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LENGTH:Mid-Novel
SENSUALITY: Spicy/Carnal

Cover art (c) Alex DeShanks 2008
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A Willful Beauty--Penniless when she arrives in Norfolk , her mother and father drowned at sea, Raine Brinsley would give anything to return home to her grandfather in Maine . When Derek Stafford, owner of a large plantation, offers a solution to her dilemma, she’s stunned, if not outraged. She’d prefer to fulfill the contract to have his child and forget about him and his self-serving scheme. But she hadn’t counted on the decadently-delicious passion he’d awakened in her.

A Rogue Accustomed To Getting What He Wants--Derek’s only desire was to father an heir for Stafford House, thus securing his future. He didn’t count on the Scottish lass with dark green eyes to interfere with his well-laid plans. But after one night in her arms, guilt, not to mention the loss of his heart, became his penance. Now he’d do anything to get her back, anything to quench the hunger and passion tormenting his soul.

Rating: Spicy/Carnal.

SOJOURN WITH A STRANGER

K. Celeste Bryan

© copyright by K. Celeste Bryan, November 2008

Cover art by Alex DeShanks, November 2008

ISBN 978-1-60394-246-1

New Concepts Publishing

Lake Park, GA 31636

www.newconceptspublishing.com

This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, and places are of the author's imagination and not to be confused with fact. Any resemblance to living persons or events is merely coincidence.

Chapter One

Norfolk, Virginia

October, 1870

Under a gray sky, Derek stared out the nine-pane window in his study and watched the leaves dance at the feet of the massive oaks. With dossier in hand, his steps measured, his expression somber, Horace Masterson tied his horse to the entrance gate of Stafford House and walked up the cobblestone path. A barrister of high repute, Horace had represented the Stafford family for thirty years with the utmost discretion and acumen. Derek had every confidence the latest incident, whatever it entailed, would be dispatched with the same prudence.

At the rap, Derek dropped Masterson's latest missive on his desk and looked toward the study door. "Come in."

"Morning, Derek," Masterson said, shucking his greatcoat.

"Good morning, Horace." Derek nodded toward a wingback in front of the desk. "Something tells me the pressing matter you mentioned in your note will chew up some time."

"Pressing is--is a mite strong," Masterson stammered, "but the sooner we deal with it the better."

Masterson draped his coat over the back of the chair and slumped into it while Derek studied him. The man's closely cropped silver hair, forceful jaw and thin-lipped mouth suited his profession, not to mention the wiry strength of the tall, lanky form that, if need be, intimidated people.

Derek opened the drawer, retrieved a flask and two short glasses and placed them on the desk. After filling them with an ample amount of whiskey, he handed one to Horace and downed his in a heartbeat. "Proceed."

"I'm here to report an accident at sea, sir."

Derek lifted his right eyebrow and asked, "Involving one of my ships?"

"The vessel wasn't damaged, but yes, it did involve the Valor."

Derek rubbed the stubble on his chin. "The Valor if I recall was en route from Camden, Maine after delivering a cargo of cotton and tobacco."

"Your recollection is astute." Horace swung back the amber liquid in his glass and emptied it. "After disposing of the load, she took on the usual passengers and dropped them at their destinations."

Arms folded across his chest, Derek waited for him to continue.

"I have the report." Horace dug into the dossier and handed a piece of paper to Derek.

"Signed by Uriah Kendall," Derek said, scanning the report.

"The Captain, yes, and witnessed by Joseph Nettlecamp."

"Nettlecamp . . . refresh my memory, Horace, why does his name ring familiar?"

"The First Mate on the Pride at one time and then the Conqueror before he transferred to the Valor."

"Ah, yes, now I remember," Derek replied. "A rough sort of bloke who some claim engaged in piracy before the war."

Horace cleared his throat. "That would be Nettlecamp, a large-framed, stocky man and, fortunately for us, an excellent swimmer. Perhaps you'd care to read the report."

Derek scanned it quickly, his usual stoic reserve evaporating. Near the last paragraph, he drew a deep breath. "Good God, two people drowned at sea after Kendall gave them permission to embark on a fishing expedition?"

"One Devon Brinsley and his wife, Sadora. Nettlecamp saved their daughter. It's in the report, sir."

