The Admiral's Penniless Bride (12 page)

‘I didn’t,’ he told her. ‘It never occurred to me.’ He got up again and started to pace. ‘Did you ever meet such an idiot?’

He seemed to be expecting an answer. She considered the question as he paced. ‘You are forty-five and you have spent most of your life at sea…’

‘…where life was much simpler,’ he grumbled. ‘I swear it was!’

‘Let us consider this. Life at sea. Oh, yes, there was a
war on, wasn’t there? It might have been difficult. You buy a house with cupids, just for the view.’

By now he was listening to her. He leaned against the fireplace, his eyes starting to disappear into a smile.

‘Horrors! You marry a widow on woefully short notice.’

‘Perhaps that was a smart idea,’ he said, getting into the mood of her gentle teasing.

‘The issue is still unresolved, sir.’

‘And I am afraid of two domineering women. Sophie, I was an Admiral of the Fleet!’ He began to pace again.

She looked at him then, studied his face as he stared back at her. She observed his grey hair, his prematurely lined face and the restless way he stalked from one small space to the other, the area defined by a crowded deck.

‘I conclude that you never had a chance to be young, Admiral.’

He stopped and frowned, mouthed ‘Admiral’ to her amusement, walked another length and back, then sat down again. ‘You could be right.’ He started to hold her hand again, but thought better of it. ‘It’s a little late for a childhood now.’ He almost smiled. ‘You are stuck with rather a poor bargain, Sophie.’

‘I beg to differ! You got rid of the Egyptian furniture. The cupids are fading.’

‘Lord almighty! Dare we hope that my sisters will be gone tomorrow?’

He seemed more at peace now. His eyelids began to droop.

‘I think we dare hope,’ she said, keeping her voice soft. ‘Go to bed, Admiral.’

He closed his eyes. ‘Not unless you join me. I promise to keep my hand to myself.’

‘I can sleep in this chair.’

‘Nonsense. You’re almost as tall as I am. It will take a master mechanic to straighten you out in the morning if you attempt it. You’ll have your own room again, Sophie. Don’t give me grief over this.’

She had no intention of arguing further, not with her own eyes closing. ‘Very well. I will change in your dressing room and you will mind your manners.’

He was asleep when she came out of the dressing room, flat on his back with his maimed arm resting on his chest.
I don’t mind this
, Sally thought, as she watched him a moment. She carefully pulled back the coverlet and slid between the sheets with a sigh. What a long day it had been.

She was careful not to move towards him, staying on her side of the bed and listening to his regular breathing. The homely sound of another human being eased her heart. She thought of all the days, weeks and months she had slept alone, worrying herself about money and shame until she woke as tired as she had been when she went to bed. This was different. True, the sisters were just down the hall. There were so many cupids left to paint over. Vivienne needed a physician. Other servants were coming.

‘You’re frowning.’

She gasped and turned her head, then closed her eyes as Charles Bright, her convenient husband, smoothed the lines between her eyes.

‘Go to sleep, Sophie. Dream that we are both a little more intelligent in the morning.’

She rolled on to her side, away from him, trying to decide what was different. She listened to the admiral’s even breathing again.
I am not worrying alone
, she told herself.
That is the difference.

S
ome time in the middle of the night, Charles Bright had a nightmare. He never shouted out in his sleep, but Starkey told him once that he muttered to himself and flailed about. He must have done both, but he didn’t open his eyes. He started when a hand touched his back. As he lay there, surprised and disoriented, the hand began to gently massage his shoulder. He wanted to roll over, or say something, but he lay there quietly, enjoying the sensation of sharing his bed with a woman. It had been a long time. He couldn’t remember when he had last spent an entire night in a woman’s bed, and this was his wife. He smiled to himself and went back to sleep.

He woke at his usual time, but it was a better awakening than most. He gave all the credit to Sophie Bright, who had tucked herself in tight and draped her arm over his chest.

He knew she had begun the night with her back to him, and about as far away as she could get in the bed without
tumbling off. He vaguely remembered the gentle feel of her hands on his back, when he had gone through his usual nightmare rigmarole. But here she was. He couldn’t see her face, because her brown hair was spread all over his chest.

Her breasts were warm against his side. He wanted to run his hand down her arm, but he knew it would wake her up and probably alarm her. He could look, though, and it pained him that her arms were so slim.
Have you been living on air, lady?
he asked himself. He had learned, early in his association with his chef, not to burden him with over-attention, but it wouldn’t hurt to go belowdeck soon and engage Etienne in a conspiracy to use more butter, milk and cheese and other such ingredients so dear to a French chef’s palate.

It scarcely surprised him that he felt himself growing hard. A man would have to be made of sterner stuff than he was to resist what lay in his arms. What amused him was the fact that he couldn’t remember a time in recent years when he had felt that way in the morning. But then, war and life had intervened, and he would blame them. Any romance he had enjoyed was most generally accomplished at night, and then followed by a return to the dock and a ferry out to his flagship. He hated to feel furtive out of what was a man’s normal desire, but he had learned quickly enough that admirals were not supposed to have such passions; at least, if his captains were to be believed. It was a damned nuisance to be a good example.

