My Favorite Bride

by Christina Dodd

  He rubbed the lines between her brows. “Someone must have hurt you very much.”

  A multitude of someones, and he was next in line. She dropped back into the crisp, upper-class accent she’d been taught. “I hurt them back, sir. If you truly believe that white is white and black is black and there are no shades of gray, then you should know I’m covered top to toe with coal dust.”

  He smiled at her with such passion, such admiration. “You are the most honest woman I’ve ever met.”

  Sitting up, she exclaimed, “No!” He was twisting this around. She was trying to warn him, and he admired her for it. But only because he didn’t comprehend the depths of her iniquity.

  “I know, I know.” He gathered her to him again. “You’re about to thrash me for being biased. But I’ll say it right this time. You are the most honest person I know.”

  She ought to tell him. She ought to. But the air was cold, he was warm, and she was allowed one full day of happiness. She would take her day of happiness.

  He pulled her back into his arms, and she went without resistance, collapsing onto his chest, letting him warm her with his heat. Stroking her hands across his shoulders, she tried to absorb everything about him. The way he looked, the way he felt, that fall of hair over his brow, his strong fingers . . .

  With his thumb, he pressed the pad of her chin. “Tell me one good thing about your parents.”

  “They were married.”

  His eyes grew somber. “A little stark.”

  It was the middle of the night, the time for confidences. He was her lover, a man she wanted desperately to trust. Why not tell him everything? The worst that could happen was that he would turn away from her . . .

  “Darling, you look as if you’re in pain.” He cradled her head against his chest. “Don’t . . . I’m sorry I asked.”

  In a rush, she said, “My mother was a member of the minor gentry, a parson’s daughter who worked in a great house as the governess.”

  She could hear the gust of breath into his lungs, rode the swift inhale beneath her cheek. “So you’re treading in your mother’s shoes,” he said.

  “I hope not.” Was she? What would happen . . . after today? “My father met my mother in the park on her half-day off. She had a small inheritance from her grandmother, so he romanced her and against her father’s wishes, she wed him. And she . . . descended into hell. She lost her position, of course. Her family wouldn’t speak to her. And my father revealed himself to be a black-hearted blighter. He spent her money, then put her to work, not such work as she was used to, but sewing until her eyes ached. Begging . . . she hated the begging. Standing on the street corner, her hand outstretched, being spat upon by her former mistress, ridiculed by the lads, offered money for her services.” Samantha buried her face in William’s chest. “Da used to thrash the gents for that.”

  “Thank God!” He sounded appalled, yet pleased that her father had shown some small sign of chivalry.

  She crushed his hope. “He didn’t want her, but no one else should, either.” Why had she started to confess? Now she was lost, wandering in the recollection of those nights which seemed to have no day and hunger always clawed at her stomach. “My mother gave birth to me under the worst circumstances while he was out romancing yet another lady. He liked fooling them, you see. Taking them down to his level. And sometimes they had money, and then we had money, too, enough to buy food and coal.”

  William stroked her hair. “You were cold and hungry?”

  “Aye, sir, and me mum gave almost everything t’ me.” Remembered guilt clawed at her as she slipped in and out of her Cockney accent. “I knew it wasn’t right, but I sat before the fire and ate her food.”

  “How old were you?” His hand slid along her spine, up and down, offering comfort, but beneath her, his muscles tensed.

  “She died when I was seven.”

  “Seven? You were seven when she passed on? You made your mother happy by surviving.” His hug was both tender and exasperated. “Dear girl, you are not a parent. I tell you the truth—once you’ve given life to a child, you’ll do anything to keep her alive, even starve and freeze.”

  Samantha almost laughed at him, but that wouldn’t have been kind. “You’re naïve, sir. My father felt no such parental urge, nor did my mother’s most holy parents. Mum told them they had a granddaughter. She begged them to take me. She, who hated to beg.” Her fingers dug into William’s shoulder. “They refused her, told her she deserved her fate as I deserved mine.”

