A Little More Scandal

by Carrie Lofty

  Moments later, she sat curled against him in his carriage. His words were a softly rumbled cadence—the distinct cadence of a man raised in distant Scotland. What he said hardly made sense, just reassurances that all would be well, that they were safely away. But such a comfort he provided! No one had offered anything of the kind after she was hauled off that deserted beach. Only questions.

  She had waited for other survivors to join her. None had.

  “They were drunk,” she whispered into the darkness.

  The enclosed carriage bumped and rattled along the cobblestones. The wheels were smoothly oiled and the driver competent, but the noise of such travel could not be avoided. In this instance, it was a welcome shelter. William leaned closer. His mouth hovered so near to hers. Their foreheads rested together.

  And she released the secrets that pressed behind her breast.

  “We were only two days from home. It was the captain’s birthday. The first mate suggested a little nip for all the boys.” Frozen images of their faces flashed in her mind. Their names came next. Wallace. Peter. Quinn. John. Bradford. All dead, swallowed by the sea. “Ours was a transport ship, you see. We were taking the wounded back home. The winter siege at Sevastopol meant starvation, frostbite, gangrene. Yet those men had survived—some of them only just. They would see their families again, and perhaps learn to live with their limitations. Limbs lost, William. Hideous scars. They were lucky to be alive. I think the captain thought so too.”

  She shivered. The August night was not cold, but she wished she had brought a shawl. William must have felt her chill because he tightened his hold. He was her strong, firm armor.

  Her champion.

  “They drank too much rum?”

  “Yes. Everyone.”

  “Even you?”

  Catrin shifted slightly, just enough to meet his mouth with hers. Soft kiss. Greedy kiss. Something to hold the awful memories away from her soul, even as she described them. William cradled the back of her head, their faces so intimately close. She could not have spoken with any less protection.

  “I’ve never been one for spirits,” she said. “But the other nurses partook as liberally as the men. After months of tending broken bodies, they wanted an escape. I could hardly blame them. Had I not feared being ill, I would’ve joined them. Those poor boys were in such pain, in their bodies and their hearts. One barrel of rum became two, then more, until even the crew toppled this way and that. The storm was our undoing. The hands weren’t steady, let alone able to react with much speed.”

  “You don’t need to say any more.”

  “I must,” she said on a shuddering exhale. “Because it was chaos, William. The ship listed. The mizzenmast snapped in two. Maybe we could’ve evacuated had everyone been clearheaded, but panic and fear took over so quickly. They weren’t in their right minds.”

  William’s hands tensed. “That captain should be punished posthumously.”

  “No!” Catrin sat up. She scrambled back to the opposite end of the bench.

  Shadows overwhelmed light as they passed dim lamps. That distortion made William’s nose appear even more abused—broken and put back together countless times—but it also accentuated the lush beauty of his lips. She had joined the two irrevocably in her thoughts. Not one without the other.

  Only now he was scowling. “But had it not been for that captain, those men would still be alive.”

  “I’ve believed that, yes.” Her throat was raw and aching. “Especially during the first few days after I was rescued, I blamed him. But likely he suspected what they faced when they returned home. Their families might not even want them. Wives and children and parents might see them as cripples—less than worthy. For some, invalid homes and asylums would be their fate. So the captain wanted to give them one last taste of being men, raising a glass among their brothers. No condemnation or shame.” She hugged her arms around her waist. “How can I blame them for wanting to feel normal, perhaps for the last time?”

  “It was the last time, Catrin. People need to be told.”

  “But don’t you see? Right now, each man and woman who died when the Honoria sank is considered a hero. If I disclosed what I know . . . Just consider how they would be remembered.”

  His expression became perfectly blank. Nearly calm. But she knew enough about him to recognize the intensity in his eyes. He could not have achieved his successes without being brilliant, without being quick to react, without being able to see the myriad ways a deal could proceed. That depth of insight almost scared her, knowing he could puzzle her out equally well.

