by Stacy Henrie
Emmett swung Antonina onto his back again and moved quickly after the valet. Clare and Miriam kept pace behind them. “You’re sure they’ll take us to Taormina?”
“I spoke with the captain himself.” Rushford winced and gripped his broken arm as another man raced past, jostling him. “That’s where they were bound before they heard about the earthquake. He has another passenger to let off at Taormina. And a doctor on board to boot.”
“Excellent.” His valet would finally get his arm properly cared for.
Emmett glanced back at Antonina and said in Italian, “We’re going to take a boat to Taormina.” Her small hands gripped him tighter around the neck in an evident show of worry. “It’ll be all right. I will be with you and Clare and Miriam and Rushford. You won’t be alone.” Her grasp relaxed a little. “Hopefully in a few short hours, we’ll be sitting down to one of Signora Russo’s delicious meals.”
When they arrived, out of breath, at the spot Rushford indicated, a sailor was just preparing to launch the small skiff. Inside sat the captain and two others bound for the waiting steamer. “Climb aboard,” the captain said cheerfully, his British accent a welcome reminder of home. “And watch your step.”
Once they were all settled, the sailor gave the small boat a shove and hopped inside as the craft slid into the water. The captain introduced himself, and Emmett did the same. As the sailor rowed them away from Messina, the captain exclaimed over the devastating changes to the city. Emmett shared a brief account of their own experiences as they moved toward the steamer.
Clare and Miriam were the first to ascend the ship’s ladder, then Emmett helped Antonina. Soon the five of them were aboard the vessel. A small group of people were gathered at the deck railing. Emmett guessed these were the steamer’s other passengers.
“We’ll have you back to your villa in no time, Lord Linwood,” the captain reassured him before striding away.
A gentleman spun away from the railing and stared wide-eyed at Emmett. “Did I hear the captain correctly? You are Lord Linwood?”
“That is correct.” The young man with dark-brown hair appeared to be a few years younger than Emmett. “Do I know you?”
With a grin that looked out of place against the backdrop of Messina’s destruction, the man pumped Emmett’s hand up and down in a hearty handshake. “We’ve never been formally introduced, but I’m Theo Sharpe. Reporter for the London Times. My father and Lord Hadwell are old school chums. In fact, your father is the one who . . .”
Emmett didn’t hear another word of Mr. Sharpe’s explanation. Not with the ice-cold suspicion chilling him and his thoughts.
His father hadn’t backed down after all—he’d simply ignored Emmett’s insistence and then bided his time for a day or two before sending someone after him. What was Clare going to think about having a reporter around? Emmett turned toward her and caught her confused expression as she studied Mr. Sharpe. What was Emmett supposed to say? He hadn’t expected his father to go behind his back, but he couldn’t plead complete innocence of the reporter’s presence either.
He hesitated too long. Mr. Sharpe stepped around Emmett and offered his hand to Clare. “You must be Lady Linwood.” The young man acted as if they were in a receiving line in a London drawing room rather than standing before him bedraggled and half-starved—and in Clare’s case, still shoeless and in her nightgown.
“Yes.” She threw Emmett a puzzled look. “What brings you to Messina, Mr. Sharpe?”
The grin was back. “Why, you and your husband, of course. Now that he’s going to run for Parliament, Lord Hadwell felt it was important to get both your names in print sooner than later.”
Clare’s cheeks went white in color. “So you are here to write about . . . us?” Her question was for the reporter, but she peered straight at Emmett. “As a couple?”
“Yes, my lady.” Mr. Sharpe rocked back on his heels. “People at home will soon be demanding stories about the illustrious Linwoods, especially now that you’ve both survived the earthquake.”
The young man didn’t seem to notice the reddening shade of anger that now spread across Clare’s face, but Emmett saw it. “And this was all arranged when?”
“A month or so ago,” the reporter replied. “I would’ve been on the same ship as Lord Linwood, but for some reason, I was told I wasn’t needed right away. I caught the next steamer after his.”
