by Kimberly Nee
Emma lifted her head. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen them so sad. I did it this time, Mare. Really did it.”
“It will all be fine. One day, everyone will have forgotten all about this. Maybe we’ll even laugh about it.”
Emma frowned. “Why do I highly doubt that?”
“I don’t. One day, this will all seem so romantic, and you’ll laugh at how you moped about because you have to marry the man of your dreams. We should all suffer so.”
“Mary…”
“What? It’s true. And now, you get to kiss him whenever you want—for the most part—and you get to do all those things we giggle and blush over when we talk about them.”
“Mary!” Emma couldn’t help her smile. They did spend many an amusing hour speculating about women like Molly and why men were so eager to pay call on her.
“And don’t even try to convince me you aren’t thinking just that as well.”
“Guilty.” Laughter bounced off the walls as they both dissolved into giggles. For those precious minutes, the scandal was gone; it simply no longer existed. Tears clouded Emma’s eyes as she leaned into Mary and they shook together, those giggles building into each other until hysterical laughter exploded from them.
Finally, the peals died and Emma wiped at her streaming eyes. Her sides ached, her heart hammered against her ribs, but she felt wonderful, as it’d been a lifetime since she’d laughed so hard. “Oh, my…oh, my sides hurt.”
“Mine, too,” Mary gasped, rubbing her right eye. “But it was worth it.”
“And now I wait.” The last of her good humor ebbed. The scandal wasn’t gone. It was right there with her. Heavy. Gray. Awful. “Wait for Mrs. Pierce and her army of seamstresses to poke me with pins and snap at me to stand straight and not slouch and all that wonderful nonsense.”
“I’ll keep you company. It won’t be so bad, with me making faces behind Mrs. Pierce’s back, will it?”
Emma nudged her sister with a playful shoulder. “That would make it absolutely bearable.”
“Good.” Mary rose and offered Emma her arm. “Come along and let’s go upstairs. We can continue wondering about wedding nights and all that while we wait.”
Emma smiled as she got to her feet. “Wedding nights? I’m only going to have one.”
“Ah, but that’s the one that counts.”
Chapter Fifteen
CRYSTAL SHATTERED AS IT MET BRICK, but Julian didn’t flinch. Instead, he glared at the soot-smeared red brick hearth in Cheltenham’s parlor. The glass shards sparkled in the glow of the fire, scattered about on the hearthrug like the shattered dreams of his life. And Mr. Percival was going to have to wait a few more days again. Damn it. Why hadn’t he pulled away from Emma before it was too late?
Because he was a selfish bastard and he wanted to kiss her, wanted to feel her body flush against his.
And now, he’d be able to do that whenever the mood struck.
He stared at the shards. Until he’d seen Emma in front of Scotch’s, he hadn’t given much thought to marriage. It wasn’t something he ever saw in his future. How could he, when marriage meant children, and children meant another generation of madness, another generation of tainted blood?
“This is what you’ve left me with,” He stared up at the portrait hanging above the fireplace. Sean and Alice McCallister. They looked happy in the portrait. Not a hint of the misery that would haunt them later, that would bring about the end of their lives.
Nearly ten years had passed. How long had it been since the last time he set foot inside Cheltenham? At least a year. Maybe longer. Not that it mattered. Tonight would be the last time he would cross Cheltenham’s threshold.
“Mr. McCallister?”
He turned to the woman hovering in the doorway. “What is it, Mrs. Pratt?”
“Is everything all right? Do you need anything?”
“Everything is fine.” He turned back to the fire. “Although I could use a new glass.”
Her gaze slid to the shards glittering on the hearthrug. Her brows rose, but all she said was, “Yes, Mr. McCallister.”
The soft swish of linen reached his ears as he scowled at the fire. Everything was fine. And he was getting married in the morning.
Married.
“Married.” He rubbed his forehead then pulled his hand through his hair. Married. The word felt so foreign on his lips, sounded so foreign inside his head. No, it was best to not to think about it. He squeezed his eyes shut. Best to not think about anything. Thinking led to questions for which he had no answers. Led to conclusions he dreaded. What had he condemned Emma to, and for what? Because he was too weak to resist temptation?
