Holly glared at the carpet, her full lips slipping into a pout. She truly disliked giving in. Ceding control of the household was unthinkable, and yet how terrible could it be for the remaining two and a half weeks the captain would be at home? And after that . . .? Her frown eased to a tiny smile, her dark eyes lightened. She could do this, truly she could.
After a moment to gather her rebellious thoughts, Holly shoved them to the back of her mind and mentally set the lock. There! She’d done it. Pasting on her most winsome smile, she raised her head.
But the room was empty, the captain gone.
Shortly after the sun rose, Royce, grim-faced, went through his morning routine, jerking on his boots before shrugging into his heavy and well-worn boiled wool jacket. Air. He needed fresh air. Last night after leaving his wife, he’d tried brandy to assuage his grievances, which had only left him with an aching head to add to his woes.
As his boots clunked on the corridor’s wooden floor, Royce winced. If the demmed woman hadn’t turned his head to mush, he would have had the sense to carry his boots instead of thumping his way out of the house at cockcrow. Fortunately, he found the kitchen still quiet, neither Mrs. Balfour or Jesse yet up and about. As he opened the back door, a blast of crisp air struck him, and he paused to breathe it in. Ah yes, cool, country air. Not as effective as the strong salt gale he needed to sweep his troubles from his mind, but it would have to do. Royce drew one more lung-expanding sniff before setting off for the path that wound its way through the woods behind the house.
By the time he reached the small bridge across the stream, the sun had risen high enough to dapple the water with rippling reflections of tree trunks, leaves, and clouds. A fine morning, when his mood cried out for thick clouds and the moisture-laden air that promised rain. Royce leaned on the bridge railing and gazed at the gently flowing water below. Hell and the devil, what had he done? Had he thought he’d be home so little it wouldn’t matter that he’d married a whore? Or perhaps he’d simply been so dazzled by the prize dangled before him . . .
No, she was a beautiful woman, his wife. And thanks to the Aphrodite Academy, well-educated and well-spoken. And skilled in bedroom arts he’d never even heard of. (If rumors of the Academy’s exotic curriculum were to be believed.)
And, truthfully . . . he liked her.
Hell’s hounds, more than liked. She drew him to her like lightning seeking the earth. And, fool that he was, he’d stumbled over his upbringing and as much as called her a whore. He could apologize from morn ’til night and she’d never believe him. She would always be certain that at critical moments he’d turn on her, throw her past in her face.
Bloody fucking hell! Was there no way out?
Out.
And what did he mean by that? A way out of their dilemma? Or a way out of the marriage?
A chill shook him. Captain Royce Kincade, who knew what it was to stand on Venturer’s bridge navigating a path through a field of icebergs, found himself experiencing worse cold on a pedestrian bridge in Bloomsbury. The freezing, immobilizing cold of fear.
So . . . he wanted her. He even wanted those little devils, Andrew and Anne.
But he hadn’t the slightest idea how to make amends. No matter what he said, any accommodation on Holly’s part was going to be nothing more than a polite façade. Duty. Gratitude.
Royce groaned and pounded a fist against the bridge rail. Best to make himself scarce for awhile—perhaps a visit to his solicitor to make certain the legal papers drawn up at the time of his marriage truly protected Holly and the children. And that Charles Everard didn’t have a chance in hell of taking the twins for his own. Hopefully, Nick Black had received his message and would be sending one of his bully boys to guard the residents of Marigold Cottage.
A sudden hope for solving another of his problems broke through Royce’s gloom. The arrival of one of Nick’s seasoned bodyguards might be a help with the Fetch problem, as well. A constant reminder that Nick Black kept an eye on his own. With a wry smile tugging at his lips, Royce pushed off the bridge rail and strode back to the cottage.
Somehow . . . somehow he was going to make his marriage work.
Was that a mocking laugh he heard, or just the water rushing around a fallen branch?
That night, it was the captain who paced his bedchamber. As much as he and Holly needed to find their way through the rough seas around them, they would benefit from allowing time for their tempers to cool. Or at least that’s what common sense dictated.
