The Ruffian and the Rose Read online

  The Ruffian

  and

  The Rose

  Colleen French

  Copyright © 1989, 2019 by Colleen French. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or distributed in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of The Evan Marshall Agency, 1 Pacio Court, Roseland, NJ 07068-1121,

  [email protected].

  Version 1.0

  This work is a novel. Any similarity to actual persons or events is purely coincidental.

  Published by The Evan Marshall Agency. Originally published by Kensington Publishing Corp., New York, under the title Traitor's Caress and under the name Colleen Faulkner.

  Cover by The Killion Group

  For my great-grandfather,

  William H. Faulkner,

  who taught me the importance of

  storytelling in our lives

  BY COLLEEN FRENCH

  Scottish Fires Series

  HIGHLAND LADY

  HIGHLAND LORD

  HIGHLAND BRIDE

  Destiny's Daughters Series

  THE PRINTER'S DAUGHTER

  THE BOOTMAKER'S DAUGHTER

  THE FUR TRADER'S DAUGHTER

  CAPTIVE

  FIRE DANCER'S CAPTIVE

  FORBIDDEN CARESS

  HEAVEN IN MY ARMS

  HIS WILD HEART

  IN CLOSE PURSUIT

  IN LOVE WITH THE KING'S SPY

  MY SAVAGE LORD

  OUTRIDER

  PASSION'S SAVAGE MOON

  SAVAGE SURRENDER

  SWEET DECEPTION

  THE ENGLISH LADY AND THE IRISH ROGUE

  THE HIGHWAYMAN AND THE LADY

  THE OFFICER'S DESIRE

  THE RUFFIAN AND THE ROSE

  WHISPERED PROMISE

  CONTENTS

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter One

  July 26, 1777

  The howling wind ripped at the canvas of the schooner's sails, and Keely Bartholomew lowered her head against the driving rain. Holding fast to a hempen line she lowered her lashes to shield her hazel eyes from the bitter onslaught and took a deep breath.

  The icy Atlantic beat at the hull of the Tempest, filling the air with one deafening boom after another. Keely licked the salt spray from her lips, refusing to let the northwesterly best her as it tore at her rain-drenched skirts, threatening to knock her off her feet.

  "I'll not go below," she murmured stubbornly, shuddering at the thought of the cramped cabin she'd been locked in since the night before. "Not to escape the devil himself!" Her voice was lost in the drone of the wind and the wail of the bo'sun's pipe.

  This was sheer folly, this journey of her aunt's!What God-loving English woman would travel to the American Colonies in the midst of a rebellion? Word was that it was full-scale war, but the Crown still denied it, assuring loyal subjects that it was a few degenerate colonials who had raised arms against their King. Keely leaned into the wind, resting her forehead against the taut line she clenched so tightly. She was caught between wanting to see Uncle Lloyd again and wanting to remain safe at home in London. She couldn't understand why Aunt Gwen was returning to her husband's side after all this time. They hadn't seen each other since his last visit to England fifteen years ago!

  The icy downpour beat at Keely's face, reviving her. She had never liked dark enclosed places, not even as a child. The dismal ship's cabin that she shared with her aunt had been more than she could bear. If Keely hadn't escaped its smothering confines, she'd surely have gone mad; even in a storm the deck was a haven.

  Without warning, a pair of massive hands encircled Keely's waist. She cried out, whipping around to face her assailant. "Unhand me!" she shouted above the whistling wind. Her eyes widened as she stared at the huge man dressed in oil cloth, with a wide-brimmed hat pulled down over his face.

  "Like hell!" The stranger tightened his grip, his fingers digging into her sides. "Didn't I order you below decks before you were washed overboard?"

  "Some mealymouth boy-child was here mumbling something about a woman's safety, but I sent him packing." Her words were nearly lost in the squall.

  "I sent the sailmaster to get you below!" the stranger roared.

  "Who are you to be telling me where I can and cannot go? Do you know who I am?" Keely gripped the line as a gust of wind whipped her bonnet from her head and sent it whirling into the spray. Her auburn hair tore from the pins to plaster her cheeks and fall dripping down her back.