He didn’t know why he came up to Cheltenham. He hated the place. Hated the memories associated with it. The walls held secrets best remained buried. Perhaps he’d spend his last night as a bachelor there. Perhaps not. His thoughts were still too muddled. Everything he kept so carefully under control was now falling apart.
Mrs. Pratt made sure to keep the decanters on the small piecrust table filled. Julian rose to fill the glass, and by the time he returned to his chair, he’d downed two glasses of brandy and held a third. It chased away the chill that was partly winter and partly fear. Fear. God, how he hated it. Hated the word. Hated the feeling. Nothing made him angrier than that damned fear, and it rarely left him in peace.
As a child, he’d hide in the fruit cellar when the weather was warm enough. That way, his father couldn’t find him when he’d sucked down an entire decanter of brandy and went spoiling for a fight. At the age of six, Julian knew that the loose floorboard in his nursery led down into a crawlspace. That crawlspace led to the fruit cellar. By six, he had an escape route, one that became invaluable as the years passed.
It was only too unfortunate that he needed such a thing. No child should ever have to have an escape route from his own parents. Ever. And yet, he did. He kept his fruit cellar, long void of any fruit, fully stocked with whatever supplies a boy could need. It began with purloined sweets and favorite toys, and as time passed, the necessities changed. They might have changed, but the room itself remained the same. Safe.
But the fruit cellar was half-rotted after so many years, and he’d never last in the tight space now. There was no safe place for him now.
Save for one.
Emma’s arms. They offered him a haven he didn’t want to believe existed. And for a short, wonderful time, he’d found that peace. Found it and didn’t want to let it go. Didn’t want to leave it.
Well, perhaps now, he would never have to let it go. Maybe—just maybe—this was how he was supposed to finally achieve peace. With the woman he’d been in love with for almost all of his life, even if he only realized it now.
And maybe in that peace he’d find the redemption he sorely needed.
Either way, it didn’t matter. Come Saturday, he would tuck Emma’s hand into his arm and stand before a priest as he pledged his life to her. And every word would be heartfelt and sincere, and when their kiss sealed it, perhaps he’d find something even more powerful than redemption.
Perhaps he’d find salvation.
He spent the night before his wedding curled up on a sofa half his size and awoke with a stiff back and sore shoulder, which were the least of his troubles. The monster headache brought on by the lost-count-around-four glasses of brandy pounded the inside of his skull mercilessly. The inside of his mouth was disgustingly dry, and the slightest movement set off a wave of nausea powerful enough to make him flinch. Tiny men with pickaxes took up residence within his skull, and they ferociously hammered away as he sat up. A pained groan rose.
“Mother of God,” he muttered, holding his head in both hands.
“Mr. McCallister?” Mrs. Pratt’s voice was brisk as she hurried into the room. “Garrett McKenzie is here to see you.”
A curse rose to Julian’s lips as he ran a hand over his scratchy jaw. “Show him in.”
He wasn’t interested in being polite or civil,. His head hurt far too
much, and his gut made its displeasure with him apparent as well. A sickly-sweet taste filled his mouth. He swallowed hard, willing everything to stay where it was. Thankfully, it did.
Garrett McKenzie came into the room. Unlike Julian, he wasn’t rumpled or wrinkled, with a heavy shadow of beard along his jaw. He looked cool and collected, and more than anything, Julian wanted to just lie down until the room stopped rocking on him. “Garrett, what’re you doing here?”
“Making sure you aren’t about to run out on my sister.” He didn’t seem angry, to Julian’s surprise. Didn’t seem even the slightest bit put out. That put Julian on his guard.
“Did you think I would?” Julian winced as he stretched his arms overhead to work out some of the kinks. At least the roiling in his belly seemed calmer. Maybe he wouldn’t be sick after all. Too bad it didn’t help the throbbing in his head. He rubbed his temples.
“Truth?”
“No, Garrett. Lie to me.” Julian paused his rubbing long enough to shoot Garrett a withering look that sent a dull flush sweeping up Garrett’s cheeks.
