Captain's Bride (32 page)

* * *

They’d been at Blackwell Hall over a month when
Bradford St. John arrived. Nicholas had written him several
letters, telling him of the sad state of affairs at the hall and
seeking his advice. Instead of receiving a letter in reply, Brad
appeared in person.

Nicholas enveloped him in a warm hug. “God, it’s good
to see you.”

“You, too, Nicholas.”

“Come on.” He beckoned. “I want you to meet
Glory.”

When they reached her room at the top of the stairs,
she was sitting beside the fire, crocheting an antimacassar.
Needlework and a little reading were all that seemed to hold her
interest. Firelight flickered over her too-thin face, and even her
flaxen hair reflected less than its usual sheen.

“Glory,” Nicholas said softly. “This is my brother,
Bradford. I told you about him on the strand, remember?” She seemed
uncertain. “I . . . I’m not sure.”

Nicholas felt a tightness around his heart. “Brad,
this is Glory, my wife.”

She extended her hand, and Brad accepted it, bringing
the delicate fingers to his lips. “It’s a pleasure to meet you at
last.”

“Yes. . . . What did you say your name was?” Nicholas
could have cried.

“It’s Bradford. Bradford St. John.”

“Brad. That’s a nice name.” She glanced back down to
her lap and picked up her crochet hook.

Nicholas motioned Brad toward the door.

Glory watched his retreating figure. He glanced back
at her before he reached the hallway, lingering as if he wanted to
speak. He looked as handsome and imposing as ever, and just for a
moment she imagined they were back on the strand. Then all the pain
and suffering she’d felt these past long months surfaced to weigh
her down. Her mind closed off thoughts of Nicholas just as surely
as if he’d closed the door. Quietly, he did.

Glory’s hands worked the thin ivory hook, forming
lacy patterns with the thread. As she rocked before the fire, she
kept her eyes carefully focused on her work. Her mother had taught
her to crochet just before she left Summerfield Manor. She still
had to concentrate to get the stitches right, but at least the work
brought her some solace from her despair.

Glory rested the antimacassar in her lap, determined
to keep her thoughts on the intricacy of the pattern. The flames of
the fire flickered and hissed, and a stiff breeze rattled the
shutters. Outside the sky was dark with the indications of a coming
storm. Against her will, Glory’s thoughts wandered. She glanced at
her surroundings: the high vaulted ceilings, the stained-glass
fanlights above the windows. She could almost imagine the small
dark-haired boy, so like Nicholas, who might have run to her side
and tugged on her skirts. “Mama, won’t you come out and play with
me? I love you, Mama.”

A shiver raced across her flesh, and a hard lump
swelled in her throat. Clutching her crochet hook a little tighter,
she settled her hands against the folds of her stiff black skirt.
Why had it happened? She’d wanted the baby so much, needed a child
so badly. Was the baby’s death really Nicholas’s fault as she had
convinced herself? A tiny voice said no. It was your own fault. You
should have taken better care of yourself. Glory bit her lip and
glanced back at the spidery patterns in her lap. Determined to
forget what might have been, she picked up her stitchery and began
to catch and pull the thread with her hook.

Nicholas led Bradford down the wide stairway to his
walnut-paneled, book-lined study. Ignoring the tremor in his hand,
he poured his stepbrother a brandy. Brad seated himself in one
leather chair; Nicholas sat in another.

“I don’t know what to do,” Nicholas said. He took a
long, soothing drink of brandy, letting the warmth bum a steadying
path down his throat. “She seems to be getting worse every
day.”

“What have you done so far?”

“I’ve tried to get her to go out with me, at least
for a ride. I’ve had lavish dinners prepared; she won’t even come
down to eat. I’ve begged, pleaded, apologized. She blames me for
the death of the child, and maybe she’s right.”

“Do you believe you’re responsible?” Brad asked.

“It’s possible. I suppose it
was
upsetting, my
arriving in Boston the way I did. As I told you in my letters, I
forced the marriage; there was a duel. Maybe that was enough to
cause her to lose the babe.” Nicholas glanced away. “I just don’t
know, Brad. But Glory certainly believes I’m responsible.”

“Does it really matter?”

“What do you mean?”

