by Mary Campisi
“Emily!”
Her head snapped up.
“What in God’s name are you doing?” Ian demanded.
Emily blinked. What had she been doing? Thinking of Noah Sandleton. She looked at the fork in her hand as though it belonged to someone else. She scoured her plate and gasped at the brown heaps of chunky mush covering it.
Ian and Augusta stared at her as though she’d gone mad. She stared back at them, scooped up a forkful of the brown muck that resembled the contents of a chamber pot, and took a bite, pretending it was one of Mrs. Florence’s finest preparations. Scooping another forkful, she smiled at her brother and sister-in-law and extended the fork. “Care to try any? It’s actually quite tasty.”
They shook their heads, eyes trained on her fork. Emily waved the utensil toward them and plopped its contents in her mouth.
“Mmm,” she said as though it were a great delicacy.
Maybe she really was going crazy. Crazy wouldn’t be so bad. At least then, she wouldn’t feel anything. No disgrace over being considered “ruined.” No humiliation when Noah didn’t show up for their wedding. No despair over her lost dream of America. No sorrow for what might have been. But most of all, no pain for loving a man who would never love her.
****
There was no way out. Three bottles and four sleepless nights later, Noah accepted his fate. He had to marry Emily St. Simon. And then he had to leave her. Strangely enough, the latter part bothered him most.
He would have to walk away from her golden beauty, quick wit, and sunny smile. Forget those clear, gray eyes and full, pink lips. Pretend he’d never sampled the secret treasures of her womanly body, touched her silken curves, lost himself in her sweetness. He would have to erase her throaty laugh and gentle touch from his memory.
He would have to forget her. Noah berated himself for letting the little temptress break down his defenses. How had she done it? No one ever got close enough to cause him pain or grief, and yet, Emily had done both. Quickly. Thoroughly. Curse the witch. He needed another drink.
A knock at the door stilled his hand on the bottle.
“Come in,” he rasped, his voice hoarse from too much drink.
That would be the maid, delivering another bottle. He listened as the footsteps crossed the plush golden carpet of the huge apartment he’d rented a few days before.
“Just put it on the sideboard next to the other one.” Noah’s words slurred and spilled over one another. He was slouched on the moss green velvet sofa, head flung back, eyes closed. The footsteps stopped directly in front of him. Damn it, why couldn’t he be left in peace?
“Noah, my boy,” John Judson said, his voice laced with equal amounts of concern and disgust. “What are you doing to yourself?”
Noah worked his left eye open and recognized the portly form of his longtime friend. “Celebrating my nuptials, John.” His mouth turned up slightly at the corners. Damn, but it hurt to smile. He really needed another drink. “And…and…” His mind blanked a second while he grasped for the word, “Recuperating. That’s it,” he drawled, the words moving over his tongue like tiny pebbles. “Re-cu-per-a-ting.”
John shook his head and wrested the bottle from Noah’s grasp. He set it on the table beside them and said, “Give it up, Noah. No more whiskey.”
“Just one more, John,” Noah slurred. “Have one with me.” He waved a hand at the bottle, then dropped it with a thump to his side. His head fell back farther into the cushions.
“No more.” John’s voice was firm. “You’ve got to pull yourself together. You haven’t bathed or shaved since...” He hesitated. “Since Miss Emily left.”
Noah jerked his head off the cushions, ignoring the splintering pain that shot through his brain. His good eye narrowed to a dark slit. “This has nothing to do with her,” he lied. Not that he was willing to admit to anyone, anyway.
“It sure as hell does,” John said, plopping down next to Noah. The force of his weight hitting the sofa jarred Noah’s aching body and he winced.
“John,” he said on a ragged sigh. “My body’s been beaten and bruised. My nose is most likely broken, and my right eye’s almost swollen shut. Whiskey eases the pain.”
“To my way of thinking,” John continued, as though Noah hadn’t spoken, “you could do a lot worse than Miss Emily. She’s pretty, well spoken—”
“John,” Noah warned.
“Charming, witty, graceful—”
“Enough.”
“Sincere, caring—”
“Stop!”
John smiled, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners. “But you already know all that, don’t you?”
Noah said nothing.
“Marry the girl and settle down. Raise a bunch of little ones.” His smile disappeared. “Don’t make the same mistake as me. The sea is a tempting mistress when you’re a young buck like yourself, but time passes too quickly. In the blink of an eye, you’re an old man with nothing but a hard bunk for a bed partner and a lifetime of regrets.”
In all the years they’d been together, this was the first time John had ever hinted at regret. The tears in his eyes, the furrowed brow, the slumped shoulders spoke of loss. A woman was the cause of it. Damn all women.
“You don’t understand,” Noah said, rubbing the stubble on his chin. How long had it been since his last shave? Two days? Three?
“What’s to understand?” John shot back, all traces of his earlier moroseness gone. “You bedded your best friend’s sister. You marry her. Period.” Noah’s lack of response seemed to irk him. “I know you never wanted to get married, boy. But, like I said, you could have done worse. Remember that sheik’s daughter a few years back? The one that hid in your bed? We were lucky to get out of there alive.”
