Andrew: Lord of Despair (18 page)

Arabella steered the talk thereafter to pleasantries— the increasingly cold and gray weather, the prospect of Felicity’s confinement in the coming month, the approach of the holidays.

“We haven’t resolved your situation, Astrid,” Arabella said, lest the girl feel her woes were ignored. “The only advice I can give you is to be patient. Andrew is a good man, if stubborn and proud. His father was the same way, and I can’t tell you the number of times I threatened to take my boys and go home to my mother.”

Gwen passed Rose a slice of white cheese flecked with caraway seeds. “You still miss him, your Robert?”

Need she even ask? Privileges had courteously decided that Arabella’s menfolk had died in order of the succession, the marquess, his son, his grandson, then Robert, and finally Adam, so Arabella might have the courtesy title of Marchioness of Heathgate.

The title was not a courtesy, but rather a curse to a woman who’d much rather have remained simply the wife of Lord Robert Alexander.

“I miss my Robert every day,” Arabella said as Rose made another raid on the jam. And because the child would not understand, but the young ladies would, she added, “and every night.”

Astrid set her pear down, probably realizing belatedly she’d set a bad example for the child. “I cannot see Andrew ever pining for me that way, though I can see him taking ship for darkest Peru without a backward glance.”

“But you would pine for him,” Gwen said, rising and holding out a hand to Rose. Rose and her mother left, with Rose munching on her cheese and nattering on about why lessons after lunch were not a good idea.

Now it was safe to smile. “That girl…” Arabella reached for the teapot.

“Rose?”

Rose, too, who was at risk for growing up exactly as independent and lonely as her mother—and her great-aunt.

“Guinevere. If only I knew which of her admirers had taken such shameless advantage of her, I’d turn both Gareth and Andrew, not to mention your lovely brother, loose on the scoundrel. But she’s never said a word.”

They finished their meal in quiet, companionable conversation, though Astrid glanced repeatedly at the door and at the clock. No doubt she worried that Andrew was out in the barn, starving himself—as his mother worried—and not for food.

Arabella announced an intention to depart the very next day, lest anybody waste effort trying to change her mind.

“You’ll miss Andrew,” Astrid said, demonstrating the perceptivity Arabella was counting on to salvage a young and troubled marriage—and a young and troubled husband.

“I have been missing Andrew for thirteen years,” Arabella said. “In some ways, he was the worst casualty of the accident. I don’t recall many details of the entire incident. I doubt Andrew can forget any of it.”

“I hate that accident,” Astrid said. “I never knew those who drowned”—a less forthright woman would have used a gentler phrase for death—“but I know that because of that day, Andrew does not intend to remain a proper husband to me. I might well be missing him myself, every day and every night, even thirteen years from when he leaves my side.”

“Then you must not allow him to slip out to sea, lest he take your joy, your meaning, and your heart with him.”

Arabella ran her finger around the edge of the jam pot, and let a dab of strawberries and sunshine grace her palate before leaving the dining parlor in search of her maid.

And a quiet corner, in which a lady might say a prayer or shed a few tears.

A few more tears.

***

The dream started the same way it always had, with the frigid sea air whipping a stiff, briny lock of Andrew’s hair against his mouth. He didn’t bother brushing it away, and beside him, his brother Adam waved off a footman who would have teetered and plunged across the pitching deck to offer yet another dram of Heathgate whiskey.

“At least we’re getting close to shore,” Adam muttered. “Bloody, infernally stupid of Grandfather to keep us out in this weather.”

Adam rarely used foul language around his younger brother, and that as much as the heaving seas made Andrew uneasy. “We’ll be on shore soon.” Part prayer, part wish, because progress toward shore was hampered by the wind, the waves, and the whiskey Grandfather and the other adults had been swilling all morning.

“I’m glad Gareth isn’t aboard to see that.” Adam’s scowl took in the sight of Julia Ponsonby, standing at the captain’s wheel with Grandfather, the damp wind plastering her dress to her body to an indecent degree.

