The Marriage Bargain (19 page)

“To….” Beckett moved closer to her.

“To continue with his—”

“His….”

“His husbandly rights.”

A subtle change flowed through Beckett’s eyes, a dimming. “Husbandly rights? Is that what you call what I did to you last night? I’d thought I was making mad, passionate love to you, Isobel. And that does not even consider what you were doing to me.”

“Me?” she said, taken off guard. “I did nothing to you.”

“I beg to differ, my dear, you did quite a lot. Such wiggling and squirming. What is a poor husband to do when his wife insists on being serviced at all hours? Ignore her demands upon his person? I ask you.”

“Oh!” Isobel felt her cheeks burning.

“Not very kind of me to tease you so, is it?” He leaned back and lifted a morsel of bread to his lips. “Is there much pain today?”

She paused, but answered him truthfully. “A little.”

He nodded. “I’ve heard it’s often so for a woman’s first time. I’m sorry to say, nature is often cruel to the fairer sex. For isn’t it the woman who must carry and bear the child that the coupling of the two sexes might create? You could be carrying my child right now, as we speak. Have you thought of that?”

Isobel’s heart skipped a beat. Last night had happened so fast, had been so intoxicating, she truly hadn’t considered it. She’d thought only of the pleasure, of the way he’d made her whole body hum with passion.

And now, she felt a primal rush of pride at the possibility of carrying her husband’s child. Beckett’s child.

“I see the idea sits well with you, and that pleases me,” he said. “Because as the earl and countess of Ravenwood, we have a duty to perform, Isobel. You must conceive my child and heir. And that could take months. You know, my friends Lord and Lady Secord had to engage in this type of behavior every day for almost a year until Letty conceived. And the whole time, both she and George wore the silliest smiles about town. Come to think of it, they’re still wearing them. Well, that stands to reason, as they’ve had a child each year since their marriage four years ago. Would you object to doing our duty as devotedly?”

“I would not, my lord.”

Beckett lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it softly, gazing into her eyes. “Nor would I, my dear. Nor would I. But I shall be a good husband to you tonight, and let you recover from your first taste of the marriage bed. It would be rather boorish of me to force my attentions on you, wouldn’t it? And you still tender from last night’s loving.”

No, it wouldn’t! she wanted to reply. All this talk was making her skin positively tingle. Oh, why was he teasing her so?

Beckett turned his attention back to the picnic lunch beside him and picked up a leg of chicken. “Now that we’ve got that settled, I think I shall eat my lunch. I’m famished. Are you sure you don’t want to join me?”

She wanted very much to join with him. Right here on the beach, if that’s what he wanted.

“No, I’m fine,” she replied. “I’ll sit here and draw.”

Isobel arranged her pencils and paper in a bid to avoid watching Beckett lick the crumbs from his fingers.

Oh, why hadn’t she brought her fan? It was decidedly hotter than before.

Isobel concentrated on the white sheet of paper before her. She did not want to be seen staring at her husband like a love-sick cow. He must not see the raw desire in her eyes. Nor how easily he could arouse her passions.

She picked up her pencil and began to draw the face of this man who drove her to distraction. She glanced up at him occasionally, his features quickly appearing on the paper in front of her. There was the arch of the eyebrow that sometimes taunted her, the regal nose, the sensuous mouth in that sly half-grin.

Eyes that seemed far too intense to accurately transfer to paper.

Isobel completed the portrait, regarding the finished result with a mixture of satisfaction and embarrassment. The drawing of Beckett showed a man brimming with raw sexuality. A man who could fulfill any woman’s desires. It looked indecent. She certainly didn’t want to show it to him.

But her reservations came too late. He was already reaching for it.

Beckett turned the portrait so that he could see it.

“Well, what do you think?” Isobel brushed a fly-away hair from her face.

“Is this how you see me, Isobel?”

She swallowed. “I suppose it is.”

“I look like a male courtesan. We should send it back to London and have it published in the Times.

Imagine my reputation after the ton sees this. And my wife who drew it!”

Isobel snatched it back. “You will do no such thing!”

“Quite right. A full nude would be a far greater scandal.”

“What? I most certainly will not draw you nude.”