"By God, man, why would Kendall allow them to leave the Valor to embark on a fishing adventure?"

Horace squirmed in the chair. "The man who drowned claimed to be a fisherman in Camden, adept at swimming, fit and fully experienced to handle fickle weather. Moreover, he said he'd be able to extricate himself if a sticky situation arose."

Derek suppressed his anger. "Did he also attest to his wife's," he scanned the paper again, "and his daughter's swimming capabilities should a storm erupt?"

With a pain look, Masterson said, "There is no mention of it in Kendall's statement."

"No, I didn't think so." Derek rose and paced a small area behind his desk. "The report says four individuals left at dawn in a row boat." He rolled his eyes before continuing, "And failed to return to the Valor by dusk."

"That's what it says, yes."

"Has Kendall run amuck? What would possess the man to allow such a thing?"

"He claims fair weather blessed them that morning and Nettlecamp seemed more than capable of chaperoning the outing."

"Until the heavens opened and turned the ocean into a swirling sea of death?"

Horace fiddled with the cuff of his shirt. "That sums up Kendall's assessment of the storm."

"Disastrous, I can think of no other word for it."

"Yes, sir, thus the reason I came immediately upon receiving the report from Kendall last night."

"There will be an inquest of course?"

"Coroner Radcliff from Norfolk began one this morning. Obviously, he'll deem it a misadventure, an accidental death."

Derek took his seat again, rested his chin in his hand and leaned forward. "Deaths, as in two," he said, holding up his fingers.

"Yes, two, and thanks to Nettlecamp there weren't three."

"Saved the girl, did he?"

"He did, sir, and once he reached a nearby island, he lit a fire and signaled the Valor."

"Damn, we're most fortunate Radcliff is conducting investigations now that Union troops have finally abandoned Norfolk."

"My sentiments exactly," Horace said with a smile, his first since entering the room.

Derek's thoughts turned to the war and the occupation of the city, beginning in sixty-two, the year Mayor Lamb surrendered Norfolk to Federal forces under the command of General Benjamin Butler. Only recently, had Union troops vacated and readmitted Virginia to the Union. It would have been easy for him to allow his thoughts to linger on the battles the South had fought to preserve their way of life, effortless to recall Pickett's charge and the resulting wound he suffered, a wound that caused his leg to ache miserably on a damp day, but . . . .

Horace cleared his throat, drawing him from his reverie. "So about Miss Brinsley, Derek."

"The girl, oh, yes, where is she now?"

"She doesn't really fall under the classification of a girl, per se." Another smile from the normally reserved barrister. "More like a nineteen year-old woman, a very comely one, I might add." Masterson pulled the watch from his vest pocket and glanced at the time.

Somewhat annoyed, Derek asked, "Must you be somewhere soon?"

The color rose in Horace's cheeks. "No, not at all. About now, my assistant is retrieving Miss Brinsley from the Cumberland Methodist church on Fenchurch Street and delivering her here."

"Delivering her here?" Derek asked. "Whatever for?"

"For one, to mollify the Reverend, two, to stop the gossipmongers from engaging in surreptitious speculation over what will become of the orphan."

Derek swallowed, hard. "Orphan? Has she no family?"

"I believe she mentioned a grandfather in Camden, sir, one Lewis Brinsley."

"Very well, send her back to him."

"Impossible," Horace said. "Radcliff forbids it. He'll need to depose her, of course, and intensive searches are still underway for the bodies of her parents. Should they be found, there must be proper burials."

"You know the bodies will never be recovered." Derek wagged a stern finger at Masterson. "And what's more, why must we mollycoddle the Reverend?"

"It's all about a good show of faith, no pun intended. Reverend Hall can no longer house the girl. It's a modest parish with only one bedchamber, and again, we have the locals up in arms about the hand fate has dealt the poor girl."

Derek poured another drink and downed it. "Let's not talk this to death. Tell me what it is you expect me to do to end this messy business."

"Offer her shelter and employment. After the dust has settled, she will return to this grandfather she speaks so highly of and the bluebloods of the city will be appeased."

"The bluebloods of the city should mind their own affairs," Derek said indignantly. "How does this pertain--?"

"Unwanted publicity now that everything has finally quieted. The incident has made the local papers but there's a concern it might make the headlines of some Northern papers. Bad public relations, you know."

