Slightly Noble

by Lilly Gayle

Did he have that much time? Abby could have the baby before nightfall. What if the child arrived before Quentin’s return? Could he still marry her if it would gain him naught? And what if she died giving birth? He would have to hire a wet nurse and nanny for a child that wasn’t even his.

  Should he take such a slim chance?

  “The wedding will be legal and binding, even if she gives you a daughter and not the son you so desperately need,” the vicar added, a hard edge creeping into his voice. “Will you still honor your vows if that is the case?”

  Jack shrugged, trying to fain indifference. “If a daughter cannot inherit a title, how does it benefit me to take such a chance?” But for some inexplicable reason, he wanted to take a chance with the brave woman lying in the next room.

  “She could just as easily have a boy,” Quentin reiterated. “A fifty-fifty chance is better than no chance at all.”

  “Are you a gambling man, Lord Ardmore?” the vicar asked.

  Jack snorted. Quentin was the gambler. Then again, Jack was a sea captain. Life didn’t get more unpredictable than that. “I live on the ocean. My entire adult life has been a series of gambles.”

  But marriage to a stranger? Such a gamble would last his lifetime. Then again, knowing one’s betrothed offered no guarantees either. His mother had known his father for years before they wed, and their union had led to nothing but misery.

  “Two days,” Quentin said, interrupting his thoughts. “That is all it should take. A day to ride to the bishop’s, apply for the license, and get back so the vicar can make a copy and you can sign it. Then you can get married as soon as the sun rises the next day.”

  “Are the two of you sure this is legal?” Not that he was considering such an insane notion. But if he were, there could be no legal grounds to contest the union.

  “Well, there are rules that must be followed,” the cleric said. “Since Mr. Stanley will be obtaining the license, you would have to marry in the parish church here in Sheep’s Crossing. And of course, you must get Miss Abigail to consent to the marriage.”

  Ah. That was the rub, was it not? No woman in her right mind would consent to wed him. He lived on his damn ship, which he could not sail home to America until he was sure the unforgiving Union army would not arrest him and confiscate it.

  And if he stayed in England, the only home he owned was Ram’s Head, a crumbling estate he did not want. No woman with a grain of sense would have him. He was a privateer turned lord, trying to make a fresh start in a country he had not lived in for more than twenty years.

  But at least he had Quentin and Uncle William’s support. Abby had no one.

  Was she desperate enough to accept his proposal?

  Chapter Five

  Jack looked down at Abby as she rested with eyes closed, her long, damp lashes forming dark crescents against high, noble cheekbones. Perhaps she was highborn. Not that it mattered a whit to him. His father was proof blood did not make the person.

  So, how honorable was it to offer a woman marriage in order to use her unborn child as leverage?

  Frightened and alone, she was about to give birth to a child who would have no father if he did not marry her. Yet, if the child was a girl, she would likely have no home. Ram’s Head was hardly inhabitable and even if she had a son, it could take months for the courts to award him Ridge Point. So, where would they live? Aboard his ship?

  Marrying the woman was insane and still, the prospect consumed his thoughts. It was the most sensible solution to both their problems. And Quentin had already left to apply for the license.

  Abby’s eyes fluttered open. They were oddly familiar—an intense blue that seemed to see into his soul. Did she see the darkness in it? Or the hope he held so close to his heart? Hope for a normal life and loving family—a hope he refused to voice aloud. A hope he feared would one day turn to bitter disappointment—the same disappointment he had seen so often in his mother’s eyes.

  Straightening his shoulders, he stood with the same erect, commanding posture he used when addressing his crew. “The nun said you are unwed.”

  Those lovely eyes narrowed, and her lush mouth firmed with disapproval. “My marital state should not concern you, sir.”

  He smiled, leaning over her. “Oh, but it does. You see, I am in need of an heir and you, apparently, are in need of a husband.”

  “I will never marry.”

  The rancor in her voice took him by surprise. He was not anxious to marry a stranger either, but considering Abby’s condition, he had assumed his offer would relieve her fears. She seemed protective of the child she carried. So what kind of woman would not want a husband to care for her and her child? Especially, a titled husband?

