One Golden Ring

by Cheryl Bolen

  She swatted at her glistening cheek. “I’m distressed, dearest, because I do so want to share my bed with you.”

  He sighed with relief and bent to brush a gentle kiss over her lips. “Perhaps by next week,” he murmured, “we’ll be able to resume some of those . . . activities—if I’m very careful.”

  The memory of everyone she had ever known who had suffered a broken leg flashed through her mind. Once the leg was properly set and once the swelling had gone down they had been able to resume limited activity. She recalled how surprised the surgeon had been when Stephen, her younger brother, fully recovered from his broken leg in a mere six weeks. Of course Mama had been alive then and had seen to it that he did not put his weight on the leg for the entire six weeks—and forbade him to ever climb another tree.

  Six weeks. Were the time in the past, it would seem fleeting, but in the future it seemed to stretch on endlessly. And she had so much to do to ready the new house and to begin planning the come-out ball for Miss Peabody and Verity.

  And then there was her fledgling marriage to consider. She did not at all like to think of Nick rushing to that odious actress.

  So she pouted.

  “What’s the matter, love?” he asked.

  “I don’t wish to sleep away from you.”

  “But we can’t—” He paused. “I understand your reluctance to sleep alone in a strange room. Would you like me to have a cot brought in so that I can sleep beside you?”

  She shook her head. “This bed’s big enough for both of us.”

  “I can’t risk that. My movements might harm your leg.”

  “It’s been splinted properly, I’m sure. Knowing you, I would say you procured the services of the finest surgeon your money could buy.”

  “Of course, but I can’t sleep in this bed, Fiona,” he said sternly. “Were I to bump your leg in my sleep, it could cause you excruciating pain—and it might even reinjure it.”

  “I’ll sleep on the left side of the bed. You’ll be on my good side.” She met his unwavering gaze. “Are you not strong enough to lie beside me and not wish to . . . ?”

  “That’s not it! I’m not so shallow that I wouldn’t put my wife’s welfare above my own fleeting pleasure.”

  Fleeting pleasure? Was that all their lovemaking was to him?

  Another tear sprouted.

  And Nick sighed. “I can see the laudanum’s making you maudlin. Very well, I’ll sleep with you. But no kissing. No touching. Do you understand?”

  She favored him with a broad smile as she nodded.

  Balancing a cup of warm milk in one hand while easing open her door with the other, Nick came to her bedchamber that night. “I’ve brought you warm milk,” he said, moving to the bed and setting the cup on the night table. “Allow me to help you up.”

  When he closed an arm around her and began to lift her upper torso, she winced.

  He froze. “Am I hurting you?”

  She sank back. “I believe I’ll have some more laudanum, please.”

  He cursed under his breath, berating himself, if she wasn’t mistaken. “If I put it into your milk, will you promise to drink all of it?”

  She answered him with a wan nod.

  He mixed the drought and offered it to her. “Perhaps it will be more comfortable for you to prop yourself up on your right elbow. I’m devilishly afraid of hurting you.”

  It took her a full minute to raise herself enough to sip the milk. After three swift sips, she stopped and met his concerned gaze. “Did you heat the milk yourself ?”

  “I did.”

  “That was very thoughtful of you, Nick.”

  “I didn’t do it out of thoughtfulness. Guilt, more likely. I should have had your arm when we mounted the stairs.”

  “It’s certainly not your fault your wife is so clumsy.” She did not like that her voice resembled that of a person in a drunken stupor.

  “My wife most certainly is not clumsy. You’re the most elegant woman I know.”

  This husband of hers was most charming, especially given the fact that any physical attributes she might have possessed were sadly lacking at the present. Not only was she slurring her words, but her hair was a tangled mess, and her clothing was hopelessly wrinkled. She had no wish to peer into a looking glass. “I can’t stay in this wretched dress. Did you know there’s dried blood on it?”

  He nodded. “As much as I disliked another man seeing your body, I asked the surgeon if we should remove it, but he said it wasn’t necessary.”

