One Night with the Major

by Bronwyn Scott

  His hand curled around hers in solidarity. ‘Are you ready, my dear?’

  ‘Yes, my things are in the hall. I had my maid bring them down.’ Her head was high, her voice steady, but her hand trembled in his. Her strength was not limitless.

  ‘Then let us go, Pavia.’ He turned to usher her out.

  ‘Are you truly taking her out of this house?’ Honeysett stuttered in disbelief, perhaps realising for the first time that his rant had no power over her, over them.

  ‘No, Father. He is not taking me anywhere. I am going of my own accord,’ Pavia interrupted before Cam could answer.

  Honeysett rose, a big, hulk of a man. For a moment, Cam thought he might have to fight him. ‘How dare you...?’

  ‘My child will have a name,’ Cam said fiercely, meeting the tea merchant’s stubborn gaze one last time before he escorted Pavia towards the front door and down the steps. Reality swept him as he helped her mount his horse and swung up behind her for the short ride to Grillon’s. What a day they’d had. They’d been disavowed by their families, cut off from the social and financial supports that had been so naturally part of their worlds for so long. They were absolutely and entirely on their own—all three of them—and it was only noon.

  Chapter Eight

  They were on their own. Completely. A reminder that was driven home by the empty chapel in which they wed the next day, Cam in his uniform, burnished and brushed to perfection, she in a carriage ensemble of forget-me-not blue. Pavia had half-expected her father to burst in to protest the marriage, but no one came to stop them. Neither did anyone come to bless them, a point made evident by the absence of a wedding breakfast. There was a definitive lack of fanfare as they went straight from the chapel to Paddington Station and boarded the train for Taunton as if it were another, ordinary day.

  * * *

  All these reminders should have pointed to how daunting their decision was: two people forsaking their families, choosing to cling to each other, strangers. But instead of daunting, Pavia had found their adventure a unique kind of exciting; a mixture of disbelief and fantasy as she’d walked down the aisle to Cam; reality suspended as the countryside flew by outside the train. Everything about the last twenty-four hours had been exciting in the extreme—these things happened in books, not in real life, and yet they were happening to her.

  She supposed it was a little like eloping. Exhilaration could carry a girl quite a long way. All the way, in fact, from London to her wedding night in a manse outside Taunton with a man she hardly knew.

  What little she did know of him was due to the immediacy of their situation, which had thrown them together like two survivors lost at sea. They were forced to rely on one another. But that glimpse, brief as it was, of her new husband had been...intoxicating. Romantic even. It almost made her believe fairy tales did come true. He’d looked so very handsome in his uniform this morning as he waited for her in the chapel. Soon, he would come to her by candlelight.

  Pavia hummed to herself in the soft glow of the master’s suite, unpacking a few essentials, including a white-lawn nightgown embroidered with tiny pink flowers. She’d done the work herself, part of an assignment at Mrs Finlay’s in inevitable expectation for this very night—a wedding night, the attainment of which was the academy’s yardstick of success. Mrs Finlay’s girls were educated and prepared to make the best matches. She wondered what Mrs Finlay would think of this one?

  Pavia shook out the gown, anticipation and an odd sense of anxiety making her fingers tremble as she thought of the intimacy to come. She wouldn’t have to wait much longer. It was already late, their train having been substantially delayed in Didcot to take on special cargo. Full darkness had caught them as they’d made their journey by carriage from the station in Taunton to Cam’s home outside the town.

  Cam. The simple word evoked a certain, intimate thrill. He was ‘the Major’ no longer, but her husband. A husband who was, at present, out seeing to the horses. Pavia laid out her brushes on a console against the wall, working quickly and fumbling in her haste. She knew what his gesture meant. He was putting the horses away to give her time and privacy to prepare for the night ahead. His efforts would be unnecessary otherwise. Under regular circumstances there were servants to see to the master’s horses. He would be back soon and she needed to be ready. The room was ready, but she wasn’t, not mentally or physically.

