A Perfect Lady, page 5
part #3 of The Mackenzie Brothers Series
She jumped at every noise beyond the door, and as her nerves leapt to life, couldn’t keep her hands still. Her fingers buried in the filmy silk, all the while her belly threatened to eat itself alive. With each twist, the slender gold ring glinted, throwing off sparks of light. The tremble spreading through her left her lightheaded, afraid she was going to faint, and although her fingers nimbly wound through the fabric, her hands weren’t steady.
Any moment and James was coming through that door. He would undress and slide into the narrow bed beside her.
Her belly lurched to bring the nausea racing back. Bloody hell, she remembered so little of that night with him, thanks to the champagne. It was mostly a blur, with only flashes of clarity. She might as well still be an innocent maiden, what with how little of their encounter remained with her. So although he wasn’t exactly a stranger to her, she still didn’t know what to expect. Should she even expect anything? It was entirely possible Agnes was wrong and he’d be too tired to want to do anything, wasn’t it? And did she remember to pack her small store of ginger to soothe her stomach?
What images she could recall from the night in his chambers flashed through her mind. The smooth caress of the silk sheets, the way they wrapped about their bodies as they rolled across the expanse. His hands on her. His lips, his tongue — Oh dear Lord.
But the memories wouldn’t leave her in peace, and not only did it make the cabin seem warmer, but she couldn’t sit still. She had to move, had to stretch her muscles, had to do something to ease the tension swirling through her.
Hopeless. Nervous energy coursed through her, sending a wave of nausea rising up into her throat.
The door opened and she stared. Her mouth went dry as James stepped over the threshold, a bundle of what looked like rough rope in his arms. The winds must’ve picked up, for his hair stood in thick black peaks, blown this way and that. Like her, he was still dressed in his wedding clothes, looking only slightly creased and wrinkled.
He offered up only a quick glance as he passed her to dump the rope onto the table, then shrugged out of his elegant frock coat. “Settled in?”
She nodded, forcing her fingers to go still. They refused to obey, however, attempting to smooth out the now-wrinkled linen. “I think so. I just wish I’d stop feeling as if I’d forgotten something.”
“If you did, you did. I imagine we’ll venture back every now and again.”
As he spoke, he unbuttoned his waistcoat, and then pulled his shirt from the waist of his breeches. The linen rose to expose an expanse of male stomach, flat and sprinkled with hair the same color as on his head. The darkness that night had prevented her from seeing too much, of course, and obviously what she hadn’t seen was just shy of amazing. Was there a word or phrase to describe something beyond amazing? The dryness in her mouth worsened, spread to her throat, and she pressed a hand to her mouth as a cough erupted.
“Do you need something to drink? Mr. Edward will be bringing a tray soon, but there’s some water in the ewer if you need it.”
“I’m fine,” she managed, wincing at the scrape of words against her parched throat. “But thank you.”
Some of his anger seemed to have faded. With a low sigh, he unwound his stock. “You look tired,” he said just before turning away from her.
He hadn’t even noticed she wore only her shift. So much for Agnes’s assurance of his great expectations for this night. A feeling of foolishness swelled up, so she tugged the quilt closer, gripping it to pull to her shoulders. Better to cover herself than embarrass herself further.
“I’d rather you didn’t do that.” He didn’t turn back but shrugged free from his waistcoat. “Being only partially dressed suits you.”
“I didn’t think you’d noticed.”
“I may not be happy about having a wife, but I’m not immune to the effect a woman has on me when she’s only in her undergarments.” He turned, his shirt now open completely, drawing her stare before she could catch herself.
She bit down hard on her bottom lip at the sensuousness behind his smile. Her tremble worsened, and she had the oddest sensation of actually being able to feel her heart beating. “I feel silly,” she said, forcing herself to hold his stare.
“Trust me, you don’t look silly.” His stock and his shirt landed in the small basket beside the washstand.
