“I think the house shares a small one, yes.” He came up behind her at the window and let himself plant a kiss on her neck. He’d be reaching after that letter if he didn’t touch her somewhere, quickly. Her neck seemed like a safe choice, but of course it led up to that delectable ear, half hidden under a wing of dark hair. It wasn’t a problem until Anna turned her chin and gave him her lips—perfect lips, rouged and full. He’d developed a habit of visualizing them whenever his mind wandered, when thoughts slipped beyond control. Pleasurable, yes, but dashed inconvenient.
“Pardon. I couldn’t resist,” he said, relaxing his hold.
“I’ve given you leave to kiss me,” she said. “Thank you.”
“For the kiss?”
“That too,” she laughed. “But I was thinking about bringing us here. Dealing with Frederick. The toy soldier for Henry.”
“Don’t kiss me because you’re grateful,” he said, pulling back a little, even though he wanted to put his lips to her soft ones again.
“Oh, it’s more than that,” she said, her lips curving at the corners.
“Good. Cause I must admit, I’m tempted to kidnap you and take you to Spain. Quite a hardship, losing you when we’re just getting started.” But it would be better, in the end. There could be no future between them. “You’re smiling,” he said. “I have my uses, you see.”
“I enjoy you. I don’t want to use you,” she said, her smile fading.
“You aren’t. I want you to be happy. And being enjoyed is what I like,” he said.
“I’m sure,” she said with a low chuckle. “Don’t kiss too many beauties in Lisbon. Just enough to keep in practice.”
He lifted an eyebrow, but she only laughed at him.
“No one achieves such mastery without practice, Captain. You kiss exceedingly well, and I will miss you more than is good for you. Count yourself lucky that I am letting you escape. I’ll see you off in the morning.”
“I leave before dawn.”
“I am awake then. Henry too, if this morning was any indicator.”
He considered the virtues of subtlety a moment, then decided it wasn’t worth the attempt. He wanted a kiss and he wanted it close, so he turned her around. “Has it been five minutes?”
“Why?”
“Henrietta said she’d give us five minutes.”
“I don’t know. I didn’t check the clock.”
“I should have. What poor planning. I don’t mind being caught by my aunt. Do you?”
She kissed him quick, her breath warm on his face. “Yes. I don’t think she likes scenes in her drawing room.”
Fair enough. “Alright then. Let’s put you back in your chair,” he said, propelling her to her seat.
“And pretend we’re talking corn prices? It won’t fool anyone.”
“Kiss me then, and don’t be ashamed of it.”
She did, though her cheeks were scarlet. When Henrietta returned—alone, thankfully—startling them with a crow of laughter, Anna was too flushed to turn any redder.
“Alistair. So greedy! Shame on you. It’s been at least seven!”
“I should go.” Heaven knew he had a thousand things to do, and only hours remaining. He fought for some light words, bending close to keep them from Henrietta’s ears. “I will remember you—here, in my aunt’s drawing room—when I am in Spain.”
He kissed her hand. And stole it again, ten minutes later, milling with the family by the door. He tousled Henry’s hair and threw greetings, unnoticed, to Henrietta’s boys, and kissed Henrietta and his aunt. Uncle William wished him well and they all came out to the front step to wave him off. Aunt Georgiana was blinking rapidly—had been ever since he put on his hat.
“Take good care of yourself,” she said.
He always meant to, but it was difficult. He promised to anyway, smiling as he descended the steps. Anna was waiting at the bottom one.
“Good luck, Captain,” she said, her low voice scarcely audible above the wishes of his relatives, the noise of the children, the ruckus in the streets. It was a worn out wish, but it settled round him like a schoolboy’s scarf, warm and comforting. Even once she was safely married, he knew she’d consider him a friend—a pleasing notion. Striding away more jauntily than was his wont, Alistair decided it was no bad thing, giving help to a good woman.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“Come to Watier’s with me tonight?” Cyril asked, late that evening, when Alistair stumbled across him in the hall.
“I’m leaving tomorrow,” Alistair said. He was fighting heavy eyes already, and no wonder: he’d been to Horse Guards again, supervised his packing, seen his bankers and written a new will. He had few worldly goods, but no reason Anna shouldn’t have them if he couldn’t. A real fiancé would do that, he was sure.
