Now he had a sore foot, a naked woman in his bed, and a newborn baby he still didn’t know for sure wasn’t his. To top it all off, his head ached. She was oblivious to it all.
He limped over to his chest and pulled out a clean shirt. “Let’s put this on you.”
He slipped the cambric shirt over her head. Her skin was smooth beneath his hands. The infant lost his hold when she put first one and then the other arm through the sleeves. The small creature let out a shrill cry that felt like a bludgeon in Gray’s head. She brought the baby to her breast again and the infant sucked, emitting a small, sweet, contented sound.
“You are kind,” she said, an apparent afterthought.
He did not feel kind. He felt as if he’d landed in Bedlam, where he’d surely end up if this trial lasted much longer.
Gray grabbed a glass and his bottle of brandy from the bureau and sank into a chair. He poured the brandy to the brim, his shaking hands clinking the bottle against the glass. The familiar woody fragrance filled his nostrils as he swished the burning amber liquid around in his mouth, letting it slide slowly down his throat to heat his chest. He regarded her through slitted lids.
Why could he not recall meeting her? A man must be mad not to remember such a woman. True, he had drunk himself insensible those days with Lansing.
No. No. No!
Gray sat up like a bolt. Now that he thought of it, she had not known him when he answered the door. Surely if they had met in that fashion, she would have recalled.
She did not know him!
Every muscle in his body relaxed. He was not the man responsible this time.
“Sir?”
“Yes?” She didn’t even know his name. He almost grinned.
“May I have a drink of water?”
Gray shot out of the chair, his body back on alert. This inclination to help her seemed totally reflexive. He’d damned well lost any will of his own. “Certainly.” He walked over to the pitcher of water on the bureau. After using his sleeve to wipe the glass out of which he had just drunk, he poured her the water and walked over to her side. “I fear I am a poor host.”
She stared at him with a blank expression, completely missing the irony in his voice.
He shrugged and handed her the glass.
“Thank you.” She sipped the water as if trying to keep from drinking it too fast. When she finished, she placed the glass on the table next to the bed and immediately checked her little son, as if something might have gone amiss with him during her infinitesimal moment of inattention.
Gray retrieved the glass and went back to his chair, pouring himself another drink. He let his eyes rest on his two unwished-for charges. Who the deuce was she?
He was about to speak when her eyes fluttered shut. She turned her head so that her forehead nearly touched the infant’s.
Another pretty picture. Much more of this and he’d have to secure himself another bottle of brandy. Gray drained his glass and held it against his forehead.
What might his life be like right now, if Rosa had obeyed his orders and remained with her father?
Foolish girl. She’d fled her father’s house and followed Gray into battle, arriving in Orthes in the thick of an artillery assault, not having the sense to seek a place of safety.
Instead, God saw fit to throw another woman and baby in his path. Hell, straight into his hands. Irony, again.
He’d drink to irony. Gray poured himself another full glass of brandy, drained it, and wearily rose to his feet. He pulled on his boots and shrugged into his jacket. Grabbing the bundle of soiled blankets, he walked out the door, almost tripping on the threshold.
Maggie woke with a jolt, heart pounding. Where was she? Her eyes quickly focused on the baby, and she remembered. She stroked the infant’s cheek with her finger, tenderness welling inside her. How was it possible to feel so acutely? This much love was almost painful.
She raised herself on one elbow and sank back, exhausted. The man was not here.
Maggie had been shocked when he first opened the door. Not only was he not who she expected, he looked like the blackest pirate ever to grace a Minerva Press novel. He was tall with the widest shoulders she’d ever seen. His clothes were wrinkled and his open shirtfront revealed a chest peppered with dark hair. The hair on his head was equally dark, hanging in curls nearly to his shoulders, in sad need of tying in a queue. His chin and cheeks were covered with stubble. Not the genteel appearance of the man she’d come to find. Most jarring, however, was the etching of pain in the corners of his eyes. If she had encountered this man on an empty street, she would have crossed to the other side, for fear he would murder her.
Instead, he’d removed her clothes, wiped her off. He’d seen and touched the most private parts of her body . . . no, she would not think of that. He delivered her baby safely, and she would be forever grateful to him.
Even though something about him made her tremble.
She glanced around the room again, peeking into corners, spying small drifts of dust skittering at the floor’s edge.
Where was her husband? Why had that man opened his door?
Maggie had been near despair in the shabby Chelsea inn where she’d been staying. Down to her last shilling. No place to go. No family to take her in. Then she’d picked up a discarded London newspaper and read John’s name. He was soon to leave for the Continent to rejoin his regiment, the paper said.
John? Alive? She still could barely believe it. The last she’d seen of him—God knows she could not wipe that scene from her mind—was his shocked expression as he slid off the river’s edge and tumbled into the gray, rain-fed water.
All these months she’d thought she killed him, but he was alive, here in London. He would have to help her.
Maggie gazed at her baby, his miniature face like a miracle, one piece of beauty and joy rising from the debacle of her life. She’d do anything to make sure he survived.
The door opened and Maggie braced herself to face John.
