Hunter Of My Heart. Janet Kendall

inclined his head in acquiescence.

      

      As they neared London Docks, the stench of the Thames grew, smelling of human waste and rotting fish. Hunter peered out the window of the hackney toward the warehouses. Beyond them, hundreds of masts and fluttering sails rose above the roofs. Fading slashes of violet and orange on the horizon signaled fair sailing weather. On the poop rail of his ship Priscilla, four lanterns created oblique shadows that moved with the water and changed with the wind.

      Sailors waiting the next watch rose from their hammocks while others were busy at their duties. Hunter spoke with the ship captain, then returned to his father.

      “The money is in my cabin below. Shall we?”

      Hunter showed Randall to a small cabin with two narrow bunks, one above the other. A sea chest filled the opposite corner. Atop a small table sat a ditty box, a copper bowl and an oil lamp. Tucked underneath was a chamber pot and stool After Randall entered, Hunter leaned against the doorway.

      “This is your cabin?” Randall asked. “I imagined it to be bigger, given the ship’s size.”

      “Oh, it is. My cabin’s much larger. This one’s yours.” Hunter felt the ship sway.

      Randall swung around. “What the devil are you saying?”

      The sails unfurled like the sound of dull drumbeats. “I promised you a home, food and clothes. You will get all three—in Australia.” As Hunter stepped back into the hall, he pulled the door closed and locked it.

      “Damn you!” Randall pounded on the door. “I’m your father!”

      Father, hell...only by the misfortune of the same blood.

      The rhythmic sound of the waves slapping against the hull drowned the voice.

      No more scandals. Hunter promised himself that no one would ever blackmail him again.

      Chapter One

      

      

      Scotland, September 1830

      

      “Shabby reporting! The Times said you’d be here! Why aren’t you?” As Sabrina’s words faded into the wind, she looked up and saw no lights in the second-story windows, or the third, either.

      Keir Castle’s four towers rose above the mist, a billowing white gauze that occasionally dipped and caressed the ground. Moss and shadows painted the stone structure. A seagull flew overhead. Slowly Sabrina “Beaumont” dropped her gaze. Interrupting this solitude was the light coming from the kitchen windows, the only evidence of life stirring on the massive estate.

      The kind housekeeper, a lone servant, had answered the door but didn’t know when her master would arrive. Slapping the stone wall, Sabrina willed Lord Kenilworth to appear.

      “Everyone is speaking about his return from Barbados. Rumor says he distrusts strangers,” Marga Beaumont said.

      Turning to her aunt, Sabrina made a face.

      “Do you think we have committed a faux pas by not sending word? Maybe he instructed the housekeeper to turn away visitors.”

      “She looked honest. Faux pas or not, we’ve waited months to collect the debt. The Times portrayed him as fair and honest. Surely he’ll understand our lack of propriety. The man the newspapers described wouldn’t allow us to go to the poorhouse.” Despite her hopeful words, his absence weighted her heart. The Times was quickly losing credibility.

      “Possibly he is with a paramour, non?”

      “Paramours.” Sabrina scowled to hide her emotions from Marga, a petite lady of thirty-eight years who still managed to look fashionable despite their dire financial circumstances. Her moss-green traveling gown accented her hazel eyes and chestnut hair, coifed in artful curls above her ears. Marga always took pride in her grooming. Her fashion sense and creativity had made the partnership in their dress shop possible.

      Marga cleared her throat. “The on dit on him varies. Some say he is unlike his father. The newspaper says he’s been in Barbados. At least monseigneur supported the paramours during his absence. I feel certain he will pay us.”

      Caring little for gossip, Sabrina jabbed a finger to her chest. “We supported his mistresses! He owes us money for their gowns!”

      Marga sighed. “Quaintly put, but true.”

      With her emotions running rampant, Sabrina leaned against the structure and ignored the stones pressing into her back. “I apologize for raising my voice. Yes, I do believe he’ll pay us once he realizes a debt exists. I’m just worried about the twins.” She paused, thinking about her four-year-old siblings. “Do you think they’re all right?”

      “Ha! Christine never lets her brother out of sight, and you know how mad Alec gets when we pamper him. He is weak in body but strong in spirit. They will be fine with Thomas for another few days.” Marga squeezed Sabrina’s hand.

      She managed a smile. “Father was lucky to have Thomas as a friend. He’s gone beyond friendship to watch them. But we’ve never left them alone for so long. What if...”

      “Ah! You are thinking about more than just the little one’s health. Oui? That wretched man, your grandpapa, worries you. Rest assured, Sabrina, no one will discover our secret.”

      “I can’t help it. He’s probably furious that I didn’t meet with him three days ago.” Instead, she’d burned his missive and fled to Scotland.

      “Oui. He is probably searching for you all over London.”

      “There! You see? What if he followed us? And, you’re not the one he wants for a brooding mare.” She groaned, knowing she was his last chance for a male heir. With political reform stirring, he loathed the idea that upon his death, the Crown would sell his title. God forbid that a wealthy commoner might buy it. Her only solution was to reveal Alec.

      She refused to do that for fear he would separate the twins. Christine would be of no use to him. By alienating Alec from the only family he knew, the duke would harm him emotionally. Christina, too. Her sister was healthy though, whereas Alec, in a fit of anger or tears, could easily provoke an asthma attack. He could die.

      After giving Sabrina a thoughtful look, Marga wandered to the nearby herb garden. “The world believes Alec and Christine are mine. Our purpose is to shield them. You are old enough to give your grandpapa a good fight. The twins are not.”

      Guilt accompanied Marga’s mild scolding. Her aunt had agreed to the deceit when Sabrina conceived the idea. “My apologies. Yes, you’re right. In a few months, I’ll reach my majority. He’ll have no control over me. Won’t that be a joy?”

      The thought brought a measure of relief, but fear lay coiled in her stomach. Sabrina had lived in dread that her grandfather would discover her whereabouts. Now he had.

      “If we do not meet again, you must do everything possible to insure the twins’ safety,” her mother had pleaded.

      Sabrina’s throat thickened at the recollection and of her vow. After learning from her parents what her grandfather had done to them, she never wanted to meet or claim him as kin.

      “Marga? Aren’t you afraid he’ll discover you worked for Queen Josephine, too? What would I do without you if he...”

      “Accused me of being a French spy like he did your mother?” Marga let out a wry chuckle. “The war was fresh in people’s minds then. Too much time has passed. I was just the queen’s couturiere, an assistant. What can the authorities do now? Browbeat me until I reveal the queen’s measurements?”

      “How can you jest? He could accuse you of instigating the deception. Of kidnapping his heir! I can’t bear the thought of you in jail, or God forbid, hung. Or the nightmares the children will suffer if he rips them from