“What would he know about my feelings?” Marsali demanded with a huff.
“Not much, apparently.” Mr. Thatcher’s lopsided grin returned. “Thankfully.” His hands slid from her shoulders and down the length of her arms. “I meant every word I said, every promise I made.”
“But why change your plans— for me?”
“Because it is for you. Because I have scarce been able to stop thinking of you since the moment you first shuffled up the ramp in that clever disguise. I was so very impressed that night. And then we danced, and you told me about the stars, and you helped Miss Cosgrove— every day I found something more to admire about you.”
She blushed from his praise while beneath her dress her heart pounded.
“And then just yesterday I realized that if I did not marry you, you should suffer a lifetime without clean clothing, considering your lack of laundry skills.”
“You told me I had improved,” she said, sticking out her lip as if he had wounded her.
“Oh, you have,” he rushed to say. “But considering what skill you began with…”
She folded her arms and did her best to look cross. “Be grateful that I am not in possession of a wet article of clothing right now. You might find it upon your head.”
“Deserved, no doubt.” He continued with his assessment. “I do believe that watching you attempting to do laundry was the deciding factor in my proposal. That, and your gumption at climbing up to the lifeboat. Oh, and Mr. Luke persuaded me as well.”
“Mr. Luke?” Marsali’s frown deepened and was no longer pretended. “What has he got to do with this?” One minute Mr. Thatcher spoke tenderly, and the next he teased. She could scarce keep up or believe him.
“Well…” He released her and stood suddenly, then began walking before her, imitating Mr. Luke’s arrogant gait. “As you began to spend more and more time with the gallant first officer, it became quite apparent that if left to your own devices, you would end up with someone ostentatious like him. And I knew it would not be long before the fellow drove you completely mad, and then I began to worry not only for your safety with Thomas but your sanity with Mr. Luke, or someone like him. And so I said to myself, ‘Christopher, you’ve got to save that woman not only from the cruelty of her employer but from herself as well.’”
“Such chivalry.” Marsali rolled her eyes. “I had the matter in hand, you know. Why do you think I was hiding in that boat?”
“I thought you were avoiding Lady or Miss Cosgrove.”
“I was not,” Marsali said, eager to clarify the matter. “Lydia could talk to me for an entire week, and I would prefer to wash all of her dresses again over another hour spent in Mr. Luke’s company.”
“I am quite happy to realize that.” Mr. Thatcher ceased walking and stopped before her. “I might, perhaps, have been jealous.” He helped Marsali from the window seat.
“You have no reason to be jealous,” she assured him. “I have wished only for your company since that very first night.”
The room grew silent as they faced one another.
“I only tease those I care for,” he said quietly. “My younger sister, Helen, used to be my favorite target, and I love her dearly. But were she here with us now, I should think she would come in second to my love of sparring with you.”
“I shall take that as a compliment.” Marsali’s tears had finally dried, so she allowed herself to look up at him. “Still, this is madness, and I cannot quite believe it.”
“Believe it,” he said. “I shall be haunted if you leave without me, if you knowingly go alone to face danger. That would be the only madness herein.”
“What if Mr. Thomas is a danger to you as well?” Marsali asked, worrying suddenly that he would be.
Mr. Thatcher shrugged. “As a wise young woman recently once told me—” he brought a hand to his chin as if speculating— “there is little point in letting the possibility of tomorrow’s troubles interfere with today. When they come, if they do, we shall face them together— as husband and wife. Marry me, Marsali.”
She attempted to mirror his casual smile. “I already said yes.”
His eyes grew dark with intent once more. “Perhaps something more, then, to seal the bargain.”
She stuck her hand out in the manner of a business agreement. He took it and pulled her to him, slipping his other arm around her waist, then whispered in her ear.
“Am I truly as bad at courting as the captain says?”
“Worse.” Her hair caught on the evening stubble along his jawline. “I had no idea you were courting me until a few minutes ago.”
“Ah,” he said. “My subtlety worked, then.”
