"I do not love you!" he insisted to the face locked in his mind. But he saw her eyes grow cool and controlled, her face stem. She looked him square in the eye, a thing that many of his men could not do. "You are the most complete fool," her voice said. And he felt as he had that day as she walked away from him.
As if his suffering with all that had passed between them had not been enough, he saw a vision of her holding a child—his child. And a stricken look came suddenly over his face. What if he’d left her with child?
"Cap’n, sir," a man beckoned. "Let me see t’your wound now, sir."
"Of course," he said thoughtfully, a rueful smile crossing his lips. "Then I would be trapped…"
"Sir?" the sailor asked. It was only then that Geoffrey realized the man was tugging at his shirt to bandage his wound. He sighed and raised his arm that the man might bandage him, but his mind was elsewhere.
Not trapped, Lord Seavers, his conscience said. And his conscience looked like Alicia. You’re not trapped at all. You’ve lain with maids before and for all the world knows, you’ve fathered sons in several ports. Throw her off and make your way alone.
His heart heaved and his stomach burned. He could not be alone again. She was the woman he needed. She’d made him feel alive and elemental. There was warmth in her presence and a fire that lit their arguments and their passion. She was naught but a simple tavern wench, but he knew there would never be another like her. And what he felt when he was near her would never come again.
Something settled over him that warmed his soul for the first time in many years. I’ll build a house for her in the Colonies, and not long after there will be children, he thought. It will be ready if I begin at once. If she understands the risk and my love, she will not chafe so at the name Charlotte. I will find a way to make her glad she chose to take it.
The London streets were filled with sailors who could not be induced to help mend the wounded ships without first celebrating their victory. There was no Seavers coach waiting at the wharves to take Geoffrey to his house, but why should there be? He had not used his house since he’d moved Alicia into it. He had had no use for transportation before, and now none was provided.
A hell cart was hard to procure because of the chaos clogging the streets, but finally he found a coach to take him home. As he passed the houses on Drury Lane, the red crosses on the doors lunged at him and he found himself feeling guilty and worried. He had not protected Alicia in any way, but had ordered his man Rodney to see to her needs. Even now she could be lying sick with the plague.
"I will not stay here," the memory of her voice said to his troubled mind.
Geoffrey’s pulse picked up and began to race. He didn’t know whether he preferred to find that she’d left the city or that she was still there, with her things familiarly scattered atop her dressing table and the soft, sweet scent of her filling her chambers.
The door was bolted when he arrived, and he pounded on it and shouted to be let in, but to no avail. Passersby looked at him strangely, recognizing that he was a returned sea captain, and afraid to speak to him. Everyone knew that sailors carried plague. It was the better part of an hour before he could persuade two passing hearties to help him break into the house, and even they were most reluctant and had to be promised a substantial reward.
The heavy oaken door took a great deal of battering and hammering before the hinges yielded and the house was vulnerable. Leaving his helpers in the doorway, Geoffrey took the stairs two at a time and found Alicia’s chamber stripped of her personal possessions. The only thing that remained was the necklace he had given her, lying atop her dressing table. He picked it up and held it for a moment. She had purposely left it behind. It was valuable beyond anything he had ever given a woman— she could have sold it for its worth—but she left it. She must hate me more than I allowed, he thought.
The furniture had not been covered or taken, but the food and clothing for her and the servants were gone. It looked as though the household had moved from the city hurriedly.
"Do you know this house?" he asked the men who had helped him.
They shook their heads dumbly and put out their palms. Geoffrey dropped a few coins in each hand. "The woman I left in this house was my wife," he told them. "I’ve been at Lowestoft with the fleet."
He noticed their eyes coveting the furnishings of the house and knew if they had not supported themselves as thieves before, this would be a good time for them to start. They faced a vacant house rich with furnishings. Half of London would be looted before long, with nobles leaving the plague seas for higher ground.
"I imagine I’ll wait here for word of her." Seavers shrugged, hoping he had convinced the men the house would be protected from now on. "My thanks," he said to them, and without a word of reply, they left him standing in the broken doorway.
All through the night the bells rang and bonfires lit the sky, but in Whitehall there were quiet corners for those who grieved friends lost in battle. While some mourned, others there were wont to celebrate, and still others skittered about wondering when the court would give up the plague-torn city and leave for safety. Word was that Charles was determined to stay and show his people that there was no need to fear. Nevertheless, there were too many who could not watch the dead cart move through the streets and remain calm.
Geoffrey walked through the halls of the palace in search of a familiar face; a person who would have word of his household. He had not bathed or changed his clothing and was still charred, thick with dried blood and sweat, and red as a tomato from the sun. Charles was with his ministers and friends and could not be bothered. Castlemaine could not be found, and her steward would not allow Seavers to enter her apartments. A group of ladies walked down the gallery and, when seeing him at a distance, recognized a seaman and widened their path to pass.
"Madame Stewart," he called out, halting the young woman.
She looked at him queerly, tilting her pretty head and peering at the dirty, injured man.
"Lord Seavers, madam," he said, bowing clumsily.
"Of course," she replied, making a slight dip in response.
