Wild Yearning Read online

  “OH, ANNE, DON’T YOU SEE?

  I LOVE TY,

  BUT HE DOESN’T LOVE ME.

  “And there’s a tender side to him, a hurting side, although I think sometimes he hates that part of himself. But he knows how I feel about him, how deeply I love him, and it makes him feel so uncomfortable and guilty and—”

  “He should feel guilty!”

  Tears welled in Delia’s eyes. “No, no, you don’t understand. He touched me with his magic hands and I fell in love and he couldn’t help that any more than he can help breathing. But if I marry Nat, Ty can stop feeling so bad about me, about me being in love with him.” Her mouth twisted into a watery, rueful smile. “And when the day comes that Ty marries, I’ll rejoice for him, aye, for he’ll be happy then. He’s not happy now. He’s lonely, lonely and sad.”

  My God, Anne thought, to be loved like that. Tyler Savitch was no fool after all. To be loved like that … No wonder he was frightened.

  PRAISE FOR AWARD-WINNING AUTHOR

  PENELOPE WILLIAMSON

  “One of the premier writers of historical fiction.”*

  “Immensely gifted and talented.”**

  AND HER PREVIOUS BEST-SELLING NOVELS

  ONCE IN A BLUE MOON

  “Once in a Blue Moon is not a light, sweet romance. The powerful scenes are filled with beautiful language and moments of memorable emotions. And never fear, there’s plenty of delightful humor as well. Penny has become one of the premier writers of historical fiction. It’s easy to see why.”

  —The Time Machine*

  “This tale is written in the tradition of Emily Bronte’s Wuthering Heights. … Most successfully done!”

  —Heartland Critiques

  “This is a tale of seething emotions, of obsession and reckless desperation, and of enduring love. Scenes between Jessalyn and McCady are fraught with tension and a soul-stirring passion. … Characters are intriguing and well defined … sensitive and heartwarming. Overall, there is everything a romance lover could ask for.”

  —Rendezvous

  “The immensely gifted and talented Penelope Williamson has penned a love story that defies all others. Intense, heart wrenching, wondrous, profound, sensual, and realistic, Jessalyn and McCady’s plight will cause your heart to bleed and sing as you live and breathe their sorrows and their joys. Definitely Ms. Williamson’s tour de force, this book is not to be missed.”

  —Romantic Times**

  KEEPER OF THE DREAM

  “One of the most beautiful love stories I’ve ever read.”

  —Julie Garwood

  “Arianna and Raine are two impassioned lovers who will make you laugh and cry and keep you reading and guessing until the last page. Keeper of the Dream is a gripping novel, don’t miss it.”

  —Catherine Coulter

  “A wonderful read. I was hooked from the first page and the magic continues throughout.”

  —Johanna Lindsey

  “REMARKABLE … Penelope Williamson has crafted a tale that holds you mesmerized with its emotional intensity, magic, mystery, and sensuality. … It is a story that combines the magical with the historical, romance with mysticism, and wonder with reality. Her finest work to date!”

  —Romantic Times

  “This is the essence of romance!”

  —Affaire de Coeur

  “A fascinating adventure of intrigue, mysterious appearances, visions, dreams, magic, fate, and the greatest adventure of them all: love.”

  —Rendezvous

  Also by Penelope Williamson

  KEEPER OF THE DREAM

  ONCE IN A BLUE MOON

  Boston, Massachusetts Bay Colony

  May 1721

  “Delia, ye bitch, ye get yersel’ back here! If I gotta be comin’ after ye, girl …”

  The door banged open, slamming hard against the wall, and a girl stumbled over the threshold. She landed on her hands and knees on the stoop with a thud, her back hunched, her breath rasping harshly in her throat.

  A couple of boys were playing huzzlecaps at the dead end of the alley, and they looked up at the sound of the door crashing open. The sight of the girl, with her dark hair in tangles around her face and her eyes open wide with fear, made them scoop up their pennies and run out onto the docks.

  “Delia!”

  The angry, drunken bellow jolted the girl to her feet. Clinging with one hand to the rickety railing, she jumped from the stoop, swinging around … and skidded to a stop.

