Blackhearts (Blackhearts, #1)(23)

shot each other dark looks.

It was left to William to try to lighten the mood.

When Anne returned to the kitchen later in the evening,

after the guests had retired, she removed the dress and held

it up to the candlelight. Just as she’d suspected, the stain was still there, although it had faded somewhat. About to return it to the water, she noticed that the seam on one of the sleeves had come undone. She yanked at the thread, but instead of the thread breaking, the material simply continued to unravel.

Glancing over her shoulder, she quickly returned the dress to

the pot, feeling as if she’d been tricked.

The dress might have been new, and Anne could do her

best to return it to its former splendor, but there was no denying that it was poorly made.

Much like Miss Patience herself.





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C H A P T E R 8

Anne

The carriage drove away the next day in the pouring rain,

the last of the houseguests safely inside it, along with Master

Drummond himself. He was going with the Herveys in an

attempt to smooth things over between the baron’s daughter

and his son. Their estate was a few hours’ ride from the city,

and they planned to discuss in which Hervey property Miss

Patience and Teach would live. Coming from one of the oldest

baronies in the country, the Herveys maintained four separate

properties.

Standing alone in the doorway, Anne stared after them,

wondering what she’d done to deserve such a heinous punishment. She was to tend to Teach until he was well, because he

was too ill to travel with the rest of the party. Lady Hervey and Miss Patience had practically pushed each other out of the way to exit the house once Teach’s illness had been confirmed.





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Anne was not sorry to see them go and hoped they would not return before she quitted the house for good.

Behind her, Margery clucked like a mother hen, handing

her some tea. “Here you go, Anne. Take this up to Mr. Edward

now. See if his fever is any worse.”

Resigned, she took the tray from Margery’s hands. “I don’t

see why Sara can’t take it up to him,” Anne said. “Now that the

master is gone, she should be free to leave the kitchen.”

Margery shot her a sharp look. “Last night the young master requested that you bring the tea up to him in the morning,

not Sara.”

With his father no longer at home, Teach apparently got

what he wanted. Anne was quite sure the Drummond men

wouldn’t know what to do if somebody outside the family ever

said no to them.

The back stairs were dim, the rain hitting the windows with

an intensity that rattled the panes. The sky outside fit her mood perfectly.

Anne reached the door and tapped it with her foot.

There was no response.

Should I take the tea back down? Or simply leave it by his bedside and hope that he wakes up before it’s too cold?

Pushing the knob, Anne stepped into the shadowy interior, the

room so dark that she could barely make out a form lying in the

bed. After setting the tea on the table, being careful not to wake him, she turned to leave, and tripped over something on the floor.





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It was a book, the pages weathered and worn. Crossing to the window, she held it up to the sliver of light falling between the heavy curtains, so as to read the title. A New Voyage Round the World by someone by the name of William Dampier. This was most likely the same volume he’d gone searching for yesterday after the picnic. Right before he’d vomited on his

bride-to-be.

This was not some silly book. A “voyage” meant “traveling

other than by a land route.” It meant the open sea.

It meant freedom.

Curious, she read a page, for it had been more than a year

since she’d last held something this dear in her hands.

I first set out of England on this voyage at the beginning of the year 1679, in the Loyal Merchant of London, bound for Jamaica, Captain Knapman Commander. I went a passen-ger, designing when I came thither, to go from thence to the Bay of Campeachy, in the Gulf of Anne did not face the bed but suddenly knew he was awake.

The skin prickled on the back of her neck, and she turned

slowly, guilt causing her features to flush.

Teach watched her, no longer reclining but sitting up in

his bed, his features pallid. “Are they gone?” he asked, his voice hoarse.

It took her a moment to register his words, for she saw that





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his nightshirt gaped open at the collar, clinging to his chest, drenched with sweat.

He repeated his question. “The houseguests. My father. Are

they gone?”

“Ye . . . yes,” Anne stammered. “About a quarter of an hour

ago, sir.”

He nodded and closed his eyes.

Returning to the bedside, she placed the book next to the

tray and poured him a cup of tea. “Drink this, sir,” she said,

holding it out to him.

Opening his eyes, he glanced in her direction. He took the