The Forbidden Lady (17 page)

His eyes had chilled to the icy color of sleet. “Shall we go home?”

C
HAPTER
S
IXTEEN

“T
his is our bedchamber.” Quin thrust open the door.

Virginia swallowed hard and stepped inside. The large canopy bed immediately caught her eye, for it dominated the room. She searched for something else to focus on. Two small tables flanked the bed, topped with silver candlesticks. Two plain wooden chairs rested in front of a hearth of glowing coals.

She fumbled with her gloves. “How nice. I’ve never had a fireplace in my . . . bedchamber before.”

He shoved open another door. “This is the dressing room.” Entering, he gestured to a clothespress. “I had this put in for you. Your trunk arrived this morning.”

She laid her gloves on the top shelf of her clothespress. Examining the small room, she noted her trunk on the floor next to an empty bathing tub and a second door. “Where does that door lead to?”

“Another bedchamber. No one is using it.” He pulled off his gloves and dropped them in a drawer.

His clothespress stood across from her own, and above it, on a shelf, she noticed five wooden heads lined up in a row—four without wigs. “You have only one wig left.”

“Aye. I had the tub put in here, so you would have privacy. Josiah will bring you hot water later. He’s the only servant here tonight. I gave the others the night off.”

“I see.”

He paced to the fireplace. She hovered at the dressing-room door and watched him toss a handful of twigs onto the hot coals. His back to her, he spoke softly. “I need to talk to you.”

She frowned as she approached. Tension radiated from him. He had remained in a brooding silence on the ride home, refusing to explain his brother’s behavior. Did he remain silent because Clarence was correct? Had Quincy frequented a mistress at the same time he had courted her? “I need to talk to you, too. About what your brother said.”

“The court proceedings? I’ll explain.”

“No, the . . . mistress.”

He swiveled to face her. “You believed that?”

She could see the pain in his eyes. “I don’t want to believe it.”

“Then don’t.” With a curse he hunkered in front of the hearth and jabbed at the small fire with a stick. “I lied to my brother, told him I had a mistress so he wouldn’t question all the afternoons I was gone, practicing with the submersible.”

“Oh.”

He straightened and looked at her. “You believe me?”

“Yes.” She attempted a smile. “I suppose your brother is hoping to cause trouble, though I cannot imagine why.”

Quin planted his fists on the mantel and glowered at the fire. “My father in England gambled away a fortune. In hopes of regaining his wealth, he sent Clarence here to steal Stanton Shipping.”

“Your father would take away your livelihood? But you’re his son.”

Quin shoved away from the mantel. “I don’t count, Ginny. I’m a bastard.”

“That’s ridiculous. I won’t have you talking that way.”

“ ’Tis the truth.” He sat in one of the plain wooden chairs and removed some papers from his coat.

She took a seat, facing him. “What will you do?”

He unfolded the papers. “ ’Tis already done. When Clarence arrives at court to take over the business, he’ll be in for a surprise. Stanton Shipping no longer exists.”

“Oh, no! You sold it? Oh, Quincy, it was everything to you and your uncle.”

“No, it is not truly lost. We sold it to you.”

Her mouth dropped open. “I . . . I didn’t buy anything. I haven’t the money.”

He handed her the first paper. “This is a betrothal contract where I agreed to pay you a bride price.”

She scanned the document, noting the huge amount of money cited. “I didn’t agree to this.”

He handed her two more papers. “The second page is the contract where Edward and I sold you all our shares of Stanton Shipping for the agreed price. The last page changes the name to Munro Shipping and names you as sole owner.”

She stared at the papers. Without her knowledge, she had already received a fortune and spent it. “I don’t understand. You helped me buy your business with your own money?” She shoved the papers back to him. “It sounds like a silly game.”

“ ’Tis entirely legal. The business belongs to you.”

“I cannot believe this.”

He folded the papers and pocketed them. “It was the only way to save the business. We had no choice. We were desperate.”

She clenched her hands together, shifting her gaze to the hearth. Close to the fire, a glowing red twig smoldered to a white skeleton.
We had no choice.
She ought to feel relief that Quin had saved his business. She ought to feel relief.

She felt used.

