Barbarous

by Minerva Spencer

  Sickness and fear roiled in her stomach and she pressed her hands against her midriff. Hugh Redvers had gone without what was his for years—surely Daphne could take a little time to consider how best to broach the matter? To make plans?

  Malcolm’s bloody face drifted through her mind and she closed her eyes. Malcolm. She had forgotten about him and his threats. Good God. How long did she have, with Malcolm nipping at her heels like an ill-tempered lapdog?

  Daphne brooded on the matter while Rowena fussed with her hair, attempting to conceal the scratch and goose egg on her forehead. Daphne had almost come to blows with her fractious maid when Rowena had discovered the injury.

  “You must get in bed immediately, Miss Daphne.”

  “I will do no such thing, Rowena.”

  “Indeed, you must. I will make a poultice and you will—”

  “I will not argue with you,” she’d said, her voice cold enough to freeze water. But of course that had not been the end of it and Daphne had argued for half an hour more.

  How could she possibly lie in bed with a smelly concoction on her head while Hugh Redvers was at large? She was far too restless to keep to her bed, even if she had felt like it.

  She stared at Rowena’s deft hands as the maid tamed her unruly blond curls, her mind on Hugh Redvers and the evening ahead. How she wished she’d asked Thomas more about his long-lost heir when she’d had the chance. But the subject had always been a painful one for her husband and she knew Thomas blamed himself for sending Hugh to the Continent all those years ago.

  A familiar tightness built in Daphne’s chest at the thought of her beloved husband, friend, and mentor. Thomas had been good to her in so many ways—from the moment he’d offered her the protection of his name to all the years that followed. He had been especially good to her children—whom he had always called theirs.

  “They are the best sons a man could wish for, Daphne. And you, my dear,” Thomas had said on his deathbed, “are the daughter I always wished I’d had. While I’m sorry you’ve been forced into a marriage of convenience rather than enjoying the union of love you deserve, I’m honored to have been of use to you.”

  Daphne had stayed with Thomas day and night after the riding accident that had left him paralyzed and broken. She’d been unable to envision a life without his safe, caring presence. Without his love.

  “I only wish your mother could have lived to see the beautiful, strong woman you’ve become, Daphne. She would have been so proud.” The earl’s eyes had been clouded and distant, and she knew it was her mother, Althea—Thomas’s dearest friend—that he was seeing rather than Daphne.

  “You are still a young woman, Daphne, and it is my dearest wish that you finally find happiness after I’m gone.”

  “I have been happy with you, Thomas.”

  His pain-filled smile had been gentle. “I want you to find love—love like I once had.”

  Tears welled in Daphne’s eyes as she remembered those words—among his last.

  Rowena squinted at Daphne’s reflection, her hands pausing in their work. “Are you ill, my lady?”

  She shook her head and brushed away her tears with the back of her hand. “I feel fine. I would like to wear the jet tonight, Rowena.”

  Her maid frowned before taking the magnificent jet necklace—yet another gift from Thomas—from its box and fastening it around Daphne’s neck.

  Daphne nodded at her reflection and stood, allowing Rowena to drape a rather ugly gray shawl over her shoulders before turning to leave.

  Her step was light and she realized she was looking forward to dinner in spite of all her worries. After Thomas’s death the evening meal had been an uncertain event as only Daphne and her sister-in-law Amelia remained at Lessing Hall. To say Amelia was absentminded was to do the absentminded a great disservice. Amelia either forgot dinner altogether or misjudged the time and showed up hours late, or even early. When she did manage to arrive on time, her mind was someplace else. And when she was mentally present she could not be heard over the deafening barking of her dozen pugs, which followed her everywhere, including the dining room. Eating with somebody who was physically and mentally present would be a novel experience.

  Hugh was already in the dining room when Daphne arrived.

  Daphne’s husband had been a big man, but he’d been over seventy when they’d married and his formidable frame had been diminished by time. Hugh Redvers was in his prime and the rough-hewn old hall with its massive wooden furniture and huge cast-iron chandeliers was a perfect backdrop for his powerful presence.