An exasperated sigh left Derek's lips. "I fail to see how the ill-fated plight of one woman whose parents drowned at sea--"

"On a vessel owned and operated by one of the wealthiest families in Norfolk, whose Captain failed to take the necessary safety precautions when he allowed a family to embark on a fishing expedition in the middle of the ocean. Resulting, I might add, in the drowning of two people which necessitated a lengthy inquest conducted by our very own coroner. Need I say more?"

"Very well," Derek said with his hands in the air. "I'll offer her my own bedchamber if that will satisfy the loose tongues, and she'll be a guest, not an employee."

"The employment is at Miss Brinsley's insistence, sir."

Taken aback, Derek stammered, "She--she insists on working for her fare back to Maine?"

Horace nodded.

"Rather cheeky, isn't she?"

Another nod. "I think you'll agree she's got pluck, but in an unassuming way."

"What qualifications does she possess?"

"Never worked a day in her life from what I can surmise, however, she's adamant she not be forced to accept charity. She doesn't want to impose, but knows she doesn't have a choice at this time."

"Can she cook?"

Horace shook his head.

"Has she served a manor before?"

Another shake of his head.

"What do you suggest I do with her, put a scrub bucket in her hand, a bar of lye soap and turn her loose?"

"Perhaps Crete will be able to tutor her, at least until the smoke clears." Horace rose from his chair and stuffed his long arms into the sleeves of his greatcoat. "This way, she'll have a roof over her head due to your kind benevolence and she won't feel indebted to you or anyone else until Radcliff says she can leave."

"Where are you going?"

"I really must be on my way. I have another appointment and Miss Brinsley should arrive any minute."

Before Masterson ducked from the room Derek asked, "Have you spoken to my father about this?"

"Most assuredly, and he agrees that for diplomatic reasons, it's the only way to proceed."

Derek headed for the kitchen in search of Crete the moment Masterson ducked out the door. The trusted house servant had been a constant presence at Stafford House long before he entered the world and she would know what to do about their expected guest.

* * * *

Reverend Hall's mellifluous voice called to Raine through the bedchamber door. "Mister Andrews has arrived, Raine. Are you ready?"

Raine opened the door with the small satchel under her arm and smiled before she stepped out. "Ready as ready can be."

"I don't know Derek Stafford personally, but I have it on good authority you'll be in safe hands." He gave her a reassuring hug. "It's only temporary, until you can secure passage to Maine."

"Thank you for your kindness, Reverend, I shall never forget it."

"May God go with you, child, and if for any reason you need my services again, please don't hesitate to call on me."

Raine took a deep breath and walked from the church. Seth Andrews waited for her beside the carriage. Handsome, young and blond, he smiled and extended his hand to assist her into the buggy. From time to time, Seth glanced in her direction, offered additional smiles, but said little. His obvious shyness gave her ample time to gather her scattered thoughts and sadly, reflect on the death of her parents, an event that had fractured her heart and plunged her into dire straights in the blink of an eye.

"We're here now, Miss," Seth said, climbing from the transport to assist her down. "I'll wait until someone answers the door."

Raine nodded and moments later, stood before a two-story, red brick mansion outside the village proper of Norfolk. Four alabaster columns reached skyward near the front door, bathed in the shade of a Virginia willow that sat precariously close to the front porch. Dogwoods and rose azalea bushes drowsed lazily beneath the bright morning sun, edging the full length of the cobblestone walkway leading to the ostentatious manor. Contrary to the houses they'd passed near town--residences with a Dutch flair, hip roofed with dormers above the windows, and a chimney at each end dividing the dining room from the drawing room--the impressive structure bespoke of great wealth.

Draped in black satin, a bow with long sashes covered the brass knocker on the scarlet door. She drew a deep breath, flexed her trembling hand and reached for the knocker. During the sum of her life, all nineteen years, she'd never sought employment or for that matter, dreamed it would become necessary. She swallowed the lump in her throat and rapped. The click of heels against a marble floor on the other side of the door approached. She steeled herself for the face-to-face encounter.

"Afternoon, Miss." The servant nodded and pulled the massive door open. "You must be Raine Brinsley."