Suddenly, it wasn’t so difficult to look at him. Her husband was a fine specimen of a man. Apparently he was no stranger to physical labor, judging by the muscles layered down each arm and across his broad shoulders. As he drew near, her breath became a bit more difficult to catch, the feeling she was going to faint sharpening.
When he turned back to her, her breath actually hitched. Dear Lord, did all men look as good as he did? Because he did look magnificent. Absolutely, utterly magnificent.
Her mind reeled for something clever to say. It didn’t even have to be clever. She simply needed words to break the thickening tension. “Are you going to tie me to the bed?”
As soon as the words left her mouth, she wished she could snatch them back. Stinging embarrassment shot through her as his appraising stare became a look of disbelief. “I beg your pardon?”
Her cheeks burned as she pointed at the pile of rope on the table. “Isn’t that rope?”
He twisted to peer over his left shoulder. “No. No, it isn’t rope. And even if it was, trust me, I’m not about to tie you anywhere.” He turned back to her. “Tell me something. How did you receive the bruise?”
She’d forgotten about the mottled patch of flesh over her cheekbone. Without thinking, she pressed her fingertips to the healing cut. “I — I bumped into a door in my chambers this morning. So,” she said as she lowered her hand, “if that isn’t rope, what is it?”
“A door, eh?” He caught her by the chin to turn her face slightly away from him. She stiffened at the touch, her belly leaping and twisting even worse than usual. However, he was gentle, holding her with only the tips of his fingers. She held her breath, waiting for him to demand to know the truth behind the bruise, behind the cut.
Instead, he released her and turned to lift the pile of rope from the table. Relief swelled through her, temporarily calming her belly as she sank back onto the bed. As she watched, James moved to the opposite side of the cabin. High up on the wall, two hooks had been mounted, one across from the other. A hammock.
She stared at the roughly woven hammock hanging limply against the wall. It didn’t look at all comfortable. “Am I to sleep there?”
“No. I will. I’m not that much of a cad that I’d make my pregnant wife sleep in a damn hammock.” Bitterness laced his words, as heavy as the lace on her wedding gown. He glanced over his shoulder at her. “No matter how much I might resent not being able to sleep in my own bed.”
“No one said you had to sleep somewhere else.”
“Sweetheart, I wish I’d thought it through the last time I shared a bed with you. I wouldn’t have this noose tight about my neck if I had.” His gaze raked over her, much to her dismay. His left brow crept up. “But it wouldn’t be the first time my judgment led me astray.”
A sharp sting burned through her cheek as she bit down hard on the inside of it. She held his stare. “Do you expect me to apologize for this?”
He went back to hanging the foot of the hammock. “Apologize? This is my responsibility, whether I wish to shoulder it or not. And I do not run from my responsibilities, no matter how distasteful I might find them. However — ” he moved from the hammock to drop into one of the chairs “ — I also know I’ve no way of proving that you are, in fact, with child or that said child is mine.”
Her back stiffened. “I beg your pardon?”
He lifted his broad shoulders in a shrug. “We spent hours together. Not even an entire night. Nearly six weeks ago.”
“Are you suggesting…?” She clamped her lips back together, the stinging in her cheek forgotten. Folding her arms over her chest, she leveled a long look at him. No one had ever insulted her so gravely, and the worst thing she could think of to say was, “How dare you! I’ll have you know, you were the first, and only, man I’ve ever — ”
“I know I was the first,” he broke in, “but I’ll just have to take your word on the only, won’t I? God knows you wouldn’t be the first woman to twist the truth a little to suit your needs.”
She glared at him. “How do you know you were the first?”
Without a flinch, or even a hint of color in his sun-kissed cheeks, James replied, “I felt the pop, sweetheart. I’d had a bit to drink myself, but I wasn’t that foxed, you know. Besides,” he added offhandedly, “there was a bit of bloodstain, as I found the next morning.”
Her stomach lurched, nausea splashing from one end of her gut to the other to send a sickly-sweet taste flooding into her mouth. “B-Blood?”
