Scandalously Wed to the Captain

by Joanna Johnson

  ‘What do you say? Ought we give in to my mother’s tyranny and grant her this final request?’ His tone was as detached as he could manage, although the intense emotion that his own words sent lancing through to his gut almost choked him.

  Her final request.

  After everything else was stripped away, that was the bare fact: Dorothea was dying, fading before his very eyes, and this was the last thing he could ever do for the woman who had been his last reason for living. There was no humour to be found at her meddling, only the unfillable gap her death would leave in his heart and his soul, a space that even with her final breaths she tried so ardently to mend for him. She had seen that same kindness in Grace—could it be they would truly save each other from their miserable fates?

  It was only when his chest gave a wrench that Spencer realised he had been holding his breath as he waited for Grace to reply. Her long lashes shielded her from looking directly at him, but nothing could hide the tremble of her lips as she spoke the only word necessary to send his heart slamming into his ribs.

  ‘Yes.’

  All the air seemed to have been sucked out of the room by that one syllable, murmured so quietly Spencer could scarce believe he had heard her correctly.

  For a measureless time nobody spoke. Time ceased to mean anything to Spencer as he stood still and felt his entire world shift beneath the power of one whispered word. All his thoughts for the future, all his plans to give himself up to the darkness that writhed inside him: destroyed by the woman who now looked him straight in the eye with a steadfast courage that dared him to test his own mettle. There was uncertainty in the shifting tide of her expression, a touch of vulnerability that pinched Spencer somewhere beneath the armour of his indifference, but Grace’s head was up and her jaw was set, and she watched him with the bravery of a frightened person who had decided that to jump from a ledge was better than to fall.

  He stared back, for the first time allowing himself to drink her in as much as he wished. There was no trace of the smile that had lodged itself immovably at the forefront of his brain, nor the dimple mined in the flawless porcelain of her cheek. Instead she was solemn, the dull tinge of grief starting to steal the light from her stormy gaze, and it was with a searing bolt of wonder Spencer realised it would fall to him, her husband, to dry her tears. It was an unspeakably odd notion and one that hit him like a physical blow: Grace would be his wife, bound to him for the rest of their time on earth, and the same realisation shone out of her face with an apprehension he could almost have tasted.

  A knock at the door broke the wordless tension between them, shattering the moment of shared feeling like glass dropped on a cold stone floor.

  Both tense figures turned to watch as Dr Sharp stepped into the room, carrying his medical case, but his face grave as though he knew it was useless baggage.

  ‘Doctor. Thank you for coming.’ Spencer moved to clasp his shoulder, pleased as he extended his hand to note it was perfectly steady despite the chaos that reigned in his stomach. ‘Your timing is impeccable, sir. I’d like to invite you to witness my wedding.’

  The doctor’s mouth dropped open in a perfect circle of naked surprise which in any other circumstances might have been amusing.

  ‘A wedding? Here? Now?’ His gaze flipped from Spencer to Grace to the scant shape of Dorothea lying milk-white beneath her luxurious covers and his bushy brows rose in astonishment.

  ‘Captain Dauntsey, surely this is neither the time nor the place!’

  A tut of impatience from the bed drew every eye in the room. ‘An old woman’s last request, Dr Sharp. There will never be the opportunity for a better time or a better place.’

  The doctor’s look of shock persisted as Spencer hunted for the marriage certificate in Dorothea’s desk, although by the time a pen was thrust into his hand the old gentleman seemed more dazed than disapproving. In all likelihood he had no desire to argue with the obviously rapidly failing Dauntsey matriarch, although her eyes remained closed until Spencer stood before Grace at the foot of the great oak bed and prepared to recite the words he had never thought would pass his lips.

  I should probably take her hand. Isn’t that the usual way for these things?

  He glanced down at her delicate fingers, as white as though she wore gloves; they twisted together in a repetitive movement that betrayed whatever agitation Grace was trying to hide. The enticing thought of how her delicate hand might feel within his sent a shiver of unease thrilling through him and Spencer resolutely clasped his own in front of him in reflexive discomfort.

