The Bride Wore Scarlet

by Liz Carlyle

  “Excellent. I’ll get us situated here.”

  Bessett said no more. As they crossed through the shadowy portal and into the inn, the aproned innkeeper came eagerly across the room toward them. “Mrs. Smith, welcome!”

  “Why, thank you.” Anaïs tucked her arm through Bessett’s. “I was just saying to my dear Mr. Smith what a charming little hostelry he has found us.”

  With Anaïs’s smile plastered firmly in place, Bessett left matters in her hands and vanished. After directing the disposition of all their baggage, then having the innkeeper’s dubious-looking sheets stripped and replaced with her own, Anaïs leaned out the window and looked over the rooftops of Ramsgate.

  In the harbor below, she could just make out a few bare masts, and beyond them the lighthouse at the end of the west pier. But nearer to hand, on her left, Anaïs could see Bessett’s bedchamber window, for the inn was built round a stable yard, and their rooms were set at right angles to each other. Ever the gentleman—cool and restrained though he might be—the earl had insisted upon the smaller single room for himself.

  On a sigh, she withdrew from the window and pulled the thin underdrapes shut. After bathing and replacing her travel-stained clothing with something fresh, she shuffled through the wilted pile of magazines one last time. Then, with a final glance at the window, Anaïs gave in to her impulse.

  The walk down the curving High Street was not long, and though the shopkeepers were sweeping their doorsteps for the evening, their windows were filled with all manner of goods designed to catch the eye. Anaïs passed them by. At the edge of town, she made her way gingerly down to the quay. A steam packet was churning its way through the harbor entrance as a small black dog ran along the pier, barking madly.

  Looking about amidst the small trading vessels and ketch-rigged trawlers, Anaïs saw but one ship sleek enough to be DuPont’s—a small, slender clipper with sharply raking masts that looked as if it was designed for gunrunning. Her sights set, Anaïs picked her way past the fishermen offloading the last of the day’s catch, and made her way out the pier, which was devoid of tourists this late in the day. Halfway along, she paused, turned, and set a hand above her eyes to block the sun.

  Yes, that was the ship. Even from this distance, the mark of the Fraternitas Aureae Crucis—the Brotherhood of the Golden Cross—could be seen carved into the decoration on its bow, did one but know what to look for.

  The ancient symbol consisted of a Latin cross with a quill and sword beneath. By my Word and by my Sword, I will defend the Gift, my Faith, my Brotherhood, and all its Dependents, until the last breath of life leaves my body. Those were the words, equally ancient, that traditionally accompanied the symbol. The words Anaïs had been refused the opportunity to finish speaking.

  In the British Isles, the gold cross was most often overlaid on a cartouche in the shape of a thistle. But in France and the rest of the Continent, the plainer version was more common, unless one’s family had Scots blood. Anaïs had seen both forms of the symbol often during her travels—carved into pediments, painted onto ceilings, even etched onto gravestones.

  Bessett and Lord Lazonby wore the symbol on their cravat pins. She wore the plainer version tattooed onto her hip. The mark of the Guardian. Like the Tudor rose, the Masonic pyramid, and the fleur-de-lis, it was one of those flourishes people almost failed to notice, so common had it become over the centuries.

  Anaïs walked another few yards along the pier to better view the deck. From this angle she could see Lord Bessett standing topside, one hand propped high upon the bare mainmast, the other set on his hip, elbow out as he spoke intently with one of the crew. Another man was striking the French colors. Tomorrow, once they were some distance from shore—and the prying eyes of others—the crew would likely run up the English ensign. The Fraternitas was nothing if not flexible.

  Bessett had again stripped off his coat, doubtless to assist in some nautical task, and now stood in his waistcoat, his white shirtsleeves billowing in the breeze, brilliant against the distant cliffs of Ramsgate. Still, it was clear from the deferential demeanor of everyone around him that he was now in charge.

