Wedded Bliss

by Celeste Bradley

  Their prisoner sighed and then slowly shook his head. “You do not know the entire story, Daedalus. Let me ask you a question.”

  Dade nodded for him to proceed.

  “If you believed your dear cousin Bliss was in danger—about to be irrevocably harmed—would you step in to save her?”

  Dade reared his head back in surprise, then let go with a loud guffaw. “I believe we’ve already established that.”

  “Good. Then it is only natural that Neville’s family would wish to do the same for him.”

  Cas and Dade looked sideways at each other.

  “Come, now, Pryce,” Cas said. “You claim you lied to protect Neville? Protect him from what, pray tell? Neville was never in any danger, unless you consider love a danger. Bliss adores him. He adores her.”

  “So you say.”

  Attie could bear no more of this nonsense. “He’s up to something!”

  One of Pryce’s dark eyebrows arched, but Attie noticed that he did not dare deny it.

  Cas narrowed his gaze at Pryce. “And we should know. Up-to-something is a daily occurrence at Worthington House!”

  The carriage suddenly lurched to a stop, shooting Attie back to the bench. It was a rather undignified end to her speech, but she was satisfied. She had made her point.

  Cas leaned back in his seat, his arms crossed. “We will be watching you, Pryce.”

  Attie threw in a significant glare of her own. She was fairly sure she saw Captain Pryce flinch slightly.

  Lysander reached over and popped open the carriage door. The captain peered outside. “So I am free to go?”

  Cas shrugged. “We need to head home. It’s my turn to watch the baby.”

  Attie perked up. “I’ll do it!”

  “No. Absolutely not. The last time we let you watch the baby, you locked him in a box!”

  Attie huffed in offense. “It wasn’t a box, Cas. It was a trunk and it wasn’t even locked. And perhaps you’ve forgotten, but I did drill air holes.”

  The captain rose and tried to squeeze past everyone to escape.

  “Just to clarify . . .” Dade grabbed his arm. “You’re doing all this for Neville?”

  Pryce paused and looked over his shoulder at Dade. “He deserves happiness.” The captain then jumped to the street in front of his house.

  Dade leaned out the open door and called after him, “And did you succeed? Is Neville now a happy man?”

  Chapter 13

  “SIR? Sir, if I may be so bold . . . be you Captain Pryce?”

  What now? Morgan kept his hand stretched toward his own front door and turned.

  The young man before him looked like an ordinary enough fellow, not a Worthington at any rate, not another harbinger of doom riding in a moth-eaten carriage. “And if I am?”

  The man bobbed a quick bow and gave Morgan an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry to bother you, sir. I work for the old butcher on Echroy Street. He sent me to collect, he did.”

  Morgan frowned. “I did not make an order.”

  “No, sir . . . I mean, Captain Pryce, I mean . . . it were the lady of the house what done it.”

  Morgan stiffened. “The lady done . . . did what, exactly?”

  The messenger held up both hands and smiled again. “Oh, sir! ’Twere wondrous, how she floated in like an angel—even the beastly old man couldna help smiling at her! And she ordered all the best cuts—near cleaned the butcher out, she did.”

  Morgan supposed he had only himself to blame. He recalled, most reasonably, that he’d chosen to leave his bride to her own devices. Furthermore, he’d left her in a house without more than a scrap of food in it.

  But . . . the best cuts? Cleaned the butcher out? He regarded the fellow narrowly. “What does she owe you?”

  “Oh, sir, ’tisn’t much at all. The butcher was that charmed, he was! And he gave her a discount as well, seein’ as how she cleaned—”

  “Cleaned him out. Yes, I believe we’ve covered that fascinating detail already.” Morgan gave the man his best Captain Maims-A-Lot glare. “How? Much?”

  The messenger gulped and told him the amount.

  Morgan took a moment to remind himself that he was a rational man. Strangling this poor fellow wouldn’t resolve the situation. The act might be temporarily satisfying, but then he would owe the butcher for a shop full of prime cuts and one relatively polite errand boy as well.

