The Wicked Wife (Blackhaven Brides Book 9)

by Mary Lancaster

“If you wish.”

  “I do.”

  He was silent a moment, then said, “I don’t wish to speak out of turn, but will you not apply to your husband for funds to pay me back? In which case, it would be simpler just to tell him everything now.”

  “Oh no, I plan to pay you back from my pin money,” she assured him. “I hope you don’t mind that it will take a few months.”

  “Years, I should think.”

  “Oh no, I’m sure we needn’t pay the rubies’ full value to a thief,” she said blithely, “and my husband is most generous in that way.”

  “I see.” She could not see his eyes in the darkness, but she was sure they were fixed on her face. “In what ways, then, is your husband not generous?”

  “None,” she said at once. “He is generous to a fault in all things.”

  “Then why are you so afraid to tell him?”

  She leaned forward impulsively. “Oh, can’t you see how it looks? I ran off without a word to him, taking the rubies. And the next he hears about it, I tell him they were stolen from me! I’m not afraid to tell him. I just want to do so once I have them safely back. It will be so much more comfortable for both of us…” She trailed off, as her reasoning didn’t seem to work so well when spoken aloud.

  “Whatever you wish,” he said. Unexpectedly, something brushed lightly, warmly against her cheek, surely his fingers. “Either way, I will help you.”

  She caught his hand and squeezed it. “Thank you,” she said and released him. “And now, you must go.”

  There was a pause. “Must I?”

  She couldn’t help smiling. “Yes,” she said firmly.

  The mattress shifted again as he stood. “Until tomorrow.” There was only the faintest sound of movement as he approached the bedchamber door.

  In sudden alarm, she bolted out of bed, rushing after the blacker shadow, almost knocking against Jamie’s cradle in her haste. “Wait!”

  She bumped into something solid—the Russian—and clutched his arms to steady herself. “What if Lawson is there? Let me look—”

  But she could not go anywhere. His arms were around her, holding her against his hard, lean body. His breath on her lips gave her an instant’s warning. Her heart lurched in panic and then his mouth fell on hers, crushing her lips, opening them before she could object.

  His hand cupped her cheek, brushed her neck before settling at her nape, holding her head steady for his kiss. He gentled it, perhaps afraid of frightening her, caressed her lips more tenderly, his tongue sensual yet undemanding as it stroked hers.

  But she wasn’t afraid at all. Her mouth, her whole body thrilled to his touch, ached for more. She could not let herself respond. There was betrayal enough in not throwing him off.

  “Enough,” she whispered against his lips. “I will not do this.”

  His lips fastened more strongly, making her gasp, but only for a moment before he raised his head and released her. “It was never a condition of my help,” he said huskily. The door opened and closed so quickly that the light from the single candle in the sitting room barely reached her.

  She held her breath, waiting for Lawson’s scream that never came.

  Eventually, when her straining ears picked up nothing more, she felt her way back to bed. Thank God Jamie had slept through everything. For a while she lay awake, her fingers on her lips. No man but Alan had ever kissed her mouth. She wished it hadn’t been quite so exciting… the familiarity of such a tender embrace mingled with the novelty of a wilder sensuality, so hard to resist.

  She squeezed her eyes shut. She missed Alan. She wanted the Russian to have been Alan.

  Chapter Nine

  On first waking, Frances felt much more comfortable than she had the evening before. The Russian was taking care of any transaction in the tavern and would do so with much more skill and authority over such company than she could ever manage.

  Only, as she fed Jamie, she wondered if that were true. She was trusting a man she barely knew, because he had once done her a good turn. Or because he flattered her wounded heart. But would an honorable man kiss a woman he knew to be married? Admittedly, he had pushed it no further and had certainly not made it a condition of his aid, but still, in the cold light of day, this made her uneasy. And she was trusting him with the rubies which were her husband’s.

