Taming Charlotte (37 page)

Patrick swallowed, started to speak, stopped himself. He hadn’t felt this awkward since the first time he’d been asked to recite in school. “It wasn’t quite that simple,” he finally managed to say.

“Then,” Rowling went on, as if Patrick hadn’t spoken at all, “you proceeded to divorce her. Am I correct?”

“It was a pagan marriage and a pagan divorce,” Patrick said tersely.

“Not to Charlotte, it wasn’t,” replied Rowling. “And now there is to be a child.”

Patrick felt weary, and the brittle wall he’d built around his heart cracked a little. “Yes,” he said, all his despair mirrored in that single word. He wished sorely that he were the sort of man to live out his life on land, in the rooms of a single house and the arms of just one woman, but he knew he wasn’t. His wanderlust was as much a part of him as the color of his eyes or the alignment of his teeth.

“I have offered to marry her myself,” the missionary said. “There can be no question of love between us, of course, but at least that way honor would be served and the little one would have a surname.”

Pictures flooded Patrick’s mind. He saw Charlotte lying naked in this man’s bed, arching beneath the thrusts of his
hips, her skin glistening with the singular exercise of passion, her glorious hair spread over the pillows. He heard her give the familiar half sob of release, and the sounds and images gave him such pain that he wrenched his thoughts in another direction. He saw a little girl, an exquisite miniature version of Charlotte, running across a green lawn, flinging herself up into Rowling’s arms with a burst of musical laughter and a delighted “Papa!”

Patrick closed his eyes. “Has Charlotte agreed to the marriage?” he asked, the words coming hoarse from his throat.

“Not yet,” Rowling answered, but Patrick was anything but reassured. The visitor’s tone indicated that he fully expected to persuade Charlotte to become his wife, and soon.

“But?”

“But I expect she’ll come around, once her condition is fully apparent. Even on a remote island, Mr. Trevarren, an obvious pregnancy would be an embarrassment to a woman without a husband.” Rowling paused, rubbed his chin as he pondered. His next remark exploded in the room like dynamite. “Since you’re officially the captain of a ship, sir, you have the authority, both legal and moral, to perform a marriage ceremony. I’d like you to bind Charlotte and me in holy matrimony—once she comes around to my way of thinking, that is.”

Patrick felt as though some great, subterranean force were about to channel itself through him and erupt with a fiery violence. His voice came out in a hiss, like escaping steam. “I’ll see you in hell first!”

Rowling laughed. “You may very well end up in the pit, given your arrogant, self-serving nature, Captain, but I can assure you that you will not encounter me there.” He stopped, watching Patrick, letting his statement sink in. “Charlotte will marry me. I will give her child my name and love it as my own.”

“You are very confident of your charms,” Patrick growled, when he could trust himself to speak—which was only after he’d stridden across the room to the teakwood liquor cabinet and poured himself a brandy. “But you forget
that we are essentially stranded here, for all practical intents and purposes. It may be months or even years before another ship drops anchor.”

Rowling waited until Patrick met his eyes again before replying. “I have a calling to preach in Australia,” he said, “and I will answer it. I have already prayed for a ship to carry me there, and one will be along shortly.”

Patrick made a low, rude sound of amazement. “You
prayed—”

“Yes,” Rowling broke in, benevolently enough. “And with rare exceptions, God honors my requests.”

Later, Patrick would regret the unkindness of what he said next, but at the moment, he was feeling too angry and cornered to say anything other than just what he did. “Did you pray for your drowning wife, or was that one of those ‘rare exceptions’ when God saw fit to ignore you?”

The color drained from Rowling’s face, but he recovered quickly. He was strong; Patrick had to give him credit for that. “In His infinite wisdom, God must have decided that Susannah had done her work here and thus called her home to her reward.”

Patrick looked away. An apology rose in his throat, but he swallowed it.

