honestly—” Victoria began.
Bartholomew did not take his seat again. “I must be going,” he told Victoria. He smiled, telling her he understood.
And in his eyes, and in his touch as he delicately kissed her fingers in farewell, he was certain that she knew he would wait for her, a lifetime, if need be.
“I shall see you out,” Wyeth told him.
“Thank you, sir,” Bartholomew said.
The pretense ended when Victor Wyeth led Bartholomew outside. “Sir, you will not come near my daughter again, do you understand? She is a lady, and far above the reach of a pirate such as yourself.”
“I am not a pirate, Mr. Wyeth,” Bartholomew said.
Wyeth waved a hand in the air. “I know your past. You will stay away from my daughter.”
Bartholomew meant to do all the right things, but he couldn’t accept such a statement. “What if your daughter is not of the same mind?” he demanded.
“My daughter will do as I say. And I am best of friends with Commodore Porter—I can see to it that you regret any trouble you cause me,” Wyeth said.
Bartholomew stared at him. “I don’t bow down to threats, Mr. Wyeth. If Victoria tells me to stay away, then that is what I will do. Good day, sir.”
He turned and left before they could get into a screaming match, or, God forbid, a brawl. He walked down the street with his head high, his stride long and strong.
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