  Perhaps not. I can’t imagine such a thing would be wise—or welcome.

  Silence stretched out like a blanket of silk, nobody moving or even blinking in a moment so tense it was almost tangible until Spencer cleared his throat and began to speak.

  ‘In the presence of God and these our friends, I take thee, Grace Elizabeth Linwood, to be my wife, promising with divine assistance to be unto thee a loving and faithful husband as long as we both shall live.’

  She followed the movement of his lips, entirely focused on the strange vows Spencer realised she might never have heard before. In another life he might have attempted to ease her obvious anxiety with a small smile, but that was the man he had been before, when his mother was more than a mere husk about to be swallowed by the unforgiving jaws of death.

  Such thoughts were pointless, he reminded himself grimly as Grace took a deep breath and with a tremor in her voice began to repeat the same promises that would bind them.

  What is there to be said? She doesn’t wish to marry me and I can’t pretend I desire a wife either—I won’t insult her by starting our marriage on a lie.

  He heard his mother’s soft intake of breath, a gentle sigh of something like release as Grace forced the words past unwilling lips. Each movement of her mouth drew Spencer’s eye like a moth to a flame, their lush rose hue like petals made to be kissed. The whole world seemed to have shrunk to focus on that mouth, shaping the sounds that drew her ever closer to a fate neither of them could have foreseen.

  It was over before Spencer could really believe it. Even after taking up his pen and signing his life into Grace’s keeping he could only stare down at his scrawled signature in numb disbelief.

  It’s done. It’s done, and there’s no going back from it now—even if she wishes I was another man entirely.

  Grace’s elegant mark glittered in the firelight, ink still wet on the thick parchment. Doctor Sharp signed in silence, a deep furrow of misgiving pitting his brow, and Dorothea’s name was little more than a scratch of the pen, a shapeless smudge made with great effort by her weak and trembling hand.

  I am hers and she is mine. Now—what the hell am I to do with her?

  The question repeated itself over and again, echoing through his mind empty of all thoughts but the unanswered whisper he couldn’t seem to face. He had fulfilled Dorothea’s final wish, had granted her that last request, but what did this mean for him now? And for the woman who had become, against their united better judgement, his lawfully wedded wife?

  Nothing was able to displace the roar of confusion or the pounding of his heart in his ears, obliterating all other sound until finally, after what felt like half an eternity, he heard Grace murmur his name.

  She was looking down at his mother, standing so still and pale beside the bed she might have been a marble statue. He followed her gaze to the woman he had loved for twenty years and more, who now lay in perfect, untouchable serenity with the sweetest smile of relief upon her lifeless lips.

  Chapter Five

  Not a word had passed between them for almost an hour, Grace’s glance up at the clock on the mantel showed. The gilt hands crept closer and closer to reading two o’clock in the morning, and the terrible silence that surrounded the figures sitting on either side of the cold hearth was punctuated only by the sound of heavy footfalls from overhea
d. The local midwife, Mrs Lake, had answered Spencer’s midnight summons at once, and she and her daughter would see Dorothea was properly laid out with dignity. They attended her now, washing and dressing her with the respect a lifetime of kindness deserved, although the knowledge of why she was no longer able to do such things for herself made Grace want to curl into a ball of anguish.

  Instead she looked towards Spencer, sitting so still and quiet he might have been sculpted from ice. His jaw was set so tightly Grace could see the straining muscle of his neck, the only outward sign of whatever horrors reeled through his mind.

  ‘Spencer.’

  He appeared not to hear her at first, so delayed was his reaction to her low murmur. When he finally lifted his head Grace felt a terrible stab of pity pierce her as his eyes met hers and she saw how they burned with unspeakable pain, alight yet absent as though looking right through her.