  Since leaving Torridon House that morning—it seemed a lifetime ago—she had been making bad decisions and worse decisions. Her instinct might be to trust the Russian, but instinct had led her away from Torridon and into the increasingly crazy wagers with Ariadne. She should have sent the rubies home with the coach from Edinburgh…

  It was no use crying over spilt milk. She could not alter what she had done, but she could stop acting foolishly. She should not, could not leave this transaction solely up to the Russian. She needed him to protect her as he had already shown he could do. But she had to see and handle the rubies herself… if they were indeed there to be retrieved.

  Lawson obligingly went to fetch her coffee, without being asked. By the time the maid returned, she stood in the sitting room, cramming her hair under Joe the porter’s cap. Jamie lay on a blanket by the sofa, gurgling happily.

  Lawson set the coffee down on the table, her lips thin with disapproval. “Not again.”

  “One more time.” Frances picked up the cup of coffee and drank gratefully. “There’s no need to wake Mrs. Marshall if she was home late.”

  Lawson sniffed. Clearly, she disapproved of her mistress, too.

  “Will you watch over Jamie for me?” Frances asked. “I should be back in an hour, hopefully less.”

  “’Course I will,” Lawson said, her stern face breaking into smiles in response to Jamie’s.

  “Thank you, Lawson,” Frances said warmly. “I don’t know what I would have done without you this last week.”

  As before, she slipped out through the busy kitchen without greater notice than a cook shouting at her for getting under her feet. With the cap low over her eyes, and her hands shoved inside the pockets of the baggy coat that disguised her shape, she swaggered up High Street and turned right toward the market.

  Her heartbeat quickened as the tavern came into view. In her right-hand pocket, her fingers closed over the letter knife she had put there on impulse, just in case she needed it to defend herself. Or the rubies.

  A coach with two restive horses had stopped opposite the tavern. The coachman seemed to be asleep, his head almost lost in the upturned collar of his coat. As she drew nearer, she saw that the window was covered by black curtains.

  A sailor lay on the tavern steps, snoring. As Frances approached, a scantily dressed female stepped over him and went on her way, yawning. Frances took a deep breath.

  “Oi!” called a voice from the street.

  She glanced over her shoulder, not truly expecting the hail to be aimed at her. But it was the wiry man with the darting eyes who had tried to sell her the ring and the sapphire bracelet, and he was striding toward her.

  He stopped and jerked his head toward the stationary coach. Frances walked warily to the man.

  “Got something for you,” he said casually, glancing up and down the street.

  “Really?” she asked eagerly. “What I was looking for?”

  He nodded and jerked open the coach door. “In here. Quick.”

  Every instinct rebelled. “No. Just give me them and tell me what you want.”

  “It’s taken care of, but I’m not stupid enough to hand them over in the public street, am I? Get in. A friend of yours is there already.”

  “Get in, boy,” a husky, foreign voice said from the depths of the coach. “We’re all friends here.”

  Recognizing the voice with relief, Frances climbed up. The wiry man came so close at her heels that she was almost bundled inside and the door slammed shut.

  Frances landed on the comfortable seat in almost total darkness. The figure in the corner, her Russian, turned his head from the window, but she could not mak
e out his face.

  “You,” the Russian said, “are not meant to be here.”

  She lifted her chin, though she doubted he could see her defiance in the dark. “I didn’t choose to let you do it alone.”

  “Give him the rubies,” the Russian ordered.

  The wiry man on the opposite bench delved inside his coat. An instant later, the familiar case was thrust into her hands. She all but tore it open on her lap, but could see nothing inside. She ran her fingers over the interior, feeling the cold, shapely stones, the sharper diamonds among the gold setting. She let out a sigh that was almost a sob.

  “Thank you,” she whispered, trying to force herself to think beyond the sheer relief, Disaster had somehow been averted and she could face Torridon with the truth. She swallowed. “Have we agreed a price?”

  “We have,” the Russian said. “It is taken care of. He knows he’s well rid of them.” He reached across the gap and money rustled, changing hands.

