“I’d have understood more Spanish,” Anna whispered, when Alistair moved to her side, leaning onto his crutches so he could take her hands in his own. They were rougher now. He was glad she wasn’t wearing gloves.
He stood through the whole thing, stiffened by crutches and his own will, worried the distraction of keeping his balance and ignoring the pain in his missing leg would make him miss his cue. He didn’t, though. He might not have caught the exact words binding him to Anna Fulham Morris, but he got his affirmative in the right place, confidently, like a man with both feet on the ground. If he needed clarification later about the forsaking of others or remedies against sin and fornication, he’d ask another priest. Despite the Scot’s burr, Alistair caught the heart-stinging part about sickness and health, but it came as a balm to him, sunk as he was in Anna’s shining eyes.
They kissed, chastely, because even he was cowed by those stern Scottish eyebrows. Then they accepted the congratulations of the chaplain and the skeptical well-wishes of Major Simpson. Alistair decided he’d been wrong—the man would make any woman a terrible husband. Before Alistair could send him to the devil, the Major made his bows and took himself out. The Divine waited a little longer, baffling Anna with conversation until her eyes grew round, while Alistair wished for Jamieson, or any of his other friends, who’d have sense enough to invite the man to join them for a drink.
After Alistair thanked him for the fourth time, he made an exit. Alistair lowered himself gratefully into a hard chair—if he dropped himself into the sofa’s gaping mouth it would swallow him. Across the room, Henry sat in the matching chair, his feet dangling above the floor.
“Well, Henry. I think when that priest gave me your mother he must have forgotten she was already yours. Do you think we can share?”
Henry considered.
“Maybe I could have her on Tuesdays.” Alistair suggested. “Or after eight o’ clock.”
“What do you want her for?” Henry asked.
Alistair laughed, watching Anna turn pink out of the corner of his eye. “I think everyone must want her,” Alistair said. “She’s wonderfully brave.”
“She wasn’t afraid of the ship at all,” Henry conceded. “So are you my papa now?”
“If you’ll have me. We said all the right words.”
“Good. I couldn’t tell,” Anna interjected, dropping into the sofa and raising puffs of dust. She brushed once at her dress then settled back, filling up the space and motioning Henry over. He sped across the floor and into her lap.
“Is that how you become a papa? Saying the right words?” Henry asked, incredulous.
“For you and me, yes. You don’t mind?”
“Not really, though I should have liked a sword.”
He hadn’t won a French one, and there’d be no chance now. Griggs could find one, of course—he could source out astonishing things, when asked, but—
Grimacing, Alistair twisted around his sword belt. Silly of him to wear it today, but it completed the uniform and he’d wanted to look dashing. Or approximate it, anyway. “You’re too young now, but would you like to have mine? I’m leaving the army.”
Henry’s eager face was answer enough.
“Come help me with the buckles. You can have a look at it.”
Anna said nothing, perhaps not entirely pleased with the gift, though it brought Henry close to him, drawing their heads together.
“You’ll need a trifle more height before you can try it,” Alistair said, but he slid the blade an inch or two out of the scabbard so Henry could see his face on the gleaming metal. Before Henry finished drawing in an ecstatic breath, Alistair slid it home again. “It’s a real sword, not for fooling,” he said, tickling Henry’s chin with the silk tassel.
“And it belongs on the mantel,” Anna said, plucking it away from them.
Henry leaned after it longingly, but Alistair tethered him by his hand. “We mustn’t argue with the commander-in-chief, you know.” He slid a hand into his pocket, pulling out a few coins. “Ask Griggs to help you buy your mama a wedding gift.”
Henry scampered off.
“What do you think he’ll find?” Anna asked, leaning back on the mantlepiece.