“I never touched her.”
“Didn’t matter,” John said, pulling out his pipe and tobacco. “Point is, we all know you did touch Miss Emily. Ian just wants you to do right by her.” He lit his pipe and took a puff. “So marry her.” He puffed again. “Have a passel of kids. Golden-haired ones with big gray eyes.” Another puff. “Be happy.” Puff. Puff.
“Enough!” Noah slammed his hand on the sofa. He didn’t want to hear any more about what he should or shouldn’t do. “I never said I wasn’t going to marry her.”
John blinked. “So.” He paused. “You are going to marry her.” It was as much a statement as a question.
Noah nodded once, keeping his eyes fixed on a small gold vase in the corner of the room.
“Good.” John puffed on his pipe again. “And that’s the problem?” he guessed.
“She’ll be mine in name only,” Noah said, refusing to meet John’s questioning gaze. “After the wedding, I disappear from her life. Ian’s got it all worked out.” The words came out brittle as old bones. “He saved my life. I owe him.” He raked a hand through his hair. “She’ll think I deserted her.”
“Jesus,” John whispered, his pipe resting on his knee, long forgotten. He spied the whiskey bottle sitting on the table and grabbed it, throwing his head back for a long, healthy swallow. When he was finished, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and thrust the bottle at Noah.
Noah brought the bottle to his lips and savored the burn travelling down his throat. It was his cure, albeit temporary, from the pain that festered and swelled inside. One day, it would ooze out, but not now. Not today.
“Noah?” John accepted the proffered bottle and took another swallow. “Are you saying you want to marry Miss Emily?”
Noah looked away.
“Sweet Jesus, you do want to marry her,” John whispered, tilting his head back and chugging more amber liquid.
“It doesn’t matter,” Noah spat out, a muscle twitching in his jaw. God, but the whiskey wasn’t working fast enough. “I’ve given my word. After the wedding, Emily will never see me again.”
****
Two days and several bottles of whiskey later, Noah sent a message to Ian, confirming their meeting two days hence. He couldn’t bring him
self to say wedding. Probably because it wasn’t really a wedding. It was more of a farce than anything else. A great big façade to protect Emily St. Simon’s reputation. As though she cared what polite society might say.
Noah smiled at that. She’d begged her brother not to force the marriage. His smile disappeared as he recalled her mournful words and the incessant pleading. His mouth curved downward. She really didn’t want to marry him. That fact amazed him, considering the bevy of females around the world who would do anything to become Mrs. Noah Sandleton—lie, cheat, play the whore or the sophisticate—whatever it took to trap him.
But not Emily. What would she say when she discovered she had a husband in name only? After Ian told her his twisted version of Noah’s wedding terms, she’d feel hurt and betrayed. Anger would set in, red, hot, searing anger, wrapping itself around her, tighter and tighter, choking out all feeling except one. Hate for the husband who deserted her.
An unbidden thought crept into his mind, clutched his gut, tore at his soul. Did Emily harbor any tender feelings toward him at all? Affection? Warmth? Perhaps a hint of love? He cursed and called himself a thousand kinds of fool. What good would it do to torment himself with games and guessing?
He’d given his word, and he meant to honor it. There were a few minor details to take care of, and then he’d leave. Glenview Manor, the country estate he’d inherited from his uncle ten years ago, sat in readiness, awaiting its new mistress. It was nestled in a small village about two hour’s riding distance from Ian and would afford Emily a certain amount of independence.
Noah’s man, Billington, had overseen the tidying up of the place, and his last report two days ago, indicated the staff was eager and ready to meet the new Mrs. Sandleton. Noah and the tall, lanky Englishman had been conducting business for more years than he could remember. Billington was a most discreet man, who rarely smiled or showed emotion of any kind. He hadn’t even batted an eye when Noah gave him his latest assignment; spy on the future Mrs. Sandleton.
It would be easy enough. Billington would pose as the butler of Glenview Manor and track Emily’s comings and goings. Once a month, he’d send a report to Noah at his last known address. If there was any threat to Emily’s health or welfare, Billington was to enlist a special messenger to locate Noah. Immediately. Not that Noah thought it would be necessary. The most upheaval he expected to disturb the quiet, staid existence at Glenview Manor would be a stray animal on the grounds. Perhaps a deer or fox.
Or a Serpent. A dark, faceless form emerged, shattering his thoughts into hundreds of fragmented, terrifying possibilities. Peter Crowlton. If he were still alive, Emily would be in grave danger. Noah’s pulse quickened and tiny beads of sweat formed on his upper lip. He yanked at his cravat, trying to loosen it, but the folds of cloth wrapped around him like a snake.
Crowlton was dead. Noah cursed loudly. He’d driven himself mad with a mission that was over seven years ago. God help him, he’d even thought for a time Emily might be a spy. Which showed how cloudy his judgment had become. She was no more capable of spying than Ian’s cook.