“That’s why I’m inviting you,” Cyril said. “It’s our last chance.”
“Good of you,” Alistair said. “But I’d rather not. Have to make an early start if I’m to reach Portsmouth in good time.”
Cyril shrugged and started off toward his chamber—hopefully to change his cravat. The marvel at his throat was making Alistair uncomfortable.
“Look,” Alistair began, stopping Cyril before he’d gone more than a few steps.
“Yes?”
“I should tell you something . . . ”
“Mmmm?” Cyril waited, eyebrows raised. Alistair yanked his eyes away again from his brother’s cravat. Many gentleman chose to wear the style known as the trône d'amour—he did himself, in chaste white. But pairing that knot with a neckcloth in the color known as Yeux de Fille en Extase, or Eyes of a Girl in Ecstasy, was excessive. Never mind. He had more important things to discuss.
“I’m getting married,” he said in a rush.
“In Spain? I hear the women are fine, but mother will have a fit if you marry a Catholic. Don’t put her through that.”
“New one for you to be considering her nerves,” Alistair retorted. “I’m not getting married now, just engaged. She’s not Catholic.” It was the only point he could think of in Anna’s favor, besides her face, but his mother was too mercenary to appreciate that.
“Hmmn.” Cyril thought it over for a minute. “Sudden, isn’t it?”
I’ll say. “Not really. She’s staying with Uncle William and Aunt Georgiana. Just thought you should know.”
“Has she a name?” Cyril asked.
“Anna. Anna Morris.”
“Don’t recognize it,” Cyril said. “Sure I can’t persuade you to come?”
Alistair shook his head.
“I’m off then. Try not to get shot.”
It was probably the friendliest exchange they’d had in years.
On his way upstairs, Alistair found a note from Jasper.
You brute,
Just when were you going to tell me? Convenient, that you are recalled to Spain before I can force an explanation from you. I was joking, you know, when I asked if she had felled you with a glance. You are a dog, but I wish you the very best of luck.
Alistair rubbed the back of his head uneasily as he folded away the letter. His parents. Cyril. Henrietta. Jasper. Henry. Mr. and Mrs. Fulham. When he’d suggested the scheme he hadn’t thought he’d be lying to so many people. It was beginning to feel uncomfortable. Henry would remember little enough of their brief meetings, but he liked the Fulhams. Henrietta, who’d accepted Anna so warmly, could only be hurt when Anna broke the engagement.
Frowning and silent, he submitted to Griggs’ handling, preparing for bed. No way to fix it. Besides, he was doing his best. Yet the longer he thought about it, the worse he felt, and he had enough to contend with without brooding over his own qualms. Falling onto his pillow with unnecessary violence, Alistair shut his mind and ordered himself to sleep.
*****
As promised, Anna arrived at his parents’ house early—before eight o’clock—to see him off. “You can put this in the coach,” she said, pushing a basket into his hands, seeing that his horse was s
addled nearby. “I asked Lady Fairchild what she thought you might like to eat.” She looked doubtfully under the napkin. “There’s some good Madeira, but I expect you’ll have plenty of that where you’re going.”
He’d probably drink the Madeira, but Alistair wasn’t sure about the food. He always suffered from a nervous stomach on departure days. This morning he’d limited himself to a plain cup of coffee. Griggs was looking favorably at the basket, though. The man could devour his own weight and not even burp. And never gain an ounce, either.
“You’ll look after him, won’t you?” Anna asked Griggs, who tugged his forelock to her like the carter’s son he was.
“Always do,” Griggs said. “Don’t you be worrying.”
Anna smiled at him. “I’m counting on you.”
Like many ugly men, Griggs had a fatal weakness for beautiful women. Turning his attention from Griggs’ immediate, embarrassing devotion, Alistair crouched down in front of Henry, who was scuffing his shoes on the step, clutching the little tin hussar to the front of his coat. “You’ll keep watch on your mama for me?” The boy nodded, his attention on the saber at Alistair’s side. “I’ll bring one home for you. A French one,” Alistair promised. Henry’s eyes widened, innocent of the knowledge that prizes came from dead men.