  “Perhaps not then, but now. I can’t receive visitors like this.”

  He stood up straight and glared at her. “You’re not going to be receiving visitors.”

  “What about Trevor?”

  “I forgot about him,” Nick said with a frown. “So you fancy getting pretty for that milksop?”

  “And for you.” Dear God, what was she saying? The laudanum had the same effect on her as the overindulgence of liquor. She was babbling on to this man she had married—and quite embarrassing herself.

  “You don’t have to wear anything to please me,” he said.

  She gave him a seductive grin. “Yes, I know.”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “Nevertheless, I desire to put on a light muslin morning dress. One without blood, if you please.”

  “Should I send for your maid?”

  “I don’t trust her not to hurt me. I know you’ll not hurt me, Nick.”

  “Very well. I believe your maid unpacked your things before . . . the accident.” He walked to the linen press and opened it. “Which do you desire, my lady?”

  “The one with little lavender buds.”

  He took the dress and came to set it on her bed. “I’m beastly afraid of hurting you.”

  “I thought perhaps you could pull me up, and I could lift away the skirts. Then you could set me back down and remove the entire gown.”

  He winced. “Let’s try,” he said, bending to her and cupping his hands under her arms, “but we stop if it hurts you.” Then he lifted her as easily as he would a piece of parchment.

  She fumbled with her skirts, pushing them clear of her hips before she plopped back down. “Painless,” she assured him.

  “I hope the laudanum’s not masking your pain to the point where you’ll hurt yourself.”

  She fell back into the pillows. “I’ll have some more. Please.”

  He stood over her while she finished the cup. “Let’s try removing the dress now.”

  Once she had eased herself back up, he was able to remove the dress and the chemise in mere seconds.

  “You can’t possibly sleep in those stays,” he said in a low voice, coming closer and beginning to untie the laces. The proximity of those long fingers of his so close to her breasts sent her nipples puckering—and sent a blush to her face. Once the laces were loosened she raised her arms, and he lifted off the corset. Her gaze flicked to the pointed nubs in the center of her breasts, and her blush deepened. Nick was sure to notice.

  She was powerless not to remember the feel of him weighing her breasts, of him taking them into his mouth. Perhaps it was the laudanum that magnified her sexuality. She began to throb between her legs. A pity neither of them could act upon her seductive mood. She found herself wishing the week were behind them, wishing they could lie together again as man and wife. Her gaze lifted to him, but he directed his full attention to the fresh garment.

  “Raise you arms,” he instructed.

  Her arms held high, she stayed as still as a rock while he assisted her into the muslin dress, then he stood back and gazed at her. “Lovely. Now, my dear, you need to go to sleep.” He moved to the bedside table and extinguished the candle.

  She lay back and watched as he stood there and removed all his clothing, the firelight flickering on the solid planes of his utterly masculine body. This was the first time she had seen him naked when he was not aroused, and she admired him all the more for his self-discipline.

&n
bsp; He slowly eased himself onto the right side of the bed. “Are you all right?” he whispered.

  “I assure you I didn’t feel the movement at all.” Each word she had uttered had been a struggle, like swimming against a swiftly moving stream.

  He kissed the air. “Go to sleep now, love.”

  Love. She liked the way that word sounded on his lips. Even though he couldn’t possibly mean it.

  While she waited for sleep to envelop her, she recalled how patient and loving he had been with his mother, who was not an easy woman to admire. He was a good son. A good brother. And now a good husband.

  Nick lay still beside her long after she’d slipped into a deep sleep. He was afraid to move for fear of hurting her leg, afraid to go to sleep because she might need him. A thousand times today he had cursed himself for allowing her to fall. For as long as he lived he would remember the sound of her delicate body thumping down the stairs, the horrifying sound of her femur snapping in two.

  And he would never forget the paralyzing seconds when he feared she was plunging to her death. Even now as he thought about it, his stomach twisted.

