The Renegade Wife

by Warfield, Caroline

  It didn’t take him long to find whisky from the earl’s own distillery in his cousin’s cabinet and pour himself a drink. Leaning one elbow on the cabinet, he took a sip and let the amber liquid warm him to his toes. His eyes drifted shut, and he wished he could close his mind as easily. Six months ago, he had a quiet, well-ordered life. It lay in shambles, and he didn’t want it back, even if he could find a way to restore it.

  “Any change?” The earl’s voice, muffled by the coverlet Catherine had wrapped him in hours before, sounded thick with sleep. It came from where he lay snuggled down on the settee.

  Rand pushed himself upright and turned toward his brother-in-law. “Yes, actually. Both Catherine and Charles believe his breathing sounds better.”

  “Does it?”

  “Yes. Even I noticed.” Better but not normal.

  “Excellent news for a new morning.” Will rolled to a sitting position, groaned, and leaned against the back of the settee. A clock struck five times to mark the hour. “It’s morning, isn’t it? You should have called me.”

  “Catherine thought you needed rest. She tells me your health has not been the best either.”

  “Nonsense! I just—” The earl fell back down when his attempt to rise too quickly left him dizzy. “There’s nothing wrong with me. I’m just getting older,” he grumbled.

  “Yes, and you need your rest.”

  The earl grunted. “I’m not such an invalid that I can’t help. Are they still feeding him poison?”

  “It appears to be working. He keeps most of it down, and he’s passing a quantity of liquid. Charles seems to think that matters.”

  “He’s going to pull through?”

  “This time,” Rand said, sitting down next to the earl. “I’ve been thinking about it all night,” he said. “He may live tonight, but maybe not next time. Charles believes he won’t see twenty. The situation with Julia means there won’t be another son. He may not want it, but responsibility for the estate falls to Fred after Charles.”

  “Or his sons,” Will countered.

  “Fred hasn’t married, has he?”

  “Not likely, nor anything else that reflects honor, responsibility, or care.”

  Will’s bitterness shouldn’t have shocked Rand, but it did. He always thought of his dashing brother as courageous and patriotic. Will spoke as though staying in the army reflected poorly on Fred.

  Before Rand could consider that, the earl went on, “He should be here, learning estate management, checking in on Charles. Hell, he should answer his sister’s damned letters. Catherine hears once a year—if that—and acts like his cryptic notes are manna in the desert. She feels bad enough about you off in the wilds, but at least you write regularly. We went two years not knowing if Freddy was alive or dead.”

  “Maybe it won’t come to that, Fred inheriting, I mean.”

  That earned Rand another grunt. “Maybe. He might get killed. They die like flies in India. That makes you next. Are you ready for that?”

  Rand’s heart sank. He would never be ready for that, nor would he expect to outlive his cousin. Fred probably didn’t think so either, if he thought about them at all.

  “And there’s Jonny,” the earl added.

  “What about Jonny?”

  “Charles loves the boy, but . . .” The earl shrugged.

  Rand’s heart beat a tattoo in his chest. Charles had believed Jonny to be Rand’s son, but he wasn’t. That left Fred. It had to be Fred—but how or when it might have happened, Rand couldn’t imagine. What does Will know about it? “Jonny has his father,” he said. “Charles loves him desperately.”

  The earl gestured toward Rand’s glass. “Fetch me one of those.” He let the subject drop, drinking deeply when Rand handed him a glass of his favorite whisky. “Your brother will come home or he won’t. What are you going to do?”

  “About what?” Rand asked.

  “Don’t try to put me off. About that exotic beauty sleeping back at Chadbourn House tonight. About those children. About your own land. That farm has been let out for ten years, and now it lies empty. I never thought you would be an absentee landlord.”

  “Songbird Cottage is hardly a great estate!”

  “You love the land. Don’t try to pretend you don’t.”

  “I have land in Canada, too, and more acres that you own jointly, the timber lands.”

  “So, are you done hiding out there to lick your wounds now that you talked to Charles, or do you plan to crawl back into your cave?”

  Rand put the glass down with enough force that the dregs of his whisky bounced against the side. “It’s late. Catherine told me to go back to Chadbourn House. I think I will.” He rose to his feet with a groan. “I know you care, Will, but my life is mine to resolve. I’m not going to do it tonight.”

  Rand reached the door, but when the earl called to him, he paused with one hand on the handle and his back to Will.

  “Don’t wait too long, Randy. If you lose her, you may not get another chance.”

  He didn’t give an answer; he had none.

  Dawn touched Meggy’s window and fell upon the floor, neither fully dark nor yet fully light. She had slept for a while, only to awaken from her nightmares to fret about the duke and his son.

  The wakeful hours provided ample time to sort her own losses, pulling them one by one from the corners of her memory: her mother, gone so early Meggy had little memory; her joyful, loving Papa who lived long enough to forbid her marriage to Blair, but not long enough to stop it; her two babies in unmarked graves at Fort Malden; her hope for her marriage; her hopes for escape from it.

