The Smithfield Bargain

by Jo Ann Ferguson

  “Don’t be a paper-skull! Why would you be faithful to Mr. MacKinnon?”

  “Not to James.” Her voice broke, but she took a deep breath before she added, “I shall be faithful to the love I have for Bradley.”

  “Bah! Being faithful to a dead man is idiocy.”

  “Grange, I cannot believe that he is dead.”

  The older woman said, “Thatcher told me he has seen the graves.”

  “I know, but—”

  “Then where is Mr. Montcrief?” Grange demanded. “If he lived, would he have left you as provender to those rum pads? You nearly got yourself killed trying to save him. Would he have done less for you?”

  Romayne rubbed her cold, sweaty palms against her arms. Nothing could warm them when she thought of Bradley lying dead in the middle of that horrendous storm. The blizzard had swallowed them, then destroyed them.

  At the call of her name, she looked across the room. James was holding out his hand to her in what she knew was an order. She considered ignoring it, but that would make things more difficult. Other brides had been shy or reluctant. However, there must be no hint of contention between them. She must pose as the woman who was so madly in love that she had forgotten her dead betrothed and dared to defy her grandfather to have this man as her husband.

  “You were gone too long, dearie,” he said as she came to stand next to him. “Was Grange giving you a lecture on how to please your husband?”

  Romayne knew her face was ablaze as the guests laughed, but she fired back, “Her advice was to listen always to your counsel and be submissive. Neither of which I intend to do.”

  “She gave you no other tips on how to please me?”

  “Kiss the bride!” crowed someone.

  James turned her to face him. “That sounds like a bonny suggestion.” As he bent toward her, he whispered, “Romayne, you are my wife now.”

  “I thought you said this would be a marriage of appearance,” she hissed.

  “For appearance’s sake, I shall kiss you.” He smiled without humor. “It might not be such a bad idea if you acted as if you were not an unwilling victim. Cooperate, so we can be done with this quickly.”

  The raucous calls for a kiss grew more enthusiastic as James put his hand on her arm. She stared up at him as the warm roughness of his hand slid along her bare arm to her shoulder. Green fire burned in his eyes, and her breath snagged in the center of her breast. He enfolded her to him as the shouts were muted by her pounding heart.

  “Pretend you care for me,” he whispered while his fingers ran along the column of her neck.

  “I fear I have no more pretending left within me.” As his thumb teased the curve of her jaw, a shiver raced along her. She hoped he could not guess the real meaning of her words. She could not pretend she did not want his kiss when her lips ached for his against them.

  “I know.”

  “You know? Then why don’t you—?”

  “Cooperate, Romayne.”

  She tensed at his uncompromising tone, closing her eyes as he stroked her cheek. He tilted her face toward him. When his mouth descended toward hers, his fingers plowed upward through her hair, tangling with her curls. He touched her lips lightly, then drew away. Opening her eyes, she discovered his face only a shadow’s breadth away. She began to believe that the chaste kiss would be enough to satisfy his lusty friends, but had it been enough for James … or for her? She did not want to answer that question.

  “My dearie,” he murmured.

  “James—”

  “Hush, dearie, and kiss me as a wife should kiss her husband.” With a hint of a satisfied smile glistening in his eyes, he claimed her mouth again.

  The flavor of whiskey invaded her senses, threatening to consume her. As demanding as every facet of him, his lips sought to subdue every inch of hers. His arm about her waist kept her pressed to the hard angles of his enticingly male body.

  When her arms arched along his back as he bent her backward to be cradled against his arm, she rediscovered the strong sinews hidden beneath his shirt. An odd gentleness in his touch urged her lips to soften against his until she found she was returning his kiss. She wanted to savor his caress as she forgot her pain in this unexpected rapture. His breath warmed her mouth before swirling through her.

  He laughed as he released her. His arm around her waist kept her wobbly legs from collapsing beneath her. Against her ear, he whispered, “This is going to be fun, dearie. I should have found myself a partner like you long ago.”