  Anaïs watched in fascination as his hair whipped back from his face in the wind. He wore it unfashionably long, without any facial hair to soften the lean angles of his face. Bessett was tall, too—taller and more slender than any of the men aboard—and Anaïs was surprised by how completely at ease he appeared as he moved about the deck, motioning at various points amongst the rigging. The man who appeared to be the French captain nodded, turned, and bellowed a command at two of his underlings. They would be rigged to run hard on the wind, Anaïs suspected, absently settling a hand over her stomach.

  Ah, well. She would live.

  Just then, Lord Bessett turned a half circle, his perceptive gaze sweeping round the harbor. Anaïs realized it the moment he saw her. Some inscrutable emotion sketched over his face, then he returned his attention to the captain just long enough to shake his hand.

  His business apparently finished, Bessett cut a glance over his shoulder at her, and with a jerk of his head, indicated she should meet him quayside.

  Anaïs turned and retraced her steps toward shore.

  By the time he approached the quay, Bessett had put on his coat and restored his hair to some semblance of order. He did not chide her as she had thought he might, but instead offered his arm.

  “Mrs. Smith?” he said, crooking his elbow. “Shall we walk?”

  He looked so very handsome in the falling dusk, even with the lines of fatigue etched round his eyes and the look of seriousness on his face. Oddly at a loss for words, Anaïs slipped an arm through his. She would have been more comfortable, she suddenly realized, had he scolded her.

  They wandered through the throng without speaking until they had cleared the quay and the crowds. The silence between them had grown expectant, almost awkward, and Anaïs had the oddest feeling Bessett was searching for words.

  Her intuition was borne out when, at the foot of the High Street, he stopped and turned to face her. “I have been thinking,” he said abruptly. “About your complaint.”

  Somehow, she managed to smile, but the heat of his gaze was intense and unexpected. “I tend to complain about a great many things,” she replied. “Can you be more specific?”

  A ghost of a smile lit his eyes. “At the inn,” he answered, “when you said I had to trust you, or you would be a hindrance. You were right.”

  Anaïs drew back an inch. “You need me, Bessett,” she said quietly. “You can’t very well send me packing now.”

  He shook his head. “No,” he said. “I mean—yes, I need you. But you will have to bear with me. This is not something that comes . . .”

  “That comes naturally to a man such as yourself?” she lightly suggested. “Yes, I know your type—the authoritative, take-charge type.”

  This time he smiled, but it was wry. “I could say it takes one to know one.”

  “And I could say some men are born to authority,” she returned, but there was no ire in her voice. “After scarcely an hour on deck, you were already lecturing that poor captain about his rigging, and having everything put your way.”

  “Because if things go badly—if we have any unnecessary delay—Captain Thibeaux will not pay a great price for it,” said Bessett calmly. “But Giselle Moreau might.”

  Anaïs looked at him in all seriousness. “This child—her predicament—it troubles you on some deeply personal level, I think,” she murmured. But when he made no response, she continued. “And I agree wholeheartedly with everything you said. You are not accustomed to trusting—or even working with a woman, I daresay.”

  “No.” He glanced away, toward the path they had just climbed, one hand set at his trim waist, pushing back the folds of his coat. He looked pensive, as if his mind were running back over the confluence of events that had brought him to this place, perhaps even to this point in life. “No, I am not used to it. But you cannot be a green gir
l. Or a fool. Were it otherwise, Vittorio would never have sent you to us.”

  Anaïs turned her gaze away. “Thank you for that,” she finally said.

  After a moment’s hesitation, he resumed his pace. She fell into step with him, but did not slide her fingers around his elbow again. Suddenly, the feel of his hard-muscled arm beneath her hand was the last thing she needed. And his kindness—yes, perhaps she could have done better without that, too.

  What a sorry state of affairs this was turning out to be. Bessett’s words aside, Anaïs was beginning to feel just a bit like a green girl—and in ways she really did not wish to think about.

  At that instant, however, Bessett crooked his head and smiled down at her. “We are going to have to do better than Smith, don’t you think, when we arrive in Brussels?”

  “Who shall we be, then?” She kept her tone artificially bright. “I suppose we should choose something as near our own names as will feel natural.”

  For a long moment, he said nothing. Instead, he matched his long stride to her shorter one, and walked beside her without impatience—and without his scowl.

