The Bayman's Bride

The Bayman's Bride

Book Two in The Ravenna Evans Series

By J. Jay Kamp

Copyright 2011 by J. Jay Kamp

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

The Ravenna Evans Series:

The Last Killiney

The Bayman’s Bride

The Wager

Table of Contents

Cover

Title page

Copyright

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

About the Author

One

London, May, 1795

Rowen was at the bookseller’s when he first came around.

Her maid described him as a Spaniard—a dark-complected man, pleasant enough in face and manner, but with an accent so thick she’d scarcely understood a word he’d uttered.

’Twas something about m’lord, the maid told her, putting the letter in Rowen’s hand. Said he’s coming back in two days.

Rowen looked at Hester in astonishment. Bennett is here?

"No, the Spaniard is coming, not Lord Marlowe. With her usual perturbed expression, Hester shook her head, hands gravitating naturally to her hips as she regarded her mistress. He’ll be here to fetch you on Thursday…or at least that’s what I thought he said."

And he mentioned Bennett? Bennett sent him?

Well, open the letter and see, why don’t you?

So she did. With trembling, awkward fingers, Rowen unfolded the paper to find her husband’s flawlessly written hand. In the corner, just as she’d expected, she saw not her first name nor the endearment of wife, but a cool and formal address of title: To Lady Marlowe.

She shouldn’t have read another word.

But of course, she had to. She’d not seen Bennett in nearly a year. Surely his letter would reveal his location, his reasons for leaving…because he’d gone away, you see. Bennett had courted her, pursued and proposed to her, and then, in an act that can only be described as premeditated cruelty, he’d gathered up his well-traveled baggage and left. On their wedding night. He’d not even consummated their nuptial vows. He’d boarded his carriage without so much as a parting kiss and journeyed to New Spain. She’d heard nothing more.

Now with his letter finally in her grasp, Rowen skimmed down the page with impatience until she found what she wanted: the Bay Settlement on the Bay of Honduras. Between the Belize and Sibun Rivers, he’d taken up lodgings at a logwood camp where communications with Jamaica are so infrequent as to make correspondence with you all but impossible.

How convenient. She wanted to tear up the letter at his indifference. Still she forced herself to read on about how, through a Scottish settler, Bennett had learned of a city in the jungle near Belize Town. It’s a ruin, he wrote, similar to those in Mexico City, but smaller, much more elaborately decorated. Carvings and idols cover its walls, so I’ve hired some workers to remove these treasures. I’ve sent one man to collect you forthwith, as well as to buy a ship for transport. This man will escort you to our encampment, at which I’ll be waiting for you with utmost expectancy. Please abide my wishes, Lady Marlowe. Give Santiago no trouble.

So the Spaniard’s name was Santiago. Rowen said it aloud, and Hester confirmed it right away. Santiago de Escalante, m’lady. Made me repeat it three times, he did. Taking the hateful letter from her hand, Hester tossed it in the fire. What will you do, then? Will you receive him? Or would you have me suggest where he put his ship?

Angrily, Rowen pictured her husband—but no, not her husband. She’d try to forget that little technicality, although she recalled everything else about the man. The particular shade of his dark blond hair, his close-set eyes the color of sage, Bennett had been attractive, true, but he’d carried himself with the poise of an ostler or a potato farmer. He’d been vastly intimidating, and yet his manner had been so painfully reserved, so genuinely shy, she’d often felt sorry for him.

Not anymore.

Well? Hester asked. Surely he can’t make you go?

Rowen gazed at the fire in the hearth, the little flames rising on Bennett’s letter. No, she said. He can’t make me go. ’Twould take twenty Spaniards to get me on that ship.

And even then we’d fight, wouldn’t we?

If he thinks—, and Rowen almost shook with rage in considering the notion, —if Bennett believes he can marry me to suit his father, then command me to join him in some mosquito-infested jungle…

Hester raised an eyebrow. Tropical fever’s impaired his judgment.

Well, why else would he send for me? No lord takes his lady to such a dangerous place unless he’s mad, surely. Shrugging, she glanced at the maid in frustration. You know he’s reclusive. Bennett’s never needed a woman, much less a wife. God knows his idols amuse him more, and in the way of family, he can’t mean to start one, unless—

Unless his father’s demanded an heir?

