Scandalously Wed to the Captain

by Joanna Johnson

  She was in his arms before he could blink, the soft warm shape of her held closely against the column of his body just as he had longed for more times than he could count. The beat of her heart next to his own called to something inside him that responded in turn and before he knew what he was about he had leaned down to kiss her—and she had kissed him back.

  It was a different kind of kiss to the one she had given him in the snowy garden, or even the carriage when he had promised her this very visit. That had been brief, a chaste brush of her lips on his like a butterfly settling on a flower that still managed to heat his blood like a furnace. This time when their mouths met it was with a burst of fire that shook every sinew in Spencer’s body and made him need more, a primal desire that roared up inside him to howl that to merely kiss her wasn’t nearly enough—he wanted to hold her, pull her to him and explore the dips and curves until now only hinted at by the thin fabric of her nightgown that tortured him night after night.

  Still Grace didn’t pull away as his hands dropped to her waist and seized her firmly, only breaking the contact of their lips to suck in a harsh breath that made Spencer’s knees almost buckle with longing. Her own hands fled to his back and traced the muscles she would have felt there, wandering over the places scars marred his skin as though she could heal them with her touch. Perhaps she could, he thought distractedly as he felt her tremble with something he wished he could bottle. She’d repaired the battered remnants of his soul easily enough despite every obstacle he had thrown in her way, determinedly drawing him out until he was vulnerable as a child at her feet. It was impossible, incredible—and yet Grace had broken through the barriers he had hidden behind for so long and as his nerves sang and his blood boiled he knew he never wanted to release her from where he pressed her against him with a desire that was almost frightening.

  The sound of rough cheers sliced through the breathless moment like a knife, sending both Spencer and Grace starting apart like a pair of wild deer to look about themselves in confusion. A small group of onlookers had gathered at the other end of the passage and were watching them with interest, grinning in encouragement.

  ‘Don’t stop on our account, lad—you were doing well!’

  Grace gave a gasp of horror as mortification brought the blood rushing to her face, although she said nothing as Spencer replied with a few choice words of his own that sent their cackling audience sloping away. Once sure they had gone he turned his attention back to his blushing wife, only inches away but frozen with uncertainty that had apparently robbed her of the ability to move.

  He ached to run his thumb over her just-kissed lips, to feel the gentle warmth of her breath as it came harder against his skin. She looked up at him with the wide eyes of a startled fawn, so innocent he longed to throw off his hesitation and bend to kiss her again—but something unreadable flared in their grey depths to make him pause. It was still so difficult to know what she was thinking, what hopes or fears skipped through her busy mind; she could just as easily have accepted his advance out of mere gratitude as real desire, and the possibility of the former made regret writhe in his stomach.

  Damn it all. Why not just ask her? Why not just ask why she allows you these liberties: out of hunger for them or from polite compliance?

  The question danced on the tip of his tongue, tempting him to ask it out loud. It was such a simple thing, he thought, still within touching distance of the woman who blinked up at him with slightly parted lips as though awaiting either more kisses or dismissal—and yet with a creep of shame he found he didn’t dare. What if Grace confirmed his worst fears and told him in no uncertain words she felt nothing for him, her affections still held by the first love she had all but admitted would never be forgotten? What would happen then to the yearning for her he could only now admit to himself burned within him? He would be thrown back into the pit of despair his growing love for her had helped him to escape, Grace herself having leaned down into it to offer him a helping hand. If she rejected him now, he would be left with nothing and the idea of frightening away his only reason for living with a declaration of sentiment she might not want made his words turn to dust in his mouth.

  ‘I ought to speak with the warden.’ He stepped away from her, only a half pace backwards, but enough to break the dangerous spell of the warm, clean scent of her skin that whispered to him like a siren’s song. ‘The sooner we get your father moved and seen by a doctor the better.’

  ‘Yes, of course. I won’t keep you a moment longer.’

  Grace nodded quickly, an attempt at a smile stretching the sudden stiffness of her mouth as she made as if to return to her papa’s door—but even so Spencer remained all too aware of the feeling of her eyes on his back as he turned and walked away.

  Chapter Twelve

  Grace’s breath misted the window as she peered down from her hiding place on the second floor, peeping round one velvet curtain at the street below. Black clouds on the moody horizon threatened thunder while heavy raindrops hurled themselves against the glass to form miniature rivers skating in front of Grace’s curious eyes, but even the freezing downpour hadn’t stopped Spencer from slipping out to speak to the stranger who loitered once again at the end of the path. It was the same small, shrewd-looking man with auburn hair who had appeared each evening for above a week, and she was yet to understand why he kept coming—or why Spencer attempted to conceal their multiple rendezvous behind a tall bush at the side of their gate.

  What is he about that makes it necessary to be so furtive?