Andrew looked away, whereas five weeks ago, he would have shamelessly gawked. “She seems to be enjoying herself.”

“That damned woman has a penchant for enjoying herself, but Grandfather needs to be minding the tiller, not Julia’s wares.”

Another wave lifted the small pleasure vessel higher, which meant the plunge down the trough—

I’m scared.
Andrew was fifteen, and a man at that age did not admit such a thing, even to a trusted older brother whose expression suggested he too was at least uneasy.

“You can swim, right?” Adam asked.

“Like a fish. Anybody who wants to row crew has to be able to swim.” Though the sea was only part of what frightened Andrew. Julia Ponsonby and her penchant for enjoying herself was a large part of the rest of it.

On the quarterdeck, their father was also watching the goings on at the wheel with an uneasy eye, while their mother stood clutching the taffrail, her expression shuttered, her gaze on the shore that hadn’t come closer for the past half hour.

“If we come a cropper, you swim for shore, Andrew. You don’t bob in around the wreckage, hoping for survivors, understand?”

“Stop being dramatic.”

“Gareth is alone on shore, and he’ll need you.”

The peculiar gravity in Adam’s tone had Andrew turning to argue with his brother, only to lose what was left of his digestive fortitude. “Adam!” He pointed at the wave coming toward them, a huge wall of dark-green water with a rabid froth of brine cresting along the top.

Inside the wave, serpents of seaweed and two enormous fish were trapped like souls caught in hell, even as the wave raced closer to the boat.

Adam produced a knife and several colorful curses. “You head for shore, Andrew. Promise me.” He slashed at the moorings holding a small rowboat fast. “I love you, and you’ll be fine if you head right for shore.”

Panic gripped Andrew with a cold fist to the guts, and like a frightened boy half his age, he wanted to scream for his papa. Up on the quarterdeck, Julia’s laughter went silent, then turned to screams.

“I can’t swim! We’re going to die, and I can’t swim!”

Hands slack on the wheel, Grandfather stared at the approaching wave, while Papa shouted over the wind and Julia’s screaming, “My lady! To the boat! Adam, Andrew, the boat!”

Papa struggled against the wind and the pitching of the boat to make his way to the steps to the lower deck, but Julia shoved him aside. “Andrew, Adam, you have to save me! I cannot swim!”

With one hand she clutched the rail, with the other she clutched her belly. For one sick, eternal instant, Andrew felt the boat sink lower than all the seas around them. He had time to hope they’d ride up the swell and pitch into the trough behind the wave, when an avalanche of water crashed over the rails, sweeping Julia from the steps.

A great crack sounded, and her screams echoed as she was carried overboard. “Andrew, please! I cannot swim!
Andrew! Please!
”

“Andrew, please.
Wake
up.
You’ll do one of us an injury with all this thrashing about.”

Lungs heaving, the sting of salt water in his eyes, Andrew came awake sitting bolt upright in bed. The covers were a tangled mess, and Astrid was frowning at him by the last of the firelight.

Astrid, the closest thing he had to a friend, his wife.
His
wife.

“You nearly pitched me overboard, Husband. Have you no sense that a woman in my condition needs her rest?” Her words were tart, while the hand she used to brush Andrew’s hair from his eyes was gentle. “Sir, this will not do.”

She slogged over the side of the bed, and Andrew wanted to call her back. “I was dreaming.”

“You’ve had this dream previously, you know.” She moved across the room with the ungainly dignity of the expectant mother, nightgown billowing in the darkness. Andrew heard glass clink and liquid slosh. Each sound was distinct, and each one brought with it relief.

He was not on board a doomed pleasure yacht; he was not going to die by drowning, or have his life dashed to pieces on the rocks. Not tonight.

Astrid came to his side of the bed, a half-full glass in her hand. “This is not water. You will drink it in the interests of settling your wife’s nerves.”

