“The spread looks delicious,” she said.
“I am very glad, Your Grace.”
Your Grace.
It was the first time someone had referred to her as such, and she attempted to act calmly, as if those were words that she’d always assumed would be her destiny. She spread dark apple butter on a roll, proud that her knife did not wobble.
“The duke should be out shortly,” the innkeeper continued, and Charlotte despised the flurry of butterflies that seemed to flutter against her spine.
If she’d had any doubts on the duke’s dashingness, their kiss would have dismissed them. They’d kissed, and unlike last time, he had not done so on the bidding of someone else. For a blissful moment, everything had been utterly wonderful.
It was still utterly wonderful, she reminded herself.
“Ah, Your Grace.”
“Charlotte.” Callum’s deep voice rumbled, and she turned around. “How did you sleep?”
“Rather well,” she said. “And you?”
Their conversation felt stilted, but the images that flashed through her mind were anything but ordinary. What would have happened had Callum stayed?
It would be most convenient if the man were not nearly so handsome. She grabbed another roll and lathered black butter onto it. It wouldn’t do to contemplate the way his muscles had felt beneath his shirt and tailcoat last night, and how their height difference hadn’t truly mattered after all when he’d held her in his arms.
“I’m going to take you exploring the island today,” he announced.
“Oh?”
“Have you been fishing?”
“Naturally not. Besides, that’s not a ladylike venture.”
He leaned closer to her. “I know it’s not. That’s why I thought you might like it.”
“I think there might be an insult in that.”
“There’s not.” He winked, and the action seemed to cause those butterflies to invade her chest again, as if the man managed to conjure them with his mere gaze.
She made herself ready quickly, and soon they strode through Saint Peter Port.
“Are you quite fond of fishing?” she asked.
“Not excessively fond,” he said. “I haven’t fished in a while. But I used to. Quite frequently.”
“In the Highlands.”
“No better fishing in the world,” he declared.
“Then why haven’t you been back in years?”
He turned to her, and the glimmer in his eyes disappeared. “How did you know I haven’t been back in years?”
“I may have overheard Lord Braunschweig speaking about it. He had an invitation to go to Scotland, but he was pondering not attending.”
“And he stated my lack of recent visits as a reason for him not to visit?”
“Precisely,” she said, but her voice wobbled.
The pleasant expression on Callum’s face vanished, and he raked his hand through his hair. “My reasons for not liking Scotland have nothing to do with anyone else. They are personal.”
She stiffened. “You don’t have to explain.”
“Thank you,” Callum said quietly.
They passed pastel-colored stone homes. Seagulls darted above them, but the world seemed somewhat less idyllic than before. Charlotte lengthened her steps, and soon they left the small town and strode into open fields, dotted with distant farmhouses. Clouds fluttered over the sky.
“The secret to fishing is good fishing tackle,” Callum declared.
“I’d rather assumed it was finding a good location,” Charlotte said.
“That too,” Callum said. “You already show talent.”
Charlotte giggled. “Are we going to get poles?”
“I thought we would just throw spears into the water.”
Charlotte must have looked surprised, for Callum grinned. “Guernsey’s style of fishing is not that different from the type favored in Britain.”
“It will still be a novel experience for me.”
Callum led them to a small cottage and emerged with fishing supplies. His hair was tousled, and his buckskins already muddy from their walk. He looked nothing like the polished, aloof aristocrat she’d seen at Sir Seymour’s ball.
“You love nature,” she observed.
“I suppose I do.”
“Why didn’t you join the navy?” Charlotte murmured.
“I was too worried they might send me to Virginia and battle in an unnecessary war with the former colonies.”
“Oh.”
“Blood shouldn’t be spilled casually. France was where the real battle was. I wasn’t going to punish some fresh-faced youths whose ancestors had had the temerity to fight for a fraction of the freedom I have.”
“That’s very noble.”
“I have my moments.” Callum’s eyes sparkled, and Charlotte turned away and shaded her face. No need for him to know that his gaze exceeded sunrays in strength.
Callum led her over an increasingly rocky path, toward the sound of a river. “Tell me if it becomes strenuous.”
“I’m fine,” Charlotte said.
Charlotte might be nervous around other people, but rivers were rather less intimidating.
“I thought you might prefer this to spending the rest of the day with Lord Braunschweig and his sister,” Callum said.
“You supposed correctly.”
“Excellent.” They rounded a bend, and a small stream lay before them. The water moved quickly, as if eager to reach the channel.
Charlotte stared at the clear water. “It’s beautiful.”
“Good,” Callum said. “Then let’s start here.”
Charlotte took a seat on a rock, and Callum settled casually beside her, before proceeding to tell her about the complexities of fishing tackle. Happiness thrummed through her.
THE DAYS WERE LONG and filled with sunshine. Charlotte and he explored the island. In the evenings, they sometimes dined with Lord Braunschweig and his sister, but mostly they were together. Callum should miss London. He’d been able to indulge in all the city had to offer, but he realized it was the countryside which he craved.