  He straightened, looking down at her as she glared up at him from a reclined position on the bed. “Why not?”

  She averted her gaze, but not before, he saw a flash of panic. “That is none of your concern either.”

  Damnation and hellfire. Some man had obviously abused her trust. But had she willingly submitted and was angry for being discarded? Or had some bastard forced himself on her?

  He sat on the edge of the bed and took her hand. She stiffened, trying to remove her cold fingers from his firm grasp. Her jaw clenched. “Let. Go.”

  “Hear me out.” He softened his grip and his voice in an attempt to be less intimidating. “You need a husband, and I need an heir. It will be a marriage in name only.”

  “Oh, be still my quivering heart,” she said, her voice dripping sarcasm. “What woman would not be thrilled with such a heartfelt proposal?”

  Her wit caught him by surprise. So did the rumbling laugh that escaped from deep inside his chest. It had been a long time since anyone had made him laugh aloud. But Abby had done so without even trying.

  Her eyes widened. Then she smiled. “You roar like the lion you resemble,” she said before clamping her mouth shut.

  Unexpected pleasure tightened his chest. “Yes, well, your sarcastic humor was quite unexpected.”

  Her shoulders relaxed, and a brief smile flickered at the edges of her mouth. “So was your proposal.”

  “But it makes sense, does it not?” He let out a pent-up breath, hoping he would not have to persuade her with flowery words or silly sentiments. If she were a logical woman, she would see the practicality of becoming his wife without his having to cajole her.

  “It would be unfair.” She lowered her gaze. “I am no longer chaste.”

  “Obviously,” he snorted.

  She raised her lids, humiliation shining in her hurt gaze. “All the more reason to decline your generous offer.”

  Embarrassed heat warmed his cheeks. Only a cad would point out her indelicate state, and he was not a cad. Not normally. His mother had raised him better. But it had been years since he had been in polite society. Between the war and his years spent aboard ship with rowdy sailors, he had forgotten how to talk to a gently reared woman—if she was indeed, gently reared. Nevertheless, he knew better than to speak so crudely to any woman.

  Shifting on the mattress, he cleared his throat. “Yes. Well, all the more reason to agree to my proposal. The nun said your name is Abigail Halsey. Is it your real name?”

  Damn her if it wasn’t. That was the name Quentin was using to apply for the marriage license, and he did not want to give his aunt or Morris any recourse when contesting his marriage and the legitimacy of his heir—if Abby married him—and if she had a son. He had made a promise to his mother, and he would do anything to keep that promise—even if it meant marrying a pregnant woman, he did not know.

  A weary sigh escaped and her shoulders sagged. “Yes. Halsey is my family name, but I have not consented to marriage. So, I fail to see how it matters.”

  It mattered to him, and he would have told her so had the nun not entered the room.

  “You must let her rest,” she said in a stern voice that would have scared the devil out of Beelzebub himself. Jack wasn’t exactly the spawn of Satan, but he was no angel either,
and the young nun scared the hell out of him.

  He left the room without another word.

  ****

  Throughout the long night, Jack paced the living room or sat by Abby’s bed, watching over her while the midwife slept in a chair in the corner and Sister Mary Daphne glared. The vicar retired to the spare bedroom, and Jack eventually nodded off. Then sometime around midnight, Quentin returned with the marriage license and curled up in a corner of the living room to rest until sunrise. Not long after, Abby started having contractions again.

  Jack woke the midwife and stepped back, watching as Abby suffered through pains that seemed almost impossible to bear. Sweat beaded her brow and color leached from her face as she panted through the contractions that seemed to come one on top of the other.

  Would it make any difference if the baby arrived before the vicar could legally marry them? No. He had given his word, and Abby needed him.

  He stepped out of the room long enough for the midwife to check the progress of Abby’s labor. Soft snores came from the corner where Quentin slept, and Jack felt a stab of envy. If only he could sleep so easily, but Abby’s pitiful moans had kept him up most of the night.

