Major Wyclyff's Campaign (A Lady's Lessons, Book 2)

by Lee, Jade

  "But sweeting, I saw all of you last night." His voice trailed away, the note of hurt clear.

  She let the silence remain, uncertain what to say. Uncertain, even, what to think. Last night had been... Had been... It had been everything and more, and yet she could not shake this feeling that she had surrendered, that she had given up everything to the major. There was nothing left for her but endless years as his wife, following him around the world like a lapdog. Worse yet, she might be left alone in England to stare at the walls, counting the lonely hours until his return.

  She swiftly donned her gown, the rustle of fabric loud in the stillness.

  "Are you suitably attired?" the major asked, his voice dry with sarcasm.

  "Yes."

  "Excellent." She heard the harsh brush of the lucifer and then the steady glow as the taper caught. And there stood the major, bathed in its warm light. Unabashedly naked.

  "Major!"

  "Last night you called me Anthony."

  Sophia swallowed, willing herself to look away from his glorious form.

  He crossed to her, lifting her chin, urging her to meet his gaze. "Sophia, what is it? Why are you acting this way?"

  "I... I..." What could she say?

  "You are crying!" She felt him brush away the tears, but for the life of her, she could not understand where the moisture had come from. She never cried.

  "Uh..." Why could she not think of something intelligent to say?

  "Are you hurt?"

  She blinked, wondering to what he referred. Then she recalled the momentary pain of last night, the breaching of her maidenhead. "N—no. No, I am fine."

  "But then—"

  "Please. Please, stop. I need to think." She spun away from him, intending to escape down the corridor, but he caught her, holding her wrist tightly.

  "Do not run from me, Sophia. Please. Not today."

  "But—"

  "Not this morning." His voice was hard and laced with a pain she could hear even through her own conflicting riot of emotion. She swallowed and nodded. Then, slowly, he released her.

  They stood there, staring at each other. She was rigidly stiff, her muscles clenched so tight she thought the slightest movement might shatter her. And he, still naked, stood poised as if ready to fight, to spring to attack or defend at a moment's notice.

  Into this tense silence came noise from above. Sophia lifted her head, her gaze drawn to the ceiling where the sound of many feet shifted and moved.

  "They will be coming for us soon," said the major, his voice curiously flat.

  She nodded. "I—I suppose you will tell them we must marry."

  He lifted his chin as if daring her to disagree. "Yes."

  She swallowed, and something within her gave way. It was as though a spring wound too tight finally broke, leaving her fragmented and disjointed. Her knees went weak, but suddenly he was beside her, helping her to sit on the edge of the bed.

  "We will marry then," she said dully. "I cannot refuse. Not after last night." She pressed her hand against her lips, remembering, then abruptly, she shrugged. "You said yourself there was no other way to save even a modicum of my respectability."

  She looked up at him, her emotions almost entirely drained, but as she gazed at him, she saw his jaw clench in anger. It was only then that she realized he had not joined her on the bed. He stood above her, glaring at her as though she were evil incarnate.

  "Major?"

  "My name is Anthony," he ground out.

  She nodded. "Anthony, then."

  Dropping to his knees before her, he searched her face with his eyes. "Why do you fight this, Sophia? Why is marriage to me so terrible a fate? You were not unhappy in my arms. Last night—"

  "I know what we did last night," she interrupted.

  "So, why do you look so stricken? Is it because of my leg? Am I that repulsive to you?"

  Sophia shook her head, words forming on her lips without her conscious volition. "You are not the least bit repulsive. Even burning with fever, almost dead, you were the most handsome man I ever met."

  "Then what is it?"

  She looked down at her hands, wondering if she could explain. "You have stripped me of all control in this matter. I refused you the first time—"

  "You agreed in the hospital!" he interrupted.

  "I eased a dying man's mind. I had no idea you would recover. And then, when I explained it all, you invaded my household as my butler. I refused you again, and we ended up in gaol."

  "That was your doing," he snapped.

