The Bastard's Iberian Bride (Sons of the Spy Lord Book 1)

by Alina K. Field

  Only, she didn’t know that to be true, did she? Lord Hackwell seemed kind, but he might think sending the girl away was kinder.

  “And Mr. Gibson will make sure she’s looked after,” she said.

  The boy shook his head. “He’ll be in India.”

  “India?”

  “Yes. I’m not supposed to know, but I heard Steven whispering about it.”

  Mr. Gibson was leaving for India. He might as well be disappearing from the face of the earth.

  Moonglow chose that moment to explore some vegetation. “Blast it, Thomas. Help me here. And do not worry about Jenny. She is coming with me.”

  Jenny, and Johnny, and Mabel—and how the devil she would feed them was anyone’s guess.

  Of course, there was the treasure that Jock always spoke of, and maybe it was real if Agruen was after it. Or maybe it wasn’t.

  Thomas helped get Moonglow under control, and she looked around at the tangle of trees, shrubs, and weeds.

  Little Norwick needed work, but it was real. And it could be hers. All it would take was a wedding.

  They caught up with Lord Hackwell and Mr. Gibson and picked their way over the open field to a small path wide enough to accommodate a cart. At the top of the tree-thickened rise, a roof came into view.

  Several roofs—a village of roofs, at different heights and angles, topping walls and wings and wide swathes of diamond-paned windows.

  “Cor,”Thomas cried, “It’s bigger than our house, Steven.”

  Lord Hackwell turned in his saddle and flashed a grin that took in both her and Mr. Gibson next to her. She felt herself coloring. Mr. Gibson displayed no emotion, making him look…grim.

  Her heart plummeted yet one more time this day. Mr. Gibson was feeling pressure, more so than she. For her, this house would be a kind of freedom, at least for a while and with enough money and the three servants she could bring with her.

  For him, it would be a large, weighty anchor.

  She could not do that to him, could she? He wanted to go to India, which would leave her managing all by herself. None of her servants would know how to take on the full load. Johnny could handle the one horse, Jenny the cleaning of a few rooms, and Mabel could cook, and that was a start. For the rest of it, she could hire a steward.

  But supposing…

  How did it work, the management of an estate like this? The home farm fields would have to be cleared. For that, workers were needed, and money to pay them.

  Mr. Gibson had learned from Lady Hackwell, he said. Perhaps Lady Hackwell could tutor her.

  Once her business in London was settled, he could be off to India.

  And…perhaps, if what Lady Tepping had said was true, there was a way she could set him all the way free.

  They drew closer and she could see gaps in the roof where shingles were missing, windows covered with boards, and paint hanging in strips.

  As they passed a fenced kitchen garden, a hare darted out through the gateless entry sending her mount shying and shaking.

  In seconds, Mr. Gibson was there, reaching for Moonglow’s bridle.

  That same serious mood preoccupied him.

  “I’m fine.” Her voice trembled and she cleared her throat. “Though this is the second time in the last quarter hour I’ve almost slipped off. Perhaps Moonglow and I need a rest from each other.”

  His lip quirked. “You’ve done well.”

  “Yes. Well enough for the first time in a blasted side saddle.” His smile sent her heart dancing. He was truly a kind man, with a good sense of humor.

  And a good kisser. They could do more of that before he sailed off for India.

  Another flutter went through her, and she shook it off. “This is a great pile, is it not? When do you suppose we will come to the Little Norwick hut?”

  His smile widened and he added a chuckle. “From the look of the outside, the floors may have indeed crumbled back to dirt. We shall soon see.”

  “We’re going inside?”

  “Oh yes. Never does anything halfway, does Steven Lord Hackwell. The caretaker is meeting us.” He glanced her way, concern in his eyes. “Do you not wish to see it?”

  Her deep blush touched a nerve in him. They hadn’t talked about that kiss the night before.

  Kiss, nothing. He’d almost ravished her in the corridor, only a glimmer better than that scoundrel Spellen. Except of course, Paulette had not been tied up and she’d been a full participant.