“It did,” she conceded, thinking it seemed days ago— not within the last hour— that she had come to this room, believing a reprimand from the captain awaited her. “But do not think that tactic will continue to work for you. From now on I should like more direct communication, so as to not be confused about your objectives.”
“I’ve only one at the moment.” He leaned in closer. “My objective is to kiss you.”
“You are too bold, Mr. Thatcher.” Delightfully so.
“My name is Christopher. I should like to hear you say it.”
“You are too bold, Christopher.”
He grinned rakishly. “Get used to it.” He kissed the bridge of her nose.
Marsali sighed with disappointment when he pulled back. “That was your objective?”
“Hardly,” he said, “but the captain’s quarters are no place for a first kiss between us.”
“Why not?” She glanced about the room again. It is pleasant enough, and we are alone. Instead of being frightened by the prospect of kissing him, she felt exhilarated.
“Trust me.” Christopher pulled her close briefly, then kissed her forehead and set her away from him. “If I have learned one thing from my brother-in-law, it is that a first kiss must be done right.”
She tilted her face up toward him. “There is a wrong way to kiss?”
“No,” he said. “At least there won’t be when we do it— tomorrow.”
Christopher knew the second Marsali entered the room. Before he heard the click of her door or caught a glimpse of the fabric of her dress as she sat across from him, he felt her presence and the quantity of electricity that came with it. It stretched between them, an invisible force that seemed almost tangible. He felt pulled toward her, aware of her every movement, conscious of her expressions, the slightest change in her delicate features, every breath she drew.
It was driving him mad— in a pleasantly torturous sort of way.
If one could only patent this feeling, he would surely make a fortune.
“Good morning, Miss Abbott.” He handed her the dish of berry jam, knowing— from days of studying her habits— what she would choose to spread across her biscuit.
“Good morning, Mr. Thatcher.” Their fingers touched briefly, and color flooded her cheeks. She avoided his gaze, but he caught her biting her lip in an attempt to hold back a smile.
He didn’t bother holding his back— probably couldn’t have if he’d wanted to. He’d woken with two thoughts this morning: that Marsali was to be his wife; and that they would soon be in America. With both of these events to happen within the next two days, he’d never felt happier or more alive.
“Enchanted morning, everyone,” Miss Cosgrove called as she wrestled her wide gown through the doorway, then sailed down the corridor toward them, flamboyant layers of lavender preceding her.
Enchanted. A fine word. I am enchanted with my soon-to-be wife. Marsali wore a pale green gown today, simple in adornment compared to Miss Cosgrove’s, but he thought it very pretty on her. She needed no frills or frippery to assist her beauty.
“Green becomes you,” Christopher said as he handed her the milk before she could request it.
“Thank you. My father used to tell me the same thing.” She pulled at the pitcher, but he refused to release it, preferring to maintain t
heir eye contact across the table and having her hand so near to his.
“He was a very wise man.”
“As are you. Feel free to compliment me often.” Marsali leaned forward. “However, you must share the milk if this courtship is going to come to fruition.”
He laughed and let her have the pitcher just as Miss Cosgrove joined them.
“Good morning,” Marsali said with far more enthusiasm than Christopher felt about Miss Cosgrove’s arrival, though even her chatter could not dampen his spirits this morning.
Miss Cosgrove returned Marsali’s greeting and followed it with what sounded strangely like an order. “Do be a dear and slide down so I may sit across from Mr. Thatcher this morning.” She held her skirts and waited expectantly.
“Of course.” Marsali slid to the end of the bench, stood, and walked around the head of the table, past Captain Gower’s as-yet vacant chair, to the other side.
Feeling inordinately pleased at her bold move, Christopher made room for her next to him and reached across the table to pull her dishes to his side. Miss Cosgrove still stood, squinting at them, her brow furrowed, a look of perplexity mingled with a dash of annoyance. She gave a forced laugh as she clapped her hands together.
