“I’ve never been much of a weather prophet, alas, but it seems to be letting up. I certainly hope so, for I shan’t enjoy tramping home in a downpour.” Mr. Delbert took a swig of ale. “No, I meant because tomorrow is Sunday.”
“Ah.” Traveling on Sunday was generally frowned upon, but Colin had never let that bother him in the past.
“I’d lost track of the day of the week,” Bridget said, as if she cared.
“I look forward to seeing you in church tomorrow,” the vicar said. “Always a pleasure to welcome visitors to my little flock.”
Colin glanced at Bridget. A tiny crease appeared between her brows. An unexpected hitch appeared in his rosy plans.
“Preston,” the vicar mused. “And you said your name’s Warren? I’ll bet you’re a relative of Viscount Garrison!”
Bridget’s breath hitched.
“My cousin,” Colin said.
“We rowed together at Oxford. Excellent fellow.” The vicar’s brows drew together. “There was some sort of scandal years ago, as I recall. Don’t remember what it was about. Miles was a wild sort, but I didn’t believe it nevertheless.”
“Rightly so. He was unfairly maligned, but that’s in the past now. He married recently and is doing very well.” Surely if Miles can manage that, so can I.
The vicar nodded. “Glad to hear it.”
Mrs. Butterworth came in with two bowls of steaming stew, a half loaf of bread, and a dish of butter. The vicar eyed their dinner, brightened, and rubbed his hands together. “That’s an idea! Would you care to take your potluck with me tomorrow? My wife will be delighted to have company.”
Colin summoned a polite lie. “I wish we could, but I think we’ll have to leave tomorrow in spite of its being the Lord’s Day. We’re headed to a wedding, you see—another cousin—and we’ve already suffered a few delays.”
“But with the road washed out—and it’s hardly fair to deprive the postilions of churchgoing—”
Colin refrained from a cynical comment about the lure of money versus the strictures of religion. “We’ll ride across country to the next coaching inn, and by then they will have had time to attend church.”
“But we’d be delighted to take you up on the invitation next time we pass by,” Bridget added a little too brightly. “And we’ll be sure to remember you to Lord Garrison as well.”
“Do that. Miles was quite a fellow. Those were the days . . .” The vicar finished his ale and donned his greatcoat. “No rest for the wet and weary. It’s back into the storm for me.” He waved them a cheerful farewell and left.
“What’s wrong?” Colin asked softly.
“Wrong? It couldn’t be worse. That man knows your cousin, and he believes we’re married!” She sent a surreptitious glance in the direction of the old man with the long ears. “At least you didn’t agree to attend church tomorrow.”
Colin buttered a slice of bread, sawed it off the loaf, and handed it to Bridget. He buttered and cut another slice and tucked into the mutton stew. “This is very good.” He made a sign of approval to Mrs. Butterworth, who was hovering in the doorway to the kitchen, then turned again to Bridget. “You’re Roman Catholic. Is that it?”
“What? No. Well, sometimes.”
“Sometimes?”
“Keep your voice down.” This was exactly what she’d expected; he saw everything in black and white with no inkling that there might be many shades of grey. “I’ll explain later.” She didn’t know why she cared what he thought. She concentrated on eating; perhaps hunger was making her tetchy.
After a while, the gaffer began to snore. Good enough.
“If you must know,” she said softly, “I’m Catholic when with my Irish Catholic relations, and Church of England when I’m here.”
Colin knit his brows. “Isn’t that rather hypocritical?”
“Not really,” she said. “It’s so I and the people around me can be comfortable. It’s for much the same reason that I made up a story about Sylvie’s parentage.”
“That I understand, but when it comes to churchgoing, it seems like shifting loyalties as one pleases.”
“No, it’s a matter of not fussing about irrelevancies. Do you suppose the Lord Jesus cares which church one belongs to?”
His hand, holding a buttered slice of bread, hovered an inch from his mouth. His lips quirked. “I’ve never looked at it like that. Never thought about it much at all, if you must know. I come from a godless sort of family.” Blithely, he took a bite of bread and chewed it.
How easy not to have to consider such matters, thought Bridget a mite bitterly. “Well, I have thought about it. My mother insisted that I should be brought up in the Church of England, and my father acquiesced because of where we lived, but he remained staunchly Catholic in his heart and taught me all he knew. When I went to Ireland to give birth, I didn’t wish to offend the Catholic relations with whom I’d sought refuge.” To some extent, he was right about loyalties; in Ireland, with its Catholic population under the cruel yoke of the English, she would have felt like a traitor if she hadn’t been Catholic along with them. But Colin, being one of the oppressors, wouldn’t understand that.
He said nothing, perhaps because his mouth was full, or more likely because he still considered her a hypocrite.
He wouldn’t understand about Ireland, but she had to make him understand something of what she meant. “I think one should concentrate on genuine virtues rather than bickering over doctrine. If people would stick to the messages in the beatitudes and parables, to being good Samaritans and loving and caring for their neighbors rather than endlessly judging and setting themselves up as superior to one another, we should be a great deal better off.”