  "Yes, I had a hand in it. But you have known from your first moment in Staffordshire that I had no wish to marry you. Yet here I am, despite all my intentions, about to become betrothed. It is exactly what I feared."

  "What? To marry a man who—" He cut off his words abruptly, and she wondered what he was about to say. Instead he finished, "Who would care for you, cherish you for the rest of your life?"

  "A man who would strip all control from me. Who will make my decisions and force me to go his way whether I wish to or not. And then..." She cut off her words.

  "And then what?" he demanded.

  She didn't continue, but he did, guessing correctly at her thoughts.

  "You still think I will abandon you. You think I will tire of you, leaving you alone." He dropped down on one knee. "You trusted me last night."

  She looked away, shame making her cheeks burn. "I suppose now I am a wanton to boot." Her words were for herself, but he seemed to take them as a physical blow, recoiling from her. She looked at him, wishing she could make him understand. "I am not angry with you," she said. "You are correct that I have created my own problem, so to speak. Now I must accept the consequences."

  "Made your own bed, and now you must lie in it?" he asked dryly as he regained his feet.

  She felt her cheeks flame. "Well, yes."

  "So you see marriage to me as your punishment."

  She took a deep breath. "You are putting a meaning on it I do not intend."

  "Am I really?" She could hear the anger in his voice, but even so she could not deny his words. He had forced this situation on her, and now there was no help for her anywhere.

  She looked away.

  "Sophia." His voice was raw, but his intonation was flat, and his every word still held the note of command. "I have never forced myself on any woman."

  "I never said—"

  "And I will certainly not take an unwilling bride."

  "But—"

  "Listen to me!"

  Sophia obediently shut her mouth.

  "I will ask you for the last time. Forget thoughts of your reputation, of the people upstairs, of everything. Simply search your own heart. Do you wish to marry me?"

  "No."

  The answer came out quickly, a reflex before she could stop it or even hear the part of her heart that said something entirely different. And then, when she did hear it, it was too late.

  "Very well." The major walked stiffly away, pulling on his breeches with crisp, military efficiency.

  "Major?"

  "Do not be concerned, Sophia. I will not bother you again."

  "But—"

  He spun around, his eyes glaring at her through the gloom. "I said, do not be concerned. I will take care of everything." And with that comment, he suddenly stooped down and grabbed their bottle of brandy and raised it like a club.

  Sophia gasped, unsure what he meant to do. She did not move away, knowing he would not hurt her, even when he brought the neck down with shattering force against the side of the bed. She flinched at the sound that was deafening within their little room. Still, it did not totally overcome the loud rumble of the people upstairs.

  "They will be coming for us soon," he reminded her curtly.

  Sophia nodded, her eyes still on the jagged bottle in his hand. "What do you intend to do with that?"

  With his eyes still fixed on hers, he turned the cut edge toward himself. Sophia slowly stood, unsure and worried. His face wa
s so hard, as if he steeled himself. Then, to her horror, the major quickly slashed the cut edge across his chest. Blood welled up along the wound, bright red even in the muted candlelight.

  "Anthony!" She jumped to him, grabbing her skirts to staunch the blood.

  "No!" he said firmly, grabbing her hands and roughly pushing her away. "Let it bleed."

  "But..." Tears burned in her eyes.

  He took a deep breath, and she watched the cut well rich red down his shirt. Sophia bit her lip. It was a physical ache to see him hurt and not be allowed to help him, to touch him.

  "Please," she whispered. "You are bleeding."

  "Aye," he agreed. Then, suddenly, he pressed the bottom of the bottle into her hand. "Hold on to that as if your life depended on it."

  "Anthony—"

  Another voice interrupted them, calling out from the other room. "Come on up, you two. We's all waitin't' 'ear." It was the constable, come to take them upstairs. Faster than Sophia thought possible, the elderly man rounded the corner to the bedroom, and all opportunity for private conversation was lost.

  "Major," she whispered.

