The Unraveling of Lady Fury

by Shehanne Moore

  “We? Slip away, you mean?”

  Obviously. There was no other way to do it. She could not very well parade out of here, or him either. A ceremonial procession before Lady Margaret.

  “Exactly. You’re catching on fast.”

  All right, she was pregnant but he’d soon find a way of looking after her.

  She sat back. “Oh, that’s fine for you.”

  “We can get Storm.”

  “Storm?”

  “All right, I know it’s a shock to you, but these last weeks…”

  These last damned weeks. They had skewered everything. And that was why she bolted upright. How could she be so damned foolish as to let herself believe they wouldn’t though?

  “Well, you’re not going to sit there denying they weren’t nice.”

  “Yes.” It came out strangled, and she opened her mouth again but closed it, no sound coming out.

  What was there to decide about after all?

  “There you go. So—”

  “But I don’t think that’s such a good idea. Have you gone stark raving mad?”

  Wasn’t it dandy that was what she thought? He had to have, hadn’t he, to suggest this? But he had some money in Jamaica. Not enough to offer her this, but even so, it was a start, better than nothing.

  “Why do you think that?”

  She couldn’t say, could she? He waited. He waited for what seemed an eternity, his hand frozen around that damned purse he’d taken out the drawer. All right, he admitted it, until she had told him of Storm, he’d been nothing but difficult. Blackmailing, lying, cajoling. The exact same as her though. But his offer wasn’t uttered on a whim. It wasn’t offered because of Storm.

  It was offered for her to agree to it. She was going to agree, wasn’t she?

  “You’re kidding,” he said, when she didn’t answer.

  She bent her head, obviously trying to think. He stood there, waiting to hear the result of these ministrations and did not leap over there to haul the words out of her mouth as he so wanted to.

  “You’re not.”

  “Flint…”

  If she did this, ran off with him, then she’d lose everything she’d worked for. Dreamt of and suffered for. She could never put it back. Was that why her hands fisted on the damask cover?

  “It’s not that. England is my home. I thought you knew that, and I have made it plain. Once the child was conceived—”

  “You’re afraid. That’s it, isn’t it?”

  Damn that uncertain smile she fixed on her face. She fluttered on as if he hadn’t offered what he just had.

  “Since you press me, I will tell you. No, it is not that. These are the things I want, have always wanted, for Storm and this baby.”

  “And there’s things I don’t?”

  “If you are going to think of yourself—”

  “For the baby.”

  The way he breathed the words made her widen her eyes and her jaw tremble. Until now, until she’d hit him with these stupid rules, passion had been a variant he only claimed in bed. Not in his personal life. And she had been confident she could talk him around. After all, she was the pregnant one. So, it wasn’t as though he could very well take the baby back.

  “The matter is settled, if that’s the case. The only way to give Storm and this baby those things is to let it take up its rightful place in society.”

  “Rightful? Ain’t that dandy?”

  She pushed the cover aside and rose from the bed. “In time, yes.” She plumped the pillow. “It will be very dandy indeed. What is more, you agreed to it being dandy weeks ago. So I honestly don’t know what you’re taking issue with now. Just think. This baby, your baby, will have the very best. It may even be a duke, if it is a boy. I’ve hurt your feelings, not telling you first, for which I apologize.”

  “You think I can’t give it these things?”

  Her busy hands stilled, holding the pillow against her stomach. “Do you really want me to answer that?”

  “You are afraid.”

  “Oh, really? And you’re completely insane. So, what this baby will turn out like—”

  “What’s insane about it? You take what money you have and we go. All we need is passage out of here. I can do the rest.”

  “Here’s the thing.” She flung the pillow back on the bed. “I don’t have any money because you took it all.”

  He hadn’t taken a damned thing. “How come?”

  “How about the callaloo? Then there was the fried chicken. And let’s not mention the rum. But that was only part of the trouble, because then you had to have the berth at Frau Berthe’s. The one that just had to be paid up front. Two months. Oh, and not being content with that, it couldn’t be empty. Because then there were the whores.”

  Maybe it was only to a piercing whisper, maybe she didn’t mean it, but her voice rose, her skirt rustling as she swept about the room, picking up this, fiddling with that.

  “I told you I only ever looked at them respectfully.”

  “Your respectful looks have cost me a fortune.” She snapped a trinket box shut. “So even if I did want to come with you, I couldn’t. Not now. Everything is in hock. And it’s not mine to hock. I’m quite sure they have penalties for that here the same as in England. Do you want our baby born in prison?”

  “Prison?” Right enough. There did seem to be fewer items for her to fiddle with than before. “You’re the one who didn’t admit you were pregnant.”

  “Well, I am now. So I don’t.”

  “Jesus, you think I’d allow that?” He stopped short of taking hold of her and shaking some sense into her. “That’s why I’m not just asking you to come with me, I’m begging.”

  “Oh, for the love of God, let’s be honest here.”

  “What? About how that would be?”

  “You forget. I know exactly how that would be. I know from past experience.”

  He might have known it would be that. And he was begging. He, who had never done such a thing in his whole life. Not when his mother’s lovers beat him, not when he had been kept for days without food or water in that rat-infested cell in Jamaica, wounded and in chains.