  The suffering in that one glance spoke to something inside her Grace had barely known existed. It was as though a key had been turned to unlock the floodgates of her sympathy for this strange and unfriendly man who was now her husband and partner in whatever the future might hold, and the urge to comfort him welled up with rapid and bewildering force. It came as though from nowhere, surprising her with its intensity, but she had to force it back as cold rationality tempered the sudden spark. He wasn’t the boy she’d known any longer and she might have just made the biggest mistake of her life in making him her husband. Surely now her notoriety would only increase, clandestinely wedded to a dangerous man in the middle of a freezing night.

  Doubtless I am the last person whose pity he would want. Forced into marrying me by his mother’s dying wish—how he must resent it.

  A chill flickered up the length of Grace’s spine that had nothing to do with the lack of a fire. The enormity of what she had done only just began to unfurl before her, previously too distracted by Dorothea’s condition to truly consider her position. Now a sickening mixture of grief and panic churned within her, swooping in the pit of her stomach in a nauseating flutter as she took in the blank stare of the man she was now tied to for life.

  The swirling combination of too many emotions made Grace’s head swim and she closed her eyes for a moment to steady herself. Whatever else she might feel, whatever confusion and worry for the future, her main concern should be the present, attempting to console Spencer despite what she feared would be his strenuous objections. He might not have been her first choice of a match, but Dorothea had been right—what other offers would the daughter of a criminal receive? Poor Papa had been devastated to have ruined her chances, she knew with a flurry of unhappiness at the thought of his pain. Was he even now losing sleep in his cell, fretting about the future his actions had bought his eldest daughter? To reject Spencer’s hand would have been to sign herself into eternal spinsterhood, remaining a heavy burden on the family that could no longer afford to keep her. It would be a difficult decision to explain, but Grace was at least assured her mama and sisters would come to see its necessity and help her through the worst.

  You’ll have to learn to get along now, she thought dimly, aware of Spencer’s gaze upon her, but not yet able to speak further. You have no other choice.

  She got to her feet. The muscles of her legs complained painfully, but Grace ignored their protest as she stepped to Spencer’s side. He watched her with the wary eyes of a wounded animal, but even so Grace felt him flinch a little as though in surprise when she knelt beside his chair and resolutely, before she had the chance to take fright and change her mind, folded her small hand over one huge, scarred fist.

  The reaction of her body to the feel of his rough skin beneath her own was instant. A streak of flame fled straight to her chest and settled there, hot against the cage of her ribs that rose and fell in breaths all of a sudden unsteady in their shuddering rhythm. His hand was as cold as her own, but the heat that flickered in every nerve felt as though it lit her from the inside and it was with great difficulty Grace managed to check the urge to pull away as though he stung her with his touch.

  Alarm shrilled within her as she looked up into her husband’s face and saw the deeply etched suffering covering his features like a shroud. Her nerves still sang at the contact between them, disobeying her strictest orders to remain indifferent to Spencer’s proximity or the contours of his fist. The very idea of allowing her aggravating reaction to him to surface at such a time—or any time, especially after her encounter with George had renewed her determination to control it—made the fire in her lungs burn all the brighter, although this time with dismay at her weakness.

  Control yourself. You know better than to behave like a foolish, moonstruck girl.

  She reached up to smooth a blonde tendril behind her ear, all the while trying to douse the flames that leapt within at her nearness to the man who managed to provoke such a response in her disloyal body. He hadn’t even taken her hand when they wed, instead standing to attention at the foot of the great bed like the proud soldier he had once been. He would be dismayed at the notion a mere touch of his hand could affect her so; if they were to live together and attempt to fulfil Dorothea’s plea for their salvation, she would have to try harder to curb the weakness so uncomfortably like that she had felt for him as a young girl.

  Now she knelt beside him she found herself at a loss for words. What could one say to comfort a person in such bleak circumstances? Surely nothing could take away the pain she saw in every line of Spencer’s countenance, despite his attempts to conceal it, or soothe the agitation of his mind.

