Pendragon (15 page)

“Then what happened, Mrs. Miggs?”

“Mr. Miggs had to run after me even as he was pulling up his pants, hobbling about, looking like a fool until finally I slowed down that big old mare so's he could climb in. The dear man never tried to do that again.”

“Was it better in Fowey?”

“Oh yes. You see, Mr. Miggs had learned his lesson.”

“So you're saying that I must tell Thomas what's what?”

“Aye. And you must ask him why he behaved as he did. Perhaps it's some sort of tradition for the men in his family—well, I've never heard of it and that's a fact, but men being men, it's difficult to know what they hold dear and necessary.”

“I will ask him, but you know, I would rather do something like you did, Mrs. Miggs. You took action, and that was well done of you. You taught Mr. Miggs what was what right then and there. You didn't give him the time to roll over and snore.”

“I doubt he could have slept, it was powerful cold in that open field.”

“That doesn't matter, it's a mere detail. Here's to you, Mrs. Miggs,” Meggie said, and both women drank deeply. “What should I do to my new husband? I must show him that what he did was reprehensible, after I've gotten all his manly reasoning from him.” Meggie rested her chin on her hands, thinking hard. She said after a moment, “I mean, perhaps it wouldn't be wise to hit him over the head with the champagne bottle. I might kill him. I really don't want to hang. Also, my father is a vicar and that wouldn't look good to his bishop or to his congregation. Ah, Bishop Arlington even conducted my wedding ceremony. He would be profoundly distressed.”

“A bishop, you say? My, that's something. No, don't take a chance of killing him, dearie. I don't want you dumping cold water on him either, it would ruin my good bed.”

Meggie agreed and drank until her glass was empty.
She looked at Mrs. Miggs. “Nothing feels bad now,” she said and burped and smiled at the same time. “As a matter of fact, I rather think I would like to dance.”

“Drink yourself one more glass, then go back upstairs to that husband of yours.”

“But what can I do besides ask him questions?”

“Hmmm. Let me think about this, Meggie. Are you leaving in the morning?”

“I think so. He won't tell me anything, curse his eyes. He has really quite lovely eyes, you know, all dark and brooding, but then he'll laugh and his eyes change and dance and lighten up and flash. I don't think he wets his finger and dampens his eyelashes to make them look longer and thicker. Many girls do that, you know. No, his are naturally thick and long. Did you remark upon his beautiful eyes when we arrived? No, well, you can remark upon them in the morning. Ah, perhaps I could take a mail coach and just go back home. I wonder if he would run after me, tugging on his trousers.” Meggie frowned. “Somehow I cannot imagine Thomas running after anything, particularly if his trousers are down.”

“No, Meggie, forget about mail coaches. They aren't for you.”

Meggie was forced to agree. But she really didn't feel at all bad now, didn't feel like Thomas would be better off dead. “I can play the fiddle a bit, Mrs. Miggs. If you have one I will play for you and we could both dance.”

“I'm sorry, no fiddle, Meggie. Do you play well?”

“No, but it is at least music. I thought I loved my dratted almost cousin Jeremy just last year. Actually, I would have sworn I would love him to my deathbed just three months ago, but then he opened his mouth and out came such obnoxious condescension. I saw the real him and it wasn't a pretty sight.”

“Cousins can get under your skin, that's true.”

“Then he spoke to me right after the ceremony. I didn't want him to, but he insisted. He told me it was all a ruse, a performance he'd given just for me, and he apologized and said he didn't want me to feel badly about him
anymore, that he really wasn't a pig. He was noble, Mrs. Miggs, and for a time this afternoon, I just couldn't bear it. I'd loved him so very much, then despised him while loving him, and then he has to tell me he was noble all along. It gave me a headache. And now Thomas is upstairs, snoring, and I'm not particularly pleased about anything right now.”