Rowen shuddered. Of course that’s what the old duke wanted. His Grace would have Bennett produce a son, a successor to the estate’s three houses, 46,000 acres and rent role of £27,000 a year, not to mention the duke’s legacy of statesmanship which Bennett showed no interest in inheriting. In all these things Roselund needed a grandson.

Bennett cared only for antiquities.

The duke’s cut him off, Hester announced.

Then my lord will starve.

Hester tapped her foot. I’d think not, m’lady.

Rowen ignored her, walked toward the window with her eyes fixed stubbornly on the sill. Outside, the racket of horses’ hooves and carriages in the Strand was an easy distraction to the way Hester watched her. An heir! A year alone and now he wanted her? Did he think she’d forgotten the way he’d sauntered into the house after their wedding, no hand in hers, no waiting for her, just this casual business of directing the servants to load his crates? Bennett hadn’t an emotional bone in his body. Take care around my vases, he’d said, and then, when she’d begun to cry, Would you suffer me to stay, my lady?

Let him starve, indeed, she whispered. He’ll get no heir.

But m’lady, he’s—

Tell Mr. Wilks that under no circumstances is Bennett’s Spaniard to be received in this house. I’m to be indisposed. I’m out to the shops. She turned to confront the maid squarely. Do you understand? Don’t even open the door to the man.

And you think that’ll stop him?

With the growing concern on Hester’s face, Rowen couldn’t help smirking. Just what other choice will the Spaniard have?

* * *

’Twas two days later when he called again. As it happened, Rowen was down at the print seller’s.

The porter, having turned him away, described how the Spaniard had left with something of an uncertain look: a slight dip of his dark head and a lowering of his eyes that gave Mr. Wilks the distinct impression Bennett’s man had felt exceedingly uncomfortable about something. There’d been a coach painted burgundy and gold, and the Spaniard had glanced at it every so often.

Rowen knew those were the duke’s colors. At least now she’d learned who had ordered her fate.

* * *

She was still mulling over the porter’s words when, at half past eleven, she heard a tremendous commotion downstairs. A man’s voice. It was clear enough above the porter’s stream of servile apologies, the doors slamming, the heavy boots coming through the entrance hall.

Rowen froze. She listened carefully.

Silence for a moment. Then it came again, closer and more urgent than before. Which room is Lady Marlowe’s? Will you make me to go through them all? With that voice, deep and poorly articulated, she knew immediately what had happened.

The Spaniard had forced his way in.

She dropped her book. As she wore only a nightgown, she grabbed one of her cloaks from the clothes-press, scooped up some shoes, then gingerly opened her bedchamber door.

Argument, vehement Spanish demands in the staircase, there was no mistaking it. Then Mr. Wilks’s response: Sir, she’s gone out. If you’d kindly return another night—

But the boots were coming up the steps, steady and quick on the marble risers.

A surge of apprehension swept through her as, edging into the passage, bracing herself against the walls, Rowen tried to miss those boards that squeaked. She aimed for the backstairs, fearful, as the porter insisted, Sir, ’tis criminal, you’ve—

Isn’t this still Lord Marlowe’s house? You take still your orders from him, no?

Hearing that accent, his Spanish inflection speaking her name, she had twenty feet to go when she saw him. At the end of the corridor, she caught no more than a fleeting glimpse—his jet-black hair, his immensely tall frame, the sword at his side shining faintly—and then she lunged for the servants’ steps.

How fast could a Spaniard run? And Rowen in bare feet, how could she hope to beat him downstairs, through the passageway, out the front door?

But she did. She was in the Strand in an instant, pushing against the tide of people, the late-night shoppers and early whores. Ducking between coaches, she made it to the opposite side of the street where she wove through the strolling masses. All the while she glanced behind her. Where was the Spaniard? Had she lost him in the crowd?

Breathing a little easier, she slowed, wrapped the cloak around her shoulders. She dodged a cluster of gossiping harlots, leaned against a milliner’s door to put on her shoes.

Then came the real shock.

