Prize of My Heart

“And did you have a hand, then, in my taking ill?” A twitch in his left eye confirmed it. “George, what have you done?”


“Forgive me, that. I never meant you should have become so very sick. I must have slipped too much vomit powder into your tea while you were removing the mince pies from the oven.”

“Vomit powder?” Lorena felt faint, reeling from the depth of George’s betrayal.

“Just enough to prevent you from disembarking. Truly, what alternative did I have? You would not agree to accompany me otherwise.” Righteous anger fired from George’s dark eyes. “I pleaded that you become my wife. I offered you everything. But you refused me and proceeded to keep company with that, that, ugh . . . pirate!”

“You have never been more wrong. Captain Talvis is not the pirate. He is not the one who’s stolen me from my home!”

Lorena could see her words stung. George stumbled backward for a seat on the opposite bunk. He slipped his folded hands between his knees and hung his head, shoulders slumped in exasperation. He raked a hand through his chestnut waves as, slowly, he raised his face to hers. “Oh, Lorena, can you not find room in that Christian heart of yours for forgiveness? Make the best of this journey. Away from the demands and responsibilities of your family, I know we shall find great happiness together. Will you not at least try?”

Lorena thought him mad.

Her soul cried out in sadness. Who would read the psalms to Drew at night? Who would pour Papa’s evening tea and take it to his study as he sat at his desk, chest-deep in ship designs? Who would lecture Temperance against spying on the shipwrights who had removed their shirts while toiling under a hot sun?

Her gaze narrowed angrily over George’s conservative features—the wide forehead, the aquiline nose and angular jaw. And in the midst of her helplessness, Lorena remembered her faith. She would not accept this dire fate.

“Understand this, George Louder. I have no intention of sailing to England. Even less of ever marrying you.” She attempted to stand, but between the lightness of her head and the deck rolling beneath her feet, she could not find purchase.

George reached out to steady her.

Lorena recoiled at his touch, swatting away his hand. “I suppose you have told Mrs. Ellery I am your betrothed?”

He nodded.

“That is a lie, and well you know it!”

George’s impatience revealed itself in an unforgiving scowl. “Then what should I have told her? That I am your friend, I suppose?”

“You are no friend of mine, George Louder.”

“You try my patience with these criticisms. I suggest you learn to treat me with more respect.”

His coldness chilled her. Lorena had found aspects of George’s behavior both suspect and disturbing for weeks now, though she’d chosen to ignore those misgivings so that she might preserve their long friendship. Now, too late, she realized how naive she’d been. The warning in her spirit had not been for Drew’s sake or for the sake of her family.

The warning had been for her.





9


By the following morning, Brogan was looking forward to his return to Duxboro and the moment he’d present Drew with the driving hoop he had bought the lad. Hoops were the most popular child’s amusement of the day. Yesterday, Brogan had watched young boys parade up and down the Common, driving their hoops in companies of fifteen or more, sometimes single file, sometimes two by two. Other times, they marched all lined up together in a row.

They looked to be having grand fun, and he’d immediately thought of his son.

For himself, he’d purchased a few supplies—some fishing lines and hooks, a knife, and a couple of shirts. And one thing more, quite unlike his other purchases for its sentimentality—an elaborate silver thimble, gaily wrapped in paper and presently tucked inside his waistcoat pocket.

After securing his other packages to his saddle, Brogan set off on horseback, traveling south with Nathaniel Huntley down the Bay Path, the principal inland road and stage route that ran from Boston to Plymouth. Later in the afternoon, they rested in the coastal farming community of Hingham, for it was Huntley’s desire that they should patronize the Old Ordinary.

“I think you’ll enjoy the fare,” said the shipbuilder. “This local gathering place and stagecoach stop has been serving warm drink and wholesome meals since well into the previous century.”

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