  Pavia worked the fastenings of her carriage ensemble, hands clumsy. She was thankful for the foresight of choosing a travelling costume she could get in and out of on her own. There’d been no maid at the hotel last night or this morning and she’d been unsure of what she’d find here. Finally free of her outfit, Pavia slipped the lawn nightgown over her head, shivering a bit in the coldness of the room. She brushed out her hair. She would wear it down tonight, loose and flowing, instead of her usual plait. In any case, she wasn’t sure her hands could handle the braiding.

  She shouldn’t be nervous. There was nothing to be nervous about. They’d been physically intimate before, naked with one another before. There would be no secrets between them when the time came, yet her hands shook and her body trembled. Pavia picked up the candleholder and surveyed the room. It was spare, holding just three pieces of furniture in its big space: the console, a bureau and the enormous carved-oak four-poster bed that dominated the room’s centre. She headed there, slipping beneath the covers for warmth. They smelled musty, but tonight the scent only added to the mystique of her adventure, like the Gothic romances the girls at Mrs Finlay’s passed around after lights-out: a dark house, a hasty marriage, a stranger for a husband. In the novels, the heroine was always frightened. She’d thought those girls incredibly silly. In hindsight, she thought she might have misjudged them. She wasn’t ‘scared’, per se, but she was definitely anxious.

  From downstairs came the sound of the door closing and the clomp of boots on the steps. Her husband was coming. A tremor of excitement and nerves raced through her, her body remembering the last time they’d shared a bed, her mind reminding her of the import of tonight: her wedding night. The night she gave her body to a man for ever. Until death. Was Cam Lithgow worth the trust she gave him? The power she gave him? A power she’d not wanted to surrender to a man?

  She might not know Cam, but she knew enough to know he was honourable and kind, and fierce, as a warrior should be. He’d stood up to her father’s threats. He had stood up for her and it had been magnificent. No one had ever stood up for her before. He’d been a gentleman the night before at the hotel, engaging two rooms for them and seeing to her every comfort before going out to finish his business. He’d returned and shared a private dinner with her in her chambers before retiring. Part of her had been disappointed by that honourable disappearance and yet she understood the reason for it. He would treat his wife with respect. And he had, from sending up breakfast the next morning, to carrying her over the threshold of their home when they’d arrived in Little Trull, tired and weary from the emotions and travel of the day. The door had stuck. He’d had to kick it open but he had persevered to make the homecoming as perfect as possible.

  The bedroom door opened and her husband’s broad shoulders filled the space that had seemed so large moments before. His gaze swept her, taking in her hair, her night-rail, the bed and all it stood for. What they had done together before could not compare to the significance of what they’d do in this bed. Consummation would bind them together.

  Cam nodded towards the dark hearth. ‘Shall I start a fire, first?’ He seemed relieved to have something to do with his hands. Perhaps he was nervous. It calmed her a bit to think that her husband was affected by the moment, too.

  He lit the fire, squatting on muscular haunches, and then rose. He turned towards her, his gaze finding her again in the firelight, then slowly, deliberately, he pulled his linen shirt over his head, exposing a lean expanse of abdomen. He pushed his trousers down over slim hips until he was wholl
y revealed to her, letting her look her fill at her golden demi-god of a husband before he slid beneath the covers and came alongside her, drawing her close with a kiss.

  ‘You’re shaking, Pavia. Are you nervous? There’s nothing to be anxious about,’ he whispered against her lips.

  She wrapped her arms about his neck, smiling to quell those nerves he mentioned. ‘I memorised every inch of you as you slept that night. I thought you were the most perfect man I had ever seen, yet you’ve outdone yourself tonight. Perhaps it frightens me to think such a man is mine.’

  ‘You have it wrong, my dear. I am the lucky one...’ Cam stroked her cheek with gentle knuckles ‘...to have such a beautiful bride.’ The heat of his body warmed her, calmed her and she felt his strength in those moments, the strength that protected her and their child. She was safe with him.

  ‘Shall I prove it?’ he whispered huskily, his kisses tracing her jaw, her throat, the patch of bare skin above the bodice of her nightgown, all the while heat was gathering and pooling low in her belly, want overcoming her nerves.

