Daughters of the Summer Storm by Frances Statham (best sci fi novels of all time .TXT) 📗

lifting the boat in the rolling swells. The white sea gulls flying about with their punctuating cries—these were the sights and sounds that she loved.

Crane, slightly ill from the rolling of the water, eyed Marigold resentfully for her obvious enjoyment of the trip.

She gazed out to sea, her hand shielding her amber eyes from the burning sun. They were nearing the island where she had been born—she and Maranta—and a feeling of excitement obliterated the pain and unpleasantness of the previous days.

They would be surprised to see her, with no message to prepare them for her coming. But she had never been much to write. Her parents knew that.

The old lighthouse stood tall and formidable in the distance—the sentinel that had been used by her father as a watchtower for the British ships, the structure that had sheltered her mother from the hurricane as she gave birth that stormy night. And now, Marigold would get to see it up close, walk up its winding steps, and gaze out its broken windows to the sea, to the miles of water where the ships sailed in a line across the horizon, where Maranta herself had sailed half a world away.

Raven and Robbie, Feena, her parents, perhaps even Jason—Marigold was impatient to see them all.

The palm trees and the palmettos came into view, some of the taller ones growing at a strange angle along the sandy beach, bent that way by the buffeting winds. And then, the dock appeared, and the boat slowed, drifting and gliding over the glassy waters.

The boat stayed barely long enough for Marigold and Crane to disembark, before it started up again for the next stop in its journey through the barrier isles off the coast.

Marigold, not certain how far she would have to walk, left her luggage near the wooden pier for a servant to fetch and walked toward the path that was edged with cassina bushes, recently clipped. Crane had rung the bell at the pier to alert everyone of their approach. Marigold shivered, remembering the sound of the other bell near Cedar Hill.

What would she tell her mother—to explain her sudden visit? Because of Jake, she had made her bargain with Crane not to divulge his mistreatment of her. And they need not know about her harried flight in the carriage, especially now that she had left the money for Jake with Mr. Pettigrew at the bank, and the note at the townhouse. Madame Reynaud had been quite helpful, advancing her the money and adding it to her bill for Crane Caldwell.

"Do not be embarrassed, ma petite," the woman had said. "Many husbands are that way—willing to make an outward show, but so very stingy with the household money. You are not the first, and you will not be the last."

Nevertheless, Marigold had held her breath when Crane examined the bill for her clothes. And she had tried to conceal the visible relief when he pulled out his money clip and paid the woman without a fuss.

19

"No," she whispered. "Please—"Her mouth was covered with kisses. She struggled against him, attempting to push him away.

And then Maranta awoke. Alone—with the silken sheet tangled around her arms. She sat up, trying to separate her nightmare from reality. But they were the same.

Her wedding night had been spent, not with her invalid husband, Dom Vasco, but with his arrogant brother Ruis da Monteiro, Count of Sorocaba. He was gone, but his presence remained with her. The imprint of Ruis's head on the pillow beside her was not the only evidence that he had stayed in her bed through the night. Her body felt it, too—his total mastery of her. She tried to rid herself of the feeling of his flesh upon hers, of the half-awakened senses and the shame. But it was impossible.

With a cry, Maranta gazed down at the white lace gown on the floor, barely visible through the still closed silken draperies of the bed. Just when she leaned over to retrieve the gown, the door opened, and Maranta hastily scrambled under the covers to hide her unclothed body.

"I have brought your breakfast, Senhora Maranta," Sassia said, pulling back the draperies of the bed. "The tray is in the sitting room, with hot yerba mate to drink."

"I. . . am not hungry, Sassia," Maranta said, moving still farther down in the bed. Her cheeks were flaming. Did Sassia know?

The girl ignored her comment and continued. "I shall bring hot water for your bath as soon as you have finished your breakfast."

Sassia picked up the gown from the floor and nonchalantly laid it on the bed with the lace peignoir, before leaving the bedroom.

The sob escaped Maranta's lips. She knew. They all knew. Maranta was the only one who had not known. Even the priest—for had he not made it clear to her before her wedding vows that she was to obey Dom Ruis in all things, even above her husband?

Her wedding vows were broken, and she felt wicked. Tears fell silently as she dressed herself in the lace gown that Ruis had removed with his own hands, and then she covered it with the matching peignoir.

Through her tears she saw the blurred outline of the open jewelry case. The Cruzamento da Monteiro. Why had she not given it back to the condessa, or at least let it remain unworn in the jewelry case? But already she knew the answer to that. It was her pride that had made Maranta put it on, her feeling of insignificance before the arrogant conde. If Dom Ruis had not seen her in the chapel with it around her neck, this might never have happened.

"And did you pray for yourself, menina?" His words at Penha came back to her. And now she knew why he had asked her that at the shrine in the hills where miracles were made.

Forgetting the breakfast tray waiting for her, Maranta snatched up the cross of precious jewels. She would take it to the