  ‘You’ve been sitting here for a long time without as much as a single word.’ She heard herself falter a little beneath the unwavering granite stare that fixed her, but summoned her courage and continued. ‘I’ll ring for the servants to bring tea and make up the fire. Perhaps it might give you some comfort if you were to talk...?’

  The slow shake of Spencer’s head reduced the rest of Grace’s sentence to a tailed-off murmur. It was a jerky movement, similar to that of a puppet on a string, but its meaning was plain.

  ‘No tea.’ His voice was flat, devoid of the emotion Grace was certain she saw hidden in the rigid set of his face. ‘And I have no need of comfort. I knew perfectly well this would come to pass eventually. I was quite prepared.’

  Such an obvious lie, she thought in private dismay. The smallest of glances at him showed his broad frame held unnaturally stiffly and the usual gruff tone of his address increased tenfold by stubbornly repressed emotion. Why was he so set on concealing it? Surely it was dangerous to keep such a boiling tide inside.

  ‘A fire, then, at the very least. It’s getting colder in here. Let me call for Thorne.’

  Again her request was met with that decided shake of the head.

  ‘I sent the servants to their beds some hours ago. If you feel a chill, I can make a fire myself.’

  He paused for a moment, his eyes fixed on the small hand sitting above his own. Grace could have sworn she felt it burn warmer beneath his intense gaze, but the thought was wiped from her mind by a piercing arrow of shock as Spencer slowly brought his other palm up from his lap to cover her fingers.

  ‘I should thank you. In her final moments I believe your kindness made my mother truly happy and for that you will always have my gratitude. Not everybody would have done as you did.’

  Grace swallowed, aware of every tiny movement of Spencer’s skin against hers as he cradled her hand with gentleness his huge one should not have been able to manage. They were scarred hands, not the usual manicured set of most gentlemen, but honest, capable and strong, just as she suspected Spencer might have been, but for the tragedies that had so changed his life.

  His unexpected thanks touched her, that faint gleam of simple human gratitude warming her despite the ice in her heart.

  There’s such feeling there, deep down in his soul.

  She saw it glimmer, the smallest chin
k in the armour he wore, and for the first time wondered if there might be the chance of some accord between them.

  At least, I hope so. The rest of our lives will seem like a prison sentence if not.

  He stood abruptly and Grace straightened likewise to stand before him. She had to tilt her head back to look into his face, so much taller was he, and for a moment they regarded each other in taut silence.

  Spencer’s eyes roamed her face as though searching for something, although quite what Grace could only wonder. All she knew was that her heart hammered at a speed that frightened her at how closely he stood, near enough that they could have easily fallen into an embrace—if he thought of you in that way. Which overwhelming evidence says he doesn’t, never has and never will.

  That was the truth she should cling to, remind herself of whenever she felt weakness rise within her again, and it was enough to help her stand her ground until she finally moved aside to allow him to pass her and kneel before the cold hearth. Perhaps it was a distraction of sorts, some way of exorcising whatever demons leapt within him; so she said nothing as he settled on the floor and drew towards him kindling and a tinderbox.

  Three quiet taps at the door caught Grace’s attention.

  Opening it, she found Mrs Lake and her daughter hovering in the hallway, wearing mirrored expressions of respectful sympathy that made Grace’s breath claw at her throat.

  ‘We’ve finished laying out the late Mrs Dauntsey, ma’am.’ The midwife spoke gently, many years of experience softening her voice. ‘Everything was done quite properly, as befitting such a lady.’

  Deep inside her chest something twisted sharply and Grace almost winced in pain.

  The late Mrs Dauntsey. ‘Late’ being the worst of words.

  A glance back into the room showed Spencer’s head turned resolutely in the direction of the empty hearth, the sharp lines of his fine profile laid bare for Grace’s guilty appreciation. She hurriedly stepped out into the hall, shutting the sitting-room door smartly behind her as though it could contain the wayward thoughts that stalked her.