He reached for the glass, his hand shaking. Astrid held the drink until he had a firm grip, then kept to her place until he’d downed the entire contents in one swallow.

Brandy, not whiskey. Never whiskey. “My thanks.”

She put the glass aside and climbed into bed. “You were having a nightmare. Talking about these things sometimes helps.”

Her practical, tart, intimate presence helped. Normally, Andrew would have been getting dressed, preparing to roam the house, the streets, the park, anywhere to work off a convincing case of mortal panic.

But talk to
her
, about
this
? Never.

“Everybody has the occasional nightmare. I’m no different.” Now, that might be so. Thirteen years ago, he’d had nothing but nightmares.

Astrid budged up against his side, belly and all. “You dream of the accident.”

Nine souls had lost their lives when the boat had foundered and gone down, including five Alexanders, Julia, and two crew members. “Not so often anymore. You should get back to sleep.”

He wanted another soothing tot of brandy, but wanted more to hold his wife.

“It was bloody awful, wasn’t it?”

“Such language, Lady Greymoor.”

She scooted higher in the bed, got an arm under Andrew’s neck, and tried to wrestle him against her side. “You are in want of cuddling, you great looby. My condition is delicate, so you will indulge me in this.”

He didn’t smile, but simply by being Astrid, she pushed the panic away and calmed the roiling in his belly. “If I must.”

Nothing, not even Astrid on a tear, could banish the guilt.

“I hate that you’re tormented by something that happened nearly half your lifetime ago.”

He pillowed his cheek on the slope of her breast as her arms settled around him. “When you next see the sea, you must share your displeasure with it, Wife. Perhaps your sentiments will meet with more respect than my own, but Astrid?

She kissed his temple. “Hmm?”

“You must promise me never to travel on the water.”

Her hand went still midstroke over his brow. “So you can hare off to the Continent, secure in the knowledge I can’t give chase?” She sounded more exasperated than offended.

“So you don’t die, screaming for rescue, knowing your child will never draw breath and your family will be driven insane with grief.”

He had not planned those words, had not mentally braced himself against the desperation with which he meant them. Astrid’s hand resumed its soothing progress over his features, bringing him a faint scent of lavender and lemons.

“I will not chase you, Andrew. Drat you, you have been honest with me regarding the metes and bounds of this marriage. I wish you’d tell me about the accident.”

“Promise me.”

She heaved up a sigh, a soft, fragrant swell of the bosom upon which Andrew’s cheek rested. “I will not travel upon the water without you, Andrew. I can swim, though. Felicity and I both can swim like ducks—or perhaps like hippopotami, given our present dimensions. Go to sleep now. This bed holds no sea monsters, other than your damnable pride and perhaps my own.”

Andrew closed his eyes but did not expect to sleep. Astrid would make a wonderful mother—practical, loving, patient, insightful, and good-humored. That she would never be the mother of his children was only part of the price Andrew would extract for what she called his pride.

When sleep did come stealing up to him, bringing with it the echoes of Julia’s screams, Andrew instead focused on the sound of his wife’s breathing, on the feel of her hand in his hair, on the scent of her.

And for the first time following that particular nightmare, despite all deserts to the contrary, Andrew slept the remainder of the night in peace.

Morning dawned sunny, dry, and surprisingly mild, a parting gift of autumn as winter tried to elbow its way in the door. The pleasant weather was fortunate, because seeing his mother off in a storm would likely have been a greater trial than Andrew’s nerves could tolerate.

He should not have come back to England in autumn.

He should not have come back to England
at
all
.

When Lady Heathgate had taken her leave of the ladies, she asked Andrew to walk her to the coach.

“I am not a demonstrative woman,” she said, turning worried eyes to him. Andrew steeled himself for some display, because her words were nothing less than a warning shot. “And yet, I think you need to be reminded that I love you. Do you know, Andrew, there is nothing I would not do for you, nothing I could not eventually learn to accommodate, should you ask it of me. I have always been proud of you and considered myself fortunate to be your mother.”