“I know, but things will change. You will learn how to manage him, Meggie. A taste of the whip, a lick of honey, and you can have a man at your knees, his tongue out, ready to evict your mother-in-law. Now, here's a last glass for you, dearie. Then you need to get yourself to bed. You're slurring your words, which is a sure sign that you will wake up wanting to die yourself. You just send your new husband downstairs first thing and I'll give him something that will set you to rights again.”

Meggie said to the now-empty champagne bottle, “He makes me bleed, leaves me, then finishes the business, and now that I'm feeling really quite fine, she tells me I'm going to feel awful again.”

“It's the wages of drink, my dear.”

16

M
RS
.
MIGGS WAS
wrong. Meggie awoke alert, full of energy—no pounding head, no queasy stomach, not a single fuzzy residual thought in her brain. She felt strong and fit except for the ache between her legs and just a slight feeling of silliness. Actually, she believed she could still dance a bit. Had she really said she could play the fiddle for her and Mrs. Miggs?

Oh, dear.

Blessed hell. She'd forgotten—she was married. She had a husband, a husband who had behaved very peculiarly last night.

Meggie turned slowly, fully expecting to see Thomas lying beside her, on his back, still snoring, but Thomas was gone, none of him anywhere to be seen. And he'd been gone for a while. His pillow wasn't even warm.

She looked at the small clock on the mantel. It was only seven o'clock in the morning. He'd left her very early indeed.

When she'd eased into bed long after midnight, her husband of one day—and one half of one night—had been sprawled on his belly, arms flung wide, taking up much more than half the bed. A single cover was to his waist, leaving him bare the rest of the way up. There was a lot of the rest of the way up to see. She'd seen the front of him and now she was seeing the back. Without
considering what she was doing, Meggie raised her candle higher. He was a big man, long and smooth, not hairy on the back like he was on the front, very nicely made—she'd give him that—but nothing else. For a moment, no, just for the quickest of an instant, she wanted to pull the cover down, but she got her brain back, and backed away. She finally doused the candle, made herself into a ball, and hugged the side of the bed until her fuzzy brain became so vague, so empty of anything save visions of swimming in the sea, only she wasn't really wet or even swimming, just there somehow in the water and it was cradling her, making her feel just fine. When she fell asleep, she slept deeply, not a single disagreeable dream to wake her in the night.

She sat up when she saw the door slowly opening, and there he was, her husband, just standing there, one booted foot inside the room, looking toward the bed, looking at her. A man had just opened the door to her chamber, hadn't even bothered to knock and now he was in the same bedchamber as she was and he was looking at her. It was astounding, this husband business. The power it gave men over women and the most private parts of their lives. Actually, she'd had some power as well when he'd taken off his clothes for her to see him the previous night. Now that she thought about that, her skin turned warm, particularly the skin on her face.

“Meggie,” he said, not moving from the doorway.

He was smart, she thought, not to come any closer. “Shall I pack your dressing gown in my valise?”

“What?”

“Shall I pack—”

“Yes, I see that you're wearing it. Shall I ask you why?”

“I couldn't very well go downstairs to get more champagne wearing my nightgown, one, I might add, that didn't make it past the bed and to safety and is thus spotted with my blood and with you as well.”

He appeared flummoxed for a moment at this stark talk, then said, “I see. You know, a girl shouldn't speak so
openly about intimate matters, particularly her virginal blood and her husband's seed.”

He would swear he saw her lips form a word, and he knew that word was
moron.

“Why did you go downstairs for more champagne?”

“You haven't seen Mrs. Miggs this morning?”

He shook his head.

“I finished the champagne you ordered up for my fantasy dinner—actually my lovely fantasy dinner spun out of a stupid girl's head. It turned into quite something else, didn't it?”

“As to that, I don't wish to speak of it. I, ah, washed out your nightgown when I awoke this morning and hung it over the back of the chair. It should be completely dry shortly.”

“Thank you. You have erased the evidence—very wise of you.”

