by Edith Layton
* * *
Cristabel spent her wedding night by her husband’s bedside. He woke once and sympathized with her for having such a poor sort of groom. She rejoiced, because it meant that he knew what was happening, even if he could do nothing about it. The second night of her marriage, she dozed in fits and starts in a chair by his bedside, willing him to wake, telling him to sleep, watching to see if his sleep was sleep or death. The third night, he refused to let her stay with him any longer.
“Either you crawl in here beneath my covers with me,” he said in a stronger voice than she’d heard from him in days, “and thereby likely kill me—or you take yourself off to your old safe spinster bed and sleep a day or so. ’Od’s mercy, but I have married a crone! Look you, Martin, shadows under her eyes, wrinkles on her forehead, and yet I begged her to wed me! It must have been a trick of the light, or the fever, like the doctor said.”
“Villain!” she retorted. “It was tending your battered carcass that wearied me, and getting you back to your normal nasty self that deprived me of sleep.”
They teased the way an old married couple might, because they’d lived very close in the past days, more closely than many couples ever did. It had been hours since the fever had abated, and it had not returned.
“Sleep, wife,” Magnus said gently, laying tender emphasis on the word “wife,” “or else we’ll have you sick too. Then who would be here to torment me? I’ll mend on my own now, thank you. You may leave now, too, Martin. And, Doctor, I thank you for your vigil, but it’s no longer necessary. I bloom with health. Seriously, I do well now, and I think I’d like to pass one night without cracking open an eye to see someone hovering.”
Cristabel and Martin looked at the doctor. He nodded. “The viscount’s on the road to health,” he said, and then added, “barring infection, of course, and overwork and—”
“And plague, pestilence, and various acts of God,” Magnus interrupted, adding wearily, “I know, Doctor, the flesh is weak and you can give no promises. But I tell you, I’m well. I heal with amazing speed; I’m no delicate flower, sir.”
Cristabel bit her lip. It was just that kind of thinking that had gotten him into that sickbed.
Magnus saw her hesitation. “If you have any doubts, post footmen at the doors. Because the only thing that will take me tonight will be an assassin, armed to the teeth,” he assured her.
She looked at Martin and they exchanged a silent nod. It was exactly what they would do.
Magnus sighed. “I was only joking,” he said, “but no matter. So long as I don’t have to see them. Don’t I get a kiss good night, my lady wife?”
Cristabel blushed, but obediently lowered her lips to his. And was more than a little shocked at the sweetness of the light kiss she received. Magnus’s eyes were dark and sincere as she raised her head. “Yes,” was all he said, but it was like a promise.
Cristabel paused outside of Magnus’s door and leaned against the balcony stair rail. He was right. She needed rest. She was so weary, so guilty and thrilled and frightened all at once, that she knew she’d have to sleep for hours before she could start to really regret her rash marriage. Even that would have to wait until she could figure out how to protect Magnus from future harm. And that would in turn have to wait until she could offer up prayers of thanks for his recovery. And that would have to wait for her to beg that his recovery was real. She put a hand to her forehead—he was right, she had to sleep. She couldn’t even get her worries straight anymore.
“Cristabel?” Martin said.
She looked up. They hadn’t had a chance for private conversation since Magnus had been shot. But she knew what she had to say.
“Don’t worry,” she said immediately. “It can be set aside, I’m sure. Or I can go away, make it like I never was here at all, the way I wanted to do when I first got to London—remember? Well, I can do it again, I promise.”
“What are you talking about?” he asked.
“The marriage,” she said. “I did it because I was afraid not to, but don’t worry, you won’t have to put up with me long. Just let me stay and be sure he’ll be all right and then I’ll leave. I’ll go back to the Islands, or stay somewhere out of the way in England; you don’t have to worry about it…”
Martin put his hands on her shoulders and held her until she stopped talking. She stared at him. In all the time she’d known him, he’d never so much as touched her hand. His fair face showed his weariness clearly even in the thin light. He looked much older than he’d been a few days ago, and sounded it too.
