The Rogue's Return (10 page)

Her body, however—her skin, her nerves, her breasts, her very womb—had other ideas, particularly when he drew her against him and brushed his lips against her neck.

Why not? They were married, and she wanted to stay married. . . .

She pushed sharply away, stumbling in her urgency. “Not until England!” she gasped. They mustn't consummate the marriage until she'd told him the truth.

He stared. “Not until
England
? Jane . . . Do you still want an annulment? I thought things had changed.”

“Yes. No!” She desperately sought some rational excuse. “I was so sick on board ship. J— . . . Nan died. If I were with child, I might die.”

He ran a hand through his hair. “Then of course it will be as you wish.”

Not as I wish, my love. As it must be.

“Thank you,” she gasped and fled to the safety of the kitchens.

Mrs. Gunn looked up from a pot. “What's put you in a tizzy, then?”

“Nothing.” Jancy took an apron from the hook.

“Aye, a husband's usually nothing.”

“What vegetables should I prepare?”

“Chop some onions. It'll give you something to cry about.”

“I don't need onions to cry over Isaiah.”

“Maybe not, but everything'd be simpler if you took your husband to your bed.”

Jancy grabbed three big onions. “That's none of your business.”

“True enough, except that the pair of you are acting like mooncalves.” Mrs. Gunn thumped her pan onto the central table. “Anyone can see he's burning up with wanting you.”

“Truly?” Jancy didn't need assurance on that, but she wanted it anyway.

“And you're as keen as he is, so don't pretend you aren't. If you weren't married, I'd lock the two of you in separate rooms. So what is it? Frightened?”

“No.” The truth came out before she thought, stealing Jancy's best excuse.

The cook began to attack a lump of bleeding venison with a sharp knife. “Then what's the problem?”

Lacking anything better, as she skinned the onions and began to slice, Jancy gave her the reason she'd given Simon.

Mrs. Gunn humphed. “I can see as how you'd be nervous, dearie, your cousin dying an' all, but if you're sick with the sea and sick with a child it'd probably be no worse in all. And think of all the fun you're missing.”

“Mrs. Gunn!”

“What? Never tell me your mother made it out to be torture. Trust your feelings, dearie, and enjoy yourself.”

“Maybe,” Jancy mumbled, hoping Mrs. Gunn took the tears running down her face to be caused by the onions. Some of them were.

When the braised meat was in the oven, Jancy put together a tea tray and carried it back to the house, hoping Hal wasn't back yet. Her mind swam with forbidden longings, and perhaps it wouldn't be so wrong.

Martha had never spoken about the marriage bed at all, but there'd always been an implication that it was an unfortunate necessity for the blessing of children. A price to be paid. Jancy remembered something Tillie had said when explaining who her father was. “Once his wife knew she was with child, she refused him his pleasure, silly biddy, so he took to long walks. And there he met me.”

Jancy didn't want Simon taking long walks, and she didn't need telling that the marriage bed wasn't torture. Hasketts took it for granted that swiving was jolly fun for women as well as men. Sometimes they'd called it “pleasuring,” too.

She wanted to pleasure Simon and be pleasured in return, and whether it was nature or her Haskett blood, she understood what it meant.

She entered the hall, tussling with her conscience, and heard a man in the parlor say, “McArthur's back.”

She froze to listen.

“Have you spoken with him?” Simon asked, as if talking about the weather.

“No, but Delahaye sought me out.”

The bearer of bad news was Captain Norton, Simon's second. Jancy hurried into the parlor to protest this insanity.

Simon saw her. “Don't distress yourself, my dear. I have no intention of making you a widow for, oh, sixty years or so.”

“All very well if intention had anything to do with it.”

Hal was there as well, jaw tight, but the three men presented a silently solid front against women and reason. Jancy thumped the tray down on a table so that it rattled and turned to run up to her room.

S
imon watched, wanting to run after her. And say what?

“Hardly surprising if she's fearful,” Norton muttered, looking uncomfortable with domestic complications.

“Not at all,” Simon said. “I'm sorry she overheard and that you'll be troubled by this again. I do have passage booked, so McArthur will have to agree to a hasty meeting.”

“Delahaye suggests tomorrow.”

Simon hoped no trace of his shiver showed. “Very well. Everything the same as before?”

“Yes.”

Simon escorted Norton out and then paused in the hall. His unsteadiness wasn't exactly fear, though he had no wish to go through the damned business again. It was because of Jane. She mustn't be left alone in the world.

But also he didn't want to die without making love to her. Their conversation earlier had turned swirling hungers into solid form. He was riven by the thunderbolt and would only be whole when completely joined with her.

But it wouldn't be fair. Not when she might be a widow tomorrow.

He returned to Hal. “Whatever happens, Jane must be taken care of.”

“Of course.”

