Wedded Bliss

by Celeste Bradley

  “Have you ever engaged in hand-to-hand combat with one?”

  He frowned, almost as if he thought that an odd question. “No.”

  “How many times have you been attacked by pirates while at sea?”

  Tommy stopped the tour, glancing at Attie as if she were some sort of strange creature. “Most girls are not so very interested in pirates.”

  Attie sighed. It was tiresome having to repeat herself on such a regular basis. “I’m not a girl. I’m a genius. And a Worthington.”

  “All right.” Thomas smiled a bit and gestured for her to walk ahead. “Then perhaps you might want to see these.”

  Attie’s jaw nearly fell to the deck. The entire side of the ship was lined with cannons. She had never been this close to so much firepower before! She reached her fingers toward the weapon’s brass neck but stopped herself. “May I touch it?”

  “As long as you don’t accidentally fire it.”

  Attie smirked at that. She went from cannon to cannon while Tommy talked of swivel mounts and oversize muskets, and then showed her the largest cannon on board the Selkie Maid.

  “It takes five men to fire her.”

  Attie could only imagine the thrill of combat at sea, the smell of smoke, the crashing waves, the frantic rushing about of sailors. “What other weapons do you keep on board?”

  Tommy laughed then, turning to face Attie. She noticed he had shiny brown eyes and an easy smile. Perhaps he would grow up to be as dashing as Captain Morgan!

  And he looked at her so admiringly.

  There might be something to this dress question. An equation began to roll through Attie’s mind. If dress style was as “X” and bodice measurement was as “Y”— “Oh, guns!” She darted forward to peer at the racks of weapons.

  Tommy followed more leisurely. “We’ve got everything the crew might need in case we are boarded—cutlasses and short swords, carbines, pistols, and even a blunderbuss or two. Why? Are you organizing a mutiny?”

  Attie wished she could come up with a clever reply, but she was too busy imagining the vast array of armaments in her immediate surroundings. “I wish I could live on a ship!” She glanced about her. “My family has taken away all my weapons. It’s just not fair. Honestly! You shoot one sister and all of a sudden you’re a danger to society! All I have left is a secret penknife and my slingshot.”

  When Attie returned her attention to her companion, she noticed that he stared at her in shock. Attie shrugged. “Like I said, I’m not a girl.”

  The young sailor shuffled his feet awkwardly. “Beg to differ, miss, but you’re a girl,” he blurted. “A lady, too, like the captain’s new wife. But you aren’t like other ladies, that’s sure enough. Most ladies wouldn’t talk to the likes of me, nor know aught about weapons. Maybe it’s that genius thing, like you said. Maybe genius ladies are better than the other sort. Pretty genius ladies . . .”

  Attie was shocked. She turned away so he did not see her cheeks flare. She liked him, and she didn’t like anyone, usually. How confusing. Sometimes Attie suspected that life would be so much simpler if she was not required to grow up.

  While she was still blushing from his outburst, Tommy had diffidently moved on to the next attraction. “Over here is ammunition storage. We keep it locked up most of the time.” He pointed to a large lean-to covered with an iron grate and battened down with thick chains. Just inside the hatch were two wooden barrels. One was shut tight, but Attie could see black dust had sifted to fall in a faint ring around the base of it. Gunpowder, probably sealed against the damp. The lid of the other barrel sat askew. Attie saw that it was filled with rounded lead pellets the size of raspberries. That would be ball shot for the muskets.

  Attie waited for Tommy to turn his attention toward the rigging, then dug her hand into a barrel. Such perfect ammunition for her slingshot! She shoved a large handful into the left pocket of her gown. Unfortunately, this caused her dress to list to port, so she quickly filled the other pocket until she was balanced.

  After the munitions closet, Attie lost interest in the tour until they returned to the deck. Her attention was somewhat arrested by Tommy’s description of things such as gaff-rigging and foremasts. “The physics are fascinating,” she said, shading her eyes with her hand as she gazed up at the long rope ladder that swept from the deck to the upper mast. “I could climb that if I weren’t wearing this blasted—I mean, very nice dress.”

