by Erica Vetsch
He released her hand and turned back to the windows.
She studied his silhouette, the lean frame, the broad shoulders, the way he stood as if on the deck of a ship with his legs braced and his hands clasped behind his back.
“Charles?”
“You don’t have to say anything. I didn’t tell you in order to burden you. I just wanted you to know.” He sounded as if he were already preparing for his lonely future.
“Charles.” She spoke more sharply.
He turned. She pressed the miniature into his hand. “I’m giving this to you, to take with you aboard ship. But before you depart, there’s something I need to show you. Wait here, and do not move from this spot.” She ordered him about in the tone her mother used when she was adamant about something. “Not an inch.”
On light feet, Sophie sped down the hall to her room. He loved her. He loved her. Her captain loved her.
Is it possible, God? Have You taken the ashes of my mourning and turned them to something beautiful?
She went as fast as she could, imagining Charles’s misery, and she ran all the way back.
And she made certain the door was closed behind her when she reached the study. He’d followed orders and stood exactly where she left him, his fist closed around the painting.
“Charles, I forgive you about the miniature. And I forgive you for what happened to Rich, though I do not believe there is anything to forgive. But I want you to know Rich forgives you too. Here. Please. Rich says it better than I ever could.” She handed him the letter. “I found it among his things when we came back from your trial. I should have looked at it sooner, but I couldn’t make myself go through his belongings when you first brought them to me, and then I was afraid of opening a wound that was healing.”
She stopped talking so he could read Rich’s words. He opened the envelope slowly, and her heart constricted when his hand trembled. Holding the pages toward the light on his desk, he read silently. Sophie laced her fingers beneath her chin, biting gently on the tip of her tongue behind her lips.
When he finished, he lowered the paper, his eyes meeting hers. She smiled.
“There is no debt. There is no guilt. I loved Rich, and you are correct—I will always cherish his memory. But, Charles …” Her voice went soft as the full weight of what she was going to say hit her. “I love you. I don’t know when it happened or how or even why. I just know that I do. I love your walk and your dependability, and I love the way you take on responsibility, shouldering each new challenge without complaint. I love that you can deal with my mother and have her eating out of your hand. I love that you let Betsy wear your hat and that you teach Thea about boats and that you give Penny such a great example of what a good man should be. But aside from all of that, Charles, I just love you.”
She barely had the last word out when he dropped the letter and the miniature, and his hands came up to hold her face. An instant later he was kissing her. His lips moved over hers, and she threaded her arms around his neck. His hands lowered to her back, clasping her to him, and he deepened the kiss. A growl formed in his throat and vibrated on her skin.
The power of his desire thrilled her, and she clung to him, trying to say without words everything in her heart. He broke the kiss to scatter more on her cheeks, her forehead, her temple. She gasped for air, her heart thudding against his chest.
“Sophie.” He breathed her name as if hearing it for the first time, full of wonder.
She put her cheek on his chest, listening to his heart, as he rested his chin on her hair. “I understand who and what you are. I will miss you so much. But I will write to you. I promise. Just please return to me safe from time to time.”
A ripple went through him, and he put his hands on her upper arms, standing her away from him a few inches. “What are you talking about?”
“When you take command of your ship. I understand. You were made to be a sea captain. It’s all you’ve ever wanted to be. I know you didn’t want to be an earl, didn’t want to have wards dependent on you, didn’t want a wife. I promise we won’t do anything to keep you on shore or make you feel like you shouldn’t leave. I’ll talk to Thea and make her understand.”
A smile quirked the side of his mouth, and he shook his head. “Sophie, my darling girl, now you are the one with odd ideas. You’re right—I was a seaman, and I will always feel the pull of the sea. But if you think you’re getting rid of me that easily, well, you have another long think coming. I realized recently that I wanted to stay with you at Gateshead, but I didn’t know how to tell you, how to stay without violating the terms of our marriage agreement. Tomorrow I will tell the admiral that I am resigning my commission. My place is here, with you and our family.”
Waves of wondrous happiness threatened to topple her. To cover the tears she knew were coming, she sent him a sassy grin. “So am I to understand you are amenable to renegotiating the terms of our agreement?”
The air rushed out of her lungs as he crushed her to him, covering her lips with his. When she could finally listen once more to anything beyond the singing in her heart, he said, “I believe we should continue this conversation in a more intimate setting.”
With no argument from her, he scooped her up and marched to the connecting door to his bedchamber. Sophie felt as if one chapter of her life closed, and she joyously embraced the opening of the next, free of guilt, free of debts from the past. She prayed that Charles felt the same. No ghosts, no guilt, no debt.
EPILOGUE
Gateshead Estate
October 1814
“POOR MOTHER. IT seems none of her plans are coming together exactly as she would want.” Sophie let her mother’s lengthy epistle fall to the bed-covers and took the small plate Charles offered, grimacing at the crust of dry bread that had become her morning routine. “Her leg is healing, by the way, but slowly. I cannot imagine what Charlotte and especially Cilla have been through as she convalesced this fall.”
Charles stretched out beside her, atop the coverlet, stacking his hands behind his head. “What’s got her ratlines in a snarl this time?” He crossed his boots at the ankles, the epitome of relaxation.
