation.

Grayson vigorously shook his head. “No, son, I do not. If ever I doubted before now, I do not any longer. You are your mother’s son, my daughter’s child. You possess the Chandler profile, the aquiline nose of my own grandfather. And your hair is so like Agatha’s, the color of burnished gold. You are my grandson, and my heir.”

“I know ye might want to believe this is so, but my parents were Irish—”

“Your mother was English!” snapped Grayson and pulled out a letter from the same inside pocket of his jacket. He handed Donovan the faded parchment. “Here, read this and tell me if you aren’t the same Donovan Shay in my daughter’s letter to me.”

Donovan read the letter. The handwriting was a bit obscured by time, but there was no doubt about one fact—his mother had written this letter. In it, she begged her father to forgive her for running away and marrying Liam Shay, and said that she wished her father would accept her husband, especially now that she had borne a child, who at the time of the letter’s writing was nearly six years old and named Donovan Chandler Shay. A small sad smile curled up the edges of Donovan’s mouth. He hadn’t known his middle name was Chandler. It seemed he had been ignorant of a great many things about his past and his heritage.

“Have I spoken the truth?” asked Grayson rather stiffly but with a great deal of hope shining in his eyes. “Do you believe that I am your grandfather?”

“I believe you.”

“But I sense you’re disappointed.”

“Nay, just confused. So much has happened to me in my life, so many unpleasant things—”

“I know, son, and I’ve taken care of one of them. Sir Horatio Mortimer to be exact. He won’t be beating any more slaves. I had the governor on Bermuda confiscate his plantation for nonpayment of back taxes and turn it over to me.” Grayson grinned, quite pleased with himself. Donovan, despite his own disbelief about the whole situation in which he found himself, burst out laughing. Though he knew he should feel some pity for Mortimer, he didn’t. He felt only relief that someone had finally put the monster in his place. It seemed that his grandfather was a man after his own heart. “I’m glad to see you’re able to laugh, Donovan. Laughter soothes a broken heart.”

Donovan grew instantly serious. “I need to know about my wife. She never came to the prison after my arrest. Something might be wrong, she may be ill. I have to get word to her that I’m alive.”

“Oh, my boy, I wish you hadn’t brought up this subject now, but I suppose I should be the one to tell you that you cannot contact anyone just yet. Berkeley is determined to bring about the downfall of Bacon’s cohorts in the rebellion. You were a captain, and I believe for your own good that you should remain here. People think you are dead, and for the moment, you should allow them to believe this untruth. Soon, whenever Berkeley comes to his senses, I can speak to him and insist he grant you clemency. However, until that time, you are to see no one.”

“But my wife—Jillian can’t believe I’m dead—”

Grayson saw how agitated Donovan was. He attempted to get out of the bed but fell weakly back upon the pillows. Grayson patted his hand and pulled the covers around him. “Now listen to me. I don’t know what has really happened to your wife. I’ve never met her, but I do have my sources, John Lattimore for one, who is as reliable and trustworthy a person as I shall ever find in this lifetime. John has made inquiries for me about your wife because after Elliot Layton informed me you had married, I immediately wanted to learn more about her. And—and John told me that she is well, but she thinks you are dead.”

“Ye must send word to Cameron’s Hundred that I am not—”

“No, son, I will not do that. Your wife isn’t living at Cameron’s Hundred at the present time.”

A chill enveloped Donovan, so icy that the quilt did nothing to warm him. “Where is she living?” he asked, but somehow he knew the answer even before his grandfather took a deep breath and told him.

“She is residing at the home of a Mr. Tyler Addison. Elliot informed me that you are familiar with him.”

“Aye, very familiar.”

“Rest now, lad. I shall speak to you later this afternoon after you’ve had a good sleep.” Grayson patted Donovan upon the head as if he were a child, not a full-grown man, and silently departed the room.

Donovan lay and contemplated the high beamed ceiling for some time after his grandfather had gone. Within the space of a few minutes, his entire life had changed. He was now the grandson and heir of an English duke, a man who evidently was used to obtaining the things he wanted out of life. But Donovan didn’t feel any different though he now knew his blood placed him far above someone like Tyler Addison. Inside, he was still the same person he’d always been, and he doubted a title and wealth would make much of a difference in his way of life or his thinking. No longer was he so critical of the English and their ways, but he hadn’t been since meeting and coming to know Edwin Cameron.

He clenched his teeth until his jaws hurt. So, Jillian was now living at Tyler’s home. He recalled the last time he’d seen her, kneeling upon the bed and calling him a traitor to his face. No matter what she had said, Donovan had thought she hadn’t meant to hurt him, that she had been upset with him for leaving her and hadn’t known what she was saying. But now, he wasn’t so certain. Perhaps she had truly considered him to be a traitor. But would she have taken up with Tyler Addison so soon after his “death”?

Donovan didn’t know. He’d give her the benefit of the doubt for now. However, as soon as he regained his strength, he’d somehow learn the truth.

~ ~ ~

Jillian watched Benjamin as he napped. She sat in the chair next to his bed and stroked his blond curls. How she loved this little boy! Had it not been for Benjamin, she knew she would have gone insane the last few weeks. And she had Tyler to thank for insisting she stay at his home and care for Benjamin. With things so unsettled in the region, she was glad to have Tyler as extra protection—now that Donovan was gone.

Each time she thought about Donovan, her heart contracted like a huge fist within her chest. Tyler had told her that he received word that Donovan had died before Bacon and his men entered Jamestown. He confessed that he had no knowledge of where Donovan had been buried, and Jillian hated imagining where his final resting place might be. Though Jillian had suffered an immense loss, she couldn’t cry. She realized too late that she had loved Donovan, and that she still loved him, though Tyler insisted Donovan was dead. Yet she didn’t feel Donovan was truly gone. Was it because she hadn’t seen his lifeless body with her own eyes? Was it because she still suffered immense guilt about how they had parted? She’d give her very soul to have Donovan back again. She’d gladly give her life just to tell him that she loved him.

A noise in the hallway drew her attention to the door, and Jillian noticed Tyler beckoning to her. Gazing one last time at Benjamin and making sure the child was comfortable, Jillian joined Tyler in the parlor. When she entered the room, Tyler handed her a cup of freshly brewed tea. “I thought you might like some time away from the nursery,” he told her with a broad smile. “You know Mammy Polly is a bit upset over all the time you spend with Benjamin.”