During the worst of the crisis, after he reached flag rank, he had been continuously at sea for six years. He envied his dashing frigate captains, who could leave the fleet and return to land, now and then, for whatever extracurricular activity they could sandwich in between naval
assignments. The ocean was well and truly his home, and there were few women there.

But here was this pretty lady, his wife, and he had already assured her that this would be a marriage of convenience.
I am a dolt
, he thought, with a certain wry humour.
I’ve encouraged her to keep my sisters far distant. When they leave this morning, there’s no excuse to keep her in my bed.

Thoroughly dissatisfied with himself, Charles lay there feeling sour until his anatomy returned to its usual state of somnolence. Then he carefully edged himself out of Sophie’s slack embrace. She turned her face up to him like a flower seeking sunshine, but did not open her eyes. She let out a soft sigh of satisfaction that went to his heart as almost nothing else could have. How ill used this lovely person had been, how trampled on. And why would any man married to her ever have even contemplated suicide, much less committed it? He couldn’t fathom it.

After a wrestle in his dressing room about whether to garb for the day, or just pad down to the breakfast room for a cup of tea for Sophie, he put on his well-worn dressing gown and opted for bare feet. Perhaps his sisters weren’t up yet. And if they were, too bad.

Fannie and Dora were already seated in the breakfast room, and looking none too pleased. He glanced at the side table, and hid his smile. Etienne Dupuis had exerted himself to one pitiful pot of porridge. He sniffed. His chef had burned it, too—excellent man. He took tea and joined his sisters.

Fannie wasted not a minute in telling him what she thought. ‘Charles, your cook is more than usually pathetic!’

He sipped his tea. ‘Fannie, give my chef a chance. He has no staff yet. You’ll both be so much better off back in
London, until we get things sorted out here.’ He engineered what he thought was an arch, knowing look. ‘Besides, my dears, Sophie and I would like a little privacy. You understand, I am sure, having once been newly married yourselves.’

Dora blushed and nodded, but Fannie only set her lips in a tighter line, which reinforced his suspicion that the late Mr Thorndyke was no Romeo. ‘I wish I could tell you that I believe your story about a long correspondence with…with…’

‘My dear wife,’ he supplied, feeling much the little brother.

‘Your wife, but I am sceptical.’

Might as well bring out the big guns. Charles levelled a look at his older sister that he had spent a lifetime perfecting to use on wayward captains. ‘Believe it, Frances,’ he said, clipping off each word. ‘I tried in many ways to tell you I have not been interested in any of the beauties you have thrown my way, and that I was entirely capable of finding a wife. If you fault me for not telling you about my…longstanding attachment to Sophie, I believe it is the right of every man to do those things for himself.’

He couldn’t make it any plainer. Charles went to the sideboard and poured another cup of tea. ‘I am going to take tea to my wife. All I ask is that you give us a few weeks of solitude.’

It pained him to hurt their feelings. He looked at his sisters, remembering how they had mothered him when all three of them were not so old, and their own mother had died. It had been a trying time, and these dear do-gooders had eased his childish heart.

‘Give us a little time,’ he said gently. ‘When you come back in a while, there will be more servants, better food
and hot water on demand. My dears, we’re just not ready to entertain. It’s as simple as that.’

Dora nodded, but glanced at Fran, who still looked stony. Dora opened her mouth to speak, but thought better of it, deferring, as always, to her old sister. Charles watched them for some sign of understanding, but found none in evidence, as he left the room.

At least the tea was still warm. He stood outside his own door a moment, wondering whether to knock, then tapped on the door with his wrist.

‘Come in. You shouldn’t have to stand on ceremony outside your own door!’
Oh, hell.
He would have to put down the cup to turn the handle. ‘I’m bringing you tea and I cannot open the door,’ he said, embarrassed. ‘Maybe it is true that many hands make light work. I’d settle for two, now and then.’

He heard light footsteps and the door opened on Sophie’s bright face. ‘Sorry. You intend to spoil me this morning, too?’ she asked.

‘Maybe I have started a tradition,’ he told her, as she climbed back in bed. The outline of her hips against the much-washed flannel captured his eyes. Too bad she was so quick.

Sophie slid over far enough to allow room for him to sit, which flattered him. In fact, she patted the mattress and drew her legs up close to her chest. He sat down and handed her the tea, which she accepted with a smile that made his heart thud in his chest.

Sophie sipped and looked at him over the rim of the cup. ‘I was hoping you would bring me tea.’

There were no blushes this time; they were just two people in a room with each other. What
had
happened last night? Had his nightmare, as unspectacular as it always was, given her yet another purpose in his life?

‘I hope I didn’t bother you with my restlessness last night.’

She shrugged. ‘When I was younger and certainly more foolish, I read a very bad novel, where the hero thrashed and cried out and walked in his sleep, then ended up on the castle’s parapet, ready to jump. All you did was mutter a little and try to sit up.’ She rested her hand for the smallest moment on his wrist. ‘Heavens knows you must have had more traumas than anything a female novelist could conjure. Those stories you told your sisters last night are probably only the mild ones, fit for ladies.’