Dressed in a neat, dark gray shift, a white cotton apron hugged the woman's waist. She eyed Raine head to foot, beginning with her cream-colored, cotton wrapper and the pale gold blouse beneath it. She lowered her gaze to the ankle-length, print skirt and settled on the shiny, black shoes peeking out below her hemline. Raine had brushed her long, dark hair into a high gloss that morning before tying it with a ribbon at the nape of her neck, but now her fingers flew to the unruly tendrils stirring at her forehead and cheekbones.

"Good afternoon, ma'am. Yes, Rainetta . . . Raine Brinsley."

"Mister Stafford is expecting you. "Please," she said with a smile. "Come with me."

Raine nodded and stepped into the foyer. Beyond the long entry, two doors came into view, one on the left, and one straight ahead, their arched frames also draped in the mournful black crepe.

The servant turned to her. "My name is Crete."

"A pretty name, ma'am."

"My father had a vivid imagination and a penchant for the Greek islands."

"I'm familiar with Crete," she said, following her down the foyer. "A mountainous island near the Aegean Sea."

Crete pivoted and placed her hands on her hips. "I'm impressed. There aren't many who are familiar with the origin of the name."

"Well I've never been to the Greek Islands, but I've seen sketches in picture books. My grandfather believed in the education of children, male and female."

Crete ushered her to a spacious sitting room to the left of the foyer and pointed to a high, wingback. "I'll let Mister Stafford know you're here." Before Raine had a chance to respond, the servant turned to her with a sympathetic look. "I'm sorry about your parents."

The familiar sickening dread she'd felt for the last three days returned. Trying hard to dismiss it, she settled into the chair, removed the cotton wrapper and set the satchel at her feet. She scanned the room and its furnishings. A Chickering and Sons piano, with an assortment of framed daguerreotypes on top, sat below a large window and reminded her of the Steinway at home. She struggled to control the nostalgic rush of loneliness pinching her heart. A tapestry sofa with matching high-back chairs hugged the cozy fireplace, and nearby, an oak table held a copy of the family Bible, next to Jane Austen's Sense and Sensibility. Towering oak shelves, stuffed with history annals, atlases and a varied collection of novels and poetry books flanked the gray, stone hearth.

Instinctively drawn to the fire, she rose and stopped to study the pictures on the piano. The first was of an elderly couple. The man sat in a chair and the woman stood beside him with her arm draped over his shoulder. The picture in the middle portrayed a family, a man, his wife, and three young girls--mirror images of their mother. The father of the girls looked glum. His eyes were wide-set; his nose long and pointed, and pock marks appeared on his cheeks and chin. Raine imagined his hair the color of pulp inside a squash.

She picked up the third frame and studied it. The man, a fine specimen of the male species, stood next to a pale, birdlike woman seated in a chair. Neither smiled. In fact, the woman gripped the arms of the chair so tightly, her knuckles appeared white. Perhaps brother and sister.

She jumped at the sound of his voice. "My wife and I several years ago."

She returned the picture to the piano, mortified she'd been caught holding it.

"On the left, my mother and father, Elne and Julian Stafford." His slow southern drawl, distinct and pleasing, resonated in the room. "In the middle, my brother, Lyman, his wife Zilpha, and their three daughters, Olive, Ophelia, and Odessa."

With a stammer, she turned to him. "Sorry, I--I wasn't snooping. On my way to the fire I stopped--"

"No need to apologize. Miss Brinsley, isn't it?"

"Raine Brinsley, yes."

"Miss Brinsley," he said, bowing at the waist. "I'm Derek Stafford."

She met his gaze and replied with a short curtsy, "My pleasure."

"Please, sit down." With a flourish of his hand, he directed her toward the wingbacks near the hearth.

Tall, lean and well-muscled, apparently the man engaged in physical activity on a regular basis. Dressed in a white cotton shirt and snug-fitting, dark trousers, he looked every bit the virile man in the picture. A morning's stubble etched his firm jaw line and matched the black hair touching the collar of his shirt. Raine wondered if her short-notice arrival had interrupted his morning of leisure. If so, leisureliness suited him.

"Thank you, I'd rather stand."

He walked to a nearby chair and settled into it. "Gettysburg. I had the misfortune of serving under General Pickett when he ordered the charge against the Federal line. Took a round in my hip."

