The Rogue's Return (21 page)

Deliberately or not, he was deflating her panic. She laughed, greeted their friends, and set to arranging what boxes should go below and what to their stateroom, but she couldn't ignore the fact that she was plunged into high society before she was ready.

She hadn't planned to wear her best black on the voyage, but she pulled it out of the chest that was going down to the hold. She was tempted to keep out some of her Carlisle dresses, but she knew they'd be too tight, and even at their best they'd not been up to Ransome-Brown standards.

She sent the chests away. “Will we keep your papers here?”

“No, Hal has them. He's sharing his cabin with Treadwell and Oglethorpe, so they'll keep an eye on them. It's hardly necessary in any case, unless you think the Grand Panjandrum was playing Guinevere to Lancelot McArthur.”

It made her laugh, but she wouldn't feel entirely safe until she was sure that none of their fellow passengers had links to York.

She was finding a place in their cabin for an extra box when the ship's whistle blew. She took Simon's hand and they hurried on deck to witness the end of her time
in Canada. With a noisy rattle, the gangplank came up and was neatly stowed below the rail. Then the
Eweretta
was towed out into the river to begin her great journey home.

T
hey didn't meet their fellow cabin passengers in any formal sense until dinner, which on the
Eweretta
was to be served at the fashionable hour of five. There would be breakfast at eight, nunch at, of course, noon, dinner at five, and a supper at eleven for those who cared for it. Apart from supper, they were all expected to be at the table on time if they wished to eat because the cuddy had to alternate between dining room and drawing room.

After a struggle, Jancy had decided not to wear her black for the first evening. She wanted to make a good impression, but as she could hardly wear the black every night, there seemed no point. Gentlemen had an easier time of it, she thought. Simon's simple brown coat, fawn pantaloons, and plain waistcoat would suffice, especially when Treadwell arranged a neckcloth for him.

“I can do a tolerable job,” he told Jancy, chin raised, “but it still hurts to flex my right arm that much. For a slight wound, it's proving to be more trouble than the ribs.”

With dismay, she watched him transform before her eyes. In York, his neckcloths had been soft and casual. Now Treadwell deftly arranged folds and tucks in a stiffer one, and fixed the arrangement with a jewel-headed pin she'd never seen before. What was that golden stone? A topaz?

She glanced at herself in the mirror, in a dress no better than the Ransome-Browns' servant's, her hair simply pinned up and without cap or ornament. She had no ornament, and she knew her style of cap would consign her to the servant class. She pinned the amethyst brooch to the front of her gown and added the pearl earrings. They gave her some dignity.

She turned and found Simon watching her.

“I'm sorry,” he said. “I should have thought. I traveled across on a naval vessel.”

She liked the fact that he wasn't ignoring reality. He raised her chin with his finger. “You are Jane St. Bride of Brideswell. That is enough.”

She smiled. “Very well. Let's face the Grand Panjandrum herself.”

The captain presided at dinner, explaining that a pilot had charge of the ship for the first little while. He began the meal with a toast to the
Eweretta
and the company and to a smooth, fast journey to England. They all said, “Hear, hear!” with sincerity.

Then the formal introductions were made.

The colonel, in his scarlet, braided uniform, introduced his wife, in low-necked, dark blue satin and a matching turban set with a feather spray of jewels.
Pasha,
Jancy thought and became terrified of losing her composure. She dared not even glance at Simon. At least her fears about McArthur conspirators were laid to rest. The Ransome-Browns had been in Canada for only three years, all spent in Montreal.

Miss Ransome-Brown was present, in pale pink, with curls clustering around her sulky face, as was Master Ransome-Brown, in an even higher collar and a brightly striped waistcoat. Apparently the younger children and governess would eat in one of the cabins.

A shame, Jancy thought. She felt she might have more in common with that lady.

The Ransome-Browns, the colonel explained, were
returning to England to take up a position in London. A smirk on his wife's face indicated that it was an excellent one.

“Reverend Shore,” said a tall, thin man with wispy white hair. He looked over seventy and frail. “I have spent my adult life ministering to the Anglican settlers of Quebec, but now age carries me homeward for my final years. I intend to spend the voyage writing my reminiscences from my diaries and notes.”

