A hot wind gusted through the trees, shook their leaves, and set his nerves thrumming. Into his mind came the image of her eyes, so large and limpid. Gazing at him in modest adoration. Those perfect rosebud lips that he had longed to kiss from the first moment he saw her. All his friends had been as struck by her beauty as he. All had vied for her dances, for an excuse to put a hand on her waist. But he had been the one at whom she had batted those lashes and given her smiles. He had been the one with the hope of winning her. Had won her.
“She is yours.” Gates’s voice had moved, coming from the side now rather than behind, though his footfalls had been silent on the carpet of pine needles under them. “She gave her promise, and as her guardian now, that is the one I approve. Forgive her for her foolishness, Hart, and take her back. Take what is yours. We both know you want her still.”
He turned away from the murmur that made it sound so base and shook his head. Beautiful as she was, as much as he longed to take her in his arms, his motive had not been only bound up in that, had it? He had been drawn to more than her face, more than her figure. He had…he had…
He hadn’t even known her. He still didn’t know her. He had simply been enamored with her pleasing disposition, been thrilled at the sound of her voice, and, yes, been so very attracted to her. He had wanted her to be his, wanted everyone to see that he had won the most beautiful young lady in London. He wanted the right to hold her. To kiss her.
The viscount had been right. He had chosen his bride not in the interest of the Hart line but in the interest of his bed.
Fire burned his throat, but he swallowed it back. Why should it shame him? If he had not chosen her because of her beauty, he would have chosen someone for her name or her dowry. Lust, either way. Lust for prestige, for money, or for a person herself. It was, it seemed, the only reasons to wed. Who was to say one was any baser than another?
And which of those things had influenced Lane? Was it the Fairchild wealth he sought, or merely the allure of Gwyneth herself?
“You have a noble heart, Arthur. A good heart.” Gates’s voice came from the other side now, though Arthur had not sensed his movement. “Surely you see how she must have been hurting. Surely you see that she is a victim to her own grief, and to the vile maneuvering of a villain who would use it against her. We must free her from him. We must save her.”
Arthur turned, trying to locate Gates in the darkness. But it was too thick, impenetrable. Not so much as a shaft of moonlight softened it. “How? You saw how fiercely he claimed her, and according to your son, his parents are staying there. I daresay after we tipped our hand that they will not let her out of their sights. She will not be left alone.”
“When Baltimore is under attack, confusion will ensue. And her militiaman husband will be at his post in Fort McHenry, too far away to help. His parents can be handled easily enough.”
Was it hope that sparked inside him? Not quite. Hope was not so dark nor so determined. “But you know as well as I that those reports about the city’s unpreparedness are mistaken. We ought to advise the admiralty against attacking. We ought—”
“We ought to advise they plan an attack from the water, toward Fort McHenry. We ought to recommend they destroy that bastion and kill all within it.” How could Gates’s voice be both hard and smooth? “We ought to encourage them to burn this center of commerce as they did the center of government, so that the Americans can fight no more. And when they are crushed, we can take what is ours and go home.”
Arthur swallowed as he turned toward the sound of rustling to his left. The man advised an entire campaign built around personal agenda. War to fuel their own purposes. “We ought to tell them what we observed. That the Americans are stronger than our leaders think.”
A scoffing laugh sounded, but from the right. “Tell them that and they will choose the easier target of Annapolis. Nay. They can handle those quickly built fortifications with no worries.”
Could they? “The men are tired from all the fighting in Europe, and this heat has stripped their defenses still more.”
“They are trained members of the most elite military in all the world. The Americans will pose no more a threat at Baltimore than they have anywhere else, especially after our men have rested for a week or two while the roads are cleared of trees and the fleet has moved into position.”
A moment’s consideration made him nod, though Gates wouldn’t see it in the dark. But he was right. The motley collections of farmers could do little more to defend themselves than brandish their hoes and mound up piles of dirt. British rockets and cannons would win the day.
And when that day came, they would seize their chance. Free Gwyneth of the Lanes while her husband—if he could legally be called that—was being blown to bits along with Fort McHenry.
When that day came, she would, at last, be his.