“Well, I did not mean that far, but I suppose it shall do. Now I can look at both of you.”
“And we you,” Marsali said pleasantly.
Christopher silently admired both her assertiveness in staking her claim and her apparent lack of a grudge against Miss Cosgrove. He doubted he would have been so generous had Mr. Luke requested to sit near Marsali.
Miss Cosgrove poured herself a cup of tea. “Since we’ve only three days left for amusement, I thought we might stroll the deck this morning. The captain says we shall begin to see signs of land soon— birds and such. After being inside that dreary cabin so long, the sea air will be most refreshing. Though I dare not go walking on my own, weak as I still am.”
Her tongue has not weakened with her illness. Christopher took a larger bite of his roll than necessary, ensuring his mouth was too full to respond to anything Miss Cosgrove said.
“I will accompany you,” Marsali offered.
Christopher hurriedly chewed, then swallowed too quickly, the dry bread scratching his throat as it went down. “Will you not have other matters to attend to today?” he asked, giving her a sideways glance as he reached for his cup. He had assumed— wrongly, perhaps— that their remaining time on the ship would be spent together. At the least, they were to be married today. And though they could not have a traditional wedding night, he wished to spend the time talking with Marsali and enjoying her company.
“Actually,” Miss Cosgrove cut in, “I was hoping you would walk with me, Mr. Thatcher. You’re much taller and will be good for me to lean upon, should the need arise.”
“I am afraid that will be quite impossible.” Christopher tried not to sound too smug. He had not considered the immediate benefits of his betrothal, but this one he intended to make use of at once. “I’m afraid that it would not be appropriate for me to walk with you when I am betrothed to another woman.”
“Betrothed.” Miss Cosgrove’s mouth opened nearly as wide as some of the pelicans he had viewed at the Liverpool docks.
“Miss Abbott and I are to marry before the end of our voyage.”
“It was a very sudden decision— arrived at just last night,” Marsali added in a tone likely meant to soften any hurt Miss Cosgrove might feel. “Mr. Thatcher is marrying me to keep me safe from Mr. Thomas, the man my sister warned me about and the one to whom I am indentured. You’ll remember her letter?”
Miss Cosgrove nodded and managed to close her mouth.
“I am marrying you because I wish to.” Christopher placed his hand over Marsali’s on the table. The urgency of her situation may have prodded him down this path, but he now embraced it wholeheartedly. To arrive on America’s shores, not alone as he had imagined but with someone at his side, with whom he might build a life, was now infinitely appealing— on many counts. That this someone would be Marsali filled him with a joy he had not anticipated. No longer did the actions of his brothers-in-law seem so absurd or shameful. If anything, Christopher felt his behavior had been shameful, silently ridiculing them as he had. Really, they had been confident and mature enough to show their affection for his sisters, the women they loved.
He sought that same confidence and maturity now as he leaned closer, brushing an imagined crumb from the corner of Marsali’s mouth. “Remember my policy never to do anything that I do not wish. I wish to marry you.”
“You make it impossible to forget.” Her gaze flickered to his lips as she wet her own. She turned her hand beneath his and entwined their fingers together.
A look of great consternation had crossed over Miss Cosgrove’s face as she witnessed this exchange. Christopher could see that she was wrestling with her feelings, and he recalled suddenly what Marsali had told him weeks ago— that Miss Cosgrove fancied him, though she herself was engaged to be married.
“You are to be married here, on the ship, before we reach America?” she asked, looking from one to the other.
“That is what the plan is, yes.” Captain Gower’s door opened, and he stepped into the saloon and took his place at the head of the table. Before this morning he had never been late to a meal, that Christopher could recall.
“If Miss Abbott is not married before meeting up with Mr. Thomas, it is not likely to happen,” Captain Gower said. He directed his attention to Christopher and Marsali. “However, I am afraid the situation is not as simple as I believed it to be. While it is clearly in my authority while on this ship to do as I see fit regarding matters of importance— including marriage— having that authority recognized elsewhere may prove a difficulty.” He dished porridge into his bowl and began spooning sugar over it.
