The Reluctant Bride (4 page)

How in God's name could he insinuate himself between the crisp white sheets of the same bed and be responsible for his actions?

They hardly knew one another.

The candle was about to go out. Rather than light another, Angus sat down on the seat in the window embrasure and quietly removed his boots.

In stockinged feet he moved closer to the bed for one final look, and noticed that she clasped something. Sick disappointment churned in his stomach as he recognised the red ribbon that tied the love letters exchanged between herself and Captain Noble protruding from beneath the pillow.

This was her wedding night. Tonight she should have become Mrs Jack Noble. She should have married the father of her child. She should have married Jack Noble, not Angus McCartney. She'd made that very clear.

Retrieving his sketch from the trunk he sat down again and grimly returned to work. He needed to amend his sketch, remind himself of every detail of this wedding night, including the fact she slept with another man's love letters. This was the stark truth and one day he'd look back and remember. Either he'd have to concede he'd made the biggest miscalculation of his life, or …

He tapped the end of the pencil against his teeth at the thought.

… or that force of will could triumph over the greatest adversity. Jack Noble was a man of honeyed words. He'd won Emily through charm and cajolery.

Angus would win her through honour and action.

Finished, he leaned back and closed his eyes. Jack Noble would have made Emily a slave to his passionate impulses. Angus would treat her with care and consideration. He would shield her from the brutish reality of the marriage bed. She need never fear her new husband would be ruled by the ungovernable impulses which had made Jack Noble so dangerous to know.

Folding his length to fit the confines of the window seat, Angus tried to settle down to sleep. He was used to discomfort; had bivouacked in the coldest, stoniest of resting places. He had always prided himself on being able to sleep anywhere, under virtually any circumstances.

But tonight he slept with the fitful awareness of one who suspects a potential enemy is lurking just beyond the shadows.

Emily jerked into consciousness of her surroundings at the flat metallic sound of the copper pitcher being quietly placed upon the marble washstand.

‘Good morning …'

Her husband, shaved and dressed, did not meet her eye as he finished his ablutions. Emily suspected he was even more embarrassed than she. Blearily, she took in the chiselled planes of his face, the dark wary eyes, the tight line of his mouth. A stranger's face yet it would have been nice to have woken to a smile. She extinguished the thought quickly. Major McCartney was and always would be a stranger. She was not insensible to the fact she owed him something … but it was too much. Too great a bargain to honour as one day she must, for right now her grief and lack of control over her life was overwhelming.

‘We should make an early start unless you don't mind spending another night on the road.'

She pulled the counterpane up to her chin, aware he would be conscious of her aversion, her horror at waking to find a strange man in her bedroom. Still, it was better than finding one in her bed.

Releasing her breath on a sigh, Emily closed her eyes. Thank heaven her wedding night was over. Clearly her new husband was repulsed by her condition since he'd not forced himself on her when such close proximity afforded such an opportunity. She could only hope he'd be unlikely to try once they were … where? Ensconced in their new home?

With the money Major McCartney had received from Aunt Gemma he must have made arrangements for a house that boasted quarters for each of them.

Separate bedrooms.

A baronet's son – with money, now, thanks to Aunt Gemma's inducements – would not expect Emily to accept anything so common as a shared bedchamber.

Emily dragged herself up into a sitting position. ‘No, I shall get up,' she said, taking the damp flannel he offered, discovering she still clasped Jack's letters in one hand. Surreptitiously, she pushed them under the pillow and out of sight.

‘The carriage is ready whenever you are.'

‘You're not riding ahead?' What did it matter if he heard the hope in her voice? This was a business transaction for both of them.

He hesitated. ‘No.' He seemed to deliberate before adding, ‘I was forced to shoot my horse, Gallant, two days ago.'

She waited, expecting him to leave the room or at least turn his back so she could rise. Irritated, she glanced up and saw the workings of his mouth.

‘Gallant was with me in Spain. He was a grand horse.'

‘I'm sorry.' The words sounded trite for she could see he was battling some emotion beyond her comprehension. Emily had never owned a horse. Or a dog. She'd given up begging her father for a pet – or anything else – by the time she was twelve. Briefly, she contemplated telling her husband about her doll Fanchette's fiery end, then thought he'd not consider her loss in the same league as his. She forced a smile. ‘You'll have to get another horse as soon as you can.' She wouldn't want him bouncing around in the same carriage more than necessary when he could be riding ahead. Besides, surely most husbands would hate the idea of being closeted for hours on end with their wives.

