"Alicia," he breathed. "Oh, Alicia..."
"Alicia. Alicia..."
Without warning, Bryson covered her mouth again and kissed her more fiercely, his lips opening over hers and his tongue attempting to thrust within her mouth. His body pressed hers tightly and she could feel the tensed muscles in his thighs and a growing thickness in his pelvis. She groaned and struggled against him, pushing him away. He released her reluctantly and she could see him struggling to control his emotions.
"I had better reconsider the drive..." she began, brushing at her hair.
"Again I must apologize, Alicia. It is most difficult to remember my honorable intent when faced with your beauty. Forgive me."
"I’m not certain I can trust you to remember the next time," she said a little impatiently.
"You have my word," he said with a slight bow. "And should I fail you, you have every right to refuse to see me. But I shall count on Sunday, darling. It means everything to me."
"And I’ll count on your honorable intent, Bryson. It means everything to my father." She felt her stomach lurch at her own words. Inwardly she knew she had no right to use Wesley Tilden’s leverage on this young man—she was not exactly a virtuous maid. But the Tilden name controlled Bryson better than she could.
He clicked his heels together and lifted her hand to his lips, placing a respectable kiss on the back of it. And she returned to the chair on the veranda to watch him as he rode away from the house.
For a long while the sounds of the men’s voices from the study, and the pots and pans in the kitchen—the distant laughter and clanging—consoled her. She mulled over Bryson’s kiss and the way Geoffrey’s words flew into her mind at the most inopportune moments, causing her chest to tighten.
A decent and honest young man sought her love, and Geoffrey had spoiled even that. Here was her chance to fulfill her plan and marry well, and nothing inside of her would support that ideal. She had felt a gnawing emptiness when Bryson touched her, and the thought of a lifetime with him did not seem hopeful.
The night was clear and the stars sparkled as her thoughts wandered and she struggled to drive Lord Seavers, pirate, liar, thief, from her mind. But the harder she tried, the more clearly she could see him.
She could see him upon the rocking ship, and as she sank farther into a dream state, the scene changed and she was walking through a cloud toward a garden. The mist cleared and her beloved stood waiting for her, his tall frame exquisitely garbed in tight-fitting breeches and blue satin surcoat. The ruffles at his throat and wrists accentuated the dark tan of his face—the tan he’d earned by strutting half naked on shipboard while he worked.
His arms were outstretched to her, and with a glad cry she was in them, falling with him to the soft earth, feeling the strength of him holding her, loving her, his whispers coming softly into her mind. "I cannot ever be without you…"
She sighed, rolling her head from side to side as her lover possessed her in fantasy. She softly moaned as he touched her, tempted her, teased her. And then she was alone. She sat up on the bed of grass and looked around this mystical garden but saw no one. She could hear the sound of guns in the distance, but she could see nothing beyond her cloud-filled garden.
"Geoffrey," she called, her heart wrenched and aching for a sight of him. "Geoffrey."
There was no sea, but he stood on shipboard, his sword strapped to his belt and his hair blowing in the wind. She called to him again and again, but he turned his back on her. "Don’t go. Please, there is a child, Geoffrey... your child... please..." But he turned only to wave her off with his hand. And as she watched, she saw his body jolt and blood stain his coat as he slowly began to fall toward her.
Screams threatened to escape her but she only trembled and brought herself quickly back to the reality of the sparkling stars and the cool night air. She was alone on the veranda in Virginia, and he was miles away—possibly dead.
"I hate him," she whispered. "I hate him for what he makes me feel. I cannot drive him out of my mind, no matter how I try. Even in my sleep I—"
"Hate who, darling?" Preston’s voice interrupted her.
She turned to notice Preston drawing nearer to her. A look of sympathy and understanding was etched into his features.
"You shouldn’t creep up on me, Preston." She impatiently wiped a tear from her cheek.
He knelt beside her chair and touched her hand.
"It sounds as if you must have loved him very much," he soothed. "Very, very much."