  So instead, he reached into his weskit pocket and pulled forth more shillings than he cared to part with. He dropped the coins in the young man’s palm and narrowed his eyes in warning when the fellow had the gall to wiggle his fingertips slightly, hinting for a tip. “I’ll be needing a receipt.”

  “Oh, aye, here it is, sir. I mean, Captain Pryce, sir!” He pulled a stub of charcoal pencil from behind his ear. “And here’s me mark on it, sayin’ as how you paid up right and tidy.” The man bobbed another bow and backed away. Before he had taken more than three steps back, he’d turned and run off.

  “That’s right. You’d better run,” Morgan growled, and reached for his door latch again.

  “Oh, sir!”

  Morgan flinched. Oh no.

  “My apologies, sir, but are you by any chance Captain Pryce?”

  He turned to see not one but three fellows hurrying toward him, waving bills. All the improvements he wished to make to his ship began to sink under the waves along with his drowning solvency.

  • • •

  WHEN MORGAN FINALLY made it safely into his own house, he strode through the door prepared to do battle. He would break down his stolen bride’s resistance and claim his reward so he could quit this bloody city and get back to the sea before she beggared him any further!

  He shut the door behind him with vigor. The slam should have echoed through his empty house like thunder through a cavern. Instead, the harsh sound was muffled.

  Morgan gazed at his front hall. Something was wrong. It was a tiny entry, hardly more than a short hallway, with the stairs to the first floor on the left and an opening to the doorway to the front parlor on the right. Well, the only parlor, to be truthful.

  The entry hadn’t changed much. There was the little spindle table that his mother had brought from her family home in Wales. There was a vase on it that he’d brought back for her from one of his longer journeys. It wasn’t a valuable piece, but she’d claimed that she loved the delicate brushwork that decorated it.

  He blinked. There was a new carpet runner on the floor of the hall. It wasn’t ornately woven, just a simple blue and gold pattern, but it shone in the candlelight like a jewel. In fact, everything gleamed, from the candlesticks to the woodwork. He’d forgotten how attractive the mitered paneling was, like the milling of a fine ship. He walked closer to the wall and peered at the wooden detail. It appeared to have been oiled and polished. The sheen had returned and he could smell the faintest hint of linseed.

  Even the marble herringbone pattern of the floor, pleasing even though it was pieced in smaller tiles than the ostentatious entry of Camberton, was absolutely spotless.

  Then he noticed that the door to the parlor was open. Enough light leaked into the room from the entry that he could see that instead of a few sheet-covered furnishings, the room had been fitted out in full feminine comfort. As he entered the room, he felt another thick, soft carpet underfoot. There were new man-sized chairs on either side of the fireplace, and the short, never-intended-for-sleeping settee had been replaced by a long, deep barge of a sofa that shimmered in the dimness as only fine velvet could do.

  On the mantelpiece stood an appealing arrangement of fresh flowers, bracketed by a few of the possessions that had belonged to Morgan’s mother. A pair of painted porcelain vases that he’d brought home from his first voyage to China. A set of brass candlesticks that had come from her own mother in Swansea. A dainty gilt ormolu clock that she’d tr
easured more than anything. Morgan peered closer at it. The ornate case was bracketed by a pair of leaping dolphins. Yes, it was the same one he remembered from his boyhood, but he’d not seen it since then.

  It was alarming to think that his reluctant bride had so thoroughly investigated his house that she had found belongings he’d forgotten existed! Yet, for all the changes, everything was much as it had been. All was now spotless, with just enough touches of luxury, rugs, flowers, and jewel-toned cushions on the settee to turn monkish and severe into comfortable and welcoming. No grand elegance, no outlandish display, nothing to overshadow the small treasures he’d kept to remember his mother by.

  Just enough to turn a house into a home.

  Then he smelled food. His stomach growled. The tempting aroma of a roast . . . and baking bread . . . and the bubbling sweetness of gooseberries in a pie . . .

  God, that woman was evil.