Charlotte and he had taken a boat to explore the other side the island. They pulled the boat onto the shore and then strode through the idyllic landscape. Charlotte exclaimed over the variety of flowers.
“I must confess to having grown quite fond of hills,” Charlotte said.
“You don’t miss Norfolk?”
“I miss my family.”
Callum swallowed hard, and her eyes softened.
“I’m sorry,” she said gently. “You must miss your family too.”
“They’ve been gone a long time,” Callum said.
“That doesn’t make it better.”
No.
It didn’t.
“How did they die?” she asked.
“It’s my fault they’re gone,” he confessed.
He stiffened.
He hadn’t meant to tell her that. He’d never told anyone that.
“What on earth do you mean?” she asked.
“It’s nothing.” He glanced at the landscape. “This almost reminds me of Scotland.”
“Callum,” she said sternly. “How could it possibly be your fault that they died? I hardly imagine you spent your youth murdering relatives.”
“Then perhaps you should broaden your imagination,” he said glumly.
Her eyes widened, and he sighed. “I’ll tell you. I-I hope you won’t think worse of me, but I understand if you will.”
“Heavens. What is troubling you?”
“I acted poorly as a child,” he said. “I was...naughty.”
Her eyebrows rose. “Most children are naughty.”
“I doubt you were.”
She flushed. “I enjoyed the indoors.”
“Anyway. I was naughty. I didn’t listen to my parents. I played with everyone, even the local children. Even when I was expressly told not to,” his voice wobbled. “I’d disobeyed them before. But this time—” His lips
twisted, and his voice had become hoarse.
Charlotte rested her palm against his shoulder, the same action that she might have done with her sister, and he eased into the sensation, as if to draw strength from their sudden intimacy.
“The next door children were sick. My parents didn’t want me to get sick. They were right,” he said shortly, jerking his head away from her.
She squeezed his arm gently. “But you’re fine now.”
He swung around. “But they’re not. They’re dead. Don’t you see? It was my fault. If I hadn’t played with them, I wouldn’t have gotten sick, and then my parents wouldn’t have died when they were younger than I am now.”
His voice sounded hollow, and she longed to pull him toward her. Instead, she squeezed his hand.
“You didn’t know,” she said.
“I was warned,” he said bitterly.
“If you had been told your parents would die if you disobeyed them, I’m certain you wouldn’t have.”
His shoulders seemed to relax. “You’re right.”
“Of course I am.”
He tilted his head toward her. “Thank you. No one else knows.”
“Not your brother?”
He shook his head vehemently. “I wouldn’t want my brother to know.”
“He would understand,” she said.
“The one person who knew was not understanding.”
“You said no one else knew.”
He looked away. “He’s dead now. Lord McIntyre. My guardian.”
She frowned. “And he was unkind.”
He gave a harsh laugh. “He used it. He promised to keep my secret, while threatening to tell Hamish.
“I’m so very sorry.”
He stared at her, fighting the urge to kiss her. She hadn’t run away. She didn’t appear horrified. She just seemed utterly lovely.
Chapter Eighteen
Two weeks passed. They’d only gone to Guernsey because of Callum’s brother’s behavior, and Guernsey’s status as a suitable elopement destination, but he was pleased that they had come here.
“Are you happy?” he asked as they strolled through Saint Peter Port.
She gave a wobbly smile, and Callum cursed himself. Of course, she couldn’t be simply happy. Not when her physician had given her a death sentence. No amount of vibrant, blooming flowers, no amount of sunshine spattered shorelines, no amount of crisp blue water, could change that.
“I am happy,” she said. “More than I thought possible.”
His shoulders relaxed, and he beamed. “Splendid. We can explore the other islands. Jersey is supposed to be quite spectacular.”
She smiled, but something about it made him gaze at her sharply.
“You want to return?”
She nodded. “This has been so marvelous, but my parents...”
His heart clenched again. “I could send for them.”
“I don’t want to worry them.”
“They must know sometime.”
“I-I know.”
Charlotte’s illness hung between them.
Callum led Charlotte to the harbor. A ship towered over the cheerfully painted fishing boats docked at Saint Peter Port and emanated sophistication. Sailors in striped shirts moved decisively over the deck, repeating steps they had made their whole lives.
“If you would like, we can take this ship tomorrow morning. Lord Braunschweig and his sister are planning to travel back to London on it. It’s smaller than the one we came here on and it only goes to Portsmouth. But we could take the ship and then take a carriage from Portsmouth to London, stopping to visit my manor house in Hampshire. We can wait for the larger ship of course, but that departs in five days, so we would reach London at the same time. I thought you might enjoy seeing more things.”
“That sounds splendid.”
Charlotte tilted her head, and her blond locks billowed in the breeze. Her smile had seemed to grow more serious. “Are you certain?”
“Yes. But I am going to take you to every specialist the city has.”
“Doctor Hutton is the best.”
“Then I will take your whole family to Bath and drag you to all the best doctors there. And then to Tunbridge. And then to Harrogate.”