In the echo of the man’s words, Emmett imagined he heard the loud snap of the bond that had temporarily connected him and Clare, like a sail rent into pieces by a fierce wind. How many more times could it endure being patched and mended before it gave out altogether? He considered tossing Mr. Sharpe overboard, and yet that would only bring a temporary reprieve to this newest dilemma. The incorrigible reporter was still likely to turn up in Taormina, eager for a story.
Whether now or later, Emmett would eventually have to respond to the silent demand for answers in Clare’s darkening green eyes. Eyes that had looked on him with confidence and appreciation hours ago. That look was gone now, and in its wake, Emmett was left with one sobering reminder. They had escaped with their lives from Messina, but their troubles were far from over. In some ways, he thought as he glanced again at Mr. Sharpe, they were just beginning.
Somerset, England, March 1908: Nine months earlier
Emmett rapped lightly on Clare’s door, wondering if she was sleeping. However, when he twisted the handle and stepped into the room, he found his wife sitting before a roaring fire. It had been ten days since her miscarriage, but he still insisted she have a fire in her room during the day. He didn’t understand why she was always cold, indoors or out, but a constant source of warmth seemed a small concession after the loss of her pregnancy.
“May I come in?” he asked when she didn’t acknowledge him.
At his voice, she turned from staring in the direction of the flames to look over her shoulder. “Oh, Emmett. Yes, do come in.”
Her red-rimmed eyes and haunted expression cried at him to reach out to her, to unburden his own sorrow at not being a father this year. But Emmett swallowed the words as he shut the door. He wouldn’t add to her grief by sharing his or incite more tears from her.
He took a seat in the chair opposite hers. “How are you feeling?”
“Fine, I suppose.” Clare offered him a shrug, then drew her blanket-like shawl around her shoulders. She had on a dress today, which he hoped was a good sign. “I’m still tired.”
Emmett nodded. “The doctor said that was to be expected for some time.”
“Yes,” she murmured, her gaze once more on the fire.
He breached the space between them and settled his hand over hers where it rested along the chair arm. Her fingers felt cool to the touch, in spite of the warmth of the fire. “We can try again, Clare. The doctor reassured me that there is no reason to believe we won’t be parents someday soon.”
It wasn’t the right thing to say. She slid her hand out from under his and placed it out of reach on her lap. “That may be true, but I don’t want to think about that right now. Not after I just lost . . .” Her words faltered as her voice hitched with emotion.
The need to unburden his thoughts, to confide in her, nearly overwhelmed him. But he had to stay strong. Never again would he trouble someone with his mourning as he had all those years ago when his grandfather had died. Instead Emmett had to think of a way to lift Clare’s shroud of sorrow and bring back the laughter he missed.
She twisted to look at him. “Is there something you need?”
“I wished to talk about the London house.” He bent forward, his arms on his knees, his hands splayed toward the heat. “I know we had to delay our departure . . .” They’d been packed and ready to leave the very morning Clare had begun bleeding. “But I’m afraid we may be hard-pressed to find something if we don’t hurry and do so before the season starts next month.”
Clare nodded absently. “I suppose you’re right.”
“Which is why I thought I would pop over to
London tomorrow and begin our search. If I find something, I thought I might solicit the help of one of my sisters in hiring the staff.” It was something else he could do to ease things for Clare while she recovered. He glanced her way but couldn’t read her features to determine what she was thinking. “I shouldn’t be gone more than a fortnight, three weeks at the most. Then I’ll return to Hadwell House, and we’ll go back to London together.”
To his surprise, she suddenly rose to her feet. “I don’t want to wait that long.”
“For a house?”
Clare shook her head and crossed the room to where her trunk still sat. “For us to go to London. There’s no reason I can’t go with you now.” She slid the trunk away from the wall, but after opening the lid, she sagged against the bedpost.
“Clare, you don’t have to come with me.” He stood and moved toward her. “You still aren’t well, and searching for a house is likely to be tiring.”
