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Authors: Vanessa Kelly

His Mistletoe Bride (23 page)

BOOK: His Mistletoe Bride
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He ushered her into the study, one of several rooms Phoebe had not yet seen. It was a handsome space, although obviously not refurbished in some years. But the walls, painted a pale leaf green, created a comfortable backdrop for the heavy, masculine furniture. A large desk stood before an alcove window—a small collection of globes on its polished surface—and two heavy cabinets, filled with curios, flanked the fireplace. Books lined several rows of inset shelves, and comfortable armchairs were scattered about in casual seating arrangements. It had an air of peace to it, reminding Phoebe of the cozy serenity of Uncle Arthur's library in Stanton House.
Lucas drew her over to the fireplace, now blazing with crackling, welcome heat. He leaned in close. “All right, Madam Wife,” he murmured. “Do what you need to do and then go back upstairs. This ridiculous scene has gone on long enough.”
She pressed her lips tight, annoyed by his patronizing tone. He gazed down at her. Anger leached from his eyes, but frustration rapidly took its place. A stark weariness etched itself on his rugged features, and the sharp words poised on her tongue vanished. “Yes, Lucas. I will be as quick as I can,” she said softly.
His mouth twitched with a faint smile, but his eyes remained somber and watchful. Then he motioned the injured man forward to the fire and stepped away to speak to Mr. Harper. Oddly, Phoebe had the sense he was abandoning her.
She shook off the uncomfortable feeling as she and Mrs. Christmas helped Mr. Williams out of his greatcoat—the housekeeper grumbling all the while—and got him to sit in one of the wing chairs in front of the fireplace. The old leather crackled ominously as the man lowered his bulk onto the seat.
He gave Phoebe an apologetic smile as she helped him roll up his sleeve.
“It's ever so kind of you to help, my lady. It's a devil of a cold night to be getting shot.”
“You wouldn't be getting shot in the first place if you'd stayed indoors instead of chasing phantoms in the dark, now would you?” snapped Mrs. Christmas.
Phoebe glanced at her, surprised at the animosity in the housekeeper's voice. It seemed completely out of character.
“Phantoms don't shoot pistols and drop casks of French brandy in the middle of a field,” interjected Mr. Harper. The housekeeper's face turned red. Mr. Christmas, again moving with surprising alacrity, intervened.
“Here are some extra cloths, my lady,” he said, thrusting some clean toweling into her hand.
Phoebe took them, not failing to notice the slight shake of the head the butler gave his cousin. Mrs. Christmas folded her lips in on themselves, as if swallowing her words. No one else but Phoebe seemed to notice the odd silence exchanged between the cousins. Lucas and Mr. Harper had already moved off to a corner, beginning a quiet but intense discussion.
Mentally shrugging, Phoebe turned her attention back to Mr. Williams. Lucas had the right of it. The sooner the excise men were gone from the manor, the better. The servants were hiding something—whether the smugglers themselves or just knowledge of events, she did not know. But a search tonight could only lead to more problems and possibly more violence.
She absolutely refused to begin her married life with the spilling of blood in her own house.
Fortunately, Mr. Williams had only received a graze on his forearm. Phoebe took just a few minutes to clean the wound and put on some healing salve provided by Mrs. Christmas, and a wrapping.
“That's capital, my lady.” The big man beamed at her. “I doubt a surgeon could do it any better. When I heard the guns go off, I thought I was a goner for sure.”
She leveled him with a disapproving stare. “Who shot first, Mr. Williams? The smugglers or Mr. Harper's men?”
“Ah . . . we did, my lady.”
“And did thee personally engage in this exchange of fire?” she asked, unable to tamp down her anger.
Mr. Williams threw a startled glance at Mrs. Christmas, but the housekeeper maintained a grim silence. Then he cast a worried look over at his superior officer—still occupied with Lucas—before answering.
“I only fired off a warning shot, my lady. Not like I wanted to hit anyone. Not really.”
She shook out his coat. Hastily, he lumbered to his feet.
“Those who liveth by the sword will die by the sword, Mr. Williams,” she said. “I suggest you take that counsel to heart before it is too late.”
“Yes, my lady. I'll try to remember that.” Then, with garbled thanks, he took his coat and fled the room.
Lucas looked up from his conversation. “All finished? Good. Now please return to your bedroom.”
She shook her head. “Not until you tell me what happened tonight.”