  Without another word, the wiry man slipped out of the coach, temporarily blinding Frances with a flash of daylight before the door slammed shut again. The Russian knocked on the roof and the carriage began to move immediately. Apparently, the coachman was not as asleep as Frances had thought.

  She hugged the rubies to her breast. “I was so afraid I’d never see them again! Thank you from the bottom of my heart, sir! Did that man have them all along, then?”

  “No, but he gave them to you, which is the main thing.”

  “Yes, but—” She broke off, frowning. “Where are we going?”

  “To the hotel, where you can change into something more respectable and collect your child. And then to the castle.”

  “I shall be glad if you drop me at the back of the hotel,” she said firmly. “But you need not wait. I shall go to the castle later.”

  “Sooner would be better,” he observed. “You probably don’t know that Lord and Lady Tamar depart first thing tomorrow morning. This will be your last chance for months, probably, to spend time with your sister.”

  “Tomorrow?” she said in dismay. Had she imagined time would stop for her foolish adventures? That everyone would change their plans accordingly?

  The coach turned off the high street into the lane leading around to the back of the hotel.

  “The carriage will wait for you at the front door,” the Russian said and pressed a fat purse into her hands. “To pay your account, if necessary.”

  She nodded gratefully, having forgotten all about the small matter of the hotel bill in all the excitement of retrieving the rubies. She jumped down without the aid of the steps. There was a certain liberation about being a boy.

  Slamming the coach door, she slouched away into the kitchen.

  A few minutes later, she slipped back into her own rooms. Jamie had fallen asleep on his blanket with a shawl over him. Lawson sat on the sofa, stuffing piles of clothing into bags.

  “All is well,” Frances said gaily. “Is Mrs. Marshall awake?”

  “Awake and out again, my lady, but she said she wouldn’t be long. We’re packing up, as you see.”

  “And I, Lawson.”

  It was a matter of minutes to change, with Lawson to help lace her up, and to brush and pin her hair before donning the widow’s veil one last time. Then she packed the few possessions she’d brought with her—including the rubies—into her portmanteau. She folded up Joe’s clothes and asked Lawson to return them to the porter when she had a moment. She had already paid him handsomely for the loan.

  “I was hoping Mrs. Marshall would be back by now,” Frances said, “but I have to go. Tell her I will be at the castle if she cares to call before she leaves—as herself, not Mrs. Thom! And that either way I shall write to her.” She bent and picked up the sleeping baby, wrapping him in another shawl.

  The porter who came to carry her portmanteau turned out to be Joe, who grinned at her and promised to return for his old clothes, confiding that he had bought himself a new suit for Sundays. With that, he walked off to bestow her luggage in the waiting coach.

  “I’ve left a small gift for you on my bed,” Frances told Lawson, who was wistfully stroking Jamie’s cheek. “In appreciation of all you’ve done.”

  Jamie opened his eyes and smiled at Lawson who, inevitably, smiled back.

  “It was a pleasure,” the maid said, far more softly than she usually addressed adults. “But thank you, my lady.”

  “If I can ever be of assistance to you,” Frances said, “please don’t hesitate to call on me.”

  “Thank you, I will.”

  “Goodbye, Lawson.”

  “Goodbye, my lady.”

  Pulling the veil over her face, she left the room and walked downstairs to pay her bill—which was indeed considerably more than she had left without the Russian’s contribution. Especially after the reckless gratuity she had left for Lawson. Then Mrs. Alan walked out of the hotel, rewarding the doorman as she went, and stepped into the waiting coach, which, still in darkness, set off at once.

  She took off her veil and sat back on the comfortable seat. She was Lady Torridon once more.

  “How did you know who I was?” she asked the Russian, who sat in his dark corner, making no attempt to come closer or brush against her. She was grateful. It was going to be hard enough to mix socially with him in the same room as her husband.

  “The housekeeper, Mrs. Gaskell, told me the letter you sent was from Lady Frances.”

  “That was a flaw in my plan,” Frances admitted. “I never thought she would give me away.”

  “I don’t imagine she meant to.”

