Harlequin Historical September 2014 - Bundle 2 of 2: Lord Havelock's List\Saved by the Viking Warrior\The Pirate Hunter (13 page)

Which gave her food for thought. He might be thoughtless, even inconsiderate, but she would always know exactly where she was with him. And he would never be able to lie to her.

And though she hadn't known she'd been carrying it, she certainly felt it when a layer of tension slithered off her shoulders. She hadn't been able to help worrying about what kind of husband he was going to be.

But so far he'd shown her more courtesy than any other man ever had.

Eventually they drew up in front of a large, and completely dark, bulk of masonry. He muttered an oath and sprang from the carriage with a ferocious scowl. ‘Where is everyone?' He strode away and pounded on the front door with one fist while she clambered out of the vehicle unaided.

It was so very like the way her father would have behaved, after a long and tiring journey, that it resurrected a few bad memories that made her feel, just for a moment, the way she had as a girl. That there was always something more important, more interesting, for a man to do than care for his wife and child.

‘I wrote to the Brownlows, the couple who act as caretakers, warning them I would be coming down and bringing my bride with me.'

With a determined effort, she shook off the shadow of past experience as Lord Havelock took a step back, craning his neck up to the upper storeys of his house. ‘I can't see any lights anywhere,' he said. ‘Did you see any lights, perchance, as we were driving up?'

‘No.'

‘What the devil,' he said, planting his fists on his hips and glaring at her, ‘is going on, that's what I want to know?'

‘I have no idea.' He
wasn't
like her father. He
wasn't
yelling at her because he blamed her for whatever was going wrong. He was just...baffled, and frustrated, that was all. For all she knew, he might really be asking her what she thought was
going on
.

Well, there was only one way to find out.

‘Well, perhaps...'

‘Yes? What?'

‘Perhaps they didn't get your letter.'

‘Nonsense! Why shouldn't they get it? Never had any trouble with the post before.'

It wasn't nonsense. He'd arranged their marriage really quickly. And written dozens of letters, to judge from the state of his desk at the hotel.

‘Are you quite sure you wrote to them?'

‘Of course I did,' he said, snatching off his hat and running his fingers through his hair.

‘Well, then, perhaps, if they were not expecting you...not in the habit of expecting you to call unexpectedly, that is, they may have gone away.'

‘Gone away? Why on earth should they want to do any such thing? I pay them to live here and take care of the place.'

‘Because it is almost Christmas? Don't you permit your staff to take holidays?'

She had his full attention now. But from the way his eyes had narrowed at her dry tone, she was about to find out how far his temper might stretch before snapping.

‘Begging your pardon, my lord,' said one of the post-boys, as he deposited the last of their luggage on the step. ‘But since you seem not to be expected here, will you be wanting us to take you to the inn where we'll be racking up for the night?'

Lord Havelock rounded on the poor man, his eyes really spitting fire now.

‘I'm not taking my wife to the Dog and Ferret!'

‘No, my lord, of course not, my lord,' said the hapless individual, shooting Mary a pitying look.

She supposed she ought not to despise them for turning tail and fleeing. But, really! What kind of men abandoned a woman, outside a deserted house, in the sole charge of a husband whose temper was verging on volcanic?

And then, just when she'd thought things couldn't get any worse, an eddy of wind tugged at her bonnet, sprinkling her cheeks with light, yet distinct drops of rain.

Chapter Eight

‘T
hat's all we need,' he said, ramming his hat back on his head. Things had been going so well until they'd reached Mayfield. She'd been warming towards him throughout the day. It hadn't even been all that difficult. She had a generous nature and seemed disposed to try to like him.

But now her face had changed. It put him in mind of the way his great-aunt had looked at him when he'd turned up to one of her ridottos in riding boots. No credit for remembering the insipid event and tearing himself away from a far more convivial gathering to get there. And more or less on time, as well. No. Only disapproval for being incorrectly dressed.

Not that the cases were a bit the same. He couldn't really blame Mary for being cross with him.

He scowled at the carriage as it disappeared round a curve in the drive, wishing now that he hadn't dismissed the post-boys with such haste.

‘The Dog and Ferret really is no place for you,' he said aloud, as much to remind himself why he'd had all the luggage unloaded, as to explain himself to her. ‘But,' he said, turning to her at last, bracing himself to meet another frosty stare, ‘at least it would have got you out of the weather. And now,' he said, shooting the back of their post-chaise one last glare, ‘we are stuck here. Can't expect you to walk to the village at this hour, in this weather.' If it had been just him, he could have cut across the fields. But he'd seen the state of her boots the night before. They wouldn't keep her feet dry. Nor was that fancy coat and bonnet of hers cut out for hiking through the countryside in the rain.

‘Only one thing for it,' he said, and before she could raise a single objection at leaving the shelter of the porch, he seized her arm and set off round the side of the house.

She shivered when the rain struck them both with full force. When she stumbled over some unseen obstacle, he put his arm round her waist and half carried, half dragged her through what was starting to become something of a storm, under the gated archway that led to the back of the house.

It was much darker in the enclosed courtyard, so that even he had trouble navigating his way to the servants' entrance. But at least it was sheltered from the wind that was getting up.