  She was so very precious to him. Last night he had offered up thanks to the bandits that had brought her into his life. Tonight he offered up thanks that her life had been spared.

  There was no other place on earth that he would rather be than beside her, his cherished wife.

  “A Mr. Trevor Simpson to see you, madame,” the butler announced the following afternoon.

  Shutting her eyes against the pain, Fiona pulled herself into a sitting position. “Show him in.”

  Trevor rushed into the room, practically dressed for court in pumps and silken finery—including a bright violet satin vest. She was awfully glad Nick wasn’t here to poke fun of him.

  “Oh, my poor darling!” Trevor shrieked as he hurried to her bed. “I shouldn’t have let you marry that beastly man. It’s bad enough that he has you living south of the Thames, but now he’s gone and allowed you to break your leg.” He pulled a chair up to her bedside and sat down. “I brought flowers. The maid’s fetching water for them.”

  “That was most kind of you, but I must ask that you not malign my husband. He’s really quite a dear, and he’s dreadfully upset that I’ve broken my leg.”

  “As well he should be. The beast.”

  Her brows lowered. “I’ll not permit you to speak of my husband in such a way.”

  Trevor studied her through narrowed eyes for a moment. “It’s beastly unfair that one man be so blessed. That demmed Birmingham’s not only handsome and muscled and tall, but he has quite away with the ladies. I believe you’ve fallen in love with the fellow.”

  “Love was never part of the bargain I struck with Nick.” She was almost sorry there had been no time for a courtship for she wondered if she and Nick might have fallen in love. But if she had to choose between a courtship and being pleasured in his bed, she was ashamed to say she would take the bed. Still, love and sublime sex would be the only ingredients needed for a perfect marriage. A pity she and Nick had only one of the ingredients.

  “You can’t fool me,” Trevor said, folding elegant hands in his lap while avoiding her gaze.

  While Trevor did know her better than anyone, he was wrong this time. She couldn’t possibly be in love with Nick. She had only known him for a few days. Not like with Edward, whom she had known almost her whole life—and loved for half her life.

  “Now tell me how this wretched accident happened,” Trevor said.

  “There’s little to tell. I slipped and fell down the stairs, and the pity of it is that my wretched left leg jammed between the bannister posts and snapped in two.”

  Trevor grimaced and held out the palm of one hand. “I beg that you not say another word about the ghastly incident, or I shall faint straight away.”

  She thanked God Nick was not so squeamish. “You can’t faint, for I need you desperately.”

  He leaped from his chair and outstretched an imaginary cape as he fell to one knee. “I am at your service, my lady.”

  Fiona giggled. “I shall need your help in decorating the new mansion on Piccadilly. It’s finished now, you know.”

  He smiled like a drunken sailor. “I’m quite dying to see it.”

  “Good. I’ll need you to go there this afternoon. We’ll need to procure furnishings and draperies and objets d’art.”

  His positive glow had her grinning. “I’ve just the cabinetmaker for you! He’s from the Sheraton school and does the most stunning work.”

  “Then see if you can get his catalogues for us to study.”

  “Will your husband wish to incorporate any items from this residence?” There was disdain in his voice when he alluded to “this residence.”

  “He says I’ve carte blanche to procure all new furnishings.”

  “Then his pockets are even deeper than has been speculated.”

  She shrugged. “He has the most wonderful stables down at Camden Hall.”

  “So he’s the one who bought Lord Hartley’s place? A scrumptious estate.”

  “Indeed it is. I didn’t want to return to London.”

  Trevor’s nose wrinkled. “Especially to south of the Thames.”

  With a haughty lift to her chin, she said, “This is a perfectly lovely home.”

  “I’ll grant,” Trevor said, flicking lint from his charcoal breeches, “the man has exceedingly good taste.”

  “As do you. That’s why I need you to help with the new house.”

  There was a tap at her chamber door.

  “Yes?” Fiona asked.

  The parlormaid opened the door. “Your flowers, madame.”

  Trevor got up and took them.