  Daphne could imagine Hugh Redvers drinking and carousing with his thanes after a day killing off Norman invaders. Aromatic rushes would cover the floor and dogs and women would circle the periphery of the heavy trestle table as the men plotted over tankards of mead, their eyes fierce with memories of the day’s violence. An entire ox would be turning on a spit in the gargantuan fireplace and—

  “Auntie?” Hugh’s handsome face was bent towards hers. “Is aught amiss?”

  She blinked rapidly, the image of him in rough leathers and flowing hair dissipating. “No, I am fine.”

  His single eye flickered over her unflattering dress, his expression showing nothing of what he made of the hideous garment. He, by contrast, was exquisite, piratical perfection in his evening clothes. His tailcoat of black superfine made his broad shoulders appear positively gargantuan while his simply arranged neckcloth separated his attractive face from a chest as expansive as a cricket pitch.

  Black satin breeches molded themselves lovingly to the flexing thews and sinews of his thighs, and thin white stockings sheathed muscular calves to stunning advantage. The only color in his ensemble was his waistcoat, which was a green so dark as to be almost black.

  His raiment was civilized, but Hugh Redvers was mischief on legs—gorgeous legs—and his proper attire did nothing to tame him. He emanated power, danger, and a barbarous disregard for social strictures and mores. He was the kind of man who did whatever he wished, not caring whether or not his behavior conformed to the dictates of polite society.

  Something about the gleam in his eye made Daphne want to run and hide. She stifled the foolish urge and turned to look at the portrait he had been studying when she entered. It was a full-length painting of his Aunt Eloisa, Thomas Redvers’s first wife. Daphne wondered if he found it odd that a giant portrait of Thomas’s first wife hung in their dining room.

  “You don’t mind dining under the imperious scrutiny of your predecessor?” he asked, echoing her thoughts in a way that sent ripples of worry down her spine.

  Daphne pushed up her spectacles and moistened her lower lip, which was unaccountably dry. “Do you think she appears imperious? I believe she looks rather sanguine.”

  He bent low and leaned close to her, as if to view the portrait from her angle. Heat surged up the right side of Daphne’s body and she inched away, praying he would not notice the evasive move.

  “No,” he finally said. “She is definitely imperious and rather judgmental, too. When I was a boy I always felt she was looking down on me in complete agreement with my uncle when it came to my various infractions. Of which there were many.”

  “I have no problem believing that.”

  His lips pulled into a wicked smile. “You are looking at me with such stern disapproval—very much like a schoolmistress confronted with a naughty boy. I think you would like to discipline me? Perhaps make me write out some improving verse a hundred times?” He held out his huge hands. “Or maybe rap my knuckles with a ruler?”

  Daphne knew she was as red as a lobster. “I assure you I was thinking nothing of the sort.”

  “Oh? What were you thinking?” She pursed her lips and he chuckled. “Have you been listening to tales about me, Auntie? Has somebody been maligning my character?”

  Daphne could not believe he expected an answer to those questions. She looked at the three place settings, wondering how long she should hold dinner for her sister-in
-law.

  The baron noticed her quick glance. “I see my aunt Amelia is characteristically late.”

  “I’m afraid she doesn’t always recall mealtimes these days.”

  “Not just these days.” He followed Daphne to the table and waved away the footman, seating her himself. “Aunt Amelia often drifted in, complete with pug army, midway through a meal, after the meal, several hours before a meal. On one memorable occasion she interrupted the gentlemen in the middle of cigars and port.”

  Daphne didn’t need to imagine the scene; her absentminded sister-in-law had done the same thing on one of the few occasions she and Thomas had entertained. It had driven Daphne’s normally calm husband to distraction.

  “I would have thought your return after nearly two decades would have brought her to the table on time,” Daphne said. Surely not even a woman as scatterbrained as Amelia Redvers could fail to notice her nephew’s return from the dead?