  "Get me out of here," he snapped at the constable, "and away from that she-devil."

  Sophia bit her lip to hold back a sob. If the venom in his voice had been real, he could have poisoned the whole of Staffordshire. As it was, she seemed to be the only one who shriveled inside. She looked to the major, but he had already turned his back on her.

  So she did the only thing she could, what she always did when she hurt. She simply closed her mind to the pain, drew herself upright, and stared down at the world through a numbing wall of bitter cold.

  She became the Ice Queen.

  The major preceded her and the constable up the stairs, and Sophia was forced to watch him limp along, practically dragging his weak leg while his arm held tight to his bleeding chest. She did not know if he was truly in pain or merely exaggerating his injuries as part of some devious plan. Whatever the reason, there was nothing she could do about it.

  He had made it clear she was to say nothing to him at all.

  Sophia should not have been surprised by the bawdy comments that followed them as they entered the baron's front room, but she was. How could so many people have so much interest in her affairs? Good Lord, the room was even more packed than the day before! And this time, there were as many women as men.

  She and Anthony were led to the same spot they had occupied yesterday, in the dead center of the cheering, jeering mass of people. Fortunately for her own piece of mind, she saw Aunt Agatha immediately, standing on the near edge of the mob, a tranquil spot of beribboned lavender. Unfortunately, her relative looked pale and nervous as she literally shredded her favorite lace handkerchief. Still, the dear lady managed an encouraging smile that Sophia did her best to return.

  Then it was as if everything occurred to someone else, and Sophia was merely a distant spectator, watching a play.

  "Well, Major?" boomed the baron rather abruptly. "Have you come to a decision? Will you wed the lady?"

  "Absolutely not!" he said, his voice carrying loudly to the back of the room. Then he straightened, giving the baron a clear view of his bloody chest and hand.

  There was a moment's stunned silence, then the room erupted into sound as seemingly a thousand voices all debated and cursed and laughed at them both. In front of them, the baron was clearly taken aback. "But... but..." he stammered. "But she is a lady, and you have spent the night with her!"

  Anthony stepped forward as he turned toward the crowd, giving everyone a good look at his bloodied shirt. "And what good did that do for me? She held me off with a damned broken bottle! This morning, when I thought to catch her unawares, she cut me!"

  The response of the crowd was nearly deafening. The women cheered Sophia's courage while the men laughed uproariously at Anthony's plight. It was not until Sophia realized many were staring at her that she remembered the broken bottle still clutched in her hand. She would have dropped it then and there, except one look about her told her that she had best keep it handy. Some of the men looked fit to be tied.

  "Ye mean a major o' 'is Majesty's army can't even diddle a woman?" jeered a man to Sophia's right.

  Anthony stiffened, taking one angry limp forward. "She is a hellcat with her skirts nailed to the floor. A whole battalion of the Hussars could not prevail against her."

  The entire room erupted after that remark, but Sophia could only cringe at the derision in his voice. She understood his plan now. Anthony was trying to save her reputation as much as possible. She had told him that she had no wish to marry, and he was now doing his best to give her that opportunity. At the cost of his own honor and reputation.

  She could not have been more touched.

  Yet there was nothing she could do to thank him except stand clutching a broken bottle in the center of a screaming mob. Meanwhile, the baron was moving forward, grabbing on to Anthony's arm as he spoke.

  "Do you mean to tell me that the lady is still pure?"

  "A glacier could not be more pure!" spat the major.

  Sophia flinched—inside. Outwardly, she merely straightened her shoulders. She understood his intentions, but that still did not keep his words from inflicting pain. She had never wanted to be the Ice Queen, but somehow she always seemed to return to that persona.

  "Well," sputtered the baron as the furor died down. "I suppose that is all, then. You are free to go, Lady Sophia," he added with a rather confused bow.

  Sophia did not know how to respond. She was still too numb from the entire experience to comprehend it all. But then Aunt Agatha was across the room and enfolding her in a mass of ribbons and furbelows, and Sophia was burying her face in the woman's arms.