He’d had been like that too, when he wore short coats and through his years at school, his naiveté lasting even into his first campaigns. He couldn’t recall exactly when his saber had changed from a beautiful, mirror-bright curve to a butcher’s tool, something to be continually cleaned and sharpened. “Good lad,” Alistair said, his knees cracking as he pushed himself upright. He reached out to ruffle Henry’s hair. It was as silky as Anna’s and of the same sooty-brown.
“Next you’ll be giving him brandy and teaching him to smoke,” Anna said. “I’m still terrified he might pull out some of your language in front of Lady Fairchild.”
“She’s heard it before,” Alistair said. Like Henry, she’d heard most of it from Jasper. “Did you remember the pistols?” he asked Griggs.
“Under the carriage seat,” Griggs answered.
“Good,” Alistair said, guilty but unrepentant. After a long internal debate, he’d finally decided to nab them. They were far too nice to leave in a cupboard, and if Cyril kicked up a dust, he wouldn’t be here to see it.
“If you’ve forgotten anything, write me and I’ll see it gets sent on,” Anna said.
“I will. Thank you.” When she’d insisted on coming to wave him off, he’d feared he was in for his mother’s brand of theatrics: leaky eyes, pleas to be careful, continual nervous fluttering. He should have known better. Anna was calm and solicitous—interested in his well-being, but no more. Her practical attention was much more to the purpose.
“Safe journey,” she said, hoisting Henry onto her hip.
The child was an impediment, but not enough. Alistair roped them in with his arms, ignoring a kick to his hip from Henry, who was mashed between them.
“Henry, help a fellow out, will you? I can’t see your mother behind that hat.”
Henry let go of Alistair’s epaulette and shoved aside Anna’s bonnet. “Here she is.”
It would be a fine thing, Alistair thought, to be smiled on the way Anna did to Henry, but her happy expression lasted only a brief moment before contracting into a pained frown. Along with the bonnet, Henry had wrapped his fingers round a piece of her hair.
“Those curls are mine today,” Alistair said, releasing Anna with one arm so he could pry Henry’s fingers loose. “You’ll send me one, I hope. Didn’t have time to ask before.” In truth, he hadn’t thought of it, but he wished he had now.
“I will, if you want it,” Anna said.
“Good.” He smoothed her hair into place with his fingers, then let them slip down her cheek, tracing his index finger over the corner of her mouth. “Glad to see you smiling, Mrs. Morris.”
He leaned in to kiss her, a brief touch only, since they were standing in the street, balancing her boy between them. “Good hunting,” he whispered. “Don’t rush yourself, and don’t settle.”
“I’ll be careful,” she said, and stepped out of his arms.
He always made a point of whistling to himself as he left home to ride to war. Today the notes came easier. By the time he had turned the corner, he was singing one of his battalion’s favorite tunes, the wildly colorful Downfall of Paris.
“Sir!” came the outraged protest of a ruddy nosed gentleman, leaning protectively over the perplexed lady sharing the seat of his curricle.
“Lovely song, isn’t it?” said Alistair, tipping his hat. He rode on, ignoring the sputters behind him, singing until he finished the last verse.
*****
Well, that was that. Anna helped Henry into Lord Fairchild’s carriage so they could return to the house, wondering if she would ever see Captain Beaumaris again. It seemed unlikely.
“Are there cannons in Spain?” Henry asked.
“Yes,” Anna responded absentmindedly.
“Can I have one?”
She looked at her son, who was peering up at her hopefully, fiddling with a button hanging from his jacket by a loose thread. All the buttons had been securely fastened when he’d put on the jacket this morning. No wonder Lucy was always sewing.
“Canons aren’t for children,” she said, not bothering to correct Henry’s speech. The larger issue required attention first. “They’re heavy, dangerous, and they shoot fire.”
Henry’s eyes grew round and rapturous. “Can I see?”
“Not today,” Anna said. “Give me that button. If we put it in your pocket, it won’t get lost.” She pried it free and slid it into his pocket before he could lunge to the far side of the carriage, where she’d stuffed his ragged blanket. This was the dit she’d heard so much of—a grey, threadbare tatter of wool, patched in a multitude of places with mismatched thread.
