Captured Dreams E-Book

May McGoldrick

• Herausgeber: Book Duo Creative
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Serie: THE SCOTTISH DREAMS TRILOGY
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Seitenzahl: 548

Beschreibung

WITH A REVOLUTION BEGINNING IN AMERICA, SHE SEARCHES FOR FAMILY AMIDST DANGER AND INTRIGUE, AND FINDS A MAN WITH A HIDDEN IDENTITY… THE CAPTAIN By day, Pierce Pennington is one of Boston's most respected and successful merchants. By night, he becomes the infamous Captain MacHeath, smuggling arms by sea under the pall of darkness in the name of liberty... THE CAPTIVE Portia Edwards will go to any length to find the family she's never known. All her life, she thought herself to be an orphan. Then she finds that her mother is not only alive, but here in Boston and being held captive by Portia's own grandfather. She will need more than a little help spiriting her mother away to England... THE CAPRICE But asking for help is something Portia has never found easy. So even when she steals into her grandfather's masquerade ball and meets with the perfect opportunity to ask the dashing Pennington for help, stubborn pride stands in her way. Pennington would like nothing better than to forget about this proud young woman, yet he finds he cannot stop thinking of the night he met  her in a garden... 

Leseprobe

CAPTURED DREAMS

SCOTTISH DREAM TRILOGY BOOK 2

MAY MCGOLDRICK

CONTENTS

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

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Edition Note

Author’s Note

Dreams of Destiny

Also by May McGoldrick, Jan Coffey & Nik James

About the Author

Thank you for reading. In the event that you appreciate this book, please consider sharing the good word(s) by leaving a review, or connect with the authors.

Captured Dreams by May McGoldrick

Copyright © 2015 by Nikoo K. and James A. McGoldrick

All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher: Book Duo Creative.

First Published by NAL, an imprint of Dutton Signet, a division of Penguin Books, USA, Inc.

Cover Art by Dar Albert. www.WickedSmartDesigns.com

Created with Vellum

To Dorbert Ogle - a truly special friend.

This one is for you.

1

Boston

June 1772

Holding her feathered mask to her face, Portia glanced at the various doors around the room, going over in her mind the plan of the North End mansion. She had paid good money to get the correct layout of the house. She touched the locket she wore about her neck and hoped now that the information was correct.

Portia knew the masquerade ball held at the elegant house on Copp’s Hill to honor the King’s Birthday was the only opportunity she would have. Admiral Middleton almost never entertained, so when else would she be able to gain access to the grounds? Her mother had been locked away for twenty-four long years, and Portia was determined to free her tonight.

As it was, the guest list included only the most elite members of Boston’s Tory society, and even included the Governor. Of course, no invitation addressed to any Portia Edwards had arrived at the door of Parson Higgins and his wife, where Portia was living, but she had forgiven the Admiral the oversight. She had simply lied to a dear friend and deceived people who considered her part of their family. She didn’t have any choice, though. It had to be tonight.

“You are very quiet this evening, my pet.”

My pet. My pet. Portia tried to not lose her patience at Captain Turner’s condescending expression. She turned to the officer. As before, he was standing stiffly over her and leaning forward as he spoke. The gown she had borrowed from Bella was far too tight, and the corset’s whalebone stays were certain to leave permanent marks in her flesh. Portia had caught him staring at her breasts a half-dozen times already, and she lowered her mask to cover the revealing front of the gown. The officer looked into her face, and she pasted on a smile.

Captain Turner, a second cousin to her young friend Bella, had been the means for Portia to get into the mansion. Now, however, she was having some difficulty ridding herself of him.

“I am simply numb with excitement.” Portia raised the mask again to her face and looked around the paneled ballroom in search of a distraction for her companion. The notes of the minuet rose and fell as the other guests paraded about. There were far fewer women than men, though it appeared that some of Boston’s less elite Tory families had also sent their daughters. “I do wish you would not feel obligated to remain at my side, Captain. I should hate to make enemies with all these lovely ladies by keeping you to myself.”

“Nonsense, my pet. I would not dare ruin your opinion of me by neglecting you. You know that I have been waiting upon you for months…and to no avail, I might add.”

“But Captain, I have only been in the colonies for little more than eight months.”

“And I have been your devoted servant since first seeing you after Reverend Higgins’s inaugural sermon. You cannot know how delighted I was at my good fortune when my young cousin was introduced to you the following Sunday.”

“The good fortune was mine, but⁠—”

“To be honest,” he interrupted, “after we met a month later, and then you refused to answer any of my letters, I was about ready to give up hope. I do not need to tell you, therefore, how thrilled I was when my lovely cousin sent me word that you had finally agreed to allow me to call upon you. And when you consented to accompany me here…ah, what delight! And now you suppose that I would step away from the glow of your loveliness?”

Captain Turner continued to speak, and Portia lowered the mask, glancing with disbelief at the officer, whose eyes were again fixed on her breasts. He was a man in his forties, she judged, and though he had apparently been powerfully built in his youth, his physique was now beginning to decline into the softness of middle age. Still, she had underestimated the captain’s ardent interest in her.

“Warm, is it not?” she suggested. “Would you be kind enough to get me something to drink, Captain?”

Her escort bowed, only to turn as a passing servant appeared carrying a tray filled with cups of punch. Portia silently cursed her luck and, with a weak smile, accepted one. When the captain again started with his lean, she glanced desperately about the room.

“I have never had such an opportunity to see so many distinguished people. The military men look so dashing in their finery.”

“I should be happy to introduce you to any of them, along with their wives,” Turner offered jovially. “We have some particularly fine men serving His Majesty here in Boston, and their wives would be delighted to meet you, I am sure. Whom specifically would you care to meet?”

She looked about for some guest far from where they were standing. She had no difficulty finding one. Leaning with a haughty air against a column near the door, the man wore a black scowl that matched his dark attire.

“That gentleman.” She motioned with the mask. “I do not believe I have ever seen him.”