Andrew felt as if his mother had doubled back her fist and ploughed it into his belly, much as he felt when the nightmare plagued him. Scolding and criticism he could handle; a disapproving silence would have been within the ambit of his tolerance, and even a relief.

But this… loving kindness was unbearable. In the years he’d been gone, Andrew’s mother had changed subtly. A touch more gray fringed her dark hair, a touch more sadness lurked in her blue eyes. She was still a tall woman, but not so tall as she’d been four years ago. And yet, like Astrid, she was fierce.

“I am fortunate to be your son,” he said, wishing he were
worthy
of it as well.

But her ladyship had merely fired her opening salvo.

She laid a hand on his arm. “Your brother is concerned for his wife, but you know he would also make every effort you might ask of him. If you had seen the way he anticipated your letters, read them to one and all, and reread them and reread them… We missed you so.”

His throat constricted around a painful lump, his vision blurred. He bent to kiss his mother’s cheek, inhaling her signature lilac scent as if it could make him a small child again.

Thirteen years ago, he’d hauled her from the waves that would have taken her from him, and yet, even saving her life could not excuse the other choices he’d made the very same day.

He bowed, the universal gesture of respect. “You had best be on your way, Mother. Safe journey.”

She patted his cheek and allowed him to assist her into her cavernous traveling coach. As the coach rumbled off, Andrew was mortified to feel a tear slipping from the corner of his eye.

Christ above, what was wrong with him?

He stalked to the stables, intent on using the rare sunny day to good advantage with his horses. He began as he always did, with a treat and a pat to little Daisy, the wizened pony he’d ridden as a child, who now creaked up and down the lane with Rose bouncing on her back.

He worked in hand with the young stock next, and by the time he’d brought out his riding horses, Astrid had taken up her perch above the schooling arena. After that parting scene with his mother, Andrew was comforted to know Astrid still took an interest in this aspect of his life. He was about to call up to his wife, when the groom led Magic out, ready for work over jumps.

Andrew swung up and kneed his horse out into the arena. “Mustn’t let a pretty set of quarters distract us from our work, my boy.” Or a pretty smile. Or a sad one.

The horse was his salvation, a beast who could not be ridden with anything less than a rider’s full attention. Andrew put Magic through exercises intended to loosen the gelding’s neck and back, and to sharpen his attentiveness to his rider’s aids. The next step was a series of poles on the ground, gradually raised to form low jumps, then higher jumps.

Magic was enjoying himself, working in good rhythm, and ready to take on the progressive challenges before him. Pleased with and proud of his mount, Andrew had the grooms set the last jump up to about four and a half feet, a height Magic had certainly done before, but beyond the abilities of many horses.

They bounded through the gymnastic, only to finish with a tremendous clattering crash as they landed after the last jump. Magic burst forward, then shied and bolted across the arena in a blind panic, Andrew struggling to bring him under control.

Andrew first thought they’d simply caught the top rail with a back leg and brought the whole jump down behind them, but Magic was still prancing and snorting when Andrew slowed him to a halt.

And then he saw why the crash had been so loud.

The balcony upon which Astrid had been sitting lay in matchsticks on the ground. His heart in his throat, Andrew galloped Magic back to the end of the arena, coming to a rearing halt beside the pile of lumber that had been a dozen feet in the air moments previous.

Andrew pitched boards aside, his heart thumping against his ribs. An odd, tense quiet descended as the grooms watched him searching through the wreckage for his wife. A groan directed him, and he found her, prone under yet more boards. He had them cleared away in moments, and knelt beside her.

“Sweetheart?” He felt at her wrist for a pulse as he pushed her hair back from her eyes. She had a nasty cut on her arm, a long, bloody laceration that would need stitches, at least.

“Perishing, blighted… Andrew…”

Andrew could hear the pain in her voice, but she was alive, cursing, and she knew him.