“What I mean is, you’ve suffered, too. I could hear
it in your letters, though you didn’t come out and say it. The baby
is dead. Whose fault it is is unimportant. What
is
important
is that woman in there. She’s blaming you because she can’t bear
the thought that she might be the one responsible. She’s drowning
in grief, Nicholas.”

“Don’t you think I can see that! I just don’t know
what to do about it.”

“What would you do if it were Mac—or me,” he added
softly.

“I’d haul you up by your boot straps and make you
face the fact that what’s happened is past. That life is full of
sorrow, but it’s full of happiness, too.”

“So why don’t you do that to her?”

“Because I promised myself I’d never raise my voice
to her again, never make harsh demands or treat her badly.”

“I know you feel guilty about what’s happened, but
Glory is your wife, Nicholas, not some sainted virgin. She needs a
husband. From what I’ve learned, she’s a headstrong young woman.
She needs a man who can handle her. She fell in love with the man
you are, not the watered-down image you’re trying to become. Be
yourself Nicholas. And be a husband to Glory.”

“You make it sound so simple.”

“Nothing’s ever simple.”

“No, I suppose it isn’t.”

“That young woman needs you, Nicholas. You’ve got to
be strong for both of you.”

Setting down his brandy snifter, Nicholas watched
Brad for a moment, pondering his words. “How is it, Brad,” he
asked, coming to his feet, “that you’re eight years younger than I
and twenty years wiser?”

“Because I’m not in love.” Brad stood up, too. “One
more piece of advice?”

“Any time.”

“Get her back in your bed just as soon as you can.
There never was a woman who could resist you in that
department.”

Nicholas laughed—for the first time in weeks. “You’re
the best, Brad. The very best.” Nicholas clasped his brother’s
hand. “Thank you. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll see you at supper.
I’ve got some work to do.”

Two days later, arms piled high with boxes, Nicholas
turned the ornate brass doorknob and burst into Glory’s room.

Her head came up, but she didn’t say a word, just
stared at him as if a stranger had entered her room. She sat before
the fire, rocking and reading a book. Nicholas stopped only long
enough for a quick glance in her direction. As he strode across the
carpet and dropped the boxes onto the bed, she eyed him with a bit
of suspicion.

Nicholas muttered beneath his breath. Moving to the
rosewood armoire in the comer, he made a great show of opening the
carved wooden doors and pulling out one of Glory’s black faille day
dresses. Just the feel of the stiff material, the lifeless look of
the dreary black fabric, made him angry. He set his jaw, caught the
collar of the gown between his fingers, and ripped the dress down
the front.

The sound of shredding fabric brought Glory to her
feet. “What . . . what are you doing?”

“Something I should have done weeks ago. I’m getting
rid of these dismal dresses once and for all.”

“But you . . . you can’t do that! I’m in
mourning!”

“Wrong. You
were
in mourning. It’s obvious
you’ve mourned quite enough.” He shredded another dress from collar
to waist. Glory stared at him in amazement. He ignored her. She
made no move to stop him as he ripped a third gown up the seam and
it joined the pile of dresses on the thick Persian carpet at his
feet. Glory stood stock still, book gripped between her fingers,
staring at him as if she couldn’t quite believe what her eyes were
seeing.

He ripped up another dress, determined to get a
reaction.

She took a hesitant step toward him, blue eyes huge
in her too-pale face. “But what will I wear?” she finally
asked.

“Look in those boxes on the bed. There’s a day dress
and an evening gown. I hope they’ll come close to fitting you.” He
paused long enough to flash her a smile. “I’ve always had a pretty
fair eye for a lady’s figure.” Reaching into the armoire, he
dragged another black dress from its hanger and threw it onto the
pile.

Glory walked toward the boxes on the bed, glancing
back over her shoulder. “Why are you doing this?”

“Because I’m sick and tired of all this sadness.
You’ve suffered enough. We both have. If I never see you in another
black dress for as long as I live it’ll be too soon.” He turned to
face her. “Speaking of which, I want you out of the one you have
on.”

Glory gasped, hand creeping to the base of her
throat. “You can’t be serious!”

“Madam, I assure you I’m quite serious. Take it
off.”

“Now?” She seemed incredulous.

“Right now.”

