He fisted his palms. What if she was already pregnant? What if that was the real reason she was so intent upon their wedding night? To legitimate the babe?
He didn’t care. He shouldn’t care.
At last he found the satchel and grabbed a few capsules. He dropped his head back and downed the opium. The capsules became stuck at the back of his throat, but the sugar coating quickly melted and the drug slipped easily into his belly.
Quincy wiped his mouth and sighed, dropping the satchel back inside the chest. Soon, he thought. Soon the unfeeling darkness would come and he would rest.
He pushed away from the chest and peeled off his trousers before he dropped onto the bed and curled his arm around a pillow.
The drug’s heady effect was swift to come. His muscles relaxed. His mind quieted. And then darkness fell . . .
The room was silent. Candles burned beside the bed, revealing a fevered brow and the sallow skin of a wraith.
The duke stood beside the window, unmoving, holding back a torrent of immeasurable grief. If the duchess breathed her last breath, that grief would explode. It would be the rebirth of a monster.
“How is she?”
Silence.
“The duke?”
“I fear for his mind. Bring the child.”
She can’t die, thought Quincy. She can’t die. Not again.
“The child is here.”
“Open the window,” his sister whispered. “I don’t want her to sense my death.”
James carried the child and kneeled beside the bed.
“Alice, you have a baby brother,” said Mirabelle.
“But I’m still squirt.”
“Yes, you’re still squirt. Bring her closer, James.”
The pirate captain rested the child nearer her mother, and she wrapped her arms around the small figure.
“I want you to take care of your brother, Alice.”
The girl screwed up her face. “Why, Mama?”
“Because that’s what big sisters do.”
“I thought that’s what nurses do?”
“I’d like you to help nurse. Can you do that for me?”
The child sighed. “Yes.”
Mirabelle took in a shaky breath.
“What’s wrong, Mama?”
“Nothing’s the matter, squirt. I’m just tired.”
“It’s late,” said Alice wisely.
“It is. I’m sorry uncle James had to wake you, but I needed to tell you something . . . I love you, Alice.”
“I love you too, Mama.”
“Give me a hug and a kiss, squirt.”
Alice leaned forward and pecked her mother’s lips.
“Take her,” said Mirabelle, choking on tears.
James collected his niece and headed for the door. He paused, then retraced his steps and pressed a kiss to his sister’s ashen brow before he quit the room, moisture glistening in his eyes.
Once the door was sealed, Mirabelle let out a wretched sob.
No, she can’t die, thought Quincy. She can’t die. Not again.
“Mirabelle, no! Don’t go! Stay, Megan!”
“Quincy.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to kill her. Megan, I’m sorry!”
“Quincy, wake up!”
Quincy bolted upright, covered in sweat, his lungs starved for air. In the dimness, he was disoriented, the movement beneath him waves? No, a bed. He was in a strange room but his furniture was the same. Where was the light coming from?
He searched the chamber. A candle. A burning candle. In the hand of a woman.
“Who are you?”
“It’s me, Quincy.”
Her voice was familiar. He couldn’t see her face, so twisted. He rubbed his sore eyes. He was in hell. How much opium had he taken? He couldn’t remember. More than usual, though. He couldn’t wake up. The nefarious shadows stretched toward him, reaching for him.
“Stay away,” he snapped, his breathing ragged. “Don’t come near me.”
“All right,” the feminine voice answered.
The light retreated into the distance. The darkness swallowed him.
“No! Come back,” he beseeched.
The light returned.
“It’s a dream, Quincy,” the gentle voice assured him. “Wake up.”
He tried. He grabbed his head, crushing his skull.
The light landed on the bedside table. A warm body settled behind him, and a set of strong yet slender arms reached around his chest and squeezed.
He released his head, spinning with grotesques images and voices, and leaned against the soft and comforting figure, passing out.
~ * ~
Quincy squinted at the bright light. He shut his eyes again, his head throbbing, his limbs trapped, tangled in bedding and some other infernal restraint.
He sighed and shifted his arse when tender fingers stroked his cheek. His eyes shot open, blinded by sunlight, but after a few dazed moments, he focused on the room—and the heavenly body wrapped around him.
He heard a heart pounding beneath his ear, loud and steady beats, like the hypnotic drum of a jungle tribe. A pair of soft breasts cushioned him, while artful hands wandered over his naked back in sensual caresses. As soon as a silky leg slipped between his thighs, Quincy jumped from the bed.
He reeled, his head pulsing, his thoughts mashed and entwined. He couldn’t unscramble them and set right what had happened, but when he stared at the woman in his bed—his wife—he groaned.
Slowly she sat up, unperturbed, her night rail seductively askew. She wrapped her arms around her raised knees and smiled. “How are you feeling?”
“Like shit!”
Quincy staggered as he grabbed his trousers off the floor and crammed a leg into one of the openings. He trembled at the thought that he’d bedded the wench. And he’d no bleedin’ memory of it!
“You really have a beautiful arse.”
He hardened at the provocative compliment and stuffed his other leg into the breeches before buttoning the flaps.
“What the hell are you doing here?” he demanded, confronting her.