Her chin rose in defiance, though there were visible tears glittering in her eyes. “I can’t stay here. I won’t stay.”
The firmness of her tone confused him. Did she wish to escape the memories of her miscarriage? Or something else? It was evident she didn’t love this place as much as he did, and he’d noticed she hadn’t painted anything new in weeks. But Emmett had attributed all of that to adjusting to living in a new country. Not to mention, the winter weather had been especially hard on her. It would be spring soon, and yet in spite of that promise, Clare acted as if she couldn’t leave for London soon enough.
“Are you . . . unhappy . . . here?” He hated the bitter way the adjective tasted on his tongue, but he needed to know. Was his wife unhappy living at Hadwell House—or perhaps even unhappy with him?
Several of her tears escaped her lashes and cascaded down her pale cheeks. “Yes, Emmett. I won’t be a mother this summer; I miss my parents something awful; and I feel as if this shawl has become a part of my skin after wearing it so much, and I still can’t get warm. So yes, there have been moments and hours and even days of unhappiness. Is that such a crime?”
“No,” he answered softly.
Closing the distance between them, he gathered her gently to his chest and let her cry. Each quiet sob squeezed at his lungs and threatened to bring tears to his own eyes.
After a few minutes, her weeping gave way to an occasional shudder. “Do you really wish to come to London with me now?” he asked. If that would bring her smile back, Emmett would spirit her away to the city tonight.
Clare nodded against his now-damp shirt. “I do.”
“Very well.” He eased back and tilted her face upward. “Is this your way of telling me I’d do a frightful job of hiring a staff on my own?”
Her lips creased slightly at the corners. “You’ve seen through my ruse, my lord. Besides, I have been preparing for this.”
“A fact not to be overlooked.” He let the merriment slip from his countenance. “Will you promise not to overexert yourself in our hunt for a house? The season can be exhausting and busy enough as it is.” Particularly when his father was dictating the number of events they attended.
Emmett typically enjoyed interacting with friends and acquaintances during the season, but he’d especially been looking forward to being in charge of his own social schedule now that he was married. Unfortunately Lord Hadwell had reminded him the night before of the importance of being seen this season, especially since his wife was no longer pregnant.
Must maintain the image that all is well, his father had intoned.
“I promise I will be careful,” Clare said. “May I come, then?”
The earnest look on her lovely features had him whispering “Yes” right before he lowered his mouth to hers in what he imagined would be a brief kiss. Clare would likely draw back quickly as she had for more than a week. However, today she kissed him in return. It wasn’t an overly long kiss, but it was no less welcome or delightful.
As he released her, he offered her a smile. “We’ll leave first thing tomorrow morning.”
“Thank you, Emmett.”
For two or three heartbeats, she smiled. The action was nearly as short as her kiss, but it had been there nonetheless. It gave Emmett hope for the first time since finding her crumbled on the floor of her room, in pain. As long as he and Clare could smile and banter together, as long as she wasn’t unhappy living with him, then surely they could weather whatever came their way.
Chapter 8
“Would you excuse us for a moment, Mr. Sharpe?” Clare threaded her arm through her husband’s and forced a congenial smile for the reporter. Anger still heated her cheeks, but she maintained a calm exterior as she led Emmett to the back of the steamer. She was barely aware of Antonina following behind them.
At the rear of the ship, Clare released her hold and folded her arms tightly against her soiled robe and nightgown. She ought to be embarrassed at her appearance, but she was too grateful for having survived the past two days and too irate with Emmett to care how horribly unkempt she looked right now.
“Why is there a reporter here, Emmett?”
Her husband glanced back down the deck. “He’s come to write about us.”
“That was his explanation. I want yours.” Clare hadn’t missed the subtle panic in her husband’s blue eyes when Mr. Sharpe had introduced himself. Emmett had been surprised by the reporter’s appearance at this moment but not shocked to learn a reporter had come to find them here. And she wanted to know why.