Two fellows—coalmen by their looks, for they sported soot from the tops of their greasy heads to their toes—approached her in much too familiar a fashion. Troublemakers, these were, she knew it. Best to ignore them, she told herself, and she tried to do the same. She scanned the crowd for the Spaniard in haste even as the nearest of the pair sidled up close. There was something akin to violence in his eyes, something dreadful. Suffering such an intense appraisal, she felt like a pastry in a bakery window, even more so when he asked, Now you’re a pretty piece, ain’t ya? He offered his blackened hand almost cordially, gave her a wink. Fancy a roll with us both? ’Cause you’re a beauty, you are. Ain’t she a beauty, George?

George didn’t answer, only looked to her bosoms.

’Twas then she realized it. They thought her a prostitute! Who else but a strumpet would parade in a nightgown? And standing there beside her, why, those ladies were plying their copulatory trade. Of course she’d been mistaken so.

Now gentlemen, she said, and she raised her hands against the pair, you must understand, I’m not what you think. Slowly, without even knowing she’d done it, she backed away. I’m the Marchioness of Marlowe. The Duke of Roselund’s daughter-in-law? No hint of recognition appeared on their faces, and seeing how George was adjusting his privates, she began to think she’d have been better off with the Spaniard; leastwise he’d probably not hurt her, but these fellows—

A marchioness? The one called George scoffed loudly, a broad Irish accent tainting his words. A marchioness, she says! Rowen panicked as she watched them exchange mischievous expressions, George elbowing his friend with glee. How much you got, Nate? ’Cause ladies like that come dear, I expect.

She didn’t wait for Nate to peruse his pockets or for George to come up with the change. She turned and, back toward the house, through the rakes and beaus and bankrupt merchants’ daughters, she ran as fast as her feet would take her…until she felt herself tackled in an abrupt encompassing of coal-dusted arms, lifted, then swung over the shoulder of what had to be George by his smell.

Of course she let out a shriek. Did the gentlemen passing on the street even notice? As she fought and kicked and resisted her attacker, did even one man bother to intervene? But she was a whore to all those witnessing the deed. No one recognized her, and by the time George finally set her down, all hope had drained from her heart. Still, she punched and scratched the scoundrel. She wouldn’t give in despite where they were—in an alley. She didn’t recognize the place, but it was clear she’d no chance of a decent man happening by whatever the exact address.

This didn’t keep her from screaming, however. It hurt her lungs, so loudly she hollered, for this George had planted her against the wall, now eagerly opened his breeches. She didn’t know where Nate was, so focused she’d become upon boxing the rascal in front of her. It was at this point—just as she was going for his eyes—that George halted his undress. He cursed something Irish.

With her hair in her face, Rowen looked up, glimpsed movement near the end of the alley. Footsteps. Then the unmistakable cadence of a Spanish accent filled the air. You want to play with Lady Marlowe?

George’s grip on her lessened. As soon as it had, she pushed past him and made for that towering shape in the gloom. She couldn’t tell, really, if she were embracing friend or foe, but regardless of the consequences she ran down the passageway, got behind the Spaniard just as he withdrew that four-foot sword. You have first to play with me, eh? Eh?

In a scuffle, the men dug into their pockets. She saw the glimmer of a pistol between them, felt the Spaniard take hold of her hair and, with a shove, force her down as a flash of gunpowder lit up the alley.

Above her head, the Spaniard reeled. Farther down the alley, George uttered a satisfied grunt.

She would have thought their altercation finished and herself along with it, had the Spaniard not recovered quickly. He took a step toward the coalmen. Then another. Soon the louts were fumbling for more bullets, more powder, muttering to each other in rapidly angering voices, and all while the Spaniard came on, sword held out. With one easy motion of his giant blade, he’d disarmed the thug of his pistol. You know, he said, and his words ran together in a breathy growl, is a dangerous experience where you are living right now, in London, hmmm? Hanging around always in some dark street, attacking innocent women…You can get killed.

George wasn’t heeding the advice. He had a knife now. He held it out haughtily with one hand, beckoned forward with a pudgy finger on the other. Yet in a show of expert dexterity and finesse, the Spaniard disposed of the weapon as well as the offending digit. It took two passes of that huge sword to do it, but Rowen saw the skill involved. He’s a fencer, surely. What would he do, were he not wounded?