“Don’t move, dear heart. We’ll get you out of here, but you must lie still.” His voice was calm, much calmer than he felt. He told himself she had a strong, steady pulse, and she was conscious, but God help her, she had fallen a considerable distance.

And the baby. What about the baby?

He barked an order, and the grooms fell to, lifting off and stacking boards without a word. In minutes, they had the wreckage cleared, but when Andrew tried to lift his wife, her scream had every man blanching white.

“Where does it hurt?” Andrew asked around a rising sense of panic.

“Head,” Astrid said between panting breaths. “Fire in my arm, and my shoulder.”

“I’ll carry her,” Andrew said. “Somebody run up to the house and tell Gwen to get out the medicinals.”

Andrew noticed only then that Magic had come to stand near Astrid, his great long face gazing down at her worriedly.

“Watch that dratted beast!” Ezra spat.

At the sharp tone of voice, Magic looked even more worried, but he flicked his gaze from Andrew to Astrid and didn’t move a hoof.

Andrew lifted his wife carefully, then quietly told the horse what to do. Magic, having learned this command easily, knelt in the sand, waiting until Andrew had settled both himself and his wife into the saddle.

“Up,” Andrew commanded, and Magic rose gracefully to stand and wait for further instruction. The reins hung slack, because Andrew’s arms were full of his injured wife, but his seat and legs were adequate to guide the horse up the driveway to the front terrace. Ezra sent a stable boy ahead at a dead run to warn the household, and walked a few paces away from the horse.

As Andrew approached the house, Gwen emerged, her apron knotted in her fists. She kept her questions to herself, however, and sent a footman for the medical supplies as Andrew once again ordered the big horse to kneel.

Andrew swung a leg over the withers, then gave Magic the signal to rise so Ezra could take his reins.

“Magic loves you,” Astrid said, as Ezra led the horse away.

“Hah,” Andrew retorted, making his way up the front steps and into the house, Astrid in his arms. “He loves his oats. He thinks I am a member of his herd, and you too, apparently.”

“You are an idiot, and your horse has more sense than you do.”

How reassuring to hear her scold like that, and he
was
an idiot. “If you say so.”

“My shoulder still hurts, but not as badly. I’m afraid to look at my arm.”

“You’re bleeding a bit,” Andrew informed her as he took the stairs with her still in his arms. And the sight of blood had never made him ill—before. “I think a knot on your head, the cut on your arm, and a wealth of bruises will be the extent of the damage to you, but I would like to send for Dr. Mayhew.”

“Don’t,” Astrid said as he set her down on a sofa in the sitting room of their suite. “I am sure the good doctor will be looking in on Felicity regularly. He can add me to his usual list of calls at that time.”

“Astrid,” Andrew began as Gwen joined them, “you may have internal injuries.” He remained standing over her, unable to move away even a few paces.

“
Andrew
,” she shot back in the same repressive tone he’d used, “if I have internal injuries, and if I lose the baby, there is nothing the doctor, or anyone else for that matter, can do.”

She’d put it into words, matching him bluntness for bluntness, which reassured on some level.

Gwen stepped between them and bent to look at Astrid’s arm. “Why don’t we tend to this first, look you over for other injuries, and then you can decide what the next step should be?”

So reasonable, her suggestion, and yet Andrew wanted to pitch his dear cousin through a window and bolt the door.

They were joined shortly by a maid carrying the medical supplies, and another carrying bandages and hot water.

Andrew stayed beside Astrid—and she didn’t ask him to leave—while Gwen cleaned the wound on Astrid’s arm. No doubt it stung, it burned, it ached, it throbbed, and it just plain hurt. When Gwen threaded her needle, Andrew wanted to be sick.

Instead, he laced his fingers through Astrid’s and tucked his arm around her more securely. “Do you want me to hold your arm still?”

“No,” Astrid said, as Gwen knotted the thread, “but don’t let go of my hand.”

