Chapter 24 #2
Virginia felt her terrible climax begin and she grabbed his hand, squeezing it; he understood and before she knew it, he had pulled her down, and he was surging up into her; a moment later he had flipped her over and he was riding her hard.
She looked up into his beloved face and began to weep in pleasure. And he held her tightly, whispering, “Yes, my darling, yes.”
Devlin sat in the chair by the fire that barely blazed in the hearth, fully dressed in his naval uniform, his black hat on his knee. He stared at his bride.
Virginia slept deeply, a soft smile on her lovely face, a few diamonds still clinging to the masses of her curling hair.
She lay on her side, her back bare where the hair revealed it, the covers pulled only to her waist. He had made love to her for two nights and the day in between, and he still wanted her again.
It was 5:02 a.m., December 14. In another fifty-eight minutes he would set sail for America. He did not want to leave his bride; he did not want to go.
He did not want to go.
He stood, hat in hand. What nonsense was this? What was happening to him? He was a warrior, it was all that he knew, and of course he wanted to go to war yet again.
She sighed in her sleep.
His heart ached suddenly, hugely, then. Good God, he was going to miss her—he missed her already and he had yet to leave.
The ever-present fear, a monster lurking behind him, threatening his very life, came closer, reaching out.
What nonsense was this? He had a war to attend.
He might be married now, but his bride could not make him soft, she could not change his character or his choices.
All the other emotions he had been feeling since their wedding, both soft and huge, were not for him.
He was not in love. Love was not for him.
Once he set sail, once he became a part of the wind and the sea, his legs braced firmly as he rode the deck of the Defiance, he would not be feeling like such a romantic fool and he would not miss her, not at all.
Which meant that it was time to go, now, before his foolish brooding unmanned him.
But the leave-taking was so hard.
And he thought of a hundred past bloody battles and a weariness claimed his soul—a weariness he could not deny.
Abruptly Devlin walked over to the bed. He made no move to wake her, but he stared at her angelic face, aware that he wished to memorize it. And for one moment, he thought about waking her.
But he did not. Her lure was too strong. Instead, he pulled the covers up to her shoulders. She sighed again in her sleep, and this time she smiled.
His heart lurched, aching within him.
The monster of fear came closer and seized him with a vengeance.
This woman was his wife. This marriage could change everything. He stared down at Virginia and realized that in spite of all logic in his heart he wished that he were not leaving.
Which meant that it was time to go. Abruptly Devlin turned and left his sleeping bride, his strides hard and determined.
Later, his regret would be vast.
Virginia dreamed that Devlin was gone.
She was in a sweet, happy place, warm and beloved, and suddenly she was chilled to the bone. Suddenly she was not in her bed, but she stood on some sandy shore, watching the Defiance as it sailed away. Horrified, afraid, Virginia cried out.
She blinked and found herself awake, quite naked and sitting up in bed. “Devlin?” She realized she had had a nightmare and relief washed over her.
But as she threw off the blanket, she saw that she was alone. “Devlin?” She began to feel hollow inside and sick with apprehension. She slid to the floor, beginning to shiver. The bronze clock on one bureau said it was half-past five that morning.
It was December 14.
Devlin was due to set sail that morning.
But he could not have left yet, without saying goodbye!
Tearing a blanket from the bed and wrapping it around her, Virginia rushed to the sitting room, but it was vacant.
Horrified, she raced into the bathing room and grabbed her wrapper.
She saw a bowl of soapy water and his wet shaving brush sitting on the vanity; in the act of belting the robe, she froze.
The horror of her nightmare returned.
Virginia ran to the armoire and threw it open, dressing as quickly as she could without help. Clad in a pale green dress, shoes and stockings in hand, she ran downstairs, barefoot.
A housemaid was passing through the hall. “Rosemary! Where is the Captain? Has he left?”
The maid appeared surprised by her question. “He left a few minutes ago, madam.”
Virginia stood there, shoes and stockings dangling from her hands, stunned. He had left? He had left like that, without a word? But why hadn’t he said goodbye?
“I need the carriage,” she said sharply, her heart seeming quite wedged now in her chest, a painful, congealed lump. Acid burned. She sat down in a chair as the maid rushed out, pulling on her stockings and putting on her shoes.
So many memories assaulted her now—his smile, his soft laughter, the way he called her “little one” and “my darling,” the light of amusement as it sparked his eyes, the blaze of lust, and his lovemaking, at times hard and rushed, at other times soft and gentle.
She thought of how he had held her as she fell asleep in his arms. She recalled his declaration that he would be a good husband to her.
She brushed away her tears. Why hadn’t he awoken her? Why hadn’t he said goodbye?
Another terrible time came to mind, a time when she had been loved by him with both urgency and tenderness, only to find him cold and indifferent the next day.
She was ill, about to retch. There was no possible way that Devlin could retreat now to that other, horrid place, a cold and heartless place where he had once before lived. The thought was unbearable—it could not possibly happen again.