Because he was hurt, she could see it. As George, screeching at the loss of his appendage, bent double with pain, she watched the Spaniard stagger backward, moving first one foot, then the other, trying to maintain his balance lest the fools come at him again. His sword wavered, as if the weight of the weapon were gaining on him, and Rowen worried he’d not withstand it, should the other rascal seek revenge for his friend.

Yet Nate didn’t have the same pluck as George. Rowen’s fears dissolved as both brutes turned and fled to the Strand, George shouting threats as he went.

Eventually the alley quieted. But for the ragged breaths he drew, the Spaniard didn’t move. He braced himself against the wall as Rowen cautiously approached. Mr. Escalante—

You are not hurt? Raising his eyes, he checked her for injury, quickly looked her up and down.

Without thinking, she drew the front of her cloak together, felt herself blush for the nightclothes she wore. I…they didn’t hurt me, no. She found, too, that her hands were shaking. Was it because of the threat she’d endured? Or the idea she was half-naked in the presence of a stranger? She wasn’t certain, but either way she didn’t think once of Bennett nor about this man’s part in the scheme of her abduction. Carefully skirting his still-drawn sword, she stepped closer, slipped her arm in his—to steady his tilt, she told herself, to repay him for what he’d done. Tell him, Ro. You saved my life, Mr. Escalante.

His mouth edged open.

Are you suffering? Were you badly wounded? As she spoke, she saw a subtle passivity creep into his expression. He’d lost too much blood. She knew from experience this wasn’t the good thing physicians claimed, that blood loss endangered lives needlessly. Reaching up, she felt along his woolen sleeve until she’d found that viscous trail down his arm messing over the hilt of his sword.

Instinctively, she reacted. You’re going to be fine, she said, gently turning him away from the wall. Let’s just make it to the Strand, all right? Can you walk?

No sooner had she asked when the Spaniard lurched forward, right into her arms like a giant marionette cut from its strings. Rowen’s heart hammered wildly, for his chin, his sizable shoulder, each massive limb draped around her was unimaginably heavy in leaning against her, but warm…and so very vulnerable. Holding her tight, the Spaniard did nothing beyond whisper in her hair, "Lo siento…"

And then he collapsed. Behind them, the sword clattered to the ground.

Two

Once she’d gone for assistance in the Strand, ’twas easy to persuade a passing gentleman to flag down a coach, to help her lift the Spaniard onto the seat and stay with him while she ran back for the sword.

Why was it easy? Because the Spaniard, who was obviously in distress, was a man. To the sympathetic gentleman, seeing Escalante thus and with only a doxy to help him made all the difference in the world.

It seemed anticlimactic when they reached Marlowe House. The driver was paid. The Spaniard, still unconscious, was carried up to one of the bedrooms while Rowen changed into warmer attire. The maids brought biscuits, a bottle of wine, and when finally she was left alone with the Spaniard to wait for professional aid, an odd sensation of excitement came over her. Or shall I call you Santiago? After all, he did have a name.

And thinking so, she straightened the pillows beneath his head, gazed down on his black-clad form. With the candles burning brightly, she could see his features perfectly now. His jaw was strong. His angular face, so chiseled and masculine, was strangely reminiscent of that South Seas man she’d once seen in a Reynolds painting, although Santiago’s countenance was darker, more virile…and certainly more handsome.

Yet he was sleeping, wasn’t he? He’d not seemed so pleasing before he’d been wounded, and—lest she forget—he’d been the one to chase her into the Strand. This man was the harbinger of Bennett’s demands. No matter how she’d felt sorry for him, he was still her enemy, her father-in-law’s minion.

A long, low moan escaped his lips. It startled Rowen from her thoughts and she drew back from the bedside, watched as the Spaniard’s brow knit in a grimace. ¿Dónde estoy? Rolling his head on the pillow, he blinked. He struggled to focus on the candles, the bedside table, until at last recognition flashed in his gaze at the sight of her. He didn’t say anything further. With the whiskers on his chin, he appeared unkempt, even haggard. Yet there was no getting around the sudden glimmer of warmth to his gaze. It made her terribly nervous, especially as he seemed disinclined to look away.

She was thankful when at last he reached for his shoulder, as it meant breaking their uncomfortable stare. Leave it be, she told him, intercepting his hand before he touched the wound.