“The champagne left on the table wasn't enough for you?”

Meggie began swinging her legs over the side of the bed. Her toes were a good six inches off the floor. She said in a chatty voice, “How very odd. You sound all stiff and disapproving, like a father whose child has sadly disappointed him. Surely that is an absurdity after what you did.” He would swear again that her mouth formed the word
moron
. He also realized that she was on the edge of saying it, and knew he couldn't allow it. Maybe he deserved it, but that wasn't for her to decide.

He said, very quickly, “You are not my child. However, as my wife, you are my responsibility. Naturally I am distressed. It cannot be wise of you to drink so very much.”

“You are,” she said quite clearly, “a buffoon.”

He wondered if a buffoon was better or worse than a moron and said, “You shouldn't insult your husband,” and knew it was pathetic. At that moment he wanted more than anything to yell at her, curse at her, demand why she'd married him when she loved her damned almost cousin Jeremy Stanton-Greville, who was already married,
his wife pregnant. And then, of course, that was exactly the reason Meggie had married him. She couldn't have Jeremy, so why not take a man who obviously wanted her? But he didn't yell, didn't curse her. He didn't say anything at all. If a man didn't have his pride, he didn't have much of anything at all.

Meggie whistled, a nice fresh spring tune about a boy and a girl and a field full of violets.

“No,” he said slowly, “now that I've listened to your song, now that I see the blood in your eye, I suppose that the champagne wasn't enough. You went downstairs to drink more champagne?”

“That's right. Mrs. Miggs and I shared a bottle.”

She wished he would leave, maybe lend her the carriage and let Tim McCulver drive her back to Glenclose-on-Rowan. She was, she realized, succumbing again to melancholia, something she recognized very well ever since that fateful morning when Jeremy had met her in the park with perfect Charlotte at his side, a sinking of spirits made only more profound after Jeremy had confessed that his loud and obnoxious act had been for her benefit to ease her pain, damn him and damn her father for knowing of her pain in the first place. And Charlotte, of course, really was a goddess, blast her.

Was Thomas that different from Jeremy? Was he in fact the real ass while Jeremy was only the pretend ass? Had he hidden his true colors until he'd gotten her to the altar? Her spirits fell lower, if that were possible.

However, when he said, cold outrage in his voice, “May I ask how many men were in the taproom to see you swilling champagne, wearing nothing but my dressing gown?” Meggie immediately perked up.

She said in a voice more serious than her father the vicar's when confronted with an unrepentant sinner as she tapped her fingertips against her chin, “Let me think. Oh, I don't think there were more than ten men drinking in the taproom. Were there?” She tapped, tapped, tapped, all thoughtful. “You know, it was very late. Surely most men had gone to their homes, mauled their wives, sprawled
out on their bellies, taking up most of the bed, happy as clams, snoring to the ceiling.”

“If they were on their bellies, then they would be snoring to the mattress.” He held up his hand knowing a fine display of wit was ready to burst from her mouth, “No, you don't have to tell me—you were speaking metaphorically. Now, you're telling me that you went downstairs wearing only my damned dressing gown, your damned feet bare—and you drank champagne with ten damned men looking on?”

“Ah, I can see from your spate of curses, repetitive but nonetheless curses just the same, that you're winding yourself up to really blast me now. I pray you won't forget that Mrs. Miggs was there.”

She was sneering at him, playing him for the fool, and doing it quite well. No hope for it and so he climbed down from his high horse and sighed. “No, you're lying to me and you don't do it well, Meggie. So there were no men there, then.”

“To be certain I'm not lying to you, you will have to ask Mrs. Miggs, won't you?”

“No, I don't think so. You're not a very good liar. You will stop mocking me, Meggie. A wife shouldn't be disrespectful to her husband.”

“Well, then, should a man be allowed to do whatever pleases him to do to his new wife?”

He wanted to yell out that damned Jeremy's name to her, but he didn't, said only, “I don't wish to speak about that.”