Or was it a sneaking urge to be as much a mystery to her as she was to him?
Royce groaned. His fist pounded so hard against the tallboy the china basin rattled. Hell’s hounds, his cottage, his wife. He’d bloody well do as he pleased with her.
Throwing himself into a chair before the still-glowing fire, he buried his head in his hands. Tomorrow . . . they’d settle this matter tomorrow.
Chapter 15
“Missus, missus!” In what was becoming a startlingly repetitive cry, Tildy dashed into the large room set aside as a nursery, where Holly was attempting, with little success, to keep the twins from tossing porridge all over Nurse Penrod, Cathy, and themselves. “There’s a giant at the door. A bloody hulking beast, he is!”
“Tildy! Language.”
“Sorry, missus, but he scared me half to death. Sent the cap’n to talk to him, I did, but you’d best come too.”
Holly, having seen evidence of just how quickly Ned Black could respond to a plea for help—if it suited him, that is—was not alarmed. Tildy’s beast must be the guard the captain had requested. And if he wished to hire a giant, then he would have to find the funds to feed him as well! With a roll of her eyes for the globs of porridge spattered over her apron, the twins, their two attendants, and the floor, Holly fled the room. Even confrontation with a hulking beast would be an improvement.
As she descended the stairs, she got a good look at the stranger. Merciful heavens. The captain was a big man, but their visitor was a man mountain, taller, broader, tougher-looking in every way. Yet there were streaks of gray in his longish brown hair, and a recent scar, red and puckered, marred one cheek. And . . . Holly paused on the stairs, taking more time to study the newcomer. He was making an effort to stand tall, but his skin was pale. Not just the pallor of a night creature, but the telltale sign of recent illness—she was almost certain of it. Which would account for Nick Black being willing to spare such a hulk to the rural quiet of Marigold Cottage. Shamelessly, Holly stayed where she was, eavesdropping on the conversation below.
“It’s a bit of a come-down, Cap’n,” the man was saying. “I bin at Nick Black’s back since he were a nipper, younger than our Fetch. And me a good ten years older. But he was always good with his head, good at giving orders. Glad to follow him I was, and keep him safe.” The giant shuffled his feet, peering at the captain from under bushy brows. “Y’see, it’s this way, Cap’n. There was a spot of trouble a couple o’ weeks ago, and Nick, he says I ain’t ready to come back yet. That the country air will do me good.” The big man hung his head, rubbed the side of his nose with his thumb. “I got t’ admit he c’d be right, so here I am, for what I’m worth. M’name’s Ben Rivers, and I’m pleased to help out, if you want me.”
The giant’s shoulders slumped, and Holly felt a tug on her heart. She suspected that might be the longest speech Rivers had ever made in his life. Perhaps he’d even practiced it, poor man. What was that old expression? Needs must when the Devil rides.
Moving swiftly, Holly finished her descent of the stairs just as the captain and Ben Rivers sealed their bargain with a handshake. As introductions were made, she couldn’t help but note the guard towered over her like a cliff of solid granite. Good heavens, if the captain’s presence gave her a sense of protection, what would . . .?
Oh no, she’d never admit to that! The captain was far more nuisance than protector.
Unfair. Absurd. She was an ungrateful wretch.
But even if she weren’
t, gratitude could never substitute for . . . what? Had she really been foolish enough, in her few private moments late at night, to hope for love?
The more the fool, she.
“I’ll show Rivers to his room,” the captain was saying, “and then I have business in town. Do not expect me back before late afternoon.”
A highly satisfying vision of Venturer burning to the waterline flashed through her head, and was as quickly banished. However much she hated the competition, Venturer was their future. Their sole support.
If their marriage lasted.
Holly closed her eyes, savoring the quiet. The babes were napping, Mr. Rivers out exploring the countryside around the house. “A real treat to see all them trees,” he’d told her before he charged out the door like a man who’d never seen a tree outside a park. Perhaps he hadn’t.