“Right. Well, no, I didn’t think you would. At least not until I got to Witherspoon. Fortunately, I kept my temper in check on the ride here.” Garrett poured himself a drink and gestured to Julian with the decanter. “One to celebrate this momentous occasion?”
“No, thank you.” Julian fought off a wince. The last thing he wanted or needed was another drink.
Garrett swirled the brandy. “I’m also here on my father’s behalf, since he’s otherwise occupied at the moment trying to keep my mother from going to pieces.”
“What is it?”
“My father needs someone to go down to Windemere. Neither Drew nor I can go, so that leaves you, old man.”
“Leaves me for what?” Julian eyed the glass in Garrett’s hand. To hell with his headache. He had the feeling he’d need every bit of reinforcement he could get. He poured himself one and repeated, “For what?”
“The plantation’s books are a mess. Someone needs to straighten them out and get the shipments of sugar ready to go out. The overseer I hired needs to be fired, since he’s obviously not doing his job.”
“And you expect I’ll do a better one?” Julian took a long swallow of brandy, wincing as it burned its way to his belly. “I’m a shipbuilder, Garrett. I don’t know a damn thing about sugar or plantations.”
“You know how to add and give orders, and that’s all you’ll need to do. You’ll have free rein to hire a new overseer once you’re down there.”
“I’m due—”
“In Boston, yes. I know,” Garrett finished for him. Judging by the tone of his voice, he already had that problem worked out as well, and Julian had the sinking feeling he wouldn’t like it any more than he liked the suggestion of sailing to St. Kitts. “Send Mr. Carter. He’s your assistant. If he can’t do it, he has no business calling himself such.”
“How nice of you to make my business decisions for me,” Julian muttered around another swallow.
“No trouble at all.” Garrett drained his glass and grinned. “I was glad to do it. And besides, it gives you and Emma a bit of a honeymoon as well.”
“My honeymoon.” Julian couldn’t hold back his bitter bark. “For the wedding I never wanted.”
“Perhaps you should have thought of that before you pounced on my sister.” Garrett’s voice was mild.
Yes. He should have. Should have thought beyond the damned infuriating lust to the consequences of his actions. Not that it mattered now. He wasn’t about to give Garrett the satisfaction of knowing he was right.
Christ. He and Garrett were friends. Boyhood friends. As close as brothers. He knew what happened that night. He’d understand as no one else would. He did understand. But at the same time, Emma was Garrett’s sister and that meant she was supposed to be off-limits, or at least, she should have been.
Garrett didn’t reply, but lifted his glass for another drink. He swallowed and set the now-empty glass on the table. Every movement was graceful and easy, but Julian knew Garrett well enough to see the smoldering behind his eyes, the spark that could spell trouble, if Garrett was so inclined. It was there, but Julian didn’t care. What was the worst thing that could happen?
A knowing glint displaced some of the fire. “Are you surprised that you were caught?”
Julian chewed on Garrett’s question for a few minutes, finishing his drink and setting the glass down before saying, “No. Although, I will say, in my worst nightmare, I wouldn’t have thought your mother would be the one to do it.”
Garrett offered up a wry grin. “I’ll wager she’d say the same thing.”
Julian managed a chuckle. “I imagine she would.”
“Any time you wish to offer up an explanation, I’m more than willing to listen to it. We still have a bit of time before we’re due in the chapel,” Garrett broke in quietly as he rose to refill his glass. “Care for another?”
“No.” Julian rubbed his forehead with his free hand. “What makes you think I’m going to offer up any explanation, aside from the obvious one?”
The only hint that his words bothered Garrett was a sudden twitch of his fingers as his hand tightened on the decanter stopper. Then the glow returned to his eyes, and crystal clinked mockingly against crystal as he eased the stopper from the decanter’s neck. “You mean to tell me, there is only one reason why you went after my sister?”
“This isn’t any of your concern, as I’m doing the right thing by your sister.”