Colin regarded her. “I daresay you’re right about that.” He wiped a bit of bread in the remnants of gravy in his bowl. “But it’s not why I was asking. I merely wondered if there would be any difficulty about a Church of England wedding.”
“A wedding?” she burst out.
The gaffer woke with a startled snort, and Mrs. Butterworth came through from the kitchen. “Now, how about a piece of cake?”
As a marriage proposal, he couldn’t have done much worse. Judging by Bridget’s expression, she didn’t like the idea—or perhaps she didn’t realize the proposal for what it was.
And now, with Mrs. Butterworth expounding on the relative delights of ginger cake and apricot tart, he couldn’t possibly explain himself.
“We don’t want any.” He barely stopped himself from growling. “Thank you.”
Bridget gave him an arctic stare. “You may not want any, but I’m still hungry. I’ll have the apricot tart with cream, please, and coffee if you have any.”
“Indeed we do, ma’am.” The landlady cast an inquisitive glance at Colin and asked in a pert voice, “Sure you don’t want nothing, sir? I’ve way too much in the way of desserts, because what with the rain, likely we won’t have much custom.”
“Oh, very well.” Colin managed to control his irritation, which was mostly at himself. “I thought my wife wished to retire immediately, but evidently not. I’ll have the cake. Coffee as well.”
“Coming right up. I daresay your good lady needs to replenish her energy.” She winked and left.
He rather liked those two words: my wife. He’d never expected to have reason to use them. Ever.
Judging by the expression on Bridget’s face, he might never do so again. The instant Mrs. Butterworth was gone, he muttered, “What did you expect, reams of poetry? Should I have gone down on one knee?”
Bridget gaped at him. “You’re serious,” she whispered after a long moment. “You must be mad if you think I’ll marry you just because that vicar knows your cousin.”
He shrugged—another mistake, but he seemed to have lost whatever finesse he might have once possessed. �
�I don’t give a damn about the vicar. It’s the logical thing to do.”
“Logical?” she cried.
The old man had dozed off again, but now he started awake once more. “First spat, is it? Honeymoon’s over before it’s hardly begun.” He stood, yawning. “Goodnight and good luck to you.” He shambled to the door and went into the rainy night.
Bridget’s first thought was, how horribly unromantic. Which was irrelevant, since she didn’t intend to marry him, so why repine over a love she’d never expected?
“Of course it’s logical,” he said. “It solves all our problems. You’ll be respectable again, Sylvie will have her real father, we’ll all live together at my estate—a cozy English family. I doubt anything of the sort has ever happened to a Warren before.” He cocked his head to one side. “A simple yes or no will do—preferably a yes.”
Thank God and all the holy saints, Mrs. Butterworth arrived with their desserts and coffee.
But he was right—it did solve the worst of their problems. She’d fallen in love with Colin, fool that she was. She could imagine nothing better than to be married to him, but he didn’t love her. He wasn’t the sort of man to remain faithful to one woman, and she couldn’t imagine putting up with a wandering spouse.
On the other hand, he was Sylvie’s father, and she and Sylvie would both have a chance at a respectable future if she and Colin married. It was an ideal solution to their problem and really very generous of him.
But he didn’t want more children.
She sighed and poured a substantial helping of cream over the apricot tart. To comfort herself, she envisioned pouring it over Colin and licking it off him. She would be able to do that and more if she married him.
“I don’t know why I didn’t think of it sooner,” Colin said when they returned to their bedchamber. “We like each other. We enjoy each other in bed. We already have a child together.” He shed his coat and waistcoat. “Don’t look so worried, sweetheart. It’s more than many couples start with.”
“I don’t want to trap you into marriage.”
“If you’re worried that I’ll stray, I don’t think it’s likely,” he said, tugging at his cravat. “I’ve sown all my wild oats. The more I think about settling down, the more I like the idea.”
She believed he meant every word; she wasn’t so sure he wouldn’t regret them. “It’s not that I don’t like the idea of spending my life with you. I do.”
“You do?” His dimples appeared.
“Yes,” she admitted, enchanted as always. “I do.”
“You do,” he repeated softly, and then, as if to himself, “She does want to spend her life with me.” He certainly sounded like a man in love.
Or merely besotted, a temporary state of affairs. “But I don’t want you to marry me out of obligation,” she said.
“Feeling an obligation is good for me. It’s what brought me out of the doldrums. It’s given me a purpose.” He set to work on her gown and efficiently stripped her of her clothing, piece by piece, making his purpose, for the moment at least, entirely clear.
So very tempting. “There’s also the fact that you don’t want more children.”
“But you do, and therefore we’ll have them.” He shucked his shirt and breeches. “Judging by our first effort, we’ll produce fine offspring.”
Flattery of one’s child shouldn’t be so effective. “You can’t change your mind just like that.”
“I can indeed. I’ll be damned if I’ll let some other man be the father of your children.”
“Heavens, that’s almost lover-like.” It was—and unexpectedly possessive.