  But he had tied her in knots with kisses.

  No, he’d seduced her, almost, and the end would have been the same, only instead of his head in a noose like Agruen’s valet could expect, he’d have his leg in a shackle and this great house to take on.

  Would it be so bad?

  “I confess, I’m curious.”

  Her voice brought him around. Curious. That was it. She’d been curious last night, yes, that had been part of it, not just the great power of his kissing or this pull between them. Would she act thus with another man because she was curious? Certainly, she hadn’t with Agruen.

  She kicked her mount and trotted off behind Thomas.

  He shook off the tendrils of jealousy. Of course there’d be other men who could stir her. And it was not for him to tie down this sprite who wanted so much to experience life.

  Inside the manor was not so bad, at least not by Gibson standards. Old-fashioned, yes, it was, with its ornate carvings and gilded décor. Faded, yes—the draperies were patterned with diamond shapes bleached by the sun. And when the Holland cloth covers came off in clouds of dust, the upholstery was worn in places also.

  “This must have been a favorite chair.” Paulette stared down at the huge wingback, its cushions sagging, the arms threadbare. She glanced at him, eyes glittering. “For a man as large as yourself.”

  Hackwell hovered nearby. “Miss Heardwyn is right. Try it out, Gibson.”

  He bit his lip. “Let’s get on with this.”

  Below stairs was next, a tour of the service areas and kitchen, and his steward’s mind ticked through the amenities. A Rumsfeld stove had been installed and a water closet added. The butler’s pantry still held a complete dinner service.

  The caretaker noticed his interest. “The house conveyed with all the furnishings, dishes, and linens, many relatively new and in good repair.”

  “And they are still here,” Hackwell said.

  “I could have wished for the funds to make more repairs, but I’ve kept a good eye on the place.”

  Indeed he had. Perhaps he could recruit the caretaker to manage Hackwell’s properties when he himself left for India.

  The second and third floors were next, with more parlors, and a generous number of bedchambers. An airing, a thorough cleaning, and the bedrooms would do as they were for a few more years.

  The caretaker led him up a smaller flight of stairs. “There are servants’ chambers above in the attic, and this floor is the schoolroom and nursery.”

  His head buzzed as he surveyed the sunlit room. It was much like the nursery at Cransdall, with more beds crowded in. Five child-sized cots, two cribs and an assortment of furniture and toys occupied the large open room. Paulette’s eyes brightened and she pressed her hands at her waist, her lips together. When their eyes met, hers shimmered. “It was a large family, I suppose. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  She colored deeply and looked away.

  Desire sparked in him again. “Indeed. And very jolly, by the look of those worn out hobby horses. Raced them, I’d warrant.”

  A smile lit her face. “How many children—” Her gasp made him turn.

  Hackwell, Thomas, and the caretaker were gone. He ducked into the corridor and heard them moving around upstairs.

  Excitement thrummed in him. He was alone with a woman who he’d heartily kissed less than twenty-four hours ago. Alone in a bedchamber of sorts, talking about how many children might fill it.

  Damned managing Hackwell. Paulette should not be in here alone with him.


  She ducked her chin, looked everywhere but at him, and finally stepped to an open door leading off from the nursery. He followed her.

  This was another bedchamber, for the nursery maids, probably, with a bed big enough to accommodate two.

  Paulette sat down upon it. His heart beat a staccato.

  She leapt up, paced to the window, peered through the wavy glass.

  When she turned, she’d set her mouth and clasped her hands in front of her.

  “Mr. Gibson, you do not wish to marry. You wish to go to India. Is that correct?”

  Her voice shook, the trembling lighting up the air around him. He moved a step closer. “That was the plan, yes.”

  Was the plan. He could see that word was triggering some strong emotion in her.

  “I know I’ve been adamant about going to London, which I still will do. I must see…well, not for social reasons. I know I’ll never be part of the ton, but to be able to take care of my business, and perhaps visit a famous place or two, and shop…”

  She gazed at a spot on the wall and cleared her throat. “I have a proposal, Mr. Gibson. It will serve us both and answer to Bakeley once and for all.”