  Hugh laughed. “On the contrary, I encountered her in the gallery earlier today and she gave no indication that she had even noticed my absence. I confess it quite took me down several notches.”

  “I expect there are still several notches beneath those.”

  He gave one of his disconcerting bellows of laughter. “Touché, my dear auntie! I’m flattered you noticed my . . . notches.”

  Predictably, Daphne’s face heated at his innuendo. “Your use of that word will only serve to stir ignorant speculation.”

  “Notches?”

  The corner of her mouth began to twitch upward but she ruthlessly pulled it back down.

  “The word auntie, Lord Ramsay, as you well know. I do not like to think of you going about the country reminding all and sundry of our ridiculous relationship.”

  He leaned toward her. “What activity do you like to think of me doing?”

  Daphne coughed to cover the traitorous laugh that broke out of her. She absolutely refused to encourage him. Instead, she narrowed her eyes in a manner she generally reserved for quelling her rambunctious sons.

  “You may use my Christian name, which is Daphne.”

  “Your wish is my command . . . Daphne.” His warm tone and sensual lips made her name sound like some type of scandalous foreign undergarment.

  She frowned and gestured for her butler to begin serving. Six footmen flowed into the massive room and laid out the first course under the direction of Gates’s gimlet eye.

  “Thank you, Gates,” Daphne said after enough food to feed a small village was laid out on the table. “Lord Ramsay and I will serve ourselves.”

  “Very good, my lady,” Gates murmured, giving no sign he thought her request unorthodox.

  It was unorthodox, but Daphne wanted to talk to her new nephew without an audience of sharp-eyed and sharp-eared servants. After all, it was entirely possible she might have to address the subject of Malcolm. If so, she didn’t mean to share the distasteful conversation with the entire neighborhood.

  They helped themselves to the various dishes and the room was silent but for the sound of cutlery on china.

  When it became clear he had no intention of voluntarily satisfying her curiosity, she laid down her fork and knife and turned to him.

  “And by which name shall I call you—Lord Ramsay or Captain Standish?” If she thought to unsettle him with her knowledge, she was mistaken. Instead, he sat back in his chair, as indolent and relaxed as a pasha surveying his domain.

  “You are correct . . . Daphne, I have been known as One-Eyed Standish for quite some time now.” He raised his glass in the gesture of a toast. “But I daresay we must bid farewell to that name for as long as I am back in the civilized world.” His mocking tone conveyed his opinion of said world. And just what did that mean? For as long as he was back. Was he going somewhere? Before Daphne could ask, he continued.

  “As I said earlier today, we are family—you must call me Hugh.”

  Daphne returned his lazily amused smile with one of her own. If he wished to lean on their tenuous relationship, far be it from her to ignore such an opportunity.

  “Very well, Hugh, as we are family, perhaps you would enlighten me as to where you’ve been these past two decades? I believe I deserve to know as much, since your sudden return from the dead means our lives will be the main topic of conversation in every hamlet, town, and city in Great Britain before the week is out—if not already.”

  Rather than looking chastened, he grinned. “Why, what an excellent idea, Daphne.” It was not the answer she’d expected. But then, he wasn’t finished yet. “As we are family I suppose it is within both our rights to demand an intimate personal history of one another.” He leaned toward her. “I must admit I am just as curious about your past as you are about mine.”

  Daphne swallowed. Well. That had been rather ill-conceived and foolish of her, hadn’t it? She might as well just blurt out her entire, humiliating tale now and spare herself the future agony. Instead she clamped her jaws shut. Tightly.

  He took a drink of wine. “If you don’t think it ungentlemanly, I can go first?”

  She nodded, no longer trusting herself to speak.

  “Let us hope I can slake your curiosity while neither boring you insensible nor exposing you to subjects unsuitable for a woman’s delicate ears,” he mocked.

  Daphne burned to lash out, but refused to give him the satisfaction. He was a devil, and she would do well not to wander so eagerly and foolishly into his traps.