Instead, the man who delivered her baby walked into the room.
“You are awake.” There was no friendliness in his tone, and the room filled with his presence. It also filled with the scent of food, and Maggie momentarily forgot everything but the emptiness of her belly.
“Meat pasties.” He placed the food on the table. “Would you like one?”
Maggie struggled to get up. “Please.”
“Stay where you are.” He lifted the table and brought it to the side of her bed. “There’s some light ale, too.”
Before his hands released the table, Maggie grabbed for the meat pasty, not even able to utter thanks. It was still warm from baking and fragrant of cooked beef and buttery crust. She held it in both hands and took bite after bite after bite.
His huge hand fastened on her wrist, stopping her. “Go slowly,” he ordered. His grip was firm and his skin rough, from soldiering, she imagined. “Chew carefully. You want to keep the food down.”
He did not release her, so she did as he commanded, looking into his face and forcing her jaws to rise and fall at the pace of a snail.
He gave her a curt nod when she swallowed, and released her wrist. She attempted a smaller bite, licking a crumb from her lip. She glanced at him again.
His brow furrowed. She took another bite.
“Drink some ale.” He handed her the tankard.
She dutifully took a sip, but quickly bit into the meat pasty again, chewing slowly and deliberately, conscious that he watched her every move.
The bit of food only whetted her appetite. She remained ravenous. He handed her the tankard again, and the ale cooled her throat.
“Forgive me,” she said after gulping the ale. “I must seem wholly without breeding.”
He frowned. “When did you last eat?”
She shrugged, having no wish for this man to know the extent of her miserable circumstances. “Two or three days. Maybe four, I cannot recollect.”
He stared at her with eyes the co
lor of cold steel.
He reached for the remaining meat pasty and brought it halfway to his mouth. Unable to help herself, Maggie’s eyes traced its progress.
“Deuce.” He scowled, but handed it over to her.
She ought to refuse, but . . . She took it and forced herself not to gobble it down this time.
“Finish the ale,” he said.
Maggie obeyed, though she hardly required him to tell her to fill her stomach. By the time she placed the tankard down on the table, she felt pleasantly full. She lay back down next to her baby. Dear baby! She touched his soft little cheek. His mouth made sucking movements as he slept. She smiled.
The man cleared his throat. Maggie looked up.
He sat in the chair with his legs crossed. “Madam,” he said. “I regret there is not the means to be properly introduced, but might I know who the deuce you are and why you knocked on my door?”
“Your door?” She blinked in confusion, resting her cheek against the baby’s head. “My husband’s door, you mean.”
“No.” His voice was patient. “My door.”
She struggled to sit up again. “Sir, are you in my husband’s employ?”
He barked out a laugh. “I dare say not.”
She released an exasperated breath, but attempted to sound polite. “I do not perfectly understand why you are in my husband’s rooms.”
He raised an eyebrow. His eyes remained flinty. “I do not perfectly understand why you should think these your husband’s rooms.”
“His regimental offices gave me this direction.”
His face relaxed, and his mouth turned up at one corner. “Ah, regimental inefficiency. That does explain it.” He rose and crossed the room, picking up a bottle and raising it to the light to check its contents. He paused, ready to pour the liquid into a glass. “Who is your husband, by the way? Perhaps I know him.” He glanced back at her.
“John Grayson.”
He started, spilling the brandy. “The devil he is.” His voice deepened with anger.
Maggie regarded him with alarm. “I assure you, sir, my husband is Captain John Grayson.”
He strode to the side of the bed, his gray eyes glinting. “Madam.” He spoke in even and measured tones, as if humoring a lunatic. “I am Captain John Grayson.”
Chapter TWO
Maggie’s blood felt as if it had turned to ice. “This is a cruel jest, sir.”
“Jest? I assure you, madam, this is no jest. I am John Grayson.” His eyes flashed.
She straightened her posture. “John Grayson is my husband. You most certainly are not.”
He laughed, the sound malevolent. “Indeed I am not.”
Maggie wrapped the shirt he’d given her more tightly around her body. “Tell me where my husband is.”
“Tell me who he is and perhaps I may do so.” In a mimicking gesture, he folded his arms across his wide chest.
“I told you who he is. Who are you?” She met his insolent gaze. He stood at the foot of the bed, each hand gripping a bedpost. His bulk loomed over her.
He let go of the posts and snapped to attention, a sneer on his lips. “John Grayson, Captain, 13th Light Dragoons.”
The 13th Light Dragoons was John’s regiment. How could this man mock her so? Had John discovered her presence in London? Was this his ploy to prevent her finding him? Surely, he would not be that cruel. “You lie.”
His eyes threw sparks. “If one of us is a liar, it is you, madam.”
Maggie clamped her mouth shut. He was too deftly throwing her words back into her face, and she must not let him see the panic deep within her belly. She would proceed more cautiously. This imposter could be anyone, a gambler, thief—a murderer, like she’d thought herself until reading John’s name.
“Do you know what I think?” he asked.
She turned her face away and gazed upon the spare furnishings of the room, the bureau cluttered with his belongings. A cracked mirror. Clothing strewn about.