  “Are you… are you acquainted with my husband?” she asked.

  “Yes. I know he loves you to distraction.”

  Her throat ached suddenly with tears. “Does he?” she whispered wistfully.

  The carriage rumbled out of the town, taking the hill up to the castle.

  “Do you love him?” the Russian asked.

  “Only him. Always him.” A choke of laughter mixed with her tears. “For what it’s worth, if there had ever been anyone else, it would probably have been you. I owe you so much and I don’t even know your name. Or what you look like unmasked!”

  “Don’t you?”

  She frowned, but the coach jolted over a stone at that moment, throwing her forward. The Russian threw out his arm to save her, but by some instinct to preserve her son from harm, she was already holding grimly onto the seat and hauled herself back into safety. Jamie woke up and began to cry.

  “Hush, little man,” she begged, and rocked him until the crying stopped and his eyes closed once more.

  By then, the carriage had turned inside the gates and was almost at the castle.

  “I wish I had not stayed at the hotel,” she said ruefully. “I wish I had stayed here so we could all have been together for longer.”

  “There will be other times,” he said, although of course, he could not know that.

  The carriage pulled up at the front steps and a footman ran out to let down the steps. Bright daylight entered the dark coach, almost blinding her once more. The Russian brushed past her, his face still averted, and alighted before turning at the door to help her.

  Concentrating on the steps, she held Jamie in one arm and took the Russian’s hand to descend. Only when she stood on the ground did she glance up to thank him.

  The world tilted and her stomach dived. For she looked into the face of her husband.

  Chapter Ten

  A faint rueful smile played about his lips. But his eyes were veiled, unreadable, as though he had no idea how she would respond. Neither had Frances.

  She knew she stared. She knew she stood perfectly still with her jaw dropped, but those were merely her body’s reactions. Inside, she felt stunned, unable to think, or even to believe her own eyes.

  “You,” she whispered. “It was always you.”

  His fingers tightened on hers. He leaned nearer, and panic sliced through her numbness. At the same time, a cry w
ent up from the front door and her three youngest sisters spilled down the front steps.

  Behind them, Serena cried, “Frances!”

  With a sound like a sob, Frances spun away from her husband to embrace her sisters all at once and then individually, laughing and crying at the same time. The floodgates of her emotions had opened and her whole being churned with them.

  “Oh, and this is Jamie,” Serena exclaimed, finally registering the bewildered bundle in Frances’s arm. “He is beautiful! Girls, admire your nephew.”

  The girls duly did, with some awe, as if Frances had been incredibly clever to produce the tiny being.

  Although her sisters were dressed for walking, they immediately dragged her into the house, all talking at once, asking questions and imparting vital news. She didn’t once look back at Torridon. She couldn’t.

  “Gervaise!” Helen yelled as soon as she was inside. “Mama! Frances is home!”

  I am. I am home, thank God…

  “Helen, you hoyden, you are not a fishwife!” Serena scolded.

  Frances laughed. “I remember you doing the same thing when Gervaise came home from school the first time. I heard you from the other side of the castle. But I have a confession to make.” There was no point in telling Torridon first. He already knew. He’d known from the moment she had opened her mouth in the draper’s shop. Because, unlike him, she hadn’t disguised her voice. “I have been in Blackhaven for several days. I even came to the ball, and not one of you knew me!”

  “Oh, Fran,” Serena said indignantly, as the younger ones swept her upstairs. “Why didn’t you say? Why didn’t you stay here? I’m leaving tomorrow!”

  “I know,” Frances said guiltily. “Torridon has just told me. I suppose you had been putting it off for so long, I hoped you would never go!”

  “Of course I must go,” Serena said gruffly. “Just as you went to Scotland.”

  Frances met her gaze over the girls’ heads. “I never meant us to end up at opposite ends of the country.”

  The girls pulled her into the drawing room, where a young woman stood to greet her. A beautiful woman with red-gold hair who looked at once proud and nervous. They had spoken at the ball.