  For there, weaving his way among the fishing nets spread out to dry in the sun—and directly in the path of her escape—was the stocky, barrel-chested figure of Constable Dunlop.

  The constable paused and turned his back to her, staring out over the bay to watch a royal frigate as it pulled up to the Long Wharf. The girl took a cautious step forward, then froze as she saw his bulky shoulders start to turn again in her direction.

  From above her came the sound of a stool falling over, followed by another bellow. “Bloody hell!” Iron pots clattered to the floor and something thudded against the wall. “I know Ye’ve more hidden in here somewheres an’ ye’ll give it over, ye bitch, if ye know what’s good for ye … Delia!”

  As though he were a fox that had just gotten scent of a rabbit, the constable’s head jerked up. Biting back a groan of despair, the girl dropped to her knees and scurried like a beetle beneath the stoop.

  Only two steps tall and built of wood that had long ago begun to rot, the stoop led to a stairway which ran up from the waterfront alley to their living quarters above a dilapidated cooper’s shop. Not much could fit under there but a few rats and spiders—and a skinny, seventeen-year-old girl running from a beating.

  “Delia! Goddamn yer hide!”

  She heard the thud of her father’s feet stumbling on the stairs, followed by the squish of Constable Dunlap’s shoes as he started down the slop-strewn alley. Delia pressed her face into the earth to stifle the sound of her heavy breathing; the mud was slimy against her cheek and smelled of mildew and rotting fish.

  The constable’s feet stopped in line with Delia’s eyes. He was so close she could plainly see the splatters of mud and dung that decorated his bleached leather gaiters.

  The constable hawked and sent a glob of tobacco and spittle into the dirt within inches of Delia’s face. “Hoy there, McQuaid,” he called out. “What’s this ruckus all about, eh?”

  The boards above her head groaned and sagged as her father stepped onto the stoop.

  “Oh, ’tis ye, constable …” Ezra McQuaid’s voice had sobered a bit at the sight of an officer of the law. A man could spend twelve hours in the stocks for public drunkenness and disturbing the peace. “Ye wouldn’t happen t’ have seen my Delia, would ye—a-hightailin’ it outta here hell-bent for breakfast?”

  The constable hawked and spat again. “Can’t say I did. But then I was looking out to bay-side. The Moravia’s just pulled in. It’ll be a quiet night tonight, what with the press gangs out. Any man with two sound legs will be tucked up safe inside and out of sight. … So what’s the wench done now, eh?”

  “She came across sixpence I had put away for a rainy day,” Ezra McQuaid said, the whine of self-pity in his voice. “Made off with it, she did, an’ I mean t’ give her a beltin’ for it. It’s a sin against God, it is, for a girl t’ steal from her own da.”

  Oh, ye liar, Delia thought. The sixpence had been hers, and she had hidden it within a crock of lard. But he had sniffed it out with uncanny ability, the way he always could when the thirst was on him. Yet even buying cheap beer at a penny a quart, the sixpence hadn’t been enough this time. It was like that with her da. Once the thirst was on him he couldn’t stop until he drank himself insensible. When the beer had run out he’d come after her, d
emanding more money that she didn’t have. Then he’d started in on her with his fist.

  “You should’ve married the wench off long afore now,” Constable Dunlop was saying, clucking his tongue in sympathy. “Let someone else take over the disciplining of her.”

  Ezra McQuaid’s laugh rumbled like thunderclaps from deep within his big belly. “Are ye a-offerin’ for her then, sir?”

  “Who, me? Lord, no. She’s too saucy by half.”

  The men shared another laugh. Then Dunlop sighed softly. “Well, I should be out about my rounds. If I run across your girl, I’ll haul her back to you to face the piper, eh?”

  “You do that, sir, and with my thanks. But if ye spot her working at the Frisky Lyon, best just let her be. We need the gilt, ye know, an’ I can always get my licks in later.”

  The constable snorted a chuckle and shot another wad of spittle onto the ground. “Aye, that you can. Well, good day to you, McQuaid.”

