Chapter Eighteen
Marcus rolled onto Elise. The darkness prevented discerning even the outline of her face, but he heard her sigh.
His chest pressed upon her breasts and she shifted, teasing him with a slight arch of her body.
His heart beat fiercely, his body hard with an arousal that circumvented the disorientation clouding his mind.
He yanked on her shift until he could spread her legs with a knee.
He grasped her shoulders and, levering himself into position, thrust into her.
With the first stroke, pleasure radiated through his body.
Marcus pinned her against the mattress, each stroke increasing the deafening roar of blood through his veins.
Elise gasped. He lowered his full weight upon her, then rolled onto his back, keeping their bodies joined.
Grasping the back of her knees, he slid them forward so that she straddled him.
He gripped her waist and lifted her up until only the tip of his shaft remained inside her, then brought her down, up, down—she gripped his arms and he felt her weight shift as she threw her head back.
He lifted her, slamming her onto him, faster, then faster, gripping her slim waist in a clasp that frightened him.
Pleasure shot through him. He slammed her down harder.
Arching to meet her—Marcus jerked awake, grasping the wet sheet covering his hips as he groaned.
He continued to pump upwards for several strokes before slumping back onto the mattress.
His chest rose and fell in heavy gasps for several moments before his senses cleared enough to recognize the cabin that had held him captive for twenty-eight nights.
Shafts of muted light streamed through the small glass skylights.
His gut wrenched. Another dream. He closed his eyes.
In his mind, he saw the flutter of Elise's eyelids when he brought her to her release.
His shaft twitched. A muted shout overhead brought the sudden realization that the ship no longer rocked as it had while slicing through the Atlantic.
Marcus yanked the sheet aside and jumped from bed.
He strode the three paces to the door and stuck his head into the hallway.
“Lad,” he called to a boy at the far end of the corridor, “where are we?”
The boy turned. “We're in Boston, sir. We've docked.”
“Can you get me a messenger? I need a note delivered immediately.”
“Aye, sir,” the boy said. “I'll go if you like.”
“Good lad,” he said. “I'll have it ready in ten minutes.”
* * *
At five-fifty in the afternoon three days later, the door to the private dining room in the Boston Harbor Hotel opened and Marcus looked up from the glass of wine he had been staring at.
“A message for you, sir,” the waiter said, and laid an envelope beside him on the table.
Marcus saw the return address from Colonel Shay. He tore open the letter and read.
My Dear Marcus,
I have only now received word concerning Steven Landen.
The boy is a lieutenant in the US Army and functions as a tracker for them.
As of three months ago, Lieutenant Landen was stationed with the 23rd Cavalry Division on the Tyger River in South Carolina.
The Army is slow in updating its records; the boy may have been sent elsewhere in the meantime.
I hope this information will suffice to connect you with him.
Another bit of news I know will interest you.
My wife is acquainted with Mrs Charles Hampton, of the Burlington Hamptons.
(No, I do not expect you to know them, but you may take my word that they are among the Boston elite.) Mrs Hampton remembers the calamity which struck the Amelia on that fateful trip to England.
Apparently, the story was widely discussed amongst Mrs Hampton's class, a class, as you know, far above my own station.
My wife related to me the tale as told to her by Mrs Hampton as follows: When the Amelia docked and her captain advised Price Ardsley of Elise Kingston's fate, he was grief-stricken.
Your wife's brother, the young Lieutenant Landen, was seriously injured and went into forced convalescence for nearly three months.
Even before his release from the hospital, he demanded a search be mounted for his sister.
The demand was flatly refused, most notably by Ardsley, though the directors of Landen Shipping did agree.
They believed that had Mrs Kingston survived, she would have returned to Boston.
None of this surprises you, as I well know. There is, however, one piece of information I believe will. Steven Landen contends that the night Elise was lost at sea, he came upon Robert Kingston strangling her. Steven thwarted the murder attempt, and he and Elise escaped up to the deck.
Marcus stared, his gaze fixed on the words he came upon Robert Kingston strangling her.
Elise's husband had tried to kill her. His chest tightened.
This explained why she shot him. Marcus closed his eyes.
Elise, why didn't you tell me? He forced back the pain, opened his eyes, and refocused on the letter.
While they were on deck, Robert appeared.
Elise shot her husband. Robert pulled a pistol from his pocket after she drew on him, and returned fire.