“Cristabel,” he said quietly, “I only wanted to say thank you—for caring for Magnus, as well as for marrying him. I think you’ll be very good for him and for this family. No one ever took care of him before—I see that now and feel shamed about it. But you’re just the girl to do it. Besides, you bring youth and vigor and light to us all, even Sophia, if she’d just stop envying you and admit it. And that dowry!” He let go of her so he could kiss his fingers to the sky in a silly gesture. His grin made him seem younger again. “Truly, Lady Snow,” he went on in a more serious voice, “it was well done of you—all of it. I thank you. Don’t you even think of leaving, you hear?”
“I can only think of sleeping now,” she told him honestly.
She left him smiling, and went to her room, where she kept herself from wondering and worrying by simply laying her head down on her pillow.
*
“So!” Black Jack said with chagrin. “Can’t say I wasn’t warned. Can’t say I didn’t expect it neither. The man would have been a fool to let you go.”
“The man was a fool to marry me,” Cristabel said bitterly.
“Aye, the world’s fair filled with fools who’ll take beautiful, rich, and brilliant women to wife; more’s the pity, ain’t it? Get your head straight, m’dear. You be a treasure, and the man knowed it, and more power to him. But have pity on me, ’cause I wanted you, Cristabel, and I would have made you a merry husband, that I would.”
“Aye, merry indeed,” she said, and smiled a crooked smile at him. They sat in the front parlor and spoke in low voices, because neither Martin nor Sophia had discovered he’d come to call yet, and they both had things to say before anyone else joined them.
“No, I mean it, luv,” he said sadly, “or rather, I guess it will have to be ‘my lady’ from now on. But before I treat you like a viscountess, let me talk to plain Cristabel one last time. I’ll say it once, and then ne’er bother you with it no more. I would have been proud to have you as me wife. Nothing in life I wanted more. But so be it, I be a man grown and can take it like one, no matter how it stings. But hark ye: Be he not what you wanted, do he hurt or insult you ever, you call on me and no matter where I am, I’ll see to you. You’ll always find safe harbor with me. There’s a solemn promise.”
“Thank you, Jack,” she said sincerely, and then faced him squarely, “but in the same spirit, I ask you plain, just between you and me: Were you responsible?”
“Damn you for a suspicious wench—my lady,” he said. “I told you once and I’ll say it only one more time. It’s not me way! Were I to try for his lordship, I’d do it straight on. Nor would killing be me way neither, for if a fellow has to kill another man to get his woman, it ain’t worth it. Love ain’t a thing a man can gain by murdering a lover, she’d never be his. And before you can insult me again, I’ll tell you, I been talking and seeking and searching since I heard of it, and I’ll stake me life it weren’t one of the lads, neither. But I’ll tell you this: It were a job of work. Aye. That much I did discover. The fellow you put a hole in was a hired hand, a man known to do anything for a pence, and worse for two of them. So far I ain’t got a clue as to who hired him, though. But if anyone can find out, ’tis me.”
“Aye, mebbe,” Cristabel sighed. “Now, I think it would be best that you come up and pay a visit to the viscount before rumors get there first, for he hears of everything going on in the house. And I think you should show him no hard
feelings too.”
“It galls me to congratulate a man for winning me prize,” Black Jack sighed, rising from his chair and slapping his hat against his leg, “but I’m learning the ways of the gentlefolk, so I might as well try to do the pretty.”
“Think of putting down anchor in London town, my dear?” Cristabel jested, for it was a mad thought.
“Aye,” Black Jack said, and as she stared, he added, “Well, maybe for a time. I’m finding that piracy on the high seas pays better if you have friends in high places, m’dear. Like piracy anywheres. Maybe someday I’ll be a gentleman proper, seeing as how the girls seem to like them better than pirates.”
“Don’t, Jack. I married him because I had to. I thought he was dying, remember?”
“But you’re rejoicing for it, lass,” he said soberly. “Don’t try denying it, for I know you too well.”
She paused and then decided to be absolutely honest with him. If she had a true friend anywhere in the world outside this house, it would be this wild and daring pirate. “I’m as scared as I am happy, Jack,” she said in a small voice, “and there’s the truth.”