  “MacLachlan,” he said after a time, but there was a strange hitch in his voice. “I’ll be Geoffrey MacLachlan.”

  “A Scottish name?” Anaïs remarked, and for some reason, she took his arm again.

  As if it were second nature, Bessett settled his hand over hers. “It is my stepfather’s name,” he said. “I can always claim connection to his construction business if pressed. What about yourself?”

  “My name is odd, but no one knows me,” she said. “I shall just be Anaïs MacLachlan.”

  “It is unusual,” he agreed. “But beautiful.”

  “Another of my great-grandmothers,” Anaïs explained. “She was from Catalonia. We still have vineyards there.”

  “But not in Alsace?”

  Anaïs shook her head. “The estate was burnt in the Revolution,” she said. “My father has never even tried to reclaim the land, though he could have done, perhaps.”

  “So a French title, but no land,” Bessett murmured.

  Anaïs smiled weakly. “He never used the title until he met my mother,” she replied. “He seemed to think he could not marry her without it. But I don’t think titles much matter to her. She was country bred, and raised in—what is the polite euphemism? Genteel poverty? Except that poverty doesn’t feel terribly genteel, I daresay, when one is living in it.”

  “At least she sounds refreshing.” Bessett seemed to be warming to the topic of her family. “And you have a twin brother, do you not?”

  “Yes, Armand.”

  “So, you were born at the same time—”

  Anaïs laughed. “Twins usually are.”

  Bessett did not return her humor. “And yet he was not chosen to be the Guardian?”

  Anaïs lifted one shoulder. “I don’t know why,” she replied. “Nonna just said it wasn’t written in the cards. And perhaps he hasn’t the temperament. Armand is very much the young man about town. But Maria still complains about Nonna’s decision.”

  “Maria?”

  “My cousin, Maria Vittorio.” Anaïs paused to kick a stone from their path. “She was my great-grandmother’s companion, and the widow of Vittorio’s brother. Maria is a grumpy old dear. She lives with me in Wellclose Square—Nonna left us the house—and we used to travel together.”

  “Back and forth to Tuscany, you mean?”

  “Yes.” Anaïs sighed. “But Maria has always believed it was Armand’s place to go, not mine. That I should have been at home embroidering sofa cushions and filling that cavernous house with children.”

  “And what do you think?”

  Anaïs shrugged again, this time with both shoulders. “I haven’t the patience for needlework,” she answered. “Besides, Nonna Sofia lived an unconventional life. She had just one child, my grandmother, who died young. And all Nonna’s husbands died young, too. So what good did convention do her? It broke her heart. In the end, she poured herself into the business and made us rich.”

  “An unconventional life indeed,” he murmured. “But yours needn’t be like that. Not if you don’t wish it to be.”

  “I think we must be satisfied with the life fate deals us,” she said. “And I have a sense of purpose few women ever have.”

  “But—?”

  “Why do you think there’s a but in this conversation?”

  “I hear it in your voice.”

  She cut him a sidelong glance. “Best to turn that Gift of yours in someone else’s direction, I think,” she warned.

  He flashed a muted smile. “I don’t have that sort of ability.”

  “And I am not very deep, or difficult to understand,” she said, resolved to change the subject. “Now, tell me, my dear husband—how long have we been wed?”

  “Three months,” he replied after a moment’s consideration.

  She nodded. “That will explain our knowing little about one another.”

  He crooked his head to look down at her. “So it was an arranged marriage?” he asked. “Not a love match?”

  Anaïs cast him another sidelong look. “Does this feel like a love match to you, Bessett?”

  “That would be Mr. MacLachlan, my dear,” he said lightly.

  She laughed. “So, our marriage was arranged,” she said. “I was badly on the shelf, and my father paid you pots of money to marry me.”

  He laughed hugely. “That desperate, eh?”

  “Why not?” She looked askance at him. “I’ll admit, I’m no beauty. Perhaps my virtue was compromised? Or I was an outrageous flirt? You doubtless did my father a huge favor in taking me off his hands.”

  His expression sobered then. “Don’t say those things,” he said quietly. “Not even in jest.”