The twig crumbled into a pile of ash. Quin had pushed for the wedding as quickly as possible. Was it because his day in court was coming soon? He admitted he was desperate. Desperate enough to marry. What were the words he had whispered in the smuggler’s hole?
There are many good reasons we should marry.

And this was one.

He had known all along. He needed a wife to save his business.

She swallowed hard. “I didn’t realize our marriage would be so . . . convenient.”

He rose to his feet and added a log to the fire. “I know this has come as a shock to you, but it needn’t worry you.”

“Doesn’t it worry
you?
What if I sell the business?”

He propped an elbow on the mantel. “You cannot. As a married woman, you cannot sign a contract.”

“Oh.” What few rights she had possessed had disappeared with marriage. And now she was saddled with a shipping company. A glimmer of hope flickered in her heart. Quin had given her his life’s work. “Then you trust me to run the business for you?”

“As your husband I have the right to run your business and spend the profits as I see fit.”

“Oh.” The glimmer faded away.

He passed by her to take a look out the window. She blinked as hot tears stung her eyes. She was nothing but a decoy, a name to hide behind. For all practical purposes, Quin still owned his business—for she, as his wife, was his property.

She felt strangely numb, sitting by the hearth. And cold, in spite of the warmth from the fire. Shouldn’t she be raging against the fates, against tyranny, against a God that gave man dominion over all creatures including herself?

She glanced at the man she had married—the spy who was so adept at portraying himself falsely. Was his desire for her a pretense?

No, she wouldn’t believe it. She couldn’t.

He was a man who risked his life rebelling against a world designed to use him and a family that rejected him. Were his dreams, his needs so different from hers? Didn’t he want freedom and respect? Didn’t he want to be loved?

He returned to the fire and plucked out a burning twig which he used to light one of the silver candlesticks. He tossed the twig back into the fire and strode to the dressing room, taking the candlestick with him. “I have to go now.”

Her heart lurched in her chest. “You’re leaving?”

“I’ll be back as soon as possible.”

She wandered to the open dressing room door and peeked inside. His gray silk coat lay on a nearby chair. He unbuttoned his black-and-silver brocade waistcoat while kicking off his silver-buckled shoes. The candlelight gleamed off the numerous silver buttons and cast a large, flickering shadow of Quincy against the far wall.

“Where are you going?”

He tossed the waistcoat onto the chair and proceeded to unbutton his lacy cambric shirt. “The night
The Sentinel
burned, the British captured two of my friends.” He yanked the shirt over his head and threw it onto the chair. “We intend to rescue them.”

She stumbled back against the door, her weight pushing it shut. “You mean to steal them out of jail?”

“No.” He pulled on a long, plain shirt of homespun. “The British are transporting them tonight to a frigate due to set sail in the morning. So the deed must be done tonight.”

Her heart pounded wildly, and she pressed her hand to her chest. “You plan to attack the British when they move the prisoners?”

“Nothing that drastic.” He exchanged his gray silk breeches for a pair of brown woolen ones. “The officers of the British frigate were at the party drinking like fish, and I sent several more casks to the ship in honor of our wedding. By now everyone on board should be in a drunken stupor.”

He pulled on plain woolen hose and a pair of old battered shoes. “A companion and I will impersonate two sailors aboard the frigate. When the British arrive with the prisoners, we’ll be there to take them. Then we’ll take them to another sloop. By morning the two men will be in Rhode Island.”

“What if the British recognize you?”

He pulled an old, battered tricorne low on his brow. “Then, I suppose, you’ll be a very wealthy widow.”

She grimaced. “That is not amusing, Quincy. Why must you do this tonight?”

“The men will die if I don’t. Don’t worry. I have the perfect alibi. No one would ever believe I could leave you on my wedding night.”

She swallowed hard. She found it hard to believe herself. “How long have you known about this?”

“A few weeks. I’ll tell Josiah to bring the hot water. You look tired.”

She’d be alone in the house with Josiah. What if Clarence returned? The memory of how he had looked at her and stroked her skin sent a quiver of alarm up her spine. “Quin?”

He shrugged on a thick woolen coat. “Yes?”

