by Kelly Boyce
“I suppose I have a rather unsavory reputation, but I assure you, Lady Caelie, it is lies. All lies.”
She knew well the power of rumor. “Is it?”
He smiled. “Gullible little thing, aren’t you?”
Her insides reeled and she swallowed, rushing the words out of her in the hope further conversation would make her forget her roiling belly. “I try to see the good in people, my lord.”
“Ah. And has that been a successful endeavor for you?”
“No. Not particularly.”
Her stomach pitched. She floundered for another topic of conversation to distract herself. “If you do not marry, what will happen to the Ellesmere title? Are you not the last of your line? I would think providing an heir would be of utmost importance.”
“You sound very much like my grandfather when you say that.” He squinted and leaned in close. His shoulder brushed against hers and he smelled of salt air and sandalwood. “Are you my grandfather in disguise? I would not put it past him to hide out here and try to thwart my escape.”
His closeness rattled her as much as the undulating waves. “Is that what you are doing? Escaping?”
He pulled away and shot her a guilty glance. “Perhaps.”
“No wonder you were so upset to find two women on board.”
The ship dipped and rocked suddenly. The motion tossed her against Lord Huntsleigh’s side and sent her stomach in several different directions. She winced and tried to calm it, with little success. She pulled in a breath through clenched teeth.
“Lady Caelie, do not take this the wrong way, but you look positively ghastly.”
She nodded as another wave of nausea hit. Her stomach heaved upward. Propriety forgotten, she jumped from the crate and rushed to the side of the ship where she promptly christened the Channel with the meager contents of her supper. Only when she finished did she realize Lord Huntsleigh stood at her side, holding back her hair with one hand, his arm the only support keeping her upright as her knees wobbled and her strength gave out. If he let go, she would crumple to the deck in a pile of wool, linen and misery.
Lord Huntsleigh bent and lifted her into his arms. “I believe this would be the optimal time to see you back to your room.”
Chapter Three
Strange, how Spence had believed the Windswept to be the safest place in the world to avoid the marriage trap. Yet, here he was, with a beautiful innocent in his arms and he on the way to her bedchamber.
Fate surely had a vendetta against him.
Despite Lady Glenmor’s original plan to foist her daughter off on her cousin’s stepson, Spence was a far better catch. Likely the Countess would jump on the opportunity to attach her daughter to a man of means and title. A feat she had been unable to accomplish in London, where the late Lord Glenmor’s kin were still trying to shuck off the indelicacy of his scandalous end. Marriage to someone of Spence’s rank would be considered quite a coup.
He shifted Lady Caelie’s weight in his arms. The curve of her hip pressed uncomfortably near his groin. He tried not to think about it, but his mind continued to stray there without shame.
Bloody hell.
He had approached her with only the most altruistic of intentions when he saw her sitting topside, alone and in the dark. Why did every good turn he tried to do of late spin topsy-turvy on him?
“Mother is a heavy sleeper,” his little piece of baggage mumbled.
“I beg your pardon?” He kept his voice low, though it hardly mattered. He might as well shout at the top of his lungs. His fate was sealed and short of throwing himself overboard, he saw no escape from it.
“Mother is a heavy sleeper.”
He stopped walking.
She continued, her voice barely more than a whisper. “If you are quiet you should be able to assist me to my bed and slip out without anyone the wiser.”
Had she just offered him a reprieve? Most women he knew—in fact all who were not already married—would be more likely to cut off their own arm than pass up the opportunity to drag him to the altar. Obviously whatever illness plagued Lady Caelie had skewed her judgment. Still, he was not one to pass up a sudden boon of good fortune if it kept him free of the marriage noose.
After all, nothing untoward had happened between them. Should he be unfairly punished when he had only been looking out for the lady’s welfare?
“Very well then. Can I count on you to keep our little run-in to yourself?”
She nodded then fell silent.
He did the same. Better not to belabour the point in case she changed her mind.
When they reached her room, he eased the door open and encountered the most ungodly sound he had ever heard.
“Mother snores.”
The thin light from the lantern dangling from his fingertips, led him to the empty narrow cot. He set her feet on the floor, but continued to hold her against him so she did not collapse. She was a slight little thing and a sudden surge of protectiveness took hold. He shrugged it off. He did not need such complications.
He eased her down onto the bed. “Your coat, my lady?” He didn’t want her mother to wake and find her dressed as if she’d been walking about. Lady Glenmor did not strike him as the type to take such a thing lightly.
He brushed her fumbling hands aside and undid the buttons. He did have a certain amount of experience in this area and he was eager to beat a hasty retreat.
“Thank you,” she whispered, as he pulled the coat from her, leaving her in her shift. Once he had her tucked in, it struck him how small she looked beneath her blankets. Vulnerable. Something tugged at his insides but he ignored it. Or tried to.
“You’re welcome.”
“Lord Huntsleigh?” A sudden urgency filled her voice.
“Yes?”
Whatever she had been about to say was lost as she dropped her head over the edge of the bed and voided her stomach yet again. Spence shifted aside just in time to avoid being hit.
Bloody hell!