  The man raised the front brim of his hat with the back of his hand to reveal bronze skin, high cheekbones, and raven eyes. "I, mistress, am the captain of this vessel."

  Keely stared through the blinding rain, her hands trembling. Something about this man was deeply frightening. "I'll have you know my aunt hired this boat!"

  "I am the captain and your safety is my responsibility." He raised a dark eyebrow, lifting a hand to wipe the rain from his full mouth. "Either you go of your own accord or . . ."

  "Or what?" she dared, tightening her grip on the hemp.

  Without a word the stranger grasped Keely by the waist and threw her over his shoulder. She screamed and pounded her fists against his broad back, shouting for help, but he ignored her, taking the slick steps that led below decks with ease.

  "Hush your mouth, wench. I've no time for a female's hysterics."

  "Hysterics!" Keely sputtered, hanging upside down. "You want to see hysterics you just . . ."

  With a great flourish the copper-skinned man swung her down and dumped her unceremoniously to the deck. "You were saying?"

  Keely tried to get to her feet, but her rain-drenched skirts tangled about her legs, making it impossible. Her rich red hair clung to her face and she spit a lock from her mouth. A rosy circle burned on each cheek and her gray-green eyes snapped in rage. Her mouth dropped open but no words escaped her lips as he swept off his hat.

  A lantern's light shed streaks across the stranger's face revealing the most magnificent man she had ever seen. Michaelangelo's David was shameful in comparison with this bronze devil. Well over six feet tall, he had brawny shoulders that filled the narrow passageway. His face was sculpted from the finest clay, red in hue and molded by a master. His eyes were as black as the depths of hell and down his back hung one long ebony braid.

  "God . . ." Keely whispered, her eyes wide with panic.

  "Pardon?" A mocking grin spread across his arrogant face.

  "Who are you?" she breathed, trying to regain her composure. The passageway was so narrow that she could feel his hot breath on her cheek.

  "I told you." He put out one huge callused palm and she grasped it. "I am the captain of this vessel." His voice was a deep tenor, strong, with a lace of bemused humor.

  "No." She shook her head, rising with his aid. "Who are you? Some Saracen brigand?"

  "You ask of my heritage?" His pitch
black eyes rested on hers. "I am half Englishman"—he paused, tightening his grip on her trembling hand—"half red savage, my lady."

  Keely's mouth dropped open and she ripped her hand from his grasp. "An Indian?"

  "Indians, my dear child, live in India. My father was a Lenni Lenape warrior."

  A mixture of embarrassment and fright made her reach for the knob of the cabin door, but before her fingers made contact with it, it turned of its own accord and the door swung open. Relief flooded Keely's face as she spotted a familiar form in the doorway. "Aunt Gwen!" she cried.

  "Brock . . ." The plump, middle-aged woman gazed past Keely at the stranger and held out her arms.

  Keely stood frozen in confusion.

  "It's been too long." Ignoring his wet oilskin, Aunt Gwen threw her arms around the captain.

  "Good to see you again. I've missed you." He returned the embrace, kissing her forehead.

  Keely stared from one to the other in utter confusion. What was happening? Why was Aunt Gwen hugging this lunatic? "Aunt Gwen?"

  Her aunt turned and smiled. "Keely, you must think us mad. Brock, this is Keely, Marley's girl. Keely—my son, Brock Forrester Bartholomew."

  "Your son?" She stumbled back in disbelief. "You have no son!"

  "I beg to differ with you, little cousin." Brock chuckled deep in his throat. "I may be an embarrassment to certain members of the family, but I do indeed exist.

  "An embarrassment to some perhaps, but never to me, my dear." Gwenevere gazed at him proudly before turning back to Keely. "I'm sorry you had to find out about Brock in this manner."

  Dazed, Keely turned to meet her aunt's gaze. Why did she feel betrayed by this revelation?

  "I know I should have told you long ago, but I wanted to protect you."