  It was his secretive movements that had first caught Grace’s attention the day after they had returned from visiting the Fleet, when Spencer had left the house early to stride purposefully in the direction of the town and returned a few hours later smelling of tobacco smoke and spirits. He had skilfully dodged Grace’s enquires and shut himself up in his study for the rest of the afternoon with only the sound of pen on paper signalling his enigmatic presence, occasionally summoning a servant to convey a note to the post tray for delivery to who knew where. It was all very odd and Grace still couldn’t make head nor tail of it as she hovered at the window and watched Spencer and his mysterious companion converse despite the deluge that must have been soaking them to the skin.

  Although the combination of grey dusk and distance made it difficult Grace could just make out the intent set of Spencer’s face as he listened to whatever the smaller man was telling him, before a sudden glance in the direction of the house sent her dodging smartly back behind her curtain. It wouldn’t do for him to catch her looking. Whatever he was meeting the shifty-looking stranger for was evidently supposed to be a secret—and one he had little intention of sharing.

  We’ve come so far together. I wonder why he thinks it necessary to conceal this—whatever it is—from me now?

  There was no way of denying how her spirit soared in Spencer’s company, the smiles he now offered the most delightful she had seen in her entire life. Her steadfast refusal to ever surrender to the ache of longing her husband inspired in her seemed so irrelevant now, like a relic from a past age with no place in the new life they were forging together. Henry still crossed her mind, of course, every now and again, to remind her how reckless the giving of a woman’s heart into a man’s keeping could be; but each day that passed showed how entirely different Spencer was to the man who had so cruelly rejected her and even the alarm bells that still tried to peal in her ears had grown muffled by the unlikely warmth she now knew hid behind Spencer’s grim façade. His behaviour to her poor papa at the Fleet, which even now warmed her as she thought of her father’s expression of dumbstruck gratitude, was the final nail in the coffin of her resolve not to give in to her feelings. That determination lay in tatters at her feet, ripped apart by the kindness her gruff husband was slowly allowing to come forth, bit by bit like ice melting in the first sun of spring.

  There wasn’t anywhere left to hide from the truth that dec
lared itself so boldly Grace couldn’t have denied it if she’d tried, every shadowy corner of her fearful heart illuminated by the knowledge that, yes, she loved her husband and now nothing would be the same again. Whether he returned those feelings was almost immaterial; they were a part of her now as fixed and permanent as her hands that itched to reach out for him or her eyes that searched his beloved face for some clue as to what he was thinking as he sat in his chair before the fire and stared into the flames. If he felt the same stirrings in the depths of his soul for her, her unlikely happiness would be complete—if not, there was precious little she could do to quell them, so brightly did the spark of tenderness for him burn inside Grace to scald her with its heat.

  She reached the entrance hall just as the first crash of thunder sounded and Spencer stepped hurriedly through the front door, hair plastered flat to his forehead and the scant cover of his soaking coat clinging to every contour of his broad frame. It was a picture so reminiscent of the first time she had found herself in Nevin Place Grace had to blink back the vivid memories that assailed her—only a handful of months ago, but so different from the present day, when Spencer had worn a scowl instead of the suspiciously evasive smile he now aimed in her direction to make her heart flutter like fledglings in a nest.

  ‘Good evening. Are you well tonight?’

  ‘Yes, thank you, although I’m not sure the same will be said of you if you insist on walking out in a storm. Why, you’re absolutely wet through!’

  Spencer glanced down at his drenched clothes and the mud that hugged his long leather boots as another growl of thunder echoed through the hall. ‘Would you look at that—you’re absolutely right. I should go to change at once.’

  If she hadn’t already felt a gleam of powerful inquisitiveness as to what her husband had just been doing, the speed with which he strode away from her would surely have given her reason for pause. Grace could only watch as he retreated up the stairs she had just descended, following the progress of long legs and impressive shoulders with interest that was by now second nature. Once upon a time she might have blushed at the thrill that ran through her at the sight of Spencer’s wet shirt emphasising his powerful build, made starker still by a sudden flare of lightning, but with her curiosity piqued by other things there was no time for such prissy thoughts—or for any attempts to drag her eyes away that she knew would not be successful.

  What are you up to, Spencer? What is it you’re trying to hide?

  * * *

  Sweat ran down Spencer’s face to sting his eyes as another roar of gunfire came in a relentless barrage that made his ears ring and the ground tremble beneath his feet. A wild scan of the heaving, churned field showed more men stretched out in the mud, arms reaching as though for help that would never come and empty eyes staring as Spencer moved among them in a disoriented daze with hardly an idea of where he was going, knowing only that he must keep pushing forward. His horse was gone and the fine red of his jacket flecked with filth and blood he should have been grateful was not his own, but nothing in the shouts and screams and jostling of too many bodies could distract him from his purpose in forcing his way through the throng.

  Where is he?

  On his right a voice bellowed something in a language he only vaguely understood and Spencer turned to parry the sword that flashed towards him, bringing his own up in a powerful thrust that sent the other man crumpling to his knees. There was no time to stop and look down at the French soldier curled on the ground; Spencer turned mechanically away and continued his terrible progress among the clash of bayonets and whine of rifle fire that keened in his ear as he once again surveyed the horrors on every side.

  And then he saw him.

