“The best apology you could give me, girl, is to pass me the pepper! Ah, what does it matter anyway, for if I do not die of starvation it will be a chill. I still do not understand why you did not bring a shawl out for me, and in September too! I will never understand your lack of thought and sympathy.”
Samuel watched, fascinated, as the young woman tried to speak but she was immediately interrupted by further complaints.
“That captain,” and now the elderly woman was pointing at the captain with a carrot on the end of her fork, “must have no inkling of who I am, or I should not have been placed so disgracefully near the middle of the table. It will do for you, girl, for you have little conversation and so do not add to any company, but I should be much higher up.”
The young lady allowed these complaints and criticisms to wash over her, and Samuel stared, bemused, as she picked at her own food as he did, never once looking up, never acting, in truth, as though she was even listening to her mistress.
“And what will you do in the South of France, my dear Miss Berry?”
She started as the captain smiled at her, eyes now flashing with fear that Samuel could not quite understand. She appeared so startled, so surprised to be addressed directly and without a shout, complaint, or criticism, that she flushed pink.
It was such an unusual response that the entire table fell silent, watching her, waiting for her response. Samuel felt a strange pull towards her, and if he had been seated beside her he would have spoken up, drawn the attention of the room away from her.
But as it was, he was fascinated to see how she would respond.
“M-Me?” She stammered, and looked helplessly at her mistress who smirked at her discomfort. “I-I and – I mean, my Great Aunt Sabrina and I, we…we will b-be traveling, and…”
Her voice trailed off miserably, and the captain, clearly realising how unwilling she was to be the centre of attention, smiled at her and turned his attention to another.
“And you, young Mr Thring, what about you?”
Every eye turned to Mr Thring to see his response; all save Samuel. His eyes had remained on the young Miss Berry. For the first time he was looking at her carefully, and it was only now that he realised that what he had mistaken for plain looks was merely plain dress.
Miss Berry was quite beautiful. Dowdy, perhaps, with a light brown gown of last decade’s fashion, with no attention to her hair and just a single pair of diamond – or what passed for diamond – earrings, but the more you looked, the more you saw.
She sat elegantly, with a poise often desired by the daughters of dukes. She had bright sparkling blue eyes, and her hair, though undressed and uncared for, was richly coloured, a chestnut brown. There was a slope to her neck that whispered at delightful things further down, and –
Those blue eyes lifted and her cheeks coloured once more at his gaze. Samuel smiled at her, almost instinctively, and the light pink darkened to a deep red.
He almost laughed. Glorious as it was to have this effect on young ladies, she was the only one on board and if he had been…well, himself, the Earl of Kincardine would have had great enjoyment in wooing and courting her, even under the eye of her mistress.
And then the most marvellous, most ridiculous, and most ingenious idea struck him. His jaw actually dropped with the thought of it, and Miss Berry looked away in puzzled embarrassment and confusion.
Mr Brown was a fair disguise for a week on a ship, but it would not do for long once he arrived in France – but Mr and Mrs Brown?
Would not having a wife give him the perfect disguise?
After all, the Peelers, the newspapers, English society all were looking for a single, handsome man in his prime. But a married man? By no means.
By the time that they arrived in the South of France, the Peelers would not be able to track him down. How could they?
A wife. A wife would give him respectability, the chance to fade into the background. Who looks at a married man with any degree of curiosity, especially not a Mr Brown with a dowdy wife.
No one would suspect that a Mr Brown with a nondescript and servile wife could possibly be the commanding and wildly-tempered Earl of Kincardine.
Why should he not court someone like Miss Berry, obviously biddable, who would undoubtedly relish the chance to get away from that henpecking woman she served?
A gentleman made a joke further up the table and everyone laughed, including Miss Berry, and it were as though she had suddenly stepped out of the darkness and into the light. She blossomed, she came alive, and her beauty was astonishing.
Samuel actually found his breath caught in his throat, and what’s more, a part of him a little more southern than his throat jerked into action. Now that Miss Berry he could certainly wed and bed.
It was decided then. The Earl of Kincardine, wealthy, handsome, charming as he was, was going to court and wed the drab and insignificant Miss Berry.
Margaret could feel the handsome man’s eyes on her as she laughed, but she did her best to ignore him. It was not very different from ignoring all the other things that had irritated or upset her at that meal; the constant barrage from her Great Aunt, the question from the captain that had forced all eyes on her.
“Do you want that?” Her Great Aunt did not wait for an answer before picking up the choicest bit of beef from Margaret’s plate and transferring it to her own.
Margaret raised her eyes to the ceiling, and noticed a few spiders lurking just in the shadows. She took a deep breath, and then lowered her gaze back to her plate and said nothing.
Conversation rattled on around her, but the gentleman who was watching her did not partake in it. He seemed far more interested in her, and Margaret could feel the familiar flush staining her cheeks at the very thought of it.
What could he want with her? Why was he watching her so closely? Was there something amiss with her dress? Could there be a piece of sauce on her cheek, embarrassing her when she did not even realise?
“You seem to have an admirer.” The gentleman sitting to her right murmured quietly, and chuckled as she blushed deeply. “Nay, ‘tis nothing to be ashamed of, my dear.”