  The muddy gaiters turned and disappeared. Then the boards above Delia’s head creaked, and she heard the door latch clicking into place.

  Quiet descended on the alley while Delia lay motionless. A breeze started up, finding its way beneath the stoop to caress her sweaty face. It brought with it the briny reek of salted cod and the knocking of the cooper’s mallet from the shop next door. Her da had been a cooper once, before the drink had gotten hold of him.

  She poked her head out from beneath the stoop, looking around slowly, like a cat let out of a basket. Then, pressing her hands into the squishy mud, she began to push herself forward.

  A fist snaked down to grab her by the hair, hauling her to her feet. Delia bit back a scream as Ezra McQuaid shoved his face into hers.

  His lips disappeared into his black beard, baring his teeth. “Ye thought I’d gone back inside, didn’t ye, girl? But I fooled ye. Oh, aye, I fooled ye right an’ proper. Where’s the gilt?”

  “There isn’t more, Da. I swear t’ ye—”

  “Lying li’l slut!”

  Still holding her by the hair, he shook her roughly, lifting her off her feet. He let her go, but as she started to fall, he pulled back his arm and, swinging his fist wide around, slammed it into her midriff.

  Pain flooded through her, so hot and intense it robbed her of breath and brought burning vomit to her throat. The force of the blow spun her around and sent her flying face-first against the railing of the stoop. The rotted wood collapsed beneath her, wrenching the arm she had thrown out to break her fall.

  He came after her. She twisted her head in panic, and for one brief moment she was frozen, mesmerized by his yellow eyes that glowed at her from beneath the shaggy fringe of his hair. She had one thought—that this time he wouldn’t stop until he’d killed her.

  Her hands clawed beneath her as she tried desperately to push herself to her feet so that she could run, run … and her fingers closed around a piece of the shattered railing. Whirling, she rose up and heaved it at his head.

  Immediately she was fleeing down the alley, her bare feet slipping and sliding on the piles of refuse and slops. She heard his cry of surprise and pain, followed by a snarl of rage, and it only made her run faster. Then she was out on the wharf, her feet pounding on the wooden boards, dodging in and out among the barrels and crates, skirting a pair of pigs rooting through a heap of fish guts.

  She didn’t stop running until she’d passed Sear’s Shipyard and the Ship Street wharf. Leaning against the rough plank boards of a rope works shed, she fought for air, her lungs heaving like bellows in her chest. Pain knifed her side where he had hit her. Gingerly, she felt her rib cage, worried something might have broken.

  “Oh, Da…”

  Tears filled her eyes, and she leaned her head back, squeezing her lids shut—but they immediately flew open again as a pair of hands landed against the wall, bracketing her face.

  “Here you are, luv. I’ve been looking all over for you.”

  Delia gazed into vivid blue eyes that stared back at her from beneath a shock of curly blond hair only partially covered by a red cloth cap. “Tom … ye startled me.”

  The young man’s wide mouth started to stretch into a smile, only to turn down at the corners at the last minute. “What’s the matter with you then?”

  Delia wiped at a stray tear that had somehow managed to escape down her cheek. “Nothin’.” She drew in a shallow breath and forced a smile of her own. “An’ what’re ye doing out and about in the middle of a Monday afternoon? What if old Jake were t’ catch ye?” Tom Mullins was bonded to Jake Steerborn, the blacksmith. If Jake found out his servant was strolling the quay when he should have been tending to the forge, Tom would be in for a flogging.

  “The old bastard stepped out for a bite and a tot of rum,” Tom said. “I’ll not stand about in this heat and pump up a fire for someone who’s not there.” He flashed her a sudden grin and stroked her cheek with his knuckles. “Where’ve you been these last few days? I’ve missed you …”

  He started to lower his lips to hers, and she turned her head aside. But he cupped her chin, pulling her head back around, and in the end she let him kiss her.

  But when his hands began to fumble with the laces of her bodice and his tongue pushed through her teeth into her mouth, she suddenly remembered why she had been avoiding Tom Mullins lately and pulled away from him.