  “They died serving Her Majesty.” His brogue was nearly too thick to discern, so full of deep, rumbling emotion. “But with the truth in the papers, or before a military inquest, that respect and honor would be stripped from them. The final moments of their lives would tarnish all they sacrificed.”

  “Yes,” she breathed. “I won’t be responsible for that. Some had been away from England for more than three years. The whole of the war! William, they were heroes. Those mistakes need to stay at the bottom of the ocean.”

  He exhaled a long sigh, then reached out to touch her upper arm. The invitation was subtle, just as subtle as his slight nod—the admission she was right. Catrin almost smiled as she returned to his arms. He would always be that way. Boisterous and arrogant in all things business, where his brash style and dockworker’s fists kept the world from crashing around him. But when it came to his emotions, he kept them safe and tight. Little movements. Little concessions. The man’s pride was bigger than he was. Maybe even bigger than his ambition.

  “I was on deck when the mast broke.” She needed to finish her tale, there, while he still held her. Otherwise the memories would drive her mad, clawing and scratching to escape. “I think now standing there saved my life. Had I been in the hold with the men, I would’ve tried to help. No way of knowing when it was too late.

  “There on deck, I was tossed by the wind and the spray. I don’t know how many minutes passed, but I was thrown overboard, a few hundred yards distant. I’ve never been that near to death, William, even in battle. Just sucking in gulps of water. A chunk of wood hit my head as I surfaced, so dizzy. It was a piece of the mast, about four feet long. I clung to it, then watched as the ship buckled, turned in on itself, and split in two. The waves devoured it.”

  He wiped tears from her cheeks. She hadn’t realized she was crying. Another flash of embarrassment covered her skin, but he only tucked her closer.

  “Soon I found more wood. A larger piece. The storm scattered everything. I was thankful, because a dead calm would have meant floating with the bodies . . .”

  “Catrin—”

  “Days! Oh, God, how was I out there for days? How is it I’m even here? It’s not just, William! I’m the only one left! All alone with this secret!”

  The cheeks he smoothed were covered in tears as she sobbed. Every mournful moment alone, every nightmare she had kept close and quiet came bubbling out of her like a vicious hot spring. She balled her fists and pummeled the granite wall of his chest. So hurt. So frustrated and wretched.

  William remained her rock.

  “Enough now. Enough, my darling. You’re not alone anymore.”

  He gathered her fists and kissed each one. Implacable arms eased her frantic outburst. He guided her hands to his neck, urging her to cling. She did with all her strength, nearly as close as they had been in his office. Only now, comfort and safety had replaced their passion. The carriage moved. Even the world moved. But he held still so that she had a place to cry.

  The fire in her chest burned until she was weak with exhaustion. The back of her neck ached. Her limbs trembled. And yet for the first time in the months since the HMS Honoria had slipped into its watery grave, she felt quieter. Her mind did not shout so loudly. Her heart did not thunder as if she still battled the ocean.

  She had survived.

  Catrin lifted her face. She knew she must have passed the worst because she
was suddenly aware of how she must appear: a tear-streaked witch instead of the beautiful woman she wanted to be for William Christie. Yet his intensity had not wavered. Although he eyed the rest of the humanity with roving suspicion, he looked upon her with a clarity of vision that was nearly alarming.

  Nearly. Because for the most part, when William watched her that way, she wanted more.

  The carriage slowed, then jerked to a soft stop. He kissed her cheeks. Her heart flew apart at that tenderness from such a gruff man. “We’ve arrived. But I’ll take you to Lady Julia’s, if you want. Or even back to your family in Wales.”

  Catrin leaned her cheek into his hand. He inhaled through his nostrils, appearing the perfect balance of animal and gentleman. Rough and tender. Rugged, yet willing to wipe away her tears. After sharing such an intimate confession, she set aside any lingering question as to what William would do with her secret.

