Captain's Bride (31 page)

Nicholas turned her to face him, but she wouldn’t
meet his eyes. “You look lovely,” he told her, tilting her chin up.
“There is nothing more feminine than a woman who’s with child.”

“I don’t believe you. You’re just trying to make me
feel better.”

“Is that so?” He cocked a fine black brow. “Do you
know how much I want you right now?”

When she didn’t answer, he pressed her hand against
the bulge in his breeches, his swollen manhood proof of his desire.
Glory’s head snapped up. She took a tentative step backwards.

Nicholas chuckled, the merest rumble in his chest.
“You needn’t fear, love. I’ve thought of little except making love
to you these long months past. But I can wait till the baby
comes—that is, if you’ll give me one small kiss.”

Glory shook her head, eyes wide. “No.”

Nicholas shrugged his wide shoulders. “As you wish.”
He moved to the wardrobe and opened the carved wooden door. Several
of Glory’s gowns had been unpacked and hung within. From a drawer
he pulled a soft batiste nightdress, helped her remove her chemise,
and slipped the gown over her head. While he hung up her dress, she
watched over his shoulder, and a flash of curiosity surfaced—along
with a spark of jealousy.

“When I was here before. The dresses I borrowed,
whose were they?”

He stifled a rueful smile. “I wondered when you’d get
around to asking.”

“Well?”

“Well,
wife
,” he said deliberately, “they
belonged to a former . . . acquaintance. One who has long since
disappeared from my life. The only dresses you’ll find in these
chests from now on will be yours.”

“Does this
acquaintance
of yours live in
Tarrytown?”

“She lives in New York—with her husband.”

“A married woman?”

Nicholas only shrugged.

“Oh, yes, I’d forgotten your penchant for other men’s
wives.”

Nicholas strode toward her, his eyes stormy. “That’s
all in the past. The woman meant nothing to me then. She means less
than nothing now.”

Glory watched him closely, wanting to believe him,
but unsure she should.

“Give us some time, love. For the baby’s sake if not
mine.”

Reluctantly she nodded and the tension eased from his
shoulders. “I’m just tired, I guess.”
And more than a little
confused
, she wanted to add. Instead, she walked to the wide
berth and heavily sank down.

“You’ll feel better after a good night’s sleep.” He
smiled warmly. Moving toward the bureau, he untied his stock and
shrugged off his shirt, leaving his chest bare. His muscles bunched
as he unbuttoned his breeches and slid them down his long, lean
legs.

Glory swallowed hard, her mouth suddenly dry. The
sound of rustling fabric as he stepped free of his clothing sent a
tremor down her spine. Conscious of a stirring she hadn’t known in
months, she tried to turn away, but her gaze locked on the dark
hair curling between his flat dark nipples. Too well she remembered
the smooth feel of his tanned skin beneath her hands, the stiff
bristles of his curly black chest hairs.

Glory’s eyes flew wide as she watched him stride
naked toward the bed, his footsteps muffled by the thick Tartan
carpet.

“Surely you don’t intend to sleep like that!” she
said.

“Why not? I always sleep in the nude. Surely you
remember.”

“But . . . but that was before.”

“Yes, that was before. Before we were married. Now
you’re my wife.”

“But . . . but—”

“I won’t break my promise.”

“What if you can’t control yourself?”

Nicholas grinned broadly, an expression Glory had
rarely seen.

“There’s only one way to find out.” He wrapped a
corded arm just below her breasts and hauled her up in the bed to
snuggle against him. She could feel his hard thighs pressing
against the backs of her own.

“Good night, love,” he whispered, nuzzling his face
in her hair.

“Good night, Captain.”

“Nicholas,” he corrected, a hint of a irritation in
his voice.

“Nicholas,” she dutifully repeated. Then she closed
her eyes and pretended to sleep. Nicholas nestled her close for a
while—until, with a surge of alarm, she felt his manhood stiffen.
Then he groaned softly and rolled away. With a tiny smile, Glory
finally drifted to sleep.

In the morning, she woke to an empty bed, rough
seas, and a sharp pain in her stomach. At first she thought she
might just be hungry, but the gnawing felt lower, farther down in
her abdomen. Soon the tiny needlelike jabs mushroomed into
full-fledged knives of pain, and Glory could scarcely breathe. When
she rose from the bed to get help, water gushed from between her
legs, pooling on the floor and soaking her nightdress.

