A Perfect Lady, page 21
part #3 of The Mackenzie Brothers Series
“You mean to say, it was your company. A company you were slowly driving into the ground.” James’s words were even tighter than the muscles wrapped along his shoulders, sounding as if he had to squeeze them through his teeth. The popped out, like pellets fired from a pistol. “Do not try to fool me, Commodore. I know every deal, every failed venture. I know you’ve paid off customers to buy their silences over pitiful transports and lost cargos. It’s taken me the better part of two years trying to buff your handiwork into history and replace it with my own work ethics.”
“Ethics I tried to instill in you when you were a boy.”
“You did no such thing. You were always far more interested in teaching Charles how to shoot as many red coats as possible. In teaching Jacob how to work his commander so as to avoid being sent into heavy combat. And yet, all those lessons, all that work, meant nothing when you realized they had thoughts, ideals, and plans of their own. And then they were gone and I had to pick up the pieces. All of those bloody pieces. And I did it. I picked them up, shook them off, and started right back where they’d come loose. I rebuilt destroyed business relations. I rebuilt a shredded reputation in England. And I will do so again in Jamaica. So, you might have started Eagleton, but because of me — ” James slammed a balled up fist into the table “ — Eagleton soars now!”
Patrick sniffed, shoving his plate back and rising from the chair. “I’ve not handed over control to you, James. Nor will I, as long as you have your trollop living beneath our roof.”
“Trollop?”
Patrick ignored her, the red fires of rage high in his cheeks. “Get rid of her, Jamie, if you ever wish to inherit Eagleton. I will not have her here, waiting to get her claws into my company.”
“Will you drop that already?” James snapped. Rubbing his thumb apparently offered no comfort, for he lifted that hand to slam his fist into his father’s dinner plate. “She wants nothing to do with Eagleton. And even if she did, why are you so worried? She’s a McKenzie now.”
“She is a woman and a harlot at that. Any woman who will sleep with a man not her husband is a whore.”
Rebecca’s spine snapped ramrod straight, and James leaned closer to his father. “Listen here, Patrick McKenzie, and listen well, for I am going to say this only once. The next unkind thing you say about my bride? I will toss you out of here. Is that understood?”
“Goddamned ungrateful bastard of a son!” Patrick’s voice rose with each word, in time to his rising out of the chair. He didn’t hesitate, but shoved his bulldog’s visage right into James’s face. “You should have stayed in the West Indies! Should have never come back here, just like the others! You should have — ”
His eyes bulged, he clutched at the front of his tunic as choking, gurgling noises rose in his throat. His hands twisted into claws, dragging at the front of his tunic, at his cravat. His face grew a frightening shade of red, the gurgles louder as James lunged toward him.
It was too little, too late. Just as James reached the Commodore, Patrick slumped forward, facedown onto the table, arms sprawled, hands splayed, the goblet of wine now on its side to spread its contents across the tablecloth in a fresh stain.
“Commodore!” Rebecca jumped up from her chair as James grabbed his father to pull him from the table. The Commodore was limp, his eyes wide open but with a hauntingly vacant stare. She shivered, her throat squeezing shut as James pressed his fingers into the Commodore’s throat.
Her shivers worsened when James looked up, his expression grim. “He’s dead.”
Time stopped. Everything around her appeared to move much more slowly. Her knees refused to hold her, so she sank into her vacated chair as James yelled for the butler.
Charles appeared in the doorway, his “Yes, Captain McKenzie?” dying on his lips as his gaze fell on Patrick McKenzie’s inert form. “Dear Lord!”
With Charles’s help, James lowered his father from the table to the floor, and although it was pointless, he removed his waistcoat to stuff beneath Patrick’s head. Charles knelt beside him. “Shall I fetch Dr. Hamilton?”
“No.” James’s voice was low, but even. “There is no point, Mr. Charles. He’s gone.”
“I will tell the others.” Charles hesitated, and then patted James’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, Captain. He will be missed.”