“So—” Garrett turned from the decanter, one brow raised “—that’s it? You right your wrong, and I’m supposed to clap you on the back and tell you what a stand-up fellow you are? That everything that’s been said about my sister just goes away, like this?” He snapped his fingers. “Because if you think that, you’re wrong. After what you did to her, it’s not quite that simple.”
“After what I did—I didn’t do anything to her. It was a kiss.” Julian crossed his legs, his grip on the glass easing as Garrett calmly poured himself another drink. Garrett stared hard as he poured, but Julian wasn’t about to let himself be intimidated. “Don’t look at me as if you’re about to take me apart.”
“How do you know I’m not?”
“Because I’m not a grease spot on the carpet.”
“True.” Garrett returned to his chair and leveled a long look at him. “And the only reason that hasn’t happened is because I—” he poked himself in the chest “—want a few answers.”
“Prepare to be disappointed, Garrett. I wouldn’t talk about any lady that way, and I certainly wouldn’t do it to your sister. Perhaps you don’t see her as a lady, but I certainly do.” Now it was Julian’s turn to rise from his seat. His legs didn’t want to remain still, and he certainly didn’t want to appear too fidgety. Far better to leisurely stroll to the liquor and take it from there.
The glint in Garrett’s eyes became more pronounced as he rose again. And bumped against Julian. He stood about three, perhaps four, inches taller, but Julian didn’t shrink back. He didn’t move, not even when Garrett closed the space between them and glowered down at him. “Wrong answer, McCallister.”
“Stay out of it. As I said, this is between Emma and me, and you’ve got some bullocks to stand there and lecture me on doing the right thing, when you’ve bedded every barmaid between here and the har—” He never saw Garrett’s fist, but a bright light exploded inside his skull, and the next thing he knew, he was flat on his back, staring up at the ceiling, the side of his face feeling as if it was on fire.
“What the hell?” Julian gingerly probed the already puffy patch of flesh over his left cheekbone.
“You knew I had to do it.” Garrett’s hand appeared before him. “She’s my sister.”
Julian sat up, ruefully rubbing his cheek. “I knew I should have kept my distance.”
As he clasped Garrett’s hand, allowing Garrett to drag him to his feet, Garrett said, “Probably. Now, you definitely need a bit of help d
ressing for this wedding. You aren’t going to embarrass Emma.”
“Any more than I already have, you mean. Although, the black eye will add a nice touch, don’t you think?”
As Julian stood, Garrett shook his head, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand. “Just tell me one thing. What the deuce were you thinking, man? No, you know, I don’t want to know. Come along. Maybe we can salvage something of this day.” Garrett led him upstairs where he poured water from a ewer into a dusty china basin. “Maids don’t get up here often, do they?”
“I’m here so rarely, they seldom recognize me, never mind tidying up here. I keep them on to keep the place from going to ruin. Although,” he added, with a hint of a sigh, “they’d be doing me a favor if they did just let it go to hell. I’m surprised anyone thought to bring a pitcher up.” Julian tugged his shirt from his back, bent over the basin, and scooped water into his cupped hands. It was tepid, but enough to wash away the rest of his sleepiness.
A shaving mug and brush stood amongst the dust-laden objects on the chest. He whipped up lather and slathered it almost to his eyes while Garrett leaned against the wall alongside the chest. “Why didn’t you just ask to court her? That’s what I don’t understand.” He folded his arms over his chest. “They would have welcomed you into the fold.”
“Do you think so?” Julian peered into the mirror as he brought the razor to his throat. Zip. He cleared a path of whiskers and wiped the blade clean. “I’m not so certain of that. You know what people say about me, about my family. What they’ve said right along.”
“I do. And I know they are gossips who speak worthless words. You need to learn a little faith, my friend. My parents have always treated you as another son.”
Another son. He would’ve smiled, but was afraid he’d cut himself. It wouldn’t do to show up at his own wedding a bloodied mess in addition to his rapidly bruising eye.
Zip. Wipe. Zip. Wipe. The razor caught the sunlight, throwing off flashes each time he lowered it to remove the lather. “You’d be amazed how quickly that changes when faced with the prospect of madness and murder. Never mind passing of that madness on to grandchildren.”