He rattled the door handle, cursing at finding it locked.

Not that it would be all that hard to get inside.

Couldn't expect Mary to climb in through a window, though. Which meant he'd have to leave her out here while he groped his way along the darkened passages and got a door open for her.

He shucked off his coat.

‘Here,' he said, tucking it round her shoulders, ‘this should keep the worst of the wet off you while I break in.'

‘B-break in?'

He couldn't see her face, it was so dark, but he could hear the shock and disapproval in her voice.

‘There's a window, just along here,' he said, feeling his way along the wall, with Mary following close on his heels. ‘Ah, here it is.'

He reached into his pocket and found a penknife. ‘Never used to fasten properly,' he explained, flicking open the knife blade. ‘The footmen used to use it to get in after lock-up, when they'd sneaked off to the Dog and Ferret.'

‘That's...'

‘Dreadful, I know.' He worked the knife blade under the sash. ‘As a boy, I shouldn't have known anything about it. But nobody paid me much mind in those days.' The lock sprang free and he heaved the window up. ‘Never thought knowing how to break into my own house would come in so handy,' he said, getting one leg over the sill. ‘You just wait there,' he said firmly. He didn't want her stumbling about in the dark and hurting herself. ‘I'll come and let you in, in just a jiffy.'

If it had been dark in the courtyard, it was black as a coalhole in the scullery. And yet he had little trouble finding his way past the sinks and along the wall, round to the kitchen door. This place was deeply embedded in his memory. Even the smell in here flung him back to his boyhood and all the hours he'd spent below stairs in the company of servants, rather than wherever it was he was meant to have been.

In no time at all he'd laid his hands on a lamp, which was on a shelf just beside the back door, where it had always been kept.

As he lit it, he pictured Mary, huddled up under the eaves in a futile attempt to find shelter from the wind and rain, and no doubt counting the minutes he was making her wait. And wondering what the hell he'd dragged her into. All of a sudden he got a sudden, vivid memory of the day his stepmother had first come to Mayfield. How she'd stood—not in the rear courtyard, shivering with cold, but in the imposing entrance hall, nervously watching the servants, who'd all lined up to greet her. She'd attempted a timid smile for him and he'd returned it with a scowl, seeing her as an interloper. A woman who had no right to take the place of his mother.

He couldn't recall her ever smiling again, not while she'd lived here.

He paused, the lighted lantern in his hand, recalling how he'd complained to his friends about how a woman changed a man when she got him leg-shackled. But the truth was that it wasn't just a man who took a huge risk when he got married. When a woman chose the wrong partner, she could be just as miserable. He knew, because he'd seen it with Julia's mother. She'd blossomed when she'd finally married her childhood sweetheart. Only to shrivel to a husk of her former self when shackled to her third husband. Who'd been a brute.

It was all very well protecting himself from hurt, but not at Mary's expense. Theirs might not be a love match, but there was no reason why he shouldn't do whatever he could to make her happy.

He set the lamp back on its shelf by the back door before he unbolted it. And when Mary saw him, and came scurrying over, he caught her round the waist, then swept her up off her feet and into his arms.

‘Nothing else has gone right so far,' he said. ‘But at least I can carry my bride over the threshold.'

To his immense relief, she flung her arms round his neck and burrowed her face into his chest.

She must be freezing, poor lamb. Else she wouldn't be clinging to him like this.

He set her down gently and shut the door. Turned, and took both her hands in his.

‘I haven't made a very good start as a husband, have I,' he said ruefully. ‘I must have written a dozen letters yesterday. Thought I'd organised it all so brilliantly. But never took into account the possibility the Brownlows might have already made their plans for Christmas. And...' he squeezed her hands ‘...I fear you are right. There's nobody here but us. And there's no telling how long they'll be away. I dare say you must be really cross with me, but...'

‘No!' She stunned him by placing one hand on his cheek. ‘Not at all. There are far worse things for a man to be, than a bit disorganised.'

‘Well, it's good of you to say so,' he said gruffly, raising his own hand to cover hers where it rested on his cheek, ‘but you do realise we've no option but to rack up here for the night? And that there are no servants, no beds made up for us...'

She gave him a brave smile. ‘It will seem better once we can get a fire going,' she said bracingly. Clearly determined to make the best of a bad job. ‘And if the Brownlows normally live here, then there's bound to be some provisions in the larder. We can manage.'

‘Come on, then,' he said, kissing her hand in gratitude at her forbearance. ‘Let's raid the kitchen.'

Pausing only to pick up the lantern, he led Mary along the stone-flagged corridor, his brow knotted in thought. His father had never really appreciated Julia's mother. He'd treated her as though she ought to have been grateful he'd given her his name and title. He hadn't seen it as a boy, but his father had treated his dogs and horses better than his own wife.

The minute he thought of horses, he recalled the hurt look that had flickered across Mary's face when he'd told her how he'd sent his own horses down by easy stages.

Lord, he'd started out as badly as his own father had done! Pampering his horses and pitching his wife headlong into hardship.

‘You ought by rights to be ripping up at me for making such a botch of things,' he growled as he opened the door to the kitchen for her.