“I should be surprised if you had met him, my pet.” Turner’s nose climbed an inch in the air in obvious distaste. “That is Pierce Pennington, a brother to the Earl of Aytoun. An old family, but a scoundrel of a Scot, to be sure. This past year, since coming to Boston, he has been making a name for himself in finance and shipping.”

“Is this not a difficult time to be establishing oneself in such pursuits,” Portia asked, “considering the townspeople’s refusal to pay the tax for English goods?”

“Not if one lacks a certain…well, a certain respect for His Majesty’s laws of trade.”

“Do you mean he deals with smugglers?”

“I mean no such thing, officially. But we shall soon enough identify the key malefactors who are enriching themselves at the Crown’s expense…and put an end to that nonsense.” Turner’s gaze remained fixed on Pennington. “There are many things about that gentleman that I do not understand. But then again, my superiors consider him completely loyal to the king, and safely above assisting these troublesome colonists. In fact, Pennington’s younger brother is an officer in the Army and has a fine reputation, by all accounts.”

“You make Mr. Pennington sound all the more interesting, Captain.”

“You cannot be serious, Miss Edwards.”

“Indeed I am.” The sound of carriages and riders from the courtyard signaled the promised arrival of the governor and his entourage. Portia knew he never traveled anywhere now without an armed military escort. She put on her sweetest smile. “I know I am safe with you, Captain. Would you kindly beg an introduction of the gentleman?”

“Of all the fine persons in the room, my pet, I do not understand why you should be so determined to meet this…this Scot.”

“If you please,” she asked. “You know that Parson Higgins’s wife is of Scottish ancestry. I should so like to tell her that you took the pains to introduce me to a distinguished countryman of hers.”

“Distinguished,” he scoffed, casting a sour glance at the distance that he would need to walk. “If you must, then why not come with me and⁠—”

“No, I cannot,” she said, hiding her face once again behind the mask. “I could never allow the rumor to spring up that I was discontent with spending time in your company, Captain. You are far better acquainted with the rules of society than I, but I should think that if you and Mr. Pennington were to approach me, there could be no reason for gossip.”

Giving the captain a gentle push in the direction of the man, Portia waited only a moment. As soon as Turner had moved away into the crowd, she slowly backed up. Floor-length windows stood open behind her, and in an instant she was crossing the flagstones of a terrace and running down steps into the moonlit gardens below.

Portia was thankful to find the gardens still empty of guests. If her information was correct, her mother was being kept in a suite of rooms on the second floor facing the rose gardens. The only way to reach her, without going through the house and being seen, was by way of a low balcony off her bedroom.

Raising the skirts of the gown, Portia ran along well-tended paths bordered by boxwood and flowerbeds and soon found her way into the rose gardens. She immediately spotted the balcony, situated above a small pear tree and flanked by sturdy rose trellises. It was just as it had been described to her, and she quickly climbed a small embankment to the house.

Portia Edwards had spent the entire twenty-four years of her life blithely ignorant of her origins. Raised in an orphanage school in Wrexham in Wales, at the age of sixteen she joined the family of Parson Higgins and his wife. In all her life, she had never doubted the stories of her parentage that Lady Primrose, the most generous benefactor and the founder of the orphanage, had told her since childhood. Her mother had died in childbirth and her father, a high-ranking Jacobite supporter, had died sometime after Culloden during the long years of exile in France. Though she had often imagined longingly what it would be like to have a family, she had none.

Then, about a month ago, her eyes had been opened and a childhood of wishing for the impossible suddenly appeared within her reach. When Mary, the parson’s wife, had come down with a cold, Dr. Deming had paid a visit to the house in the lane off Sudbury Street. The physician, admiring Portia’s necklace, had recognized the miniature portrait of the woman inside the locket. From that moment on, Portia had not rested until she found out everything she could about Helena Middleton.

Portia touched the locket at her throat and started climbing the trellis. The narrow balcony served more for the sake of looks than function, for there was not even room to stand inside the railing. The windows had been closed in spite of the warm evening. Realizing that she still had her mask in one hand, Portia laid it on the railing and tried to peer in. Unable to see, she held on to the trellis tightly with one hand and leaned closer, disappointed to find the curtains drawn, as well.

It was rumored far and wide that Admiral Middleton’s daughter Helena was mad, and this was the reason why she was held in seclusion. In searching out information about the family, Portia had heard the old man’s compassion continually praised for the devoted care of his daughter. Portia guessed at the truth. If her father were a Jacobite, then Helena’s affair would have been a tremendous disgrace to a trusted Crown official. But was this reason enough to lock a daughter away for more than two decades?

Portia tapped softly on the window. She understood that she had mere seconds to try to explain all of this to her mother. Their resemblance was hardly perceptible. In fact, it was not beyond reason to imagine that Helena might be completely ignorant of her daughter’s survival. She tapped again and felt the worry form like a hot ember in the pit of her stomach. As challenging as explaining their relationship might be, the more difficult task for Portia would be to convince Helena Middleton to escape this house with her.

The curtains pulled back sharply, and the burning ember rose from Portia’s stomach into her throat. The woman looked older than she had imagined. Touches of gray streaked her golden, waist-length hair. Her skin was pale and marred with dark shadows beneath the eyes. The resemblance to the miniature portrait, however, was unmistakable.

Helena was holding a candle in one hand. She wore nothing over the thin rail that she must have been sleeping in. As she opened the latch on the window, Portia realized that her mother had not yet seen her.

The rose trellis creaked perilously under her weight, and the young woman took hold of the balcony. She had been dreaming about this moment all her life, and now she could hardly breathe.

The window opened. Helena placed the candle on the windowsill and leaned out.

“Mother?”

Silence enveloped them, and Portia saw the look of bewilderment turn to terror. Color drained completely from her mother’s face. Portia reached out a hand and touched the other woman’s arm, and Helena let out a scream loud enough to wake the dead.