  Tommy turned to her, his expression mischievous. He reached up and tugged at his forelock. “The ratlines? O’ course you could, milady. It only takes a few months of practice. Shall I show you how?”

  • • •

  BLISS COULD NOT tolerate the torture another second. Morgan walked by her side and recited facts about his ship with the utmost politeness, but they kept a careful distance away from each other. They did look each other in the eye. She knew the only cure for this awkward discomfort was to speak the truth.

  “I do not give a fig about ongoing repairs aboard this ship, Morgan.”

  His broad shoulders stiffened. He stared blankly out to the Thames as a breeze lifted a bit of his dark hair. “Then why insist upon this visit? It is a waste of my time.”

  When Bliss touched his coat sleeve, he pulled away. She swallowed hard, forcing herself to speak her mind. “You left this morning in a foul temper. You couldn’t wait to be rid of me. I came here to resolve what transpired between us last night.”

  Morgan laughed. It was not the warm and husky laugh she had come to enjoy, but a quick and hard bark that stung her like a slap.

  He despised her. He did not trust her. And last evening’s clumsy and vague conversation had only intensified his loathing.

  “I believe you misunderstood me last evening, Morgan.”

  “I doubt that.”

  She pressed on. “When I said that only Neville could give me what I needed—”

  “Enough.” He whipped around to face her, his blue eyes flashing with anger. “There was no misunderstanding, I assure you.”

  “You must hear me out! I do not care about Neville’s title or his fortune. I have no interest in being a duchess. It is simply—”

  “No more of this game, Bliss. I have been true to my word but at a terrible price. And you will not yield—you will not consent to be my wife despite our obvious . . .” He stopped himself.

  “And you will not grant me an annulment, even though I have done all that you asked.”

  “I cannot.”

  “Why not? Why must you be so stubborn?”

  Morgan dragged his eyes away from hers and gripped the brass railing. “I cannot say.”

  Bliss barely suppressed her cry of frustration. They were both stubbornly hiding their secrets, and they would never break free from this impasse until someone dared to reveal the truth.

  She would begin with the things she had not told him. “I have sent several messages to Neville. I went to Camberton House to see him yesterday.”

  Morgan shot her a sideways glare, his lips drawn into a smirk. “You do still want him. See? No misunderstanding.”

  “He never responded and he would not see me. I believe Lord Oliver has kept him in the dark about my desire to speak with him.”

  One of Morgan’s eyebrows arched. “As he should. He’s protecting Neville.”

  “I do not think so.” Bliss attempted to squeeze herself between Morgan and the railing, forcing him to look at her. She wanted him to see her face, to see that she spoke with integrity. “I encountered your uncle on my way out. He is not an honorable man, Morgan. He as much as admitted that he has manipulated you and your brother. He—”

  “Enough.” Morgan straightened and backed away. Bliss saw a furious streak of red flush his neck. “How dare you, woman? Will you stop at nothing?”

  “It is the truth, Morgan. Lord Oliver wants you and Neville to be enemies
. He has used me as a wedge between brothers!”

  Morgan’s dark blue eyes flared, but she saw something in his expression that gave her cause for hope. Was he finally seeing his uncle for who he was? Morgan had opened his mouth to speak when a piercing shriek cut through the air.

  Bliss’s blood turned to ice.

  It was Attie.

  • • •

  THEY FOUND HER with one hand covering her mouth and the other pointing skyward.

  Morgan didn’t hide his anger. He tilted back his head and bellowed upward, “What the bloody hell are you doing up there, Tommy?”

  The reply was faint—and frightened. “S-sorry, Cap’n!”

  The young seaman hung helpless, tangled upside down like a fly in a spider’s web. One of his ankles was snarled in a section of rope while his opposite hand held a tenuous grip on the edge of a tiny wooden platform. The boy was at least forty feet above the deck, plenty high enough to break his neck should he fall.

  As he swung there, the rope around his ankle slipped, dropping him another few inches. Bliss put her arms around Attie and pulled her a safe distance from the rigging.