  ‘Yes,’ she answered breathlessly, her body open to him as if he’d always belonged there with her, in her. ‘Prove it to me.’ In bed they would be safe. They needn’t think about what they’d done or what it had cost them. If they thought at all, it would only be to note the price had been worth it for this.

  Cam ran a hand along the pretty embroidery of her nightgown. ‘We’ll start with this. It’s lovely, but it will have to go. Tonight, I want nothing between us.’ He reached between her legs and gathered up the hem of the fabric in one hand and worked the gown up over her body, over her head, tossing it to the floor. She’d spent hours on the embroidery. Mrs Finley would have a fit if she knew how carelessly discarded the gown was. But there was no time to protest.

  Cam sucked at her earlobe with a growl that sent a ripple of white-hot heat, primitive and fierce, through her, her mind running riot at the thought of him ripping her clothes off. That would be a wickedly delicious fantasy to play out, embroidery be damned.

  ‘Good God, you’re even more beautiful than I remembered.’ He reared back on his haunches to look at her, his eyes going dark to a shade of midnight, his voice a rasp of desire. He touched her then, a hand to her breast, a thumb rubbed across a dusky nipple in a manner that made her breath catch and her pulse race, her body remembering the last time he’d put his mouth on her and she’d nearly screamed. His body was remembering, too.

  He was hungry for her, she could see it in his eyes, and she was hungry for him, for another chance to claim what had eluded her before. Cam came over her, his command for consummation a whisper against her lips, ‘Open for me.’ And she did.

  He took her then, in a possessive thrust, the muscles of his arms locked taut and strong above her, her legs wrapped about him, holding him to her, urging him on. Desire rose deep within her, unwilling to be held in check this time, unwilling to be denied its full pleasure. This time, there was no reason to hold back and Pavia did not. She gave herself over to the loving entirely, her back arching, her hips thrusting up to join his, her hands fisting in the sheets as passion swept her, pushing her along to the shattering cataclysm, and this time that cataclysm claimed them both. His heart thundered against hers, his breath hard at her shoulder as he poured into her.

  Good lord, was there anything on earth as grand as this? This was ultimate completion. Ultimate peace. For these moments all was right with the world. She’d never felt anything like it. She was reluctant for it to end, for Cam to withdraw, leaving her body empty of him. She wanted him back almost immediately.

  ‘My wife is greedy.’ Cam laughed. ‘But I’ll be ready soon enough.’ He drew her close and she curled her body against him as he rested.

  ‘I see the changes in you already.’ His voice was a baritone caress in the candlelit darkness. His hand gently cupped her breast. ‘You’re fuller here.’ He trailed a featherlight hand down the curvy silhouette of her, resting on her hip. ‘And here, too. Very feminine, very alluring.’ He kissed her. Oh, she loved those kisses! ‘Only a discerning lover would notice, only a man who has memorised every inch of you.’ He gave another one of his warm chuckles. ‘You were not the only one who was making mental pictures that night.’ This, Pavia thought, was how they’d build their own history, collecting the memories and turning them into stories. They would build their history one tale at a time, telling it over and over until a solid truth emerged. What would that truth be? Strangers who fell in love at first sight? Or strangers forced to wed?

  Cam’s fingers flexed at the curve of her hip. ‘I thought you were the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen, the most intriguing, a veiled mystery I was compelled to solve.’

  He pushed her gently on to her back. ‘And have you solved me?’ She looked up at him, his blue eyes dark with want.

  ‘Oh, no, you’re an even greater mystery than you were before, like a maze where the closer you get to the centre, the further away it seems to go,’ Cam whispered at her ear, his palm warm on her stomach. ‘You were far less complicated as an exotic dancer.’

  ‘And you were far less complicated as a stranger I would never see again.’ Pavia laughed.

  ‘Neither of us were what we seemed,’ Cam murmured. ‘I never dreamed you were a tea merchant’s heiress.’