  "Aunt Agatha," she whispered, unsure whether it was a sob or a cry for help.

  "Hush, dear, we shall sort this out later. Come along now."

  But before she could leave, the other occupants of the room had to clear from the area, and they showed no interest in doing so. Sophia was forced to stand ramrod straight as she listened to one after another coarse man make vulgar comments about her person.

  "That 'un's as cold as a witch's tit, she is."

  "Aye," cackled a woman. "Have t' be t' refuse the likes of 'im! 'E can come to me bed whenever 'e likes."

  Sophia heard the words as distant rumbles, whispers of nonsense that could not touch her. All she had to do was stand still, her expression distant, her body regal. That was all. Soon, it would be over.

  Except part of her did hear. Part of her heard everything and remembered similar words voicing the same sentiment, only phrased more politely. Jeers spoken in London about the Ice Queen. The cold woman without a heart. The frozen witch best left alone.

  She had thought to escape, but the words had followed her. Just as the major had.

  She could not escape. Would never escape.

  Except for one night, one glorious night when she had been alive and fulfilled, and joyously, wondrously happy. The night she had spent in Anthony's arms.

  But now that was over, and there was nothing left. She had no intelligence to rescue her. No ritual to redeem her. No man to love her. So she did the only thing she could.

  For the first time in her life, she willed herself to faint.

  * * *

  Anthony heard the jeers. Indeed, how could he not? He maintained his pretense of being offended, a thwarted suitor. It was an easy role to play, since he was indeed thwarted.

  He told himself that he had made his best attempt to win the lady. He had done all that was humanly possible, and still she had refused. Some events God did not intend, and apparently his marriage to Sophia Rathburn was one of them.

  So he told himself.

  But the memory of last night still burned in his mind. He recalled her passionate kisses, her ardor, her undeniable hunger for him. She did not feel indifferent to him. She could not.

  And yet she did.

  He had lost. And at the same
time, he'd lost a thousand guineas and his diplomatic post. Anthony clenched his jaw. It was time to return to London. He could lick his wounds in peace there, perhaps save his career. No doubt he could find some insipid girl to wed, then be off across the water to India.

  Without Sophia.

  The thought was a bayonet wound, piercing and deep.

  Then he heard it. It was only one of many ugly comments, but this one stuck in his mind.

  "Wait a couple o' months an' we'll see 'ow pure she is. 'Er belly'll be round, you mark my words."

  Sophia's belly round with his child?

  The thought was both glorious and terrifying all at once. He turned to Sophia, wondering if she had heard the comment. He noticed her unnatural pallor, saw her stiffened spine and haughty expression. What was she thinking? Was she as flustered as he? Excited at the thought of carrying his child?

  He did not have to wait long for an answer.

  Within moments of the woman's words, Sophia fainted dead away.

  Chapter 11

  She woke with a cool compress across her forehead. She felt warm and comfortable, but a strange ache of emptiness seemed to surround her. She didn't want to examine it, but instinctively curled away from the thought. The feeling. From everything.

  "Come along, dear. Wake up."

  It was Aunt Agatha. Which meant she must be in her own bed. Indeed, when she finally, reluctantly opened her eyes, Sophia saw the familiar pink curtains illuminated by the same afternoon sunshine that filled her bedroom every day in Staffordshire. But somehow, it did not seem like home. Though the featherbed and Aunt Agatha's smiling face seemed familiar, they appeared much too cheery for her mood.

  She rolled over and buried her head away from the brightness, away from the forced beauty. Away. She would never come out again.

  "You might as well roll over and look at me because I am not leaving until you do."

  Sophia stiffened at the reproving note in her aunt's voice. "I am not at home, Aunt Agatha. To anyone. Even you."

  "Too bad," her aunt snapped. "This is my home, not yours. Now, you will speak with me or I shall be forced to tell all those people downstairs that you will see them directly."