  “You might pity them for their shriveled souls.”

  “Or hate them for turning their faces away.” She did hate them. “When Mama died, Da sent them word. He didn’t want me, and I suppose he thought he might reap some profit out of my sale.” She shook her head. Why was she still talking? She’d never told anyone any of this. It was humiliating to be so poor and unwanted, especially by those who should have cared the most. Why couldn’t she just shut up?

  “How did you survive? A child of seven, with no one to care for her?”

  “I sang on the street corners. I begged. I swept the crossings. I did what you see children doing every day in London.”

  He didn’t say anything.

  He must despise her now. She’d blabbed all her secrets—well, almost all her secrets—and he realized at last the kind of female he had embraced. She cringed as she thought of facing him . . . but she couldn’t put it off forever, and at last she lifted her head and looked him in the face.

  He observed her with . . . well, it looked like with affection. Admiration, almost. “You are a remarkable woman,” he said, and cupping her face, he kissed her.

  With a sob, she relaxed against him. She kissed him back, deep kisses she had shared only with him. She gave herself to him completely, and hope sprouted and grew in a spirit she would have sworn was barren. That was so dangerous, to think that because he accepted all the horror of her early life, he would accept her completely. But she couldn’t help it. Perhaps . . . perhaps she had found a home at last.

  Leaning her forehead against his, she looked into his eyes. “I’ve told you my secrets. Now tell me yours.”

  She didn’t know what she expected, but nothing could prepare her for the truth.

  “My secrets? I only have one. I catch spies.”

  She blinked at him. “What?”

  “See how much I trust you?” His blue eyes twinkled at her. He smiled as if he were proud. “I swear to you it’s the truth. I catch spies—”

  How foolish she had been! “At night on the road. Of course.” She clutched at him. “That’s dangerous.”

  “More than catching bandits?” he teased.

  She answered him seriously. “Yes, I think so. Bandits are usually people who have no other way to live.”

  He sobered. “You are too kind to people who deserve no kindness.”

  He didn’t have a clue, and she was focused on him. His safety. “Spies are coldly ruthless. They don’t want to rob you.”

  “Indeed they do. Spies rob us of life, of honor, of land, of military men who would serve their country to the best of their ability, of children . . . of wives.”

  The situation grew ever more precarious. Samantha felt as if she were in the middle of a frozen lake, with thin ice in every direction and no idea where to turn. “I thought your wife died in a . . . robbery.”

  “The thieves confessed before they were hung. They were paid by the Russians to wait until Mary left our compound, and to specifically set upon her. In my zeal to rid the countryside of Russian influence, I had proved to be a problem which they took steps to eliminate.”

  “Gorblimey.”

  “So I left India with my children, resolved to follow the line of traitors back to its source. And so I have. I’ve enticed one of the most important couples ever to betray England here to this party.”

  Layers upon layers. The party was more than a mating ritual between him and Lady Marchant. It was a trap for—“Who?”

>   “You are so honest, so outspoken, I fear if I confide in you, you’ll not be able to hide your disdain.”

  She remembered the times she’d been caught with her hand in a pocket, the way she’d smiled and wheedled and acted the innocent. The times she’d talked her way out of arrest by imitating an upper-crust accent and a wholesome indignation. “I’m only outspoken with you, William. I can act with the best of Drury Lane.”

  “Lord and Lady Featherstonebaugh.” He waited for her shocked reaction.

  But she was thinking. Recalling the narrow old fool with his flirting and his prancing. Recalling the intent old woman watching the proceedings with narrow-eyed intensity. “Not him. Her.”

  William shook his head as if puzzled. “How did you know that?”

  “I recognized the signs. She’s hiding something.”

  “She is hiding something. She’s stolen a map. Teresa overheard them talking, and we have more information now from . . . from the man she stole it from. It’s vitally important that we recover it, but we would really like to make an exchange, to replace it with a map that would confuse the enemy.” William’s hands tightened on her shoulders. “If we could do that, we would save countless English lives.”