Rowling went on, his voice mercilessly cheerful now. “Charlotte will make a fine missionary herself, I think—”

Patrick didn’t need theological training to know that he’d just been forgiven, in a very magnanimous fashion, and he was furious. He slammed the brandy snifter down onto the top of the liquor cabinet with such force that the stem cracked and the glass went over like a tree felled on an open hillside. “Enough!” he bellowed, interrupting Rowling’s ongoing discourse on Charlotte’s innate suitability for converting the unchurched.

The other man smiled again, in that damnably wise and gentle way Patrick was beginning to hate.

“Is there something wrong, Captain?”

“You’re damn right there’s something wrong!” Patrick yelled. “Charlotte is mine, and she will
remain
mine!”

Rowling spoke with an infuriating gentleness. “Then you had best marry her properly, Captain,” he said reasonably.

Patrick narrowed his eyes at the preacher and spoke in a low, lethal voice. “Did she put you up to this?”

“Charlotte confided her troubles to me, that’s all,” Rowling answered. “It seemed only practical to offer her marriage—with my wedding band on her finger, she would be safe from scandal and I would be spared a crippling state of loneliness. Believe me when I tell you, Captain, that I was quite sincere in my suit, and if I were to pray accordingly, the tide of romantic fortune would surely turn in my direction.”

It was galling, this Briton’s confidence in the sway he held with the Almighty. Who did he think he was—Moses? David? “And you called
me
arrogant,” Patrick bit out.

Rowling smiled, yet again. “ ‘The prayer of a righteous man availeth much,’“ he quoted, with blithe confidence. “And I
am
a righteous man, Captain. If I ask God for Charlotte’s favor, He will almost surely give it.”

“Don’t trouble yourself—or God, for that matter,” Patrick snapped. “If Charlotte will have me for a husband, I’ll marry her. Today. Tomorrow. As soon as it can be arranged. And you, Mr. Rowling, may concentrate your prayers on a ship to carry you away from this island before I lose my patience and feed you to the fish!”

The man of God was unruffled, even amused. “You and I have seen each other’s souls,” he said. “From now on, it would be more seemly, I think, if we were on a first-name basis.”

In that moment, just when he most wanted to explode with impatience, Patrick was confounded to make the discovery that he
liked
Rowling. Damn, but he wanted to despise the man, with his whole being, just as he had once hated a cruel headmaster at school, but he couldn’t manage it.

The fronds of palm trees hammered at the windows, torn loose by the now shrill winds coming in from the sea. Patrick and Gideon stared at each other, one man seated, one standing, as much a part of the tempest as the elements themselves.

* * *

Charlotte was helping Jacoba and Mary Catch-much-fish in the kitchen when Stella stepped in, laboring to pull the wind-caught door shut behind her.

“Patrick wants to see you,” she said, somewhat petulantly, looking at Charlotte with accusing eyes. “This minute, in his study.”

Charlotte felt a leap of triumph, certain that Gideon had shown Patrick the error of his ways, that everything would be all right from then on. “Well,” she said, rather flippantly, “I happen to be busy.
Patrick
will simply have to wait a little while. You may tell him that.”

Stella stood her ground, arms akimbo. “I would sooner take tea with the devil,” she responded, with spirit. “The captain is in a vile mood, and I’ll not be the one to defy him.”

With a long-suffering sigh, Charlotte wiped her hands on her borrowed apron—she’d been kneading bread dough—and swept Stella up in a look. In truth, she liked Stella and the others, but she was cautious about showing her feelings because she knew they resented her. “All right, then, I’ll speak to him.”

Patrick was alone in the parlor when she arrived, standing in front of the massive marble fireplace, his broad back turned to her. He lifted his gaze, saw Charlotte’s reflection in the mirror, and froze her in place with an unreadable stare.

“Would you marry Gideon Rowling and go off to Australia to save souls, if he asked you?”

Charlotte considered, still looking into Patrick’s eyes. Still, he had not turned to face her. “Yes,” she said, after a long interval of careful and honest thought. Before, she’d been certain she could never bear the touch of another man’s hands on her body, but she’d had a chance to ponder the matter practically since then. “Maybe I wouldn’t accept the first time Gideon proposed, or the second, or the tenth. But he’s a good man, and I know he would be patient with my…natural reluctance. My life with him would be interesting and fruitful, I’m sure.”