  “Don’t, Tom. We shouldn’t. … Nothin’ can come of it,” she added after a moment. For as a bond servant he couldn’t take a wife until after he’d served his indenture. “Ye’ve four more years yet t’ work off afore we can marry an’—”

  “Marry! Who said anything about marriage?” Tom’s handsome features had stiffened into anger, and his hand slammed against the wall beside her face, making her jump. “Damn you, Delia, you little tease! You’ve given out before. Why not with me?”

  Delia sucked in a sharp breath. “Who’s been sayin’ such things?”

  “Everyone. Everyone at the Frisky Lyon.”

  She shoved hard against his chest, surprising him so that he took a step backward. “Well, everyone is lyin’! I’m no tart, Thomas Mullins, and if ye can think that of me then I don’t care if I never set eyes on ye again!”

  She pushed away from the shed wall and started down the quay, but he seized her arm, hauling her back around to face him. Thinking he was going to hit her, she steeled herself for the blow. Then she saw the anger collapse within him.

  “Delia, I’m sorry …”

  “Let go of me,” she demanded through stiff lips.

  He released her arm, but not before giving it a hard squeeze, hard enough to leave bruises.

  “Christ, Delia, do you have any idea what it is you do to a man?” He stuffed his hands into the waistband of his homespun breeches and looked down at his bare feet. Then his head jerked back up and his face tightened. “Oh, you know. Aye, I think you know. The way you look at a man all beckoning-like with those strange gold eyes of yours. Cat’s eyes. And the way you talk with that voice of yours, all rough and husky like a boy’s. You know damn well how much your doing that makes a man want to—”

  But Delia couldn’t bear to hear any more. She whirled and ran away from him, and though he called after her she did not look back.

  She’d seen the intent in his eyes. He was all set to hit me, she thought. Oh, he hadn’t hit her this time and he might not the next, but one day his temper would get the best of him and he’d let fly with his fists … just like her da.

  * * *

  The Frisky Lyon was only one of many grog shops that dotted the waterfront, offering cheap drink to the leather aprons —the workingmen, such as the blacksmiths and coopers and stevedores who earned their livings servicing the ships that plied the bay. It was where Delia McQuaid had worked since she was fourteen.

  She didn’t whore though, in spite of what Tom Mullins thought, and everyone said. She waited tables, and that was a long way from whoring even to the nastiest of minds. So now, as she stood within the sagging doorway of the crowde
d, smoky taproom, she tried to guess which of the laughing, boisterous men has started the ugly rumors about her.

  Oh, every one of them had at one time or other asked her to come up the stairs with him, but that was the way of men. She had never held it against a man for asking, as long as he kept his hands to himself and accepted no for an answer. It had been two years since she’d even had shoes for her feet, yet she could have earned the price of a pair with a single trip up the Frisky Lyon’s back stairs. Pride had stopped her. Pride and a surety that if she lay just once with a man for money, she would be so deep in the gutter she would never be able to claw her way out.

  Yet now some man had named her whore and everyone believed it, and the thought cut at the wick of Delia’s pride, hurting worse than her bruised ribs.

  “Ye’re late, wench.” A breath that reeked of sausages blew against Delia’s ear, and she turned to look into the fleshy, pocked face of Sally Jedrup, owner of the Frisky Lyon and two other grog shops along the waterfront. Sally had a fat dimple in the middle of her chin and it puckered as she spoke. “I’ll not be payin’ ye good siller just so’s ye can come strollin’ in any sweet time ye damn well please—”

  “I’m not late,” Delia snapped back, although she didn’t feel capable of standing up to Sally’s bullying tonight. She took a wooden tray loaded with rum-filled noggins out of the woman’s pudgy hands. “Where does this lot go?”

  “To yon noisy clods sittin’ against the wall. And mind you don’t spill a drop,” she called out to Delia’s retreating back, “or I’ll have the cost of such outta yer wages.”

  As Delia carried the tray to the group of topers sitting on benches in the back of the room, she noticed one of them was the blacksmith, Jake Steerborn. In spite of her disillusionment with Tom Mullins, Delia was still glad to see that, with his master otherwise occupied, the young man wouldn’t be caught slacking on his chores.