The Duchess and the Dragon Page 12

  With sudden clarity he realized he wasn’t being fair or truthful with Serena. She didn’t know him, all that he had done in his life. And he couldn’t tell her. Would never tell her.

  She didn’t even know his real name.

  Yet he was asking her to give up everything—her family, her friends, her way of life—for a stranger. He looked at her in concern. How could she still love him if she knew everything there was to know about him?

  “Serena, I know my decision makes yours difficult, impossible perhaps. I will leave, find another situation, if that is what you wish.”

  Josiah reached out his hand across the table for Serena to grasp. “It will be hard. I wish I could take the excommunication for thee, but if thou choosest to marry an outsider, thou wilt be asked to leave the Society of Friends.”

  Serena grasped his hand, looking from her father to Drake, and then back at her father. “I . . .” She looked down. “I know.”

  Leah spoke up, her voice tight. “Josiah, they have spoken their convictions with truth. We cannot ask for more. Come, we will leave them alone to discuss it.”

  Serena’s parents left the room and shut the door behind them. Drake stood and walked around the table. Taking the seat next to Serena, he took her hands into his and squeezed lightly. “Love, there are things you don’t know about me. Things that might not please you.”

  She looked into his eyes. “I know there are secrets hidden in thy heart. I had hoped thou wouldst tell me.” She gave him a wavering smile that melted his heart. “But I must say this: I would not force thee into marriage because of my recklessness last evening. Do not take me as thy wife out of duty.”

  Drake wavered. She was giving him a way out, and a part of him screamed that he should take it. Not for himself, but for her. What kind of life could he provide for her? “I am not a Quaker, Serena. Nor am I a silversmith. I am . . .”

  “Yes?” Her eyes urged him to confide in her.

  “I am a man between lives.” He shook his head. “I feel I am without purpose really. I could take on your Quaker beliefs, but I know that would be wrong. I would wake up years from now and be miserable and perhaps even resentful. I cannot do that to either of us.”

  “Thou must not want me then.” Her voice was flat. Her eyes full of pain.

  “The only thing I know for certain is that I want you.” He gripped her hands. “If it had not been for you, I wouldn’t have survived the fever. Death was beckoning me and you came, you gave me hope. I owe you everything. But I have nothing to give you . . . except my body and the sane part of my mind. My heart and my soul, they are . . . shattered I fear, but they are yours also, if you want what is left.”

  Serena’s face reflected all the innocent love she felt for him—and the confusion. “I want nothing more. But to leave the Friends . . . my family . . .”

  Drake released her. “You must consider it all. You have to decide.” He closed his eyes and kissed the top of her head, then rose. He allowed himself one last lingering look, taking in the way her neat, plain cap fit her head so well, then he left her there, alone.

  It was the hardest thing he had ever done.

  Chapter Twelve

  Serena watched him go, wanting nothing more at this moment of confused distress than to paint his tall form.

  She rose and went upstairs to gather her paints, her thick canvas, and the wooden frame that she would stretch it over. The walk to the shore of the river seemed short, the grassy patch she always went to when she needed to be alone was easy to find and waiting for her, like a comfortable spot on the earth made just for her. She sank down, arranging her supplies just so. A flat, square board served as her palette.

  She tilted her head to one side as she mixed her paints, enchanted as always with color, how it blended and changed into precisely the shade in her mind’s eye. She knew just the shades she would use, even though she was still unsure of the subject. Sometimes it came to her like this, an explosion of color, of mood, but no real idea what to paint until she lifted the brush to begin. Today she would have blues, lots of blues, from robin’s egg to deep sapphire. She mixed the paint, slowly adding purples and reds as they beckoned to her. A deep green. Some orange and several shades of bright yellow. And then brown. A big glop of brown in the middle of her board.