* * *

Pierce Pennington watched as the royal governor and his entourage entered the ballroom. Following the man’s gaze as he swept into the chamber, Pierce noticed how Thomas Hutchinson quickly took note of everyone and everything in the room—very much like a herding dog sniffing the air around his flock for the scent of a wolf.

He returned the governor’s nod when the older man looked his way. Hutchinson immediately turned his attention to their host as Admiral Middleton approached to greet him. A small string ensemble began to play a recent Handel piece, and Pierce pushed away from the large column against which he had been leaning. He had made his requisite appearance. He started toward the large open doors leading to the gardens.

“Mr. Pennington, you are not leaving us so soon, are you?”

An officer had moved to block his path, and Pierce recognized him at once. A few years older than himself, Captain Turner was not distinguished by his physical presence, and at first glance, the man did not leave much of an impression on either friend or foe. Pierce sensed there was more to the man, though, for he had evidently served the Admiral well for many years. It was well known that the captain had Middleton’s complete confidence.

“I was on my way to the gardens for some fresh air. Why do you ask, Captain?”

“A young lady of my acquaintance desires to be introduced, sir.”

“To me, Captain? Don’t tell me she has already tired of your company?”

“I think not, sir,” Turner huffed. “She simply wishes to meet a Scot, and you, I believe, may be the only person here who fits the description.”

“A lady of discriminating taste.” Pierce glanced over the officer’s shoulder at the sea of scarlet and blue coats, gold braid, fresh ruffles, hoop skirts, and feathered masks. High ranking British military men and their women filled the room. “I see no one waiting on you, Captain.”

“Is that so?” Turner looked over his shoulder. “She was right there a moment ago.”

Pierce answered another nod from the governor and their host as the two men walked past them.

“Is she beautiful?” He turned his attention back to the officer.

“Quite so,” the captain replied vaguely, his eyes scanning the ballroom.

“Young?”

“Yes.”

“Does she have a sense of humor?”

“I did not ask you to woo or court her, sir,” Turner said, turning to him in annoyance. “A brief introduction will suffice, if you please.”

“Then take me to her, Captain, if you think it’s safe.”

With a stiff bow, the officer led him in the direction of a refreshment table. This distraction was costing Pierce precious time. He cast a glance at the large stone terrace overlooking the gardens. By the courtyard entrance, he knew his groom Jack was waiting with the carriage.

Turner’s course began to meander as he searched in vain for his escort. He finally stopped and glanced helplessly about the large ballroom. “I cannot imagine where she went.”

“You probably frightened her off, Captain,” Pierce replied, keeping his tone light. “Perhaps I shall have the good fortune of meeting this mysterious lady another time.”

“As you wish, sir,” Turner said, still looking.

As soon as Pierce moved toward the terrace doors, though, Turner was beside him.

“Perhaps she stepped out for air. She was just remarking on how warm it is.”

With the officer still at his side, Pierce stopped on the empty terrace. Trying to appear unhurried, he looked out at the spires and rooflines of Charlestown across the moonlit river to the north and at the masts of ships in the harbor to the east.

“Your elusive maiden is not out here,” he commented, breathing in the smells of the sea and freshly cut hay that mingled with the scent of roses in bloom. “Perhaps you should take another look in the ballroom.”

“Indeed. Perhaps.”

Turner’s indecisiveness irked Pierce. “’Tis best if you go inside and ask a few of the other guests. A young and beautiful woman unescorted in a ballroom draws attention, Captain.”

“Indeed, sir. My apologies.” Without another word, the officer bowed and disappeared inside.

With a practiced air of nonchalance, Pierce casually made his way down the stairs and along the brick pathways through a small orchard. Although the guests were eagerly showing off their wit and clothes to their peers and their betters, there was no saying that some of them would not venture out onto the terrace. He did not want anyone to see him leaving.

Beyond a cherry tree, the path led toward the stable yards. He paused to cast a final glance toward the house. No one was on the terrace. All was calm.

Then, as he turned to go, a scream cut through the night.

* * *

This was clearly not the time to explain anything. At the sound of her mother’s response, Portia nearly lost her grip on the railing.

When Helena staggered back from the window, Portia tried to regain her footing on the trellis. As quickly as she dared, she began her descent. All around her, it sounded as if the household had come alive. The barking of dogs in the kennels followed Helena’s scream, and shouts of running servants could be heard through the open window.

Halfway down, Portia’s dress caught on some thorns. Trying to disengage it, she felt the trellis begin to come away from the house. She had no choice. Tearing the dress free, she jumped, grabbing at a branch of the pear tree as she fell.

As she dropped onto the soft ground, she was aware of her dress tearing and the laces of the corset snapping. Leaves and branches showered down on her, but she couldn’t stop to worry about any of it. Quickly, she struggled to her feet and started running from the window and the commotion taking place in the chamber above. Crossing the rose garden, she espied an arched opening leading out and turned her steps toward it. Then, as Portia looked back at the house one last time, she collided with a tall and very solid body suddenly blocking the archway. Stunned, she fell back, but a pair of strong hands grasped her shoulders.

Portia looked up in panic, expecting one of Admiral’s servants. Instead, she was relieved to find her captor was the Scotsman she had sent Captain Turner after. Shouts of “Thief!” and “Housebreaker!” rang out in the darkness.

“’Tis not what you think!” she exclaimed, already knowing that she could not reveal the truth if she ever wanted to come back here to carry her plans through.

“And what do I think?”

“I am no thief.” She tried to move away, but the man’s hand wrapped tightly around her wrist. She could hear the loud voices of servants coming across the rose garden. “They are mistaken. I was only walking in the gardens. I must have frightened a lady looking out her window.”

“It must have been an arduous walk.”

Portia winced when his free hand touched her cheek. She had scratched herself in the fall. He pulled a twig with leaves still attached to it from her hair.

