Captain Mallory appeared at Ryder's elbow. There was a wide grin on his broad, ugly face. " 'Tis time for you to remove yourself, Mr. Sherbrooke. Your bride will be fine. Give her another hug and a kiss and get off my ship."
He smiled down at Sophie. "Can I have a kiss?"
She raised her face, her lips pursed. He lightly touched his fingertip to her lips, pressing slightly, then he kissed her very gently, with very little pressure. He felt a shudder in her but didn't know if it was from fear, nervousness, or wonderful lust. Somehow he doubted the latter.
"You will be careful," he said yet again, patted her cheek, walked over to Jeremy, hugged the boy tightly, ruffled his hair, and said, "Keep her spirits up, Jeremy. I'll return to England as soon as all this nonsense is taken care of. Be a good boy. Another thing. I'm quite fond of you so you will be careful of yourself as well."
He strode down the gangplank. He watched it hauled onto the ship's deck. He watched the sun rise full in the sky now and stood very still listening to Captain Mallory shouting his orders. He waved a final time to his bride and his new brother-in-law.
He continued to wait on the dock until the ship was gone from view. He turned then, smiling. She was safe now, completely safe. He whistled as he mounted his horse to return to Kimberly Hall.
At one o'clock that afternoon Sherman Cole arrived. Ryder smiled as he watched the man dismount and walk toward the veranda where he sat, a glass of lemonade in his hand. Samuel and Emile came out of the house and Ryder felt the relief radiating from them.
"What an unexpected surprise," Ryder said, and yawned deeply. He didn't rise. "Have you come to bring more discord, make more threats?"
"Damn you to hell, Sherbrooke!"
Ryder's eyebrow went up. "I beg your pardon? I truly didn't strike you that hard, though you deserved it."
"I was certain you'd lied, I would have wagered all I possessed that you had lied, damn you. And you did, of course, to protect that little slut."
"Where are all your bully boys?" Emile asked quickly before Ryder could rise from his chair and flatten Sherman Cole again.
"They're looking for Thomas."
"I wager you'll have to pay him quite a bit of money once you catch up to him. He probably won't trust you. You'll have to convince him that you want him to help you hang Miss Stanton-Greville."
"Pay him! Ha, I will hang the bastard! He lied to me, he made a fool of me."
Now this was the wrong play, Ryder thought, blank-brained. This is a comedy, not a tragedy.
"What do you mean?" Samuel asked.
"Burgess wasn't shot, nor was he stabbed, as Sherbrooke here said. He was garroted. Dammit, she couldn't have killed him, she doesn't have the strength."
He turned away, stomped to his horse, mounted, and rode away, never once looking back.
Ryder didn't move. "Dear God," he said at last, "I didn't have to marry her. I didn't have to ship her and Jeremy back to England. To be only twenty-five years old and be done in by irony."
"It's better done," Samuel said. "One never knows what Cole will do next."
But Ryder was immersed in contemplation of his fate. Well, perhaps it wouldn't be such a bad fate. One would have to see about that. He sighed and rose. He shook his head and said, "Garroted, the bastard was garroted."
He shook his head again. "I'll be damned," he said, and walked to the stables.
CHAPTER
12
The English Channel, seven weeks later
Sophie and Jeremy stood side by side on deck, the fog-laden wind blowing into their faces, tightly holding the wooden railing because the water was choppy, the waves splashing high and rocking even the solid barkentine with their force. Jeremy was nearly squealing with excitement because he'd been the first to see the English shoreline through the thick fog bank. Gravesend, he'd shouted. As for Sophie, she wanted to shout hallelujahs as the English coast neared. She felt equal parts of anticipation and belly-deep fear as she watched the billowing fog bank just off port. Nearly home, but not really hers and Jeremy's home in Fowey, but Ryder's home—Northcliffe Hall.
The trip had been long and uneventful. Captain Mallory and his first mate, Mr. Mattison, both puff-chested Scotsmen who had nearly identical bald heads, had kept Jeremy and her entertained with the best tall tales they'd ever heard.
Sophie had tried to structure the days as best she could. She gave Jeremy French lessons an hour each morning. Captain Mallory tutored Jeremy in astronomy and navigation, the first mate taught him geography and gave him access to his collection of novels and plays that filled his small cabin to overflowing. Jeremy was nearly through the Restoration. As for Sophie, she too had nearly read her way through all the first mate's books as well. She occasionally wondered what she'd do when she turned the last page and closed the last book.
One afternoon several days before, Sophie and Jeremy were playing chess in their small cabin. A light rain splattered against the single porthole. The room was warm. Sophie played with verve and enthusiasm, but not much strategy. Jeremy, on the other hand, excelled in patience and tactics. He invariably beat her soundly, but it was slow torture, and Jeremy was heard to groan frequently.