“Surely you don’t want to keep a murderess as a wife?” she said.
Beckett held her away front of him, so he could look at her. “I don’t believe you are a murderess, Isobel.”
She stared up into his eyes, unwilling to hope. “You don’t?”
“No.” Beckett touched his hand to the side of Isobel’s face. His thumb rubbed against the soft line of her jaw. “I am your husband, and I will protect you.”
Isobel closed her eyes against the burning heat of tears. A strong hand curled gently around her neck as Beckett pulled her close against his chest.
“I swore to honor and protect you all the days of my life, and all the days of yours,” he said, looking down at her with a wary expression. “You should have told me before.”
“I was afraid,” she answered.
“I can imagine you were,” Beckett replied, turning away from her. “This changes things, Isobel. I will have to take you away from London, certainly—someplace where you’ll be safe from both Lennox and Lord Palmerston’s arrest warrant. Until we can get these charges dropped and find some evidence against Lennox.”
“What if we can’t?”
Beckett faced her. “Then we shall have to live abroad.”
Isobel studied him for a moment, shocked by her husband’s decision to stand by her. “Why are you doing this? Most men in your position would think twice about giving up so much, especially to protect a woman who was a wife in name, only.”
Beckett returned nonchalantly to his glass and downed the rest of the brandy. “I am not most men.”
* * *
“You’ll go to Barbados, then?” Alfred asked.
Beckett nodded. He, Alfred and Isobel sat at the long dining room table in Alfred’s townhouse, breakfasting on braised ham, poached eggs, toast with blueberry compote, and fresh strawberries with clotted cream. There was nothing like an adventure to stir up a man’s appetite.
“Barbados?” Isobel set down her teacup and looked at Beckett, her eyes wide with shock. “It’s not a very civilized place, is it?”
“How civilized is it here in London with Sir Harry Lennox running about, trying to have you hung?” Beckett asked, swallowing some coffee. “I don’t think it’s safe to stay in England at all, not with Lord Palmerston on his side. I was planning to go to Barbados next month to visit the Ravenwood sugar plantation there. We could leave as soon as possible. Lord Palmerston thinks you’ve gone to Broomely Park. I’ll have it put ’round that I’ve gone off to Ireland, or someplace that will take them awhile to get to. Before he and his men can get back to London, we’ll be aboard a ship bound for the islands.”
“Capital idea, Beckett,” Alfred said. “I’ll go along with you…make sure you don’t get into trouble.”
“But I need you to stay here and find proof of Isobel’s innocence, and Sir Harry’s guilt,” Beckett replied.
Alfred gave a wicked grin. “Even better! I adore a good mystery. You know, if I didn’t have to be a lord of the realm, I always thought I should make a dandy Bow Street runner.”
“But Lord Weston,” Isobel said, “you must be careful. I do not like to think of what might happen if Sir Harry gets wind of your plan. He is a very dangerous man.”
“As am I, dear lady,” Alfred said, kissing her hand.
Isobel looked imploringly at Beckett. “There must be another way.”
“Lord Palmerston’s men will be back from Broomely Park in a few days,” Beckett explained. “We must be safely on our way before they return to London.”
“But what if Alfred doesn’t find any proof of my innocence?” Isobel asked.
“Fear not, dear lady,” Alfred assured her. “I possess a wealth of scandalous skills. Isn’t that right, Beckett?”
“Very true,” Beckett replied, grinning. “Sir Harry will be no match for you, old friend.”
He saw the worried look in Isobel’s eyes, and took her hand, saying, “Isobel, you must obey me in this. We will be on the next ship bound for Barbados. It is the only choice we have. As for Alfred, he and I have been getting in and out of trouble together since we met at Oxford. And we always get out of it, don’t we Alfred?”
“Yes,” Alfred agreed, “but this raises the challenge to new heights. And as you know, Beckett, I simply adore a challenge. In fact, I should be thanking you. I was getting a bit bored, of late, and this dangerous mission should do nicely.”