  Her breath caught, and caught again. Pain pressed like knives on her lungs. She spoke in a hoarse whisper. “You need a cutpurse.”

  “Yes. Do you know where we can find one?” He chuckled, then halted. “I suppose you do know. Were you familiar with the thieves in London?”

  “Yes.”

  Rubbing his chin, he focused over her head. “But no common thief could pretend to be genteel. I suppose we could put him into the party as a servant. But no, we couldn’t get him here fast enough.” He saw Samantha’s signs of distress, and cuddled her close. “Don’t worry, love. Somehow, we’ll find a way. It’s not your predicament. Don’t worry your head about it.”

  He drifted off to sleep, leaving Samantha staring, wide-eyed, into the encroaching light.

  William woke in the early hours to a wash of pale gray fog outside the window. Inside, the fire was blazing merrily, giving off a heat that roasted his backside and warmed the cottage. But Samantha wasn’t in the bed. He lay with his eyes closed, breathing the scent of her on her pillow, feeling the relaxation that came with bliss, and waiting until she returned so he could tell her about the rest of their lives. How they would spend them together. They would talk about travel, perhaps, and children . . .

  He heard the rustle of starched petticoats. His eyes popped open, and his gaze fell on Samantha, dressed in a pale green day gown of modest proportions, seated at the table. She was staring at him, her expression cool and expectant, not at all the loverlike delight he experienced on seeing her. But perhaps she was shy. Or perhaps she feared he would reject her as her father had rejected her mother.

  Ah, yes. In that tale, she revealed all the uncertainty she must feel in his society. It was up to him to reassure her.

  Smiling at her, he patted the cushions. “Come back, darling. Let me show the correct way a lover leaves the marriage bed.” Her cool expression vanished, to be replaced by shock and, for a second, such stark pain he was taken aback.

  “Marriage?” she said. “There was never any talk of marriage.”

  Her disbelief rendered him speechless long enough for him to look her over. Her hands were clenched in fists in her lap, her thumbs tucked under her fingers. She was breathing in short, shallow breaths. Some time in the middle of the night, she had fallen prey to doubts and fears—about him? About his intentions? But if that were the truth, surely his reference to marriage should have cured her misgivings. Gradually, without looking away from her, he freed himself from the blankets.

  She observed without a flicker of desire or interest.

  Collecting his clothing, he donned it, all the while trying to understand what had happened. Had he hurt her? He had, but he’d made it up. Had he frightened her? Nothing frightened Samantha. She’d been upset last night when he’d told her about the situation with Lady Featherstonebaugh—was she worried he would risk his life and leave her alone? But if that were the case, why had she set herself apart from him? “Tell me what’s wrong.”

  She looked away, toward the window, and her lips trembled before she pressed them tightly together.

  “Come up to the house with me,” he commanded. He needed to coerce her into talking—and she shouldn’t be alone. “I need to prepare for the day, dress in something other than last night’s wrinkled garments, consult with Duncan.”

  At last she looked back at him, and the emptiness in her eyes showed him a soul barren and bereft. “I have something to tell you first.”

  Chapter Twenty-four

  “Are you going to untie me, or leave me like this all day long?”

  Teresa ceased her frantic dressing and looked over at Duncan, stretched out naked on her bed, bound to the headboard by her sash. “Yes, yes, I’ll untie you.” She strode forward with such purpose it was hard to believe that, a half an hour ago, she had been engaged in kissing his bum. She tugged at the knots she’d taken such pleasure in setting a few hours ago. “I need you to help me with my buttons.”

  “A pleasure, my lady.” As his hands were freed, he caught her around the waist and held her in place. “But first I’d like to know what I said that distressed you so.”

  She looked down at him, her eyes damp with worry. “You said you needed a cutpurse. You said you and William required the assistance of a cutpurse.”