He nodded, winced in pain.

How many times had she nursed Bennett’s servants? Kittens, fledgling sparrows, anything wanting of care fell victim eventually to Rowen’s mothering. As a seven-foot Spaniard seemed no different, she couldn’t help cradling his grasp a bit longer, keeping it from that place he bled. She loosened the tattered cravat at his neck. She pulled back the linen, thinking of all the cuts and bruises she’d doctored, all the orphaned animals she’d saved.

And that’s when she saw it: beneath the worn fabric, a heart-shaped locket lay against his skin.

How curious. She peered at the tarnished silver, but the sounds of the doctor’s arrival downstairs squelched any questions she might have had. Lie still, all right? Turning from the bed, she stepped away from the Spaniard’s side—and stopped.

Giant fingers held her tight.

Helpless under that powerful hold, Rowen waited. She found herself studied, kept firmly in place, while the Spaniard’s jaw tensed in vexation. She could well guess what he considered, watching her as he did: how she’d fled, how she might try fleeing once more. She wanted to reassure him, so she put her free hand over his, gave his fingers a meaningful squeeze. I’m only going to fetch the doctor, Santiago.

You will not make me to chase you again? His gaze moved rapidly over her face. I can trust you, no?

About as much as I can trust you. She glanced down at his brutal grip, and slowly, reluctantly, he relinquished his hold. He swallowed, and as Rowen stepped away, she felt the slightest caress to his fingers, a subtle lingering that seemed to imply an altogether different feeling than distrust.

* * *

As she didn’t think she should see Mr. Escalante unclothed, she took her leave when the doctor came in. Old Snaddon was perfectly capable without her. So upon introductions, and after hunting up servants to bring whatever the physician required, Rowen went downstairs.

Her heart pounded every step of the way.

For despite several seasons at London and Bath, before Bennett had come along, she’d never been anywhere near a man. Not ever. She’d had cousins in Northumberland, but they’d been all the flirtation she’d experienced, and how many years had passed since then?

Pacing the drawing room, she thought of Bennett again and again, tried to fight her irrational feelings for this fellow, this dark and beautiful Spaniard. Bennett’s sent him in selfishness, in cruelty, she told herself, and I must not forget, not ever, that Bennett’s behind this man’s every action. ’Twas madness to feel compassion for him. She forced herself to repeat as much over and over in walking the length of the room. Occasionally, she heard the Spaniard’s voice upstairs breaking with what had to be swearwords. Mostly he groaned in that deep, throaty growl of his, and all the while maids scurried through the passages, the linen they carried crimson with blood.

Finally, Dr. Snaddon emerged. He explained how he’d removed the bullet, cauterized the wound, then stitched up the injury as best he could. It’s not too serious, my lady, he assured her. He’ll rest easy with the laudanum, I’ll wager.

Thanking him, Rowen escorted old Snaddon to the door. It was long after midnight by that time. The maids were lingering about, waiting, so she gave them permission to retire before she roused the porter to lock the gates.

As she walked to the Spaniard’s chambers, she knew she was making an awful mistake. Don’t do this, she told herself. Wait until the light of day, until he’s not lying there ailing and weak, entirely much too handsome for his own good.

Still she opened the bedroom door. Immediately she saw the depth of her error, for rather than sleeping beneath the counterpane as she expected to find him, Santiago stood swaying. His back was turned to her. With his dark head lowered in concentration, he pulled up his trousers, and she just caught a glimpse of his buttocks before he hid them in threadbare wool.

A delicious shudder swept through her soul. Without a shirt, the Spaniard’s shoulders, the contours of his fencer’s arms, every inch of him seemed as bronzed as his face. He was like a thing carved from mahogany, and she found herself wondering if he’d been shipwrecked recently, marooned on some tropical isle or otherwise been exposed to the sun.

Before she could ask, he spun around. Guarded eyes met hers across the room. Is almost two o’clock, you know that? He scowled, but she saw the truth in his gaze—he was relieved. His captive hadn’t escaped him twice. Rocking perilously on his heels, he didn’t show it as he reached for his shirt, but she felt his anxiety lessen when he asked, Where is my sword? You are keeping safe, yes?