  “Careful, MacLachlan.” Anaïs smiled. “I might begin to think you have a heart. So, what do we know of one another? I daresay we’d best decide.”

  “As with our new names, we should keep the details near the truth,” he answered.

  “Very well,” she said. “I was raised primarily on my mother’s farm in Gloucestershire. Besides Armand, I have two sisters and another brother, all younger and still at home, and Papa’s ward, Nate, who is eldest, and on his own now. What about you?”

  Bessett seemed to hesitate for a moment. “I was raised abroad,” he finally answered. “Bessett was a scholar of ancient civilizations, so we traveled quite a lot.”

  Her eyes widened. “Did you? How fascinating.”

  “Yes, but he died when I was young,” he said. “My mother returned to Yorkshire, and a few years after that, we moved to London.”

  “How odd that she should take you from your family estate to be raised in Town,” Anaïs murmured.

  “I was not an easy child to raise,” he murmured. “She . . . didn’t understand me. And I didn’t understand myself. In Yorkshire, we were so isolated. In any case, I was not the heir. Bessett had a son by an earlier marriage—Alvin, my stepbrother.”

  “You mean your half brother?”

  “Yes,” he said swiftly. “He was much older than I, and we were about as alike as chalk and cheese, but I . . . I simply adored him.”

  “That’s just how it is with Nate and me,” said Anaïs, smiling. “There’s nothing so reassuring as a much-elder brother, I think.”

  “Oh, yes, steady as a rock, that was Alvin.” Bessett’s gaze had turned inward. “But when he married, my mother thought it best she remove from Loughton, the estate in Yorkshire. Unfortunately, there was no heir born of the marriage, so when Alvin died . . .”

  “Oh,” she said quietly. “I am very sorry. A title is a fine thing, I daresay, but not at the cost of a beloved brother.”

  “My sentiments exactly,” said Bessett, his jaw set tight.

  “Has he been gone long?”

  “Awhile, yes,” said Bessett. “I was a man grown, and my mother had remarried. I had already come down from Cambridge, and spent a few years in business with my
stepfather.”

  “So you built things?” she remarked.

  “At first, I merely drew them,” said Geoff. “And after a time, he began sending me abroad to oversee certain projects. We did quite a lot of work for the colonial government in North Africa.”

  “So you really have done a bit of sailing,” she murmured. “Indeed, you are as well-traveled as I.”

  “Does that surprise you?”

  “Oh, you know how most Englishmen are.” Anaïs gave an expansive wave of her hand. “They think the world begins at Dover, and ends at Hadrian’s Wall.”

  “Ah,” he said quietly. “Well, trust me, Miss de Rohan. I am not most Englishmen.”

  She pursed her lips, and glanced up at him. That, she believed wholeheartedly.

  “I really do think you ought to call me Anaïs, you know,” she said softly. “It would be best if you got used to it before we arrive in Belgium.”

  He crooked his head again, and smiled down at her—a smile that reached all the way to his ice-blue eyes. “Anaïs, then,” he said. “And I am Geoff—or Geoffrey, if you like.”

  “Geoff, then, for the most part.” Anaïs managed a little wink. “I shall save Geoffrey for those moments when I am feeling put out with you.”

  “Both syllables, hmm?” he said, as the inn yard came into view. “I have a feeling that is what I had best get used to.”

  In London, the day was brisk, the breeze whipping at Hyde Park’s spring blossoms almost violently. Such botanic brutality had not, however, deterred the last of the day’s gadabouts from enjoying the twin diversions of seeing and being seen, for the London Season had commenced in earnest, and there were wardrobes to critique, rumors to be passed, and social calendars to be compared.

  For most of the park’s habitués, it was a pleasant if exhausting ritual. For the occupants of Lord Lazonby’s black-and-gold phaeton, however, the Season held little allure. Lady Anisha Stafford was disdainful of the entire business, and about the only thing as strained as Lord Lazonby’s relationship with the polite society was the conversation in his carriage.

  “So, is it true you are courting Bessett now?” he asked as he cut his matched bays through the Cumberland Gate. “He must be strutting like a peacock.”