“If it will not be recognized, then why go through with it?” Miss Cosgrove asked. “Why—”
“Because I believe we still have a good chance of pulling this off,” Captain Gower said, cutting her off before she could entirely launch into a monologue of questions. “I must ask you to please enjoy your breakfast, Miss Cosgrove, and allow me to speak. There is much that needs to be decided, and Miss Abbott and Mr. Thatcher have little time in which to make those decisions.”
Christopher and Marsali exchanged an uneasy glance. He wished he knew what she was thinking.
“I’ve been reading up on American law this morning,” Captain Gower said. “It is vastly important that you are recorded as a married couple before you leave for Virginia. New York recognizes common-law marriages, which is what yours shall be, as I am not authorized clergy, as there were no banns posted, and all of that. New York will recognize your marriage, but Virginia will not— unless, possibly, it is initially recorded in another state.”
“Does that mean that Mr. Thomas will not believe us to be married?” Marsali asked, coming to the same conclusion Christopher had.
“It is possible,” Captain Gower said. “But you must remember, Thomas is a businessman, first and foremost. In essence, I am offering him a gift in you, Mr. Thatcher. I have to believe that the offer of your free labor for a period of two years will be difficult for him to refuse. No doubt, Miss Abbott, you are a valuable commodity as a lady’s maid, but Mr. Thatcher’s ability to labor will be far beyond yours, and if Thomas is half as intelligent as I have known him to be, he will see what a bargain he will be getting.”
“This isn’t right,” Marsali said anxiously. Hair had escaped her bun— a frequent occurrence, Christopher had noted— and she began winding the strands around her finger as she worried her lip. He had not seen her doing either of these things since the day she’d first read her sister’s letter, and he attributed the habits to the seriousness of her concerns.
“I cannot allow you to go through with this.” She tipped her face up to his, and he read the agony in her eyes.
“You already told me yes,” he reminded her gently.
“It would be most unkind of you to withdraw from our agreement now.”
“Do not lose hope as of yet,” Captain Gower advised. “I have one other idea in addition to having your marriage recorded when we arrive. It is likely that Mr. Thomas will not be there to greet us in port, as we are arriving a full two days earlier than expected. If that is our good fortune, I suggest you use that time to seek out an official clergyman and have a second ceremony. That way there could be no question as to the validity of your marriage.”
“Thank you for the suggestions, Captain.” Christopher planned to take both of them, though he worried whether the two pounds in his possession would be enough for the license and any other fees associated with a marriage ceremony.
“In the meantime, I am ready when you are to perform your shipboard wedding.”
“After breakfast will be fine,” Christopher said, giving Marsali’s hand a gentle squeeze. He could not allow her to change her mind. Last night had been the best sleep he’d had since learning of what awaited her in America.
“Having your wedding after breakfast will not be fine.” Miss Cosgrove jumped back into the conversation with a voice that rose to an unnaturally high pitch. She slapped her palms on the table and stood, fixing a glare upon him.
“We did not mean to pain you, Lydia.” Marsali attempted to wriggle her fingers from his, but Christopher held them fast.
He could not allow regret— of any kind— to change her mind. He had never encouraged Miss Cosgrove’s attention, and if she had somehow misconstrued the forced kindness he had shown her, the wrongdoing was certainly not Marsali’s.
“I am not the one who will be pained by this,” Miss Cosgrove said, astonishing him— and Marsali, too, given the look on her face.
“It will be you who is pained, Marsali, with this rushed, shipboard ceremony.” Miss Cosgrove’s eyes narrowed on Christopher once more. “You are speaking of a wedding, a most sacred event, one many girls dream of their entire lives. Marsali needs a special gown. She ought to have a church and someone to give her away. She should have a posy of flowers. And after breakfast will never do. Do you not know that there should be a breakfast following the wedding?”
Marrying Christopher (A Hearthfire Romance Book 3) Page 22
