Never Less Than a Lady (12 page)

Randall grabbed the other man’s arm to steady him. Mackenzie’s queasiness when wounded might seem out of place on a large man of military bearing, but it was real enough. “The Townsends have returned home,” Randall said. “We’ve been invited to spend the night, so after Julia fixes you up, we can go up to the manor.”

“Good,” Julia said. “I hoped to see them before leaving Hartley.” She looked at the corpse, biting her lip. “I should see if he was one of the men who abducted me.”

“If you wish.” Reluctantly Randall knelt and flipped the coat from the man’s face. A bullet had gone through the villain’s skull, but his features were recognizable.

“He drove the coach,” Julia said without expression. “I never heard his name.”

Thinking it was a pity that Crockett wasn’t the one shot, Randall said, “Townsend is a magistrate, which will be useful in sorting this out.”

They turned away from the dead man and started walking toward Julia’s old cottage, but she gave one last glance at the sea. Randall guessed that in the future she wouldn’t feel quite the same way about her private beach.

Julia lowered herself into the steaming hip bath with a grateful sigh. The day had been long and tiring, but the Townsends had installed an impressive array of creature comforts at Hartley Manor since Charles won the estate at cards. This large bath screened in a corner of their bedroom was one such comfort.

As Julia cleaned and bound Mackenzie’s arm at the cottage, Jenny and Molly had returned. The three females had had a royal reunion with hugs and tears. Though Jenny was delighted that her mentor was safe, Julia could see that her apprentice was finding her feet as the area midwife. Jenny Watson would do very well for Hartley.

After tearful good-byes, Julia and her escorts traveled up to the manor. The Townsends had returned home just that morning. Charles Townsend had been on the verge of sending word of Julia’s kidnapping to the Duke and Duchess of Ashton when Randall appeared and was able to assure them of her safety.

Much of the rest of the day was spent explaining Julia’s rank and recent marriage. Sarah Townsend, twin to Mariah, thought it was a vastly romantic tale. Julia hoped the girl never had such “romance” in her own life.

While Julia was bathing, Randall and Mackenzie had withdrawn with Charles Townsend to address the untidy details of killing villains in Hartley. Julia wondered which of the men had done the actual shooting, then decided she would rather not know. Both had been soldiers. Both did what needed to be done.

What would normal life be in the future? She hoped that Randall was right in his belief that the Earl of Daventry would call off his hounds after he learned Julia was now Randall’s wife. She could not bear to live the rest of her life under the shadow of violence. Even worse was knowing that others might suffer because of Daventry’s fury.

She closed her eyes, reveling in the fragrant lavender oil that had been added to the hot water. She must have dozed off because she came awake with a start when the door to the bedroom opened. “Julia?” Randall called.

Though the hip bath was behind a screen, she felt awkward being naked in the same room with her husband. She scrambled out, trying not to splash the carpet. “I was enjoying the hot water too much,” she said as she reached for a towel.

There was a clink of glass on wood. “No need to rush,” he said. “Townsend offered me the hip bath in his dressing room, so I bathed as well.”

Her nightgown and robe were draped over the top of the screen, so she dressed hastily and emerged as she unpinned her hair. Randall had settled into one of the wing chairs. After his bath, he had just pulled on his trousers and left his shirt loose. His blond hair was darkened from moisture and he looked relaxed, happy, and criminally handsome. “You deal with assassination attempts much better than I,” she said wryly.

“Like most actions, it’s a matter of practice.” He gestured at the table between the paired wing chairs, which held a brandy glass and a steaming mug. “I brought up brandy for me plus some concoction that the cook said that you liked. I think it’s hot milk and spices and some form of spirits.”

“Mariah’s hot posset,” Julia said with pleasure. She collected her hairbrush from the dressing table and sat in the chair opposite Randall. “How thoughtful of Mrs. Beckett. Mariah learned all kinds of home remedies from her grandmother, including this one. It’s delicious and very soothing after a hard day. You might want to taste it.”

He eyed the mug dubiously as she took a sip. “Another time, perhaps.”

She set the posset down and picked up the brush to straighten the tangles from her damp hair. “Will there be any trouble over Crockett’s man being killed?”

“Townsend thinks that three respectable witnesses like you, me, and Mackenzie are sufficient to declare the death justifiable homicide.” Randall grinned. “Though it may be stretching a point to call Mac respectable.”

“Though you tease him, you trust him,” she said thoughtfully. “He certainly looked out for me well today.”