"My house has been vacated and there is no word of my family."
A pained expression crossed her face as she looked at him.
"There was no one there to keep the house?" she asked uncomfortably.
"No one, madam. Have you heard where Lady Seavers might have gone? Bellerose?"
She frowned. "There have been horrible rumors, my lord," she quavered. "Have you asked about her elsewhere?"
"I’ve been able to see no one, madam."
Frances sighed and closed her eyes briefly. She was held as the most beautiful woman in England, and, truth to tell, she must have been, but she was not made of the hardened stuff of most courtly ladies. Frances was very sensitive. When her eyes opened to look at him again, he noted that they were tearing.
"This dreadful illness," she exclaimed. "I’m so frightened of it, I wish we would leave. I swear if His Majesty wants to stay another day, I’ll go mad."
"Lady, have you heard—"
"I heard a rumor. I’ve heard so many rumors," she sighed, shaking her head. One of her ladies patted her arm while Geoffrey stood in stiff anticipation for the reported rumor. "I heard that the household left and Lady Seavers was stricken just as she would have entered her own coach. They’ve buried her."
"Buried her? Five days ago I spoke to her, before I—"
"Less than a day. I think she did not suffer."
"But word is that the plague lasts for weeks!"
"Weeks or hours."
Geoffrey swayed slightly on his feet. He’d been days without any comforts, and the pain in his side had begun to worsen, since the wound had not been tended for some time.
"Milord?" Frances questioned.
He pressed his side with the palm of his hand and brought it away covered with fresh blood. He smiled somewhat sheepishly, embarrassed before these ladies. "Lowestoft," he mumbled. His visi
on began to blur and he noticed through a haze that Mistress Stewart and her ladies retreated slightly. His thoughts flashed rapidly back and forth, from the fire of battle and the spit of the sea, to the vision of Alicia that had floated before his eyes for days; from the blood of battle, to the softness of his woman; from the charred and desolate remains of sinking ships, to her bright eyes and smile...
Blackness swallowed him in one large gulp. The cursed visions stopped.
The sky and the sea blended together and one could not discern the beginning or ending of either. The rocking motion of the ship quieted the nerves and the cool sea breeze stung the cheeks.
Alicia leaned on the rail, her hands clasped in front of her and her eyes searching the horizon for some sign of life. The new land was a million miles away. She mumbled a prayer. Two firm hands grasped her arms and the comforting voice invaded her moment of devotion.
"Perhaps you should not have left him," Preston said.
"Will you get word that he fared the battle with his life?" she asked.
"He is alive, cherie. I vow he sank a thousand Dutchmen himself."
"Will you get word?" she asked again, turning.
"Word will be a long time in reaching America, but I’ve been with him in battle before. He is well, I promise you."
Alicia nodded and her eyes were downcast.
"I’m not sure this is the best way," Preston said. "I’m not sure you should have left him with no word."
"Geoffrey did not ask for word. I told him I would not stay."
"I will not defend him." Preston shrugged. "But your love for him worries me. Perhaps he should know—"
"He does not deserve to know who I am, where I am. Once again, Preston, my life is my own. I belong to no one.
Preston frowned slightly. "You have family now, Alicia."
"Aye." She smiled. "Will they want me?"
"Of course."
"But you are the only one who searched—"
"Wrong! Father sent searchers out more than once, but no trace was found. I am the only one who would not give up." He touched her nose and smiled. "And you would not tell me and save me the trouble."
"I could not tell you. I worried that I would be imprisoned or worse for my lies."
"You could have depended on my silence and protection, cherie."
"It was better for you to learn in your own way, Preston. I shudder to think how closely we came to being separated again, but then I couldn’t abide being called an impostor in yet another role."
He sighed and shook his head. "It was not very long before I found that Letty was a name that didn’t stay with you long. But that you clung to Alicia through your youth helped me considerably. You left a mighty angry innkeeper at the Ivy Vine. I had to buy him off before I could learn a thing."
"He had no right to money from you. I worked hard for him and he still claims me as a debt. I took not a farthing of his money when I left."
"He has no claim on you now, love. And you’ll be well taken care of. Your mother will be greatly relieved when she sees you."
"I don’t want them to know about Geoffrey," she stated firmly.
"And where will you say you’ve spent the last few years?"
"At the inn, I suppose," she said with a shrug.
"Ah, yes, the inn. And when your new family suggests marriage, what will you say? You are not a virgin."
Alicia’s eyes widened briefly. She had not considered that it would matter, but of course it did. It always had. And she would shame her new family if she was discovered to be a sullied bride.
"I don’t want them to know of this business with the king—with the Bellamy money. I want only to forget that."
"Very well, but I would think more lies would be unattractive to you now."
"I’ll have to hope they don’t ask. If you’re right that they will pass no judgment on what my life has been apart from them, let us leave it behind."
"Have you truly left it behind? There’s always a good chance that you’ll see Geoffrey again one day."
"He cast me aside. Perhaps the law would say we were not legally wed, for my name was not used, but in my mind we were not illicit lovers but husband and wife. He chose to be finished with me. And so he is."
"And you’ll give him no rights?"