  “Oh, Trev! They’re lovely,” Fiona said, eying the nosegay of violets and primrose. “Thank you.”

  He placed them beside the bed. “I’d best be off now to see the showplace. I’ll also try to see the cabinetmaker today. We can dive into the project tomorrow.”

  Nick left the Exchange early that day. He couldn’t dislodge Fiona from his thoughts. Was she in pain? Would she be lonely in the strange house? What if she needed something and no one helped her? He had instructed his servants to see to her every need and had asked her maid to sit with her, but Fiona had insisted she didn’t need a companion. “I have a book to read,” she had told him. “Go now. I’ll be fine.”

  But as the day wore on, his worry for her mounted. So he stormed from the floor of the Exchange, called for his gig to be brought around, and hastened home to his ailing wife.

  Relief rushed over him when he saw her sitting up in Verity’s bed, her head bent to the book in her lap, sun from a half-dozen casements dappling over her as she looked up at him and smiled.

  God but she was lovely! And delicate. And so very dear to him. He rushed to her side and pressed a kiss to her cheek. “How are you feeling, love?” he asked as he stood gazing down at her fair countenance.

  “Much better now that you’ve come.” She patted the mattress beside her.

  “Are you sure my weight won’t disturb your leg?”

  “Yes, I’m sure, silly. I’ve actually succeeded in lifting the leg off the bed today.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t.”

  “I vow it didn’t hurt.”

  “Still taking the laudanum?”

  “I’ve been able to reduce the dose by a third. My mother was exceedingly wary of the overuse of laudanum. In fact, she refused to take it when . . . she was dying.”

  His poor Fiona. She’d lost so many loved ones. And now she could possibly lose Randolph. “Wretched losing both your parents, but I vow to care for you as diligently as they would have.” What had possessed him to make such a telling declaration? His wife didn’t want his love. She wanted his money. And perhaps his body.

  But not his heart.

  There was a rap at the door.

  “Come in,” Nick said, turning to watch Biddles stroll into the chamber holding a letter. “A page from
her ladyship’s former house just delivered this.”

  Fiona and Nick looked at each other. “The kidnappers,” they both said at once.

  Chapter 10

  His face grim, Nick handed the letter to Fiona, who quickly raised up from the bed and tore it open. When she peered at the writing, her heart skidded. The letter was in Randy’s own handwriting. As her eyes skimmed over the single page, she was at once elated that he was still alive at the same time a knot of worry lodged in her chest.

  My Dearest Sister,

  It’s devilishly distasteful for me to have to write you, knowing that Papa could not have left much money, but my captors have instructed me to pen this letter to instruct you or your agent to deliver the twenty-five thousand guineas to Figueria, a village just north of Portugal’s Mondego Bay. You or your agent are to arrive at the St. Michael’s Inn on January 8 and use the surname Hollingsworth. Further instructions will be forthcoming.

  I beg that you are successful because I have no doubts these vile creatures who’ve already treated me so cruelly will kill me if you’re not.

  Her heart caught painfully at the last sentence, and tears brimmed her eyes. With a shaking hand, she handed Nick the note.

  He nodded as he read, and when he was finished, he met her gaze. “Don’t worry. We’ll free him.”

  “What do you do now?” she asked in a forlorn voice.

  “William will be dispatched within the hour.”

  “But we’ve got eight more days until the eighth. I wouldn’t think he’d need more than three days to reach Portugal.”

  He did not answer for a moment, and she knew her pragmatic husband was analyzing the situation and developing a strategy. “It’s vital to my plan,” he finally said, “that William arrive early.”

  Her brows dipped. “Why? What plan?”

  “William will arrive in Figueria several days early, take rooms under the name Hollingsworth, and instruct the innkeeper—with a generous bribe to ensure compliance—to give his own letter to whoever delivers a message to Mr. Hollingsworth. I’m counting on the fact that the innkeeper will alert his staff to be expecting a letter for Hollingsworth and be prepared to conduct the exchange of letters.”