The pursuers were almost upon them. She tugged on his arm and tried to hide in the shadows of the garden wall. Being caught would prove disastrous, she was sure. Admiral Middleton was vicious enough to lock his own daughter away, and Portia did not want to think of what he would do to her if he guessed the relationship between them.

“I came here as a guest. ’Twas too warm in the ballroom. I needed to come outside for a walk.” Panic seized her. If he held her for another instant, she would be lost. “Please, you must help me. It will be impossible to try to explain this to them.”

“I agree. You are having difficulty explaining it to me.”

“Mr. Pennington,” she pleaded. “I beg you to believe me. I am no thief. Where I was and what I was trying to do is perfectly justifiable and explainable to a rational person, but not to a pursuing mob. If you would help me get out of here…”

“There!” The shout was nearby. “Someone is there!”

Portia glanced over her shoulder and saw men approaching. Several had torches. She shrank against him.

“Please,” she whispered against his chest.

He pulled her wrist sharply, forcing her to his side as he called out. “Over here.”

2

The servants’ shouts rang out in the adjoining room and then beneath her in the gardens. Helena shrank back against the heavy curtains at the sound of the latch lifting on her door. She looked toward the balcony. The single candle on the windowsill was just a flickering glow, a dying point of light in the sea of darkness that each day claimed a little more of her vision.

She was losing her mind. The dream world was now taking over her waking hours.

The doctors had warned her. They had lectured her about the delusions that she would experience. No matter that they seemed so material, so real, they were only creations of her disturbed mind. They had told her that the medicines would help her sleep, but she must be steadfast in taking them. Religious.

She didn’t trust them. She questioned their motives as well as their quackery. She felt more ill with every dose of their poisonous concoctions. But against her better judgment, and out of desperation, she occasionally submitted to their combined will.

Now, however, Helena did not know if the young woman tonight had been real or if it had simply been her mind playing tricks on her.

Mother, the young voice had said. Mother.

But she was not a mother. No living creature had ever called her by the name. Her own poor baby had not lived long enough. Helena touched her arm where she had felt the woman’s fingers. This all had been a deception, an illusion created in her mind.

The door opened. The sound of footsteps came across the room. Blurred shapes carrying candles surrounded her.

“Miss Helena?”

She accepted the wrap a young servant placed around her shoulders. She shivered involuntarily, though, when she heard Mrs. Green’s heavy steps in the bedchamber.

“Was someone in here?”

“No,” Helena whispered.

“Did someone try to break into your room?”

“No one.”

“Then why did you scream?”

“I had a bad dream.” She inched toward the window. The balmy night air was soothing against her skin, like the soft touch of the young woman. Mother, she had said.

“Practically everyone in the mansion heard your call, ma’am. You have disrupted the party. The guests are upset, and the Admiral is quite displeased. You didn’t take the medicine tonight, did you, Miss Helena?”

She turned her back on Mrs. Green’s implied reprimand and her question. She certainly did drink the bitter potion. She was sleeping when she heard the knock on the window. If her eyes would only allow her to see!

Servants moved about the room. Someone leaned over the balcony and called to the ones below. Mrs. Green continued to upbraid her, though Helena ignored her. She reached along the windowsill until her fingers grasped the candleholder.

“I do not know why you insist on keeping a candle lit at night,” the housekeeper said bitterly, taking the light from her and moving toward the mantle. “Just a waste of the Admiral’s money.”

A young servant pushed something into Helena’s hands. “Did you drop this, m’lady?”

She felt the texture of the item—velvet, feathers, the outline of the eyes and nose. Her fingers told her it was a woman’s mask, but Helena didn’t dare bring it to her face where she could have a better look.

“Yes, I did,” she said softly, hearing Mrs. Green coming back. Without another word, Helena tucked the mask beneath the wrap.

* * *

The kick to his shin was vicious and unexpected. Pierce uttered a curse as his grip loosened enough for the minx to slip his hold. In the next second, she’d disappeared into the darkness of the trees.

He didn’t bother to watch where she was going. He simply wasn’t interested in the little she-devil. He certainly couldn’t care less why she was running, what she’d been caught doing, or how it was that she knew his name. A vague connection formed in his mind about the young woman that Captain Turner had been looking for earlier. If this were the one, she’d do well to run.

Although Pierce had called to the mob, he had intended to say a few words in her defense, perhaps even serve as her alibi. Time was running short now, though, and he had far more important business at the waterfront.

When a number of servants reached him, Pierce pointed in a different direction than the way the woman had gone. As the group rushed off, he worked his way through the gardens toward the stable yards.

News of a possible burglary was already circulating among the grooms. They huddled in groups among the carriages in the crowded yard. Torches illuminated the faces of the bewigged men in livery as they turned to glance at him. Two carriages that had just dropped late-arriving guests at the front door came down the gravel drive, blocking in the rest. Down the path a bit, Pierce espied his own chaise where he had instructed that it be kept waiting. As he started toward it, he saw his man Jack leave some of the other grooms and break into a trot to catch up with him.

“Ye did a fine job, sir, starting such a commotion in there,” Jack muttered as he came up.

“I take no credit for it.”

Pierce steered the groom into the shadows of some trees as four army officers riding up the drive toward the front door of the mansion stopped by a line of apple trees. The men were loud and obviously drunk.

Pierce spoke quietly. “Did you learn anything worthwhile…before all the ruckus began?”

“Aye, sir. The talk here was mostly about the regiments mustering upon the Common this morn. They’ve taken note that there weren’t too many of the local folk coming out to watch. Even the exercise and fire on King Street near Colonel Marshal’s place was hardly attended at all, they say.”

“Their disappointment has hardly stopped the ale from running freely, from the looks of things. Any talk of regimental activity?”

As the officers traded lewd barbs, two of them finished relieving themselves against one of the fruit trees. Laughing loudly, they mounted their horses again and rode up toward the front door of the mansion.

“Nay.” Jack lowered his voice further. “But I hear ‘tis all quiet on the waterfront.”

“Good news.” Pierce gave a final glance at the disappearing group before starting toward his chaise. “But we’re running late.”