  Chapter 12

  She crossed the distance between them and lifted her chin. Only her hands, gripped tightly at her slim waist, and the tic of a muscle near one dark eye revealed her tension.

  He bent closer and she placed a hand on his chest. “Wait.” Color suffused her and she inhaled. “We can marry in Scotland.”

  The buzzing started up in his head again and the big bed past her shoulder beckoned him. She wanted to marry him, and to be quick about it.

  He eased in a breath and tried to think around the swelling in his trousers. She knew he wanted to go to India, and she wanted to serve both their purposes and elope to Gretna Green. And what the devil purpose of hers would be served?

  “In Scotland?” he asked stupidly.

  She clenched that wee hand into a fist, as if he’d just challenged her. He wrapped it in both of his and lifted it to his lips, feeling a tremor ripple through her.

  “Why Scotland, Paulette?”

  She exhaled. “You do not categorically object to the idea then?”

  His head swam with visions of the wild north. Object? Hell, Scotland was a good idea. With the settlements already in place, eloping offered expediency and privacy, no bother with two more rounds of banns or Doctors’ Commons. “I’m warming up to it. But why Scotland?”

  “Lady Tepping said if we marry in Scotland, we can divorce later—”

  His chest squeezed. “Divorce.” He dropped her hand.

  “You…you want to…to tup me, but you don’t want to marry, not truly. You want to go to India, Thomas said.”

  The summer light sparkled off dust motes and blinded him. “And you’ll be settled here in this big, empty, decaying house.”

  Managing Little Norwick, bringing it into order, would keep Paulette occupied, and close to the Hackwells who’d be sure to look in on her. And maybe that had been Shaldon’s plan. The old man had sensed her restlessness from afar.

  And perhaps she didn’t truly want to be alone. Perhaps his own restlessness would be curbed for a while by helping her manage. He reached for her hand again and kissed it. “It’s not a bad plan.” Except for the idea of divorce.

  A smile lit her face. “We can split the income equally. You’ll have your share.”

  “I imagine we’ll need all of it until we can bring this place around.” He spotted a shelf filled with games and slim books. “And then, of course, if there are children—”

  “Children?”

  He cupped his hands on the proud bones of her shoulders. “Do you think, after last night, I’d be content to remain in my own bed when we marry?” He stroked a line down her jaw. “I don’t think you’d be content with that arrangement either.”

  She started up with more trembling and heating, her scent filling his senses. Heart thrumming, he drew her close and kissed her.

  She wrested herself away and touched a hand to straighten her bonnet.

  “I would not hold you from your dream. If there is a child, you may still go, and we will decide how much money is needed.”

  Blast the woman. Could she not see what she wanted? What they both wanted?

  They might make a bloody mess of it, but now that she’d pushed it this far, he would have her, honorably.

  “Do you suppose, Paulette, I would go off and leave a child of mine?”

  Her frown slid into understanding, her brows furrowing.

  “What would it have meant to have your father at least in the same country?” Releasing her, he stalked to the window, shoved aside a table and turned the latch, struggling with the sash.

  It was stuck, and he pounded and pushed, unable to budge it.

  He heard the swish of her skirts and with his next breath took in her scent again. “There is another lock here.” She slid back a bolt he hadn’t noticed. “Try now.”

  This time the window lifted. An insect whizzed past them, and the late afternoon breeze brought the smell of mown hay. In fact, someone was farming near here. He wondered how many tenants there were.

  She slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow. “I have upset you. I’m sorry, but you must tell me. Will you marry me or not? Or will you only keep your promise and see me safely to London? Whether I am Miss Heardwyn or Mrs. Gibson, I still must go there and see what is what.”

  He slid an arm around her waist, trying to collect himself, like some silly lass.

  “I know it is not done,” she said, and her voice was tiny, “I know you are wanting to do your own proposing, to choose your own wife, someone more to your liking. I just—”

  He kissed her fiercely then, for long minutes, to stop her, to reassure her she was to his liking.