  He held his glass to the light, admiring the ruby color. “I’m sure you’ve heard my uncle and I did not part on the best of terms.” It was not a question. “I’d been sent down from Oxford for engaging in a duel and for . . .” He paused and then waved the glass enough to send the liquid sloshing. “Well, it does not signify what else. Nobody was harmed, at least not seriously.” His lips curved into a smile that matched his black patch, savage scar, and hard green eye.

  Daphne was positive that even her hair blushed at what he left unspoken.

  “That wasn’t the first time I’d been a very bad boy, or even the tenth. My uncle and I had been butting heads since my first summer back from Eton, where I’d learned from some of the older boys just how much fun it was to misbehave. The earl had endured my wild ways much longer than he should have—certainly longer than I would have in his place.” He shrugged. “In any event, he was away from Lessing Hall when I came home under a cloud of shame. While awaiting his return I took out one of his prize hunters while I was quite drunk and rode recklessly. The horse had to be put down.” His roguish smile drained away. “After that debacle the earl decided I should remove myself from England until I learned self-restraint. This was when France was rife with problems for people of our station so we—William Standish was to accompany me to keep me out of trouble—decided to sail to Italy after a brief stop in Gibraltar.

  “Not long after we departed Gibraltar, a storm sent our ship off course and we hit an obstruction.” He dismissed the disaster that had altered the course of his life with a casual shrug. “William and I were on deck staring down the storm, as foolish young men will.” His eye was vague as he sifted through the past. “We were very lucky. Most of those belowdecks perished. We helped fill the first two lifeboats with women and children and were waiting for the next boat when the ship pitched and we were thrown over the side.”

  Daphne realized her fork had been paused midway to her mouth for quite some time and lowered it to her plate, too fascinated to eat.

  “William’s leg was crushed between two large pieces of debris and it was all we could do to keep him afloat. Thankfully, the storm relented sometime before morning and we were able to secure some larger pieces of wreckage and form a raft of sorts. I lashed William to the raft but the loss of blood had rendered him unconscious and created another problem.” He refilled his glass and met her eyes. “Sharks. Although nothing in size to the sharks I later saw off Africa, these beasts were nonetheless anxiety-provoking.

  “I cannot say how long we struggled t
o stay on our barely floating collection of rubbish while I repelled hungry sharks. What I can say is I was overjoyed when I spotted a mast in the distance.” He fixed her with a humorless smile. “My joy quickly turned to something else as the ship drew closer. I’m sure you are aware of the Barbary corsairs?”

  Daphne nodded. Who hadn’t heard of the brutal pirates who’d roamed the Mediterranean and raided with impunity for hundreds of years?

  Hugh absently stroked the side of his face, his fingers tracing the scar. “Their practice was to ransom anyone of value. Will’s injury would have meant certain death if they’d known he was a mere servant, so we contrived to exchange identities.” He snapped his fingers and the sudden noise made Daphne jump. “In the blink of an eye I became Hugh Standish, humble servant to Baron Ramsay, heir to the ridiculously wealthy Earl of Davenport.”

  Not for a second did Daphne believe they had contrived anything. If Will Standish had been unconscious at the time, as Hugh indicated, the decision would have been Hugh’s alone. Something occurred to her and she opened her mouth, but then closed it, not wanting to interrupt his fascinating story.

  But he’d seen her and he leaned toward her, his gaze uncomfortably intense. “Yes, my dear? You have a question?”

  “It just occurred to me—your title. It is not one of Thomas’s.”

  His eyelid lowered and he leaned back, once again relaxed, as if she’d not asked the question he was expecting. “It is a title I inherited through my mother—one of the few that pass through a female when there is no immediate male heir. Unfortunately the name was all that was left of the ancient but impoverished barony. The lands and manor that ran with the title were gone even before my mother’s generation.” He shrugged. “I am the last of her line and the title will die with me. To be honest, I had all but forgotten I was Ramsay until Hastings brought it up today.” His gaze sharpened. “About that—”