  Attie’s face was red and furious—which Bliss knew meant that she was very frightened indeed.

  “Blasted stupid fool,” Morgan hissed. He whipped off his coat, weskit, and cravat, tossing everything into a pile on the decking. He jumped to grab a section of rope and easily swung himself up. “Don’t move, Tommy.”

  “I’ll try not to, Cap’n!”

  “The ratline is about to break.” Morgan pulled himself higher. “Keep as much of your weight on your hand as possible.”

  “I’m trying!”

  Bliss watched Morgan continue up at a steady pace, agile and graceful as he climbed the ropes. She was stunned by his confidence and strength, and could not help admiring the power in his muscular thighs and calves, the might of his upper arms and shoulders. He did not rush or lose his composure—he was focused and steady, not revealing the slightest bit of fear as he climbed higher and higher from the safety of the deck. Bliss supposed she was terrified enough for all of them.

  “Boys are stupid.” Attie clutched at Bliss as she whispered miserably in her ear. “I never asked him to show off for me. Why did he do it?”

  “Oh dear. Men can be a bit brainless when they’re around a pretty woman.”

  Tommy’s body began to sway to and fro in response to Morgan’s shifting weight. The rope slipped again. Tommy gasped.

  Morgan rebuked him once more. “You knew the rigging was under repair—what the bloody hell were you thinking?”

  “Sorry, Cap’n!”

  Morgan reached the larger of the two wooden landings, about ten feet below where Tommy dangled. Just as Morgan began to pull up to stand, Tommy’s rope broke entirely.

  The boy’s ankle slipped free. He flailed his arms, trying to find something to grab, but his fists clutched at nothing but air.

  “No!” Attie cried.

  Bliss could scarcely believe it, but Morgan managed to leap upward just in time. He snagged Tommy with one brawny arm and pulled him in. They both crashed back onto the platform and began to roll.

  Bliss gasped—it looked as if they would continue right off the edge! But Morgan’s fingers found a taut line of rope and he held on.

  Only then did she notice that Attie had her eyes closed tight and her fists clenched just as tightly. “It’s all right, Attie. They are not injured.”

  They watched Morgan send his young sailor down the rigging and then follow behind him. Sweat had soaked through the back of Morgan’s white cotton shirt.

  Tommy limped off on the shoulder of the first mate, clearly humiliated and thankful to be alive, and Attie followed them to a quiet corner of the ship. As soon as Morgan’s boots hit the deck, he reached for his discarded clothing and then turned his back to Bliss.

  “Morgan.”

  “No.” When he glanced over his shoulder, Bliss saw that his expression was one of pure torment. He was breathing hard. “No more lies, Bliss. I cannot bear any more of your lies. Not today—not ever.” He pulled his weskit on but let it hang unbuttoned. “I think it’s time you left my ship.”

  Chapter 25

  SOMETHING was terribly wrong when a man could not find refuge in his own home after a day’s work. But that was Morgan’s predicament later that evening, for if he dared go home for a hot meal, a warm bath, and some rest, he would place himself in close proximity to the greedy, scheming harpy he had married.

  There was no denying it. Bliss Worthington had not only driven him to a lust-induced madness; she’d driven him from his own bloody house!

  Why had he agreed to perform in this absurd circus? Why had he ever listened to Lord Oliver?

  Because he told me precisely what I wished to hear. Because he dangled the Selkie Maid before me like a carrot before a mule.

  He needed to relieve his desire for his exquisite, devious bride so that he could retake the upper hand. She had power over him as long as his deprived libido obsessed over her sweet body and her breathy voice and her—

  Damn it! He was doing it again!

  Morgan left the docks and hailed a hack. When he told the driver his destination, the fellow raised an eyebrow, which was laughable. The man would likely pay a month’s wage just to be allowed in the front door of such an establishment.

  It occurred to Morgan that only one truth was at the core of all his current troubles. He had long ago promised himself that his word would be his most valuable asset. Yet his life would be so much easier if oaths mattered little to him. He would be free.