Margaret’s eyelashes flickered upwards as she looked briefly at the gentleman beside her. He was old, old enough to be her father, but his smile was not predatory, and she allowed herself to return it nervously.
“I-I do not know why,” she said honestly, hating that her stammer always appeared when most nervous, most desirous of not catching people’s attention. “I do n-not even know his n-name.”
“I have not spoken to him myself,” the gentleman said quietly, “but I believe that he introduced himself to the captain as Mr Samuel Brown.”
Samuel Brown. Samuel Brown. Margaret shook her head. “I do not recall the name.”
The gentleman chuckled again. “I do not think that it much matters whether you recall him. He is certainly interested in you.”
Still chuckling, he turned and started to talk to his other neighbour.
Margaret could feel a blush coming on just at the thought of any gentleman watching her, but her curiosity got the better of her, and she glanced up. Mr Brown was now entrapped in what appeared to be a lengthy monologue about her children by the portly woman beside him, and he was gazing, glass-eyed, at her as she spoke.
Now was the opportunity to look at him, and Margaret’s eyes flickered over him quickly, as though attempting to memorise his features. He was dressed in rather plain clothes, smart and clean. The candlelight shone in his light brown hair, almost golden. He looked young, a little older than herself perhaps, but his eyes…
There was something interesting about his eyes. They looked old, as though he had seen too much. Had he perhaps fought in a war? It was not uncommon these days to see gentleman with a far off look in their eyes when they thought no one was paying them any attention.
He had a handsome jaw, Margaret mused, and a mouth that –
Samuel Brown’s eyes met hers and she flushed darkl
y, eyes dropping down to her plate. She felt the heat in her cheeks drop to her neck, and as she glanced upwards she saw to her horror that he was still staring at her. His mouth was opening. He was going to say something and she would be forced to respond.
“Ladies, shall we withdraw?” The captain’s wife had risen from the other end of the table, and Margaret breathed a sigh of relief that was almost audible.
She rose hastily, allowing her Great Aunt Sabrina’s complaints that she had not helped her up wash over her, and thanked God silently for intervening. She did not think that she could have borne another second of Mr Brown’s fierce gaze on her. It made her feel hot, and prickly, and…desired.
Margaret flushed as she offered her Great Aunt her stick. She had never felt desired before, never been pursued, or courted, or even spoken to in that way. What made her think that Mr Brown’s intentions were anything like that?
Her answer came as she and Great Aunt Sabrina walked around the table, following in the footsteps of Mrs Goodwin the captain’s wife. Mr Brown’s eyes followed them each and every step that they took, and she was almost sure that it wasn’t her companion that was drawing his eyes.
What had she done wrong to attract his attention so?
She was left alone with her thoughts for a full twenty minutes as she sat silently in the captain’s drawing room. The other ladies, around eight or nine of them, twittered on genteelly about the weather, and the food, and the latest young ladies to receive their token for Almack’s for the season.
Margaret could not get Mr Brown’s eyes from her mind. It was as though he was still watching her, still examining her with those piercing hazel pupils. She had to consciously prevent herself from looking up when the men entered.
The two young gentlemen who had pushed ahead of herself and her Great Aunt at the dock moved immediately to Miss Genevieve Harrington and Miss Emily St. Clair. Margaret had herself noticed them with great interest at dinner; two renowned great beauties, cousins, with fifteen thousand pounds each.
But not so Mr Brown. As soon as he entered the room, he made straight for her.
Margaret found her breathing slightly impaired, rushed, fluttering, as though she could not take in enough. What was happening to her?
“My dear lady, with the lack of a formal introduction from the captain, you must allow me to introduce myself,” he said with a dazzling smile to her Great Aunt Sabrina, and he dropped into a low bow which gained the older lady’s approval. “I am Mr Samuel Brown, your humble servant.”
“Oh, Mr Brown, how delightful,” cooed Great Aunt Sabrina. “I am the Honourable Miss Sabrina Worthington, and I am enchanted to make your acquaintance.”
The nod of her head was perfunctory and she did not rise from her seat, but it was not expected. What was expected was her introduction of Margaret to the young man, and she flushed at the very thought of it.
But the introduction did not come. Mr Brown glanced at her with a knowing smile which made her colour again, her hands clasped together in her lap, but though he waited, he was not introduced by Great Aunt Sabrina.
Margaret cringed at her Great Aunt’s rudeness, but there was nothing else to do but take matters into her own, rather unwilling, hands.
“A-And I am Miss Margaret Berry,” she said in a quavering voice, finding it much easier to focus on Mr Brown’s cravat than his face.
“My word girl, you are very forward,” scolded Great Aunt Sabrina, with a raised eyebrow to Mr Brown. “I do apologise sir, but in all the years I have had her, I have never managed to raise the girl to a high enough level of etiquette.”
Margaret burned at the shame of it all, but Mr Brown did not seem to notice her embarrassment.
“‘Tis the state of young ladies today,” he said in overly exaggerated sad tone, as Miss St. Clair laughed at a joke from the other side of the room. “Perhaps I can relieve you of her company, Miss Worthington, by taking her for a turn about the room?”