Beckett laughed, and it was a moment or two before Isobel realized he’d been teasing her once again.

“Shall we go down to the water?” he asked. “I’ll bet it’s warmer than the English Channel.”

Isobel paused, then nodded in agreement as Beckett began removing his boots and stockings. She slipped off her shoes and silk stockings, picked up her skirts and trotted down to the beach, with Beckett following behind. It would be good to get her mind off her husband’s teasing.

They splashed into the warm, foamy water, and Isobel gloried in the refreshing feeling. The tropical breeze sighed against her bare legs as Isobel lifted her skirts to keep them out of the water. She turned to see Beckett staring at her.

“You’re making it damned difficult for me to keep my word about leaving you alone tonight.”

“Perhaps I don’t wish you to keep your word.” She trotted off ahead of him, splashing through the water and back onto the sand.

Walking quickly down the beach ahead of Beckett, feeling deliciously light-hearted, Isobel drank in the blue sky overhead with its white, puffy clouds. The heady scent of the island’s exotic flowers floated on the breeze.

Though she knew most ladies of the ton would rather give up their opera boxes than come to such a wild place, Isobel was enchanted by this island. It was stunning, serene and haunting all at once. It was so unlike London with its measured rows of townhouses, soaring cathedral spires and noisy cobblestone streets.

Isobel’s thoughts turned back to that day she’d fled to London. She had been so frightened then, of Sir Harry, of the dangers that surrounded her in the city streets. And then Beckett had found her, and saved her.

Rounding a curve in the shoreline, Beckett stopped and looked down at the sand, kicking it with his toes.

“Now, what have we here? Footprints? Must have been four or five men at least, and they lead down to the water, there. Perhaps Mr. Cobb’s talk of pirates wasn’t just flummery after all. There, you can see where their boat was dragged up onto the sand.”

“Might it not be local fishermen?” Isobel asked, seeing the marks in the sand. An unsettling shiver ran up her back.

“Mr. Cobb said the fishing is done farther down the coast, where the waters are calmer. Of course, I’m most likely assuming the worst. It might not be pirates at all. But you must promise me not to come down here alone.” He looked down at her with serious eyes.

Isobel nodded. “I promise.”

It was not a difficult promise to make.

They turned back toward the grove of trees, and as they neared the horses, Isobel tried to silence her fears. Surely, it wasn’t possible. It couldn’t be Sir Harry. Could it?

She pushed the thought from her mind.

They packed up the picnic basket and her drawings, and mounted the waiting horses.

As they neared the plantation, Isobel noticed an oppressive smell in the air. Beckett seemed to notice it too and they stopped the horses. They heard shouts of alarm floating on the breeze.

Beckett’s eyes suddenly turned deadly serious. He kicked his stallion into a gallop, and Isobel followed as closely as she could.

As they approached the plantation, they saw the pandemonium.

“The fields are on fire!”

Beckett jumped off his horse and ran toward the burning sugar cane fields. Isobel struggled to keep up.

Around them, but not yet burning, were the dried cane stalks left from Cropover. She and Beckett stopped short when they saw Mr. Cobb running toward them.

“What’s happened, Cobb?” Her husband shouted. “You said the fields weren’t supposed to be burned until next week!”

“Not sure, m’lord!” Cobb yelled, his face and clothes blackened by soot. “Started ‘bout an hour ago down in the south field. No one supposed to be down that way. Don’t know what coulda happened. I’ve got all the men out there, and some o’ the women, too. We’ve got to put it out, or the house’ll be next, sir.”

Beckett ripped off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. “Tell me what to do, Cobb. I’m not going to lose Ravenwood Hall!”

“We’re diggin’ ditches ‘round the fields so the fire won’t spread. Got some o’ the women to wet down the sides and roof of the house and barn. Don’t want flying sparks to ignite the buildings.”

“I’ll help Josephine and the others up here.” Isobel squinted her eyes against the heat from the fire.

Beckett nodded and touched her arm. “Whatever you do, don’t get too close to the flames.”

“But you’re going down there!”

“I have no choice, Isobel. But neither do you! Mark me.” Beckett turned and followed Cobb toward the heart of the fire.