Her breaths came in rapid succession and her fingers clawed into the mattress. Other than that, she did not move. In the larger bed next to Lady Caelie, her mother’s snoring ceased. Spence’s heart thumped in his chest until his ribs vibrated from the force.
He froze and in a moment, Lady Glenmor’s snoring resumed. He tiptoed over to the small chest of drawers and removed the porcelain bowl and linen towel. He dropped the towel on the floor and swiped it over the mess with his boot. The smell wafted up and turned his own stomach. He kicked the towel aside and put the bowl in its place.
“I have set the bowl beneath you, my lady. I will leave you now.”
She nodded, but only barely.
Spence straightened and retraced his steps back to the door. Once on the other side of it, he heard her retch yet again. He hesitated. When the retching stopped he heard what sounded suspiciously like a sob. Then another retch. He pinched the bridge of his nose.
The vision of her hanging over the edge of the bed, her body trembling, reached out and grabbed at his heart, squeezing until he, too, felt ill. He could not leave her like this. He pressed his forehead into the wall and banged it lightly against the doorframe.
“Bloody, bloody hell.”
He clenched his teeth and marched to Captain Moresley’s cabin at the end of the hall.
* * *
Spence had waited as patiently as he knew how for Doc to make a prognosis, but eventually the need to know got the better of him.
“How is she?”
He was not prepared for the gravity in Doc’s tone. “It does not look good.”
“She will recover, of course.” Spence made the statement with all confidence. Bowen often felt ill on board ship and he managed to get along.
“There’s no tellin’ if she’ll gain her sea legs. But if she doesn’t…” Doc’s voice trailed off and he shook his head. The craggy old man had, like Captain Moresley, served in the navy and spent most of his life at sea. Whether he had any true doctoring skills, Spe
nce could not say, but Captain Moresley trusted him, and Spence trusted the captain. “There isn’t much to her as is, m’lord. She can’t go long like this without it takin’ its toll.”
Spence drew closer and glanced down at Lady Caelie’s slight figure. If she were to lose weight over the length of the trip, there would be nothing left of her but skin and bones. What would he say to Nick—or worse, Abigail—if Lady Caelie did not rally?
“What can be done?” Lady Glenmor’s cold tone reached across the room from where she sat at Bowen’s desk. She had been angry at being awakened from her slumber, even more so when she realized the reason, as if her daughter’s condition was something Lady Caelie had done on purpose to make things more difficult for her mother.
“I think we’ll ’ave to set her ashore, m’lord,” Doc said.
“I beg your pardon? Set her ashore?”
Doc waved a hand at Lady Caelie. “She’s not got the stamina to put up with this much longer. Best for her if we dock at the nearest port and set her off.”
Captain Moresley nodded his agreement with a grunt. “Portsmouth is the closest port. We can be there on the morrow. From there, transport can be arranged for her and Lady Glenmor to return to London once Lady Caelie’s well enough to travel.”
Spence shifted. Setting the two women ashore certainly solved his problem of having them on board, but worry nagged him. What if it was more than sea-sickness? What if they left her and Lady Glenmor in Portsmouth and Caelie took a turn for the worse? Did he not have an obligation to Nick to ensure his family’s safety while under his care?
“We will not be set ashore,” Lady Glenmor said. Her voice held the quality of iron.
Spence’s anger peaked. Did she not care for her daughter’s well-being at all? “I see no other alternative, madam. Lady Caelie is not well enough for sea travel. Look at her, for pity’s sake!”
But she didn’t. Instead, she glared at him. “I will not leave this ship.”
Her clarification sent a chill deep into Spence’s bones. He must have misunderstood. Perhaps the lady was in shock. Or denial.
“There is no other choice. You must accompany your daughter.”
“I will not.” She gave the decree with the same feeling as if she were saying she would not go to market. As if the two things were equal.
“Your daughter—”
“My daughter has been a burden since the day she was born. She has brought me nothing but misery and disappointment. I have had to practically barter myself to make a better life for us where she failed to do so, and now she thinks to rob me of even that? I will not have it.”
“You will not have it?” Spence shook his head. The woman was mad. “It is not as if she did this on purpose.”
“Are you so sure? She did not want to go. She made that much clear. How do I know this isn’t some ploy of hers to return to her old life? So be it. I will not be set ashore. Lord Ellesmere promised me safe passage to Italy and I will have it.”
Spence blinked. I. Me. Not us or we.
“Do I understand you, madam? Do you expect us to set your daughter ashore alone and leave her behind unprotected?” Disbelief battled with disgust until neither could be claimed a definitive victor.
“If she wants to return to London, fine. Let her see this foil to its conclusion and see how well she does fending for herself without my protection. I wash my hands of her.”
The audacity. The cold, unmitigated gall of what she suggested staggered Spence and for a moment, he found himself speechless.
“What of her reputation, madam?” He had skirted around his knowledge of Lady Caelie’s condition. The lie had slipped easily off his tongue when he told Captain Moresley he had just happened to pass by the cabin door when he heard her being sick. Thankfully, Moresley’s concern over his passenger’s welfare trumped any further questions he may have had for Spence as to what he’d been doing at that end of the hallway to begin with.