Charlotte’s eyes widened, and he kneeled beside her.
Blast it.
He was going to tell her. These two weeks had been amazing. He wanted to tell her that she’d become everything to him.
That he adored her. That he loved her.
The words hung on the tips of his lips to be released.
But still...
He hesitated.
Would her lips quiver and would she admit similar feelings? Or would she grow more pale, unsure how to tell him that his feelings were not reciprocated?
He didn’t want her to feel forced. They’d entered the marriage without love, with a careful contract, and he didn’t desire to change the terms on her, and make her live as if it were a love match for her.
After all, she’d just declared a desire to return to England.
She’d been so cool and collected when she’d outlined the terms to him.
So instead, he turned toward the ship. “I’ll purchase us tickets.”
She nodded, and he hurried up the gangway, unsure what sorts of secrets he might reveal, were he to remain in her presence.
He craved her.
He yearned for her.
Images of her flashed through his head constantly, whether she was before him or not, and he smiled when he remembered their conversations. There were so many things he wanted to show her, but when he was with her, his tongue seemed to thicken, and his words did not leave his mouth in elegant flourishes.
He’d told her his deepest secret, and she hadn’t been shocked. She hadn’t abhorred him, and she hadn’t even looked at him differently. She’d only squeezed his hand and murmured sweet things to him.
THE SHIP SEEMED TO be making its very best attempt at ensuring disaster. The waves seemed to have mistaken the ship for a cricket ball, and each wave seemed to be under the assumption it was a cricket bat and seemed determined to fling the ship farther than the other.
It was all Callum’s fault. If only he hadn’t suggested to take Charlotte to the Channel Islands. A woman like her should be safe, on the ground, where no water could flood her surroundings, and no wooden walls might break apart about her, hurling splinters with the nonchalance of a rain shower.
He shouldn’t have allowed his brother to thwart Charlotte’s and his carefully planned wedding day, and he certainly shouldn’t have suggested they elope on an island.
The furniture might be barricaded to the walls, but the pillow had developed a habit of flying to odd corners of the room, and the only reason the blanket hadn’t joined was because Callum and Charlotte were clutching onto it.
Charlotte.
He was very aware of her presence.
His thoughts should have been focused on visions of impending death.
That would have been logical, despite his reassurances to Charlotte.
He’d been in storms before, but never ones of quite such intensity. Never ones that pitched the ship in every direction. If he had a less strong stomach, he might have been experiencing physical agony, but the only distraction in this room was Charlotte.
His body seemed to be delighting in her presence, despite the fact death seemed to be peering infuriatingly close. She’d pressed her small hands against his chest, as if his ribs alone would give her comfort.
Well, she was not wrong to do that.
He would do damn everything he could to protect her.
If the ship sank into the water, he would haul her in his arms and carry her through the water-filled corridors so they might escape into the ocean. This vessel was not going to become their coffin. If the ship split, if lightning struck the great mast, he would swim with her to safety. No waves, no matter their strength, could lessen his resolve to protect her.
She’s everything.
The lantern crashed, and he blinked into inky darkness. Broken glass rattled on the floor, and he clutched her closer to him.
Her breasts pressed against his side. They were soft and alluring, and his body ached with an urge to run his fingers over them, to clasp them, to kiss them.
How had he possibly dismissed her?
He moved his hand gently over her body, as if to ascertain that she was really there beside him.
EVERYTHING WAS DARK, and everything should have been dreadful.
The ship, for all its modern wonders of constructions, was struggling. The thunderstorm roared above them, and she clasped Callum more tightly.
Callum.
She shouldn’t be looking for him for comfort.
She shouldn’t be so predictable.
Perhaps he was her husband, but they both knew he’d not taken on the position out of a desire to hold her through the night.
She removed her hands from his chest and inched toward the end of the bed.
The task was not difficult.
The bed’s width was of the narrow variety; it was not meant for two people. She should never have succumbed to her fear to begin with, should never have joined him here at all.
Thunder sounded again. Its low baritone rumbled over her. Sailors shouted above them, and she imagined lightning rushing down from the sky, the silver streaks illuminating for a terrifying second the crashing of the waves against the ship. Had the lighting struck the ship? She froze.
All the money of the ship magnate who’d built this ship, all the centuries of knowledge on ship building, all the decades of skill of the sailors—if nature decided to have a ferocious storm, none of those things could prevent the destruction of the ship and all of their deaths.
How arbitrary life could be. How very odd the duke had happened to spot her cart, had happened to require a bride, and they’d married and ended up here together. When they’d sailed to Guernsey, the crossing had been calm and smooth, but now the whole world had shifted.
No stars would be visible now. The sky would be opaque, and no one would be wondering at the world’s beauty, only at its power.
“Charlotte?” Rustling sounded. “You can be closer. If you want.”
Charlotte was silent, and she fought the temptation to roll back into his arms and grasped onto the end of the bed.
Dukes Prefer Bluestockings (Wedding Trouble, #2) Page 13