  She gazed out at the river, its gray-green tones and the gray-blue of the sky . . . not right and painted so many times before. Turning from that, she looked at the buildings on the wharf, whites and blacks, stable and solid and so . . . man-made. No. Not today. Closing her eyes she beckoned her imagination . . . and saw Drake. Saw his face and then his back. With a sudden breath, she knew.

  Taking up her brush, she began. It took shape quickly. Men’s coats and women’s skirts, all brown, all with their backs toward her, the backs of their heads showing some small color of skin under somber hats and bonnets. So much brown, she had to replace the glop on the pallet several times. Then came the black. Stark outlines surrounding the browns, so harsh and so hard, it was easy. It was known.

  Cleaning her brush, she felt a lingering pulse of anger and wondered why and how it should be. She’d never felt anger toward the Friends before. Taking up the brush she dipped it into the richest hue of blue, the one screaming decadence. With small, delicate strokes she made another coat. Long, strong lines of color filled one side of the canvas. Purple, deep and bright, edged the blue, then some red, here and there, so loud against the other.

  It was taking the shape of a man.

  His face was unclear and she struggled, wanting to capture Drake, but unable to see how his face should be, what he might be feeling. She wanted his face to be as bright as the coat, but it wouldn’t come. It was only a soft blur on the canvas . . . handsome . . . dark . . . but shrouded, half-turned away from her. She stared at it. Why couldn’t he be everything she believed him to be? Bright, full of life, and loving her . . .

  But it wasn’t to be.

  She set down her paints and tools and stood, leaving the work to dry in the wind. The breeze blew tendrils of her hair free of its cap, which she unpinned and tossed aside, letting her hair unravel and wrap around her. She contemplated the sky, watching as a thin cloud made its way eastward. She looked back at the painting . . . sat back down, reaching for the yellow.

  The top of the canvas was bare, white and stark. She stared at it, deep in concentration, her brows knitted together. Her whole being strained, wanting this piece to be greater than anything she’d ever done. She wanted it to represent what she felt for God. “Help me!” Her cry was carried on the soft wind. “I want to capture Thee.”

  She closed her eyes as she did in meeting, coming at last to the place of peace. “Help me capture Thee.”

  Behind her closed lids she saw it. A sunrise, a new beginning. Yes! Taking up the yellow-drenched brush, she slashed it across the top of the canvas. “Bigger than the rest. Better than all of this!”

  It started yellow and bright, as she thought it should be, but soon, she added the orange and then the red, turning the scene passionate. A sun, swirling and magnificent, a sky like none she’d ever seen, drenched in color. A horizon that ended in the purple, seeming to go on forever . . .

  Suddenly spent, she sat back from the painting, staring at it. It was beautiful. The best work she’d ever done. It didn’t matter if no other eyes but hers saw it, for she knew this wasn’t her work alone.

  “How great Thou art.”

  She stood, staring at the man in purple. “I love him. It shouldn’t be so, but I do.” She looked up into the sky, seeing a dim pink near the sun. “I have to love him.”

  She turned, leaving the painting at the shore to dry but picking up her precious paints that were so costly, and then walking toward home.

  The walk home was strange, as if it might be her last along this path. She watched the dry grass flatten against the earth. She saw the street where she grew up, each pebble and stone, each wood and brick house. And a little cry rose to her throat k
nowing that home . . . was no longer her home.

  THE NEXT DAY Drake didn’t come to meeting. They had all silently agreed there was no longer any point to showing him their way. Serena rode in solemn silence with her sisters, her still-innocent sisters, who looked at her with big eyes, knowing some great heaviness weighed on their family but not understanding what caused it.

  Serena donned her Sunday dress thinking this might be the last time she did. She smoothed down the gray skirt, tying the ribbons at her breast, pulling the cap down over her hair. She climbed into the gray wagon, faltering in her steps as her father looked gravely into her eyes, as her mother turned away to hide a face distressed. They had rode to the church, slower than usual it seemed, every blade of grass more green in the churchyard, every weathered board of the church building watching her, so real it hurt just looking at it. This would be one of those memories that would never fade.