Alistair wanted a lace mantilla, if one could be found, but it was possible the best that could be managed might be a pair of gloves—not such a bad thing, in winter. Dull though. Not the kind of thing a man wanted to give his bride. He didn’t even have a ring for her, so she was wearing his own, which had to be wrapped with string to stay on her finger. “Nothing as rare as you are,” he said, which was the simple truth. He meant only to look at her with warm eyes, but she came to his side, glowing like a candle, looking at him in a way he could scarce believe. It was enough to flummox a man, to make him a fool, but he’d lost his leg, not his wits. Incredulous stammering wasn’t the thing to do when presented with your heart’s desire. No. You took her—carefully, if you had to—and held her close, because all the world was now in your arms.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
“It’s too far,” Anna said, but her pleading tone told Alistair he’d already won. The journey to headquarters in Freineda wouldn’t kill him, though he might be too white-lipped to speak. There was going to be a ball, and it was time he and Anna were seen.
“Let me be the managing one for a change,” he said.
Anna frowned, and for a moment he feared she’d scald his ears. She’d done it to Griggs, Bartolome and the doctor. Even Jamieson, who stopped in regularly to take note of Alistair’s progress and gawp at Anna, took care to mind her gentlest suggestions. Only her son and her husband were allowed to give any trouble.
“Come on. I want to see you dance,” Alistair said. There would be music and wine and jollity; though he didn’t mind keeping Anna to himself, he didn’t want people thinking he was ashamed of her. “If I can’t endure a few miles in a wagon, how will I manage the trip to England?”
“A few miles! It’s at least fifteen.”
“That’s not many. How far is Oporto?”
Her answering parry was feeble. “I’ve nothing to wear.”
True, her trunks had only yielded up practical clothing. “Doesn’t matter. If you wore a feed sack you’d still outshine them all.” The gloss on her hair and the shine in her eyes might be the effect of his own mind, but the smiles weren’t. They fluttered across her face and lighted on her lips, too many and too often to count. He’d never seen a woman more beautiful than Anna smiling. “Wear the blue muslin and your black mantilla.” Griggs, wonder that he was, had procured hair combs too.
“I don’t like leaving Henry.”
They’d be away overnight if they went to Freineda. Unless he drank much more wine than he intended, Alistair didn’t want to endure those fifteen miles in the hours before dawn. A friend had offered to put them up so Alistair could sleep for a few hours and make the return journey once it was daylight. “Nothing will happen to Henry,” Alistair assured her. “Not with Mrs. Orfila, Bartolome and Griggs to look after him.” She knew it was true, but wouldn’t relinquish the worry. She was never entirely easy without her son near, which was understandable, he supposed. “He’s safe here, so long as he stays out of Mrs. Orfila’s sitting room,” Alistair reminded her. “You’ll never see a party like this again.”
It would be filled with smart uniforms and threadbare ones, wives and women given that courteous assumption. The food would be awful—had to be, since it was being driven over from the depot in Ciudad Rodrigo once it was cooked—but there would be plenty of wine, plenty of toasts, plenty of boasting and blustering. There might be a hole in the dance floor and bare plaster on the walls, but the guests would dance until they were too fuddled to find their way across the floor. His friends would congratulate him on his wife and commiserate over his leg—rotten luck, Beaumaris!—and he’d wish them well too, knowing come spring, they’d be on the march again and he wouldn’t be here to see it. Before much longer, he hoped to be off, if the weather didn’t make
the journey to Oporto impractical. The trip would be easier if they began before Anna’s money ran out—it would be nigh impossible to pry his back pay from the quartermaster.
“I don’t—”
“Anna,” he interrupted. “Unless you’ve lost your legs, there’s no reason not to go.”
As he’d predicted, Anna looked lovely in her blue gown, but neither he nor the mirror could convince her. She still wore a worried frown. Attempting to steer her away from the mirror (if she wasn’t satisfied now, she’d never be), Alistair heard a voice from the sitting room.
“Henry Morris? Good. Where’s your mother?”
Anna rushed past him before he could blink. He followed after, his crutches clumping on the scarred plank floors.
They found Cyril, struggling to free himself from the sofa. He looked from Alistair to Anna to Henry, who was sidling into the corner by the fireplace and glaring suspiciously at Cyril.
“Cyril.” Alistair greeted him with a nod. “Anna, I think you’ve met my brother. Cyril, my wife and my stepson, Henry.”