  By dawn, she had folded every grief and packed it away in her memory box, setting images of Lena and Drew on the lid to keep them contained. She sat and touched the cold floor tentatively with bare toes. The children would worry about their friend this morning. Mary had cried when Meggy told them, and the boys struggled not to join her. She had hugged them all and read stories, but they went to bed a somber crew.

  Six quick steps and she had her slippers and could slip into a robe, another gift from the countess to remind Meggy just how vulnerable and dependent she felt, and how few options she truly had. Curiously, it felt warm, reassuring, and welcoming at the same time.

  The window revealed a world just emerging from shadowy gray light; the children would sleep for a while more, but the servants would be up and about. If there had been word in the night, they could tell her.

  She padded to the stairs and down a flight. When she turned on the landing, the sound of someone coming up stopped her. Even in the dim light, she recognized the fiery hair.

  “Rand! Why are you back? Did he—”

  “No, no,” he whispered, looking about.

  “Tell me.”

  “Not here,” he said. “Our voices echo up the stairs.”

  He pulled her by the hand to one of the nearer rooms and shut the door. He whispered, “I know the nursery hears everything said on the stairs. Fred and I found it very useful when we were boys.”

  They stood in a bedroom. His bedroom. Any paltry shame or embarrassment she might feel for being there died in the face of her need to know. “How does Jonny fare?”

  “Better. His breathing eased an hour or so ago.” He described Charles and Catherine’s efforts to help him drink the foxglove infusion, to rub his back, and to comfort the boy. His eyes seemed to devour her while he talked, poring over her face as if it held the meaning of life.

  Heat crept up Meggy’s neck. “How is Charles?” she asked.

  “Worried. Worn to the bone. Still refusing to leave his son. Catherine never did come down. She will be exhausted.” He regarded her intently.

  “Will?”

  “Slept all night.” His eyes came to rest on her mouth. She knew he
wanted to kiss her.

  “You stayed up.” It wasn’t a question.

  He nodded. “Fetched and carried.” He raised his eyes to hers. “When his breathing eased this morning, it was like a miracle.” He raised one hand to touch her cheek and hesitated. He held it there, an inch away; she went very still. Her breathing slowed, but she met his gaze directly when he gently lowered his fingers to her skin. She leaned into his hand, and her eyes drifted shut. The heat of it comforted her. She thought perhaps it comforted him as well.

  Her eyes opened to see him still studying her, his expression puzzled and muddled. Meggy knew her actions the past week had left him confused; they confused her as well. She wanted badly to reassure him.

  When Rand slid his hand to her shoulder and pulled her close with the other arm, she snuggled into his shoulder the way Lena cuddled into hers. She felt safe, safer than she had since Bristol, safer than she had in years.

  Kisses in her hair and along her brow soothed her. When his mouth moved to her ear, he murmured, “This is a day for joy and jubilation.” He kissed the spot below her ear and slid his mouth down her neck until she shivered with desire and his embrace no longer felt the same as when she held her daughter. Panic, sudden and unwanted, overtook her. She went rigid.

  Rand paused in his explorations, and cold air made her shiver. One moment she had been in his arms; the next he had one hand on each of her shoulders, and they were inches apart. He had sensed her reluctance and stopped.

  “Weariness loosens my self-control, Meggy, and my honor is wearing thin. If you stay here, I can’t vouch for my behavior.”

  Meggy hesitated and then pulled away. The light through the window looked much brighter; the household was awakening.

  “This isn’t the time,” she said at last. “I’m not sure I’ll ever be ready for what you want, not until I figure out who I am.”

  “I know who you are, and I love every bit of it. I love you. You know that, don’t you?”

  She shook her head to deny him. “I don’t know who I am now. Not after what happened. Not with Fergus dead. I have the children, and—”

  A finger, gently applied, stopped her mouth. A hand, equally gentle, eased her toward the door. A soft voice said, “We’ll talk. Later. Believe this, though. I want you honorably, and only when you’re ready.”

  The door closed. She wondered if she would regret it.

  Chapter 41

  Routine, the familiar activity of family life, once reasserted, heals most traumas. When it fails to heal, it at least provides perspective. After two days of late mornings, frequent naps, and nearly silent dinners, Rand watched his sister inventory the linens in her closet.

  “Do all countesses inspect their own closets?” he grumbled.

  “In a well-run household, yes. How else do I keep track of the condition of the bedding?” Catherine replied when she dragooned him into helping and began her needle-sharp investigation into the state of his life, giving no quarter to his wounded heart.

  With his arms full of folded cotton, he succumbed at last to his sister’s persistent prodding. “I have no idea what we are going to do. I don’t even know if there’s a ‘we’ in the planning process. She avoids me at every turn.”

  Catherine held up one hand and counted a stack of sheets with another. “She feels guilty,” she said when she finished, adding another worn and mended sheet to the pile he held.

  “Has she spoken to you about it?” he asked, all his senses on alert.

  “Not in so many words,” she said, moving on to the next shelf, lifting each towel and evaluating its condition. “Any fool can see it.” She lofted a sisterly eyebrow in his direction.