  “You have had all the fun you’re going to have with me,” she retorted primly, although she knew the swift pace of her breathing contradicted her.

  “That is where we disagree.” He winked at her before he let his friends sweep him away to where the whiskey bottle waited for more toasts.

  Romayne sat on the settee and stared down at the ring on her left hand. What havoc had she brought into her life by marrying a man she did not love but whose kisses seared her very soul?

  James yawned as he climbed the stairs. The day had gone better than he had dared to hope. With all the hubbub surrounding the wedding, no one, not even Romayne, who seldom let something pass unnoticed, had realized that Cameron was absent. He had sent the sergeant to seek out Duffie and his lads. He had hoped Cameron would be back by this time; his sergeant knew to come directly to him with any intelligence he might have gathered.

  “Even tonight?” Cameron had asked with incredulity when James had given him the order this morning.

  “Tonight is no different from any other.”

  “’Tis your wedding night, sir.”

  James had been amazed when his sergeant, who could tell a coarse sally with the best in any tavern, blushed as brightly as a lass in the schoolroom.

  “Cameron,” James said, “you know this wedding is nothing but a pretense.”

  “Aye, but I thought you might want to forget that now that you have such a lovely lass to take as your wife.”

  The words rang in James’s ears as he ducked to avoid hitting his head on the low door at the top of the stairs. If Cameron had heard the Regent’s minister’s fury when the news came of the traitor and his plans, he would understand why James could not afford even a moment of pleasure with his wife.

  Wife! Was this the most mindless thing he had ever done, or would his impulse prove to be the key to the turncoat’s failure?

  He looked at the two closed doors. This was something he and Romayne had failed to discuss, but no newly married couple kept separate bedchambers. Taking a deep breath, he raised the latch and opened the door.

  Romayne was bending over the fire to stir it. Its dancing light outlined her bewitching body beneath her thin chemise. Above its lace, the curve of her breasts drew his eyes. Her skin glowed an invitation, and a steady pulse of the heat raged through him. A low curse drifted from his lips.

  She straightened and whirled. With her eyes wide, she groped for her wrapper. Her fingers found it, but he put his hand over hers to keep her from flinging it around her shoulders. When he drew it out of her hand and tossed it back on the footboard, she did not resist. She stared up at him, her lips parted as she stood inches away from him, draped in silk and lace that he yearned to push aside.

  James halted himself as he reached to pull her to him. Was he mad? Consummating this marriage would cause innumerable problems when the truth became known. Walking away to pull a comforter off the bed so he could sleep alone on the hard floor was, without question, the most difficult thing he had ever done. For just this night, he would have gladly traded his principles with the traitor. Then he would not have thought twice of bedding this woman who all considered his wife.

  “Help me with these dashed boots, Romayne,” he ordered, sitting on the bed. “I fear I cannot take them off without assistance while my arm is useless.”

  “Call for Cameron,” she retorted, pulling on her wrapper.

  James chuckled softly as he raised one booted foot in her direction, but he was sorry to
see those appealing curves disappear between a sheath of silk. “Cameron is gone.”

  “To England?” She inched closer, but he guessed she would skitter away again like a frightened kitten if he made any motion toward her.

  “Do not ask questions I will not answer.”

  Fury flashed in her volatile eyes. “Then there’s no sense in me saying any more to you.”

  “Romayne?” He pointed to his boots.

  “Wear them to bed, for all I care.”

  Rising, he walked toward her. When she stepped back to keep the distance between them unchanged, she bumped into the side of the bed. All color vanished from her face. She edged past him and gasped when he allowed her to escape him. He knew she could not guess what he risked if he allowed himself to touch her even once.

  “I can chase you about this room all night,” James said with a challenging smile, “but I would as lief you helped me with my boots so that I might get some sleep.”

  “I am not your serving lass.”