She hesitated, reluctant to make matters worse between the two brothers. Perhaps Clarence had simply had too much to drink. And she couldn’t insist that Quin stay with her, not if it would cost the lives of two men. “Do . . . do you know where your brother will be this evening?”

“Edward is keeping him entertained ’til the wee hours of the morning. I couldn’t afford to let Clarence see me leaving the house for this mission.”

Virginia exhaled with relief. Now if only her newly wedded husband could survive the night. “Be careful. Please.”

“I will.” He gave her a fleeting smile. “Don’t worry.” He strode out the door, his face grim with determination.

He was gone.

She picked up his discarded shirt and slumped in the chair, lifting the soft cambric to her cheek. It was still warm from his body. She buried her nose in it and breathed in his scent.
Please, Lord, don’t let him be captured.
Too much, it was all too much.

When Josiah came in, hauling buckets of hot water, she was still in the chair, feeling dazed and numb.

Q
uin hunched his shoulders against the freezing wind as he hurried home in the dark. He rounded a corner and met an onslaught of snowflakes in the face. Gritting his teeth and holding on to his hat, he strode against the buffeting wind to the back gate of his home.

With a wind like this, the sloop transporting his friends would make excellent time. The plan to rescue them had worked without a hitch. The British had asked no questions, eager to hand over the prisoners and return to their warm barracks. Now a warm bed waited for him. A bed with Ginny.

He opened the gate to the garden. Caught by the wind, the gate banged against the fence. The loud noise echoed down the street. He winced and looked about. The street was empty.

He stepped into the garden, pulling the gate shut behind him. Only Ginny and Josiah should be in the house, for the party was still raging at Concert Hall with all the servants in attendance. Everyone would naturally assume he was in bed enjoying his new wife, not sneaking onto British frigates to abscond with their prisoners.

He passed by the kitchen, his shoes crunching on the frozen ground. A glimpse of movement caught his eye—a shadow moving along the brick wall.

“Who goes there?” He heard no response, only the wind whistling through the trees, swirling snowflakes in the air.

The shadows of buildings and trees wavered as a cloud passed in front of the full moon. He swiveled full circle but saw no one. A gust of sleet-filled air swept the hat from his head, stinging his cheeks. No one would stand about in this miserable weather. It had been nothing more than clouds drifting across the moon. He retrieved his hat and sprinted to the back door.

Ginny would be waiting for him in bed.

He bolted up the stairs, three steps at a time, and raced down the hall. He halted by the bedchamber door to catch his breath. She might be sleeping. He shouldn’t barge in and startle her. Better to sneak in and wake her with a kiss.

He slipped inside and closed the door without a sound. The glowing coals in the hearth provided the only light in the room. He crept over to the bed.

It was empty.

He scanned the room. Where was she?

He flung open the door to the dressing room. “Ginny?”

The room was dark. He swallowed hard. Did someone steal her away? He dashed into the bedchamber to light a candle. Bringing the light into the dressing room, he noted the tub still full of water and her trunk, open and empty. She had neatly deposited her clothes on the shelves of the clothespress.

“Quin, is that you?”

“Ginny, are you all right?” He frowned as he realized her voice was coming from the bedchamber on the other side of the dressing room.

He opened the door and spotted her in bed, the covers pulled up to her shoulders. “What are you doing in here? This room is icy cold.”

“Are you all right? Did you rescue your friends?”

“Aye. Why are you here, Ginny?”

“I . . . I was thinking.”

“Well, come out of there before you freeze. Come sit by the fire. I’ll put on another log.” He set the candlestick down in the dressing room and returned to the hearth. As he built up the fire, he puzzled over her odd behavior.

All through the wedding festivities, he had endured teasing from other men.
Women make no sense. Logic doesn’t apply to them. Don’t try to understand them. You’ll end up a broken man, crazed and worthless.

He had dismissed their warnings, considering it all nonsense. Now he wondered.

Back in the dressing room, he spotted her hovering in the doorway to the adjoining bedchamber. Thick woolen stockings covered her feet, and a white woolen shift reached from her neck to her ankles. She clutched a crocheted shawl around her shoulders. The ruffles of a white mobcap framed her flushed cheeks. Her hair, braided on each side, lent her the appearance of an innocent child.