  “If I had known it would cause you such distress, I’d have kept my clabber shut. I thought that you seem to know everything about everybody, and that you might have someone to do the job.”

  Her expression haunted, she said, “I have to go warn Samantha.”

  His hands slid away, and slowly he sat up. “Warn Samantha? Miss Prendregast? About what?”

  Teresa’s movements were jerky as she walked across to the window and stared out at the foggy morning. “She isn’t . . . she hasn’t . . .” She turned to face Duncan. “Do you think William will confide in her?”

  “I don’t know.” Reservations formed in Duncan’s mind, but he didn’t believe them. He couldn’t imagine that that young governess . . . no. No, it was impossible. “I would have said never, but William is as daft in love as any man I’ve ever seen.”

  “But he won’t tell, will he?” Teresa wrung her hands. “Because I fear Samantha would . . . but he won’t tell her his dilemma. He thinks women are fragile creatures whose minds shouldn’t be troubled by such thorny issues.”

  All of Duncan’s suspicions coalesced, and he came out of bed in a rush. “Damn it. Are you telling me William is courting a thief?”

  William marched Samantha across the lawn, clutching her arm.

  The wench had the gall to try and wrestle free. “You don’t need to hold me. I told you so I could help you.”

  “You told me too late.” He gripped her tighter. “I have already compromised myself and my honor.”

  She punched him in the ribs with her free hand, a sharp, painful, close-fisted jab she could only have learned in her perfidious past.

  Grunting, he dropped her arm.

  Before he could grab her again, she marched on ahead and in that mocking tone that scraped at his arrogance, she said, “I forgot you were the only one involved with the events of last evening.”

  In a few strides, he caught up with her. “The only one with honor to lose.”

  “I forgot that, too.”

  The fog wet the grass and illuminated the delicate filaments of a spider’s web constructed between the branches of a rose arbor. Trees loomed out of the gray blankness, then disappeared behind them. If the fog persisted, it would ruin Teresa’s plan for a gala farewell luncheon in the tents. But William rejoiced in the still dampness. It hid the house from them, and it also hid them from any prying eyes. None of the guests would be awake yet, of course, but their servants were, and he didn’t need them reporting to their masters that C
olonel Gregory had spent the night in the arms of his governess. Undoubtedly, a great many people realized he and Miss Prendregast had disappeared at the same time. He didn’t wish to confirm any suspicions about his disgraceful behavior. His dignity, his standing in society, his very sense of worth was at stake.

  “I am furious with myself.” He didn’t try to lighten the harshness in his tone.

  “Aye, guv’nor, Oi know.” She used that dreadful, low accent, but she didn’t say anything else.

  And he wanted her to. He wanted her to fight with him, to stoke the fire of his wrath, to prove how unworthy of his attentions she was. Because it was he who had been wronged. Not she. He hadn’t wronged her. “If you’d told me the truth at once—”

  “I would have been back on that train before the next day dawned. It was not an enviable fate a mere day after I arrived.” She smiled faintly. “The train is looking better now.”

  That smile did what he wanted. It infuriated him. It justified his total and unequivocal rejection of her and her thieving ways. “Did you never think of your effect on my children? To associate with a cutpurse may have permanently scarred their unformed characters.”

  “If I have made a mark on their unformed characters—and I hope I have—it is not because of something I did in my adolescence.”

  “The taint of your crime still clings to you.”

  “In that case, you daren’t see your children again, for the taint of last night’s events must cling to you.”

  Whirling, he grasped her shoulders and jerked her to a stop. “Don’t you dare insinuate I’m marked by you.”

  “I was pointing out how absurd you’re being.” She sounded impatient, but her eyes were wise and sad.

  “You stole from me. I’m missing a pen, a portrait—” Then it struck him—the significance of what he’d lost. “My God, what kind of person are you that would take the only things I have left of my wife?”