Steven took the bullet he says was meant for his sister.
When Steven regained consciousness, the captain informed him Elise had fallen overboard and that Steven had tried rescuing her by cutting down the longboat. Steven has no memory of this.
Ardsley proposed that Robert Kingston wanted to eliminate Elise in order to claim her shares in Landen Shipping. Ardsley preached this philosophy with a depth of gravity that Mrs Hampton described as '“most admirable.'“
I wish I could be of more service. Travel safely to South Carolina. I look forward to learning of your success when you return.
Sincerely,
Colonel Martin Shay
“South Carolina,” Marcus said in a low voice, but his mind still staggered with the picture of Robert Kingston strangling his wife—my wife, Marcus's mind shot back. Memory of her broken body after the carriage crash filled his mind.
The clock that hung on the wall near the door gonged.
He jerked his gaze onto the clock, dispelling the bloody vision.
Six o'clock. Justin would arrive any minute.
Even as he folded the letter with expert precision and set it beside him on the table, the door opened and Justin entered.
A waiter followed close behind. The waiter pulled Justin's chair out as he seated himself across from Marcus.
Justin lifted the wine bottle sitting on the table and poured the remainder of the wine into his glass. He handed the bottle to the waiter. “Another bottle, if you please, and…” He paused, then focused on Marcus. “No dinner yet?”
Marcus gave a slight shake of his head.
Justin turned to the waiter. “Have you any pigeon pie?”
The waiter looked horrified. “This is not a port tavern, sir.”
Justin raised a brow. “Can you name a port tavern that serves pigeon pie? Never mind. You do have filet mignon?”
The waiter straightened. “Of course.”
“Be kind enough to bring two then, along with whatever you Americans consider appropriate accompaniments.” Justin reached for his wine, clearly dismissing him.
The waiter looked as though he would like to bludgeon Justin with the wine bottle but turned stiffly and left the room.
Marcus leaned back in his chair. “You have a knack for condescension.”
“Never say you think the fellow was right?”
“Not right,” Marcus replied. “Simply not worth the time.”
Justin snorted. “Had I not done it, you would have.” Marcus started to reply, but stopped short at the gleam that appeared in Justin's eye. “Marcus, prepare yourself… she is alive.”
Marcus's hand jerked, upsetting his glass. Wine spread across the linen tablecloth. Justin started, nearly tipping over his own glass.
“Bloody hell,” Marcus cursed, and set the glass upright. He ignored the stain. “What are you talking about?”
“Three months ago, Ardsley announced that Elise had returned to America.”
“Three months ago? But that was before we wed.”
“Listen,” Justin cut in, “there's a very interesting stipulation in her father's will. If Elise dies, a body must be presented as evidence, or five years must pass before Ardsley can take possession of her stock.”
“How does that prove she's alive?”
“Ardsley claims to have her in a convalescent home.”
Shock ricocheted through Marcus. “An insane asylum?”
“Yes.”
His mind reeled. Elise, alive? And in an asylum. “'Tis not possible,” he said in a hoarse voice.
“No?” Justin held his gaze. “For the past six months, Ardsley has been attempting to get Landen Shipping's board of directors to agree to a large loan he wants in order to expand the shipping company to include west coast trade.
Many of the board members plan on retiring in the next few years and don't relish the idea of putting their life savings at risk. They have a date set three weeks from tomorrow to settle the matter.”
“Ardsley needs Elise's twenty-five percent interest to control the vote,” Marcus said in a near whisper.
“Fifty-one percent,” Justin rejoined.
“What?”
“A year after Elise married, Steven Landen signed his interest in the company over to her.”
“My God.”
Justin's brows lifted. “It's rather late in the game for Ardsley to present Elise's body, don't you think?”
“An insane asylum,” Marcus murmured. “If it is true…”
'No Campbells, or anyone else, can harm you,' he had told her. 'I can protect you.' Wed only two days and he had utterly failed her.
“Marcus.” Justin's sharp voice cut into the picture of Elise huddled in a tiny filthy cell, hands clamped over her ears to drown out the screams of the other inmates.
“I saw her body,” Marcus said. “If that wasn't Elise, then who—”
Justin's mouth thinned. “That is a mystery to be solved—but not one we cannot solve from here. Agreed?”
Marcus stared. “Aye.”
“What have you learned of Steven?” Justin asked.