Distracted by the sound of voices in the passage, she glanced at the door, hoping to waylay a serving girl who could help her dress. When she returned her gaze to her husband's face, she was surprised to find him looking at her oddly.

‘Gallant will not be easily replaced.' He cleared his throat. ‘I'll await you in the breakfast parlour.'

‘One moment …' Emily sent a desperate look in the direction of the door as two maids passed by.

He looked at her, enquiringly.

‘You'll call someone to help me?' She noticed his confusion and felt heat sting her cheeks as she added, ‘To help me dress.'

Oh dear Lord, did he really have so little idea of the needs of women? She saw his own colour rise as he muttered, already halfway into the passage, ‘I'll get one of the servants to attend you.'

And who would do it when they were ensconced in his highly unsuitable lodgings? Angus wondered as they lurched along in silence during the final leg of their journey. Miranda, his servant, lived in the village and came in each day. She would not always be on hand to help Emily with all those laces and buttons she could not reach.

The more Angus dwelt on how ill-equipped he was to satisfy his new young wife the less inclined he was to attempt conversation.

It was only as they forded a small stream and lurched out of the dip that he turned at her sharp intake of breath. Alarmed, he leant forward and took her arm as she doubled over, gripping her belly.

‘No, please,' she said, shaking him off. ‘Sometimes the bigger bumps—' She gasped again as the carriage bounced into a rut, taking a bend on two wheels before it regained its balance.

‘We still have another two hours of this. Would you like to stop and rest?'

As Emily was emphatic they continue, Angus did not press it. Instead he suggested, ‘If you lean against me I can cushion the jolting better than the squabs. They're old and the leather is hard.'

She did not answer but nor did she draw away when Angus changed seats to sit beside her. Gently he drew her across his lap and forced her head against his shoulder.

He knew she needed respite from the pain. ‘Try and relax. For the sake of the baby.'

She stared up at him, mute, her eyes reflecting her misery; and recalling Gallant lying on the cold ground with his fractured leg beyond repair, staring trustingly at him as he loaded his pistol, Angus felt the bile rise up in his throat.

Jessamine, too, had looked at him like this. Needing something he could not give.

He closed his eyes. He could not think of Jessamine now. Not when Emily consumed him. Swallowing, he realised he held her too tightly as she twisted and whimpered against him.

He reached over and drew the blanket up around her, making a soft cushion for her back and midsection. The blanket also ensured she remain unaware of the effects on him of such close physical proximity. The last thing he wanted was to terrify her further.

‘Better?' he asked, smiling, and she replied, stiffly, that it was.

It wasn't long before he felt her body go slack. It took all his strength to hold her against him so she wasn't jolted to the floor.

When they reached Maidstone Angus was exhausted.

And at Maidsone Emily received the shock of her life.

She could barely move when the carriage ground to a halt. Angus had to lift her out and carry her up the shallow flight of steps to his lodgings.

Lodgings! Like those of an unmarried soldier of limited means. Her revulsion grew as he showed her around. Not that there was much to see.

She didn't care that she was unable to hide her feelings – she was beyond showing any sensitivity to anyone – so that his embarrassment grew by the minute.

‘As soon as I sell my commission we can move to something larger.' He could not meet her eye. She knew it was her duty to reassure him that she understood his difficulties in finding suitable accommodation at such short notice, that she was grateful to him for taking her and her unborn child on at all. Calming platitudes and gratitude were required of a wife in her situation. But she could not find the words.

Instead, her exhaustion and disappointment threatened to find an outlet in tears. She tried to breathe evenly to stem the sobs. Perhaps Aunt Gemma had agreed to release the money only when they were properly married.

Perhaps the major had already spent the funds on gaming debts! She wanted to scream and cry. Instead, she could only stare at him, silent, while horror and despair at the long, awful future looming ahead of her twisted in her gut.

‘I know it's not what you're used to.' His cheeks were burning as he set her down on a threadbare sofa so hard it made the carriage seem commodious. ‘But it'll be only for a couple of weeks. I wanted to wait until you could help choose where we would live.'

She struggled up to follow him into the bedroom after he'd retrieved her trunk which he set down at the foot of the bed.

‘Of course you're at complete liberty to redecorate as you wish. You may not find the battle scenes conducive to sleep.' He reached up to remove the crossed military swords above the mantelpiece, turning a battle scene to the wall.

Emily shuddered before looking away. ‘It's your home. If this is how you like to live …' She shrugged, pretending it was of little concern to her.

And yet, it was … a nightmare.

One step up from barracks, she supposed as she stared at the lumpy double bed.