He leaned down close to her face. “I think you are playing a rum game, madam. You knock on my door. Drop your baby into my hands, then blink those big blue eyes at me and expect me to believe you are searching for a husband who has my name.” His eyes flashed. “Cut line.”
Maggie rose to her knees on the bed, bending toward him, forcing herself to stare directly into his flinty eyes, no matter how piratical they appeared. “I did not choose to have my baby in this place. With you.”
Their gazes held.
He drew back abruptly. Tapping his fingers to his lips, he paced to and fro, stopping again in front of her. “Madam, why were you required to search for your husband? Should he not have been by your side at this . . . delicate time?”
Maggie made a pretense of checking the sleeping baby, remembering precisely why she must search for her husband.
“Did he know of the child?”
She shook her head, and mentally kicked herself for revealing so much.
She’d been so foolish to marry John. As green as grass. All too ready to believe the first pretty words spoken to her. At the time a secret marriage had sounded so romantic.
She’d grown wiser since.
She lay back and ran her finger over the baby’s downy head. One thing she did not regret was this baby. She would never regret him. He was her family, her only family.
Gray stood with hands on his hips, watching her. A street hawker’s song, “White turnips and fine carrots ho! White turnips and fine carrots ho!” sounded in his ears. What he would not give to walk straight out his door and lose himself in the throngs of peddlers, beggars, merchants, and thieves filling the nearby streets, to put distance between him and this woman who tempted him with her eyes and connived to cause him to assume responsibility for her.
There was no husband, of that he was certain, though there obviously was a man who fathered the child. She was too clever by half, with this story of searching for a husband. How the devil she came upon his name was the mystery. And why the devil did she think she could twist him in her coil? Her trick was worse than any Lansing had masterminded during their days in the Peninsula.
He trod over to the table, picked up the bottle of brandy, and shook it. No use. “Deuce,” he muttered.
He glanced back at his unwelcome guest. She sat up and wrapped her arms around her bended knees, staring into the distance. With her dark curls tumbling about her shoulders she looked like a man’s fantasy. Her skin was smooth and pale as cream, but her cheeks were warm with color that reflected the array of her emotions. Her lips had the definite bow-shape a portrait artist would yearn to paint, their pink tint a nearly irresistible temptation. Her hands were graceful and delicate, a lady’s hands.
Perhaps she’d been some gentleman’s discarded mistress. A credible idea. The man might have known Gray and spoken of him. But who would do so? He’d hardly mixed in society since he’d been sent back to England three months ago, ostensibly to recuperate from the wound he suffered at Orthes. After witnessing Rosa’s death, he hadn’t cared a fig where he went, but General Fane thought it prudent to get him out of the path of her vengeful, grieving father.
Damned if Gray had not managed to create a political incident after all, along with all his other sins. He thought he’d averted political scandal by marrying Rosa when he’d returned from Gloucestershire. But all that had been yesterday’s debacle. Today he must worry about this new woman in his bed.
Suddenly she scrambled from beneath the covers and swung her exquisitely shaped legs over the side of the bed. She stood, holding on to the bedpost to get her balance.
“What the devil are you doing?” he snapped.
“I am looking for my dress.” She took two shaky steps forward.
That soiled rag? “What the devil for?”
She answered him with a hostile look.
Gray snatched the dress from the floor. “Why do you want this wretched thing?”
The dress was a drab garment, now a damp mess. Hardly a dress belongin
g to a gentleman’s mistress, come to think of it.
“I wish to leave.” She grabbed for the dress and stumbled.
Tossing the garment aside, he caught her as she fell. She slammed against his healing wound, causing a stab of pain that nearly knocked him off his feet.
She swooned against his chest, and the pain receded to be replaced by a stirring in his groin. Through the thin linen of the shirt she wore, he felt the fullness of her breasts. Her stomach, all soft and round, pressed against him.
She was so very vulnerable. So in need of comfort.
He wrapped his arms around her, holding her close like he would a hurt child. She clung to him.
After a moment, she pushed away with a strangled cry and almost fell again. Gray swept her into his arms, her weak struggles in vain as he carried her to the bed and set her down, careful not to disturb the infant.
“Hold fast,” he commanded, covering her with the bed linens and tucking the blankets around her. “Do not get up again.”
Her eyes glistened with tears, like liquid jewels.
Damn her. How much did she think he could bear?
“You wish to leave?” He valiantly resisted the pull of her tears. “Believe me, madam, I would be delighted.”
Her chin lifted and her lips pursed, though the tears still shone in her eyes.
“I assure you I have made arrangements to be rid of you,” he went on, his voice harsh to his ears. “I have sent for my cousin’s wife to convey you to your home. I can hardly be seen accompanying you, can I? I expect her presently, but you must remain in bed until she arrives.”
“Why should I put myself in her care? Why do you not simply put me in the street?” Her tone was defiant, but her voice trembled.
He stared down at her. She looked like an abandoned kitten, small and weak. “I have been asking myself that very question.” He forced a smile.
The Improper Wife Page 2