“Is that from your uncle’s dog?” she asked, reaching across Henry to finger a large rent.
“Mmmhmm,” Henry nodded, clutching the dit protectively.
“I could mend it for you. Grandma Fulham would do the best job, but I can manage in a pinch.”
“In blue?”
Why not? “I can patch in it blue,” she said. Lady Fairchild might have blue thread; if not, she could send her maid to buy some.
Henry gave a satisfied nod from the far corner of the coach. He didn’t like being squashed or coddled, and tolerated her touch with an impatient air. But he was here, within reach. She couldn’t look at him for long without her throat constricting and her eyes growing hot. Last night she’d crept into the nursery again, plunking herself down on the floor by the bed, counting his breaths, watching him sleep, forgetting her irritation over his bedtime tantrum because his bread and milk hadn’t come in his usual blue plate and cup. Despite Alistair’s success, she didn’t feel up to demanding dishes from Frederick. She might be able to buy a similar one. Or Henry could learn to accept inconvenience—no, that possibility was too remote to expect. Perhaps she could ask Frederick for the blue plate after all. He was hateful and condescending, but unlike Henry, he probably wouldn’t scream at her. Henry had lasted a good half-hour last night and once again thrown the offending dishes onto the floor. She’d tried to reason with him, but failed, feeling worse every time she imagined Lord and Lady Fairchild exchanging pained glances on the floor below.
She’d find a way to manage. She had to. No matter what happened, she wasn’t losing Henry again.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
After ten years in the army, Alistair had a good idea what to expect on his journey. He wasn’t disappointed. Arriving in Portsmouth that evening, he learned the HMS Gallant wasn’t ready to sail.
“Two more days to finish revictualling, at least,” said Jamieson, a young coronet journeying out to join Alistair’s regiment. Alistair got himself a room at the Old Ship, an inn with clean enough sheets and food that earned more praise—deservedly, Alistair decided, putting away
a second slice of pie. After a long day’s riding, he was hungry.
Retiring to his room, he wrote his parents and started a letter to Anna. Sealing the letter to his parents and setting the one for Anna aside (he’d add more later) he descended to the public room, where Griggs was swapping stories with another campaigner. Jamieson was in another corner with the new recruits, wiry lads with smooth faces, except for one sporting an unusually luxurious mustache.
Must have started shaving when he was twelve, Alistair thought.
They spent the night tossing back bumpers of gin. Alistair, the oldest of the lot, was pressed for story after story. He obliged, and some of the ones he told were even true. Later, when these fellows knew more, they’d question his veracity, but he wasn’t about to waste such naiveté by ruining the game. Fuddled by drink, he finally made his cautious way upstairs, tired enough to sink immediately into dreamless sleep.
The Gallant finished taking on supplies and sailed before Alistair could enjoy too much of the landlady’s excellent pie or run into trouble with her daughter, who had an unfortunate tendency of latching eyes on him. She’d have had better luck with Jamieson, though it was probably for the best. Jamieson was young and careless.
Despite the promise of calm seas, Alistair spent the first two days miserable in his hammock, or heaving his guts over the side. Once Neptune accepted his customary offerings, Alistair’s stomach declared a truce. He spent the remaining days pondering Horace, the majesty and minuteness of a ship at sea, and trading friendly insults with his brother officers in the King’s Navy. The frigate was cleaner than most of the lodgings Alistair found, but he was grateful he fought his battles on land. Too much time on this floating ant hill and he’d turn mystic or philosopher. Either would be tedious, if not for him, then at least for everyone else.
The ship was crammed full of infantry recruits, a noisy, undisciplined lot that Alistair suspected he’d end up escorting across Spain. There were stores and oxen and horses—they could never get enough remounts. The captain didn’t confide in him, but Alistair expected there were money chests secured in the hold too—he hoped so, for it was difficult keeping the army supplied with goods purchased from their Spanish and Portuguese allies, and the soldiers’ pay was usually months in arrears. Alistair had money enough for now, even after buying the new mare, having won a pretty sum playing whist against Tom Bagshot. Of course, he still had to acquire a pack mule or two in Lisbon, so it wouldn’t be too long before his pockets were to let.
Incognita (Fairchild Book 2) Page 16