The Secret Rose (21 page)

Abigail stared at such magnificence and realized with a painful jolt all she would be giving up. All she would never know in her lifetime. She would only be able to dream of his handsome face, his high cheekbones and sharply defined features, his powerful strength and uncompromising integrity. The feel of his arms around her and his lips upon hers would be nothing but a memory. A memory she would struggle to keep alive her whole life.

“Put her back in bed,” he said, impaling her with a look as dangerous as craggy rocks battered by the ocean. “She will stay here until I decide what is best for her.”

Abigail clasped her hand over her mouth to hold back a cry of relief. The tears she’d been successful in withholding until now silently streamed down her cheeks.

“I will speak to Sister Beatrice and tell her our intentions. Say your goodbyes and be ready to leave when I return. We must still go to London in the morning.”

With that, he left the room, leaving behind a small remainder of his anger and fury, and enormous compassion.

Abigail picked up Mary Rose and sat on the edge of the bed with the sleeping babe cradled her in her arms. Back and forth she rocked, crying more tears than she thought she had in her, sobbing until her head pounded and her chest ached. Finally, she could find no more tears to shed and no more sobs to release. With nightmarish trepidation, she laid the sleeping babe in the small trundle bed and covered her up. She sat beside her and brushed back the coppery curls that framed her face. Dear God, how she loved her.

As if she were her own.

. . .

Ethan lifted his head from his arms flopped across the top of the desk and opened one eye. In the murky darkness, he saw two bottles standing on the edge of the desk, or perhaps there were four. Brave soldiers all of them, giving up their fine liquor for a good cause. To help him forget.

He couldn’t be positive, but surely he hadn’t drained all of them dry. He picked them up one by one. Surely one of them had some small amount in it.

He smiled when one seemed heavier than the rest. “The last brave soldier,” he slurred, cradling the bottle to his chest as he searched for the glass he’d filled more times than he could count. He filled it again.

Damn, he was drunk. He hadn’t been this drunk since…he didn’t remember ever being this drunk.

This called for a toast. A toast to the most drunken state he’d ever survived—except he wasn’t at all sure he would survive. And it was her fault. Hers and Stephen’s.

He pushed his chair back, confident he needed to stand to offer such an important toast. The big winged chair toppled sideways, falling to the floor with a loud crash. With the bottle in one hand and the glass in the other, he saluted the fallen chair. All fallen soldiers deserved recognition. He lifted his glass, then threw the warm liquor to the back of his throat.

The room shifted beneath his feet. The big oak desk slammed into his hip, and the floor came up to meet his face. The leg of the fallen chair hit him squarely above his eye.

The sound was deafening: furniture breaking, decanters shattering, bottles crashing. The whole earth seemed to move in spiraling circles, never stopping.

He thought of saving himself, but protecting the only surviving half-full bottle of brandy seemed infinitely more important.

He lay amidst the shards of broken glass with the only unbroken bottle of brandy cradled in his arms.

. . .

Abigail threw open the door to the study and stopped. There was broken glass and upset furniture everywhere. And Ethan lay in the middle of it.

“Don’t move, Ethan. Lie still. You’re hurt.”

“Get out!”

She looked at Palmsworth, who followed her in. “Can you get to him, Palmsworth? There’s glass everywhere.”

Palmsworth nodded, then walked around the far side of the room. He made a path free of broken glass. “Here, my lady.”

Abigail followed him and knelt beside Ethan on the floor. She reached to push back his hair from the gash above his eye.

“Get away, I said.” He swung his hand through the air. His fist glanced off her chin, causing white stars to twinkle behind her eyes.

“That’s enough, sir,” Palmsworth said. He took the bottle from Ethan’s hands and held his arms to his sides.

“Damn you, Palmsworth! Get the hell out of here and leave me alone.”

“In a moment, sir. As soon as we have you back to your room.”

“No!”

“Ethan, you’re hurt.”

“You ought to know,” he slurred. “You did a damn good job of it. Not even Stafford knew how to do what you did.”

The blood in her veins turned to ice. Abigail tried to dismiss his hateful words. She told herself it was the liquor talking. But with each step she and Palmsworth took to get him up the stairs and to his room, she knew the liquor alone couldn’t be blamed for the painful words he shot at her. She was also to blame. As was Stephen.