She gazed up at him, wide-eyed. Then gave a little sniff and shook her head.

‘You were just in a hurry to get things ready for your sister,' she said. ‘You were concentrating on getting her to a place of safety. It would have been a miracle if, somewhere along the line, your plans
hadn't
hit a snag.'

‘That's very generous of you—to take that attitude,' he said, setting the lantern on the shelf just inside the door, which had always been used for that very purpose.

‘Let's just hope this is the worst snag we hit,' she said, untying the ribbons of her bonnet and setting it on the massive table that stood in the very centre of the room. Then she walked across to the closed stove and knelt in front of it.

‘Good, dry kindling laid ready,' she said, opening the door and peeking inside. ‘And plenty of logs in the basket.' She stood up, and scanned the shelf over the fireplace. ‘And here's the tinderbox, just where any sensible housewife would keep it.'

Thank goodness she wasn't one of those useless, helpless females whose sole aim in life was to be decorative. It would be an absolute nightmare to be stuck in this huge, empty house with one of those.

Fortunately, he managed to keep his thoughts to himself rather than blurting them out and provoking an argument. For what woman liked to hear a man think she was useful rather than decorative?

‘I'll go and take a look around, then,' he said, going to light another lamp. ‘See what I can discover. So long as you will be all right here for a while?'

She glanced at him over her shoulder and nodded, with a look that told him he was an idiot for even asking.

He gave a wry smile as he set out to explore the house. He'd contracted a practical marriage, with a practical, no-nonsense sort of woman. Of course she wasn't going to have a fit of the vapours because he was leaving her alone to get a fire lit.

* * *

By the time he returned to the kitchen, it was noticeably warmer. And there were plates and bowls and things out on the sides, which had previously been bare.

‘While you were gone I had a good look round the larder, found some tea and made a pot,' said Mary, pouring some into two cups. ‘There's no milk to go in it, but we can sweeten it with some sugar.'

‘I didn't expect you to have to act like a servant,' he said glumly as he set the lamp on its shelf.

She put the teapot down rather hard.

‘Would you rather sit all night in the gloom, with an empty stomach, and wait for someone else to turn up and wait on you?'

‘No. I didn't mean that! It's just—I promised you a life of luxury. And on the first day, you're already reduced to this.' He waved his arm round the big, empty kitchen.

‘Oh.' Her anger dissipated as swiftly as his own ever did. She shot him a rueful glance as she dumped two full spoons of sugar into both cups. ‘I don't mind, you know. It's the biggest house I've ever had to call my own. And I'm sure, come the morning, you will be able to find out what has become of the couple who should be taking care of the place. The state of the larder leads me to believe they have not been away all that long.'

‘It looks as though there's been a horse in the stables very recently, too,' he said, taking a seat at the table next to the place settings he noted she'd laid. Then he picked up his cup and braced himself to swallow the sickly concoction without grimacing. She'd been looking through the larder and preparing a meal, when she could have been sitting in front of the fire sulking. Her temper was frayed—the way she'd slammed down the teapot and ladled sugar into his drink without asking whether he liked it or not told him that much. So he'd be an ungrateful oaf to provoke her again, by complaining about such a small thing, when she was clearly doing her utmost to make the best of things.

‘Though no sign of any of my own. Nor my groom,' he finished gloomily. Dammit, where was everyone?

‘Well, at least we have plenty to eat. Would you like something now? I can make an omelette, if you'd like it.'

‘I am starving,' he admitted with a wry smile. ‘I suppose we ought to do something about finding somewhere to sleep really, but I could do with fortifying before I can face going upstairs again. The whole place is like an icehouse.'

‘We...we could sleep in the kitchen,' she suggested, taking a sip of her own tea. ‘It is, at least, warm.'

‘Absolutely not,' he said, setting his own cup down firmly on the table—with some relief that he had a valid excuse for doing so without having to endure any more of the noxiously syrupy drink. ‘There are a dozen perfectly serviceable bedrooms above stairs. And just because you've put on an apron and have to act like a cook doesn't mean you need to sleep below stairs, as well.'

‘I've slept in worse places,' she admitted.

‘Yes, maybe you have, but you're married to me now and it is my job to take care of you.' He was going to do better than his own father had done with Julia's mother. He wasn't going to assume Mary should be grateful for the privilege of bearing his name, and his title, no matter what the circumstances.

‘Of course,' she said meekly, before rising and going across to a sort of preparation area near the stove and cracking several eggs into a bowl.

She didn't utter a word of reproof, but the set of her back as she grated some cheese into the egg mixture told him he really shouldn't have raised his voice to her just now.

He cleared his throat.

‘It's very clever of you to know how to do all this sort of thing.'

‘It was necessary,' she said, pouring the egg mixture into a pan where she'd already started some butter melting. ‘If I hadn't learned how to cook, once Papa died, we would have gone hungry. We'd never been all that well off, but after he went, we had to move into a much smaller place and let all the servants go.' She frowned as she kept pulling the slowly setting mixture from the edges into the middle. ‘Mama did the purchasing and tried to learn how to keep the household accounts in order, while I did the actual physical work of keeping house.'