As he busied himself removing the battle scenes from the wall, Emily stole a glance at the scar that disfigured his left cheek and felt something close to hatred. But for him Jack would have been at her side.

Wouldn't he? She wanted to ask so much but couldn't. She'd scream and rail at the injustice of life, proving what her father had told her since she was a child: that madness ran in her veins and woe betide the man who allied himself to a Laurent woman. Misery and misfortune would be their lot.

Suddenly her anger at Angus dissipated. If he didn't already, he'd soon regret marrying a cursed Laurent woman. She clung to the plain iron bed end and forced back the tears.

‘I'll leave you … Emily.' He stumbled over her name. ‘You should rest.'

‘Yes.' She swallowed. Forcing her way through her grief, her inertia, she glanced around, frowning. ‘Is there no one here to help me unpack?' She had been going to say undress but disliked putting notions into his head.

‘Miranda, my servant, will be here later. She comes in from the village each day, but we've arrived earlier than I'd anticipated.'

Emily ran a weary hand across her brow. She was so tired now she no longer cared what became of her. Presenting him with her back, she murmured, ‘In that case you'll have to unfasten my dress.'

She smiled grimly as he fumbled with the buttons. Whatever pleasure he discovered as he caressed her flesh would be as hollow as she was. She knew with dull certainty that with Jack dead she had nothing but a husk to offer him.

When the last button was unfastened, Emily gripped the bodice to stop it slipping down and with a sigh, asked him to loosen the laces of her stays.

With this done, she raised her hands above her head and asked him to pull off her dress. So many layers, she thought wearily. Though still in her chemise when she turned to face him, his face was flaming.

She didn't care. She didn't care about anything, not even her pride.

‘I need to rest,' she murmured, close to crumpling to the floor and too ungainly to climb into the high bed, unaided.

Wordlessly, he pulled back the bed covers and took her wrist, helping her onto the mattress which wasn't as lumpy as she'd feared, before drawing up the covers. Strangely, his actions were efficient and soothing. Desperate for release, she plunged into a deep sleep before he'd even left the room.

Emily was relieved to find her new husband had already left when she awoke after more than ten hours' thankful oblivion.

For the next week she was asleep before he took his rest and he was up before she awoke. During the day they spoke little to one another while dinner was largely silent, conducted over the plain fare Miranda provided.

On the first day of the following week, Emily struggled out of bed feeling larger and more ungainly than ever and listened for sounds of Angus's servant. The previous day she'd overheard the woman grumbling to Angus that her extended hours did not suit her since she had six children of her own to tend.

The weather had grown warm so after washing she pulled on a light, loose morning dress from the trunk she had not yet unpacked. Fortunately the garment, which had been refashioned from one of her mother's old gowns, buttoned up the front.

Consciousness usually brought with it a wave of misery and desolation, but before Emily had time to assimilate her thoughts there was a loud rapping at the front door. As Angus appeared to be out and Miranda had not yet arrived, it was Emily who finally responded to the repeated pounding.

‘Good God!'

It was hardly the kind of greeting she'd expected. A tall, handsome young man, with a very young, attractive female wearing far too flamboyant a costume to be respectable, stood upon the doorstep.

Emily drew herself up and fixed them with a flinty stare.

‘Can I help you?'

The young man, blushing to the roots of his flaxen hair at her frosty response – delivered in the cultured tones which marked her out as a lady, not the doxy she suspected he must have assumed – stammered that he was here to see his brother.

‘Whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?' asked Emily, dismayed at not having been informed. Morning dress was not the attire for entertaining visitors and although she had few presentable gowns, she'd have at least made an effort had she known Angus's family intended paying a call.

The young man bowed with a flourish. ‘Bellamy McCartney, Angus's youngest brother, at your service, ma'am. May I present my friend, Miss Nellie Galway.'

Emily managed a barely perceptible nod as she stood aside so they could enter. ‘As you may have gathered,' she said crisply, ‘I am Angus's wife, Emily. Please, come in.'

Emily was under no illusion that Bellamy suffered from a congestion of the lungs. She could quite imagine that a fit of coughing, or was it choking, could easily be brought on at the delivery of such news. Angus, she'd already gathered, was not the marrying kind.

She led them into the tiny parlour and bade them sit, excusing herself to ‘arrange for tea' since Angus's lodgings had nothing as sophisticated as a bell pull.

Nor the house, it seemed, a servant, though she prayed either Miranda or her husband would appear to help her.

She found both, and soon Miranda was seeing to the tea while Angus sat beside her on the tiny sofa, his thigh pressed insinuatingly close to hers as they faced their visitors.