“We’ll get ye there on time, sir.”

She shot out of line of trees like a flying apparition, and Pierce stared incredulously as she darted a look at him before scrambling into his open chaise.

“Not if we are traveling on foot,” he growled in disbelief. The white evening gown, dark curls flying around a pixie’s face—it was the same woman who had permanently dented his shin only minutes before.

“By the devil…wait!” he shouted just as she snapped the reigns. The horses took off like a shot down the drive.

With Jack muttering surprised curses, Pierce ran for the carriage as fast as his legs would take him.

* * *

Portia heard the man’s angry shouts. It was just her luck that of all the carriages in the courtyard, his would be the one that she came upon first. She glanced over her shoulder. The man was still chasing her on foot, and she pushed the horses to go faster.

As she looked ahead down the torch-lined drive, she saw another carriage coming full-tilt toward her. She stared at the narrow bridge over a gully separating them. They would both reach it about the same time.

“Rein in, woman. Halt, there!”

She ignored the shouts from behind her. The Scotsman had been deaf to her explanations and was ready to hand her over to the Admiral’s servants. And that was when she’d merely been suspected of some wrongdoing. She was certain that he would kill her now with his bare hands for stealing his chaise.

She was almost to the bridge and so was the oncoming carriage. Urging the horses on, Portia focused on the open gates of the mansion and at the burning torches in the distance.

The oncoming driver appeared to be in as much of a rush to arrive as she was to leave. He also appeared to be of no mind to give way to her. Unfortunately, the other carriage managed to make it to the bridge first.

Portia could hear Pennington’s shouts behind her, but she had no choice. Yanking the heads of the horses to the right at the last minute, she tried to go down the grassy embankment and pass through the gully. The spirited animals, however, balked at her sudden change of plans and reared up at the edge of the gravel drive.

Portia barely kept her seat as the chaise skidded to an abrupt stop on the edge of the grass. The driver and the groom of the other carriage shouted in triumph as they barreled past. She pulled at the reins, clucking at the horses to move back onto the drive.

She had to come back here. The little disaster tonight had not deterred her at all. She had to get herself clear of the grounds, but then she would try again—and again. She had to.

Before she could get the carriage onto the bridge, though, an angry and breathless rogue pounced on her, snatching the reins from her hands as he clambered into the chaise.

Pierce was angry enough to kill her, and he made sure his glare showed it. Instead of running for her life, though, the daft woman simply moved to the farthest end of the seat and sat with her hands entwined in her lap, looking like she were ready to be driven to Sunday services.

As Pierce searched for the words to lambaste her, however, Jack caught up to them and moved to the front of the chaise to calm the agitated horses.

“I do not care what reason you might have for behaving like a bloody lunatic,” Pierce finally spit out. “But you will step out of my carriage this minute, madam.”

“I am afraid I cannot,” she said calmly before sliding across the seat toward him.

Pierce held his tongue when he realized the reason for her action. A red-coated member of the Admiral’s staff and several of his grooms—one holding a lantern—ran up to the chaise.

“Anyone hurt, sir?” the man asked, peering at them. “That was a near miss on the bridge.”

The woman shrank into Pierce’s shadow and with both hands clutched desperately to his arm.

Well aware of the noose that would fit snugly around her pretty neck, Pierce was still sorely tempted to hand her over to Middleton’s men. The minx was damned lucky, though, that he was not one easily swayed by temptation.

“No. No one is hurt,” he growled.

“I saw ye running after the chaise. Were the horses spooked, sir?”

Pierce refrained from telling him to mind his own bloody business. “’Twas my companion, if you really must know. The lady was offended that I left her alone in the ballroom for a minute too long. She decided to leave without me.”

The young officer chuckled and tried to get a better look at her. Pierce felt the woman move more tightly against him as she attempted to hide her disordered appearance. The darkness worked to her advantage.

“Well, with Governor Hutchinson having just arrived, the night is only starting,” the man grinned meaningfully. “Plenty of time to win back her affection.”

Pierce placed a hand on the woman’s knee and, feeling her entire body tense, he smiled with satisfaction.

“I think not.” He pressed his leg against hers intimately. “From experience I know that there is only one way to retain this lady’s affection, soldier, and privacy is called for, if you get my meaning. So if you’ll forgive us, we’ll be off.”

The man’s laughter filled the air as he stepped away from the chaise. Without another word, Pierce started the horses down the drive as Jack swung up into his place behind them.

Pierce thought about the rendezvous that lay ahead of him tonight. The meeting was dependent on the tide. The span of time that his client could wait at the waterfront for him was narrow. Already, this woman may have detained him too long.

She slid to the farthest edge of the seat as soon as they passed through the gate. “That was quite ungentlemanly of you, sir, to suggest an improper liaison between us.”

“On the contrary, madam. I thought it was quite generous and gentlemanly of me not to hand you over to them directly.”

“And why didn’t you?”

He gave her a narrow stare. Leaves and twigs were tangled in the contraption of combs and pearls that were barely holding up her dark curls. Large intelligent eyes returned his gaze. Pierce looked openly at the dirt-stained and torn white gown, letting his gaze linger on the exposed tops of her breasts. A silver locket nestled in the generous cleavage.

“The punishment for your crimes tonight would not have fallen short of hanging. But looking the way you do, madam, and thinking of the jailers who would be more than happy to make your acquaintance, I can only imagine that your day on the gallows would not come soon enough for your liking.”

“You’re assuming that I have committed some crime,” she replied. “If you were more considerate and gallant, you would have heard my explanation earlier in the garden. Then, sir, you would know that other than falling victim to a series of unfortunate accidents, I am…well, almost entirely innocent of everything that took place at that mansion.”

“Almost entirely innocent. What curious phrasing! But do you call kicking me hard enough to hobble me permanently an accident?” he challenged. “And does an innocent woman run about in the gardens like some she-devil, stealing carriages?”