  ‘Nor you the grandson of an earl.’ Somewhere in the back of her mind it occurred to Pavia that those monikers no longer applied to them. She was an heiress to nothing now and his family had disavowed him for his choice to wed a mixed-blood daughter of a commoner. Tonight, drunk on desire, she saw only the freedom such a predicament afforded. In casting off her former life, she’d cast off both chains and limits. She was free to become whoever she liked. They were free to become whoever they wanted to be together. There was infinite possibility and potential in that.

  Cam’s thumb stroked softly over her belly. ‘But here we are, with a child between us. It’s hard to imagine he’s in there.’

  ‘Or she.’ Pavia yawned the correction. She was getting sleepy, the tolls of the day catching up with her at last. Not even exhilaration could outrun sleep for ever.

  ‘Or she,’ Cam acceded. ‘It doesn’t matter, as long they are healthy.’ He sighed. ‘He or she,’ he added before she could scold him again, ‘will be here for our first wedding anniversary. We’ll be a family, a good family. I’ve learned a lot since coming home about the kind of father I want to be.’

  What a perfect note to drift off on, to begin a new life on: to fall asleep in the arms of a man who embraced his impending fatherhood, unplanned as it was, with the same passion he brought to bed as a husband, yet another unlooked-for role his honour had required him to take on. Perhaps it would be enough to overlook other truths: that they were strangers to one another, that they would not have chosen each other of their own accords. That, in securing their freedom, they’d cost each other everything. Perhaps if he loved the baby enough, it wouldn’t matter if he loved her, or she him. The love they each held for the baby would be enough to keep them together, enough around which to build a good life together. They had respect, passion, honour and a child between them. That was a great deal more than many people ever had. She had not gone looking for him or this path she was currently on, but she had found Prince Charming in disguise. What could possibly go wrong?

  Chapter Nine

  Pavia woke in a beam of sunlight and stretched, her body contentedly sore, a delicious reminder of the night before. At the memory, she put out an arm and reached for her husband. But her hand came up empty. He was gone and the bed was cold with his absence. He’d was not only gone, he’d been gone awhile.

  The realisation was enough to prompt her to open her eyes, to push herself up gingerly against the pillows and survey the room. What had been Gothically romantic in the dark last night was starkly spare and disappointing in the morning light. The few pieces of furniture the room possessed we
re well used, marked with scratches and dents, the small carpet by the bed well worn. She sneezed. The covers were still musty, only now that mustiness served to turn her stomach. She needed toast and perhaps some tea to settle it. Pavia reached for the bell pull next to the bed. They’d been alone last night, but surely the help had come up this morning to resume work. Surely her husband would not have left her alone.

  After ten minutes of waiting, Pavia wasn’t sure either of those assumptions were true. She shut her eyes against the roil of her stomach, willing it to calm. Perhaps the bell pull didn’t work. She was going to have to go downstairs herself.

  Once the nausea passed, Pavia carefully levered herself out of bed and slipped on a dressing gown she’d unpacked last night. She tied the sash tightly, catching sight of her nightgown, still on the floor where Cam had discarded it. That made her smile, made her warm with just the memory of his hands on her body, skimming, caressing; his mouth kissing.

  She wasn’t smiling several minutes later, however. Getting downstairs on a nauseous stomach had proven to be the thirteenth labour of Hercules. It was something of a victory that she’d made it to the foot of the stairs without casting up her accounts. Now she held on to the newel post for dear life, feeling sticky and clammy as another wave swept her. ‘Is anyone here?’ Pavia called out. There was no answer. The house seemed preternaturally quiet. In her parents’ home, there’d always been servants about, there’d always been movement. One was never truly alone. Pavia could not remember the last time she was alone. At home she’d been surrounded by servants. At Mrs Finlay’s Academy she’d been surrounded by other girls. In her uncle’s zenana, she’d been surrounded by her mother, by other women and children. But here, she was alone. This house was still. Empty, except for her. The feeling was unnerving.

  Pavia took a deep breath. At least no one would see her wandering about in her nightclothes. Her mother would have had a fit. Mrs Finlay would have had a fit. A sudden surge of tears threatened. She was alone in a strange house and feeling sick. She pushed the tears back and took herself in hand. She needed a plan. Doing something always helped in a time of uncertainty. She would find the kitchen and perhaps some bread.