  He was wading through the mire towards Spencer as quickly as the gouged ground would let him, mud up to his knees and his arms outstretched, brown eyes glowing with desperate determination as they fixed on something over Spencer’s shoulder. Spencer turned to look, knowing with sudden, sickening dread exactly what he would see—but then a deafening bellow roared out its fury and he was on the ground, shoved roughly aside by a familiar hand, and burning agony seized the front of his body and shook him like a terrier would a rat—

  A man’s shout rang in his ears, a guttural cry like that of a beast in such terrible pain it made Spencer’s heart freeze in primal fear. He only realised it had come from his own lips when he opened his eyes to see somebody leaning over him, their face a white shape in the darkness that suddenly felt so oppressive he could scarcely breathe.

  The cannons fired again, but more softly this time and he realised with a flare of sick understanding that there had never been any at all. The sound was nothing but the distant rumble of retreating thunder, intruding into his dreams to fool him into reliving the worst hour of his life—only this time was worse than the others, the noise of the storm outside dragging his memories out to haunt him even more vividly.

  ‘Spencer? It’s me, Grace. It’s only me. You’re safe, you’re quite safe.’

  The face swam into focus as a flickering candle appeared, illuminating Grace’s frightened eyes and expression of such concern Spencer felt his tight throat give an involuntary swallow.

  He tried to reply, but found no words would come to him as he lay on his back with every muscle tense and the horrors of his nightmare still holding him in their merciless grip. The vision of moments before circled before him—bodies, mud, pain, blood—and to his shame tears tried to fight their way past his lashes to run down the blanched skin of his cheeks.

  Cold sweat crawled beneath his nightshirt as he pushed himself up to lean against the pillows—or where the pillows would have been had his fevered thrashing not hurled them to the floor. Grace watched him still in silent concern, her skin more luminous than ever in the candlelight in a way that was almost angelic.

  ‘You were shouting... What were you dreaming about?’

  He brought a hand up to wipe the sweat from his brow and felt another flicker of shame as he saw how it trembled. ‘I don’t—I don’t remember.’

  The lie lay heavy in his gut, but he rose from the bed and pulled on his dressing gown. All possibility of sleep had fled from him and Grace’s worried gaze only made it more necessary for him to escape before he surrendered to its power and revealed more than he ever wanted about the secrets that still haunted him.

  ‘Go back to sleep. I think I’ll sit in my study a while.’

  He turned to leave, almost missing the quiet murmur at his back that made him pause.

  ‘Please, Spencer. After all that’s passed between us, you needn’t shut me out.’

  His chest gave an especially painful squeeze as he threw a glance over one shoulder, the soft plea in Grace’s voice piercing his heart. It would be so easy to unburden himself to her, to tell her exactly what had transpired on that terrible day and the weighty guilt that had crushed him ever since, but still he could not. The shame was too great, his weakness for Constance costing him so much he could have avoided had he behaved as Will had deserved.

  ‘There’s nothing to tell. Go back to sleep.’

  Grace’s lips twitched as though about to say something, but Spencer gave her no time to reply as he stumbled for the door, leaving her alone in the great bed with her anxious face lit by the single flame.

  His own quiet footsteps and the distant murmurs of the dying storm were the only sounds as Spencer moved through the silent house, joined by a single creak of his study door as he entered. The darkness inside the room reached out to claim him, but was chased away by the fire he soon had dancing in the grate, determined to banish the terrors that particular night was so cruel as to conjure.

  Spencer drew his chair as close to the flames as he could get, although its warmth did nothing to melt the agony that had turned his blood to ice, and dropped his head into his hands.

  He rubbed his aching eyes, sore from both the flames and the effort of
holding back the emotion he feared with sudden dread he might not this time be able to repress. Before Grace had come into his life he would have numbed this pain with a large measure of something from a bottle; now he had no such consolation left in the house and he wondered if, for the first time in two years, he ought to try to confront the spectres that still chased him whatever steps he took to escape them. Fleeing their merciless grasp meant he had spent the past years running, never able to rest or share his suffering with anyone... Could it finally, after all this time, be that he had arrived at having no other option left but to tackle his demons head-on and not shy away to hide behind some prop that only delayed the inevitable?

  It was a thought that frightened him—and above all Spencer hated being afraid. It felt too much like weakness, too similar to the helpless terror that had consumed him in that hellish field, unable to do anything but watch as the worst thing he could imagine unfolded before him, with nothing he could do to stop it. Being afraid tasted like the iron tang of blood and sounded like the cries of wounded men dying beneath a foreign sky, and that was something Spencer never wanted to experience ever again.

  The worst image flared through Spencer’s mind again like a flaming arrow, twisting his insides and sending him doubling over with pain so intense it took his breath away. He screwed his eyes shut, attempting to block the memory before it could rake him with its claws, but it didn’t retreat, instead bringing forth cold nausea that made Spencer’s head swim and his throat burn just as on the day he had stared at that familiar face with numb disbelief: a pair of warm brown eyes vacant and staring below black hair soaked with blood, the mouth open as though to implore him although no words would ever again pass the still-warm lips.