“Her reputation?” She laughed. Spence had never heard a more mirthless sound. “Thanks to her father, none of us has any reputation left.”
“Captain Moresley can order you off the ship, madam.”
She stood and pulled herself to her full height. “I will find passage on the next.”
“And leave her behind?” Did a colder, viler woman exist than this? He did not think so.
Lady Glenmor’s expression hardened further. “I will do what I must.”
Before Spence could respond, she strode from the room without a backward glance. He turned to Captain Moresley. “You’ll set her off the ship with her daughter, will you not?”
Doc placed a cold compress against Lady Caelie’s brow. Her skin had turned a sickly grey-green color and dark smudges appeared beneath her closed eyelids. Had she heard the things her mother had said? Or were those judgments nothing new to her ears?
Tears and perspiration ran down her pale cheeks. She looked like death. How much more could her body withstand before it came to claim her? They had to set ashore.
He realized Moresley had not answered him. “Captain?”
“I’ll give the order to set ashore in Portsmouth,” Moresley said. “We will figure something out from there.”
* * *
Caelie had some awareness of the goings on around her, though they faded in and out depending on the endless cycle of heaving the empty contents of her stomach and recovery from that.
Mother’s caustic words she remembered.
She has brought me nothing but misery and disappointment.
Those words would scar the surface of her heart for a long time to come, but the sentiment had not surprised her. Caelie had kept her eyes closed and did not try to protest. Not that she’d had the energy to do so. Lord Huntsleigh’s vehemence in her defense surprised her. Only Abigail had ever gone toe to toe with Mother in the past on her behalf. Unfortunately, Lord Huntsleigh met with the same amount of success as her cousin had.
If she’d been able, she would have told him to save his breath. Mother’s mind, once made up, was an immovable object.
She was on her own.
What would become of her?
The conversation around her had become garbled after that, lost to the heaving of her stomach and the pounding in her head. She had never felt so ill in all her life.
Blackness claimed her and not until she sensed a movement different from the accursed lolling of the ship did she pull herself out of it. Salty sea air hit her face with a burst of cold and damp. She welcomed it—a vast improvement from the stale, fetid air of her room. She tried to pry open her eyes. Had they reached port?
Fear tightened its grip. Would they simply set her on the dock and be done with her?
“You’ve got what you need then, m’lord?” Captain Moresley from somewhere near.
A sigh. A hesitation. “Yes. Garron has loaded the carriage.”
“Any luck finding a suitable chaperone?”
“None I would consider suitable. Once we are settled I will make a more in depth search.”
“Safe travels then.”
Caelie must be misunderstanding the conversation. Surely, Lord Huntsleigh did not plan to set ashore with her? Without a chaperone? She could not allow it! The sheer disaster of such folly was…was…
“Be careful then. The coach road is still heavily traveled this time o’ year. You’ll not want to draw attention until you’ve secured someone.”
“Rest assured, I will take every precaution.”
While Lord Huntsleigh’s promise gave her some relief, it was not enough. If they were caught, it would be the end of her.
She tried to lift her hand to protest, but like her lids, the limb refused to cooperate. The harder she tried, the faster the blackness curled around her and pulled her down into its inky depths.
After that, sensations ran from one into another. A pair of strong arms lifting her. The warmth of a firm body that chased away her chill. The scent of sandalwood and…and…what? Quiet voices murmuring ove
r her. Steady footfalls. Then finally, blessedly, a soft mattress beneath her that did not dip or sway.
She slept again after that and when she awoke her eye lids complied when she tried to open them. Thick quilts covered her and sunlight filtered in through a window where a body held the curtain back to be silhouetted by the light. A gentleman’s silhouette.
She was alone in a bedroom with a gentleman?
She swallowed. Her throat had the consistency of sand but her stomach had stopped roiling about. “Lord Huntsleigh?”
The curtain fell back and shadowed the room. Lord Huntsleigh turned around and walked over to the bed. He leaned down, a hand on either side of her shoulders so she had no choice but to peer up into his handsome face.
“You’re awake then?”
She nodded. “And Mother?” Just in case, on the slim chance—
Lord Huntsleigh shook his head.
No. Of course not.
“We are at The White Stag in Hampshire. I will be escorting you home to London.”
She blinked. He would be? Her gaze swept the room on either side of her. It was relatively large and, save for them, horribly unoccupied.
“Are we…alone?”
“Yes, since you did not bring a lady’s maid with you on your travels.”
“None of servants wished to make the trip,” she said by way of explanation. “Mother had not endeared herself to the staff.”
“I find that most shocking.” But the twist of his lips told her otherwise. “I will find you a lady’s maid. Until then, there has been a bit of a wrinkle.”
She did not care for the sound of that. “What kind of wrinkle?”
A cloud darkened his light blue eyes. This close, she could see the flecks of gray in them. It gave them a depth she had not expected.
“It turns out Lord Iber’s wedding to his third wife is taking place at his country estate not far from here. The guests have begun to congregate and as such, all the other rooms have been let.”
“All of the other rooms?”
“Yes.”