Isobel coughed from the smoke in the air and sought Josephine, who would be in charge of the women.

She found her quickly; the woman was already busy issuing orders. “You girls go and get all de buckets you can find. Big ones!” Josephine shouted. When she saw Isobel, she said, “M’lady, come wit me.”

She led Isobel over to the well as the other women ran back with the buckets.

“Make a line to de barn,” she told the staff, coolly directing the panicking servants like an army colonel.

“M’lady and I will pull de water up from de well.”

Isobel and Josephine worked together to crank the water up, handing bucket after bucket to the first woman in line, while the ladies at the other end doused the barn.

They worked as fast as they could to wet down the structure and get to the house before floating sparks landed on the roof. Making a line toward the manor, bucket after bucket passed down the line until the house was dampened, too.

Isobel had no idea how much time had passed since they began their back-breaking work, but she could see the fire still burning down in the fields. She turned to Josephine, panting and wiping the sweat from her brow.

“We must go down and help the men dig.” And see whether Beckett is safe.

“Dat would be a good idea, m’lady,” Josephine agreed.

After assembling the other women and taking what shovels remained, Isobel led the women down to help out.

The men had split up into small groups, each group concentrating on one side of the field. But the flames were getting closer, and there weren’t enough men to control the fire’s progress.

Beckett looked up as Isobel and the rest of the women approached. He wiped his forehead, hands and face blackened by ash.

“Isobel, take the women away—I told you it was too dangerous down here!” Beckett yelled over the crackling of the flames.

“You need our help!” Isobel insisted.

“Don’t you be arguin’ wit m’lady, now!” Josephine shouted in agreement. Her dark eyes flashed a warning.

Beckett paused and leaned on the handle of his shovel. “Alright then, split your women up into four groups and go join the men.”

Isobel and Josephine quickly divided the women up, and Josephine took the others to where they were needed. Isobel’s group began to dig near Beckett’s.

As she worked, Isobel was surprised to feel herself getting stronger again after a period of near exhaustion. At the start, she’d felt clumsy with the shovel. But after a short time she found her rhythm, enjoying a new awareness of her body. She discovered muscles in her arms, back and legs of which she had been previously quite ignorant; she enjoyed the sensation of really using them.

Isobel had never had to apply herself in such a physical way before. Except for dancing with Beckett at the Cropover feast. Back in England, it was considered most unladylike to engage in any activity more strenuous than waving a fan. But this sort of physical exertion made her feel more alive, more capable than ever.

Isobel glanced at Beckett, who had taken off his shirt. Although covered in ash and dirt, with his chest streaked in sweat, her husband had never looked more capable or strong. How could he have hidden such a form beneath tailored jackets and silk neck cloths? Did all the gentlemen of London look thus without their fancy clothes?

Helpless to look away, she watched his body as it worked. The muscles in his arms and shoulders flexed as he dug into the brown earth. His hard thighs and buttocks strained against his buckskins and made her catch her breath.

She kept digging, though her initial stamina was fading. It was fruitless to be vain at a time like this, but she wondered what she must look like as she wiped the perspiration from her brow, undoubtedly smearing dirt and ash all over her face.

Finally their efforts were rewarded when the fire, contained by the network of ditches and almost out of fuel, began to recede.

“Good work, everyone,” Beckett called out, resting his elbow on the handle of his shovel. “Split yourselves up, now, and let’s finish this up.” As they walked past, he patted several workers on the back.

Beckett threw his shovel on the ground and walked over to Isobel. He looked down at her, brushing the hair away from her face. “What would the ton say if they could see us now?”

“I’m sure I don’t care a whit.” She liked the way he was looking at her. His eyes shone in his grimy face, and she barely noticed the soot anymore.

Beckett nodded toward the smoldering field. “We still have work to do. Come help me start cleaning up.”

Isobel obeyed and took up a position near her husband. She wanted to laugh as she tried to picture any other countesses digging ditches alongside their husbands. Lady Whitcomb, the hostess of the party they’d attended for instance. Perhaps it was the absurdity of that notion, her exhaustion and her relief now that the danger seemed past, that made her think of such things.