Justin nodded. "It is only right her brother know what this Price Ardsley is made of."
"I owe her that much," Marcus replied. His mouth tightened. "By now the body is buried. Aye," he said when his cousin opened his mouth to comment. "I should have been there."
"I can't blame you for being unable to bear seeing her lain in the ground."
Marcus gave a harsh laugh. "She will still be in the grave when I return."
Justin gazed at the ships in the harbor. "We had better see the harbormaster."
Marcus looked at him. "We? Nay, Justin. You aren't coming."
The earl started forward. "I would say his office is where we entered the docks."
Marcus hurried forward. Within arm's reach, he grasped Justin's shoulder and forced Justin to face him. "I didn't ask you to come."
His expression remained impassive. "Of course not."
"I will not have you risking your life."
"Will you have me bound and sent back to Whycham House?"
"By God," Marcus burst out, "if that's what it takes."
Mild amusement crossed Justin's face. "You know me even less than your son."
"Sophie will not allow this."
"I already sent Sophie word I would be accompanying you to America."
Marcus gaped.
"I'm not a complete fool," Justin said.
"She won't be pleased."
"She won't be pleased we left her behind." Justin began walking.
"Justin!" Marcus strode after him.
The following morning, Marcus leaned against the railing of the Sallinger, absently fingering the wedding band in his trouser pocket. He stared across the harbor at the docks. The shouts of drivers in passing hackneys, dock workers, and merchants buying and selling wares faded into the background, replaced by a quiet whoosh as the brigantine skimmed through the water. Hearing footsteps behind him, he looked over his shoulder to see Justin approach.
"The captain has been kind enough to extend an invitation for breakfast," Justin said.
Marcus nodded. He glanced past the masts at the sun. Eleven years had passed since he'd last been outside Great Britain, fourteen since crossing the Atlantic. He squinted against the sunlight. A month from now, he would be seeing this same sun from Boston Harbor.
Only, it wouldn't be with Elise.
Chapter Eighteen
Marcus rolled onto Elise. The darkness prevented discerning even the outline of her face, but he heard her sigh. His chest pressed upon her breasts and she shifted, teasing him with a slight arch of her body. His heart beat fiercely, his body hard with an arousal that circumvented the disorientation clouding his mind. He yanked on her shift until he could spread her legs with a knee. He grasped her shoulders and, levering himself into position, thrust into her. With the first stroke, pleasure radiated through his body. Marcus pinned her against the mattress, each stroke increasing the deafening roar of blood through his veins.
Elise gasped. He lowered his full weight upon her, then rolled onto his back, keeping their bodies joined. Grasping the back of her knees, he slid them forward so that she straddled him. He gripped her waist and lifted her up until only the tip of his shaft remained inside her, then brought her down, up, down—she gripped his arms and he felt her weight shift as she threw her head back. He lifted her, slamming her onto him, faster, then faster, gripping her slim waist in a clasp that frightened him. Pleasure shot through him. He slammed her down harder. Arching to meet her—Marcus jerked awake, grasping the wet sheet covering his hips as he groaned. He continued to pump upwards for several strokes before slumping back onto the mattress.
His chest rose and fell in heavy gasps for several moments before his senses cleared enough to recognize the cabin that had held him captive for twenty-eight nights. Shafts of muted light streamed through the small glass skylights. His gut wrenched. Another dream. He closed his eyes. In his mind, he saw the flutter of Elise's eyelids when he brought her to her release. His shaft twitched. A muted shout overhead brought the sudden realization that the ship no longer rocked as it had while slicing through the Atlantic. Marcus yanked the sheet aside and jumped from bed. He strode the three paces to the door and stuck his head into the hallway.
"Lad," he called to a boy at the far end of the corridor, "where are we?"
The boy turned. "We're in Boston, sir. We've docked."
"Can you get me a messenger? I need a note delivered immediately."
"Aye, sir," the boy said. "I'll go if you like."
"Good lad," he said. "I'll have it ready in ten minutes."
At five-fifty in the afternoon three days later, the door to the private dining room in the Boston Harbor Hotel opened and Marcus looked up from the glass of wine he had been staring at.
"A message for you, sir," the waiter said, and laid an envelope beside him on the table.
Marcus saw the return address from Colonel Shay. He tore open the letter and read.