Shaking with fear, she pulled open the cabin door
without even remembering her wrapper. She stumbled down the
passageway, encountering Nicholas, who was carrying her breakfast
tray. She saw the stricken look on his face, heard the tray crash
to the floor, just before she sank into darkness.

“There’s nothing more we can do, lad.” Nicholas
glanced from the bloody lifeless bundle he cradled in his arms to
the woman who lay on the bed. She looked wan and pale; the covers
barely moved with each shallow breath.

“Will she be all right?”

“I know little of women, lad. But by the look o’ it,
I’d say yes. The problem was wi’ the child, not the mother.”
Nicholas stood at the foot of his berth, clutching the miniature,
blanket-wrapped body of his son. The world seemed tilted, blurred
somehow. Outside a wet wind blew across a chilly sea, and the sky
was overcast, as bleak and gray as his thoughts.

“Why don’t ye let me have him,” Mac urged softly.
“I’ll see the cooper builds him a proper coffin.”

Nicholas swallowed past the lump in his throat. It
had all happened so quickly. What had gone wrong? Only yesterday
the future seemed so bright, so hopeful. With a baby in their
lives, he and Glory had a chance to rebuild the love they shared on
the strand. But the baby was dead. What would the future hold for
them now?

Nicholas fought the burning behind his eyes, the
terrible fatigue. “Mahogany,” he whispered. “Build him something
sturdy. The sea is so vast . . . and he is so small.” Mac laid a
weathered hand on Nicholas’s shoulder. “We’ll use that lovely old
sideboard in the officers’ wardroom.”

“Yes,” Nicholas said, his eyes fixed on a tiny spot
of blood on the blanket. “That will make a fine coffin.” Mac
reached for the bundle and for a moment Nicholas couldn’t bear the
thought of letting go.

“Life’s never easy, lad.”

“No, I suppose it isn’t.” He glanced at the woman
sleeping in his berth. Damp hair clung to her temples; her slim
fingers clutched the quilt beneath her chin. “How will I tell her,
Mac? What can I say?”

“There are no right words, lad. When the time comes,
ye’ll do the best ye can.”

Nicholas carefully handed the bundle to Mac, gently
tucking the comers of the blanket around the tiny infant’s body. He
couldn’t meet the old Scot’s eyes, knowing the pity he would see.
With slow, grim steps, the Scotsman left the room. Nicholas blew
out the lamp beside the bed, darkening the room to the same dismal
gray as the sky outside.

Heart heavier than ever before in his life, he took
up his vigil beside Glory, slipping her cold hand between his
warmer ones. He sat that way for hours, until his arms and legs
cramped so badly he was forced to stand and stretch them. The room
smelled stale with the coppery scent of blood and death. Conscious
of the ordeal that lay before him, Nicholas headed up to the deck
for a breath of fresh air. He needed to clear his head—and bolster
his courage. A few minutes later he returned to the cabin. Glory’s
eyes flew to his face the moment he stepped through the door.

“Nicholas?”

“I’m right here, love.” He knelt beside her and
captured her hand, bringing it to his lips.

“The baby?” Her other hand moved to the flat spot
beneath the covers, which only hours ago had been round with
life.

“I wish there was something I could say, something I
could do to change things, but there isn’t. The child is gone,
Glory.”

“No.” She shook her head. “I don’t believe you. Just
this morning I felt him move. He was alive; he was—”

“He came too soon, Glory. He was just too small.”

“A boy?”

“Yes.”

“But he can’t be dead. Nicholas, please, I’ll do
anything you ask, just tell me he isn’t dead.” The pain on her face
was so great that Nicholas had to look away.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “So sorry.”

“Nooo!” she screamed and struggled to get up. As she
flailed her arms and thrashed about, it was all Nicholas could do
to keep her abed. Finally she stopped struggling. She searched his
face for a moment, then slumped back against the pillow. He let her
cry out her sorrow, just sat quietly beside her, his head in his
hands, his fingers laced through his curly black hair.

She cried for what to Nicholas seemed an eternity.
When he could stand to listen no longer, he pulled her into his
arms.