“Rightly so. I am your lover.” He proceeded to prove it.
The day dawned watery but clear. They breakfasted heartily on bacon, eggs, and the sharp local cheese, packed their belongings, and backtracked a few miles to the nearest coaching inn. There they arranged for most of the baggage to be sent forward by carrier and hired a couple of horses.
They set out across country in the cool, damp morning. Birds sang in the trees; cattle lowed in the fields. Evidently, Colin knew the way well. Under any other circumstances Bridget would delight in a brisk ride in the outdoors.
“What’s wrong, my love?” he asked after a while. “Didn’t you enjoy waking next to me in bed? I was positively exhilarated.”
She tried to turn the subject with a smile. “Not to mention incredibly energetic.” No matter how uneasy she was about the future, she couldn’t help but revel in his lovemaking.
Last night and again this morning, he hadn’t pulled out at the last moment—thus proving his willingness to give her more children.
“You’ll have that every day when you marry me.” His dimples peeped out. The tenderness in his voice brought tears to her eyes.
“I know,” she whispered.
“I thought you would be happy to marry me.”
“Colin, please let’s wait a week at least.”
“By the time we retrieve Sylvie and get the special license, it may well be a week, but why would we wait any longer than we must?”
“I want to be sure. No, that’s not right. I want you to be sure.”
“I am sure.”
“But I’m not sure you’re sure.” She sighed, wondering if this was the truth. His demeanor was very much that of a man in love. She didn’t know how it had happened—but then, she hadn’t expected to fall in love either. “I know that doesn’t make much sense, but I need a little time to be comfortable. To be certain that you won’t regret this.”
Colin shook his head. “We’ll wait a short while if you insist. However, we’re going to spend tonight at my estate, and I intend to introduce you as my betrothed.”
“Very well.”
By early afternoon they were in a coach again; they might reach his estate before dark. “First thing tomorrow morning, I’ll go to Littlecombe,” Colin said. “I’ll confront Fallow and bring Sylvie home with me. Then I’ll—”
“What do you mean, you’ll go? We’ll go. Both of us.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Colin said. “Until I have a better idea why Fallow is there, I’d rather not take any chances.”
“Chances with what?”
“With your safety and Sylvie’s. I shall be able to rescue Sylvie more easily if I don’t have to worry about you as well.”
Bridget huffed. “What, you think he’ll abduct me this time?”
“I don’t know, but I’m sure he’s up to something underhanded.”
She shook her head. That didn’t ring true. Martin was a proud sort of person, a respected landowner, not a criminal.
“Tell me about your house.”
“My house?”
“I’ve been thinking,” he said, “and the only reason why Fallow needs to have Sylvie with him is something to do with your house itself. I believe he needs access to it, which he would have had if you’d married him, but since you refused, he had to find another way. I assume your servants would have refused him entrance after you left for London.”
“Of course they would, but what possible interest could he have in the house? I think maybe you were right, that he’s afraid of you. He hopes that you’ll lose interest and I’ll go home alone.”
Colin shook his head. “He didn’t have to take Sylvie to do that. He could have simply waited a while, keeping in touch by way of the nursemaid. It must be something to do with either the house or the area, and I vote for the house. If he merely wanted to do something in the area—invest, for example, or buy property—he could perfectly well stay at an inn. He wouldn’t have any reason to drag a child and her nurse along with him.”
“I suppose that makes sense.” Except that it didn’t, for what could Martin want with her house?
“You heard
what the postilion in London said. The story was that they’re going home and expecting you to come later. Evidently he intends to occupy the house with Sylvie and her nurse on the pretext that you’ve finally agreed to marry him and will return soon. The servants will find it much more difficult to deny him under those circumstances. Now tell me about the house.”
“There’s nothing unusual about it. Drawing room, dining room, a couple of parlors, kitchen and pantry and so on. Upstairs there are five bedrooms.”
“No secret passages or priests’ holes?”
“It’s not large enough for that, Colin—nor old enough. It’s not an Elizabethan mansion like yours.”
“With ivy that breaks away from the wall rather than massive trees that make it easy to climb in and out of windows.” His dimples surfaced briefly, then disappeared. “No buried treasure in the garden?”
“Not that I’ve ever heard of,” she said.
“Well then, how about the cellars?”
The cellars . . .
Chapter 10
“What? What’s down there?”
Something must have shown on her face. Hurriedly, Bridget flapped a hand. “Nothing of interest, unless he wants what’s left of my father’s brandy. There used to be some in a—a nook behind the wine racks, but Martin wouldn’t marry me for the sake of a keg or two of brandy.”
“You’ve let good French brandy sit there all these years?”
She hunched a shoulder. “The tenants may not have noticed it, and I don’t care for it, and doesn’t it improve with keeping?”
“No secret cellars for smuggled goods?” he asked.
“We’re not near enough to the coast to have secret cellars. I assure you, Martin merely thinks persistence will pay off. I did love him once, you know.”
The Rake's Irish Lady (Scandalous Kisses Book 2) Page 17