She was too busy staring to answer his question. Had she ever seen a man’s bare chest? Only in pictures, and Santiago’s was nothing like those. Instead, his was smooth, muscular beneath the locket around his neck. And his waist, tapered into those pitiable trousers, was narrow but not too thin to please. He looked fierce and yet somehow inviting, a perfect mixture of oafishness and grace, and how could a man’s thighs make her shiver the way she was shivering?

When he pulled the shirt over his head, tucked it in, she was fascinated. These were difficult tasks, wounded as he was. In watching him pick up his bloodstained coat, tug it over his bandage-wrapped shoulder, she couldn’t help flinching in empathy. She flinched again when he turned to her. Please, he said, but it was more of a demand, lady, give me my sword.

Lady?

He tottered a bit, his eyes burning into her.

Rowen only waited expectantly.

All right—, and he gritted his teeth, nodding, —all right, Lady Marlowe. Marchioness Marlowe. Please, my sword, yes?

You won’t be needing it anytime soon.

I need it, he said, and with careful steps, he crossed the room to stand in front of her, wobbling dangerously.

Without even thinking, she reached out to steady him. And where will you go? She challenged his intense brown eyes. Do you have someone who’ll care for you? A wife, perhaps?

"We’re going to Deptford, you and me."

Glowering down on her, he looked so threatening—an attempt to control her, certainly—but she wasn’t afraid in the least. She knew how weak he was. To make him understand as much, she cast her eyes up his tilting frame. You’re taking me to Deptford right now? Like this?

As soon as you pack your things, yes, we are going.

And how will you get me there? His eyes darkened further as she awaited his response. He drew in a breath, and she could tell he was vastly uneasy. It was as if he’d been forced to concede her point, so restless he appeared, and putting her hand on her hip, she tried to engage his wandering gaze. Did you think I’d go without putting up a fight?

Listen, he said, dipping that swarthy head, what you need to do this? She knew he’d meant why, but before she could correct his English, he went on, You said you wouldn’t run, that I could trust you, no?

I didn’t say I’d go back to Bennett. And withdrawing her supportive grip, just as she’d thought, he began to sway. Look at you, Mr. Escalante. You’re about to fall over. In fact, you’re in no fettle to make me go anywhere, and—

I’m not? You are sure?

Scrunching up his face, the Spaniard went into action suddenly. He grabbed her wrist. Wounded or not, he was deft at propelling her down the corridor, and she was pushed toward the stairs until, stumbling with the shove he’d given her, she stopped, turned to confront him with a shout. Wait! She struggled against his wall of a chest, though it did absolutely no good. Santiago, why are you doing this? For God’s sake, why don’t you wait until tomorrow?

We must make the convoy. Bracing himself against the banister, he seized her, continued with the business of towing her so that she found herself being dragged downward even though she knew he was having trouble doing it, that it was all he could manage just to get himself—let alone her—down those steps.

Why didn’t she kick him in the shins and escape? Was it in deference to the fact he’d saved her? Or was it that, in his frailty, the giant of a Spaniard had pulled at that unnamed part of her heart that longed and yearned to care for someone? All the children she’d once planned with Bennett, the way Bennett himself in his stolid, shuffling fashion had seemed so distant and needful of minding, these things for Rowen had been intensely attractive. Was she attracted to this man, too?

When he halted three steps from the entrance hall floor, she felt herself even more enticed. He still had a grip on her that could hold back the devil, but he was resting, leaning hard on the rail with his mouth opened, his eyes shut tight. She began to worry, so affected he seemed. At last she had to say something. Santiago?

"¿Qué?" and then, less angrily, What?

She hesitated. Even in the scant light, she noticed the sheen of sweat on his cheekbones. Sniffing, he wiped at his brow, and he listed forward ever so slightly, just close enough so that she smelled stale tobacco on his clothes, the faint scent of sea salt embedded in his coat.

I just… With his nearness, she felt all too keenly her inexperience with men. Couldn’t we go in the morning when you’re better? Couldn’t the convoy wait until then?

Narrowing his eyes, he regarded her carefully. We?

Well, you are kidnapping me, aren’t you?

He tightened his lip, averted his gaze, and she detected again his great discomfort with the nature of what he was doing. "Sí, he said softly. Yes,