“There's not much to tell,” he said impatiently. “There are some old smuggling routes across the estate. They'd fallen into disuse, but Mr. Harper tells me that a local gang has been using them again.”
Phoebe frowned. “You mean men from this area?”
Mr. Harper nodded. “Yes, my lady. I'm convinced that some of the local villagers are involved.”
“Why would they do such a thing?” she asked.
“Because there's little work for them, my lady,” Mrs. Christmas broke in hotly. “Hardly enough to keep body and soul together, much less feed a family. Especially after the war and the soldiers coming home.”
“That may be the case,” Lucas said in stern voice, “but those days are over. Mistletoe Manor will be restored to order, and any honest man who wants a job will find one here.”
“And what about the dishonest men?” Mr. Harper asked in a challenging voice.
Lucas's face turned to stone. “If I find them on my land, you can be sure I will turn them over to the law.”
Mr. Harper nodded. “Very good, my lord. But I caution you, these men are dangerous.”
“They will find me a great deal more dangerous. I will not allow smugglers on my land. Ever.”
Phoebe's stomach tightened at the implied violence of her husband's words. Beside her, Mrs. Christmas made a quiet sound of distress. She reached out to give the housekeeper's hand a reassuring touch.
“My lord,” Phoebe said, “is it really necessary to make such threats? Surely this problem can be resolved in a peaceful manner.”
“I never make threats,” he answered calmly. Then he turned to the excise officer. “We're finished here for tonight, Harper. My household has been disrupted enough.”
Mr. Harper started to argue again, but Lucas held up his hand. “Yes, I understand you want to search the grounds, but any smugglers who might have taken refuge in my cellars or these supposed tunnels must certainly be long gone. I will come to your office tomorrow, and we can discuss the situation further.”
He glanced Phoebe's way. “You've upset my wife quite enough for one night.”
Mr. Harper cast her an apologetic smile. “Forgive me, my lady. His lordship is correct. We won't disturb you any longer.”
Lucas had upset her more than anyone, but Phoebe could hardly say that in front of the customs officer or the servants. Instead, she murmured a quiet thank-you and followed the men out into the hall. Lucas and Mr. Harper exchanged a few more words, and then the officer and his men departed. As the big oak doors slammed shut, Lucas shot the bolts. He turned around, leaning against the doors as he eyed her.
He looked as unhappy as she imagined a man could look on his wedding night. “And now, Madam Wife, if you've finished managing everything quite to your satisfaction, can we please go back to bed?”
Chapter 20
From just inside the door of her bedroom, Phoebe watched her husband stalk over to the bed and begin undressing. Anger tensed his muscular frame. His actions, normally a study in masculine grace, were hurried and jerky. As she pondered the least upsetting way to continue a discussion he obviously did not want to have, Lucas yanked his shirt over his head. Her mind blanked and her heart stuttered.
His body left her both awestruck and unsettled, with its broad shoulders and chest, muscled arms, and taut stomach. Lucas would impress anyone with his clothes on. Without them, he was like nothing she had ever seen. Not that she made a habit of staring at half-naked men, but she suspected few could compete with her husband's raw power and masculinity.
But, dear Lord, the scars. Pale, cruel lines scored his skin—one across his right bicep, another down the left forearm, a wicked one cutting from one side of his ribs to his waist, and the fourth . . . not a cut from a blade, but a faded and puckered bunching of skin, the evil remnant of a bullet that had obviously pierced his shoulder. She could not help but see his old wounds as an obscene reminder of human wickedness and of man's sins against God.
Lucas tossed the shirt in the general direction of a chair before turning to see her standing frozen by the door. He raised a brow.
“What's wrong?”
She cleared her throat. “You . . . you have so many scars.”
He glanced down at himself and shrugged. “Many battles, many years,” he replied as he started working on the fall of his trousers. “I was fortunate to survive and return with my limbs intact. Other men weren't so lucky.”
Phoebe swallowed against a rush of nausea. The idea of Lucas lying injured on a battlefield, blood pouring from his wounds, made her stomach churn. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, willing her insides to settle. If she thought about that image much longer, she would have to race to the basin and empty her stomach.
“Phoebe, come here.” Her husband's soothing voice forced her eyes open. He studied her, his expression grave but no longer angry. Then he held out his hand. “Sweetheart, you'll catch cold if you stand there in the draft. Come to bed and get warm.”
The tenderness in his voice brought a rush of tears to her eyes, and longing twisted her insides. After all the trials of the day, she could think of nothing better than to hurry straight into the shelter of his arms, and take everything he would give her. But she knew such shelter would only be temporary, disappearing with the dawn and leaving their problems unresolved.