Holly sank down onto the sofa in the parlor and unabashedly raised her feet, leaning her head back against a soft pillow and, with a soft sigh of relief, stretched out full length. The ups and downs of the past few days had worn her out. For many long years she had considered herself the strongest, toughest, most resilient female she knew. Clever, as well. Until Charles Everard threw her out.
Yet she’d landed on her feet, had she not? She had only to look around . . .
To find her husband preferred to be anywhere but here.
Her household required the services of one of Nick Black’s top bodyguards.
She could be accused of promoting a romance between children.
The captain was ashamed of her.
Worse than that—she’d given him a disgust of her.
Voices in the hall, loud and cheerful, broke through Holly’s spate of feeling sorry for herself. Not Fetch again. Miserable boy. Could he not go a single day without seeing his Cathy? Devil take it! Marigold Cottage was in danger of getting as many visitors as the British Museum. How would Tildy get any work done if all she did was answer the door?
Dear Lord, she was turning into a grump. She had always been sharp-tongued, but she’d never thought of herself as a shrew. No wonder the captain—
The door-knocker sounded. Peremptory. Insistent. Merciful heavens, even the giant’s knock hadn’t reverberated that loudly. More like a constable at the door. Alarmed, Holly rose to her feet in one swift movement and headed toward the front hall. Was it a constable come to tell her something had happened to the captain? Footpads? A carriage accident? Rushing past Tildy, who had just reached the bottom of the stairs, Holly flung open the front door. And gaped. Two well-dressed ladies—well, not as elegant as Lady R but definitely ladies of comfortable circumstances—confronted her. After a raking glance at the plain gown Holly wore for feeding the twins and dealing with household chores, the younger of the two asked, “Have we arrived at Marigold Cottage?”
“Yes, ma’am.” What on earth were these two shiningly respectable women doing here?
“I am Mrs. Hay,” the elder of the two declared in stentorian tones. She nodded to the woman beside her. “This is my daughter, Mrs. McPherson. We have come to visit Captain Kincade.” At Holly’s stunned look, she added grandly, “My grandson.”
Holly could swear someone had just thrown a shroud over her brain. Moving like an automaton, she ordered an open-mouthed Tildy to bring refreshments then ushered the ladies into the parlor and showed them to a seat, side by side, on the sofa. The sofa where the pillows were still all askew from her few minutes’ rest. She clamped her jaws around a scream of anguish, pasted a thin smile on her face, and sat down on the edge of a chair facing the visitors.
The shock on the women’s faces would have been comical if it hadn’t been so insulting. With great effort Holly thrust away the sharp words on the tip of her tongue. “Yes,” she said quietly, confirming their surprise. “I am the captain’s wife. I regret the captain has gone into town, and I have no idea how soon he will return. I am happy to make your acquaintance, however. You have come a long way, have you not?”
“You are the widow the captain married?” The white-haired Mrs. Hay looked as if she had just been asked to sit down with a chimney-sweep.
“Please excuse my attire, ma’am, but wearing fine gowns around small children is not wise. And, of course, I had no idea we were to have visitors.”
“Both ladies sniffed, almost in unison, obviously considering this comment an aspersion on their manners—an implication that they should have sent a note before arriving on the doorstep.
Which they should have, Holly thought, firmly repressing a scowl.
“Children?” Mrs. McPherson, a lady of uncertain years and a more kindly face than her mother’s, asked. “Royce mentioned only one—at least that’s what I thought,” she added with a puzzled frown.
“Twins, ma’am. Andrew and Anne, and a right handful they are.” Oh, blast, she’d let her hard-won ton talk slip.
She was instantly skewered by matching sharp glances from the visitors. Holly called on her long line of stout yeoman ancestry for courage as Mrs. Hay, clearly ready to pounce, opened her mouth. She would survive this, she would.
And then Mrs. McPherson’s hand covered that of her mother. The elderly lady snapped her mouth closed, and her daughter offered Holly the friendliest smile she’d seen yet from the pair of them. “What a delight to have twins. May we see them, please?”