  "Protect me? Protect me from what?" The ship was yawing harder now and Keely had to lean against the bulkhead for support.

  "From my past."

  Keely looked from her aunt to the red-skinned captain and then back to her aunt again. "I don't understand. How can he be your son?"

  "I think you do understand." Gwen squeezed Brock's hand, smiling up at him. "It was not for want of love for him that I never told you, Keely."

  "Mother, I've got to get up on deck; Milady Tempest calls." He motioned topside, then leaned to brush his lips against his mother's cheek. "We can talk later, after this has passed." He glanced back at Keely. "You and my little English cousin obviously have some things to discuss."

  Just then a wave hit the ship broadside, sending Keely sprawling. Brock caught her beneath the arms, pulling her against his chest to right her. For an instant Keely found herself pressed against him, inhaling the strange masculine scent that enveloped him. She'd never been this close to a man before, never felt his hard muscles pressed against the soft curves of her breasts. Breathless, Keely pulled away, refusing to look up at the dark face she knew would be grinning. Without a word she passed him and ducked beneath her aunt's arm, disappearing into the small cabin and slamming the door behind her.

  Brock raised a dark eyebrow. "You should have warned me, Mother. A bit of a witch, this cousin of mine."

  Gwenevere laughed, her voice echoing in the narrow passageway. "Just young, Brock. You'll like her, I promise."

  "That's precisely what I'm afraid of." He smiled at his mother, pleased to see she was as ageless as he remembered her. Her rich chestnut hair was without gray, her skin as smooth as a maiden's. She was dressed immaculately in a rich brocade, beribboned and befitting a woman of her rank. She was Lloyd Bartholomew's wife, but she was also the Duchess of Morrow, the last living heir to the Morrow estates.

  "Keely's just not herself—the message you sent concerning Lloyd—our hasty departure." Her warm brown eyes studied her handsome son. "Tell me, how is the old goat?"

  Brock lifted his hat and pulled it down over his head. "I was wondering when you would ask. Actually, I'm surprised you came at all."

  "Brock!"

  "Mother, you've always known this was a bone of contention between us. He's your husband, you owed him more."

  "I owe him nothing except perhaps thanks for looking after you. He got what he wanted from me years ago. There've never been any hard feelings between us." She reached up to straighten his wide-brimmed hat. "Now go on with you and keep this tub afloat. We'll have plenty of time to talk later."

  Bowing slightly, with a click of his heels, Brock turned and climbed the ladder, disappearing above decks.

  With a sigh, Gwenevere stepped inside the captain's cabin she shared with Keely and closed the paneled door quietly behind her.

  "Why didn't you tell me?" Keely demanded. She was stripped to her chemise and drying her hair with a cotton towel.

  "I didn't know how. When you first came to live with me, I thought you too young to understand such things." Gwenevere shrugged, seating herself on a wooden chair before a chart table. The captain's cabin was small, no more than ten by eight feet, but with the bunk and table built into the bulkhead, there was room to move about. "Then as you got older, I just didn't tell you. Oh, I had a thousand reasons why it would be better for you not to know." She raised her eyes to meet her niece's. "None of them very good."

  Keely got to her knees, taking her aunt's hand. "You should have told me. I'd have thought no less of you."

  "Here I am trying to bring you up to be a respectable woman. How could I tell you of such an indiscretion?" She pushed aside a lock of the auburn hair that clung to Keely's face. "Fetch me a brush and I'll comb it out for you."

  Keely did as she was told, returning to her aunt and seating herself on the floor. "How did it happen? Were you . . . were you raped?"

  Gwen laughed, running the brush through her niece's hair. "Goodness no, child! The truth of the matter is that I fell in love with a savage! His name was Adam, but he was full-blooded Lenni Lenape." The sound of the Algonquian words on her tongue felt good. It had been many years since she had dared to speak them. "He worked for my father, lived in a cabin only a few miles from our plantation on the Chesapeake. That was before my father inherited the title from his cousin and went back to England to live."