Cyril swallowed, a gulp that seemed to encompass the entire room. “So it’s done, then?” He played nervously with a button on his waistcoat.
“A week ago. Shame you missed it.”
Cyril exhaled, ruffling the hair so carefully disarranged about his forehead. He rocked back onto his heels, feebly insisting how pleased he was to see Anna and to find his brother married.
“Nice to see you out and about,” he said, blinking again at the space where Alistair’s foot used to be.
“Let’s have some tea,” Anna said, seating herself grimly on the sofa.
“Wo-wonderful!” said Cyril.
Alistair inquired after his journey, unsurprised that his travails were considerably more acute than Anna’s had been.
“I can’t believe you managed it, ma’am,” he said, looking at Anna with some trepidation.
“I expect you have a softer skin,” Anna said, setting aside her spoon.
And a softer head, Alistair thought.
“Well, the important thing is everyone’s still breathing and in one piece—” Cyril drew to a strangled halt.
“Nearly,” Alistair said. “Have you a place to stay?”
“Oh, I’ll stay with you.” Cyril didn’t notice Anna’s dark look.
“We’re going to a party tonight in Freineda,” Alistair said, with an apologetic glance at his wife. “You really must come.”
Cyril attired himself from his numerous boxes in putty-colored breeches and a dark blue coat he’d never have been able to don without Griggs’s assistance. It molded to his shoulders much more closely than Alistair’s uniform. He was thinner than he used to be.
“Well, it’ll be a pleasure to dance with such a handsome sister-in-law,” Cyril said, as they set out. Alistair tried to swallow his irritation, but it wasn’t easy, with Cyril riding beside the wagon on his own horse. He’d lent him the black. It hurt less than seeing Cyril on the other one. Just looking at the mare made him ache for everything he’d lost.
“Go on ahead,” Alistair urged after a few miles. Cyril was growing impatient with the wagon’s pace, and he was impatient with Cyril. Anna, her face closed as a clam, hadn’t said anything for several minutes.
“You see why I had to marry you so quickly,” Alistair said, before Cyril’s hoofbeats were out of hearing. “If you’d acquainted yourself with more of my family, I’d have been jilted.” He grinned. “Once was enough for that.”
“We’re going to have to bring him back to London,” Anna said.
“Yes, and the whole way he’ll be trying to steal the services of Griggs. I mean, I don’t particularly like managing without one, but Cyril’s near helpless without a valet.”
“I used to feel bad for cutting you off from your family.”
“I don’t think you have, but even if you did, I’d consider it a gift, I assure you.”
She settled herself firmly under his arm. “Tell me the future,” she said.
It was a game they’d started the last few days, to stop Alistair from gasping and biting through his lip when Anna changed his bandages. Usually he tried to appall her by predicting a shabby set of rooms redolent of boiled cabbages, with darned stockings hanging in front of a miniature fire. “We’ll have to ration out the coal mighty carefully, you see.” This time they begged a home with her parents, until they threw Alistair out for making love to Anna in the middle of the day.
“I’d follow you,” Anna promised.
“You might like a rest,” Alistair teased. “It was every day, you understand.”
“Practically persecution,” Anna murmured.
“Quite.” Alistair pushed his head into the cowl of her hood. “Mmmn.”
But when he tried to draw away, Anna whispered, “Persecute me some more.”
He gave her a quick peck. “Not a chance. It’s not full dark yet. I don’t want the driver rolling us into the road. And what about the officers and their ladies that pass? I, at least, have a reputation to maintain.”
Anna laughed. “I expect the sight would do wonders for your reputation. They’ll toast you all night long.”
It was slow, traveling like this, but it wasn’t so bad with Anna’s company. “We might be the last to arrive, but we can be sure dinner won’t start without us,” Alistair said, spying the lights of Freineda glimmering ahead.
Anna sighed. “Must we go? I’m happy right here.”
“I’m hungry,” Alistair said.
“Supper is right beside you,” Anna said. “You should have taken some before, when it was halfway warm.”
“I can only eat off the best china,” he said loftily.
“I’ll remember that. For the cabbages,” Anna retorted.
