Shannon realized with some horror that the girl was heading toward the ship. Everyone on the gangway was jostled as the child scrambled up the sloping board. Poor infant, Shannon thought. What was she running from? She held her breath as the girl faltered, lost her balance, then regained it only moments before she would have tumbled over the edge of the board and into the water. Just when Shannon thought the danger was past, the child’s bonnet was knocked askew by an unkind wind and lifted into the air.
In that moment Shannon simply forgot how to breathe. The dull glaze in her eyes vanished as bright orange curls, a heart-shaped face, and a pair of startling blue eyes that were clearly beseeching her for recognition caught her attention. Shannon did not know the child, but she recognized the face. Forgetting her torn bodice, Shannon placed her hands over the locket that nestled between her breasts. It was not possible, she thought wildly. This child was the perfect image of the miniature in her locket!
Shannon stood rooted to her spot on the crowded gangway, her throat closed against the tiniest sound of protest as the girl made a leap toward her. There were more shouts when the child attached herself to Shannon’s side. Small hands gripped her soiled skirt, and Shannon’s weary legs buckled at the force of the assault. She was aware the girl had fallen with her, but before she could act to secure the child, the heart-shaped face disappeared.
“Mama! Help me!”
It was the only thing Shannon heard before she launched herself into the water. She had forgotten she couldn’t swim, forgotten the weight of the manacles would make her task even more difficult. She could only think of saving the child. Long seconds passed before she caught a glimpse of her quarry floating in the water a few feet from her. Shannon thrashed wildly, flinging out her arms to push the child to the surface. Her thoughts became clouded as she struggled against the urge to breathe, but the part of her mind that was still functioning knew her efforts had not been in vain. She saw a pair of hands reach for the girl and pull her to safety. That was all right then. She could rest now. Shannon opened her mouth and let the blessed water rush in.
Cody caught Clara’s skirt, turned his niece in his arms, and swam for the dock. Clara was lifted out of his arms and then he was hauled out of the water. She was sobbing copiously but was otherwise fine, and Cody held her head against his shoulder while Brandon dived again and again to find Clara’s erstwhile rescuer. “Shh, darling. Your papa will find her.”
“Want my mama!” Clara repeated the same refrain she had begun the moment she had spied one of the bondwomen coming from the prison ship.
Cody sighed. He had never gotten a clear view of the woman and suspected the same was true of Brandon. Both men’s attentions were centered on trying to recapture Clara as she broke free of them, insisting she had seen her mother. He supposed it was possible the woman had borne a slight resemblance to Clara’s mother and the poor child had been confused by it. Someone threw a horse blanket around them, and Cody murmured his thanks. Brandon had just gone under the water for the fourth time.
The seconds that passed seemed interminable. Finally he sighted a silver-capped head bobbing to the surface. “He’s found her, little one,” he murmured in Clara’s ear. God help us all if she is not alive, he thought. Then he saw the face resting in the crook of Brandon’s arm and he amended his thought to a simple God help us.
Cody tucked the blanket about Clara and rushed to the edge of the dock to help the men who were assisting Brandon. There were murmurs of surprise and instant, rampant speculation as people who knew Brandon recognized the woman lying unconscious on the rough boards of the wharf. Everyone but Cody stepped back as Brandon heaved himself out of the water and collapsed, panting, at the woman’s side.
Brandon gulped large drafts of air, catching his breath. Water sprayed the air as he shook himself off. He was aware of the murmuring but could not make any sense of it. He rubbed his eyes and for the first time looked clearly at the woman he had rescued. Only the white line about his mouth revealed his resentment.
Damn her! Damn her to hell! Everyone was watching him; he knew it without raising his head. But only one pair of eyes mattered to him. He searched for his daughter. He took in her pale face, the orange tendrils of hair matted to her small head. Beneath lids that were puffy from crying, a pair of blue eyes begged eloquently for her cause. He looked again at the still figure at his side. You don’t deserve Clara, you bitch. Then he set about saving her life.
More than twelve hours later Cody was thoughtfully rolling a tumbler of Scotch between his palms. His feet rested on the apron of the fireplace, but there was no fire in the grate. The night was warm without it, and the Scotch was doing its work nicely. The gold drapes in the study had been opened, and moonshine glinted off his half brother’s bright hair. “I never saw a man so torn, Bran.”
Brandon refilled his glass, his third, and slumped in his favorite armchair. “Meaning me, I suppose.”
“Meaning you. Why did you do it?”
Brandon did not pretend ignorance. He knew precisely what Cody meant. He studied the amber liquid in his glass. “Do you have any idea how often I wished her gone from my life?” His laugh was harsh and filled with self-mockery. “Yes, I suppose you do. You never liked her. Never. Not from the first.”
It was true enough, but Cody had not realized he had been obvious. It made him feel uncomfortable and, oddly, guilty. Had he inadvertently driven a wedge between the brother he loved and the sister-in-law he could not tolerate?
“Save it,” Brandon said brusquely as if divining Cody’s thoughts. “There is no blame to be laid at your door.” He took a deep swallow from his glass. “I did it for Clara. I couldn’t let her mother die in front of her eyes without lifting a finger to save her.” There was bitterness in his expression that said he had succeeded too well.
“And now?”
“Now? I don’t know. I suppose the next move is Rory’s. She can stay or go as she pleases.” He lurched from his chair, tossed back the remainder of Scotch, and slammed the empty glass on the dark walnut table. “But if she stays, I swear she will not work her sorcery on Clara. I will not have my child hurt so deeply again.”
“What can you do?” Cody asked, forcing a trace of calm into his voice. He had never seen Brandon this agitated, and the savage emotion lying so close to the surface worried him. “Clara worshiped her mother.”
“And Rory did not give so much as this”—he snapped his fingers—“for Clara. She was a pawn. Nothing more. If Rory stays, I will make certain Clara realizes it.”
“It sounds cruel,” Cody said with quiet conviction.
“Cruel to be kind. No matter what Rory promises, she will not remain at the folly long. I know my wife well enough to know that.”
Cody did not offer comment. Brandon’s own pride was deeply offended by his wife’s behavior, but Cody refrained from voicing his thought. It could serve no purpose. Rory was with them again and, for the moment at least, causing them no trouble. How long she would stay abed once she regained her strength was another matter entirely. And how long before she turned the folly on its ear was something Cody did not want to think about. “How do you suppose she came to be on theCentury?”he asked. “And in chains?”
“I do not care to speculate on that. Leave it to the others who recognized her. I’m certain the entire Tidewater has heard what happened by now. Their story is bound to be closer to the truth than Rory’s own. I confess I could hear the sordid tale from her own lips and not believe a word of it.”
Brandon was even more bitterly wounded than Cody had first imagined. “I spoke with the captain,” he said. “He had no record of her presence on the ship. Everyone on board was to serve a sentence through indenture. He had papers for the lot. There were none for Rory.”
“That’s a pity. I might have been tempted to arrange for her sale.”
“Bran!”
Brandon rubbed his temples. “I’m sorry.” He wasn’t, but it seemed best to say so. “Excuse me, Cody. I’m going to bed. This has been a hellish day.” He left quietly, his carriage stiff.