  He could lie to Oliver, claim the marriage had been consummated, and gain title to the Selkie Maid without further ado. Lying to his uncle would damage his last ties to anything resembling family, and he was not yet prepared to do that.

  He could force Bliss into marital congress despite his promise to the contrary. She would have no recourse to gainsay him. She was his wife, his property, and he had every right to demand a consummation.

  But blast it all, he could not force her. Her proven ability to defend herself aside, he would rather die an honorably impoverished man than a rich bastard lacking in self-respect. Perhaps such a stubborn stance was his mother’s doing, as she’d desired her son to be more than a bastard. She wanted Morgan to soar far above Society’s expectations of the position he’d been born into.

  It struck Morgan that he might be more like Neville than he’d ever admitted.

  Morgan arrived, paid the driver, and climbed up the stairs to the door of Mrs. Blythe’s House of Pleasure. Famous for opulent parties and eager, sensational women, and according to rumor, men as well, Blythe’s was a place where a man could relax with good food, fine tobacco, excellent drink, and cheerfully lascivious company.

  A lovely creature answered the door clad in artfully arranged scraps of a maid’s livery. There was perhaps enough fabric in her costume to cover a sofa cushion.

  She greeted him with sultry welcome, handed him a whiskey, and gestured for him to relax in the front parlor. She sauntered away, clearly aware that Morgan could not tear his gaze away from her revealed flesh.

  It was very nice flesh. It was simply not the right flesh. Morgan leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. It didn’t matter. He was here for a right rogering to relieve the strain of battling Bliss at every turn.

  Yet the expected relaxation did not overtake him. He was afraid he knew why.

  He was a married man, for God’s sake. He had sworn his fidelity to Bliss and signed his name to the commitment. Of all the oaths he had taken, this was perhaps the most solemn of them all.

  He had not yet taken a sip before he straightened in the chair and barked a bitter laugh at himself. Till death do part us.

  Morgan set the whiskey glass on the side table and stood. He had no business being here. His busines
s was to go home, charm his bride into his bed for once and all, and get his ship.

  He was met at the door by none other than Mrs. Blythe herself. She was a buxom woman with silver-streaked blond hair and light blue eyes. Though on the far side of her forties, she was still a comely woman. Her smile had an unruffled quality about it that reminded him of someone . . .

  “Going home, Captain Pryce?”

  How amusing that she would try to convince him and his coin purse to stay. “I’m sorry, but I really must go.”

  Her eyes crinkled in amusement. She stepped aside, granting him access to the door. “Oh, I absolutely agree. You really must go home—to your wife.”

  She wanted him out? Morgan’s frown relaxed into a smirk of comprehension. “So Lord Oliver has told you to refuse me, eh? I wonder when the old man will release his grip on my life.”

  Mrs. Blythe placed a hand on his shoulder. “I assure you, Captain, it is I who wishes you gone.”

  With that, four of her burly footmen politely escorted him to the street.

  Thrown out of a brothel . . . for being married? Morgan shook his head at his own ridiculousness. Self-respect was indeed a virtue, but it would not assuage the simmering lust he felt for his wicked bride.

  He hailed another hack and, unhappily, headed home.

  • • •

  BLISS TOOK A turn before the large bedchamber mirror, attempting to examine the back of the gown.

  “Hold still, Bliss. Do you have any idea how hard it is to alter a moving target?”

  She laughed. “Forgive me, Button. It’s just so beautiful and it fits so perfectly.”

  “And a good thing, too, since there’s no time for any but the most minor adjustments.” Cabot held the pincushion for him as he tacked down a side seam.

  “I am so sorry for missing that appointment.”

  “Oh my goodness! After all you’ve been through!” He waved off her apology. “It sounds like such a horrible ordeal. I’m only relieved no one got hurt.”

  “Well, someone was badly injured. It simply wasn’t the captain or myself.” Bliss turned again, admiring the cornflower blue satin and the elaborate snowy white embroidery of the bodice. She looked again and frowned.