  “No, I’m going home with you.”

  Twelve

  William carried her through the front door and up the wide staircase toward his bedroom, just as he’d carried her through the Duchess of Marsden’s ballroom. There would be no stemming the tide of talk now. What had been a business concern was now a matter of honor—as if laying her back against his desk hadn’t been damning enough. That memory only reminded him of how little honor he possessed. Susannah had realized to her horror what sort of man she married, while Georgette . . .

  No matter his physical strength, he could not stand tall against those memories. At the top of the stairs, he touched Catrin’s feet to the ground and led her into his bedroom, where he lit a single taper. She balanced against the closed door. In her eyes blazed the promise of lovers’ secrets and sighs. Deeper still, he saw the promise of two futures coming together. William didn’t dare believe himself worthy; he simply wanted to be the protection she craved.

  But he could not do that if there stood the possibility of breaking her heart.

  The servants were abed. He could do with Catrin what he wanted. The rush of power he always got from being so strong, so intimidating, never came. He was left feeling childish and nauseated by how callous he had become.

  Heat sizzled from his neck to his cheekbones. When had he last felt embarrassment? Those few incidents blazed like lightning strikes among his memories. He was ashamed of the night when making love to Susannah had brought about her suggestion that he take a mistress, should he wish to continue rutting like a stag. He was ashamed of leaving Georgette, having known that offering for her would’ve ensured social and financial suicide.

  And he was heartily ashamed that he hadn’t seen his son in three months.

  He’d brought that loss on himself.

  Catrin was a painful woman to know. So direct, so vital, her very spirit prevented him from denying his selfishness and fear. He would forever consider himself a coward if he refused her a place in his life.

  “You owe me a secret, William.”

  He drew her away from the door. “I do.”

  “Help me, first.” She began to unfasten the buttons and ties that kept her clothed. “Close that beautiful mouth, William. I’m in earnest.”

  Captain of industry? Hardly. He was hers to command.

  When the gown fell to the floor, Catrin stepped clear of puddled muslin. With a few more deft movements, she stood wearing only her drawers and shift. She unpinned sunny brown hair, which fell as gleaming strands to frame her face. Soft candlelight cast deep, tormenting shadows between her small breasts. Her stomach was a gentle hollow. The hint of a dark triangle between her legs quickened William’s breath.

  As if she belonged there, she opened the bed curtains and pulled back the quilt. The scared young woman who’d cried and clung to him in the carriage was gone now. Pain and fear might always haunt her, but for the evening, it had been purged.

  For all her boldness, the smile she tossed over her shoulder was brief, shy, hopeful.

  Did she carry some hesitation that he would not follow her to bed? Perhaps. He’d handled her generosity and openness so poorly.

  He would not begin this conversation by disappointing her. And bloody hell, he wasn’t making love to her again—not until he honored his promise. They might still be able to escape this dalliance.

  Yet from her downy refuge, Catrin smiled just this side of impish. “What do you wear to bed?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Then don’t let me interfere with your usual routine.”

  He stood at the edge of a mighty cliff, dizzy, wanting, and more petrified than a man could ever admit. She watched with avid interest as he shed his clothing. Slowly. At least his body knew how to proceed, rising to meet the warm flesh that awaited him beneath that quilt. His mind, however, remained a boiled muddle.

  Once naked, he stood beside the bed. Catrin’s eyes were wide and greedy. She reached out and gently stroked two fingertips up his thigh, to the muscles of his stomach. William closed his eyes against a hard jolt of pleasure.

  He had a confession to make. Time to get on with this torture.

  After blowing out the candle, he slipped into soft darkness. Catrin didn’t hesitate. She draped her lithe body over his. Breasts and hips and legs—so suddenly, his hands were filled with silken warmth.

  He touched his forehead to hers. Swathed in the black of midnight, so intimate, he finally was able to speak the impossible.