“Don’t look so worried. It wasn’t much, but it might have had whoever does the Sheratons’ laundry puzzling over it.” He stretched out his legs, crossing them at the ankles. “I don’t doubt for a moment you were a virgin, sweetheart. But once you had a taste, I have no idea how powerful your appetite became. You certainly enjoyed yourself the rest of the night.”
“Oh, bloody hell…” She buried her face in her hands.
“There’s no need to blush. Every man wants a vixen in his bed. Once you realized it wouldn’t hurt again, you were every bit the vixen.”
She wanted to die. Mortification leeched into every pore, every fiber, and the heat of it was worse than any other she’d ever felt. Had she really been so…so brazen as he implied? Dear God, she so wished she could remember, but at the same time, was grateful she didn’t.
Still, his insults stung as much as the embarrassment burned. She lowered her hands. “I can assure you, there was no one else.”
“I’m not a rich man, sweetheart. So, if your intention was to land a wealthy husband, you’ve fallen short of your mark.”
“My intentions were nothing of the sort. I didn’t want to marry you any more than you wanted to marry me. But, my wishes were not of my father’s concern and my protests fell upon deaf ears. You are not the only one with a noose about their neck, Captain. I don’t want you any more than you want me.”
His eyes narrowed and his lips disappeared into a tight, white line. “Good. As long as we understand each other then. I will give you my name. I will provide for your child — whether it is mine or not — but other than that, I will live my life as I have always lived it.”
“As you wish.”
“Good.”
“Good.”
Anger flashed in his dark eyes as he slapped his hands against his thighs then rose from his chair. “Where is that damn tray?”
He yanked open the door, spitting out, “You might as well cover up, sweetheart. Damn shame to let that gown go to waste on a man who doesn’t want what comes with it.”
And with that, he left, slamming the door behind him. As his footfalls died away, Rebecca slumped back against the wall. He was angry, and while she didn’t fault him for it, she hadn’t realized he blamed her as well. And now, she’d spend the rest of her life with a man who obviously despised her.
Chapter Six
James had forgotten just how much he hated trying to sleep in a hammock. The swaying actually wasn’t too terrible, especially in the darkened cabin, but still sleep mocked him. His bare foot pressed flat against the wall, and pushed away from it to speed the gentle rocking. No use.
On the other side of the room, Rebecca breathed slow, rhythmic breaths. Sleep came easier to her, apparently. Of course, the bed was soft and comfortable, which certainly didn’t hurt. Perhaps it hadn’t been so wise, being a martyr.
Besides, sleeping beside a woman — any woman — had to be better than the hammock, where the knots dug into his back and every other wave threatened to topple him to the floor. Really, who was he punishing?
His eyes adjusted to the darkness well enough for him to make out Rebecca’s sleeping form. She lay on her back, her hair streaming over the pillows, one hand resting on her belly, the other flung over her head.
A rueful smile tugged at his lips. Not quite how he’d ever envisioned passing his wedding night. On those rare occasions when he considered the lunacy most called marriage, his wedding night consisted of him and some faceless woman, naked and entangled until they were both slick with sweat and almost dead from exhaustion. It involved throaty cries of pleasure and fingernails digging into his back as pleasure scorched them both from head to toe. It most certainly did not involve a hammock, a baby, and bitter fury.
He groaned into the darkness. It wasn’t the first time raging lust landed him in trouble, but this was the most serious trouble it managed to find for him. A child. He’d managed to dodge fatherhood for fifteen years. Now it stared him in the face.
Damn it.
He didn’t want to be there, in his shoes. But given the choice between getting married and being impressed into the British Navy? He’d take the former, thank you very much.
Another glance over at his sleeping wife.
His sleeping wife.
His.
Wife.
He rubbed his face with both hands. How long would it take for those words to not sound foreign? For them to not make him want to grit his teeth and punch a hole in the nearest wall. He didn’t know which was more infuriating — that he’d given in to save his skin, or that Lord Windemere was so calm and emotionless as he basically gave his daughter to a man he didn’t even know. A man his daughter only barely knew.