  When Abby cried out, Jack barged back into the room, despite the nun’s protest. “How is she?” he asked the midwife.

  She looked up, her serious expression showing a hint of optimism. “The placenta no longer blocks the birth canal, but it’s still lower than it should be. I’m worried about the baby now, but Miss Halsey has lost a lot of blood. If she survives the birthing but does not expel the entire placenta…”

  Her voice trailed off, but Jack could fill in the blanks. If that were to happen, Abby might linger for days before succumbing to childbirth fever.

  His stomach knotted as another contraction rippled through her body. He crossed to the head of the bed and gently squeezed her hand. “I’m here.”

  Muscles tensing, she drew up her legs and nearly crushed his fingers in her tight fist.

  “Do not push,” the midwife said from the foot of the bed. Jack had nearly forgotten she was still in the room. “It is not time yet.”

  Abby’s eyes were wide and frightened. Her grip tightened. Jack held her gaze and nodded. “That’s right. Squeeze my hand.”

  “He should not be here. It is highly improper,” Sister Mary Daphne said. “The birthing room is no place for a man.”

  Jack looked at the midwife and started to rise, torn between his desire to help Abby and the midwife’s superior knowledge of such things.

  Abby clutched his hand. “Please stay.”

  He eased back down onto the hard chair, and Sister Mary Daphne’s eyes narrowed with disapproval. Minutes ticked by like hours. Was it dawn yet? He looked toward the window. The dark drapes appeared a bit brighter, as if the sun was trying to climb above the horizon. Hope bloomed in his chest, but then another contraction tore through Abby, and he feared the baby would arrive before he could get her to the church.

  He turned toward the door, just as Quentin barreled into the room, disheveled and out of breath. The vicar entered behind him.

  “Is it too late?” Quentin skidded to a halt before reaching the bed. “Has she had the baby yet?”

  “No. But he is getting impatient.” Relief eased the tension in Jack’s shoulders. Abby had made it to sunrise without delivering the child.

  The midwife stood, placing herself between Abby and the new arrivals. “It will not be long now.”

  The vicar averted his gaze and flushed. “Now or never.”

  Throwing caution to the wind, Jack stood and bent over his soon-to-be-wife. With a surprisingly light heart, he scooped her into his arms. “I am ready.”

  ****

  Pain knotted Abby’s insides, and her head spun. It felt as if she had been drugged, but if that were the case, then why did she hurt so much? Had Sister Mary Daphne given her another tonic? She could not remember. Her thoughts were hazy and…

  Another pain gripped her. She cried out. Arms tightened around her, and her eyes sprang open. Captain Jack held her in his strong embrace, and the vicar stood before them.

  Are we in a church?

  “Do you agree?” the captain asked.

  Agree to what? She was so confused, and the pain was nearly unbearable. She licked her dry lips. The vicar had asked her something—something important. What was it?

  Another pain rippled through her. She tightened her grip on Captain Jack, needing his solid strength as another contraction followed on the heels of the last. They were coming stronger and faster now, giving her no time to catch her breath or collect her thoughts.

  “Will you have this man to be your wedded husband?” the vicar asked.

  Abby closed her eyes against another searing contraction, shaking her head vigorously from side to side, unable to voice her objection.

  The captain’s dark haired companion answered for her. “She is in too much pain to respond. Let us assume she would say yes if she could.”

  “No!” her mind screamed, but a pain-filled screech tore from her throat as the baby moved lower. She felt as if she might fall, but the captain’s strong arms cradled her.

  Damn, Simon Weston, Lord Drury, and his pretty face! She should remember that looks could be deceiving.

  “Do you want to marry this man?” The reverend sounded impatient.

  “You are strong. You can do this. You must. For the baby.” The captain’s voice was soft. Coaxing.

  Abby concentrated on his soothing words and tight but gentle grip. He no longer reminded her of Lord Drury at all. He brought to mind a kindly physician.