“Ah,” he breathed, “then there goes me last hope. I’m sunk entirely. For you love him, my lady, and that’s the truth.”
She stared at him, her amber eyes wide. He sighed and touched a finger to her nose. “Now, let’s go see your invalid afore he clomps down the stairs, grabs a sword, and challenges me to a duel on the spot for ogling you. Because the way I feel now, unfair as it would be, I might just take him up on it after all.”
CHAPTER 15
There was more to marriage than a ceremony, and that was the first thing Cristabel thought of when she finally woke up the next morning. The realization came to her as her eyes opened and seemed to sit on her chest like a heavy weight, staring into her eyes until she focused them.
“Oh me Gawd,” Cristabel groaned, and turned over and buried her head in her pillow.
Then she thought of her new husband and sat bolt upright in bed.
“Magnus!” she whispered in fear.
She scurried out of bed, washed, dressed, and did her hair with such haste, she had to redo it again so that she was presentable enough to leave her room. She knew that a lady, especially a viscountess, ought to have a lady’s maid do such things for her, and resolved to ask Magnus’s permission to let the clever little upstairs maid become her personal maid. She didn’t know if she should remain Magnus’s wife, but for so long as she did, she wanted to be sure she didn’t shame him—or so she told herself.
If a little voice whispered Liar, you never want to be anything else in this life but his wife as she hurried from her room, she turned a deaf ear to it. She had more important things to worry about now.
That important thing she had to worry about grinned at her as she came into his room.
“Wife!” Magnus said with enthusiasm. “Come sit down, help me with this marvelous breakfast.”
There was dry toast and weak soup on his tray. But he had a basket of fresh bread resting on his lap. He was propped up on his pillows, and though the morning sunlight showed him looking thinned and wan, he also looked younger and more carefree than she’d seen him before. She stifled her joy because she was afraid of it. He’d been near death just hours ago; she couldn’t celebrate life so soon without superstition throttling such joy. And besides, she wasn’t used to being his wife, and didn’t know how to react to it.
“Bread?” she asked, lifting the napkin on his basket instead of meeting his eyes. “And a slab of butter? Cheese? And fresh preserves. God save us, if the doctor found out, he’d skin you, and undo all his good work.”
“More likely he’d ask to share,” Magnus said happily. “Come have some yourself; the strawberry tastes like spring itself. Now, don’t look like that. I’ve been sick before, and tepid broth and weak tea make me sicker, I swear it. I didn’t ask for beefsteak because it isn’t my house, you know, and the servants here are unimaginative. I had to beg just for this much. But my own staff knows me and knows that once I’m well, I’m well. I’ve broken bones, and even been shot before, my love, and survived.”
“What?” she said, losing her apprehension to fascination, and sinking to a chair by his bed, wide-eyed. “When? How? Don’t tell me,” she said, glowering. “A duel over some hussy, no doubt.”
“No,” he laughed, “a hunting accident. Not mine, old Lord Larkin’s, whose estate matches mine. I wasn’t even hunting. I was out riding one fine autumn day”—he finished slathering a piece of bread with preserves and handed it to her—”and the poor old fool was trying for pheasants. Eat up, it’s delicious.” He waited until she took a bite, and went on, “Well, he’s blind as an owl at noon, and so he hunts by sound. My horse shied at a pheasant rising, and before I knew it, I was a target. It was a good thing he had company, or I’d have been plucked, hung, and spitted before I could call for help. Don’t giggle, it was very painful. Would you like to see the scar? You can, you’re my wife now.”
She swallowed suddenly and began coughing.
“My lord!” the doctor’s voice said angrily. He strode into the room, and Cristabel guiltily put her bread down on the tray. “I can’t believe my eyes. A weak system must have weak sustenance. It’s a primary rule of nature. A log on smoldering fire will put it out; you must feed a feeble flame gently until it thrives. That is sound medicine. Who is responsible for this—this feast?” he asked, glaring at Cristabel.