He dozed on and off until pink light filtered through the window. Dawn. A long day stretched ahead of him.
With a sigh of resignation, James climbed down from the hammock and, as silently as he could, swapped worn clothes for fresh. Why he took such pains to not wake Rebecca was beyond him.
Unlike the previous day, when he wore the formal, very uncomfortable wedding clothes, James felt at home in simple breeches and a linen tunic. Topside, Mr. Tims greeted him with a knowing smile and a nudge to the ribs. “Enjoy your wedding night, Captain?”
“Mr. Tims, it’s too early for ribbing and I’ve yet to have so much as a sip of coffee. How does our day look to be shaping up?”
He squinted into the sun. There was nothing quite like a beautiful morning at sea. It didn’t matter that below deck was a wife he didn’t want. It didn’t matter that he’d be ribbed endlessly by his crew at least until they reached port. It didn’t matter that he hadn’t even had a chance for a cup of coffee. The skies were blue, the sun shone, and the seas were calm. Today was already looking up.
“Gold skies, calm seas, tides are with us.” Tims fell into stride beside him, his long-legged gait more loose-limbed than James’s. Everything about Tims was loose-limbed and at ease. James couldn’t recall ever seeing his first mate so much as raise his voice, no matter how trying the circumstances. Tims possessed a calm demeanor that James often envied. It must be a comfort to never have your gut twist into sheepshanks or your jaw ache from clenching it. Although he’d learned to rein in his fiery temper, James still had to work — and work hard — to keep it in check.
“At least something is going my way,” James replied as they made their way from the main deck to the wheelhouse.
“Oh, come now, Captain. It can’t be all that terrible. Your wife’s a pretty piece.” Wagging eyebrows accompanied Tims’s grin. “But I don’t think you need me to tell you that.”
“I mean it, Mr. Tims. Not another word about — ” James cut himself off as he bent over a chart.
“Your wife?” Tims chuckled, placing his hands on the table to peer at the chart alongside James. “That’ll take a bit of gettin’ used to. ‘Your wife’. Feels odd on the tongue.”
Tell me about it. James fought to keep his irritation from swelling. He’d expected a fair amount of good-natured ridicule from his crew, but he hadn’t expected it to rub him as wrongly as it did. But it was simply another reminder of how his life had been so easily manipulated. He didn’t like it. Not one damn bit.
But St. Kitts was behind them now, both literally and figuratively. The island wasn’t even a speck on the horizon any longer. If everything went well, it would only be a few weeks before they reached the Eastern seaboard. It should be a straight run along the coast to Raritan Bay, where Brunswick was.
If everything went well. He bit back a snort. Because it was already going so smoothly.
Another groan rose to his lips. What the hell was he going to tell his father when he returned home with a wife?
A headache poked into his brain behind his eyes. “I need coffee,” he grunted, leaving Tims to stare after him as he stumped back out into the sunshine.
Rebecca blinked sleep out of her eyes. Her heart fluttered with near panic as it took her a few moments to remember where she was. She sat up, wincing as the movement sent a ripple of nausea rolling through her. The familiar sour taste rose in the back of her mouth. For a horrifying minute, she feared she’d retch. Thankfully, it passed.
The pillows cradled her as she sank into them. It was a comfortable bed, to say the least, and she didn’t remember the last time she slumbered so soundly. How odd, considering where she passed the night. She hadn’t expected to sleep so well, between the where and the why. It was no surprise, then, that James looked so decidedly unhappy at having to sleep in a hammock.
The rope bed hung limp against the wall, gently swaying back and forth with each rise and fall of the ship. It thumped dully each time it made contact with the wood, looking bereft and pathetic as it waited for a body to hold.
When she was certain her stomach would remain seated and keep its contents in place, she sat up to swing her legs over the side of the bed.