“Excellent, Alfred,” Beckett said. “Here’s the plan: Isobel and I will book passage to Barbados under assumed names. Alfred, I’ll need you to spread the word that I’ve gone off to Dublin. I shall have to return to the house briefly to have a trunk packed for my phantom trip to Ireland. That will include a few dresses for you, Isobel. But we must both travel lightly. You won’t be needing ball gowns where we’re going.”
Isobel said soberly, “You can be assured that fashionable dress is the furthest thing from my mind at the moment.”
“Now remember, Alfred,” Beckett continued, “I shan’t tell the house staff anything. Sir Harry may find a way to bribe information out of them, and if he thinks they know more he’s likely to use stronger methods. The less they know, the better. I shall have to tell Hartley, though, as you may need his assistance in your investigation. We’ll spend at least a month or so in Barbados. When we return, hopefully you’ll have gathered enough evidence to refute this ludicrous murder charge against Isobel. And do me another favor, look in on the pets from time to time, will you? I shouldn’t want Hartley to get overrun. And most of all—be careful.”
“Don’t worry about me, old man,” Alfred replied. “It is Sir Harry Lennox who should be careful.”
Chapter 11
Isobel took a deep breath, inhaling the strong, briny smell of the sea. Overhead, the gulls’ cries made an eerie music over the Portsmouth dock.
They boarded the ship, and Beckett introduced her to the captain, using their assumed names. They were travelling as Mr. and Mrs. Evans, a well-to-do merchant and his wife from London. She had still been trying to get used to being called the Countess of Ravenwood, and now she had another name to answer to.
At last, the ropes that moored the ship to the wharf were cast off and the vessel lumbered slowly through gray-blue waters. Isobel stood beside Beckett at the starboard side and waved goodbye to Alfred, who bid farewell from the dock.
So much of this plan rested on Lord Weston’s shoulders. But Alfred, who always appeared so light-hearted and entertaining, had a mind as strong and sharp as a sword… Beckett had sworn to it.
Isobel would depend upon that sword to fight the battle for her here in England, while she was spirited safely away. It seemed strange that she no longer had to defend herself alone, and that others were willing to stand by her in this fight for justice.
The ship’s captain, Mayfield, took them on a brief tour of the vessel and Isobel was glad for the distraction.
She found herself fascinated with the rhythm of the huge ship. Its sailors all seemed to work together effortlessly, as if they could hear each other without speaking. From time to time, the bosun would call out orders, and the sailors would respond with feline agility and grace. They flew up and down the rigging as if it were more natural to them than walking upright.
But more striking than the rhythm of the crew was something entirely different: a large black-and-white cat who appeared on deck. She supposed cats were common upon seagoing vessels, what with the mice, but this cat in particular seemed strange; it surveyed the crew as if he commanded them.
As she stood there, wondering about the feline, it met her eyes. The cat stared at her intently from across the deck, and Isobel felt strangely unnerved. She glanced away. Had that been intelligence she’d seen in its eyes? Obviously, her misadventures had to be taking their toll on her, if she were imagining such things.
When she looked back, the cat was gone.
Captain Mayfield returned to his duties, and Isobel looked up at her husband as he surveyed the ship. An un
comfortable silence thickened the air between them.
She wondered what would happen, now. Although he had assured her of his protection, she had sensed Beckett distancing himself from her since learning of Edward Langley’s death.
He hadn’t mentioned her guardian’s name since then, or the other sordid circumstances leading to this impromptu journey. And yet the silent questions stood between them like a wall. The passionate flirting they had enjoyed at the Whitcomb ball was all but gone.
The wind lifted Beckett’s hair with invisible fingers, taunting Isobel to reach out and do the same. But she knew that was impossible now. He’d stood by her out of duty, not because of any feeling he had for her. It would do no good to become sentimental about a relationship that would never be.