"Charlotte Bellamy is dead, Preston. A dead woman can give nothing of herself. Alicia Tilden is alive and beginning a new life. Geoffrey Seavers does not know her. Where is his claim?"
Preston looked into her eyes and smiled. "He claimed your heart a long time ago, cherie."
"You promised me, Preston. You promised I could start anew with my family. Will you betray me to Geoffrey?"
"No, sweetheart. I’ll let you do this your way."
"You act as though you pity Geoffrey! He does not deserve your pity, Preston. He would not claim me when he could. I assure you he does not care what happens to me now. He will be greatly relieved that his lies are buried so that he can find himself a woman worthy of his title and wealth."
"He loves you," Preston said.
"Aye, I believe he does. But he will not speak of it. Nor will I."
She turned away from him and looked again out at the sea. Preston’s voice came softly to her ears.
"Time, Alicia, will prove the worth of those words."
Fourteen
It was first the feeling of a cooling rag on his forehead that Geoffrey Seavers noticed, and then slowly and with great care, he opened his eyes. He lay on a soft bed in a darkened room. He did not recognize the canopy above him nor did the draperies or tapestries look familiar, but it was clearly a rich place.
He sat up very cautiously and looked around. His shirt had been stripped from him and his wound was dressed. He touched the spot tentatively. It had been little more than a cut, but the lack of attention and the dirt and sweat had chafed it and caused it to become infected. He’d learned that lesson quite a few times and always swore the next time he sustained an injury he would take the time to have it tended. He laughed to himself, for it was likely he never would change his ways. He was impatient and too involved with whatever problem or battle was at hand to see to his own needs.
With that thought, the memory drifted back to him; he had plunged into blackness from the weakness caused by battle combined with the news that his wife had been buried. He lifted the coverlet to ease himself out of the bed, noticing that not only his shirt had been removed but his breeches and stockings as well. He did not see his clothing anywhere about the room.
He was sitting on the edge of the bed as the door opened. A young maid spied him and, with a gasp of surprise, flew across the room. "Into bed with you, milord, and I’ll tell her ladyship you’re awake."
"Her ladyship?" he questioned, obediently lying back into the rich pillows and allowing the maid to cover him.
"Aye, she asked to be informed. She’ll be here soon as I fetch her."
With a flurry of cotton skirts and the hard click of her shoes, she was gone, and Geoffrey lay there in confusion. Her ladyship? he wondered. Frances Stewart? Had she seen to his care?
But it was not that fair lass who entered the chamber moments later, but Barbara Palmer. Smiling and carrying a tray with an herbed wine for him, she drew near his bed.
"Haven’t been taking very good care of yourself, have you, my lord," she purred. "Here’s something to pick you up a bit."
"My lady, how—" He found he didn’t even know what question to ask.
"You’d have likely been taken out on a dead cart if left in Madame Stewart’s care. That witless twit’s scared green of plague, and every headache she gets she thinks is going to be her death. And does she get headaches! She gets them every time His Majesty steals a kiss."
Geoffrey’s eyes grew wider as she talked. There was definitely some serious competition between the two women, but Castlemaine usually held her tongue and spoke cautiously, as if Frances were her dearest friend. Rumor had it that was by order of the man in the middle: Charles.
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"The moment you fell, Madame Stewart started to shriek, certain you were another plague victim. Had I not heard the commotion, you’d have been in the street." She paused a moment and smiled at him. "I’ve sent someone in search of your man, what’s his name. ‘Haps he can tell you something of your household."
"Madame Stewart said—"
"I know what she said: she said Lady Seavers is dead. Truth is that no one saw her dead and the rest of your household left the city, including your man, as far as we’ve heard. And the other rumors are flying about, but you’ve nothing to worry over till you see your man. He’ll know."
"Other rumors?" Geoffrey asked.
"Surely you’ve heard them. Lady Seavers is an impostor, her death a hoax—"
Geoffrey began to cough and choke on his drink, spitting and dripping as his face reddened. It was some time before he was able to control his fit, but the red in his face would not dissipate. He faced her with question in his watering eyes, but Castlemaine laughed at him.
"You’re wise to the gossip, my lord. I won’t ask you the truth of it, ease your mind. I’ll get my duchy another way, so I have no need for your fortune. His Majesty gets impatient with me from time to time, but he’s had no success in throwing me over for another in these many years, so I doubt he ever will. This tiff won’t last any longer than the last."
Geoffrey blinked. He tried another sip of wine to take the tickle out of his throat. "You’ve had a falling out?" he ventured.
"I’ve heard the court’s getting ready to leave for Windsor. I’m going elsewhere. Let him have his witless virgin for a while and see how he likes it."
Geoffrey smiled at Barbara. There was anger in her green eyes, but he could sense her control of the situation. He disagreed; he did not think she could hold the king forever by having child after child, but Barbara would never give up. And she’d play him carefully, besides.
"He’ll be coming here to see you when he has the time, so you’re to stay and begin to recover."
"I’ll report to His Majesty but I’ve got to—"
Barbara was shaking her head. "You misunderstand me, my lord. You’re not allowed to leave. The king has business with you. Your rumors, you know."