She rose and looked down at him. She thought about talking this over with her brother and then simply sighed and went into the house.
Preston took her place in the chair, swirling the liquor around in his glass. He looked out at the velvet sky and began to whistle a melancholy tune.
Alicia found that her drive with Bryson was exactly the battle she had expected it to be. He stopped his carriage in the countryside, prompted her to walk with him for a while, and proceeded to beg kisses. She feared to consent; she feared not to. Of the gentlemen she had met, Bryson was the most desirable, and, in fact, most of the young ladies turned their heads his way as he passed. His deceased parents had left him a considerable estate and he was well-mannered and handsome.
But his kisses were either bland or overzealous. She knew by the time they finally returned to the Tilden home that she would either have to refuse to see him apart from chaperones, or else consent to marry him. Of course, he had not proposed, but every syllable of his dialogue led her to believe that was all he wanted in the world: to marry her—and the Tildens.
Her parents had returned from the church hours before, and Marguerite was seated on the veranda snapping beans into a pot when Bryson drove her up. He said a few passing words to Lady Tilden, tipped his hat, and was on his way.
"Did you enjoy yourself?" Marguerite asked.
Alicia sighed, unsure. "Yes, madam," she replied, going past her mother into the house.
She was moving listlessly up the stairs when her father called to her. "Alicia. Do you have a moment?"
"Of course," she answered, turning around and walking toward him.
"Come into my study. There’s something I’d like to discuss with you."
She followed him and was a little surprised, at a loss, when he closed the study door behind her. He didn’t mince words.
"The subject of your marriage has arisen, Alicia."
"Why?" she asked quickly.
Wesley laughed a little. "Because of the amount of time you’re spending with young Bryson. Is he your choice?"
"I plan to lessen that time. No, he is not."
"Whom do you prefer?" he asked bluntly.
"I prefer things as they are," she insisted, her mouth becoming dry and twitchy.
"I don’t want you to feel that just a short time after we’ve finally got you home we’re pushing you out, but you’re eighteen and marriage is inevitable."
"Inevitable, perhaps...but, sir, I haven’t had time to consider it at all."
"Bryson is a fine man and would take good care of you."
"I’ve taken care of myself all these years!" she heard herself nearly shout.
"I regret that you have," he said softly.
"I can manage a few more," she insisted tersely.
"You must bear in mind that people here expect a woman to marry when she’s matured, and people will begin to wonder why you delay."
"I don’t delay." She felt the sting of tears reach her eyes. "I simply don’t love anyone..."
"There’s a considerable dowry provided for you. The men in this community have their eyes turned to it."
"Aye," she said, a tear touching her cheek. "I’m waiting for the man who doesn’t desire the dowry, but wants me."
"Alicia, you are my child and my responsibility, and seeing to your proper marriage is part—"
She blinked her eyes tightly shut and a tear collected on her lashes. She could not drive away her past. And now she would have to disgrace her new f
amily, a thing that caused her incredible pain. And that pain turned to anger toward her father.
"Your responsibility! I have been my own master for eight and ten years! I’ve made my own decisions and planned my own life! Damn your dowry! How can I even know the man loves me, with your dowry hanging over my head!"
"Alicia!" her father cautioned.
"I can’t talk of marriage," she sniveled, hot tears coursing down her cheeks. "I can’t."
"It’s a matter of propriety—" he began.
"I’m certain, after hearing Mrs. Jody, that I am anything but proper bridal stock!" She rose and walked toward the study door. She turned and faced her father. "Don’t you see? It’s too late for you to take care of that for me."
She opened the door and began to exit, her father’s sharp, commanding words at her back.
"By God, my daughter will be properly wed when I deem the time right and the man honorable."
"I will not!" she shouted.
"Will!" he rejoined.
"You can’t," she cried, her tears and her anger equally strong. "You have me home, but I am not your little girl. I’ve been my only counsel for most of my life. You can’t tell me what to do with my life now."