At last Patrick faced her, though he made no move to
approach. He braced his back against the carved mantelpiece and regarded Charlotte for a long and suspenseful interval. “You could turn to another man, after what we’ve shared?” he asked, in a grave and quiet tone.

“Not as easily as you could turn to another woman, perhaps,” Charlotte answered calmly. “But yes, in time, I think I could give myself to Gideon.”

The storm howled at the walls of the great house and rattled the tall, deep-set windows in their frames. For a long time, Patrick and Charlotte were silent, listening, waiting. Lightning struck in the garden, and its pale glow moved in the room, even though the glass panes were boarded over.

“I want you to be my wife,” Patrick said, when some time had passed.

Charlotte felt both exultation and anguish, in the space of one and the same moment. She wanted, yearned for, a real marriage to Patrick, and yet she knew he was not offering willingly. “And I want a proper proposal,” she countered, with an airiness she didn’t feel.

For an instant, the storm seemed to center itself in Patrick’s very soul. He approached her, dropped to one knee, and glared up into her face. “Will you marry me?” he asked, in the most grudging of tones.

Y
ES,” CHARLOTTE SAID, FOLDING HER ARMS AND THEN TURN
ing away so that Patrick would not see in her eyes what injury he had done her by proposing so callously. “I will marry you.”
For our child,
she added in her mind.

She sensed Patrick’s graceful rise from his knee to his full and intimidating height. “The wedding will not change my mind about leaving you in Quade’s Harbor,” he warned, his voice low and cold. “You and the child will have my name, however, along with the house and financial support I promised you.”

Charlotte whirled, driven by her pain. The shrieks of the wind filled the room, as shrill and harrowing as if a hundred ghosts were dancing on the roof. “Why are you agreeing to the marriage, Patrick, when it’s plain your feelings haven’t changed?”

He raised his hands, haltingly, as if to touch her shoulders or frame her face, then let them fall back to his sides. “No, Charlotte,” he replied, “my feelings haven’t changed. And God help me, I don’t believe they ever will.”

With that cryptic statement, Patrick turned and strode over to open the study doors and call to Mr. Cochran. That
done, he looked back at her and, with typical arrogance, made a royal pronouncement. “When the brunt of this storm finally strikes, it will level the cane crop and uproot half the trees on the island. Anyone foolish enough to be out wandering will almost certainly be killed. See that you stay inside and occupy yourself with selecting a wedding dress.” His indigo gaze dropped to her feet. “And I would like you to wear shoes for the ceremony. I trust you will obey me, just this once?”

Charlotte smiled sweetly and took great care to speak in a voice too soft to carry to Patrick’s ears. “I’d die first,” she said.

He studied her for a long moment, then held the door open wide. “Kindly go on about your business, then. Cochran and I have things to do.”

Charlotte moved regally past him. She encountered Mr. Cochran in the hallway and was much heartened by the sly wink he gave her.

Proceeding upstairs to the master bedroom, Charlotte began going through the splendid clothes Patrick had had made for her in Spain. Those that could stand boiling had been spared the fire, and fallen under Jacoba’s efficient hands to be aired and pressed and hung in the enormous armoire that had been brought in from another room.

The impending storm and her own churning emotions were distracting to Charlotte, but she finally chose a soft ivory dancing gown decorated with tiny pearls and crystal beads. She decided to fashion the matching silk shawl into a veil of sorts, and was standing in front of the bureau mirror, experimenting, when a knock sounded at the door.

“Come in,” Charlotte called, expecting Jacoba or perhaps Mary Catch-much-fish, with tea.

Instead, she saw all four of Patrick’s pretty wards reflected in the looking glass. She turned to face Nora, Stella, Jayne, and the very shy Deborah, who had avoided her until then.