As the ship left Portsmouth harbor, they were shown to their quarters. Their cabin was spacious enough, though of course, it held only one bed. And though they had already shared a bed in one regard, it would be very different to sleep next to Beckett now that they were man and wife.
Dinner was brought to their quarters and they ate it without ceremony. Then Beckett produced a deck of cards, and enticed Isobel to play ecarte. Considering the maelstrom of thoughts that swirled in her head, she welcomed the diversion.
They played countless games, until Isobel found her eyes drooping as she tried fruitlessly to ward off the heaviness of sleep.
“You look tired, my dear,” Beckett said, putting down his cards. “It has been a long day. Shall we go to bed?”
Isobel looked up at him, her blood suddenly racing. “To bed?”
“Yes,” he said, standing. “I suppose it is a good thing that we are married—seeing as there is only one bed. We can sleep in it together with a clear conscience.”
Isobel stared at the bunk they were to share as if it had burst into flame. Upon closer scrutiny, it appeared quite narrow. There would not be a lot of room between them….
Beckett pulled off his shirt, revealing his well-muscled chest. Isobel’s breath caught in her throat as she stared at the dusky skin of his taut nipples. The lamplight gave his skin a golden glow, and accentuated the powerful lines of his arms and stomach. The sight of his body sent waves of heat dancing over her skin.
“Come here,” he said, finally.
Unable or unwilling to refuse, Isobel obeyed. When she reached him, Beckett slowly turned her around, sliding his hands down to the little cluster of buttons that fastened the upper part of her dress. He began to undo them.
“I thought you might need help, without a maid to undress you,” he said, easing the garment apart and sliding his warm hands in. The touch of his hands seemed to burn her skin. He slid the dress slowly down over her chemise, his hands lingering. Then he released her, saying, “I think you can manage the rest.”
Confused, Isobel searched his eyes. He was holding something back, just behind the impenetrable walls of his stormy-blue eyes.
What did he want from her?
She searched for her night-dress, and hesitated once she found it, but there was nowhere to hide in such limited space. Reluctantly, Isobel faced the fact that she would have to disrobe in front of her husband.
As fast as she could, Isobel shimmied out of her dress and chemise and threw the night dress over her head. She glanced over her shoulder and saw that Beckett had climbed into bed. Gingerly, she turned down the lamp. Feeling much braver in the dark, Isobel pulled back the covers and slipped between them as if this were the most normal thing in the world. Then she lay on her back near the edge of the bed and waited.
And waited.
She listened to Beckett breathing. Soon, the sound took on a new tone. It was lower, deeper.
Devil take him, he was snoring!
Her husband, whose very presence made her tingle with feminine arousal, was snoring.
Well, if that didn’t just take the flip.
Perhaps it was best to keep things uncomplicated between them. Yet as Isobel lay next to him in the dark night, she couldn’t clear the image of his magnificent naked chest from her mind.
And worse than that, she couldn’t ignore the heat that still lingered on every inch of her skin from the sight of it.
Chapter 12
Beckett looked out over the railing, marveling at the beauty of the sea. It calmed him to watch the movement of the gray-blue water, whose only constant was its never-ceasing movement.
Like life itself, it made no promises to anyone.
He turned his head and saw Isobel approaching. The sight of her sent a disconcerting wave of desire through his veins.
Damn and blast.
This woman was his wife, a mysterious beauty who had been implicated in a murder, yet here he was mooning over her as if he were a youth and she a famous chorus girl.
She came to stand beside him, a warm smile curving her lips. She looked out over the beckoning sea, and let her arm brush against his as she leaned on the railing.
Beckett regarded her, so composed beside him. Was she indeed the innocent victim she appeared to be? Or was it all an act designed to save her own skin?
He felt his gut tighten at even the notion of abandoning her. He could never fully dampen the flame of passion that she stirred in him, or fight the powerful conviction that because he had found her, she now belonged totally to him.
He would protect her.
Or die trying.