And that included the most immediate issue—whether Lucas intended to use violent means to deal with the smugglers crossing Merritt lands.
She walked slowly to the fire, turning her back to it. It gave little warmth, since the embers had burned low, but she had to keep her distance from Lucas, and that big, tempting bed, the bed where he would surely get her naked and mindless with passion in no time at all. “I wish to speak with you first, Lucas.”
His eyes closed and he groaned. “Please tell me you're joking.”
“I am not.”
He dropped down onto the mattress, rubbing a hand over his face. “Christ, can tonight get any worse? Why do women always want to talk, especially in the middle of the night?”
She frowned, annoyed he would lump her in with other women, but decided it might be best to ignore the implication. “I am sorry, Lucas. I know you are tired, but this cannot wait until morning.”
“I'm not tired, I'm frustrated.” He gave her a hard stare. “
Very
frustrated, if you get my meaning.”
She decided to ignore that, too. “I do, but I need to know what you intend to do about the smugglers. I do not want another repeat of tonight's incident.”
He snorted. “Oh, really?”
“Yes,” she replied tightly. “Mistletoe Manor cannot be turned into a battleground between those excise men and the smugglers. Anyone could get hurt, including our servants.”
“Believe me,” he retorted, “I want that as little as you do. But if the smuggling isn't stopped, I guarantee someone will get hurt. Since we agree we don't want his majesty's agents trooping across our land again, then it's up to me to put an end to it.”
Silence fell as she chewed on her lip, weighing the consequences of sharing her suspicions.
“Come on, Phoebe,” Lucas said. “Out with it.”
She met his watchful gaze, still worried how he might react. An impatient energy invested the air around him, but he held himself still, waiting for her to speak. She realized the importance of the moment, one that could build trust between them or go horribly awry. “I . . . I think the servants know something about the smuggling,” she finally said.
His lips twitched. “Why do you think so?”
“Because there can be no other explanation for their odd behavior. Mrs. Christmas in particular was very upset.” She frowned, trying to piece it together in her head.
Lucas leaned back on his elbows, watching her with open curiosity. “Well?” he prompted.
“I suspect the smugglers were hiding in the cellars the entire time Mr. Harper and his men were here.”
He let out a crack of laughter and pushed himself off the bed.
“Of course they were hiding in the cellars, goose. Why do you think I wouldn't let Harper search the house? The last thing we needed was a pitched battle between smugglers—half of whom are probably from our own village—and the only honest group of excise men in the district. No, love. That was not how I wanted to end an already trying day.”
In a few long strides he was across the room and standing in front of her. All she could do was gape at him. “You knew all along?” she choked out.
He grinned, not bothering to dignify her silly question with an answer. Instead, he picked her up, teased her mouth with a light kiss, and carried her to the bed. His strength and easy mastery of her body sorely tempted her to yield to their mutual desire.
Not yet.
She tensed as he deposited her onto the disordered welter of pillows and bedclothes. “Why did you not tell me right away?” she asked.
He cast her a smoldering look clearly intended to bring the heat rushing back to her body. “As you can well imagine, I had other things on my mind,” he said in a growly voice.
Phoebe's heart accelerated under his knowing gaze. Her annoyingly seductive husband was trying to distract her, but she would not be deterred. He had alleviated her anxiety to some degree, but she knew him well enough to suspect that he only deferred the outcome. “Yes, but—”
His temper finally snapped. “Oh, hell, Phoebe. Must we really finish this discussion tonight? Haven't you had enough?”
His tone caught her like a freezing blast, obliterating the sensual heat between them. She pushed herself up onto the pillows and pulled her wrapper tightly around her. “Yes, I believe we must finish it,” she replied, trying to keep the hurt from her voice.
He sat sideways to her on the bed, staring straight ahead. His commanding profile seemed carved from rock, except where a muscle pulsed at his temple. The silence drew out as he struggled to bring his frustration under control.
Then he turned to face her. “Very well, then. What do you wish to know?”
“What do you intend to do about the smugglers?”
“I'll ride into Maidstone tomorrow to meet with Harper. I need to find out the lay of the land—how big the gang is, what they're running and when, where they come ashore.”
“Why do you need to know those things?”