“Of course.” A frisson of warning cut off Holly’s rush of relief. But surely there could be no harm in presenting the children. All females were charmed by babies, were they not? And she needed all the help she could get with these unexpected guests. Since Tildy had just placed a tray of tea and scones on a low table in front of the sofa, Holly asked her to deliver the message to the nursery.
Just as she finished pouring out, footsteps were heard in the hall, and she turned with a warm smile to welcome the twins, Agnes holding Andrew, a pale Cathy clutching Anne. Holly’s heart swelled with pride as she noted the babes’ faces were shining clean, their clothing spotless. Clearly, Tildy had warned of the presence of guests.
A hiss of breath behind her was Holly’s first hint that all was not well. Swiftly, she turned back to her visitors, good manners prevailing even as her nerves twinged when she saw the women’s set faces. “Ladies, may I present Andrew and Anne?”
“But . . . they’re so young,” Mrs. McPherson whispered, confusion burgeoning into renewed shock.
“Indeed they are,” declared Mrs. Hay. “We had no idea.” Accusing blue eyes, so like her grandson’s, settled on Holly. “You most certainly could not have observed a proper period of mourning.”
Oh dear God, she’d never thought . . . had no excuse . . . Words failed. How dare they pounce on her weakness, her one failure in a rise from tavern wench to courtesan of the first stare? From courtesan to wife and mother of the two most wonderful children in the world?
Yet Holly’s sharp tongue stayed glued to her mouth, refusing to move, which gave ample time for Mrs. McPherson to do more precise calculations. “They are less than a year. Is that not so, Nurse?”
Agnes Penrod cast a panicked glance at Holly yet had no choice but to answer. “Nine months, ma’am.”
“Nine months,” Mrs. McPherson echoed faintly. “But that would mean . . .” Her gaze, no longer friendly, fixed on Holly. “That would mean Royce married you before they were born.”
“Dear God!” Mrs. Hay cried, “Are they Royce’s? Are these my great-grandbabies?”
“No, no! He’s not their father!” Of necessity Holly found her voice, for she couldn’t let Royce’s grandmother think . . .” And then, as she saw the emotions chasing across her guests’ faces, the full impact of telling the truth struck her. The room swirled around her, a gray mist threatening to turn to black. And only then, far too late, she realized it might have been wiser to allow them to think Royce had barely made it home in time to keep his children from being bastards.
“Royce is not the father?” Mrs. Hay said, sounding to Holly like the Voice of Doom.
“No, ma’am.”
“You married my nephew before your husband was cold in his grave?” Mrs. McPherson’s appalled gaze pinned Holly to her chair.
“No! I mean . . .” Holly’s voice trailed away. No words she could say would mend matters. She was fair and truly caught in a web of her own making. And in that moment she realized what the captain—Royce—had risked by marrying her.
All for his blasted ship!
No. Not completely. She was finally willing to grant that the honest and upright Captain Kincade had felt a bit of compassion as well.
Which she’d managed to destroy within three days of his homecoming.
“There never was a husband, was there?” Mrs. Hay demanded. “The whole thing’s a sham, though why he’d marry a woman carrying another man’s bastards I cannot imagine.”
“He always had a good heart, Mother,” Mrs. McPherson said. “He’s a grown man and must do as he pleases.”
“Well, it does not please me! He’s brought a whore into the family, that’s what he’s done.”
“Ye’ll not say that about the missus, ma’am. Not a word more, either of ye.” The visitors gasped as Ben Rivers loomed above Agnes, Cathy, and the babes, who were still standing just in front of the door. They quickly stepped aside, allowing Ben to enter, with Fetch directly behind him. Both visitors gaped as Ben’s bulk seemed to fill the room, though they seemed not to notice the young man at his side until his voice rang out with an authority that startled them all.
“She’s a good woman,” Fetch asserted, hands on hips. “Ye old biddies can go back where you come from. You’re not wanted here.”
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