He ran his hands down his unshaven face. A light beard that she found irritatingly attractive had formed along his jaw. However, the man standing before her in wrinkled, dirty clothes and a worn expression hardly resembled the witty, good-natured Lord Linwood she’d met and married last year.
“My father believes the country could use more reminders that we’re happy as a couple. More than you and I simply being seen together in England while I campaign.” His tone held little emotion, other than resignation. The steamer was moving by now, and Emmett stared out at the water slipping past them. “He told me before I left for Sicily that he’d hired a reporter to come here with me and write stories about us.”
Clare turned to face the railing, hurt mingling dangerously with her anger. To think he’d been upset with her for not sharing sooner about her childhood. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because I asked him not to send anyone,” Emmett countered. There was no mistaking the frustration leaking into his voice this time, though Clare wasn’t sure if it was directed at her, Lord Hadwell, or the both of them. “I committed to coming here to ask you to return to England with me, but I wouldn’t abide having someone along to report our every move. However, apparently my wish in that regard was only honored until the day after I boarded the steamer bound for Sicily.”
His words inspired the faintest flicker of compassion inside Clare, strong enough that she couldn’t ignore it. To have a father who wouldn’t honor such a request was awful. “Why do you try so hard to please him?” The question slipped out almost unbidden. She’d wondered it a dozen times or more during their short marriage but hadn’t found the courage to ask it outright. Now the query hung taut in the air between them.
“I’m all he has for an heir.” Emmett matched her stance at the railing, his hands gripping the metal. “And yet there are many times I wonder if being his flesh and blood is enough.” He spoke the last as if he hadn’t meant to say it out loud.
Clare shook her head in confusion. “What do you mean?”
“What?”
“An heir is flesh and blood. What more do you need to be?”
Emmett glanced down at Antonina. How much of what they were saying did she understand? “My older brother, Alder, was supposedly everything my father longed for in an heir.”
“Y-you had an older brother?” Shock at this news coursed through her.
He nodded impatiently. “Haven’t you ever seen his picture hanging in the study?”
“No,” Clare said, shakin
g her head again. She’d never been inside Lord Hadwell’s study, nor had she ever wished to. “Why didn’t you tell me you had a brother?”
“I . . . don’t know.” Emmett visibly gripped the railing tighter. “I never knew him. He died as a child before I was born. But he was responsible and serious-minded even as a boy, and my father had high hopes for his future. His death was very difficult on everyone but especially my father.”
The confusion inside Clare’s head shifted with sudden clarity. “That’s why you try so hard to please him, to do everything he asks.”
He didn’t answer, but his silence was just as affirming. How horrible to constantly live in the shadow of someone he’d never even met. And yet it was still his choice and not entirely the fault of others. Emmett had allowed this stranger of a brother and Lord Hadwell’s apparent adoration of Alder to keep himself perpetually grasping at an elusive and continuously changing goal—one of obtaining his father’s approval.
“What’s the real reason you wish to become an MP, Emmett?” Would he continue to be honest with her, even about this? She still felt angry with him, but Clare couldn’t deny also feeling relief and surprise at his willingness to talk openly about his relationship with his father. “Do you truly want to do this for you?”
He threw a pained glance in her direction, then looked away. “I want to help people on a larger scale, yes. However, that isn’t the only reason I’ve chosen to campaign.” Emmett pulled in a deep breath as if bracing himself for what he must say next. Or maybe he was steeling himself against her reaction. “My father always wanted to sit in the House of Commons. However, after his father died, he was made Marquess of Hadwell at the age of eighteen.”
So that was Emmett’s true reason for wanting to be a politician. Clare shut her eyes against the wave of frustration that rolled over her. “That isn’t—”
“Look at me, Clare.” When she did, he continued. “I know what you think, but this is my chance.” He grasped her gently by the shoulders. “Can’t you see that? If I fulfill his dream, he’ll finally see I’m every bit as worthy of being his heir as Alder was. He’ll see that I’m the sort of man and son a father can be proud of.”