“Absolutely not, this cannot be!” was what Margaret wanted to say. Instead, she found her voice saying quietly, “N-No thank you, Mr Brown.”
But of course, it was not to be.
“Nonsense girl, a bit of company would do you good, and I own myself glad to be rid of you,” Great Aunt Sabrina said sharply. “I wish to play whist and you are such a poor player, you will just be in the way. Off with you.”
No greater mortification she had ever known, but it was more than Margaret was capable of to refuse her. Standing and feeling very conscious of how close Mr Brown was now that he had offered her his arm, she took it and they started to walk very slowly around the edge of the large room.
His arm was warm, and strong, and Margaret clung to it rather like she would cling to a branch in a river when drowning. Her breathing rose and so did her temperature, her heart fluttering painfully in her chest.
“How are you enjoying your journey on the Adelaide, Miss Berry?”
Margaret heard his question, but barely knew how to answer. “Very well, thank you, sir.”
They passed Miss Harrington who glanced up at Margaret briefly but then slid her gaze to something far more interesting.
She was not upset by such indifference. She was well accustomed to it, and it was the company of Mr Brown that upset her balance so. What did he want with her?
“And are you vising the South of France, Miss Berry, or are you emigrating?”
His voice was low, deep, and like honey: soft and warm and if you paid too much attention to it, you could sink into it. Margaret glanced at him and blushed slightly. To think that such a delicious voice could come from a man as him. It was more like how she imagined the Prince Regent would speak, or an earl.
“It really is none of your business,” she found herself saying, and she clapped her free hand over her mouth as soon as the words were out. So lost in her thoughts had she been that Margaret had spoken not only without her typical stammer, but with absolute honesty.
There was surprise in his eyes now, but he smiled at her as though he had uncovered gold in a pebble. “Now that I did not expect,” Mr Brown said quietly, grinning at her. “So there is some fight in you, under all that servility.”
Margaret pulled her arm away and curtsied. “I am tired, Mr Brown, and will sit down. Thank you for the turn about the room.”
Without waiting for a response, she turned around and walked over to a chair near the fire that was mercifully both empty and far from any other passengers, but no sooner had she seated herself than she found the chair opposite occupied – by Mr Brown.
“I apologise for my rudeness,” he said in a low voice, “if I was rude. I would…I would like to get to know you better, Miss Berry.”
“I do not want to be known better,” Margaret said stiffly and rose, seating herself near the whist table as her Great Aunt crowed at winning another hand.
But Mr Brown seemed unwilling to take no for an answer. He had followed her, and seated himself beside her. Margaret could feel his gaze on her as though it was a candle flame moving across her skin, burning it.
“Well then,” he said in a low whisper, a handsome smile spreading across his cheeks. “Now I am determined.”
Margaret tried with everything within her to resist looking up, but she could not help it. Her eyelashes fluttered upwards, and she saw the spark of a challenge in his piercing hazel eyes.
3
Not for the first time, Samuel lay awake in his bed, examining the ceiling as daylight started to stream through the window and inform him that he had not slept a wink for an entire night.
He sighed, watching his breath billow out before him in the crisp autumn morning. He had not slept through an entire night since that terrible day, that awful moment when he had discovered his friend Stephen’s body in the grounds of Penkarth Manor.
“No…no, it cannot be. Stephen? Stephen!”
Samuel rolled over onto his side and tried to force the memory away, but it was no use. How could anyone who had seen such a terri
ble thing simply forget it? It would rest with him until his dying day.
And of course, the nightmares had made it impossible to sleep through the night without waking, sweating and heart racing, convinced that he too had been murdered, or he was facing trial and about to be sent to the gallows for a murder that he had not committed, or that there was a Peeler in his bedroom just waiting to pounce.
But now his sleeplessness was for a different reason, and it was the only one that he craved.
Margaret Berry.
He could not rid his mind’s eye of her face, and he did not want to. She had transfixed him last night as she instinctively told him that he had no business asking her such personal questions, and something in him had fired up for the first time as she had glared at him, and then crimsoned at the realisation of how forward she had been.
His mind could not stop thinking about her: the curve of her cheeks as they pinked, the flush of her lips as she spoke softly, the softness that was undoubtedly hidden by that gown…
By God, what he could do to that body.
Samuel turned over to lie on his back once more, trying to ignore the growing stiffness in his body at the thought of Margaret Berry. Her eyes fluttering down, as though frightened to look up. The way that she blushed each time she realised that she had caught his gaze. It was refreshing to be around such innocence.
Not that he was bad, no: but he had never spent much time concentrating on being good. Samuel smiled wickedly as he recalled the lovers he had taken to bed before, but it faded as his thoughts turned once more to Margaret.
This was different. She was different. He would not expect any of the delights of the bedchamber, that was absurd. But he needed a wife.
Without a second thought, he rose up from his bed, quickly pulled on a linen shirt and left his cabin. It was a short journey to the deck where the sun was still rising, and he breathed in a lung of salty air.
It felt so good, so refreshing to be free, uncaged and fearless, no longer hiding at various inns as he made his way across the country to London.
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