Major Wyclyff's Campaign (A Lady's Lessons, Book 2) (23 page)

"Let me light a candle. There are a few we have not burned."

"No!" Her voice echoed in the chamber, reverberating back to her until it finally faded, leaving a harsher silence than before. "I..." She took a deep breath. "Please, allow me to dress myself first."

"But sweeting, I saw all of you last night." His voice trailed away, the note of hurt clear.

She let the silence remain, uncertain what to say. Uncertain, even, what to think. Last night had been... Had been... It had been everything and more, and yet she could not shake this feeling that she had surrendered, that she had given up everything to the major. There was nothing left for her but endless years as his wife, following him around the world like a lapdog. Worse yet, she might be left alone in England to stare at the walls, counting the lonely hours until his return.

She swiftly donned her gown, the rustle of fabric loud in the stillness.

"Are you suitably attired?" the major asked, his voice dry with sarcasm.

"Yes."

"Excellent." She heard the harsh brush of the lucifer and then the steady glow as the taper caught. And there stood the major, bathed in its warm light. Unabashedly naked.

"Major!"

"Last night you called me Anthony."

Sophia swallowed, willing herself to look away from his glorious form.

He crossed to her, lifting her chin, urging her to meet his gaze. "Sophia, what is it? Why are you acting this way?"

"I... I..." What could she say?

"You are crying!" She felt him brush away the tears, but for the life of her, she could not understand where the moisture had come from. She never cried.

"Uh..." Why could she not think of something intelligent to say?

"Are you hurt?"

She blinked, wondering to what he referred. Then she recalled the momentary pain of last night, the breaching of her maidenhead. "N—no. No, I am fine."

"But then—"

"Please. Please, stop. I need to think." She spun away from him, intending to escape down the corridor, but he caught her, holding her wrist tightly.

"Do not run from me, Sophia. Please. Not today."

"But—"

"Not this morning." His voice was hard and laced with a pain she could hear even through her own conflicting riot of emotion. She swallowed and nodded. Then, slowly, he released her.

They stood there, staring at each other. She was rigidly stiff, her muscles clenched so tight she thought the slightest movement might shatter her. And he, still naked, stood poised as if ready to fight, to spring to attack or defend at a moment's notice.

Into this tense silence came noise from above. Sophia lifted her head, her gaze drawn to the ceiling where the sound of many feet shifted and moved.

"They will be coming for us soon," said the major, his voice curiously flat.

She nodded. "I—I suppose you will tell them we must marry."

He lifted his chin as if daring her to disagree. "Yes."

She swallowed, and something within her gave way. It was as though a spring wound too tight finally broke, leaving her fragmented and disjointed. Her knees went weak, but suddenly he was beside her, helping her to sit on the edge of the bed.

"We will marry then," she said dully. "I cannot refuse. Not after last night." She pressed her hand against her lips, remembering, then abruptly, she shrugged. "You said yourself there was no other way to save even a modicum of my respectability."

She looked up at him, her emotions almost entirely drained, but as she gazed at him, she saw his jaw clench in anger. It was only then that she realized he had not joined her on the bed. He stood above her, glaring at her as though she were evil incarnate.

"Major?"

"My name is Anthony," he ground out.

She nodded. "Anthony, then."

Dropping to his knees before her, he searched her face with his eyes. "Why do you fight this, Sophia? Why is marriage to me so terrible a fate? You were not unhappy in my arms. Last night—"

"I know what we did last night," she interrupted.

"So, why do you look so stricken? Is it because of my leg? Am I that repulsive to you?"

Sophia shook her head, words forming on her lips without her conscious volition. "You are not the least bit repulsive. Even burning with fever, almost dead, you were the most handsome man I ever met."

"Then what is it?"

She looked down at her hands, wondering if she could explain. "You have stripped me of all control in this matter. I refused you the first time—"

"You agreed in the hospital!" he interrupted.

"I eased a dying man's mind. I had no idea you would recover. And then, when I explained it all, you invaded my household as my butler. I refused you again, and we ended up in gaol."

"That was your doing," he snapped.

"Yes, I had a hand in it. But you have known from your first moment in Staffordshire that I had no wish to marry you. Yet here I am, despite all my intentions, about to become betrothed. It is exactly what I feared."

"What? To marry a man who—" He cut off his words abruptly, and she wondered what he was about to say. Instead he finished, "Who would care for you, cherish you for the rest of your life?"

"A man who would strip all control from me. Who will make my decisions and force me to go his way whether I wish to or not. And then..." She cut off her words.

"And then what?" he demanded.

She didn't continue, but he did, guessing correctly at her thoughts.

"You still think I will abandon you. You think I will tire of you, leaving you alone." He dropped down on one knee. "You trusted me last night."

She looked away, shame making her cheeks burn. "I suppose now I am a wanton to boot." Her words were for herself, but he seemed to take them as a physical blow, recoiling from her. She looked at him, wishing she could make him understand. "I am not angry with you," she said. "You are correct that I have created my own problem, so to speak. Now I must accept the consequences."

"Made your own bed, and now you must lie in it?" he asked dryly as he regained his feet.

She felt her cheeks flame. "Well, yes."

"So you see marriage to me as your punishment."

She took a deep breath. "You are putting a meaning on it I do not intend."

"Am I really?" She could hear the anger in his voice, but even so she could not deny his words. He had forced this situation on her, and now there was no help for her anywhere.

She looked away.