She was moving to the stairs, and her father, angry and red-faced, was close on her heels.
"You will abide by your father’s wishes as the other children have or—"
Alicia turned and faced him brazenly. Her cheeks were moist and her eyes blazing. "I respect your wishes in your home where I can, sir, but you cannot make me marry a man I do not love."
"You can learn to love your father’s choice for you."
"I will leave this house first," she promised, and turned from him, dashing up the stairs toward her room.
"Letty!" he cried after her.
Alicia felt a pang when she heard him use the shortened version of her name, but she did not pause. She fled from him, from the Tilden dowry and the respectable reputation all the Tildens had. She couldn’t face him. And she couldn’t dodge her own hurt.
Wesley Tilden’s face was pink from the heated exchange. He had managed, he thought, to maintain some control over his children, until this sprite came along. She was headstrong, stubborn, and would not be properly parented. He was at a loss as to what to do with her.
He would have gone back to sulk in his study, but he found his wife staring at him from the open door to the veranda. Her face was grim and set.
"What have you done, Wesley?" she asked.
"I spoke to her about her marriage," he said defensively. "She thinks my opinion hardly worth her time—"
"If you drive my child from her rightful home," Marguerite said very slowly, "I think I shall never forgive you."
Wesley opted for fewer words on the subject. His wife seldom turned a completely rigid expression to him, but this once she was adamant. And with her jaw set so, she looked remarkably like her daughter just had. He grunted. "Damned stubborn women..." And he turned to walk back to his study.
The bell at the river rang several times every day, and usually it was some merchant wishing to discuss the goods that Wesley Tilden and his sons had warehoused for sale or trade. The small Negro children dashed to the dock to see who was arriving, but the women had become accustomed to frequent guests. Only the children were the ones always excited about new arrivals.
Alicia stood in the kitchen with Brianna and some of the staff, snapping beans to be boiled, her hair covered with a kerchief and an apron covering her rounding belly. A small black child tugged at her skirt.
"A sea captain, mum," he said. She nodded and smiled at him. "And they say he’s the lord."
Etta cackled gleefully. "Not the Lord, child. He ain’t the Lord. He’s rich as milord, master, and your master was called Lord Tilden when he was home in England."
Marguerite’s voice drifted happily through the doors and they could hear her delighted laughter. Then she was calling them from the kitchen. "Brianna. Alicia. Come and meet an old friend."
The two looked at each other, smiling at their appearance and shrugging to do her bidding. Alicia was untying her apron as she walked into the foyer of the house and smiled as she noticed that Preston and Wesley had turned out for this visitor.
And then her feet refused to move another step as her eyes found his face.
"Two of my daughters, Lord Seavers," Marguerite was saying. "Brianna, Preston’s wife, and Alicia, our very own..."
She couldn’t move. Her eyes became round and astonished and a certain dizziness seemed to envelope her. As her arm went out in the direction of the wall, she saw him match her astonished look as he moved quickly toward her. He did not have a chance to reach her before she began to swoon, but as a swirling started to overtake her, she was in his firm grasp.
Geoffrey Seavers knelt beside her and held her head off the floor. He lifted her in his arms while Etta bustled through the kitchen doors. "The poor lass has been standin’ in that hot kitchen too long, bless her. This country’s hot as a red cinder when first ye come; it took me years to stop fainting with the heat. You get that poor lass t’bed."
"Well," Geoffrey said with a shrug, "if you’ll show me the way, I already have the situation in hand."
"Let me," Wesley offered.
"I assure you, Lord Tilden, I don’t mind at all." He smiled into Alicia’s eyes. "It’s hardly a burden."
"I’m all right," Alicia protested. "I can manage the stairs."
Etta was out in front of them, working her wide frame up the stairs, chattering her worries as she went. "You be careful how you handle this lass, son. She’s mighty precious stock in this house."