“Get away from me!” she shrieked. “Get away and leave
me alone! This is all your fault, do you hear me? Your fault!”

“Listen to me, Glory.”

She twisted free of his grasp. “Listen to you? Listen
to you? Every time I’ve listened to you, every time I’ve trusted
you, something terrible has happened. I won’t listen again. Not
now, not ever!”

Nicholas straightened. There was something in her
words, some terrible chord of truth. He searched her face, hoping
to find some means to reach her, a way to hold on to that tenuous
thread of hope. He saw none.

In that moment Nicholas knew any dream he’d ever held
of winning her love was as dead as the child they’d conceived. She
would never trust him again, never love him again. His chest felt
so tight he could scarcely breathe. He stopped near the door for a
last long glance. Then slow, dreary steps carried him from the
room.

* * *

They buried the baby at sea. Nicholas felt it
fitting; after all, the boy was his son. He knew Glory would have
preferred a peaceful grave on the slope of a quiet hill. Even that
small comfort was denied her.

A week after the burial, they docked at New Rochelle,
where Glory and Nicholas disembarked. Nicholas hired a carriage,
and they traveled straight to Tarrytown. Glory said little
throughout the journey. She looked weak and frail, and wept at the
slightest cause.

Arriving at Blackwell Hall, Nicholas found Brad had
already moved his mother to the town house near Broadway in the
city. Apparently Bradford had no doubt Nicholas would be returning
with a wife. A small place in his heart thanked his stepbrother for
his thoughtfulness.

Blackwell Hall, a huge estate set at the bottom of a
hill near the Hudson, seemed a different place without the bitter
presence of Nicholas’s stepmother. Brighter somehow, more
welcoming. Nicholas had owned the hall for five years, though he’d
never been in residence for more than a few days. He sometimes
wondered why he’d bought it, since it was more ornate than he
preferred. The huge stone house was built in the Gothic Revival
style, of marble quarried by convicts from Sing Sing. The interior
had vaulted ceilings, figured bosses painted to resemble stone, and
huge stained-glass windows. The furniture was mostly European,
upholstered in rich brocade and heavy velvet. Elegant velvet
draperies adorned the windows.

Though the house was beautiful, it was the grounds
that had attracted Nicholas. The beautiful formal gardens, the
landscaped lawns sloping to the river, but most of all the handsome
paddocks and stables where one day he intended to breed fine racing
stock.

Nicholas imagined it would have been the perfect
place to raise his child. That his son was dead, would never run
through the elegant halls, seemed an even more bitter loss for him
here. Looking across the massive salon to the pale face of his
wife, who sat staring straight ahead, hands folded in her lap, he
wondered how it had all gone so wrong.

“I want an annulment,” Glory said, the words ringing
hollow and weak against the marble walls. She’d spoken so little
since their arrival two weeks ago that Nicholas hardly recognized
her voice. She stood in the doorway to the main salon dressed in
black, her pale hands clasped in front of her.

“Why?” he asked, shoving back his chair as he came to
his feet. The sound grated on the polished hardwood floors.

“Because I don’t love you. The baby’s gone; there’s
no reason for us to be bound.” She said the words with a casualness
that twisted Nicholas’s heart.

“If I were to agree, what would you do?”

“Return to Boston,” she told him with an equal lack
of emotion.

“To marry George McMillan?”

She shrugged her shoulders. “Maybe.”

“No” was all he said. When she turned and walked away
as quietly as if no words had been spoken, he stormed from the
hall, slammed out the door, and headed toward the stables.

Long rides through the countryside seemed his only
solace on the chilly winter days. He returned at dusk to find
Glory, as usual, locked away in her rooms at the top of the stairs.
Each time he saw her, she looked thinner and paler than before. He
worried about her endlessly, tried every way he knew to please her,
even asked if she’d like her aunt or Nathan to come for a
visit.

“No, thank you,” she’d said. “I’m sure they have
other more important matters to attend to. Besides, I don’t feel
like entertaining.”

All in all there was little he could do. The second
time she mentioned the annulment, he considered giving it to her,
though it was far from what he wanted. He just didn’t believe an
annulment was the answer. He wished he knew what was.