  Serena sat in her usual place on the hard bench, waiting, panting almost, in her apprehension that the painting hadn’t been real, that God would speak to her and stop her from this thing she’d set her heart and mind to do. The meeting started as usual, all with closed eyes and opened hearts. Serena clenched her eyes tightly, her head tilting back, her throat exposed, wanting Him to stop her and yet, with a pounding heart so loud they must hear it, hoping He wouldn’t. The minutes ticked by and slowly, she felt the discipline of letting her mind and emotions empty, of letting His presence replace the fear. A deep, all-encompassing peace filled her and she smiled.

  I will never leave thee, nor forsake thee.

  The thought shattered her, bringing quick tears to her closed eyes. It was the answer underneath all the questions. As sure as the sun in her painting had come to her. As sure as her love for Drake. This was her choice. A choice she would have to live with and all its consequences, but He would not leave her alone in the wake of life’s decisions.

  As she sat there pooling in the comfort of it, a voice spoke out. It took her a moment to realize it was one of the Friends and not her own mind.

  “Dark is the path that leads to the understanding of good and evil. Take heed against it! Take heed against it!”

  The voice rang out and echoed in the quiet of the place, but Serena could feel the heads lift, listening and nodding at the rebuke, taking heed. A darkness came over her. Had she heard wrong? Was it her own wicked heart telling her what she so desperately wanted to hear? Doubt engulfed her, her head bowed deeply until her chin rested on her chest. Which to believe? What should she believe? Her heart began to pound with fear and dread.

  She saw her painting against the blackness of her closed eyes, saw the yellows stand out, becoming more and more alive, then suddenly it all faded.

  All that was left was Christopher’s face . . . and the brightness of his hair.

  DRAKE WAS ON a mission.

  Earlier in the week, while in a local shop buying supplies for Josiah’s business, he’d heard the name he’d been subconsciously listening for wherever he went.

  “Joseph Linney! That you, dearie?” A big man near him turned, his face breaking out into a grinning leer as he swung the woman into an embrace. She reminded Drake of the women found in the stews of London, gaudily dressed, with her bosom hanging mostly out of a sagging neckline.

  Linney buried his scraggly beard into her neck, her giggling all the while. The shopkeeper cleared his throat in disapproval, causing the woman to playfully push Linney away, though still wearing a pleased smile. Linney ignored the owner and leaned forward to whisper something into her ear. She gave a gasp of delighted surprise and a quick nod.

  Probably told her of his new, ill-gotten wealth, Drake thought, disgusted. He watched the pair from under the brim of his black hat, keeping them in sight as they paid for their purchases, then walked arm in arm out of the shop. Drake would have liked nothing better than to confront the man then and there, but he knew better than to be so foolish. Instead, he followed them.

  It hadn’t been difficult. Linney was more interested in the plump woman on his arm than in any seeming danger. They’d gone to a small house, a shack really, on a street Drake had never seen. It would seem that even in a William Penn town, poverty and the stench of poverty had found a place.

  Drake watched, hidden by the corner of a building, while they entered. He needed to know if it was Linney’s house or the woman’s but was loath to wait until they finished their unsavory business. Josiah expected Drake back soon.

  But luck smiled upon him, as a young lad of about ten years ran by. Drake called out to him, smiling. “Boy, a moment of your time.”

  The child looked startled and a little afraid.

  Drake held out a silver coin, watching his face turn excited but still wary. He walked a little closer. “Yes, sir?”

  “Who lives in that house?” Drake pointed to the house in question.

  The boy followed the direction of Drake’s arm and then scowled. “That’s Mr. Linney, sir.”

  Drake had to wonder what atrocity Mr. Linney had done to deserve such a sullen tone in the boy’s voice. “You’re sure, then?”

  “Oh yes, I’m sure. Been there for months.” He spit to one side and then locked his gaze on the shimmering coin in the middle of Drake’s palm.