“You deserved the first attack because I was forced to protect myself. As for taking your carriage, survival dictated my actions.”

Pierce stared incredulously at the stubborn woman. No fear, no remorse, no further explanations. They were passing North Church, and she leaned back against the seat and looked up at the towering steeple.

“There’s still time for me to turn around and take you back.”

She directed him a look of disbelief. “We both know that you will do no such thing.”

“And why is that?”

A bump in the road jarred her in the seat and she fell against him. She quickly slid back to her side. The contraption holding her hair up on top of her head leaned precariously to one side.

She had no trouble, though, finding her voice. “You were obviously bored at the Admiral’s party.”

“I warrant we would not be bored if we were to return to the party.”

“Perhaps not. My point is, however, that boredom is not reason enough for you to move into the gardens just as the governor arrived.”

“I was in need of some fresh air.”

“You and your groom were heading for your carriage.” She shook her head. “There was a reason why you did not hand me over to the Admiral’s man when you overtook me. You were leaving, and you could not afford any further delay.”

She started pulling pins and combs out of her hair and removed what looked like a tiny pillow that served as the foundation for the mound of hair. She combed her fingers through the liberated mass of curls.

Pierce was momentarily distracted by the blanket of dark ringlets that tumbled around her shoulders. She smelled of roses and night air.

“How close am I to the truth, sir?”

“I doubt that you and the truth are close at all, madam.”

“Admit it, Mr. Pennington. You are late for an important appointment. You will not turn around and take me back.”

He reined in the horses, bringing the chaise to a sudden stop. She was thrown forward, but without any assistance she scrambled back into her seat.

“How do you know my name?”

“As I explained before, I was an invited guest at Admiral Middleton’s ball.”

“And your name is…?”

She hesitated.

“Your name, madam,” he snapped, satisfied to see her flinch slightly.

“I am Portia Edwards, but that’s all you need to know about me, sir.” There was a note of caution in her voice. “And I do sympathize with you and the time restraints you must be facing. ‘Twas certainly an imposition for me to expect⁠—”

“What would be your recommendation as to the most expedient way of ridding myself of your company, Miss Edwards?” Pierce knew he was being rude, but he was beyond caring.

“Although I hesitate to recommend it, you might drop me off on the side of the road past Mill Creek, since I am really only in need of a ride out of the North End.” She pushed the blanket of loose curls over one shoulder, and he had another view of the gown’s tight bodice and low neckline. “There are obvious safety issues with that option, of course. If you’re going anywhere near Dock Square, however, then it will save me the trouble of walking in the dark and being exposed to all types of dangers that a young woman⁠—”

“Dock Square ’tis.” He abruptly snapped the reins, urging the horses to a trot.

Houses and shops now lined the streets, with arched narrow alleys leading into inner courts. People still gathered on the streets and in the doorways on this holiday night, and children ran and danced around fires that had been built in lots that were clear of buildings. She was jostled when they bumped over a crossing pavement at one intersection, but to Pierce’s great disappointment, she did not fall out of the chaise.

“So, Mr. Pennington, are you meeting with one of your smuggling associates tonight?”

He shot her a hard look and then forced out a laugh. “I certainly am not. But what could you possibly know of my associates or my business, madam?”

“Absolutely nothing. What I meant to ask was if you were making an illegal trade of some kind tonight.”

Pierce studied her more closely. A stubborn chin, intelligent high forehead, direct gaze. She appeared of sound mind and obviously expected an answer.

“Are you accusing me of being a smuggler?”

“Not I, sir. I am simply repeating a rumor Captain Turner related to me. He suggested that you may be lacking a certain respect for His Majesty’s laws of trade.” She disengaged a leaf from the lace neckline of the dress and passed it on to the safekeeping of the wind.

“Do I understand that your friendly captain accuses me of breaking the law?”

“He did not do so in my presence. Of course, I did not converse with him in detail on that topic at the time, nor did I stay at the ball long enough to pursue it…should I have had any desire to.” The dark eyes gazed at him intently. “But my question about where you might be going tonight is the product of my own simple reasoning. I mean, what better night to engage in such activities with so many of the officers celebrating the King’s Birthday.”

“May I inquire what your relationship with Captain Turner might be, Miss Edwards?”

“He is a second cousin of a friend.”

“And you appear to be his confidante.”

She irately tossed her head. “I was surprised to learn tonight that Captain Turner appreciates many things about me, sir, but I am quite certain that making me his confidante is not his primary objective.”

Pierce followed the movement of her fingers as she tugged and pulled at another twig stuck in some lace that trimmed the bodice of the dress. The act was no doubt intended to draw his attention to the slim waist, to the fullness of her breasts. He forced his thoughts away from the woman’s physical charms as he focused on the situation.

She was too open with what she’d heard from the Admiral’s officer to be much of a spy. If Turner were sly enough to go that route, though, Pierce realized that a damsel in distress—and a seemingly talkative one, at that—might be just the method the captain would use.

His own partner Nathaniel Muir had been warning him lately of Turner’s cleverness and his influence within Admiral Middleton’s ranks. No doubt, the English officer would do anything to unmask the identity of the chief supplier of arms to the Sons of Liberty and the rebellious Bostonians, the elusive MacHeath.

“If I were a smuggler, Miss Edwards, perhaps my best course would be to murder you and throw your body into the Mill Pond there.” He gestured toward the black water covering the tidal flats to their right.

“I hardly know you, but I believe you are a man who values his own neck enough to know that such an action would lead directly back to you.”

“Considering the trouble you have already caused me, this might be worth the risk.”

She gave him a look of scoffing disbelief before turning her attention back to the passing scenery. He let the subject drop.

During recent weeks, a number of men involved in shipping had been consulted and asked for their cooperation in discovering MacHeath. Neither Pierce nor Nathaniel had been approached, however, and this was a concern. As a result, he’d been looking for an opportunity to improve his image with the British administration on Boston. The last thing Pierce needed was to be the target of an investigation.