Rebecca stared, but said nothing. James nodded. “Thank you, Mr. Charles. I’m sure he will.”
She remained silent as Charles left, and then gathered her skirts to crouch beside James. She paused, her hand hovering halfway to his shoulder. A deep breath to calm her rapidly beating heart, then she let her hand do as it wished and find its way to him. As her palm came into contact with the curve of his shoulder, he stiffened. But then his tension eased. He covered her hand with his. “Thank you.”
Where his voice had been steady and firm with Charles, it was now soft, breaking as he said, “Son of a bitch…I wasn’t ready for this.”
She squeezed his shoulder, and then slid her hand over the top of his back to the far side of his neck. The skin of his nape was rough, bristly from the coarse hair growing there. His head lolled forward, exposing more of his nape. She stroked it gently and didn’t halt when he sagged into her. Instead, she wrapped her arms about him to tug him firmly into her breast.
And there, with her arms wrapped protective about him, cradling him from the harshest of harsh realities, she whispered, “It’s all right, Jamie,” and stroked his hair away from his forehead. “It’s all right.”
He sank into her as if hoping to find it shielded him from the scene before him. His arms slid about her, crushed her against him in an embrace that would smash a lesser being. He buried his face in her neck, and her eyes widened at the warm moisture she felt dotting her skin.
Her husband — her brave, tall, tough husband who took on a British sea captain bent on impressing him into service and reduced that British sea captain to a blathering fool shadow of himself — was crying.
Chapter Twenty
A single candle burned on the bedside table, casting eerie shadows along the wall and above the windows. James sat on the low bench before the windows, staring into the darkness. Rebecca closed the book to set it on the bed beside her, and then slid to the edge of the mattress, where she reached for her wrapper.
She drew it on, the silk fluttering against her legs as she padded across the carpet. He stiffened as her hand came down onto his shoulder. “James? Is there anything I can do? Anything I might get for you?”
“No.” He turned to her, the shadows cast by the candle’s flame making him appear years older. They emphasized the dark circles beneath his eyes, the sharpness of his cheekbones. A low sigh slid through his lips, and he eased an arm around her hips. His hand rested warm against her, his fingers splayed over her hipbone.
“Are you certain? You should eat something. You haven’t eaten since breakfast.”
“I’ll be fine, sweetheart. You, however, should be resting.” His head came to rest against the small mound of her belly. “You should both be resting.”
“We’re fine.” She gazed down at the top of his dark head, and then let her fingers slide through the waves. “Miss Hastings has already begun dying garments black. It’s fortunate you were able to hire her on such short notice.”
“Given the circumstances, I thought it made things easier.” James muttered, his chin resting on his fist. “This could hardly be foreseen.”
“It does. She and I will sit down and discuss what I expect of her once we are finished with — ” She cut herself off and cleared her throat. “Mr. Charles has closed up the parlor for now.”
“Good.” James didn’t lift his head, but leaned harder into her. His fingers swept lightly over her hip. “Tomorrow is going to be a long day.”
“Perhaps some whiskey would help? My father always says there is little in the world that can’t be solved with a good whiskey.”
She held her breath, and then let it out slowly when he turned a sad grin up at her. “I think I’ve finally found something about your father I actually like.” His eyes softened. “Aside from his daughter, that is.”
Those words threatened to steal the breath from her lungs. “So you like me, do you?”
“Yes, Becca. I like you. Quite a bit, actually.” His grin faded as his fingers tightened about her hip. “And I think whiskey might be exactly what I need to get through this night.”
Her heart slowed to its normal pace, and the pit of her belly fell away with a heavy disappointment. Although his words were reassuring, as the days passed, she found they weren’t exactly what she wished to hear from him.
She gazed down at the top of his head again. No. Those weren’t the words she wanted to hear at all. As she watched the pale gold light flicker and dance across the raven’s-wing black strands of his hair, emotion rushed over her, so powerful it threatened to sweep her from her feet. It was the same feeling she had the first time she saw James McKenzie, in the ballroom at Windswept, the Sheraton manor house.
