No, it was worse than that. She was untrustworthy now. By means of his appalling ultimatum, he had reduced her to the same servile resentment, the same determination to fight back at all costs, that characterized her Irish kin.
Very well, she would bide her time. She might even make that horrid promise, although the prospect made her ill—but better to make a promise she didn’t intend to keep than to lose Sylvie. A promise made under duress shouldn’t count—and yet the prospect of breaking her word brought her almost to his level. He was vile and dishonorable, and soon she wouldn’t be much better.
In the meantime she had a responsibility to Martin, whose misplaced determination didn’t seem quite so misplaced anymore, now that she herself felt the weight of the English yoke. He’d been a fool, but she couldn’t help but honor his passion for Ireland. Regardless of what Colin wished, she must find out what had happened to him, have him nursed to health if he still lived and buried if he was dead. Although how she would do so, with scarcely a penny to her name—
Ah. Martin had left without his belongings. Sure enough, there was a purse in his bedchamber. It should suffice to have him nursed for a short while or to have his body smuggled across the Irish Sea. She packed a small valise with a change of Martin’s clothes, in case he was alive to need them.
Still planning, she lay on the bed next to Sylvie and dropped into an exhausted sleep.
“Mama!”
Bridget opened one dry, gummy eye. It was full daylight now.
“You came home!” Sylvie flung her arms about Bridget. “I missed you so much.”
“I missed you too, dearest.” She hugged her daughter, cherishing that warm little body.
“Mr. Fallow said it would be another fortnight before you returned, but he was wrong.” Sylvie said this with glee and grinned, all dimples and big brown eyes.
The events of the night washed over Bridget. Martin perhaps dead or dying, Colin cold and horrid and unkind. She couldn’t do anything about Colin’s change of heart—if he even had a heart at all. He would probably try to stop her from seeking Martin, too, so she must leave soon, before he arrived and started throwing his weight about.
“Are you truly married to Mr. Fallow?” Sylvie’s dark, tousled hair, and her bright, serious gaze clutched at Bridget’s heart. “He says you are, and so does Mary Joan, but I think they are wrong. I think you must stand up in church before the vicar and say vows to be married.”
“You’re perfectly correct, and no, I am not married to Mr. Fallow and never shall be—as I have told you many times before.” She steeled herself for tears and recriminations.
They didn’t come. “Good, because I don’t like him anymore.” Sylvie snuggled close. “He took me away from you, and that’s not right, no matter how many sweets he gives one.”
Bridget smoothed her daughter’s hair. “You needn’t worry about him anymore. He’s gone now, and he will never come back.”
“Good. Mr. Fallow lied to me and so did Mary Joan. Even you lied to me, Mama.” She sighed. “Does everybody lie, Mama?”
“I suspect most of us do at one time or another. Sometimes it’s almost impossible not to.” Bridget untangled herself from Sylvie and sat up. “Dearest, I have a busy day ahead. I need you to get up, give yourself a bit of a wash, and get dressed. Then go wake Mary Joan.”
Sylvie scowled. “You’re not going to leave me with her. I refuse.”
“You do, do you?” Bridget couldn’t help but smile. “Luckily for you, I intend to dismiss her, but it will take a while to find a new nurse for you. I have to go take care of some important business today, but perhaps the vicar’s wife would take you, or Mr. McCrumb’s cook—”
“No.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“No, you may not leave me with anyone.” Her lip trembled. “I absolutely refuse.”
“But dearest, you’ll be much happier playing in the village than being dragged from place to place.”
Sylvie’s face crumpled. “Please don’t leave me, Mama. Please don’t go away again.”
“Darling, I—” All Bridget’s resolve vanished in the face of Sylvie’s distress. She’d always been a robust and fearless child . . .
But not now. Not after the recent upheavals and the sudden loss of her mother. “Very well, Sylvie-love. I’d rather keep you close beside me, too.”