“There is something you never told me, Beckett,” Isobel asked. “Why did you take pity on me and bring me home that night?”
A knot formed in his heart.
Why had he helped her? He had asked himself the same question as he’d undressed her that night, as he’d ducked from the clock she’d thrown at him, and as he’d stood next to her at the altar and taken her as his wife.
The answer still eluded him.
Was it her beauty that had captured him and so easily taken him prisoner? It was more than his habit of helping strays, he knew.
He curved his arm around her narrow waist and pulled her close. Desire—dangerous and demanding—fired his blood. “Do I have to give you a reason?”
“Yes.”
“Perhaps it was because I wanted to take you in my arms and do this.” He covered her mouth with his own, and felt her lips tremble beneath his. Desire burned though his body. He imagined laying her down on a bed, spreading her legs, and plunging himself into her soft, warm depths.
Beckett deepened the kiss, and she tilted her head back, clutching onto him to keep her balance.
He could take her down to their cabin right now. She was his wife. He had every right to take her body with his own. Somehow he knew she would not protest.
He kissed her hungrily, as if she were the only nourishment his body would ever need.
Oh, how he wanted her beneath him, naked and open and weak with desire—desire for him.
She stirred powerful feelings in him—more powerful than he’d ever felt for any other woman. Even Cordeila. And he’d fancied himself in love with her.
If he fed those passions with the taste of Isobel, he might lose himself completely. He broke the kiss, but still held her close.
“There,” he said, brushing away a silken curl from her cheek. “That is the only answer I can give you.”
She studied him for a moment with eyes that seemed to see far too much for his liking.
“Your answer only raises more questions, Beckett,” she replied. “For both of us.”
Isobel’s words were the only truth they could share at the moment. If Beckett allowed her to know the depth of his desire for her, it would put him at a disadvantage. He could not give her that power over him. She already had too much for his liking. He could not let his passions run unchecked. For if he did, there might be no turning back.
* * *
An uneasy silence remained between Beckett and Isobel for the remainder of the voyage.
As husband and wife, they maintained a cordial atmosphere that Isobel considered might be quite common to any m
arriage. But beneath that calm veneer lurked the shadows of the past, like a great whale that swims below a ship—far too deep to be seen—yet still posing a dangerous threat.
Every night Isobel found herself hoping Beckett would reach out and pull her to him, kiss her passionately as he had on the deck, and touch her in ways she could only imagine.
But he didn’t.
To keep her mind off her husband during the day, Isobel observed ship-board life on deck, recording all she saw in her sketch-book.
She drew everyone, including Captain Mayfield and the large sailor with the black-and-white cat she’d seen curled on top of his shoulders. She’d had to make her observations from afar, as the mysterious cat always disappeared when she approached.
On a particularly breezy afternoon, while she was drawing a sailor who worked up in the rigging, the cat appeared beside her and sat still. It seemed to study what she was doing as it sat there, silent yet imposing.
Isobel reached out to stroke his soft, furry head in greeting. The cat’s green eyes narrowed to slits, and he purred in pleasure. Reluctantly taking her hand away, Isobel flipped to the next blank sheet of paper and began to render the feline’s image.
The cat was huge—not fat by any means, but with muscular shoulders and haunches. No doubt, he was well fed by keeping rats and mice out of the galley.
Isobel noticed that one of his black patches covered the side of his head and his left eye, looking remarkably like a pirate’s lopsided kerchief and eye patch.
Captain Mayfield came to stand in front of her, but at his approach, the cat rose, stretched, and walked away.
“I wasn’t finished,” Isobel called out, but the cat simply walked haughtily across the deck and disappeared from sight.
Mayfield chuckled, saying, “I suppose I didn’t mention that this ship has two captains, did I?”
Isobel shook her head. “Two captains? I’ve never heard of that. Who is the other?”
“You just met him.”
Isobel put her pencil down and asked, “What do you mean?”
Seducing The Bride (Brides of Mayfair 1) Page 9