"Sophia." His voice was raw, but his intonation was flat, and his every word still held the note of command. "I have never forced myself on any woman."

"I never said—"

"And I will certainly not take an unwilling bride."

"But—"

"Listen to me!"

Sophia obediently shut her mouth.

"I will ask you for the last time. Forget thoughts of your reputation, of the people upstairs, of everything. Simply search your own heart. Do you wish to marry me?"

"No."

The answer came out quickly, a reflex before she could stop it or even hear the part of her heart that said something entirely different. And then, when she did hear it, it was too late.

"Very well." The major walked stiffly away, pulling on his breeches with crisp, military efficiency.

"Major?"

"Do not be concerned, Sophia. I will not bother you again."

"But—"

He spun around, his eyes glaring at her through the gloom. "I said, do not be concerned. I will take care of everything." And with that comment, he suddenly stooped down and grabbed their bottle of brandy and raised it like a club.

Sophia gasped, unsure what he meant to do. She did not move away, knowing he would not hurt her, even when he brought the neck down with shattering force against the side of the bed. She flinched at the sound that was deafening within their little room. Still, it did not totally overcome the loud rumble of the people upstairs.

"They will be coming for us soon," he reminded her curtly.

Sophia nodded, her eyes still on the jagged bottle in his hand. "What do you intend to do with that?"

With his eyes still fixed on hers, he turned the cut edge toward himself. Sophia slowly stood, unsure and worried. His face was so hard, as if he steeled himself. Then, to her horror, the major quickly slashed the cut edge across his chest. Blood welled up along the wound, bright red even in the muted candlelight.

"Anthony!" She jumped to him, grabbing her skirts to staunch the blood.

"No!" he said firmly, grabbing her hands and roughly pushing her away. "Let it bleed."

"But..." Tears burned in her eyes.

He took a deep breath, and she watched the cut well rich red down his shirt. Sophia bit her lip. It was a physical ache to see him hurt and not be allowed to help him, to touch him.

"Please," she whispered. "You are bleeding."

"Aye," he agreed. Then, suddenly, he pressed the bottom of the bottle into her hand. "Hold on to that as if your life depended on it."

"Anthony—"

Another voice interrupted them, calling out from the other room. "Come on up, you two. We's all waitin't' 'ear." It was the constable, come to take them upstairs. Faster than Sophia thought possible, the elderly man rounded the corner to the bedroom, and all opportunity for private conversation was lost.

"Major," she whispered.

"Get me out of here," he snapped at the constable, "and away from that she-devil."

Sophia bit her lip to hold back a sob. If the venom in his voice had been real, he could have poisoned the whole of Staffordshire. As it was, she seemed to be the only one who shriveled inside. She looked to the major, but he had already turned his back on her.

So she did the only thing she could, what she always did when she hurt. She simply closed her mind to the pain, drew herself upright, and stared down at the world through a numbing wall of bitter cold.

She became the Ice Queen.

The major preceded her and the constable up the stairs, and Sophia was forced to watch him limp along, practically dragging his weak leg while his arm held tight to his bleeding chest. She did not know if he was truly in pain or merely exaggerating his injuries as part of some devious plan. Whatever the reason, there was nothing she could do about it.

He had made it clear she was to say nothing to him at all.

Sophia should not have been surprised by the bawdy comments that followed them as they entered the baron's front room, but she was. How could so many people have so much interest in her affairs? Good Lord, the room was even more packed than the day before! And this time, there were as many women as men.

She and Anthony were led to the same spot they had occupied yesterday, in the dead center of the cheering, jeering mass of people. Fortunately for her own piece of mind, she saw Aunt Agatha immediately, standing on the near edge of the mob, a tranquil spot of beribboned lavender. Unfortunately, her relative looked pale and nervous as she literally shredded her favorite lace handkerchief. Still, the dear lady managed an encouraging smile that Sophia did her best to return.

Then it was as if everything occurred to someone else, and Sophia was merely a distant spectator, watching a play.

"Well, Major?" boomed the baron rather abruptly. "Have you come to a decision? Will you wed the lady?"

"Absolutely not!" he said, his voice carrying loudly to the back of the room. Then he straightened, giving the baron a clear view of his bloody chest and hand.

There was a moment's stunned silence, then the room erupted into sound as seemingly a thousand voices all debated and cursed and laughed at them both. In front of them, the baron was clearly taken aback. "But... but..." he stammered. "But she is a lady, and you have spent the night with her!"

Anthony stepped forward as he turned toward the crowd, giving everyone a good look at his bloodied shirt. "And what good did that do for me? She held me off with a damned broken bottle! This morning, when I thought to catch her unawares, she cut me!"

The response of the crowd was nearly deafening. The women cheered Sophia's courage while the men laughed uproariously at Anthony's plight. It was not until Sophia realized many were staring at her that she remembered the broken bottle still clutched in her hand. She would have dropped it then and there, except one look about her told her that she had best keep it handy. Some of the men looked fit to be tied.

"Ye mean a major o' 'is Majesty's army can't even diddle a woman?" jeered a man to Sophia's right.

Anthony stiffened, taking one angry limp forward. "She is a hellcat with her skirts nailed to the floor. A whole battalion of the Hussars could not prevail against her."

The entire room erupted after that remark, but Sophia could only cringe at the derision in his voice. She understood his plan now. Anthony was trying to save her reputation as much as possible. She had told him that she had no wish to marry, and he was now doing his best to give her that opportunity. At the cost of his own honor and reputation.