When they got him to his room, she cleaned his cuts as best he would allow, then pulled up the covers and stepped away from him.

He slept soundly. The hooded frowns and angry creases had disappeared from his face. This was how she would remember him.

Tomorrow he’d wake feeling as if he’d been run over by a carriage.

A part of her was glad he’d hurt as much as she did.

Ethan felt like hell. As if he’d been run over by a horse and wagon and no one had stopped to pick him up. The trip to London was brutal. He would have preferred to ride in the carriage to rest his throbbing head, but couldn’t endure more torture. That’s what sitting beside Abigail for the hours it took to reach London would be. Torture.

Plus, he needed to distance himself from her so he could think. He had to decide what to do.

He hadn’t spoken to her during the journey. He’d stayed with the horses the two times Bundy had stopped for Abigail and her maid to eat and see to their needs. Food was the last thing his stomach could tolerate. Sitting near Abigail was the last thing his emotions could handle.

He was never more glad than when they finally reached the outskirts of London. He escorted her to her town house and instructed her on what time to be ready to go to the docks the next day to watch the
Abigail Rose
set sail, then left her.

He breathed a sigh of relief when he slid from his horse in front of Stephen’s town house. He’d thought of nothing else during the journey, but now—finally—he knew what he had to do. Even if she hated him for the rest of her life. He had to do what was best for her and the child.

And for him.

“Rub him down well, Georgie,” he said, handing the reins to the stableboy.

“That I’ll do, Mr. Cambridge,” the lad said, then led the horse around back to the mews.

The front door opened before Ethan reached the top step, and Hargrove stood there with his usual air of dignified aplomb. “It’s good to see you, sir,” he said, bowing formally.

“Thank you, Hargrove. Are there any messages?”

“Yes, sir. This message marked ‘urgent’ arrived from a Mr. Harper,” he said, holding out an envelope.

“When did this come?”

“Just this afternoon, sir.”

Ethan snatched the letter from Hargrove’s hand and walked into Stephen’s study, closing the door behind him. His pulse raced as he ripped the missive open and scanned the words.

Mr. Cambridge,

I have important news concerning your brother. A man resembling his description was spotted on a packet a week out of London. I cannot swear this same man is your brother, the Earl of Burnhaven, but will verify his identity when the packet docks. You should know with certainty within the week.

Your humble servant,

Elvin T. Harper

Ethan clutched the corner of Stephen’s mammoth oak desk as he reread the letter, then sat down in the plush maroon leather chair and buried his head in his hands. He had a week. A week. He wadded the letter in his fist and threw it into the fire.

“Hargrove!” he bellowed, throwing open the study door. “Send Georgie to me. I’ve messages to deliver.”

“Yes, sir,” Hargrove said, rushing to do Ethan’s bidding.

With an anxious slap against his thigh, Ethan sat back down behind Stephen’s desk and penned two messages. The first was a message that would summon Malcolm MacDonnell. The second, a message that would change his life forever, turning it to either a bliss-filled adventure he would never want to end or unfathomable days of hellish living from which there would be no escape.

. . .

The bells of the church tower clock chimed the noon hour as their carriage drove down the last narrow street to the place where the
Abigail Rose
was docked. Conversation had been practically nonexistent between them on the way, neither of them speaking unless absolutely necessary.

Abigail had expected it to be no different. She kept her gaze focused on the passing houses. She didn’t want to concentrate on his hard indifference, the blank determination she could do nothing to change.

The dark circles beneath his eyes were still as prevalent as they’d been the day before, the deep furrows on his forehead just as menacing, and the serious countenance that masked his emotions equally as frightening. Nothing had changed since he’d discovered Mary Rose. He was as closed to her as if a door had been slammed in her face, his stiff aloofness an example of his cold resignation.

She wished she knew what he intended to do.

The carriage slowed to a stop as close to the docks as the driver could take them. Ethan dismounted, then turned to help her down the step.

“Captain Parker knows you are coming and has asked to speak to you before he departs.”