  “Seven years, Fury.”

  “And seven seconds is as long as you’d want me when I get to seven months pregnant, if it’s even that long.” He made a move toward her, but she held up her hand. “Do you think I’ve not seen? That I don’t know? Oh, not just you particularly. It’s a fault of your species.”

  “Fury—”

  “The length is irrelevant when logic says we must part. There is no future. Not for us together. And if you stay, now you’ve gone and told Lady Margaret about Thomas, there may not even be one for us apart. Malmesbury is going to pounce. I will use my book, of course. But even that has its limits. You have to go.”

  For a second her eyes blazed, then, when he didn’t respond, she turned and strolled across the floor in the direction of the bed. Of all the invitations he’d had from her, this wasn’t one.

  When she could have the money at stake in a dukedom, why would she have him?

  He just hadn’t thought. Actually, he didn’t know what he thought. Only that he couldn’t go on standing there, trying to get his heart to cool. His brain too.

  She paused. Now came, if not the actual dismissal, the complaint about the fact he still stood there. His eyes skimmed her back. Wasn’t she even going to turn and face him? She stiffened her shoulders and eased up her head.

  “But if you should ever get to England, I’ll be at Ravenhurst. It’s in Hampshire.”

  As he strode to the door, the thought nagged: Did she mean him to go?

  He closed the door. On the landing he stood for a moment, collecting his thoughts. Yet he could hardly do it for what jangled in his brain. He went down the stairs and out through the sitting room doors into the garden, his feet taking him there while every other bit of him jangled in a state of angry shock.

  In a corner of his mind, he believed this would get better in a day
or two. It would, wouldn’t it? Only that seemed a lifetime away.

  Later, wandering the streets, he went over what she’d said about England. If she didn’t want him here, she wasn’t likely to want him in England. So the hope that gave him vanished like a spark in cold air. Because he had hurt her before. Hurt her, or not—and he knew it wasn’t not—he’d changed from then. He saw it. Knew it. Breathed it. Why wouldn’t she? He no longer believed she hated him that much. Not the way she’d been these last weeks.

  The only clear focused thought he possessed, beyond anger, beyond pride, was that her departure loomed, and in this impossible situation he’d created for himself, he didn’t have the least idea what he could do about it.

  But he knew he had to do something. She’d no idea what she’d started in him. And he wasn’t going to rest until he proved it to her.

  * * *

  Fury muffled a shriek as a hand covered her mouth. Then she muffled another as she tried to rise from the bed and her forehead collided with hard bone in the shadowed darkness.

  “Ouch! Jesus,” a male voice said. “Keep still, will you?”

  “Flint? Oh my God.”

  “Shh.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I came to say goodbye to the mother of my child, sweetheart.” His soft, warm breath brushed her lips. “You didn’t think that was it earlier, did you?”

  She groaned deep in her throat, striving in vain to move away. By God, this man could not take a hint, could he? She looked at his chiseled features in the band of silver moonlight fanning through the open shutters. It didn’t seem possible that he was here. At two in the morning, a hundred miles from where he was meant to be. Where she’d hoped he’d be by now.

  She might have known he’d be back. Larger than life. And twice as dangerous, with Lady Margaret a stone’s throw away along the corridor and Malmesbury just waiting to pounce. True, if ever a man could take care of himself, Flint could. But the vicious way Malmesbury had beaten him and the way he regarded Flint as his property made her blood shudder. A woman with very little left to fear and yet she did, because if Malmesbury was to somehow do anything to Flint, she’d have to do something to him and she doubted it would be anything pleasant.

  “Lady Margaret is in the house. She’s—”

  He kissed her mouth, smiling against her lips. “You want me to go check?”

  “No. I don’t want you to go check.” She tried to push him off. “I want you to go. Now. Before—”

  “Hell, I just want a cuddle is all.”

  A cuddle? That would be a first. The man was notorious. It was ridiculous to think so, when her pillow lay soaked with tears. She wished he didn’t command so much of her thoughts.

  She did not want to have to explain it to Susan in the morning what had run from her eyes the entire time she’d lain here, thinking of that stupid offer he’d made her.

  “Bed’s lonely without you. Anyway, you were looking poorly earlier.”

  “Bed? I was never in your bed…” But then she recalled that day she had been. The extraordinary heat of that moment of giving and taking. But she crushed it. When so much stood within her sights, when only the thought of Storm had kept her strong in the face of his offer earlier, it was absurd to think of such things. One day, perhaps. Not now. Now she had enough to deal with. “How did you get in here?”

  He grinned. “Now, sweetheart, that would be telling.”

  “No, it wouldn’t be. Did you climb up to my window?”

  “Shove over and I’ll tell you.”

  The little flickering grin. The boundless energy. This was more like him. She was glad to see it. This morning had been so unlike him, it tore her heart, what bits she had left to tear, because some of it had died long ago. It must have or she’d have accepted his offer. She had longed with every fiber of her being to hear it, and he’d been so impressive standing there. She didn’t think she’d ever seen him look like that.