In other words, leave me alone. A less likely McArthur associate was impossible to imagine.

Hal and Captain Norton introduced themselves, and then Simon said, “Simon St. Bride, and my wife, Jane. We are returning home to Brideswell, Lincolnshire.”

Jancy had gathered that “Brideswell” was a magic word, and that was confirmed by the way Mrs. Ransome-Brown's bosom expanded. He'd done it deliberately. A kind of raised, warning sword.

Do not discount me or my wife.

If she didn't already adore him, she would have done so then, even if the Grand Panjandrum was staring at her with disbelief.

He added, “We're both in mourning for my wife's uncle, but as he didn't approve of lengthy gloom, we won't cast a damper on the company here.”

“Excellent, excellent,” said Captain Stoddard. “My passengers generally enjoy card parties, music, and have been known to stage theatricals. All as you wish, of course. Some of my guests prefer a quieter time of it. In clement weather we have even had dancing on the deck, but I fear that will not be on this voyage. Excellent soup, what?”

It was excellent soup, but Jancy's throat was tight.

Card parties, theatricals, and dancing? Before arriving in York the only skill she'd had with cards was in fortune telling. She'd never acted—Martha would have fainted on the spot—and though Martha hadn't actually
objected to country dances, they hadn't had occasion to dance any. She suddenly felt much as she had when she'd arrived in Castle Row in rags.

At least conversation became a masculine affair with much talk of Canadian and British politics, economics, and the weather. On the state of Europe, Hal was the best informed and he had bleak things to say about the effect of the cold spring and harsh summer in many parts, adding to the depression caused by the end of the war.

The meal drew to a rather somber close. Reverend Shore retired early, but the rest seemed inclined to linger, talking of these problems, and income tax, and the new currency. Colonel Ransome-Brown was concerned about the fate of ex-soldiers but had no sympathy for what he called the “idle poor.”

Simon said, “With respect, Colonel, the newly unemployed can't be thought idle by choice.”

“True, true, but there's always some who don't want steady work.”

“Very few, I suspect.”

Oh, Simon, you should meet my family.
Jancy suppressed that thought and then noticed Mrs. Ransome-Brown's attention.

“You are from a York family, Mrs. St. Bride?”

Jancy's heart jolted in alarm, but she said, “No, ma'am. I've been there only a year.”

“Ah, so in England, you come from . . . ?”

There seemed no way to avoid it. “Carlisle, ma'am.” To get it over with, she added, “My father was a schoolmaster there, but he died some years ago. When my mother also died, I went to live with my uncle in York.”

“I see. And now your uncle, too, is dead. How very unfortunate.” Jancy heard a suggestion that she was in some way to blame for fate, but no increase in disdain. Perhaps a schoolmaster was respectable.

“And you, ma'am?” Jancy asked. “Where is your family home?”

Not in the north, she prayed.

“Rutland, but we will be purchasing an estate near London, as my husband's position will require him to be there most of the time.”

And Reverend Shore was from Devon. She was safe but newly aware of dangers. She'd foolishly imagined that her life with Simon would be similar to her life in Carlisle, within a limited circle, even if it was limited to an important family in Lincolnshire.

But in Simon's world she would meet people from all over. She could, would, meet people from Cumberland, even from Carlisle. The chance of meeting anyone who had known her in Carlisle was remote, but it still set up a nervous twang of alarm.

She was safe on the
Eweretta,
at least, unless one of the officers was a danger, but she would have to prepare for future encounters. To develop some sort of defense. As soon as it was excusable, she claimed tiredness and retreated to the stateroom, where she sat on the chest to think.

She probably was worrying over nothing. The grand society of Cumberland and Carlisle didn't know Jane and Nan Otterburn existed. If one of the ladies had come into Martha's shop—and she couldn't remember such an event—they'd not know who had assisted them. Such people did not attend the chapel.

A knock on the door made her jump, but when she opened it she found only Kirkby offering a steaming jug of washing water. She took it, thanking him. Every luxury on the
Eweretta
.