  "You loved him?" Keely breathed, wide-eyed.

  "I loved him." Gwenevere laughed again, only this time it was a sad laugh, a laugh of regret, of bittersweet sorrow. "We had this foolish idea we'd run away and be married. We'd move west to where his family lived. I was going to be his squaw!" It had been a long time since she'd allowed these memories to wash over her. Too long.

  "So what happened?"

  "We were children. Young, foolish. My father found out, beat me nearly to death, and then locked me in my bedchamber for two weeks." Gwen's voice caught in her throat. "Adam came down with smallpox and died in his cabin alone before I could reach him."

  Tears welled in Keely's eyes. "Oh, Auntie, I'm so sorry."

  "I was already carrying Adam's child. The rest you know. I was married off to Lloyd before my delicate condition became noticeable."

  "Uncle Lloyd knew?"

  "He knew, bless his sweet soul, and he didn't care. He needed my dowry to finance his shipping business. But he was a good man, Keely. He accepted Brock and would have taken him for his own if I'd permitted it. But I was young and still in love with my Adam. I wanted no part of the old goat nor his life in the Colonies." She sighed, her capable hands braiding Keely's wet hair. "After three years of putting Lloyd through hell, I packed my things, with his consent, and Brock and I sailed for Papa's estates. He and my brother were dead by then, and being the only heir, it was all mine."

  "But why did I never hear of any of this?" Keely turned, leaning on her aunt's billowing skirts.

  "My dear, up until now, you've led a rather protected life. By the time your father had died and Lloyd had sent you to me in England, Brock was long gone. He had resigned his commission in the Royal Navy and set sail for the Colonies. In fact, I believe he left England within weeks of your departure from the Colonics. I simply instructed my frie
nds not to discuss my indiscretion and they didn't."

  "Is it indiscreet to love someone?"

  "If only it were that simple." Gwen caressed her niece's cheek. "Now get into your sleeping gown before you come down with the ague."

  Late that night, long after the tiny cabin was filled with the sound of Aunt Gwen's soft snoring, Keely lay awake staring into the darkness. She still couldn't believe her aunt had a son. A son! All these years and she had never revealed her dark secret. Keely's thoughts turned to the red-skinned captain who was suddenly and inescapably her cousin.

  Punching the goose-down pillow, she rolled over, smoothing the covers that made her bed on the floor. She couldn't get him from her mind. "Brock," she whispered in the darkness. His name rolled off her tongue like some forbidden word. He frightened her' and she didn't know why. Was it because he was half red man . . . half savage? Or was it the way he looked at her with those disquieting ebony eyes? Keely squeezed her eyes shut, but still she saw his face haughty, laughing. She didn't like him; he was too arrogant, all too sure of himself. Who did he think he was, lifting her off her feet and toting her like a sack of flour?

  Keely groaned, sitting up. The storm had passed now and the ship rolled easily, making its way toward the Colonies. With that thought, a shiver passed down Keely's spine and she got to her feet, dragging a woolen comforter behind her. Moving quietly to the chart table, she sat down, pulling the comforter close to ward off the dampness that seeped through the bulkheads of the ship. Their accommodations were small, but Auntie had explained this was the only suitable cabin on board. The crew slept in a berthing area in the fo'c'sle. This was the captain's cabin . . . Brock's.

  Keely leaned back in the wooden chair, listening to the sound of the waves and the distant voice of a man. She still found it difficult to believe she was on a ship bound for the Colonies. An illegal privateering vessel no less! Where was Aunt Gwen's head? She was an English noblewoman. She had no business aboard this vessel, no business traveling to the American Colonies.

  Toying with the end of her braid, Keely stared at her aunt's sleeping form. The middle-aged woman lay on her side in the bunk, her arm thrown over one of her King Charles' spaniels. She was all Keely had. Of course, there was Uncle Lloyd, her father's brother, but it was Aunt Gwen who had raised her since she was ten. Keely's memories were sketchy of her own life before she came to England. Her mother had died shortly after she was born, so it was her father who had cared for her.