Damn Colin for presenting her with such an ultimatum. She’d been a fool to approach him, a fool to put Sylvie’s future in his autocratic male hands. Every alternative was unacceptable, with only one clear and constant requirement: she must keep Sylvie close.
The interview with Mary Joan was short and unpleasant. Since Sylvie refused to be separated from Bridget for even a minute, she was permitted to stay as long as she remained quiet. She stood next to Bridget, arms crossed, a grim expression on her little face.
It reminded Bridget forcibly of Colin’s expression the night before.
“Mr. Fallow is gone?” The nursemaid burst into tears.
“Gone and never coming back,” Bridget said. “How dare you tell the world I had married him?”
“He told me to say that,” Mary Joan sobbed. “He promised to pay me one hundred pounds.”
A fortune to a servant, and now she would get nothing at all. “You betrayed me right from the start, Mary Joan. You wrote to Mr. Fallow from London, telling him where I had gone.” The maid wouldn’t meet her eyes. “You arranged to sneak away with Sylvie and give her to him.”
The maid hung her head, still weeping. “I’m ever so sorry, ma’am.”
“You behaved very badly. In a criminal manner, to be precise. I should have you taken in charge for aiding in an abduction.”
Mary Joan wailed. “Please ma’am, please don’t do that. I’ll be good from now on, I swear. I won’t never—”
“What you do from now on is nothing to me. You are dismissed, and you will get no character reference from me. Pack your belongings and then come to me in the kitchen. You have a long walk ahead of you, and I’m not so unkind as to send you away without breakfast.”
The scowl on Sylvie’s face told Bridget that she would have sent the maid away hungry. The implacable aspect of Colin’s character was one his daughter would be better without.
Mary Joan went away sniveling, and Bridget took Sylvie to the kitchen to see what they could find. Fortunately, a half loaf of bread and some cheese in the pantry spared Bridget the necessity of cooking.
“But I want bacon and eggs,” Sylvie said. “The hens are laying very well right now.”
“I don’t see any bacon,” Bridget said. A good thing, too; it would take her too long to kindle a fire in the stove, and she would probably burn the bacon anyway. Not only that, she had to go in search of Martin as soon as possible. She had to find him before Colin did.
“I’ll go fetch some eggs,” Sylvie said.
“I don’t know how to cook them.” Perhaps she should learn; if she dismissed most of the servants, she could save more quickly for their inevitable departure from England. They would be far worse off financially wherever they went; she might as well acquire such useful skills.
“Are we still going to sail to America?” Sylvie asked, as if reading her mother’s mind.
“Perhaps,” Bridget said absently. Or perhaps the Antipodes; she couldn’t imagine Colin pursuing her quite that far.
“Mrs. Black! You’ve returned.”
Bridget’s bleak thoughts subsided. Her neighbor stood framed in the kitchen doorway. “Mr. McCrumb! How lovely to see you.”
“And you.” The elderly gentleman came into the kitchen with a friendly smile, until he got close enough to shake her hand. He frowned. “You’re not looking well, my dear.”
Yes, she knew that; her mirror had told her of pallor accentuated by
dark pouches under her eyes. “I’m well enough, merely tired. Mr. Fallow gave my servants a few days’ leave, and Sylvie and I were just trying to find something to eat. Do you by any chance know how to cook eggs?”
“Come and breakfast with me.” His frown became a scowl. “You didn’t really marry that scoundrel Fallow, did you?”
“Definitely not! I arrived last night and sent him about his business.”
“Good riddance,” Sylvie said pertly. “Will there be bacon at your house, Mr. McCrumb?”
“Sylvie! Mind your manners,” Bridget said.
Mr. McCrumb laughed. “Yes, we’ll have bacon, and Sylvie’s in the right of it about Fallow. He lied to her and to everyone else—a dreadful fellow. What will you do now, my dear? People may soften towards you over the course of time, but I wouldn’t count on it.”
“I haven’t decided,” Bridget said, for it all depended, she thought bitterly, on what Colin would permit.