Sophie nibbled the edge of the bread, chewing slowly. “She’s decided to alleviate her boredom, and her disappointment in me foiling her plans for a fall hunting party, by inviting us to Haverly for the Christmas season. And from the sounds of things, since I had the temerity to marry you out of hand and foil her matchmaking, she has switched her focus to finding a suitable husband for Cilla.”
“Poor Cilla. From what little I know of the dowager, when she fastens onto a notion, she’s harder to remove than a barnacle.”
Sophie shrugged back the lace cuff of her bed jacket and reached for her tea. The bread had stayed down, thankfully, but she wasn’t going to press the matter.
“Can we come in?” Thea asked as she traipsed across the rug, not waiting for an answer. Betsy followed, her favorite doll tucked under her arm. The captain’s naval hat dangled from the other hand, one of the peaks bouncing on the floor with each step. The poor bicorn was tattered and well loved, and Charles had given up thought of getting it back.
Penny drifted into the room, her nose in a book. Herrick’s Hesperides. Reading poetry seemed to satisfy something in her romantic little soul at the moment, for which Sophie was grateful.
“Did you flash the hash again this morning?” Thea asked, lacing her fingers around the bedpost and leaning back to swing side to side. “Why do you keep doing that? You don’t look sick.”
“I’m not sick.” Sophie looked to Charles. “Where did she learn such a vulgar phrase?”
He grinned and shrugged. His naval lingo would creep in now and again.
“Charles, the time has come to tell the girls, and I will write to the dowager this afternoon, declining her invitation. I won’t tell her why just yet. Not when she should be focusing her attention on Charlotte’s upcoming confinement and now this Christmas party.”
“T
ell us what?” Penny looked up. “Thea, stop swinging like a pendulum. You’re shaking the entire bed.”
Betsy had rounded the footboard, dropped her possessions, and clambered up the steps to sit by Charles. He lifted her to lean back against the pillows between himself and Sophie. Thea, not to be outdone, hopped up to sit cross-legged on the coverlet.
“Ladies.” Charles continued to grin. “The time has come to announce that we’re adding to our crew.” He looked from one young face to the next, and Sophie thrilled to the pride and love in his eyes.
He reached across Betsy to clasp Sophie’s hand.
“For the new sloop? Why? We don’t need but two crew for her, and you hired a boatman just last month.” Thea scratched her temple. “When are we going to name the new boat, anyway?”
Penny dropped her book on the bed and came round to hug Sophie. “Are you sure? Oh, how wonderful.” She turned to Thea. “No, not crew for a boat, you bird-wit. Do you ever think of anything besides boats? Sophie is going to have a baby.”
“A baby?” Thea’s face screwed up. “Why?”
Charles caught Sophie’s eye, and he gave her a wicked wink. She smothered a laugh.
“Do babies make you sick? Is that why you have to eat dry bread every morning?” Thea looked skeptical. “I don’t ever want to have a baby. I hate being sick.”
Sophie nudged Betsy. “What do you think, sweetling? Would you like a new baby brother or sister?”
Betsy thought about it so solemnly, Sophie grew concerned. Then the little girl nodded emphatically. “Yes. I will be a good big sister.”
Sophie’s eyes grew damp—something that happened far too easily these days. “You will all be good big sisters. Let me get up and dressed, and we’ll go tell Mamie, shall we?”
The girls scampered out into the hall, and Charles called after them, “Don’t tell her until we get there.”
“We won’t,” Thea’s voice drifted back.
“I’d lay you a shilling to a ship’s command, she’s sliding down the banister right now.” Charles rounded the bed, and as Sophie slid to the ground, she also slid into his embrace. “Feeling all right?”
She rested her head on his chest, content to steal a few moments in his arms. She would have never thought that God could bring such great joy out of her grief when her captain had walked up the steps of Primrose Cottage a few short months ago. “Never better. Let’s go tell Mamie, and then let’s take the girls down to the shore.”
“Aye, aye.” Charles brushed a kiss on her head.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ERICA VETSCH is a New York Times best-selling author and ACFW Carol Award winner, and has been a Romantic Times top pick for her previous books. She loves Jesus, history, romance, and watching sports. This transplanted Kansan now makes her home in Rochester, Minnesota. When she’s not writing fiction, she’s planning her next trip to a history museum and cheering on her Kansas Jayhawks and New Zealand All Blacks. Learn more about Erica at www.ericavetsch.com.
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“Original, engaging, and oh so romantic!”
—AMANDA BARRATT, author of My Dearest Dietrich
“An enchanting tale … that will have [Regency] fans begging for more.”
—JAIME JO WRIGHT, author of The House on Foster Hill
“Two brilliantly developed characters forge a future together at the intersection of love and war in this compelling and immersive historical romance.”
—RACHEL MCMILLAN, author of The London Restoration
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“This Regency period novel has it all: action, suspense, history, and the right amount of believable romance.”
—World
“An eloquently scripted Christian romance novel by an author with a total mastery of the genre, The Gentleman Spy by Erica Vetsch is impressively entertaining from first page to last.”
—Midwest Book Review
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