“I see. You said a wife shouldn't be disrespectful to her husband. Perhaps you could prepare a list for me for all these pesky things a wife shouldn't do that would irritate her husband. Do you think that would assist you into whipping me into shape?”

“It isn't a very long list.”

“A list for the goose. How about a list for the gander as well? Yes, a list is a very good idea. I shall prepare it for you immediately. Then we can trade lists. I certainly know what will be the very top item on the list. Enough
respect for your wife so that you don't maul her.”

He had mauled her. It hadn't begun that way, but that's the way it had ended. Didn't she remember what she'd done, what she'd bleated out to her father? Damnation. He said, “As for mauling, that is quite absurd. I was merely overeager, that's all, perhaps a bit over the edge, a bit out of control. As for the second time, perhaps that also was a bit too much, but it happened, it's over, and you will forget about it.” He held up his hand. “No, don't say anything. You are quite good at forgetting things, it seems, so you may forget this as well.”

“What have I ever forgotten? Come, tell me. Ah, you can't. The truth is that I'm a veritable elephant, I simply never forget a single thing. You must fish in another stream, Thomas.”

“Stop your damned wit, Meggie. Listen to me, I was rough but I really didn't mean to be. Everything was just too much, nothing more, just too much.”

“What reason could you possibly have to maul your bride on her wedding night?”

“I told you, I don't wish to speak of it again. I didn't mean to hurt you. I am sorry for that. Now, you will forget it.”

“Gone? Just like that? Very well.” Meggie snapped her fingers.

He stared at her, wondering what was in that frighteningly active brain of hers now.

She said, “Actually I would like to ask you a question, Thomas.”

A question? He didn't want a question, but he couldn't very well clap his hand over her mouth and leave it there. He nodded, unwillingly.

Meggie opened her mouth, then closed it. No, now wasn't the time. She'd told him how she felt. It was enough. She said, “Still, I was wondering if perhaps all men fly out of control on their wedding nights. You know, they've been forced to contain themselves for such a very long time, controlling all their base desires, that when they finally have the right to open the door, so to speak, they
can't help themselves? They just fly right through, not pausing to perhaps even turn the doorknob?”

“That makes no sense.”

She sighed. “Of course it does. You just don't like to see yourself in this light.”

“I don't wish to speak of it. No more.”

And she snapped her fingers again. She said, “It is odd. Mrs. Miggs told me I wouldn't feel at all well this morning, what with all the champagne, but she was wrong. Will you please leave, my lord? I wish to bathe and dress. Oh my, I should have respectfully inquired about your plans, which must, perforce, be mine as well since I am the adjunct here. Do you intend that we leave this morning?”

“Yes, as soon as you are able.”

“Ah, do you also have plans that aren't any of my business?”

“We are on our wedding trip. Now, you will cease your ridiculous anger. A wife should not be angry with her husband.”

“That is on the list?”

“Among other things.”

“Go away, my lord. Go take a strap to one of the horses.”

“How much champagne did you drink?”

“Enough to want to play a fiddle and perhaps dance a bit with Mrs. Miggs. Enough to forget that I wanted to kill you. In any case, even drunk, I realized I would be hanged if I did you in, and that would be distressing to my father. Hmmm. Since I can't ask my father about this, perhaps the next time I see Jeremy, I can inquire about this door business and a husband blasting through it on his wedding night.”

He went pale, then red to his hairline with rage. “You will not speak of him further, do you understand me? Oh yes, I would be more distressed than your father if you killed me.”

“No, you would be dead and not feel a thing.”

She simply didn't know that he'd overheard her and
her father, so how could she possibly know why he was so damned angry? Maybe that was a good thing. He said, “You honestly feel fine now?”

“I feel ready to take on the world. I feel more than ready to take you on, my lord.”

“I am your husband. My name is Thomas. A wife doesn't take on a husband, if you mean by that to start an argument with him.”