“They will tell me how likely the smugglers are to use Merritt land in the future. Several old routes run from Seasalter to Faversham, and I wouldn't be surprised if there are even some tunnels right here on the estate. Some Merritts in the past were all too happy to turn a blind eye to smuggling—or even aided and abetted—but I don't think your grandfather was one of them. Still, he was sick these last few years, and I suspect he rather lost a handle on things.”
She nodded slowly. Already she could sense his mind racing to formulate a plan. That came as no surprise. Lucas was accustomed to action, and to facing problems head-on.
“Once you have that information, what will you do?”
“Put an end to the problem.”
The ruthless intent in his voice jolted her. “Ah, how exactly will you do that?”
“By employing whatever means are necessary. I will not allow smuggling on my lands, Phoebe, make no mistake about that. It's a dangerous business, and I won't have my wife or my people put at risk over a bloody run of French cognac. Christ! I didn't spend years fighting the French to turn a blind eye to this sort of thing now.”
She understood his logic, but the likely result of that logic filled her with apprehension. “Will you . . . ?” she swallowed. “Will you . . . ?” She could not say the words.
He sighed and a terrible weariness tugged at the hard lines of his face. “Kill them? Not if I don't have to. I'd prefer to hand them over to Harper to deal with.”
She eased out her breath. That was something, at least. But capturing a band of desperate smugglers actually sounded harder than killing them. And if they
were
truly desperate . . . well. She did not want to think about that, either, or what might happen to Lucas.
“Assuming you do catch them,” she said carefully, “what is likely to happen to them?”
“It depends. They could be thrown in jail, or even deported or hanged, depending on a number of factors.”
He sounded so unconcerned that she flinched. She reached over to grab his sleeve. “Lucas, how can you be so cold about that? You said yourself that those men are likely to be local villagers, perhaps even related to the people of your hall. Knowing so little about the situation, how can you even think to turn them over to be hanged or deported? I do not believe you are capable of such cruelty.”
He made an impatient, frustrated sound and shook off her hand. Standing, he turned to face her. He towered above her, over six feet of muscled, angry man. She had to resist the impulse to shrink into the pillows.
“It's not cruelty. It's command. This is my land, Phoebe, and my manor house. I didn't ask for the earldom or the estate, not a goddamned bit of it. I never wanted the responsibility, but it's mine now. And I'll be hanged if I'll let this place fall back into the wrack and ruin left by your grandfather. I
will
have order on my lands, and I'll do whatever is necessary to achieve it.”
She peered up at him, unnerved and at a loss as to how to respond.
Unaware of the effect he was having on her—at least she hoped so—he carried on. Not shouting, but his hard voice chilled her nonetheless. “Furthermore, I expect my countess to support me on this, Quaker beliefs or no. This is the real world, Phoebe, and there are bad men in it, men who would kill you or anyone else on this estate if you got in their way. Yes, I know it troubles you, but I will not be held back from doing what I must by your quaint, childish notions about the world.”
The shock of his words hit her dead-on. She gasped and put her hands to her throat.
His eyes widened. “Christ. Phoebe, I didn't mean—”
He bit off whatever he was going to say, leaning down to her. Shaking her head, she held up a hand to ward him off. “I may be naive, Lucas, but you still think like a man at war. You forget you are no longer a soldier.”
His gaze flickered away from her as he straightened up. “Sometimes I wish to hell I still was,” he said in a bitter voice.
Her heart broke. For him, for her, and for their marriage.
He drew in a deep breath, and with it came the hard shell of the arrogant aristocrat. “Are we through with this discussion now?” he asked in a coldly polite voice.
She managed to nod.
“Good. Then please move over so I can get back in bed.”
Phoebe had to push through disbelief and heartache to find her voice. “No, Lucas. I would ask that you return to your own room tonight.”
His hand, reaching for the coverlet, froze. Color washed across his cheekbones. “What?”
“You heard me,” she said, her voice firming. It might kill her to say the words, but she knew she had to. “I have no wish to sleep with you when you are filled with so much anger and hatred. Nor do I feel it my duty as your wife to do so. My responsibilities to God and my beliefs outweigh my marital obligations to you.”
His eyes seemed to flame at her, his expression stark. Then he turned on his heel and stalked from the room.
 
 
A clattering sound pulled her awake. Phoebe's eyes flew open and she bolted upright, her heart thudding and her mind groping to remember where she was. Her gaze flitted from one corner of the room to the other, finally landing on Maggie pulling back the heavy drapes that hung over the window recesses of her bedroom.
BOOK: His Mistletoe Bride
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