  “Yes,” she said in a raw voice she did not recognize. She could do this. She would safely deliver her child if it were the last thing she ever did. But mere seconds later, it seemed, the vicar pronounced her and the captain, man and wife.

  She blamed Lord Drury for that, too.

  “Damn you, Simon Weston!” she screamed, not knowing if she said the words aloud or only in her pain-filled mind.

  The baby moved lower still. Then the captain was depositing her back onto the bed.

  “It is done,” the man called Quentin said. “Ridge Point is yours.”

  “At what cost?” she heard the captain say as the two men faded into the shadows.

  Sister Mary Daphne moved behind her. “I am here now, and I will help you bring this child into the world.”

  The midwife pushed up her robes and forced her knees apart. Abby’s muscles bunched. The pressure of the midwife’s hands inside her body was almost unbearable.

  “I see the head,” Mrs. Beckman said in a triumphant voice.

  Abby screamed as another pain tore through her, and Sister Mary Daphne pressed against her back. Then Abby drew up her legs and pushed, working harder than she had ever worked in her life to get the precious babe out of her body and into the world. She pushed against the unrelenting pain, screaming until her throat burned.

  Gentle hands stroked her belly, and the midwife’s gentle voice floated upward from the bottom of the bed. “Stop pushing now. You must wait for the next contraction and then push with all your strength.”

  “It is too big!” Abby cried, the pain so intense she feared she would die with the baby still inside her.

  “Nonsense. I have been delivering babes in these parts for years, and yours is no bigger than it should be.”

  “It should not be at all,” Abby whimpered. She should not be having a baby, not until she was wed, and that would never happen now.

  Or had it happened already?

  She was so confused, her mind filled with thoughts and words that made no sense. Had Captain Jack held her in his strong arms? Had the vicar asked if she wanted to marry him? Was she married? Or had it all been a dream? Oh, why can I not remember?

  Sister Mary Daphne and the midwife spoke over her as if she wasn’t there, but Abby hardly listened. She focused on not pushing as the midwife instructed, when every instinct she possessed urged her to bear down.
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  “Get ready,” Mrs. Beckman finally said. The pain moved lower. Abby tensed.

  “Now push!”

  Pressing down with all her might, Abby pushed. Once. Twice. And suddenly, the weighted pain in her belly slid out from between her legs, taking the pressure with it. Abby cried out in relief and relaxed back into Sister Mary Daphne’s arms as blood gushed between her thighs.

  Chapter Six

  Jack paced outside the cottage, ignoring Quentin. The vicar had promised to come for them as soon as the baby was born—a baby Jack would protect no matter the sex. But what of the child’s mother? What about Abby? After the ceremony, she had damned a man named Simon Weston. According to Quentin, he was a married man who had been engaged to another woman when Abby conceived.

  How can I defend her honor if she attempted to compromise herself in order to gain a titled husband?

  Quentin sighed. “Had I known Lord Drury was the child’s father, I would never have suggested you marry her.”

  “How could you know?” Anger and frustration ate at Jack’s self-control like sharks on a wounded seal. “The nun said she was a widow. When we discovered she was unwed, we assumed… Ah hell. I don’t know what you assumed. I assumed some man had taken advantage of her sweet nature. But she is not sweet. Is she? She seduced a viscount who was engaged to another. I can only assume she had hoped he would marry her if she became enceinte.”

  “Do you think the nun knows the truth?” Quentin asked.

  “What difference does it make?” What the nun knew was irrelevant. What mattered were his foolish actions. He had jumped on Quentin’s easy solution without considering all the possible consequences. Unless…

  Was he misjudging Abby as his father had misjudged his mother? Or had he truly married a woman who would stoop to immoral measures to gain a titled husband? Damned if he knew. And damned if it mattered. His life was now tethered to a woman he could never trust.

  “I am sorry,” Quentin said.

  Jack turned so quickly he nearly collided with him. “Are you sure Simon Weston is Lord Drury? Perhaps Weston was her betrothed, and she was damning him for not marrying her.”