  Voices in the hall made him break off. He straightened her bonnet and smiled at her dazed look. “Yes, I will marry you,” he said, panting. “Yes, we will go to Scotland, and then to London.” He lifted her onto the table and held her gaze. “But there’s to be no talk of divorce.”

  “All right.”

  “And the marriage will be consummated.”

  She nodded, and this time she kissed him.

  The next morning at dawn, Hackwell met up with him in the front hall.

  “Take this.” He slipped a purse to Bink, and when Bink tried to give it back, he held up his hands. “Take it. You may have need of it, and either way, you may consider it a wedding gift.” He clapped a hand on Bink’s shoulder. “Remember, avoid the roads around Manchester.”

  Fears of an uprising had been the topic at every aristocratic table, and Hackwell’s frown reflected his own worry. If the government was called back, he would want to be there, and if he went, Lady Hackwell would insist on accompanying him with all of the children, which would probably be safer than staying in a great country house alone.

  And of course, there was the matter of Agruen’s valet, still sequestered in a shed.

  He gripped Hackwell’s hand. “Thank you. Call on Little Norwick’s caretaker if you need help. Otherwise, the staff will hold the household together. Grey can help with correspondence. We’ll be back, five days at the most.” And then they needed to leave for London, but how was he to explain that to Hackwell?

  He would fix that battle plan later.

  Hackwell led him out and stopped on the front step. A sly grin creased his face. “Don’t cut short your wedding night, man.”

  The Hackwell coach waited, the horses restless in their traces. Johnny stood holding two mounts, and Ewan was tying a case to the coach roof, chatting with Kincaid, seated next to the coachman.

  “Some honeymoon, with this lot along.” In addition to Paulette’s maid, Mabel, and Shaldon’s three men, Paulette had insisted they bring Jenny.

  Hackwell clapped him on the back. “Five more minutes alone in the Little Norwick nursery, and you’d have had the honeymoon done, and been on your way to filling one of
those nursery cots.”

  Bink couldn’t help smiling. Paulette’s enthusiasm had matched his own, and they were fortunate the throat-clearing interruption had been Hackwell’s. Once they’d returned to Greencastle, they’d endured a tense dinner with the assembled guests, including an unapologetic Agruen, before making known their plans to Hackwell and his lady, and then in the hustle of secret preparations, he’d not seen her again until the morning’s hurried breakfast.

  The coach door opened and the lady in question poked her head out. “Shall we leave soon?”

  She was cross, tired, lacking sleep. He forced back a laugh and shook Hackwell’s hand again. “I have my orders.”

  Hackwell waved to her. “He’s coming right along.”

  He leaned in close and whispered. “Get used to it. And I’d heartily suggest you put the two maids on the roof for a bit and ride inside.”

  Bink laughed and went to mount his horse.

  Mr. Gibson changed horses so often and so quickly they were almost flying along the Great Northern Road.

  “I’m about jostled to death,” Mabel muttered.

  “It could be worse,” Jenny whispered.

  The poor girl peered out through two blackened eyes, and her voice had not yet had a chance to recover.

  “We could be riding on Mr. Cummings’s dog cart.” Paulette rearranged herself on the cushioned seat for the hundredth time. “This carriage is actually rather well-sprung.”

  “Well, that would be Mr. Gibson’s doing,” Mabel said. “And the poor man, spending an entire day on horseback.”

  Paulette looked out the window. She’d thought—hoped—he might come inside for part of the journey. Nothing would happen, but she felt a need to see him, to know this was real.

  “Thank you for taking me,” Jenny said.

  Mabel patted the girl’s hand. “She’ll replace our Mrs. Everly, won’t she, Polly.”

  Mabel was trying to coax a smile. Jenny obliged, looking half-hearted.

  “If she tries to replace Mrs. Everly, we’re putting her to work in the dairy.”

  Mabel leaned forward. “Is there a dairy at Little Norwick?”