  “I am not a good man,” he rasped. “If given the opportunity before knowing you better, I would have traded your story for its influence. That’s how I see the world. Buy and sell. Trade people. Exchange morals. Anything to keep climbing away from . . . from where I was born.”

  “But you have limits. I’m proof.”

  “You speak with so much certainty.” He kissed her, amazed she could think so well of him. “Nothing has changed regarding what I need from Mr. Lymon, and I will accomplish my aims. Susannah knew that much. Two years of living with my hunger for success was enough to embitter her. She cared more about this house than me, and rightfully so. I fled to Paris when she died. Even I couldn’t live with myself, no matter the detached nature of our marriage.”

  Catrin began to stroke him. All of him. She was learning him by touch. Cool, nimble fingers dusted from collarbone to bicep, before skipping across his hip. She held onto his forearm, gave a little squeeze.

  “You were saying? About Paris?”

  He shut his eyes. So selfish. So greedy. He could not refuse her touch, nor the light kisses she feathered across his face—near enough to absolution for a sinner like him.

  “I met a dancer named Georgette.” He kept his hands still. Motionless. Her curves rested beneath his palms, but he would not take her. “She was exactly what I needed at the time. Uninhibited. Amenable. But how could I contemplate marriage to a French Catholic? An occasional prostitute? She gave me the comfort I needed, until I awoke one morning and returned to England. Christ, I left her behind like a shameful thought.”

  Her deep inhale pressed against his chest. “I’m sorry you were in pain, and that you caused her pain. You can do better than that. You are better than that. Every mistake can be rectified—if not to this woman in particular, then perhaps to others like her. There is more in life to be achieved than accumulating money and power.” Catrin hugged with all the might her tiny, fierce body could muster. “Make her memory an inspiration for all the good you can do.”

  “Catrin, don’t do this.”

  He used his body to pin her against the mattress. The position was dangerous. He was so close to climbing atop this vibrant woman and binding their futures.

  “I took you once,” he said harshly. “But you can still escape unscathed. I have money enough to ensure it.”

  Her hands renewed their exploration. “My lover of choice would provide my dowry to marry another? That sounds torturous to us both.”

  William was hard now. Breathing in a husky rhythm. It would take so little to part her legs.

  Why now? Why at this moment had his
conscience decided to become so bloody stubborn?

  Because she deserves it.

  “I’m in earnest, Catrin. Marrying me means marrying a man whose mistress will always be industry, trade, the accumulation of wealth.”

  She pinched his arse. “You will not take a mistress.”

  “Damn, woman!”

  “Don’t expect I’ll meekly drink tea while you conquer the world. By rights, what you have will be mine to share. That includes your work.”

  But then her movements calmed. Her hypnotic Welsh accent swirled around through his senses. “William, I know you’ll never be an open man. You’re simply not the type. But here?” She took his face in her hands. “Here, you’ll try. For me. I will be your safe place, just as you’ll be for me. Begin here. Now.”

  He collapsed against her bosom. Warm cotton teased him with her scent. He was hungry, needy, and defeated by her unflagging optimism.

  “I didn’t leave my son with his grandparents because I value how they’ll acclimate him to Society.” His whispered confession was easier now. Darkness. Catrin’s scent. Her gentle patter of kisses. They conspired to unlock the vault in his chest. “He’s there because I’m terrified. What does a gutter rat from Glasgow know about family? How does a father guide a boy to manhood? And Jesus, any children we might have . . . ?”

  They both stilled. Neither breathed.

  He whispered against her skin, “Will you teach me how, Catrin? Will you help me raise my boy?”

  She brought him up for a slow kiss. “Yes, my love. If we can figure our way out of this mess, we can do anything.”

  “Do you trust this? Us?”

  “I trust that I love you.”

  “How?”

  “Have you ever made a business decision based on gut instinct? Facts and figures aside—you just had to choose?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then choose to love me.”