“I've drawn up a marriage settlement, but it needs my father's consent. I'm sure he'll honor it.”

“If he has any doubts, I'll explain more fully. And I'll make sure your papers get into the right hands. If you die in this cause, this McArthur will feel the wrath of all the Rogues.”

“I'll cheer you on from heaven.” From out of nowhere, however, a new loss struck. “Dammit, when I haven't seen Dare for years and thought him dead, why does it matter so much that I might not see him again?”

Hal didn't try to answer an unanswerable question.

“This is like the night before a battle, isn't it?” Simon said. “Tendency to become mawkish.”

“We could always sing sentimental songs about girls we've left behind.”

It was the right tone and Simon laughed. “I'll get those papers now in case sentiment makes me forget. Help yourself to tea.”

Upstairs, Simon paused outside Jane's door, wondering if he should try to comfort her, but what comfort did he have to offer? He continued on to his own room and retrieved his papers. So much pain and trouble because of them. If he had his time over, would he take the same road?

Yes. Some roads, no matter how rocky, couldn't be ignored.

Jane didn't come down to dinner, so Simon and Hal ate braised venison alone, deliberately talking of the past. The atmosphere failed to be natural, however, so Simon excused Hal early by claiming to need a good night's rest.

Hal took the satchel of papers but said, “If you don't mind, I'll attend the duel.”

“I'd be glad of it.”

Simon went up to his room, trying to be sure there was nothing left undone.

His will was properly drawn up this time. He couldn't bear to rewrite the letter to his parents so simply added
a postscript:
Jane is very dear to me, as I hope she will be to you.

He decided to write to Dare, though he wasn't sure what to say.

Few things have made me happier than hearing that you'd survived, and now I'm distressed that I won't see you again, for if you ever read this I will be dead. My work here in Canada has been worthwhile, I believe, and I am one of the few who could do it, but my absence now feels neglectful. Proof, I suppose, that none of us are God.

Hal gives me hope that you are recovering, but he left England shortly after your return. I'm sure it's not an easy road, but if it encourages you at all, live well for me. And if you have the opportunity, ensure that my dear Jane lives well, too.

My dear Jane.

Too late, Simon was realizing that any secrets Jane held on to were irrelevant. Everything he knew about her was crystal clear and pure. And he loved her with that mad fire described by poets. Should he write to her? Tell her how he felt?

No. That could only be a burden from the grave.

He sealed and addressed the letter and then wandered his room, reviewing the previous duel, seeking insights that would help him survive.

He needed to stay as calm as possible. McArthur had fired when Jane startled them. Had that indicated nerves or quickness? Had the fact that he himself hadn't pulled the trigger meant that he was slower? Perhaps he'd been slowed by intensity, his flaw in times of crisis.

He remembered in the war once having a key target in his rifle sights and being overtaken by tremors of such urgent excitement that they had cost him the moment. He'd felt something similar hover at the last duel. Tomorrow, it could be fatal.

And he'd not made love to his wife. He looked toward Jane's room at the same moment someone knocked on the door, stealing his breath.

It could only be her.

He opened the door and found her there, covered chin to toe in her green wool robe, her nightgown visible only as a white ruff at neck and wrists, as it had been the night before the previous duel. This time, however, her hair was uncovered, hanging in a plait down to her waist.

Simplicity itself.

Ravishing.

“I'm sorry. I couldn't . . . I don't know. Couldn't sleep. Couldn't leave things in anger.”

He stepped back, inviting her in.

Intensity was transmuting into a fierce desire for sex. As his heart thudded, he was aware as if at a distance of directing her to a chair and offering her brandy. She took a glass, but he could tell by the way she sipped that she was unused to it and unsure she liked it.

He drank a whole glass before sitting to sip another.

She was staring at him, puzzled, and he realized he'd not spoken a word.

It took effort to find a calm voice. “What exactly troubles you, Jane?”

The same desires that trouble me? Please, God.

“That you could die.”

“There's nothing to be done about that.”

She rolled the glass between her fingers. “Couldn't we leave now? No, I know we can't. But it seems so stupid. I want to change fate.”

“That's your nature, isn't it? To grasp fate and twist it.”

Her eyes widened. “No.”

“Then why are you here?”

She looked down, took another sip of brandy, grimacing as it went down. “I couldn't sleep. It's too early anyway.”

His mind seemed poised on a balance point, ready to
tip either way under the slightest pressure. Alas, he was still too much himself to force her or even to pressure her if she'd come here in innocence. She was young, he reminded himself, innocent, and had suffered many losses. Of course she was horrified at the thought of another death. He should soothe her and send her back to her bed.

Beneath these civil thoughts a drum of animal desire pounded.

“Loosen your hair for me.”

The words came without control and she stared at him, lips parted. To refuse?