  “Aye, that is true, wife.” He ran a single fingertip along her cheek, then pulled back. A flash of desire had tightened every muscle. If there had been another way … It was too late to think of that now. His frustration crept into his voice as he went on, “But wouldn’t you prefer that I sleep tonight? I don’t think you want me to stay awake and put into effect any ideas I have of how to while away the night with you when you look so charmingly disheveled.”

  “You are beastly.”

  “And you are beautiful.” He sat again. “Come, Romayne, and help me. You might as well get accustomed to it. We are going to need to help each other quite a bit in the next few weeks if we are to be rid of the other.”

  Chapter Seven

  Ellen knocked lightly on the bedchamber door. When she heard a soft command to enter, she grinned and slipped through the door. Her grin faltered when she saw the state of the room. A comforter and a pair of her mother’s best quilts were on the floor with a pillow stacked on top of them. She glanced from the mess to Romayne, who was brushing her hair. Romayne looked as prim as ever, and Ellen wondered how such a decorous lady could have been party to what clearly had taken place in here.

  “Oh, Ellen, come in.” She twisted her hair into place and smiled.

  “If I’m intruding—”

  “Of course, you aren’t. Forgive the mess. Your mother asked me to count the blankets in this room, so she might know how many she has to send with us when we go back to Yorkshire.”

  Ellen relaxed. She should have guessed. “I wish I was going with you.”

  Romayne put her hairbrush on the chest. “Why? This is your home.”

  Resting her elbow on the footboard, Ellen propped her chin in her hands and looked much younger than her years. “I have heard so much of the glories of the Season in London. How I would love to see even one of those magnificent parties!”

  “Most of them can cause ennui if one is not there with someone who is amusing.”

  “I would risk that,” Ellen replied. She stood, then dipped in a curtsy. Holding up her hand, she cooed, “Why, yes, milord, I would be most honored to stand up with you.” She dropped the pose and laughed. She started to add more, but the call of her name halted her. “Mama,” she said, although Romayne had recognized the voice.

  Romayne stood as Ellen raced out of the room. With a smile, she tried to imagine the young woman among the staid ton. Ellen’s exuberance would shake up the patronesses at Almack’s, that was for certain.

  She scooped up the blankets James had used and dropped them on the bed. How she hated telling bangers, but she suspected she would be doing it often as long as she was “married”.

  The door opened again, and her abigail stormed in, her arms crossed over the bodice of her gray gown. “By jappers,” Grange muttered. “I never would have selected this Scotsman for you if I had realized that he never would give me a simple answer to a simple question.”

  “Whom would you have had me marry instead?” Romayne sat on the corner of the bed and eased off her tattered slippers. Grimacing at the collection of holes in them, she doubted if she would arrive home a moment too soon as far as her shoes were concerned.

  “If I had known that Mr. Bain was a widower, I—”

  “Pray do not continue.” With a laugh, she slipped her shoe back on. “He is nearly as old as Grandfather and has but one tooth. Unquestionably, he is a fair man in business, but that would not be a reason to wed him.”

  “You needed a husband.”

  “And I have one! By all that’s blue, Grange, what other misfortune do you wish to befall me?”

  When her abigail apologized, Romayne soothed Grange with platitudes before excusing herself. She needed to escape from the old woman who could not be satisfied with the disruptions she had brought into Romayne’s life. If Grange could have rearranged everything yet again, Romayne wondered if she would be happy then.

  Without a destination in mind, she tied on her battered bonnet and drew her coat over the shoulders of her dun-colored dress. The thick seams of the borrowed dress scratched her arms and her sides above the bodice that was not as high as she was accustomed to. She ignored the discomfort, for within days she would be home at Westhampton Hall and could choose from among any of the frocks in her dressing room … if Grandfather allowed her back into the Hall.

  Shaking her head, she tried to propel that thought from her mind. It was impossible. If Grandfather did not welcome her and James, she had no idea what James might decide to do then.