She poured hot water into the china bowl, telling herself it would be all right. There was no danger, and if she'd read the signals right, Simon would soon be joining her, with lovemaking on his mind. She quickly stripped down to her shift and washed, cradling her own breasts as she soaped them beneath the cotton, her mind sliding toward pleasures to come.

When she was clean, she quickly swapped damp shift
for nightgown and pulled her warm robe on top. She unpinned her hair and teased out the plait, and then sat on the chest to give it its hundred strokes. When Simon knocked and slipped in, she truly felt her heart tremble. In love, in desire, and in fear of ever losing him.

“My wife.”

Such simple words to bring everything to the one important point.
Simon
.

“Keep on brushing,” he said. “Please. I love to watch you do that.”

So she tilted her head and continued with the long strokes as he began to undress. Shoes first. Then jacket, waistcoat, cravat.

“What next?” he asked.

Jancy remembered to continue brushing, even though the strength was leaving her hand. Abbey Street propriety suddenly overwhelmed her. “Your . . . unmentionables.”

His eyes danced, but he took off his pantaloons. “And the even more unmentionables?” he asked, meaning his drawers.

“You're a wicked man to tease a lady so. But yes.”

In short order, he stripped naked. “Is this less teasing?”

The brush fell from Jancy's hand with a clatter as she rose to take him in her arms. But the light of the one candle shone on his long, jagged wound. She bent to kiss it.

“You nearly died, Simon.”

“And would have except for you.” He raised and discarded her nightgown and they kissed.

Beyond the door, a burst of laughter made her hide her face against his chest. “People will hear us,” she whispered.

“We're married,” he whispered back. “We're allowed to do this.”

“Even
naked
? I'm sure we're not supposed to do it naked.”

She felt his chest shake. “Why ever not?”

She looked up. “You're laughing at me.”

“You're being silly. But if you're worrying about the others, you'll have to be very, very quiet, won't you?”

He sat on the chest and drew her to straddle him, and then began to play his mouth over her breasts, then her belly. When she muttered something, clutching, he said, “Hush.”

“Wretch.”

“Rogue,” he corrected.

His left arm supported her, but his right hand slid down her belly and into her slit to find the sensitive spot and circle there. She gasped, and right outside the door, someone—the colonel, she thought—said, “Good night.”

She went very still, and again, Simon laughed.

She muttered furiously at him.

“Then don't make a sound.”

“Or?”

“Alas, I've forgotten my horses' tails. So scream if you wish, love.” He grasped her hips and slid deeply into her.

She managed to keep most of the cry in her throat and cradled his face to kiss him as she clenched around him. Her hips flexed on their own and he leaned back. “Go on.”

“Or?” she asked again.

He smiled. “I'll make you scream and embarrass yourself.”

She hummed, teasing him, but then rose and rocked, watching his beloved features show the pleasure and torment she was causing him. He gripped her hips and control fled. They could be shaking the whole ship
Eweretta
like the mightiest storm, but she didn't care and neither did he. But she managed to keep her cries of “Simon! Simon! Simon!” to mostly gasps.

They clung together afterward, she kissing his hair, he nuzzling her breasts, but then cold had them scrambling into the bottom bed. It was a tight fit, but they lay face to face, kissing, stroking, whispering.

She had to make it clear. “I love you more than words can say, Simon. Always remember that.”

“How could I forget? Especially as we'll be doing this every night.” He raised her leg and adjusted, pressing against her, sliding in again. “It's been so long, my love,” he said as he rocked against her. “I'm ravenous for you. Feed me.”

His lips sealed hers.

 

Simon was woken by the steward's little bell announcing breakfast.

He turned in the tight space to look at his wife, all ivory and gold beauty in the thin sunlight coming through the porthole. She'd not plaited her hair before bed, so it tangled around her, and she had crease marks on her cheeks.

He soothed those marks and stroked hair off her face, adoring the smell of her, the feel of her. Her eyes flittered open, confused for a moment and then smiling—as if he were her sunrise. He prayed he would always be worthy of her love.