But she put aside her glass and pulled her plait forward. She tugged free the ribbon on the end and undid the heavy strands, all the time looking down. Then she ran her fingers through it, loosening and spreading it, and looked up.

He'd never watched a woman do that before and it was powerfully erotic. The still-rational part of his mind laughed.

At the moment, a woman cleaning her toenails would jolly you on, my boy.

“Thank you. It's beautiful.”

“I wish I could do more.”

Simon breathed. “Do you?”

He saw her understand. And falter. The balanced tipped. Clearly she'd not come here with that in mind.

“Would you like to play cards?” he asked.

“Cards?” She looked as if he'd suggested standing on their heads.

“It would pass the time. Piquet? Isaiah taught you, didn't he?”

“Yes, but I don't think I can concentrate.”

Was he reading her wrongly? All he needed was a sign. A shift of her body would do. A lick of the lips. She simply looked at him, apparently at a loss.

“The attempt will do you good.” Simon rose and
found his pack of cards, a paper, and a pencil. Then he poured himself more brandy.
Not too much,
he reminded himself.
You don't want to lose control, and you certainly don't want a hangover tomorrow.

He was amused to realize that spending time with Jane was a treasure on its own. He'd not have believed that. Love clearly was magical. That didn't quench the fire in his blood, but he could contain that, if her company was all he could have.

He moved his chair closer to hers and put a table between them, and then took out the lower cards, shuffled, and cut for deal. “The results don't matter anyway. What's mine is yours and what's yours is mine.”

“I suppose so.”

It did help to concentrate on the game, though Jane didn't present much of a challenge. It left his mind too much space to roam.

To the pure, white frill of her nightgown cuff framing each hand. Capable hands with smooth, oval nails. His wedding ring, making permissible what his blood sang for.

The soft shade of her robe's sleeve, reminding him of the darker depths of an English woodland. And of something else. Ah. The uniform of the Green Tigers, the irregular force of Canadians that had been so effective during the war, in part because they were almost invisible in the woods.

He'd fought with them for a while. Cheated death so often. Had it finally hunted him down? Waited for the time when life was supremely precious?

The soft green scent of her tormented him, all springtime leaves and herbs. It made him think her a creature of the fields and forest though she was a town girl, born and raised. Here in York she'd always been nervous of anything beyond the right-angled streets.

Absurd to imagine her wandering barefoot through wildflowers, her hair flowing loose, but he did. And with
that wild, wanton creature he could strip off loose garments to lie with her amid wildflowers, to nuzzle between warm breasts, to lick between moist thighs . . .

“Are you tired now?”

He realized he'd not played on her latest card. He gathered his wits and put down his hand. “No, but you're right. I can't concentrate.”

“Or I'm not giving you much of a game.” Her lips curved in a rueful smile. Her full, pink lips that sank deeply at the corners when she smiled, in the most delightful way. “Isaiah only played with me when he couldn't find anyone better.”

“You don't have a competitive nature.”

“I don't know about that.” She began to neatly gather the cards. She stilled, and he wondered why. Then she looked up, the cards still in her hands. “Would you like me to tell your fortune?”

“You can?”

Pink touched her cheeks as if she were caught in a sin. Hardly surprising. He couldn't imagine Martha Otterburn approving of fortune-telling.

“A Gypsy taught me once,” she said, looking down as she shuffled.

A Gypsy? Another of those strange Jane mysteries. But now he would relish the chance to explore them, along with the mysteries of her doubtless lovely body.

It would be the color of milk from head to toe, but with gold between her thighs and dainty, pink nipples on full, soft breasts.

“Are you drunk?” she asked, peering at him. Then she said, “Do you want me to go?”

“No.” That was the last thing he wanted. “Go ahead. Tell my fortune, though I don't believe in such things.”

She was still shuffling. “I'm not sure I have the gift, but I've seen some remarkable results.”

He leaned back, drinking more brandy. Probably more than was wise, but it helped. “If it predicts imminent death, don't tell me.”

“Very well.”

“Oh, hell. Tell me the truth.”

She looked up at him, and he thought an older intelligence showed there, something he couldn't place in the Trewitt-Otterburn milieu. Families were strange things, however. Characteristics could lurk, like the dark infernal streak that ran through the placid St. Brides.

“I designate you the king of clubs,” she said. “Clubs are outgoing, determined, and focused on their goals. They seek action and results.”

“What are you, then?”

“A diamond. Fair in color, hasty in nature.”

“I will shower you with diamonds.”

“Don't be foolish. I'm a creature of earth and air. You are fire and water.”

“Don't I extinguish myself?”

She glanced up. “Or turn to steam. The question is how these things balance. In you, I think fire rules and water moderates.”

“And in you?”

She looked down. “I don't know.”

“Perhaps your elements war with each other. You're full of contradictions, wife of mine.”