‘They are. I doubt even you are ready for the perils of masts falling in the midst of battle, or the sight of your gallant husband—still possessing both hands—swimming below the waterline in shark-infested waters to plug a sail into a hole. Sophie, mine was quite a career.’

She gave him that appraising look again, so totally turning all her attention to him that he felt unbelievably flattered.

‘Very well, what?’

The moment he spoke, he realised something had happened in their relationship. He didn’t think she was aware of it yet, but he was, acutely so. He suddenly felt at ease with this woman he barely knew, as though they were confederates. It was the most intimate moment of his life, and he wasn’t even touching her. Her eyes were deep pools, and he felt completely at home, swimming in their depths. ‘What?’ he asked again.

‘I know what will occupy your time,’ she said, resting her chin on her updrawn knees and still mesmerising him with the intensity of her gaze. ‘Your memoirs.’

He was not thinking of stuffy memoirs, not with her so close. ‘Sophie, who on earth would read the blasted thing?’

She gave an exasperated sigh. ‘Your men, anyone in England with blood in his veins. Me! I would read them. Oh, my goodness, I would.’ She straightened her legs and took him by the arm. ‘I will help you. You can dictate them to me.’

He relished her hold on him. ‘Madam wife, you are all about in your head.’

He said it softly, because he was leaning closer to her. He kissed her and found her lips as soft as he thought they might be. She drew back slightly; he knew he had startled her. She only moved her hand from his arm to the side of his neck and returned his kiss.

In another moment, she had relaxed against the pillows and he was bending over her, pressing against her, their arms around each other, her hands splayed across his back. She sighed when the kiss ended, but continued to hold him close until someone knocked on the door and then opened it. She gasped in his ear.

Starkey stood there, shocked. For just a millisecond, his expression turned so dark and disapproving that Charles sucked in his breath. The look was gone as quickly as it came. Perhaps Charles had imagined it.

Starkey closed the door part way, averting his gaze. ‘Beg your pardon, Admiral,’ he said, his voice wooden. ‘I usually help you with your harness about now.’

Her face crimson, Sophie sat up, her hands in her lap, her glorious lips tight together now.
What a position to be in
, Charles thought, angered at Starkey’s blunder. ‘You do usually help me,’ he said, wishing he did not sound so brusque. ‘Let that be one more job you need not worry about, unless I specifically ask. Knock and wait from now on, for God’s sake.’

It came out hard and mean.
I can smooth it over later
, Charles thought, looking at Starkey’s wounded expression
as the door closed. He turned his attention to Sophie and blundered again.

‘I didn’t mean to do that,’ he said, standing up, unwilling to look at her. He did take a little glance and saw the hurt in her eyes, as brief as Starkey’s. ‘But I also said this would be a marriage of convenience, did I not?’ he asked, instantly angry with himself. Why had that come out so harsh?

‘You did say that,’ Sophie replied in a small voice. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘You have nothing to apologise for.’ He got up and went to the door, except there was nowhere to go.

Sophie must have realised the same thing. He knew he had hurt her feelings, because she wouldn’t look at him. ‘I’ll be dressed and out of your room in a moment,’ she told him, her voice small.

She was as good as her word. He stared into the fireplace, wishing there was no one in his house except Sophie. The workmen were back in the rooms downstairs, moving around scaffolding and painting the stupid ceiling. Charles listened to other mechanics overhead in the attic, thumping for rotten boards and calling to each other. His sisters were on the prowl somewhere, ready to take umbrage the moment anyone offered any.

Sophie let herself out quietly. He heard the barest rustle of her skirt and looked around to see the back of her head as she closed the door.

‘I am practically certifiable,’ he declared to the door. He thought of the days he had sat at his desk at sea, considering thorny problems of cannon range, weather gauge, victuals going bad, water rationed, enemy close, crew sick—all the tasks he had to bend his mind to, every day of the war. The only thing on his mind right now was a woman, a subject almost foreign to a man so often at sea.

He had not imagined she had returned his kiss. In terms of days, she was a veritable stranger, but a lady about whom he had strong instincts. His quickness of mind had never failed him through decades of war. Charles took heart.
I made no mistake in the dining room of the Drake
, he thought. What he hadn’t bargained on was how quickly she would touch his heart, body and mind.

‘Sophie Bright. You’re married to an idiot with one thing on his side—time. I believe I have the weather gauge, too. I cannot lose.’

He started to dress, then realised he needed to summon his testy servant and ask for help with the harness, since Sophie had fled the scene. He would ask Starkey’s pardon and begin again.

I learned something this morning
, he thought. He went to the bell pull, when he heard the front door close. It didn’t precisely slam, but it closed loud enough. He looked out the window and there was his dear wife, walking down the weedy lane with some purpose in her stride. She had a book in her hand, but he was mostly interested in the way her skirt swayed from side to side.

‘Ah, my dear, you are going to read to Rivka Brustein,’ he told her retreating figure. ‘A wise thing. Return when you are calm. My sisters will be gone, hopefully, and I will have thought this campaign through.’