Geoffrey made for the stairs as quickly as he could so that no other man would take his burden away from him, though he was followed up the stairs by both Marguerite and Brianna, worried frowns marking their previously happy faces.
"Still light as a feather," he whispered.
Alicia pursed her lips and looked away from his face.
"Perhaps a trifle heavier," he observed under his breath.
Alicia’s eyes narrowed and she glared at him, but she could not deny that the feel of his arms holding her off the ground was as delightful as it was unsettling. He set her gently on her bed and stood up to look down at her, his eyes aglow and a smile on his handsome face.
"Do you feel all right?" he asked.
"I feel just fine," she snapped. "Thank you for your services, my lord," she managed with something of a sneer.
Geoffrey found himself moved out of the way as Etta and Marguerite fussed around the bed, Alicia trying to avoid their fluttering hands and insisting she was perfectly all right.
Wesley and Preston were at the doorway of Alicia’s room and she could hear their voices. "We don’t always welcome our guests in this manner, Geoffrey, but in this household anything can happen."
"I’ll admit, sir, that I seldom find a woman in my arms before I’ve been properly introduced," Seavers laughed.
Properly introduced, indeed, Alicia thought with malice. The nerve of him to come here. For what? To taunt her the more? Or had he now changed his mind? Well, it would do no good, she would have none of him. He was out of her life, as she was out of his.
"Well, you might want to try some of my brandy, now that you’ve earned it," Wesley invited Seavers.
"I would indeed, my lord, but if that is what you Virginians consider hard labor, I’ll be settling here sooner than I expected."
"And a welcome addition you would be, son," Wesley said, dropping an arm around his shoulders and leading him downstairs.
Alicia fell back into the pillows, fighting the urge to scream. How dare the pirate come here to unsettle her new life! How dare Preston allow it! How dare her family actually approve of him! Her heart pounded with fury that he would presume so much.
And in another place in her heart, a place she would not acknowledge, there was a mellow song rising: he had come here.
Seventeen
It was not in t
he least unusual for Geoffrey Seavers to be in no hurry to leave the Tildens’ fine accommodations; many visiting merchants and sea captains stayed on and on. But the situation put Alicia in dour spirits. Only Preston and she knew the intimate details of how Geoffrey had affected her life. And she could not think objectively when he was about.
In the morning, she waited to descend to the dining room until she suspected breakfast was finished. And her efforts to maintain an attitude of cheerfulness and joy were doubled, for she didn’t want to draw any attention whatever to her upset over Geoffrey. She greeted her mother in the kitchen with a kiss on her cheek. "Good morning, madam," she cooed.
"I trust you’re well rested by now," said Marguerite, smiling.
"I’ve become lazy," Alicia said apologetically.
"Rest while you can, dear. I imagine your responsibilities will triple in years to come—as mine have."
"Oh, madam, I could help you more. Please, what would you have me do for you this morning?"
"Alicia," her mother sighed. "I don’t mean that I need your help. I mean that when you find yourself with as many to care for as I have, your days of lolling abed will be over." She touched Alicia’s soft, ivory cheek. "I’m glad that you can be a little lazy. I think you deserve it."
"I’m lazy only because you spoil me."
"Well, I haven’t been able to for years. And I won’t be able to spoil you for long. You’ve grown up without me. Now, go sit down and let Etta bring you something to eat."
Alicia happily took her seat in the lonely dining room and waited for the housekeeper to bring her tea and fruit. She smiled brightly at Etta’s appearance; the housekeeper kept a grim expression on her face in the best of times, and Alicia had become fond of it.
"Ah, you’re better," she observed. "You work in the morning and do a little less in the afternoon. This heat gets better after the crops are brought in."
"It was difficult for you, wasn’t it Etta?"
"It’s all new, t’be sure. But don’t you fret, you’re strong and healthy." Etta stuck a chubby finger under Alicia’s chin and looked into her eyes. "Aye, you’re healthy. You’ll be fine, once you get used to it."