  “I can’t see why,” he grumbled. “Blair didn’t deserve the first thought. She feels relief . . . she has to.”

  “Of course, but she spent at least eight years married to the vermin. He died in front of her. She’s bound to be confused. She’s alive. He isn’t.”

  “Survivor’s guilt? Maybe.”

  “From what little you and Charles confided, she suffered horrific trauma, every woman’s nightmare. The both of you can keep your need to protect my poor feminine self from the details, by the way. I’m no frail flower, and you well know it. Her frequent bathing has not gone unnoticed in the household. Neither have the distant stares.”

  “I made it worse. All I wanted was to hold her close and—”

  “She couldn’t bear to be touched. Understandable.” She piled more on those he carried. “The charity box will be overflowing, if this continues,” she sighed, moving to table linens.

  “Have you considered her current situation?” Catherine asked over her shoulder.

  “What do you mean?”

  “She’s a woman alone with two children to feed.”

  “Of course!” Rand exclaimed, indignation heating his cheeks. “She isn’t alone, though. I’ll care for them. I’ll—”

  “So you haven’t considered it,” Catherine cut in. She dropped a pile of serviettes and pinned him with a firm gaze.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Just like your first instinct was to hold her—and I dare guess it was too much too soon—your current one is to rush to her rescue and set her up in your home.”

  Rand bristled under her attack. “My intentions are entirely honorable!”

  “Were they when her husband lived?”

  “He didn’t deserve my honor,” Rand mumbled, breaking eye contact.

  “No, but she did, as I suspect she made clear to you. Charles told me you had fallen in love with ‘the last honorable wife in England.’” She ran her hand behind her neck. “Poor Charles. Cynical, that. We really need to do something for him also.” Catherine returned her attention to Rand who had clenched his jaw so tight it quivered. She sighed.

  “Randy, do you want her to marry you because she has no other choice?”

  The air went out of his lungs in a rush, and his shoulders sagged. “Is that what you think I’m proposing.”

  His sister covered his arm with her hand. “I know you love her. She may know it too. It is her own situation that confuses her. If she has no real choice, what does that make her?”

  “But I want to marry her!”

  “Lovely. The last time I checked marriage required consent.”

  He had no reply for that. “Where do you want these rags?” he asked, chin out. He knew he sounded like a truculent little boy; his sister knew the tone well.

  Catherine took linens from him.

  “Will warned me not to let her leave. He said I might not get another chance.”

  “Spoken like a man,” she replied.

  “What then, Cath? What am I to do?”

  “Tell her that you love her—”

  “I do!”

  “—and then let her go. Stand back. Give her room, and Randy”—she waited until she had his full attention—“make sure she has a choice.”

  “Of course she does! I would never force . . .” He went quiet. Life gave Meggy few choices. Life.

  “What shall I do?”

  “You’re a smart boy,” Catherine answered. “You’ll figure it out.”

  The door to Songbird Cottage opened on well-oiled hinges. In spite of apologetic warnings about neglect and tenants, Meggy saw signs of care and preparation everywhere. She drifted from room to room noting the smell of beeswax and vinegar, the clean floors, and well-dusted windowsills. Nary a cobweb hung from the ceiling, at least on the first floor, and the pantry had been stocked for her.

  Charles lingered in the doorway and ran his hands around the brim of his hat. His carriage horses stomped and snorted in the drive behind him, anxious to be on their way to feed and stabling. “Will you be well, alone tonight? Tomorrow we’ll see about a housekeeper.”
r />   “I am well,” she said and knew it to be true. “I prefer to be alone.”

  She would miss her children but relish some freedom from the questions in their eyes and the burden of their future. “Just for a time,” the countess had said, “so you can rest and sort things through.” Yes, just for a time. The need to see them will overtake me soon enough.

  Charles withdrew a thick packet of vellum sealed with wax that bore the name “Meggy Campeau” in Rand’s bold handwriting and held it out to her. “He suggested I give it to you when we got here,” he said.

  She gripped it with two hands as if it might bite.

  “You best get Jonny home to rest,” she told the duke, gesturing toward the pale, young face in the window of the carriage. He nodded and took his leave of her.

  When the doctors had advised Charles to take Jonny to the country, the family conspired to convince her Songbird Cottage would be just the thing for her to rest and recuperate. The duke and his son would be down the road at Eversham Hall, they assured her through tight smiles. She agreed as much to escape their concern as anything.

  Now she felt glad she had come. The house had a familiar air as soon as she entered it. Standing alone now, she felt at home. Perhaps they were all right.

  She examined the packet in her hand. She felt even greater relief to be free of Rand’s worried eyes and his protestations of love, yet his care pursued her even here. Her mind assured her of his sincerity, but some demon reminded her she once trusted Fergus Blair’s promises, too. She tucked the message in her pocket. There would be time enough to read it later.

  On the first day, she aired bedrooms and, wrapping a cloak around her, explored the fence line. When a woman arrived from the village all smiles, Meggy wanted to send her away but feared disappointing the woman who seemed eager for the work.