He watched Portia successfully remove the twig. Though women in the colonies followed far different codes of conduct than women in England, her outspokenness and lack of timidity were a clear signal that she was no innocent. She’d gone to the ball with a seasoned officer, and whether by accident or not, she had climbed into the carriage of a total stranger with no hesitation. He let his gaze wander over her once more. Indeed, she was certainly not difficult to look at.

No, Portia Edwards was simply far too attractive an opportunity to pass on.

3

Though Portia had only been in Boston since last fall, she was familiar enough with the city to know the carriage’s turn to the left was taking them off the route to Dock Square. She glanced over at her silent companion.

“Is there someplace more convenient for you to drop me, sir, than Dock Square?”

“No, I shall get you there. First, though, I need to stop by a tavern I know—the Black Pearl—and make sure a certain lady friend who was to meet me has not yet arrived.”

Portia studied the man with new interest. On the positive side, he was tall with broad shoulders and dark brooding features. She really did not want to look too closely at him, however, for fear of finding him too attractive. On the other hand, with the exception of a few moments when she’d been pressed against his hard body, she’d had to keep her distance from him at the risk of having her head chewed off. She had just assumed his plans tonight revolved around business, not something of a personal nature.

“I do not believe I have ever been to the Black Pearl.”

“I should be surprised if you had been there.”

“And why is that?”

“The place caters to a certain type of clientele.”

“Only men?”

“And only a certain type of women.”

“But you are meeting a lady friend.”

“A woman that I would not take to Admiral Middleton’s Ball.” His gaze traveled down the front of her dress. “The type of woman I hinted you were as we took our leave back there.”

She shifted in the seat, suddenly uncomfortable with the image. Parson Higgins and his wife were well known and respected among many families in the city. As their live-in charge and the tutor of their two children, Portia was very aware of her responsibility in maintaining a modest reputation.

“I must ask you, sir, not to bring up that unpleasantness again. Night and darkness played in my favor, and I have no wish for the incident to be made public.”

“As you wish, Miss Edwards,” he said amiably. “But how are you going to explain your sudden disappearance tonight to Captain Turner?”

She looked out at the passing dark and unknown streets. “I shall think of a proper excuse before we meet again, which should not be any time soon.”

“I disagree,” he challenged. “Although I do not consider myself a great admirer of the man, I find it unlikely that he would not be concerned with your whereabouts. He was your escort, after all, and responsible for your welfare. He will definitely seek you out tonight to make sure, at least, that you were delivered safely home.”

Portia felt her head start to pound with the thought. He was correct. Perhaps it would be better to go to her friend Bella’s house instead of going directly to the parsonage. She could ask a groom to carry a message to the captain at the mansion. But that was too complicated, for Bella’s young and inquisitive nature would demand answers regarding how her dress had been damaged, and Portia was not ready to reveal anything.

Her thoughts came to an abrupt halt when she saw the horses turn into the courtyard of a tavern and inn. She only caught a glimpse of the faded sign on the front of the building. She was fairly certain she had never been in this part of Boston, and the area appeared to be less populated, with rundown buildings and warehouses across from the courtyard. As the groom tied the horses to a post, Portia peered through the dark with alarm at the sordidness of the place.

A stable sat leaning at the far end of the yard, held up by the scarred and burned remains of an oak tree. To her right, firelight and noises of revelry streamed from the open windows of a sprawling wooden building that had to be the tavern. She could smell the outgoing tide, and she knew they must be close to the harbor side.

The yard was filthy, and battered shutters hung awry from pitch-black windows above. She noticed the white cloth of a woman’s tattered shift draped over one of the windowsills. Portia glanced quickly back at the stables when a moving shadow caught her eye.

“You may wait here if you wish. I shall return in a few minutes.”

Portia nodded and sat perfectly still. She watched Pennington cross the yard. As he disappeared through a door, a chorus of drunken shrieks and laughter greeted his arrival. The door closed behind him, leaving her again in darkness. She wiped her sweaty palms on the skirt, tucked in a tear at the waistline, and wished she had retrieved her wrap before going out in search of her mother.

Tonight she had left too much behind, though it would be easy enough to explain the wrap, for guests must often leave behind possessions. But what about the mask? She remembered leaving it on the railing of the balcony to Helena’s room. During the commotion, it could easily have fallen off into the rose bushes. That might be a problem.

Bella’s dress, her wrap, and the mask. Portia would not be able to return most of what she’d borrowed, and what she would bring back to her friend was in disastrous condition. She ran her hand over the tight bodice and silently vowed to find a way to repay her friend.

The tavern door opened, and light spilled out into the courtyard, along with two drunken tradesmen. A laughing woman stumbled out a step behind. As the door closed, one of the men turned and grabbed the woman, pushing her against the wall. Portia swallowed hard when she saw the wench pull up her skirts and fumble with the front of his pants. The man’s face disappeared inside the open neckline of the dress. The other was relieving himself against the building, all the while shouting and demanding his turn.

Portia gathered her skirts tightly around her and shrank down on the seat. This was not the staid and safe Boston she knew. Her only comfort lay in knowing that Pennington’s groom was around. She looked at the horses, then leaned quickly out the side of the carriage. The groom had disappeared, and she looked around the courtyard with a cold feeling of panic washing over her.

The woman against the building was making sounds Portia had never heard before, and the tradesman was grunting from the exertion. Unable to see the groom anywhere, Portia suddenly felt extremely vulnerable and looked for something she could use as a weapon should the need arise. As she leaned over to take the whip from its holder, though, a dirty hand darted from the side of the carriage and clutched at the hem of her skirt.

She let out a small scream and tried to move away. A man’s burly face appeared. He had a wide smile, largely lacking in teeth. The two men and the woman against the building didn’t spare her a glance.

“Well, now. What ‘ave we ‘ere?” he murmured, leering at his catch.

“Let go of me,” she pleaded, pulling hard at her dress.