Oh, what was the use of speculating on what a tyrant might do? It made her so angry she wanted to scream, which accomplished nothing. Nor would dawdling here when they needed to find Martin, but it might be hours before they had a chance to eat again.
She gathered her composure. “Thank you, we should love to come to you for breakfast, but it will have to be a quick one, I’m afraid. I’ve important business to tend to that won’t wait. Just let me get rid of Mary Joan—she’s packing her things—and we’ll be right over.”
“Good riddance,” said Sylvie again.
“Better go through her valise before she leaves,” Mr. McCrumb warned.
Bridget did exactly that, supplied Mary Joan with a few slices of bread and some cheese, and sent her on her way. Soon she and Sylvie were seated at Mr. McCrumb’s table before a veritable feast.
And strong coffee, which perked Bridget up a little. They talked of this and that, but Bridget hardly knew what was said.
“You’re distracted, dear girl,” said her elderly neighbor. “What’s wrong? Is there anything I can do to help?”
“No, thank you,” she began, and then, “Yes, there’s one thing. A Mr. Warren—Mr. Colin Warren—may come by later today, and I shan’t be here.”
“Colin Warren!” Mr. McCrumb said. “I know of him; he has an estate south of the Ribble. A rakish fellow, by what I’ve heard.”
Bridget felt herself blushing.
“Have a taste for a rake, have you?” Mr. McCrumb chuckled. “Well, many a woman’s had a taste of Mr. Warren, if the tales are to be believed. Does he have his eye on you now?”
Bridget shook her head. The last thing she wanted was to see Colin. “No, Mr. Warren has no reason to see me. He’s merely coming to remove some items from my cellar. I wanted to warn you so that no one will question his presence.”
Sylvie piped up, “Mr. Warren says he is my father.”
“He is your father,” Bridget said, blushing even more. She would never get used to the mortification.
“And has acknowledged that fact?” Mr. McCrumb’s astonishment was no surprise.
“Yes,” Bridget said baldly, and then felt the need of a little explanation. “I went to him in London, asking him to counter Mr. Fallow’s claim. He has been most helpful and—and considerate.” She hoped she’d kept all bitterness and anger from her voice.
“If he really, truly is my father, he must marry you,” Sylvie said.
“Hear, hear,” said Mr. McCrumb. “What say you, Mrs. Black?”
Again, Bridget shook her head. “I don’t think Mr. Warren wishes to marry anyone.”
“It is his duty to marry you,” Sylvie insisted. “That’s what Millie would say.”
“Perhaps, but Millie is not here, thank God, and you may keep her opinions to yourself.” That led to an explanation of who Millie was and a description of their time in London, followed by reminiscences of years past when Jed had been a groom. Ordinarily, Bridget would have enjoyed this gentle, meandering conversation, but today she was too possessed by the need for haste.
Mr. McCrumb asked Sylvie to go to the kitchen for more marmalade. Sylvie sent an apprehensive glance at Bridget, who tried to smile. “I shan’t go anywhere without you, dearest.” But what would she do if Colin didn’t accept her promise, knowing she’d made it under duress? What if he put his threat into action?
Anguished, she watched her daughter go. None of the options before her were acceptable. Perhaps she could make the promise and then hire an Irish nursemaid, who would sing to Sylvie in Irish and tell her the old tales as Bridget could no longer do. But if Colin found out… She sighed heavily. Whichever way she looked at it, disaster loomed.
God help her, she might already be pregnant by Colin again. She was such a fool.
“Am I right in suspecting that you like Mr. Warren a little too much?” asked Mr. McCrumb gently.
She shook her head. “Despite the carnal attraction between Mr. Warren and me—I don’t seek to deny that—we should never suit. Our—our opinions are too much at variance. But he has been most kind to Sylvie and offered to support her financially. I refused, of course, but it is good to know I can fall back on his assistance, should I require it.”
There, that was quite a good speech, considering.
Mr. McCrumb didn’t look convinced, but he had the grace to say no more.