She had to find him. She had to say goodbye. And she had to see him smile tenderly at her one more time, to know that they had passed safely through a terrible storm and that the light of a bright, gentle new day awaited them on the other side.
She could not survive the next six months otherwise.
A half an hour later her coach raced through the shipyard, passing stored containers, loaded wagons, cranes and crates. Longshoremen, civilians and sailors were busy everywhere. Virginia strained to see out of her window, and when her coach paused a moment later, she almost catapulted out.
A huge ship she did not recognize faced her. Other ships lined the docks, but none were the Defiance. And one berth, in their midst, was terribly empty.
Her heart hurt her now. Virginia raised her hand to her eyes to shield them from the rising sun. She looked past the docks.
And she cried out.
She knew the Defiance by heart—she always would. Perhaps a hundred yards distant, it slowly eased out of the channel, heading into the open harbor.
And there was no mistaking the tall, gallant figure standing hatless on the quarterdeck.
Virginia ran.
Holding her skirts, she ran down one dock, waving frantically. “Devlin! Devlin!” she screamed.
But the ship continued to move away, toward the horizon, and he never turned once to look back.
Virginia’s steps slowed and faltered.
She paused, out of breath, panting hard. He still didn’t look back and he would never hear her; it was hopeless. She stopped at the very end of the dock, staring desperately after the departing ship.
It sailed into the harbor, and once there, the main sails were unfurled. They quickly billowed and the frigate picked up speed, now flying across the seas, now flying away.
Virginia watched it disappear.
Devlin stood on the quarterdeck, the oddest urge to look back at the retreating shipyard within him. It was his habit to stand at the helm and search the horizons ahead; still, he could not shake the need to look back, as if in doing so he might glance at his bride one last time.
“A fine day for sailing, Captain,” Red said, his hands on the helm. His grin was stained and yellow.
“Yes, indeed.” They had a fresh breeze of about eighteen or nineteen knots, causing the seas ahead to foam with dancing white horses. They would make good time today, and after being on land for so long, he should be thrilled with the departure. He was not. Finally, Devlin sighed and looked back.
But the shipyard was just a jumble of shapes and colors now. Then a flash of light from the deck below caught his eye. Devlin turned—as a seaman pointed a musket at him.
Time stood still. He knew an assassination attempt when he saw one and he knew he would die. And as he told himself to dive, sensing it was futile, he knew that the assassin had been sent by his mortal enemy, the Earl of Eastleigh.
And as the shot rang out, the ship lurched with a sudden gust of wind. Devlin was already diving across the bridge, a burning sensation along his upper arm.
He had just used up another life. And as he slid across the wood deck, savage anger filled him.
The assassin had missed, but only because of the fresh breeze.
Still on the deck, Devlin drew his pistol, shouting, “Seize that man!” He rolled to his side, quickly loading the gun, glancing in the direction of where he thought the assassin might be, and he was right. The man was frantically reloading.
From behind, Gus and another sailor were charging the assailant.
Devlin got to one knee as the assassin aimed again and almost simultaneously, they fired at each other.
The assailant was struck in the lower leg and he cried out, falling. Devlin threw his pistol aside, drawing his saber, racing across the quarterdeck and leaping down to the main deck. “I want him alive,” he shouted as Gus and the second sailor seized the wounded man.
He was struck over the head and his hands were shoved behind his back but he remained half-conscious, on his knees, bleeding all over the deck.
Devlin paused before him, filled with fury.
“Captain?” Gus cried, as more sailors encircled them. “How badly are you hurt?”
“It’s a graze,” he said grimly. With his boot, he kicked the assassin under his jaw, snapping his head back, hard enough to flip him onto his back but not hard enough to break his neck.
Gasping in pain, the man stared up at him with wide wild eyes.
“Mercy, Captain, sir! I only did what I was told to do! What I was paid to do! Have mercy, I beg you, I got a wife, three boys, all hungry, please—”
Devlin stepped on his chest with most of his weight.
Ribs cracked. The man screamed.
“Who sent you?”
Frantic eyes met his. “I don’t know. He never said his name! Wait—”
Devlin stepped on him again.
“I suggest you think very carefully,” Devlin said.
“He never told me his name,” the man panted. “Wait!”
Devlin decreased the pressure of his foot. “Continue.”
“But I know who he was! It was a lord, Captain, sir, a lord—I saw the coat of arms on the coach, and I asked, I asked who it was after he was gone!”
“Who was it?”
“Eastleigh, it was Lord Eastleigh, Captain. Please, please spare my life!”
Devlin coldly debated the request. “Put him in the brig. Have the ship’s surgeon attend him.”
“Aye, sir,” Gus said.
Devlin turned away. He was inwardly shaken—and furious with himself. He had been mooning over his bride like a school-age boy, thinking about her bed, thinking about love and almost feeling joy, when he had a blood enemy to destroy. His behavior had almost cost him his life.
The reminder was a timely one. He was married now, but it changed nothing.