This wasn't going well in her opinion. He probably thought her a snoop, and now a gawker. "Sorry, sir, I didn't mean to stare."

"Think nothing of it," he said with a wave of his hand. "You're quite observant. Most don't seem to notice or perhaps they hide it better." He changed the subject. "I heard about the accident at sea."

She nodded.

"On behalf of the Stafford family, I apologize for the loss of your parents."

Pangs of grief washed over her.

"A foolish decision on Captain Kendall's part to allow such an outing."

"My father can be quite persuasive, and the weather blew fair until . . . until a storm suddenly appeared."

"The Captain should have anticipated it." A long breath left his lips. "You met Horace Masterson last evening?"

Another nod.

"He informs me your father claimed to be a fisherman."

Her knees trembled, and she could have kicked herself for not taking the chair he offered. "Yes, in Maine, but he had a silly notion he could earn more selling his catch in Norfolk."

"Well that remains to be proven, but we must deal with your welfare now."

She found it difficult to concentrate with those intense azure blue eyes studying her. His other features were balanced and symmetric, not one overpowering the other. Well, maybe his mouth, but only slightly. Exceedingly handsome, some internal organ below her waist throbbed and it took all her will to tear her eyes from his face.

"Tell me about this grandfather in Camden," he said.

A mental picture of Lewis Brinsley, a well-muscled Scotsman with eyes that crinkled at the corners when he smiled, loomed before her and brought a sense of calm. "My only living relative in America now."

"He must be contacted, of course. Has anyone offered to post a letter for you?"

Panic rose in her throat. "Yes, but I insisted Reverend Hall not write to him."

"Why is that?" he asked.

"He's quite elderly and his health is fragile. I'm determined to tell him in person."

"But surely he'd want to know about the deaths, be assured you've arrived safe and sound."

She shook her head. "Please, do not inform him in this manner. When I've earned enough passage, I'll return and tell him myself."

"Ah, that's right, earned your passage. I seem to remember Masterson broaching the ridiculous subject."

"It's not ridiculous to me, sir."

"Forgive me if I sound crass, but surely when you returned to the Valor, your parents' belongings, coin or traveling money, remained intact?"

"Clothes, sir, and a few inconsequential items, but I'm afraid my father stashed the coin around his waist in a belt. Lost, at the bottom of the ocean and . . . ."

"I see," Derek said, rising from the chair. "It isn't necessary you work to earn your passage. I own three ships. The Valor sails to eastern shores delivering goods on a routine basis. After Mister Radcliff, the coroner, finishes with his inquest, you'll be free to return to your grandfather at my expense."

She lifted her chin. "It isn't possible, Mister Stafford. I won't take your charity."

"Please don't consider it charity. Call it compensation for the death of your parents while aboard one of my ships. It's only reasonable that--"

"No," she said quite firmly.

His tone abrupt, he said, "Don't you think it a little foolish at this point to harbor stubborn pride?"

She grabbed the wrapper from the chair, picked up her satchel and headed for the door. "Thank you for your time, Mister Stafford."

"Wait! Where are you going?"

"Back to Reverend Hall. He said if I had any--"

"That won't be necessary." His voice urgent, he said, "I'm sure we can work something out." Pacing, he glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. "What type of work suits you?"

"I could tutor your children. I'm quite adept at reading and writing and I have a smattering of passable French."

A smile curled his lips. "I have no children, Miss Brinsley."

"Oh." A long pause before she continued. "I can clean, learn to cook, anything to earn my way."

He continued his harried gait for a moment, stopped, and looked at her askance. "Very well, I'll ask Crete to think of something you can do to assist her."

She smiled. "How much does the position pay?"

"Ten dollars a month, room and board. How does that sound?" He raised a brow at her hesitation. "What is it, Miss Brinsley?"

"The fare to Maine is one hundred dollars," she replied, knowing she sounded desperate. "I'm certain the position should be worth fifteen dollars a month."

He tossed his head back and laughed.

"What?" she asked. "Do you find that amusing, outrageous, or simply out of the question?"

"No, it's not outrageous. Horace said you had pluck, I should have anticipated it."

She offered her best smile. "You won't be disappointed, Mister Stafford. I'm a hard worker, certainly no slacker, and a fast learner."