“I knew he would. He’s sound on important matters.” Randall frowned as he watched her brush out her hair. “You avoid looking in mirrors more than any other beautiful woman I’ve ever met.”

She froze, her stomach clenching. It took several moments to reply. “That’s because I’m not beautiful. I find it…more comfortable to avoid mirrors.”

“But you are beautiful, Julia,” he said quietly. “I know you’ve had to hide for too many years, but that’s not necessary now.”

Her hands clenched on the brush in her lap. “Since that night in Edinburgh, I’ve been trying to come to terms with my disfigurement. It…will take time.”

“You’re not disfigured,” he said firmly. “Yes, you bear scars on your lovely body, but beauty doesn’t require perfection, and your scars aren’t even visible.”

“I can’t forget the scars are there, and they make me feel ugly,” she said tightly, wishing he would drop the subject and never mention it again.

She heard him sip at his brandy. “I’m sorry you consider me ugly,” he said. “I had hoped to be at least presentable in your eyes.”

Her gaze snapped up to him. “Why did you say such a foolish thing? You are classically handsome. Unnervingly so. You can’t possibly not know that.”

“If scars cause ugliness, I must be repulsive,” he said coolly. “You’ve seen the mangled mess of my right side and leg, but they are hardly the only scars I bear.” He stood and pulled his shirt over his head, revealing his bare torso. “I doubt that you’ve ever come near a man who bears as many scars as I do.”

She stared at him, riveted, as he turned around to reveal his back before he faced her again. His broad shoulders, hard muscled body, and lean waist were beautiful—and marked by scars of all sorts. Some were faint, others blatant. There were thin lines and ragged knots of scar tissue. His right side was marked with more of the shrapnel that had done such damage to his leg. His body was a road map of pain and injury.

Lips dry, she touched a long, thin white scar that curved around his right shoulder. “How did that happen?”

“A French sword on the retreat to Corunna. I bled, he died.” He frowned down at his body. “Every scar must have a story, but to be truthful, I can’t remember where I got them all. Minor wounds in most cases. I heal quickly, but scar easily.”

“You have an amazing array of scars,” she admitted. “Most of them are never visible in public.”

His brows arched ironically. “But if even hidden scars make one ugly…”

“It’s different for you! Your scars are honorable marks of bravery.”

“They’re proof that I wasn’t always good at dodging.” He knelt in front of her. Before she realized his intention, he drew her loose robe and gown down her shoulders and cupped her breasts with his large, warm hands.

She gasped, feeling as if she’d been struck by lightning. “Don’t!”

“When we first agreed to marry, you gave me leave to touch you,” he said quietly. “Is this so upsetting? I swear I’m not going to ravish you.” He took a deep breath. “Though it’s a test of my willpower. Is it the touching that bothers you? Or the fact that your scars are exposed?”

Julia wanted to bolt. Or kick the damned man. Instead, she stared down at the scar-tissue initials that marred the upper curves of her breasts, and forced herself to examine her reaction. “Your touch is…not unpleasant.” Actually, she rather liked the warmth and the feel of his hard palms against soft hidden flesh. “But the scars make me feel flawed. Disfigured.”

“What was done to you was ugly beyond belief. That doesn’t make
you
ugly.” He began a slow, gentle stroking of her nipples with his thumbs.

She felt another jolt, this time undeniable pleasure. The breasts she hated were still capable of sensual response. Her nipples tightened under the rhythmic stimulation.

“I’m sure that if you had married a reasonable man and were living your life in normal society, you would still be a lovely, kind woman,” he said. “But you would not have the strength and individuality that make you so special.”

Her mouth twisted. “I should be grateful for being tortured? For being forced to falsify my death and flee into poverty?”

“Grateful? No. But all those events are part of you, as much as your beautiful chestnut hair and your lovely, creamy”—he swallowed hard—“touchable skin. We are shaped by our lives. Yours has been hard, but the person created by those events is…fascinating.”

Her, fascinating? She’d like to believe that, but the thought was too new and strange. “I…I thank you for what you are trying to do,” she said unevenly as she pushed at his hands. “But I can bear no more tonight.”

Accepting that, Randall gently drew up her gown and robe over her shoulders before getting to his feet and moving away. She exhaled with relief.

Since his bare torso was distracting, Julia took a mouthful of her cooling posset before she resumed brushing her hair. “I’m not sure if you’re going to save my soul or drive me mad, Alexander,” she said wryly.