She stiffened her spine in the first show of spirit
Nicholas had seen in weeks. “No.”

Nicholas could have leaped for joy. “You’ll take it
off now, or I swear I’ll tear it off.”

She glared at him defiantly until he took a long
stride toward her. “All right!” she shrieked, backing away. “Send
Betsy in.”

“You have a husband who is quite capable of helping
you unbutton your clothing.”

She eyed the door, looking as if she might bolt.

“Don’t even think about it,” Nicholas warned.

She watched him a little longer, then straightened
her spine. Accepting defeat with as much dignity as she could
muster, she presented her back, shoulders proud, chin held high.
“You know you’re acting like a madman,” she told him. “What on
earth has gotten into you?”

Nicholas grinned so broadly, his cheeks dimpled. If
Brad had been there, Nicholas would have kissed him. After
unfastening her buttons with his long-fingered hands, Nicholas
stepped away. “Now I’ll send Betsy up,” he told her, not wanting to
press his luck. “Then we’re going out.”

“Out?”

“For a ride in the country. I think it’s high time
you took a look at your new home.” Without waiting for an answer,
Nicholas strode from the room.

Glory appeared a few minutes later, dressed in a
silver-blue serge day dress that brightened the blue of her eyes.
Her hair had been brushed and coiffed in ringlets that curled on
either side of her face. Though her skin still looked pale, twin
spots of color stained her cheeks.

“If you must drag me out to catch my death of cold,
let’s get on with it.” She accepted his arm and allowed him to lead
her from the salon. Her gloved hand rested lightly on the fabric of
his gray wool cutaway coat and Nicholas reveled in the contact.

He wrapped her in a fur-lined mantle and presented
her with the matching fur muff. “We won’t be gone long.”

Since a fresh layer of snow had fallen in the night,
Nicholas helped her into his black and gold two-horse sleigh.
Taking his place beside her, he spread a horsehair robe across her
lap. Glory stared ahead, her spine ramrod straight.

“I’ll expect you to come down to supper this
evening,” he told her as he gathered up the reins. “And every
evening from now on.”

Glory’s head came up.

“From now on you’ll take your meals with me, not in
your room.” He clicked the horses into a trot, and the sleigh slid
smoothly away.

“I should have known you couldn’t resist bullying me
for long.”

“I prefer to think of my recent behavior as neglect.
I’ve already
neglected
you far longer than I should
have.”

“What if I refuse to come down?”

“Then I shall simply come up, toss you over my
shoulder, and haul you down. I’m sure the servants will find it a
rousing show.”

“You wouldn’t!”

“Wouldn’t I?”

But she knew he would. And didn’t know why she
suddenly felt pleased.

The sleigh ride passed swiftly. Nicholas pointed out
the boundaries of his property, and Glory found herself enjoying
the scenery, stark with the hoar of winter though it was. Each tree
and hedge was covered with a dusting of fresh snow, and a tiny
white rabbit scurried across their path and into its burrow. Glory
pointed excitedly, and Nicholas grinned at her obvious
pleasure.

Inhaling the frosty morning air, she caught a whiff
of hickory smoke from a neighboring chimney. The fresh air felt
exhilarating after the long days of confinement in her room.

She wondered at Nicholas’s sudden change of attitude,
then grudgingly admitted she preferred him this way. He seemed more
himself—arrogant, domineering, and downright infuriating. Still,
there was something about him. . . . For the first time in weeks,
she found herself thinking of Nicholas instead of the child she no
longer carried.

As the light jingle of harness combined with the soft
tinkle of sleigh bells to lull her, she leaned back against the
carriage seat, feeling content. She hardly noticed when Nicholas
halted the sleigh in front of the marble mansion. Handing the reins
to a waiting groom, he jumped to the ground and rounded the sleigh
to help her. A tiny shiver rushed up her spine as he leaned close.
He smelled of musk and the leather reins he’d held.

“Now, that wasn’t so bad,” he teased. Stirring a
misty pattern in the cold morning air, his breath felt warm against
her cheek. When his hands circled her waist to lift her down, her
heart did a queer little twist and hammered uncomfortably against
her ribs.

They supped with Brad that night, and Glory found she
enjoyed his charming company. He was handsome and intelligent,
though a bit frail, it seemed to Glory.