IT WAS EARLY AUGUST OF 1794 WHEN THE SLEEK LITTLE packet arrived in the Virginia harbor. Both Janie and Nicole hung over the starboard rail, looking with awe toward the dock that pressed against the dense forest’s edge, feeling as if they’d been freed from prison. For the last week of the voyage, they’d talked of nothing but food—fresh food. They spoke of vegetables and fruit, all the many plants that would be ripening soon, and how they planned to eat some of everything, all of it topped with fresh cream and butter. Blackberries were what Janie wanted most, while Nicole just wanted to see green living things growing from the sweet-smelling earth.
They’d spent the long days of confinement sewing, and there were very few of the luscious fabrics that hadn’t been made into a garment for either Janie or Nicole. Now, Nicole wore a frock of muslin embroidered with tiny violets, with a row of violet ribbon around the hem. Entwined in her hair was more violet ribbon. Her arms were bare, and she thoroughly enjoyed the warmth of the setting sun on her arms.
The women had talked while they sewed. Nicole had been the listener, refusing to tell anyone about the time when her parents had been taken and, worse, when her grandfather had been torn from her. She told Janie about her childhood in her family’s chateau, making the palace seem like an ordinary country house, and she told of the year she and her grandfather had spent with the miller’s family. Janie laughed when Nicole spoke quite technically about the quality of stone-ground grain.
But most of the talking had been done by Janie. She told of her own childhood on a poor little farm a few miles from Arundel Hall, as Clayton’s house was called. She was ten when Clay was born, and she talked of giving the boy piggyback rides. Janie had been in her late teens during the American Revolution. Her father, like so many Virginia farmers, had planted all his fields in tobacco. When the English market was closed, he went bankrup
t. For several years, he and Janie had lived in Philadelphia, a place Janie hated. When her father had died, she returned to the place she’d always considered home—Virginia.
She said that on her return she had found Arundel Hall greatly changed. Clay’s mother and father had died of cholera several years before. Clay’s older brother James had married Elizabeth Stratton, the daughter of the overseer of the Armstrong plantation. Then, while Clay was in England, James and Elizabeth had both been killed in a tragic accident.
The little boy Janie had known was gone. In his place was an arrogant, demanding young man who was a demon for work. While one plantation after another in Virginia went bankrupt, Arundel Hall thrived and grew.
“Look,” Nicole said and pointed out at the water. “Isn’t that the captain?” The heavyset man sat in a little rowboat with one of the sailors working the oars.
“I think he’s going to that other ship.”
Several yards away from the packet was an enormous frigate, its sides bulging with two rows of cannons. There were many men carrying bundles up and down a wide gangplank. As the women watched, the captain stepped out onto the dock, several minutes ahead of the packet, which was still slowly maneuvering itself into the harbor. The captain climbed the steep gangplank and stepped onto the frigate’s deck, walking toward the aft end of the ship.
The women were quite a distance away, and the men on deck looked small. “That’s Clay!” Janie suddenly yelled.
Nicole looked in wonder at the man the captain was speaking to, but he looked like all the other men from this distance. “How can you tell?”
Janie laughed. She was so glad to be home. “Once you know Clay, you’ll understand,” she said, turning away abruptly and leaving Nicole alone.
Straining her eyes to see the man who was her husband, Nicole nervously twisted the wedding band on her left hand.
“Here,” Janie said and thrust a spyglass into her hand. “Take a good look.”
Even through the glass, the men were small, but she could feel the presence of the man talking to the captain. He had one foot on a bale of cotton, the other on the deck. He leaned forward, his forearms on his bent knee. Even bending, he was taller than the captain. He wore snug trousers of light brown and black leather boots to his knees. His waist was circled by a three-inch-wide black leather belt. His shirt was gathered just past the shoulders, open at the throat, and the sleeves were rolled to his elbows, revealing brown forearms. She couldn’t tell much about his face at that distance, but his brown hair was loosely pulled back and tied behind his neck.
Putting the glass down, she turned to Janie.
“Oh no you don’t,” Janie said. “I’ve seen that expression too many times. Just because a man is big and handsome is no reason for you to give in to him. He’s gonna be awful mad when he finds out what happened, and if you don’t stand up to him, he’ll blame all of it on you.”
Nicole smiled at her friend, her eyes dancing. “You certainly never mentioned that he was big and handsome,” she teased.
“I never said he was ugly either. Now, I want you to go back to the cabin and wait because, if I know Clay, he’ll be here in minutes. I want to get to him first and explain just what that scoundrel of a captain did. Now scoot!”
Obeying her friend, Nicole returned to the dark little cabin, feeling almost nostalgic about leaving it. She and Janie had become quite close in the last forty days.
Her eyes had just adjusted to the dim light when suddenly the cabin door swung open. A man who was unmistakably Clayton Armstrong burst into the room, his broad shoulders filling the space until Nicole felt as if she were standing in a closet with him.
Clay didn’t wait long enough to give his eyes time to adjust. He saw only the outline of his wife. One long arm shot out and pulled her to him.
Nicole started to protest, but then his mouth found hers and she couldn’t protest. His mouth was clean-tasting, strong, demanding yet gentle, but she made a weak attempt to push away from him. His arms about her tightened, and he lifted her so that her toes were barely touching the floor, his chest hard against her womanly softness. She could feel her heart beginning to pound.
The only time she’d been kissed like this was by Frank, the first mate, but there was no comparison! He turned his head, moved his hand to hold the back of her head, making her feel as if she were fainting, drowning. Her arms went about his neck and pulled him closer to her. His breath was on her cheek.
As he moved from her mouth to her cheek, she felt his teeth on her earlobe, and her knees turned to water. His tongue touched the cord in her neck.
Quickly, his arm swept under her knees, lifting her off the floor and wrapping her body around his. Dazed, Nicole was aware only that she wanted more and more of him as she turned her head back, offering her lips to him again.
He kissed her hungrily, and she returned his passion. When he moved to the bed, holding her body next to him, it seemed natural. She wanted only to touch him, to keep him near her. He pulled her down on the bed with him, his lips never leaving hers, throwing one strong, heavy leg across hers, his hand running up and down her bare arm. When he touched her breast through her clothes, she moaned and arched her body toward his.
“Bianca,” he whispered in her ear. “Sweet, sweet Bianca.”
Nicole did not come to her senses suddenly; her passion was too strong for that. Only slowly did she become aware of where she was, who she was—and who she was not.