“I would like that,” she said, taking his proffered arm and walking with him toward the clipper. Fenny stood against the railing, looking down on them as if he’d been waiting. He looked so handsome in his uniform, his broad shoulders and towering height an impressive picture. He was the best friend she’d ever had, and for some reason, she desperately needed a friend right now. He walked toward them, then waited at the top of the gangway.

“Captain Parker,” Ethan greeted, first with a salute, then a handshake. “Is everything in order?”

“Yes, Mr. Cambridge. We’re ready to sail. We’ve been waiting for Abigail. I know how much this voyage means to her.”

“Thank you, Fenny. I wish you the best of luck.” She stood on her tiptoes to kiss him on the cheek.

“Captain Parker,” Ethan said, his voice as lacking in emotion as the look in his eyes. “I have some important business I must see to before you leave. I wonder if I might impose upon your hospitality to see to Miss Langdon for a short while?”

“Of course,” Fenny said, extending his arm. “I would be delighted.”

Abigail cast Ethan a quick glance, but turned away when she couldn’t read the meaning in his expression.

“I shouldn’t be long,” he said. “Then perhaps we can go over the bills of lading, loading dockets, and shipping manifests before you set sail.”

“Of course. You’ll find them all in order.”

Abigail watched as Ethan strode down the walkway. She would be glad when this day was over. There was something wary in the way he kept himself so closed to her, so distant and far removed. Something that made her distrust what he might do. She didn’t want to remember him this way.

“Is something wrong, Abigail?” Fenny asked, turning her toward the clipper.

“No, Fenny,” she said, fixing a smile on her face she hoped he would think was sincere. “It’s just a very emotional day. The maiden voyage of Father’s clipper. Your leaving for such a long time.”

“And your upcoming marriage to Ethan Cambridge.”

Every muscle in her body stiffened. “Did Ethan tell you he intended for us to marry?”

“Yes. The last time you were here.”

“I see.”

“Are you sure that is what you want to do? You don’t have to marry if you don’t want. He cannot force you—”

She held up her hand to stop him. She couldn’t tell him how much things had changed. “Oh, James,” she sighed, touching his arm as if she needed the contact with him. “Things rarely end up the way any of us think they will.”

He placed his hand beneath her elbow and led her to the railing where they wouldn’t be overheard. “What’s wrong, Abby? You haven’t called me James since you were twelve and I knotted the ties of your pinafore to the mainmast rigging.”

She smiled at him, remembering how carefree they both had been in their youth. She missed such freedom more than she thought possible. “I don’t know. I suddenly feel terribly old, and terribly tired.”

She hooked her arm through Fenny’s, leaning against him as she’d done so many times in the past year.

He put his arm around her shoulders to hold her next to him. It would be eight months before he would return. So much could happen in that length of time.

“Ethan knows about Mary Rose.”

He held her more securely. “What do you think he’ll do?”

“I don’t know. I’m afraid he’ll fight me for her. She’s Stephen’s. Even if she is illegitimate, she’s the only child they will ever have from him.”

“You don’t know for sure he’s dead,” he whispered. “Stephen could still be alive.”

She shook her head. “If he were still alive, he would have come back before now.”

He turned her to face him. “Leave with me, Abby.”

She looked at him in surprise. “I can’t leave. There is Mary Rose.”

“We’ll take her with us.”

“We can’t.”

“Then I’ll stay here with you.”

She twisted out of his arms. “No. You have to go. We’re all counting on you.”

“But what about you?”

“I’ll be fine. The moment I think I am in danger, I’ll get word to you.”

“I don’t like leaving you, Abby. I don’t trust him.”

“Ethan?”

“Yes. He’s used to getting his way. He’s not above using force to get what he wants.”

“Don’t worry. He’d never harm me,” she said, praying it wasn’t a lie.

“Do you love him, Abby?”

Abigail didn’t answer for a long time. “Sometimes,” she said, finally. “When I forget I can’t. When I forget he’s Stephen’s brother and will hate me when he finds out what I’ve done. When I forget the ships are the only reason he offered to marry me. When I forget I can never let him discover the truth about Mary Rose. Only then. Very stupid of me, isn’t it?”