  Romayne was not surprised when her feet led her to the stable. Amid the insanity, Thatcher offered a hint of the life she had left behind. The groom tended to the horses in the primitive building with the same dedication as he had in her grandfather’s stables. When she paused by the fence, he looked up from where he was checking the underside of the nearly wrecked carriage.

  She closed her eyes as she sighed. No tears today. She had no time for more mourning. Once James had stopped the turncoat, she could bring her life back to normal and have the chance to grieve properly.

  “Out to enjoy the sunshine?” Thatcher called.

  Glancing skyward, Romayne noted that the sky was the fresh blue of spring. She had been so deep in her grim thoughts that she had assumed the day was as dreary. “To own the truth, I needed time away from Grange.”

  He laughed as he folded his arms on the open door of the carriage. “Who would have guessed that she and Aunt Dora would become such bosom bows?”

  “Not I.” Copying his motion as she leaned on the fence, Romayne asked, “Will the carriage hold together long enough for us to reach Westhampton Hall?”

  “I plan to bring along a few tools and parts in case we have to do repairs.” He stubbed his toe guiltily against the ground and avoided her eyes. “I wish we had a way other than Mr. Montcrief’s carriage to travel, Lady Romayne.”

  She flinched. When she saw the uneasy expression lengthening his thin face, Romayne tried to smile. “You must be eager to put Scotland behind you, Thatcher.”

  “I shall miss it.”

  “You will?”

  He glanced toward the sunlit hills. “This is an intriguing land, and it is tempting to think of exploring it.”

  “I am sure Grandfather would give you a leave if—”

  “No!” He flushed at his outspoken retort, but did not apologize. “I came here to find you, Lady Romayne. My thoughts of further adventures are merely thoughts.” When his smile became more sincere as he looked past her, Romayne turned.

  James strode toward her, one hand in the wide pocket of his coat. The other swung at his side. With a grin, he held up both hands and wiggled his fingers.

  “The doctor told you to keep the sling on for another fortnight,” Romayne said.

  “Listen to her, Thatcher.” James laughed as he leaned his elbow on the fence. “Married less than a day, and already she is nagging at me like a fishwife.”

  Thatcher chuckled but bent his head to his work when Rom
ayne frowned.

  Her expression did not daunt James, for he added, “Grange said you were taking a walk. Do you want some company?”

  “I really wasn’t planning on going far.” She hoped he would not hear her uneasiness. After last night, when she had been ready to surrender to his touch, she knew the danger of being alone with him. Strong emotions erupted whenever they were together. The ones that lured her to him frightened her more than the anger. As she gazed into his sparkling eyes, she was unsure which she might find today.

  Pulling his hand out of his pocket, he held up a long-barreled pistol. He laughed when she gasped with horror. “Calm yourself. I have no plans to make myself a widower, Romayne.”

  “You might have given me warning you were carrying such a weapon.”

  “I wish to test my arm to see if I can shoot again. It would be wise to be prepared in case we meet brigands upon the road.” When she bit her lip, he put his hand on her elbow.

  She instictively backed away, bumping into the slats of the fence. Aware of Thatcher working only a few feet away, she did not want anyone to guess she found her husband’s touch disturbing. She should be indifferent to James’s strength and enticing eyes, for her heart should be full of grief for Bradley’s death. It was, but there was something more within it. The teasing warmth that urged her closer to James unsettled her. She had every reason to dislike him. He was overbearing. So many times she had repeated that, but she suspected her heart no longer listened to common sense.

  When she said nothing, James put the pistol back in his pocket and said, “You know the dangers of the road, dearie. We would be want-witted to ignore them.”

  “All I desire is to be safe again.”

  “I cannot guarantee that, but I can tell you that I plan to have my pistol at ready until we pass through the gates of Westhampton Hall.” He chuckled as he glanced toward Thatcher. “Mayhap, from what I have heard of your grandfather’s temper, I would be wise to keep it handy once we are inside as well.”

  “My grandfather will not be stopped by a single ball. He was in the war in America, and his years have not made him less cantankerous.”