“I am,” Magnus said imperturbably, “and I thrive. Come knock on my chest and you’ll find solid oak, sir. You did a wonderful job. I feel like dancing.” He sat up and swung his long legs around to the side of the bed—only to suddenly grow very pale. Before the doctor could reach him, he lowered himself back to his pillows. “But I’ll sit and listen to the music awhile first, I think,” he said.
“It wasn’t the food,” Magnus grumbled as the doctor lifted his breakfast basket. He looked so disconsolate and childish in his disappointment that Cristabel almost laughed. When he’d been well, he seemed like a monolith, the epitome of masculine strength and power. When she thought he lay dying, he’d seemed like a fallen knight to her, majestic and untouchable even in his defeat. Now that he was recovering, and found himself thwarted, he was youthful and peevish. He pleased her in all his aspects.
Although she worried about him and yearned to see him whole again, this new attitude of his somehow made her feel more confident with him. She didn’t know how she’d have been able to look him in the face if he’d been as virile and vital as he’d been before, now that she suddenly found herself married to him. This present situation bought her time, which she sorely needed.
“I’ll starve,” Magnus said plaintively as he raised his spoon and watched the thin soup dribble back down into his bowl. “A fine job you’ll have to brag about then, Doctor, having healed the wound and killed the patient.”
Cristabel knew he wouldn’t starve, but she knew something about men and sickness too. She had an herb garden at home, as all intelligent women did, and had done her share of doctoring. She’d seen too many sick pirates and their captives to be a stranger to illness, death, and men and their complaints.
“Well, I don’t know about English doctors,” she said thoughtfully, “but at home in the Islands, where we don’t have the advantage of having such learned physicians as yourself,” she told the doctor, looking up at him with awe and respect, “we have to make do as best we can. But we have found that a man’s best doctor is his own appetite. If a man wants food, we feed him. If he isn’t ready for it, he’ll give it back. If he keeps it, it will do its work. I don’t see what’s wrong with some solid food, do you, Doctor? I grant bread may be heavy. And cheese, too fatty, to be sure. But surely, if we make a thin toast of such fine bread? And keep the preserves, because a little sweetness heals a sharp temper as well as a sour tongue?” She winked at him and tipped a shoulder toward his brooding patient. “And perhaps just a wee bit of butter to make it all go down s
moothly?” she cajoled.
“Aye, well, perhaps,” the doctor said, softening his voice for the charming smile she gave him. “Moderation in all things is good medicine. But if you become ill, my lord, you’ll have only yourself to blame,” he told Magnus sternly.
“Magic,” Magnus breathed when the doctor had gone. “I’ve gone and wedded myself to an enchantress. Pass the butter please; I need more than a wee bit.”
“You may get sick, you know,” she warned, but passed it to him.
“I won’t,” he promised, ignoring it and taking her hand in his, his eyes sober and earnest. “I mean to get well soon as I can. I’m a wretched bridegroom, Cristabel, and I’m sorry for it. But I do heal with amazing speed.”
“Magnus,” she said, pulling her hand from his. “I don’t know, I can’t believe—Magnus, I married you because—”
“I forced you, yes,” he said. “But it’s for the best. I know that’s what your father said, but in this case it turns out he was right; you’ll see.”
“No—you see,” she said in desperation. “I am Cristabel Stew, daughter to a pirate and a lady—though she despises me. So I can act the lady, yes. But when I get excited, I be every inch me father’s daughter. You deserve—ah, my lord, you deserve the very best wife that there is.”
“Cristabel, please, no more. We’ve been through this so many times. I know everything you are, and you delight me.”
She dashed her foolish tears aside with her hand and sniffed. “Well,” she said, struggling for composure, “there’s a good side to this, too, I guess. If it was a pirate who was vexed with you, you should be safe when news of the marriage gets out, right? Aye, and then, too, you’ll have someone here to see to you whilst you mend. And best of all,” she went on in a stronger voice, as she picked up a piece of bread and vigorously buttered it for him, “there’s time. Aye. For when you’re better, when you come to your senses, you can have the thing annulled. I’m sure the vicar will take money for undoing what he did. For sure, the doctor will testify to the fact that you were out of your mind. Aye, an annulment would be granted in a wink, I be sure.”