Her long, unfettered tresses, fiery in the morning light, spilled over her shoulders. The green in her eyes glowed bright, like a meadow after a rainfall, while her skin flushed with rose color, making her more beautiful than a nymph—and more tempting than sin.
“Don’t you remember?” she asked in a quiet, almost sensitive voice.
No, he didn’t remember. He didn’t remember a wretched thing!
“The dream?” she prodded.
“What are you talking about? What dream?”
“I heard you from my room, shouting in your sleep. I came to wake you.”
“Horseshit.”
She had found him intoxicated, under the effects of the opium, and she’d taken advantage of his bloody lust for her.
“You cried for forgiveness,” she went on, “and your sister’s name, and . . . you also called for another woman.”
He chilled.
“Who is Megan?” she whispered.
His heart slammed against his ribs, his legs wavered. He crossed the carpet and grabbed the window frame for support, dazed, sinking into thick, suffocating memories.
Damn you, Holly.
“Megan is my mother.” He released a tortured breath. “She died many years ago.”
A lifetime ago.
“I also lost my mother,” she said softly. “Two years ago. I think of her often.”
Was she trying to form a bond with him? Two lost orphans in the world, joining together to create a new family? He shut his eyes again. Their situations were nothing alike. He’d bet his soul she hadn’t killed her mother.
It was clear the effects of the opium were weakening. Once, the drug had blanketed him in darkness, so thick, not even his nightmares could reach him. But now . . . ? What would he do now?
After a tense pause, he asked, “What do you want from me?”
“To be your wife.”
/> He’d suspected some such rot. “Are you my wife?”
“If you mean in body, no. I hope to change that, though.”
She was relentless. He would lock his bedroom door in the future.
“I know what you’re trying to do,” he said roughly. “It won’t work.”
She slipped off the bed. He heard the sheets rustle before her quiet footfalls approached him, stirring his blood to life.
“What am I trying to do?”
When she reached his backside, he seized. Her lengthy night rail fluttered and whisked against his legs, her hips brushed his thighs, and when her bold fingers traced the curvature of his spine, making him shudder, his breath caught in his throat.
“Are you pregnant?”
Her fingers froze.
He turned and looked into her wide, startled eyes. “Well, Holly? All those men in your little notebook? Did one of them get you pregnant? Is that why you’re so intent on a wedding night?”
Her cheeks turned red. Her hand dropped away from his back. “Oh, dear. I see I’ve made a terrible mistake, trying to make you jealous. I’m afraid I’m not very good at seducing a man.”
Oh, hell, she was too good at seducing a man, and she didn’t even know it! That made her all the more dangerous. And it made her innocent desire for him all the more tempting.
Damn. He almost wished she was pregnant. He could deal with the situation then, assure her he’d claim the babe and she needn’t take him to bed to secure her reputation and the child’s legitimacy.
But Quincy could see in her eyes she wasn’t a wanton, that she had never known a lover’s touch—and she wanted his to be the first.
“No,” he said tightly, restraining his carnal impulses.
She remained silent, contemplating. Her eyes then filled with understanding. “Why?”
“You’ve already taken too much from me.”
Again her fingertips stroked his fevered flesh. “I can give in return.”
He flinched at her scorching touch and twisted around, grabbing her wrist, his thumb pressing over her hammering pulse. In a hoarse, strangled voice, he warned, “Do not, Holly.”
“But why?” she beseeched, a hope for intimacy burning in her eyes.
“Because I won’t forgive you for what you’ve done.” His hand quivered. “I cannot forgive you for creating that painting and taking away my freedom, my life.”
“Quincy, I lost my freedom, too. But I want to build a new life—with you.”
Hope still burned in her faithful eyes. He had to snuff out that hope.
“You took more than my freedom, Holly, don’t you see? You also took away my chance to meet the woman I might truly have loved and married, like one of my brothers.”
Her features dropped. A shadow crossed her face. A shadow of bitter regret. And comprehension. He had finally made his sentiment clear: there would be no real marriage between them.
She pulled her hand away and retreated one, two steps before she turned and headed for the door, closing it softly behind her.
CHAPTER 12
Holly smeared the oil paint across the canvas with her hands. She had always painted with a brush and gloves, but she couldn’t achieve the effect she now desired with such implements. The tools hindered her efforts to release the emotional wreckage that had run aground in her heart, and she scratched and swirled the mesh of colors: bright ochre and sunset orange, cinnabar red and indigo blue.
Her hands were crusted and stained. Her fingers throbbed. But the nonrepresentational work, the first she had ever produced, captured her dreams and regrets unlike any objective art.
When she slashed the last bit of paint, the layered bursts of color and maddening whirlpools cried out her feelings for her, and she sighed in release.
The floorboards creaked under shifting weight, not her own, though. She grabbed a linen rag and wiped her hands as she turned in the stool and confronted her husband, seated in a chair in the corner of the room.
Her heart expanded, ached in her chest. The blue of his eyes so closely matched the blue on the canvas, she realized. He was in the turbulent work, wound together with every other sentiment and trial.
“How long have you been watching me?” she asked in a listless voice, her energy spent.
“A few hours. Perhaps more. I don’t really know.”