“The former, I hope.” He opened the clothespress and removed his blue banyan. Covering his handsome body reduced the distraction, but the color made his blond hair and blue eyes even more striking. She dropped her eyes again.

“I want our marriage to be a real one, milady, and I think that will happen only if we both accept our scars. The mental ones and the physical ones.” He smiled faintly. “This means you have the right to confront me when I’m trying to deny the undeniable.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Since you have the right to touch me each day, perhaps every day I shall ask the origin of one of your scars.”

“Go ahead, though I don’t think that will torment me as effectively as what I’m doing to you.” He considered. “Though some of these scars represent emotional pain as well as physical. If you ask about one of those, you might produce a satisfactory amount of torment.”

“Which scars are they?” she asked with interest.

“It’s up to you to find them among all the rest.” Randall removed two folded blankets from the clothespress and set them on the floor.

She realized that he was planning to make up another pallet. “Don’t,” she said. “I’d like you to share the bed again, though…no more than that.”

“Then progress has been made,” he said with a smile that made her want to melt. He thought she was fascinating. She liked the idea even if she didn’t believe it.

Randall moved behind the screen to change into his nightclothes. Since he was much taller than Julia, the screen revealed his splendid shoulders.

Needing calm, not confusion, she looked away as she braided her hair and finished the posset. “I’m going to fall asleep as soon as I climb into bed.” She stood and removed her robe, then slid between the covers, keeping to her side.

Randall emerged from behind the screen and began putting out lights. “Would you like to spend another day here? Charles Townsend suggested we stay longer, and that will give you more time to say your good-byes.”

“I’d like that, if you’re not in a tearing hurry to get to London.” Julia smothered a yawn. She hadn’t been joking about her fatigue.

After extinguishing the lights, Randall joined her in the bed. The mattress sagged under his weight and Julia slipped down the smooth sheets into Randall’s side. “Sorry!” She started to push herself back to her side of the bed.

“No need to run away.” He slid his arm under her neck and tucked her against him. “Why share a bed if we’re on opposite sides and not touching?”

His embrace was friendly rather than carnal, so she settled against him. Though Branford often wanted sex, he had no use for affectionate cuddling. She felt warm, relaxed, safe.

Until she moved her hand and her palm brushed against his hard erection. As he caught his breath and stiffened all over, she pulled away with a sound perilously close to a squeak. “I didn’t mean to do that!”

“I know.” He didn’t pull her back, but he caught her hand and laced his fingers between hers. “Though progress has been made, we still have a long way to go.” His fingers tightened on hers. “Have I mentioned how much I admire your courage in facing your own private hells?”

She smiled wryly into the darkness. “I don’t think I’ve displayed much courage. Each time you’ve pushed me, I’ve wanted to run away.” She considered. “Though tonight I briefly considered kicking you.”

His laughter was deep and rich. “I’m glad you didn’t, but fighting instead of running is a good sign, I think. You really are an amazing woman. We grow through adversity. That’s why Mariah is more intriguing than Sarah, even though they’re twins and equally pretty and good-natured. Innocence simply isn’t very interesting.”

“Surely there are few men who would agree with that!”

He shrugged. “Tastes vary. I like women who have journeyed through darkness.”

“Because they understand you better?” Julia asked softly.

There was a long silence before he said, “I suppose that marriage is meant to be about two people sliding under each other’s skins. You’re rather good at that.”

“As are you.” Emboldened by the darkness, she asked, “Isn’t it terribly painful to…to be aroused as you are and not satisfy yourself?”

“I sense Branford’s voice behind that comment,” he said dryly. “Yes, continuing arousal is somewhat uncomfortable, but hardly unbearable. A grown man should not be ruled by his lusts.”

Branford had been. And she was the one legally obliged to satisfy them. “As a midwife, I’ve spent much of the last years with women and small children,” she said reflectively. “I’m beginning to realize how little I know of grown men.”

“You’re learning quickly.” He squeezed her hand again. “At least, you’re learning
me
quickly. As to being aroused—the good outweighs the bad. It reminds me I’m alive. For a long time, I’d forgotten that.”

She didn’t like to think of his private darkness. But if he hadn’t endured that, he wouldn’t understand or want her. She rolled onto her side and pressed a light kiss to his cheek. “Sleep well, Alexander.”

His whispered, “Sleep well, milady,” followed her into her dreams.