Portia fell backward when the man, wearing sailor’s garb, let go of her skirt. She was relieved to see Pennington’s groom shoving the man away from the carriage. The two men faced each other for a long moment, and Portia thought they were going to fight. Then the sailor simply turned and headed across the yard toward the street.

“The master says ‘tis not safe for ye to stay out here alone,” the groom growled, looking up at her. “Ye might want to come inside and wait, mistress.”

She didn’t need to be asked twice. Climbing quickly from the carriage, Portia ran and walked and ran again to keep up with him as he strode toward the tavern door. As they went past the wench and her two men, Portia kept her eyes averted, trying to think of a church hymn that would block out the rising pitch of the cries.

Inside, the place was not much of an improvement, and a fiddler struck up a lively tune in a far corner. She had never been in such a place before. The moment they entered, the shouts of four drunken sailors at the table nearest to the door made her cringe and want to run out. The stench of tobacco, ale, urine, and other smells that she couldn’t identify permeated the hot, smoky air. There was a mutton roasting on a spit in a large open hearth, but the smell did nothing to lessen the feeling of nausea rising in Portia’s stomach.

At least two-dozen tables, filled with what looked to be sailors, tradesmen, and merchants crowded the room. Games of cards and dice were going on at every table as four or five women plied the men with ale and food and saucy looks. Portia watched in utter shock at a scantily dressed woman with her breasts exposed hitched up her skirts and danced in the center of the room to the cheers of her audience.

A wiry, hatchet-faced sailor from the table by the door pushed himself to his feet and stumbled toward them, making her an offer to join him and his tar-smeared friends.

“I don’t think ‘tis safe to wait here, either,” she said quickly to the groom.

“I’ll take ye to the back room where the master is waiting.”

“Thank you,” Portia whispered in a small voice, staying close to the side of the man as they headed toward a door in the back.

Her nautical admirer, though, was not deterred, and as she moved away, his offers quickly degenerated into lewd taunts. His talk attracted the attention of others, as well. As Portia walked between tables, anger replaced nervousness as men openly ogled her. She slapped away the hand of one who touched her bottom, eliciting laughter from his friends. Just as they reached a door near a set of rickety steps leading to an upper floor, the drunken sailor pursuing them grabbed Portia by the arm.

“Not so fast, ye pretty little…”

Instinctively, she kicked at the man’s shins as he swung her around. For the second time in one night, the tactic worked. The brute relinquished his grip on her arm and stepped back angrily. They now had the attention of most of the tavern customers. Several cheered her on. More rose to their feet in the man’s defense. Portia considered herself to be in very big trouble, however, when she saw the eyes of her attacker focus with murderous intent upon her.

“You wait inside.” The voice of Pennington behind her sounded like salvation. Jacketless and with his sleeves rolled up, he moved past her to face the mob and shoved her behind him into the room, closing the door.

The scare left her wobbly and leaning against the door. The noises coming through were muffled, but she heard no sound of furniture crashing or of anyone trying to take down the door. Portia took a few steadying breaths, but the stale smell was strong. She looked around her. The small room had only two tiny, shuttered windows high on one wall and no other door. No means of escape, she thought with concern. A single candle burned on a table near one wall. It took Portia’s eyes a few seconds to adjust to the darkness. When it did, she felt no better.

A large bed dominated the room, covered with surprisingly well-made bedclothes. At the foot of the bed lay Pennington’s jacket. There was the table that held the candle, a pitcher and bowl, and a number of other oddly shaped items. There were no chairs, no other furnishings. The walls were of a dark wainscot and one was decorated with an assortment of whips and shackles. She gaped at them for a moment and then moved hesitantly into the room.

The place had too little light by which to read, too little air for needlework. Anyone coming here could only have one thing in mind—and sleeping did not seem likely.

Portia felt her cheeks grow warm at the thought that Pennington had planned to rendezvous here with a female companion. She quickly pushed away the thought and picked up a long, cylindrical piece of carved ivory sitting on the bedside table. Holding the smooth, strange object in her hands, she found her fingers would not encircle it completely. She tested its strength by striking the knobbed end lightly against the edge of the table. For the life of her, she couldn’t discern what anyone would use the thing for, but she thought it could certainly be wielded as a weapon. She put it back on the table and decided that she didn’t want to know what the other strange contraption on the table might be.

Portia’s mouth fell open when she looked up and saw the large oval shaped mirror attached to the ceiling above the bed.

Hearing nothing from the taproom, she leaned over the bed and stared up in horror at her own reflection. Her hair was a tangled mess, the dress was torn and disheveled, and the top of the gown was barely covering her breasts. She looked like a fallen woman, plain and simple.

She tried to adjust the fit of the corset to lessen the effect but lost her balance and fell on the bed. Quickly trying to regain her feet, she caught the reflection of the locket around her neck—the only real thing about her tonight. It was her sole possession in this world, and Portia stared at the treasure that had started all of this.

The locket shone against her skin. She didn’t have to open it. The image of the beautiful young woman inside was branded in her mind. Portia wished they looked more the same. Perhaps Helena would not have been as terrified if she’d stared at her own likeness out her window.

She had gotten close enough to touch her mother tonight. No longer a possibility, no longer a dream. She had no doubt about what was truth or what was a lie. Helena was the woman inside the locket that Portia had carried her entire life. Helena Middleton was her mother.

The challenge now lay in finding a way to go back there. If Portia could just talk to her for five minutes, she would do a better job of convincing her. Then, between the two of them, they could correct the circumstances that had forced them apart twenty-four years ago. Portia would simply need to be strong enough to take care of both of them.

Portia’s gaze moved from the reflection of the locket to the woman sprawled on the bed. She almost felt that she was seeing herself for the first time. Her skin was too pale, and too much of it was showing. Her breasts were too large. Her mouth was too wide. The nose was straight but long. Her eyes were slanted and large, the only feature she’d inherited from her mother. And what of that head of dark untamed curls?