“Mr. Warren?”
Colin turned from the entrance to the dairy cellar to find an elderly gentleman approaching.
“Good day, sir. I’m Archibald McCrumb, Mrs. Black’s neighbor. She’s not at home, but she said you might come by.”
As if the name hadn’t already announced him as a Scot, the remnants of Mr. McCrumb’s accent would have done so. The last thing Colin needed was to face another bloody Celt right now.
He halted his thoughts right there. Until last night, Colin had considered himself a liberal sort of man. He’d actually told Bridget he had nothing against the Irish, and worse, he’d believed himself! It was a damnable lie, if his reactions last night—to the woman he loved, God help him—and this morning to a harmless old Scotsman, were to be believed.
Colin shook McCrumb’s proffered hand and greeted him cordially. Did the old fellow glare habitually, or was he about to berate Colin for his sins?
Colin didn’t need anyone to berate him. He’d done enough of that to himself last night. He’d scarcely left the village when he pulled the horses to a halt, scrambled down, and vomited onto the verge.
Never in his life had he been so sickened by his own behavior. He’d bedded other men’s wives without a second thought. He’d injured a justifiably enraged husband more than once, and in spite of knowing it for unworthy behavior, he’d never let it bother him overmuch.
He’d had plenty of time to wallow in both anger at Bridget—for he still couldn’t condone her behavior—and self-disgust on the long, plodding drive, his gelding tethered to the wagon, to an inn several miles away, where he knew the landlord for an honest man. He’d left the rifles there, sent an express off to Tilworth to come and fetch them, and grabbed a few hours of restless sleep before returning to Bridget’s this morning with two wagons—the one that belonged somewhere close by, he assumed, and one that he’d hired at the inn—and two sturdy young men to help. The Littlecombe wagon and horses he would leave for Bridget to return to their rightful owners.
He’d hoped to apologize to her before she vanished from his life forever—for he was almost certain she would run from him as she’d run from Fallow. If there was one thing he knew for sure, he couldn’t bring himself to prevent her. “When will Mrs. Black return?”
“She didn’t say. Little Sylvie tells me you’re her father,” McCrumb said.
“I am.” Colin stopped just short of adding, not that it’s any business of yours. This was the man who’d volunteered to make an honest woma
n of Bridget. Obviously he cared about her.
“Sylvie also says it’s your duty to marry her mother,” McCrumb went on. “And I agree.”
No, this was too much. “With all due respect, sir, that is none of your business.”
“Perhaps not, but I’ve a care for Mrs. Black, and I don’t like to see her mistreated. I was young once, with a young man’s urges, but to seduce a widowed lady, get her with child, and then refuse to marry her, is unacceptable. In short, the work of a scoundrel.”
“As a matter of fact, Bridget se—” Colin stopped himself just in time. He’d had almost no sleep, but that didn’t mean he should lose all self-restraint. He began again. “As a matter of fact, I asked Mrs. Black to marry me.”
“You did, did you?” McCrumb’s scowl said he didn’t believe it.
“Yes, damn you, I did.” Really, Colin thought with annoyance, he must retrieve his manners. “However, she was reluctant to do so.”
“Don’t blame her. You’re a damned rake.”
“I don’t know which gossip you’ve been listening to, Mr. McCrumb, but my way of life is none of your business, any more than my, er, arrangement with Mrs. Black.”
McCrumb’s face reddened. His fists clenched. Good God, the man was about to plant him a facer. He couldn’t fight an old man.
Fortunately, Colin’s helpers emerged from the dairy cellar, carrying a crate. Colin had considered moving the remaining rifles by himself the night before—in the hope of never returning—but the crates were far too heavy for one man. The men came slowly up the incline, panting under their burden. Mr. McCrumb’s fists unclenched, and Colin let out a breath.
“What’s in that bloody great box?” demanded McCrumb.
The Rake's Irish Lady (Scandalous Kisses Book 2) Page 21