  Morgan stuffed the handful of debt notes into his pocket and followed his nose into the kitchen.

  With all the changes in his house, he’d expected to find an army of overpaid servants lurking around corners. He found no one but his blushing bride. She stood at the stovetop, clad neck to ankles in the same old apron, her blush no doubt due to the steaming pot she stirred.

  It didn’t matter. Even with only her face and fair hair visible, her beauty was still like a punch to the gut for a man who had been at sea for such a long time.

  She must have heard him enter, because she turned to regard him with those wide, innocent blue eyes. Ha! He knew her measure and he would not be fooled! She was a thief, and a manipulator, and a—a—

  A wife.

  He looked down at the wad of notes crumpled in his hand. A grocer. A furniture maker. A butcher—whom he no doubt had to thank for the astonishing aroma coming from the oven.

  It remained to be seen just how far he was going to have to allow this miscreant to beggar him before he won his own ship out of the deal!

  As she untied her apron, she offered him a small, serene smile, tinged with a bit of hopeful expectation. His throat tightened. She was so very pretty.

  So very evil and manipulative.

  But pretty.

  Doubt twanged again. Could he be wrong about her? Could she truly be the woman Neville believed her to be?

  No. He would not fall for the same tricks that Neville had fallen for. Beyond the loveliness he saw the truth. Hell beckoned. Satan had fair hair, blue eyes, and pink cheeks. And, beneath that damned apron, the beast possessed a figure that would rouse a dead man.

  Though Morgan realized his musings might be a tad dramatic, he’d had a rotten day. He’d been on land for only thirty hours, not even long enough for his legs to stop aching. He’d barely had time to grow accustomed to the static hardness of the street beneath his boots instead of the springy give of the ship deck.

  But in that time he’d gotten himself married. Before him stood his new bride, cheerfully embracing her new circumstances, as if all was right with the world.

  For an instant, Morgan envied her adaptability.

  Last night, Bliss Worthington had worn a priceless silk satin wedding dress. Her hair, despite the weather, had been perfectly done. Even the fashionably tiny silken slippers she’d worn had probably cost more than a new sail.

  She’d looked every inch a duchess-in-the-making.

  Now, flushed and bright-eyed, she wore a gown made of flowered muslin more suited to a country parson’s daughter. It fit superbly, of course, as almost anything would on her figure, but it lacked the ruthless style Morgan had come to associate with ladies of the ton. Her shimmering blond hair was relaxed into a thick braid that was knotted up at the back of her neck, allowing soft, steam-curled tendrils to fall to each cheekbone.

  At his silent examination, her chin lifted. A gleam of something almost like defiance sharpened the serenity of her expression. Did she think he would criticize her informal appearance? Let her think it. Even if she might think she looked a mutinous mess, he was not about to inform her that he much preferred her this way!

  “Mew.”

  The sound startled Morgan, pulling his attention from the sky blue snare of the siren’s gaze.

  “Mew.”

  A kitten.

  He blinked, but the mirage did not fade. There was a real, live kitten on his mother’s chair, the old wooden one where she’d sat peeling potatoes and stripping peas.

  It was the orange tabby variety of cat creature. The scrawny little beast regarded Morgan with eerily familiar green eyes, and he shuddered at the notion that the bizarre little girl from the carriage had transformed into an animal and planted herself in his house. “Pwca,” he muttered. The Welsh shape-shifting animal spirit.

  “Attie.”

  Morgan flinched. “What?”

  “The cat. Her name is Attie, not Pooka.”

  Morgan was an educated man. He had seen the world. He knew a thing or two about the silliness of superstition. But Rose Pryce’s son had been raised on a wealth of folktales from her Welsh homeland. The chill raised the hairs on the back of his neck. “Where did it come from?” And when is it going back?

  “My cousin Attie gave her to me. Actually, she claims the kitten stowed away in one of my hatboxes of its own volition and arrived here with my things, but I don’t know if I believe that. I think Attie wanted to ensure that I had protection.”