But there was more to it than that wonderful, exhilarating, dizzying sense of flying she’d felt the first time he swept her into his arms. Back then, he was like a wild stallion, beautiful and powerful and wild. Now, he was tamed, but not broken. His was not the heart of a rogue, but that of a gentleman. His anger was gone, had been for some time now, and over the past weeks, the man she suspected he truly was slowly emerged.
And she loved him.
The words teetered on the very tip of her tongue. They swayed, but ultimately remained firmly unspoken. Far too frightening a prospect, to lay her soul bare, only to have him reject it. Or worse, mock it.
She bit the inside of her cheek to remain silent. Slipping free from his grasp, she crossed to the door. “Can I interest you in something to eat to go with your drink?”
“No, Becca. I’m not the least bit interested in food.” He held up a hand as she opened her mouth to protest. “I appreciate your concern, but please, no.”
“Very well.” Why argue, when she knew she would be unable to change his mind? She padded down to his office. There, an array of crystal bottles on a small table near the hearth held various jewel-toned liquors.
At first, she paused, tapping a forefinger against her lips. Then, she grabbed a glass and the entire decanter to bring upstairs. Still on his bench, James turned a weary smile to her as he took both. “You didn’t bring a glass for yourself?”
Her nose wrinkled of its own accord. “I thank you, but no.”
“If you change your mind — ” he poured out a glass, then set the decanter on the window sill and lifted the glass to her “ — speak up and I promise I will share.”
She settled back on the bed, amidst the rumpled sheets and quilts. As she settled back into the pillows, her gaze never left him as he turned back to the windows and lifted the glass to his lips. He drank slowly, and then lowered the glass. He leaned his head back against the wall. “I hope, wherever he is, he’s found the peace he never seemed to have in life.”
“I like to think he will, if he hasn’t already,” she told him, tugging the quilts over her legs. “I imagine Heaven to be a beautiful place, and peace isn’t difficult to find. And he’s now with your brothers and they’re all watching over us. Perhaps laughing about how I managed to trap you.”
The look he shot her had a bit of an edge to it, but then the corners of his lips lifted. “And hopefully, one of them is assuring him you didn’t trap me. Neither of us expected this to happen, although we both obviously should have.”
He set the glass on the bench beside him. “And as your time draws closer,” his gaze fell to her belly and without thinking, she curved her hand against it, “I find myself rather excited about it. Far more excited than I thought I would ever be, when faced with such an event.”
The low pull of his voice was like a caress, and his gaze lifted back to hers, his eyes dark and serious. The intensity of his stare heated her blood, but it was thick with desire. Rather, his stare held something far different from lust. From desire. His stare was far more serious than any she’d ever seen. And he held that stare as he rose from the bench to approach her. “Does that surprise you, Becca?”
She nodded slowly. “It does, I must admit. I thought you’d be trying to chew your paw off, not coming to terms with it.”
“I had no choice. I like my paws where they are.” He sank onto the bed’s edge, but sprawled one hand halfway across the counterpane. He caught her fingers with his free hand, stroked across their backs. “I like how they feel on you, and I like how you feel against them.”
The light in his eyes grew teasing. The medicinal odor of whiskey rose from him in sickly cloud, which she tried to put from her mind as he murmured. “And I like how you feel against me when we lay in bed together.”
As he spoke, he lifted the sheets and counterpane to slip into bed beside her. He snuggled right up against her, his hand skimming into the slope of her belly. His hand splayed against her, his fingertips brushing her bared belly.
Her eyelids slid shut as a feeling akin to discomfort surged through her. How could he think of this only hours after his father’s death? As his lips swept over her nape, his hand tightened against her, while something else pressed up against the small of her back.
“James?” Despite her discomfort, she couldn’t force it into her voice. Perhaps it was wrong, but those caresses, those kisses, felt wonderful. Her skin tingled where he touched it, and his breath was light on her ear as he brushed his lips along the side of her neck.