His throaty voice sounded almost tender, and she resisted the hope it triggered in her soul. He had made his feelings toward her perfectly clear—he loathed her. She had usurped his life, the act unforgiveable. And her foolish dream of a real and intimate marriage had been shattered like broken glass. All that remained was the possibility of a formal partnership where they might exchange pleasantries over an occasional meal.
She shuddered at the cold reflection. “What are you doing here?”
“I haven’t seen you in two days. Emma mentioned you often shut yourself in your studio if you’re upset or grieving.”
“Did she?” Holly dropped the rag on the table and removed her body apron. Her legs wavered, and she grasped the stool for support. “Well, she misinformed you. I was just distracted with my work. It happens on occasion. I lose sense of the passage of time.”
“Have you eaten?”
“I have not. And why do you care?”
His features remained smooth, thoughtful. “I’m not unreasonable, you know?”
Holly approached the sunny window and rotated her stiff shoulders. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“If you want a lover, take one.”
She stiffened. “I beg your pardon?”
“I don’t expect you to live without companionship. I’ll claim any babes you might have, you needn’t fear.”
She grabbed the window sill and squeezed the wood until her knuckles turned white. Her belly churned and the impulse to send something flying across the room, preferably toward her husband’s “reasonable” head, overwhelmed her. She resisted the urge, though. A fit would not change her grim situation.
“A fair compromise, I suppose,” she said without concealing her acrid tone. She returned to the table and doused a rag with turpentine before scrubbing her flesh. “What day is it?”
“Wednesday.”
“If you will excuse me, I think I’ll rest.” After wiping her hands clean, she headed for the door, averting her eyes from Quincy. “I have an engagement with your sister this afternoon.”
He queried softly, “Are you going to run to her and cry foul every time we have a disagreement?”
Her heart spasmed. She turned toward her husband, still ensconced in the chair, and neared him until she hovered above his shameless head. “I have an invitation from your sister to help plan Lady Amy’s wedding. Fret not, husband. I won’t betray your disgusting offer to the duchess.”
And before losing her remaining poise, Holly stormed from the studio and slammed the door.
~ * ~
“Whatever is the matter, Holly?”
Holly lifted her head and glanced at the other women seated around the table, each holding lace or ribbon or other wedding samples.
“I’m tired, is all,” she replied, forcing a smile. “There is nothing the matter.”
Sophia snorted beside her. “We all know what they can be like at times.”
“They?” asked Holly.
“The Hawkins brothers,” said the duchess from across the table. “For all their charms, they can also drive a woman to madness with their stubborn faults.”
“Are you sure you’d rather not speak of it?” Amy poured her another cup of tea. “I’m certain we can help.”
The ladies were ever so generous and kind, but Holly was convinced they could not repair the brokenness between her and Quincy. She recalled the night he had held her wrist, trembling with grief and disappointment that he had such a wife as her.
“Holly, what is it?” Amy thrust a kerchief into her palm. “Tell us, please.”
Was she crying? Heavens, how embarrassing. Holly dabbed at her ey
es. She’d intended to keep her emotions firmly suppressed, to release them only in the safety of her art studio, but under the ministrations of her sisters-in-law, she’d been unable to restrain her despair. And now, under their concerned expressions, she also couldn’t repeat that nothing was the matter.
“We had a dispute,” she said instead, keeping to the truth without revealing any of the crude details. “I don’t know how to resolve it, though.”
“Hmm.” Sophia picked up a pin and a square of ivory satin. “Whenever James and I have a dispute, we play a game.”
Holly pinched her brows together. “A game?”
“A game of chess.” She stabbed the square of fabric with the pin. “Loser pays a forfeit.”
An intriguing thought. Holly wondered, “What sort of forfeit?”
“Absolute submission—usually in bed.”
Holly felt her cheeks warm, but the other women chuckled.
“I invite Edmund to dinner and have a hardy meal prepared,” said Amy with a sly smile. “He loves food. Once he’s devoured the fare, the disputed matter is usually forgiven or forgotten.”
“So you see,” said Mirabelle. “Each one of my brother’s has a weakness to be exploited. I’m sure you’ll find Quincy’s and settle the matter soon. Give it a little more time. You’re newlyweds, my dear.”
Their candor was welcomed, but unhelpful, thought Holly. Her trouble with Quincy stemmed from herself. She was the disputed matter. How to play a game or prepare a meal that would make her husband forget he had not married the woman of his dreams?
Holly considered carrying the hurtful secret in private for the rest of her married life, but she also considered the burden of doing such a thing. The crushing weight would destroy her one day, she was sure.
In a small voice, she admitted, “He will not forgive me.”
Amy cupped her hand. “Forgive you, Holly? For what?”
Her heart cramped and she heaved a giant breath. “I am not like the rest of you,” she whispered. “I’m a notorious artist with a sordid past. Quincy had hoped to find and marry a better woman, like his brothers before him.”
The ladies around the table exchanged silent glances, and Holly instantly regretted her confession. She had placed the women in the awkward positions of both agreeing with her husband and still comforting her.
How To Seduce A Pirate (The Hawkins Brothers Series) Page 7