"Agreed then," he said, extending his arm.

She shook his hand and released it quickly when a jolt of heat shot up her arm.

"Do you have any other questions or concerns?"

She glanced at the picture of him and Lucinda.

"My wife passed on six months ago." He ran his fingers through the hair at his forehead. "Thus the reason for the dreadful black crepe adorning every doorway in the damn house." His eyes moved on to the long sashes over the archways. "Your first duty tomorrow will be to take it all down. I grow weary of looking at it, and I'm certain the spinsters and dowagers of Norfolk agree I've complied with the appropriate period of mourning."

"Yes, Mister Stafford. I'll see it's removed first thing. Will that be all?"

"No," he said, the striking blue eyes gazing into hers. "Is your Christian name Raine?"

She shook her head. "It's Rainetta. Raine's a pet name from my grandfather."

"Raine it shall be then. If there's anything you need in the line of clothing," he said, scanning her head-to-toe in the same manner Crete had done moments ago, "there's an armoire and a bureau stuffed with Lucinda's garments in the master bedchamber. Feel free to choose whatever you find suitable."

"I have everything I need right here," she replied, still clutching the satchel.

He seemed relieved the interview had ended. "You must be quite tired after all the commotion of the last several days."

Physically exhausted, emotionally drained. "Somewhat, yes."

"I'll find Crete and she will show you to your room." With another bow, he added, "My sympathies again, Miss Brinsley, and please call me Derek."

"Thank you, Derek," she said and turned to leave.

Crete found her in the foyer. If she disagreed with Derek's decision, she kept it to herself. Pleasing to look at, the woman's eyes were an earthy brown, her nose narrow, and her lips neither sparse nor full. Average in height and weight, she carried herself with confidence and grace.

"Come along, Miss Brinsley, a hot cup of tea awaits you and then I'll show you to your sleeping quarters."

"Please call me Raine."

"Raine it is. Mister Stafford insists you rest for the remainder of the day. You'll begin your duties in the morning."

Grateful for the reprieve, Raine nodded. Ushered to a table in Crete's kitchen, she glanced around the room while waiting for the tea. Well organized, neat and immaculately clean, the woman obviously took great pride in her duties at Stafford House.

Crete joined her at the table, poured two cups of ginger tea and set one before her. "Mister Stafford eats in the dining room, but we take our meals in here. One night a week, Julian Stafford, Derek's father, and Elne, his mother, arrive for dinner."

"The elderly couple in the picture, yes, Mister Stafford mentioned them."

"They'll arrive tomorrow night."

"I haven't served a manor before, but whatever you need me to do, you need only inform me."

"We'll go over it in the morning," the woman said with a friendly smile. "Breakfast is at seven o'clock sharp, so if you want to eat, you best be down here."

Raine wrapped her fingers around the warm mug and delighted in her first cup in several days. "Yes, ma'am, I'll be prompt."

Crete rose to stir a pot on the stove. A mouth-watering aroma, reminiscent of pot roast and vegetables reached Raine's nostrils. Other than the meager offerings from the Reverend, she hadn't had a decent meal in days.

Crete handed her a place setting of fine china and sterling silverware from a nearby shelf. "Wash your hands first and set these on the table in the dining room. Mister Derek will be taking his noontime meal after his ride."

Raine rose from the table with a nod.

"I'll have a bowl of stew waiting for you."

A black man entered through the back door of the kitchen. While Raine washed her hands in the basin, he gave her a broad smile.

"This is Henry," Crete offered. "Mister Derek's manservant." Still smiling, Henry grabbed a bowl from the shelf and filled it with the roast beef, carrots, and potatoes. "And this is Raine Brinsley; she'll be helping in the manor.

"If'n ya needs something' from ol' Henry, ya jess ask." He nodded, sat down at the table and dove into the stew.

Raine liked him immediately. Something about his mannerisms reminded her of Grandfather. "Pleased to meet you, Henry."

Raine took the plate and silverware into the dining room, set it on the table and breathed a sigh of relief. Since the accident, she'd been sick with worry over her sorry state of affairs, but at least now she had secured employment. She would return to Grandfather in Camden once she'd earned enough for passage. Returning to the kitchen, she resumed her chair at the table and waited for the bowl of stew, her heart lighter than it had been in days.