  But there was no denying his body heat beckoned and this morning she’d found herself in trouble, precisely because she had thought so. No denying either this morning had been a pack of lies she thanked God she had not listened to.

  “Come on. You think I’m going to take advantage of a pregnant woman?”

  Much was the word he missed. Then if Lady Margaret found him here, hell would also be beckoning. She shifted against the bed.

  “You—”

  “Especially one who’s got my baby in there.”

  Something about the words added a frisson of alarm. And excitement. As did the knowledge that she did have his baby. A cuddle was only a cuddle. Even if she was not quite fool enough to pretend that was all that might happen, this morning had ended badly. She did have his seed. And his seed guaranteed her and Storm’s future. And he had learned a little bit about boundaries, hadn’t he?

  “I mean, it wasn’t like I knew before that you did. Or I’d have refrained.”

  What a beguiling liar. “All right. But, I warn you—”

  “Shh. You want Lady Margaret to hear?”

  He flung the covers back and spread his long limbs out beside her. Like hell she’d warn him. Since he was sublimely ignorant of the meaning of the word.

  But now he knew she was pregnant, she felt obliged to. To let him believe he still had rights, when he didn’t, would be a mistake. It would make her look very bad indeed. No better than a dockside hussy.

  What was more, he had known before. He must have.

  His hand flattened on her stomach, as if he wanted to cup the precise spot his seed lay planted. A mistake she was unfortunately willing to make. A layer of cool cotton separated his fingertips from her flesh. Yet she could feel their heated touch as if it didn’t exist.

  “Flint, I just want your word that you’re in this bed with me and this is all it’s going to be. A respectable cuddle.”

  Touch me, she wanted to say.

  She desperately needed not to. Yet, to feel him there in the cool darkness—well, it had been cool, until he had lain down beside her—was a torture.

  “Hell, I’m going in the morning.” His low voice drawled against her ear. “That’s a genuine promise. It was all arranged this afternoon the moment I left here. Of course, I won’t do anything you don’t want. This is just goodbye.”

  Did he imagine that she didn’t detect the faintest note of sheepishness in his behavior? Being Flint he wasn’t going to apologize or make some crass remark about being swept off his feet by her charms this morning. Not if a team of wild horses dragged him up, down, and around the harbor front, before propelling him into the water.

  No doubt he had burned slowly, in that way he always burned. Then left here and kicked a wall or something. Before returning to actuality and seeing the total idiocy of his plan.

  If only she could say that knowing she was right about that, about him, didn’t make her want him more. Want him so her heart began to pound.

  But it didn’t.

  And she had done everything to put that longing away. Everything wasn’t enough when he lay as close as this, cool moonlight chiseling his face. His eyes looked unfathomable, an older, more achy Flint. The scent of his skin poured over her.

  It was absurd, when they had said goodbye this afternoon, to let herself be drawn in by a look, a kiss. She should turn the other way. But his arms enveloped her.

  She wanted this last night with him. He had come to himself. There was no danger. And he would never come to England. She only wished he might.

  It would be too dull and bland for him. The weather too cold. The people, certainly the ones she knew, too colorless. Anyway, how would she entertain him there, except on an occasional basis? With what she was, what he was? No. There was no future.

  She raised her chin. Of course he didn’t want to cuddle any more than she did. She wanted pleasure now and she meant to have it. She kissed his mouth and his tongue answered hers in an exploratory sweep. She had no idea how he managed out of his coat and boots,
she was too wild with wanting, except he must have, because they were gone by the time she felt his lips on her throat. He slid the fabric of her robe apart and pressed his mouth to her shoulder, her breast, his lips trailing fire down her body, a singing pleasure she never wanted to stop. A singing pleasure she knew she should fight.

  But she had always thought if she had a last night to spend on earth it would be with him, and really, this was it. The hot velvet throb of him was too delicious. But it wasn’t just that, it was knowing as she ran her hands down his body, searching for the fastenings on his breeches, that this went beyond lust, it went beyond emotional pain.

  It went to the realms of being something she would always treasure. And that, as his mouth moved over her body, finding the spot where she wanted him most, made it very, very special, in a way it had perhaps never been before.

  * * *

  Flint pocketed the book and went on his way, leaving Fury sprawled on the bed as the first hints of dawn streaked the sky. It had been tricky when she woke up like that. He’d just hoped she hadn’t noticed what sat in his back pocket.

  Now it was safe in his coat’s inner one, he could afford to wipe a little of the sweat from his brow. Then he slipped over the balcony and jumped to the ground, landing with a soft thud.

  He slipped across the lawn like the seasoned privateer he was and edged out the side gate to the little side street, where Malmesbury’s coach waited.

  * * *

  Fury shut the drawer and walked across the floor. Then she returned and yanked it open.

  The last four days had been hectic. A whirlwind in fact. But in all the mad preparation—the to-ing and fro-ing to the pawnshop, which Lady Margaret had been expectedly sticky about (How could my son possibly clear off for Rome without settling with his creditors?), the procuring of seats on a coach to Turin because she was unable with the repeated bouts of morning sickness to travel by sea, and the packing up of what she owned—she had still been certain of one thing. The book was in the drawer.

  What was more, it could not have left without her knowledge.