“Hush,” came his husky whisper, and she shivered as his hair brushed a sensitive patch of skin just below her ear. “I just need to feel you against me, Becca. Just to feel life.” His hand slid slowly over her belly.
With his caress, her discomfort vanished. She snuggled against him, her eyes still closed. The child moved beneath James’s hand, and his fingers stiffened. Then, a low, heavy sigh leaked through his teeth. “That is what I needed.”
“You should sleep, James. Tomorrow is going to be a long day.” She peered over her shoulder at him, only to find his eyes were already closed.
His fingertips brushed lightly back and forth. “Long day is putting it mildly. I have the feeling the church is going to have more than adequate seating for the five people who will come out to pay their respects.”
Secretly she agreed, but aloud she said, “Are you so certain? Perhaps he was a friendly, warm person when he went into town.”
“I highly doubt that, sweetheart, but it is kind of you to think it possible.”
A chilly draft wafted around the windowpanes to dance over her, so she tugged the quilts to her chin. In response, James shifted closer, and the heat that rose from his body sank into her as well. It was soothing in a way she’d never felt, and yet, her eyes remained stubbornly open. Even as James’s breath grew deep and even, and the hand on her belly stopped, she remained awake, staring at the wall through the darkness. It wasn’t until the black shadows gave way to heavy gray ones that her eyes burned enough for her to close. She fell asleep, but her vibrant, colorful dreams refused to let her get much rest.
And when her imagination didn’t torture her awake, James’s whiskey-induced snoring certainly did. The sun broke over the eastern border of Stonebridge to creep its way to their chambers. By the time it spilled over the windowsills, Rebecca gave up her struggle and sank into a heavy, dreamless slumber.
The morning dawned gray and dreary, the sun retreating behind a bank of lead gray clouds, the threat of snow hovering in the frigid air. Rebecca blew on her hands as she stood at the front windows, watching the two lanky men loading Patrick’s coffin into a black coach draped with black bunting. The chill seeped around the window panes, and despite her proximity to the hearth, it swirled through her like a strong wind down an empty chimney.
The floor creaked, and James appeared, his expression grim and colorless. Her cloak and his greatcoat both lay draped over his left forearm, her fox muff in that hand as well. “It’s time, Becca.”
She nodded, turning away from the window. “I think it might snow.”
He draped the cloak over her shoulders and turned her to fasten the frogs at her throat. The backs of his fingers brushed her. “Will this be warm enough for you, then?”
“Even if it wasn’t, it’s the only winter wrap large enough to fit the two of us.” She patted her burgeoning belly.
That earned her a wry smile. “Perhaps it’s time to consider something a bit roomier?” He shrugged into his greatcoat before offering his arm.
Iron-gray clouds hung heavily above, and the air held the crisp scent of impending snow. The two men finished loading the coffin. One made his way up into the driver’s seat, while the other approached them, his face a proper blend of sorrow and sympathy. “We’re ready to move now, Captain McKenzie.”
“Thank you.” James guided her to their waiting carriage. He sat across from her, but said nothing as they rocked their way down Stonebridge’s drive to the rutted roadway. As they bounced along, Rebecca tried to force her thoughts as far away as possible. The ceaseless jostling left her pressing her knees together as the baby did flips and spins and seemed to ricochet off everything inside her belly.
She held her breath when they hit a particularly deep rut, and James sat up straighter when she groaned. “Are you all right, Becca?”
“I’m fine.” She shifted into a less uncomfortable position. And if I keep telling myself that, it will come true. As long as she didn’t embarrass herself, or James for that matter, she’d be happy.
Finally, they reached Brunswick proper, and she peered through the window at the small white church on the corner of Sycamore and Pine Streets. Carriages lined both sides of the church, and the people milling around all wore black. Was it possible they had come to pay their respects to Patrick McKenzie?
James stepped down from the carriage, and from her vantage point at the window, she could see the surprise on his face as his gaze fell on the crowds. He’d been perfectly blunt in his assertion that they would be the only mourners at the church, so he wasn’t the only one surprised by those others.