  “Protection? From me? By a two-ounce puff of fur?” Just to prove he didn’t believe in superstitious twaddle, he picked up the kitten. With one hand under its birdlike rib cage, he held it up to examine it. “What is it going to do, adorable me to death?”

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” Bliss held up her hand. “Do not attract the vengeance of Atalanta Worthington. Not even in jest. Actually, especially not in jest.”

  Before he could scoff, the little rodent took an open-clawed swing at his nose. He clutched it to his chest in self-defense. In an obvious attempt at diplomatic distraction, Bliss dipped a spoon into her pot and stepped close in order to hold it to his lips. “Taste this.”

  He was a man standing in the female domain of a bubbling, sizzling, delicious-smelling kitchen with his hands full of homicidal feline. As if in a trance, he obeyed and opened his mouth. Too late he thought of the thinly veiled threats upon his life and manhood tossed about by the Worthington intimidation committee. But alas, he’d already hungrily swallowed the most heavenly bite of stewed beets that he’d ever had in life. And he hated beets.

  Evil. No, worse than evil. She was a witch. A sorceress.

  “Mew.”

  A witch with a fluffy, green-eyed familiar! Look at him. He’d been in her presence for less than five minutes and he was cuddling kittens and eating beets!

  Clearly, something was amiss here.

  Then he saw it. The last straw. A heavy copper tub sat in the corner of the kitchen, near a smaller stove that held two pails of steaming water. A fine bathing tub, the likes of which might rest in the chambers of Camberton House itself.

  “Bloody hell.” He returned the kitten to her throne with only a bit of bloodshed. “How much did that thing cost?”

  Having gone back to her pot, Bliss twisted her head around to contemplate the tub with a satisfied smile as she continued to stir. “Oh, I drove a hard bargain there. It only cost half a pound.”

  Morgan breathed a little easier.

  “Although the immediate delivery did come a little bit dear . . .”

  Morgan closed his eyes. “How? Much?”

  “Ohh . . . I don’t know . . . eighteen shillings?”

  Eighteen? By God, he only paid his first mate thirty shillings a year, plus a small piece of the profits. “Eighteen shillings to have some lout carry that thing into the house and set it on the floor?”

  “Well, it is a very sturdy tub. I got the largest one, in case you
wished to use it occasionally.”

  Morgan stared at her.

  “I shan’t mind at all,” she added in patently generous tones.

  Morgan fought the insane, helpless laughter that bubbled up from the depths of his exasperation. Well, as long as she had invited him to share his own blasted tub . . .

  “I’ll just carry it upstairs, shall I?” He hefted the damned thing over his head and began to maneuver it right out of the kitchen.

  “Oh . . . wait . . . but I was going to . . .”

  He turned his head to flash a fierce grin over his shoulder. “I’ll be wanting that water brought up as well. For I’m in the mood for a nice, hot soak!”

  He began his journey down the hallway and up the narrow staircase, immediately regretting his decision to establish his household dominance with a display of brute strength. This bloody hunk of ore weighed nearly as much as a small ship anchor.

  He listened as Bliss sighed in resignation and moved the pot from the flame. She began to follow him up the narrow stairway, staying a few stairs behind, as if she wished to avoid being crushed should he drop the tub. It was a wise decision, as his back and shoulders had begun to tremble with fatigue.

  If Morgan had been capable of turning around on the stairway, he was certain he’d find her cute little nose crinkled up in agitation. Turning around was out of the question, however. Remaining upright was trick enough. “Are you already complaining, wife?”

  “Of course I am not complaining, husband.”

  “Good.” Morgan tried to hide the fact that he was breathing hard. “Because if you insist . . .” Another step. “That I be a proper gentleman, which you clearly do . . .” Another step. “Then you must be a proper gentleman’s wife.”

  “Hmm. I have noticed you enjoy using that word.”

  Morgan reached the top of the landing and turned toward his bedchamber, silently counting the seconds that remained before he could drop his burden. “And being a wife means you . . . must agree to a variety of wifely duties . . .” He was panting now.