know he loves you.”
“You keep telling me that, but we must have a different
understanding of the word.”
“And what is your definition?” she asked.
“I believe if you truly love someone, then the most important thing should be their happiness, not yours.”
“You’re saying your father cares more for his own happiness.”
“Yes.”
Anne stepped toward him, her face flushed. “And I believe
if you truly love someone, you let that person know you will
always be there for them, no matter the circumstances. That is
precisely what your father is doing.”
“And you?”
Anne’s breath was faster than usual, a pulse beating in her
neck. “What?”
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Reaching for her slowly, he gave her every opportunity to retreat. When she didn’t, he took her hands in his and pulled her close. “Will you always be there for me, no matter the circumstances?”
“You know I only want your happiness,” she said, her voice
faint.
“By my definition, that means you—”
Anne tugged her hands from his grasp and moved out of
his reach. “I don’t think this is wise,” she said, shaking her head.
“You’re upset.”
“If I’m going to die, I might as well die a happy man. Tell
me,” he said, his voice soft.
Her lashes half lowered over her crystal-blue eyes. “In
the short time we’ve known each other, I’ve come to bear a
certain . . . regard . . . for you. Your friendship is something I could not stand to part with.”
“‘Regard’? ‘Friendship’?” He approached her once again,
and his warm palm found the curve of her cheek. “Is that all
you feel for me, Anne?”
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C H A P T E R 2 4
Anne
Teach’s eyes darkened, the expression in them stealing her
breath. She should have pretended as if his nearness did not
affect her. But it did, and instead of stepping back, she stepped closer. “Yes,” she whispered, a tremor in her voice. “A very special sort of regard.”
He apparently needed no further confirmation. He cradled
her face in his hands, and his lips met hers, their mouths fit—
ting together perfectly. Anne’s heart fluttered in her chest like a trapped bird in a cage. But she didn’t pull away. She didn’t want to.
His clever fingers found the bare skin at the nape of her
neck and wound into the strands that had come loose from her
bun, tilting her head to an upward slant.
Anne fought to control the reckless rhythm of her pulse as
he increased the pressure of their kiss. Her legs threatened to
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give way, and her hands traced down the fine linen of his shirt, feeling the solid strength of muscle underneath. For the rest of her life she would remember that moment. The sound of the wind rustling through the trees. The earthy scent of the moss
beneath their feet, and the warmth of his breath mingling with
hers. Her first kiss.
When at last he pulled away, Anne swayed forward, slightly
dazed. “We . . . we shouldn’t have done that,” she said.
Breathing hard, his chest rising and falling steadily, Teach
gave a shaky laugh. “I’m sorry, but I’ve wanted to do that since the first moment I saw you.”
“It was a mistake.”
He cupped her cheek in his palm, his touch feather-light.
“You cannot tell me you have not wanted the same thing, Anne.”
Anne swallowed, unable to lie. It took considerable effort
on her part not to lean into his embrace. She had thought about it, more than she cared to admit. Ever since he’d arrived, he
had haunted her dreams. “But you’re promised to another.” She
could not bring herself to speak Patience’s name.
“Promised? What good is a promise to someone else when
my heart belongs to you? What good is a promise when I might
not live to see another day?”
Anne refused to think about the inquiry. In spite of Teach’s
scorn, Anne still believed Drummond would somehow come
through for him. “What we’ve just done is no different from
what Mary did to John.”
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“Do not compare my feelings for you to those of that strum-pet. Mary never cared for John. He was a lover of convenience.
I do not hold out much hope for Tom, either. Give her a week
or two, and she’ll have moved on to someone else.”
His words did little to ease her guilt. “Still, your father—”
“Oh, yes, my father. My union with Miss Patience is his
will, not mine.”
Anne took a step back. It was too hard to think with him
standing so close. “But you agreed,” she reminded him.
“I was sixteen years old and still an obedient boy! I didn’t
know any better. Do you think I could predict the future? Back
then I saw Patience as my father wanted me to see her. She
was a pretty face with a title. My father filled my head with
stories of the aristocracy, how their life of leisure enabled them to cultivate their minds and improve their tastes. He spoke of their power and how much they could achieve, and like a fool,
I listened to him.”