  Drake tossed it to him. “Thank you, boy. There might be other rewards of the same if you will keep an eye on the man. Just watch where he goes and what he does, you see?”

  The boy nodded, squeezing the coin as though it might drop and be eaten by the dogs that roamed the street before he could get it back into his hand. He smiled up at Drake. “Thank you, sir, I will. But where will I find you to report his doings?”

  “I’ll find you. What’s your name, lad?”

  “Jimmy Bowman, sir. Glad to be of service.” He grinned and bowed, a cheeky action that had Drake smiling back. “Have a care, then.” Waving, Drake turned to leave.

  All that day and into the next, he considered his course of action. Every day that went by would mean more of the money spent. With that surety dogging him, he’d managed to track down Daniel for reinforcements and to identify the man as the same Joseph Linney who was the slave driver.

  Daniel was only too eager to help.

  Now, with Serena and her family safely off to meeting, he could finish this business. Drake explained his plan to Daniel as they walked. “He should still be abed, giving us the element of surprise. Two against one, it shouldn’t be difficult.”

  Daniel lifted the corner of his shirt revealing a black pistol. He winked at Drake with a grin. “Just in case.”

  Drake shook his head slightly. “Don’t use it unless absolutely necessary. I just want my money back, not the man’s death on my conscience.”

  Daniel gave him a sharp look, understanding lighting his eyes, he sighed. “Enough of them already, eh? I know, friend. I too, was in the army.”

  Drake nodded once, short and final. He let the subject drop. As they neared the street they slowed, edging closer to the buildings looking out at the quiet lane. It was still early for most of the street’s inhabitants to be up and about, which was exactly as Drake had hoped. “Let’s go.”

  The two crossed the mucky road, the smells of beef fat and waste disposed feet from their doorways made the street a sloth of stench. The door was a simple clapboard type that would be easy to crash through, but Drake preferred stealth.

  He indicated the need for silence to Daniel, who nodded, ready to apply his shoulder to the wood. Drake reached out and tried the latch. Sure enough, it was unlocked. The door creaked as Drake eased it open. He and Daniel stood still and listened. No sound.

  They could see there was another room at the back of the house. They picked their way across the main room to what Drake hoped was the bedchamber. That door was open a crack, giving view to the corner of a bed, a big foot sticking out from beneath the covers.

  Drake smiled. “On three. One . . . two . . . three!”

  They burst into the room, Daniel toward the foot
of the bed, Drake at the head. The man didn’t wake. Daniel nodded at the snoring form. “That’d be him all right. I’d recognize that face anywhere.”

  Daniel hadn’t bothered to whisper, and Drake smiled as Linney frowned and moved in his sleep.

  Daniel pointed. “Drake, on the bureau . . . is that your box? I remember seeing him take it out of your trunk; he was holding it like it was a newborn babe, he was.”

  Drake turned, strode over to the shabby furniture, and took up the elegant wooden box, so out of place in this room. He opened it, his heart sinking. Daniel left the foot of the bed and came over, peering around Drake’s shoulder. “Anything left?”

  Drake was shaking his head, about to reply that there was very little, when a creak came from the bed. Both men turned to find the huge Linney standing there naked, a wicked knife clutched in a meaty hand—and coming straight at them.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Drake turned, the wooden box still clasped in one hand as the knife slashed toward his chest. He dodged, shocked to feel the blade catch his shoulder, the pain immediate and searing. He threw down the box, coins scattering like hailstones across the wood floor.

  Daniel had recovered and dove toward the man, fisting him in the stomach. Linney’s white, fat belly quivered as he let loose a roar of rage and a flow of curse words. He rounded on Daniel, and his eyes widened. “You!”

  Drake took full advantage of the slave driver’s momentary distraction, kicking out toward the man’s knee, and was rewarded by hearing it snap. With a roar of pain and rage, Linney faltered, looking at the two of them as though trying to decide whom to attack with his knife.