He picked up his crutches and shifted to the back of the wagon.
“Be there in a minute, Captain,” called a batman, pressed into service for the evening. He helped Anna down first, then Alistair, standing by as Anna brushed down their clothes. He’d never seen Anna give her clothes such care since she’d arrived. While she tried to look at the back of her skirts, he pointed the batman to their case of overnight things, directing him to take it to tonight’s temporary lodging. Anna was still fussing with her dress.
“I’d hate to have to tell Henry your courage failed you,” he said.
She lifted her eyebrows in challenge. “Unlike you, I haven’t a talent for humbling people with a glance,” she said.
Promising to do it to everyone but her, he swung forward on his crutches, wishing it were possible to take her by the arm. She stayed close though, and he didn’t think it was only because she feared for his stability. They were only a yard or two through the doorway, clustered with other guests removing cloaks and overcoats when Cyril pushed his way through the crowd.
“Don’t take her in,” he said, speaking low in Alistair’s ear.
“What do you mean?” Alistair said, annoyed now. “Of course I’m bringing her in. We came all this way.” The only advantage of crutches was that people tended to give him a clear path. “Come on, Anna,” he said, pausing with the crutches propped under his shoulders so he could stretch out his hand. She moved to his side again, not looking to see if Cyril followed behind them.
At first he noticed nothing. The room was too full, packed with golden epaulets and gleaming boots, lace and plumes and the gloved arms of ladies. Nodding at the faces he knew, they penetrated a little way into the crowd, into the hot, heavy-scented air. The dark timbered ceiling pressed down on them.
“People are staring at me,” Anna whispered under her breath.
“Of course. You’re the most beautiful lady here.” They moved a little further, sidestepping a scowling man with heavy side whiskers. “Evening, Kelling,” Alistair said. The man gave a loud harrumph.
“That’s not why,” Anna said, sounding half-strangled.
“Nonsense,” Alistair said, but it wasn’t. Anna was drawing stares. Not kind ones either.
“Please. Let’s go,” Anna whispered, putting her hand on his arm.
He stopped. Anna’s face was white, her smile gone. The moment he relented, a black clad shoulder turned toward them, opening a circle of avid faces and revealing Frederick Morris, his smooth hair gold in the candlelight.
Anna started, her hand closing around Alistair’s arm. Frederick gave Anna a long look, then turned deliberately back to his listeners. “It was a gruesome journey, but what could I do? The worries for my nephew were ten times worse . . . . ”
“Take me out of here,” Anna said.
Alistair complied, all gentle solicitude, inwardly carving out Morris’s entrails. His heart beat loud in his ears, overpowering the whispers that trailed them.
“What about Henry?” Anna gasped, clutching Alistair’s arm at the door of his friend’s lodging.
“Probably playing cards with Griggs,” Alistair said. “Wait here. I’ll see to it. Sleep if you can.” He kissed her wet cheek, then returned to the festivities.
“What’s happened?” he asked Cyril, who he found lurking by the door.
“Fellow was here when I arrived. Said he’d come to Spain to find your wife, though he claimed he was surprised you’d gone and married her. Said he feared you were a victim of her deceits. There’s plenty of people amused with the idea that you’ve finally been taken in. And a good number who are downright angry you had the bad manners to bring her. Morris has come to reclaim the boy. Says she can’t be trusted with him.”
“Any number of army wives travel with their children,” Alistair said, tense as a coiled spring. “Ladies, even.”
“I’m just telling you what he said,” Cyril said.
“It’s all over the room?” Alistair asked.
“What do you think?”
Following on the heels of his broken engagement over the summer, this story topped anything else, even the rumors of Lord and Lady Westing’s divorce. Well, he knew what to do. Standing as proudly as he could—a difficult thing, with crutches—Alistair moved into the room. Finding a prominent place, well lit, well-spaced, he glared at Morris, who was laughing scurrilously with a couple of riflemen. One of them nudged Morris with his elbow, directing him to look at Alistair. Ignoring the rifleman’s cautious tilt of the head, Morris let his face fall into a sneer.
Incognita (Fairchild Book 2) Page 28