As if he could have. When Gwen finally snipped off the last knot and sat back, every freckle across Astrid’s cheeks stood out against her pale complexion, and Andrew’s hand had deep crescent marks where her nails had bitten into his flesh.

“A bath is on the way up,” Gwen said as she sprinkled a white powder on Astrid’s arm. “I’ll wrap up your arm, but you must keep it dry. The dressing should be changed every day. With luck, as much as it bled and as carefully as we cleaned it, it shouldn’t become infected. Shall I stay to assist you with your bath?”

“No need,” Andrew said, cutting off Astrid’s reply. The servants began to troop in with the bath and a dozen buckets of steaming water. “I will see to my wife.”

Gwen shot Astrid a questioning look, but withdrew without further comment.

“My cousin has allowed me the privilege of privacy with my wife,” Andrew said. “So, come along, you.” He rose from the sofa and extended a hand to Astrid—a hand that, to his surprise, did not shake. “I want to assure myself you are not injured elsewhere, and get you into the bath while the water is hot. Shall I wash your hair?” he asked, coming around to the back of her to start on the hooks of her dress.

***

Andrew’s competent fingers began the process of undressing her, and just like that, Astrid suffered an upwelling of self-consciousness. A blush crept past her neck, one Andrew could not fail to see.

They had made that reluctant, desperate sort of love in the darkness, doing things with each other that required trust and intimacy under the blankets. But it had been weeks since Andrew had seen her naked, and in those weeks, Astrid’s body had continued to change.

Andrew’s hands paused on her shoulders. “You are shy of me.”

Of
course
she was shy of him. He was the only man ever to see her naked, and in his own way, he rejected her daily.

“Ah, sweetheart,” Andrew said on a sigh, “I am sorry.” He brought her against his chest and used the embrace to complete the process of unfastening her dress. She sensed his apology was general, for transgressions past and present, but also future, and that hurt worse than all her injuries put together.

“Shall we consign this to the ragman?” Andrew asked, tossing her dress across a chair.

“The maids might want it.”

Andrew’s eyes were tired and not only in a physical sense. When had that happened? And he did not argue with her, though Astrid suspected he’d have the dress burned.

He untied the ribbons on her chemise, one by one, and she made no move to stop him as his strong, graceful fingers unraveled bow after bow.

“I don’t deserve the privilege of assisting you, Wife, but if you will allow it, I would be appreciative.”

He would not plead with her. She didn’t want him pleading with her, for that matter, so she remained silent as Andrew finished with his task.

Which left her naked before him for the first time in weeks.

His gaze traveled over her, pausing at an angry contusion at her shoulder. He stepped around her and ran his fingers over the darkening flesh.

“You have a terrific bruise coming up here,” he said, stroking gently. “Another one here.” He trailed a finger from the bottom of her back over her right hip. “A quite respectable, though slightly smaller one here.” He brushed fingers down the back of her right thigh. He touched several more before coming around to her front.

“All in all, you are going to be more than a little uncomfortable for at least a few days. Shall I have Gwen send up some laudanum?”

“No, thank you,” Astrid said, taking her naked self over to the tub. He’d looked at her bruises; he hadn’t looked at
her
—and how symbolic was that?

Andrew was beside her in an instant. “Let’s prop the arm on towels and let the rest of you soak.”

She lowered herself carefully into the delicious, soothing heat of the water, as Andrew held her bandaged arm aloft. He arranged towels so she could prop her arm on the rim of the tub, and then stepped back, his expression hooded.

“You are comfortable?” He looked like he wanted to kick something. “Stupid question. Is there anything I can do to make you less uncomfortable?”

“You offered to wash my hair.” She wouldn’t ask either, and a lump in her throat joined her other aches. Delayed reaction, no doubt.

“I did offer.” He dragged a stool over to the tub and settled himself on it. “Would you like to soak a bit first, or shall I be about my appointed labors?” His voice wasn’t flirtatious, not for Andrew, but it wasn’t combative either.