Ian believed Peter Crowlton was dead. He’d been fairly adamant about it. The Crown thought so too. Why after seven years had Noah yet to accept his death and let go of the past?
Because there had been no body.
Noah squeezed his eyes shut, trying to still the clamoring in his head. Crowlton had always been the reason Noah never announced his arrival when he made his periodic visits to Glenview Manor. He came in the night and left the same way, shrouded in a cloud of mystery and intrigue. The servants at the manor were loyal and dedicated carryovers from his uncle’s days, their families having served generations of Sandletons. They never questioned their master’s odd comings and goings, nor did they share gossip with the neighboring estates. It was one of Noah’s few demands and for all of his generosity, that request seemed a meager exchange.
Soon, he’d be entrusting Emily into the capable hands of his staff. He would not let his mind torment him with visions of Peter Crowlton slithering into his thoughts any longer. The Serpent was dead, most likely a bag of bones lying in an unmarked grave. In seven years, there’d been no sign of the man other than in the dark imaginings of Noah’s brain. It was time to move out of the shadows of his life, time to stop looking behind him at every turn. He would slay The Serpent in his mind’s eye, swiftly, surely. Permanently.
The vision of a faceless Peter Crowlton, clad in black, glided toward him, stopping mere inches from him. Noah raised his sword, wielding the shiny blade high over his head as he prepared the blow. The Serpent struck out, wrapped his hands around Noah’s neck and squeezed. The sword came down with a loud thwack, splitting open the back of Crowlton’s skull. Blood spurted everywhere as The Serpent fell back, his hands sliding from Noah’s neck as he slithered to the ground.
Noah smiled and opened his eyes. He’d slain his worst nightmare; The Serpent was dead.
****
Emily stood before the full-length mirror staring at a woman who seemed more ready for a funeral than a wedding. She might be dressed in an empire cut satin gown with rows and rows of tiny seed pearls adorning it and more pearls scattered in her upswept hair, but her face held no joy. No sparkle. No smile.
A slight rap at the door interrupted her thoughts.
“Come in.”
Augusta entered in a swirl of gold and mauve brilliance. Emily glanced at her sister-in-law through the mirror and managed a weak smile. She looked beautiful as usual, in her elegant gown, with her auburn hair piled high atop her head and her emerald eyes glowing. Ian was very lucky to have her for a wife, and he treated her like a queen.
But of course, they loved each other.
She blinked several times.
“Emily, are you all right? Is something in your eye?”
Emily blinked again and sniffed. Yes, she wanted to scream. Something was in her eye! And in her heart, and in her soul, and in her very being. And it was called pain. Pure pain, so deep and real, it knocked the breath from her. And it was all because she loved a man who didn’t love her, who would never love her. Instead of uttering the unbearable truth, she murmured, “I think I may have gotten something in my eye, but I’ll be fine.” She placed her fingertips to the corners of her eyes and pressed gently. “There. All better.”
“You look beautiful.”
“Thank you.”
“I wish you would have consented to a real wedding dress, not just an elaborate ball gown.”
They’d been through this before. “It wasn’t necessary to go to all the trouble.”
“But it’s your wedding,” Augusta said, sounding so sad that Emily wanted to comfort her.
“A gown doesn’t make a wedding. Nor does a vow make a marriage.”
“Give him a chance,” Augusta pleaded. “Noah’s a wonderful man. He’s just in a bit of a shock right now.”
“No. He hates me. I lied and deceived him and because of it, he’s forced to marry me.” Her bottom lip quivered. “When I tried to tell him how sorry I was he wouldn’t even look at me.”
Augusta placed her hands on Emily’s shoulders and said in a soft voice, “Things will work out. Why, look at Ian and me. If you recall, we didn’t exactly have a smooth go of it early on.” Her emerald eyes darkened as though remembering less pleasant times.
“You’re being too kind to my brother. He was an utter fool, and I thought he’d never come to his senses.”
“At least he had sense enough to get rid of that odious man I was supposed to marry,” Augusta shuddered.
“And conveniently fill in as the groom,” Emily added, recalling Augusta’s wedding day.
“Yes, well, that was convenient of him, I must say. But I would have much preferred to discover my future husband’s identity before I walked down the aisle.”
Emily smiled. “There’s a girl,” Augusta whispered. “Things will work out. Truly.”
“I wish I could believe that.” She turned to her sister-
in-law. “Sometimes I think it would almost be better if I were marrying someone who’d been...” She hesitated over the word. “Selected for me.” Seeing the surprised look on Augusta’s face, Emily pressed on, before she lost her nerve. “That way, both parties would know the rules, there would be no expectations or disappointments. Everything would be understood. With Noah, nothing is understood.”
“You love him, don’t you?”
“Is it that obvious?”
“To me it is. You once said you never wanted to marry. Yet your whole concern these past several days has been for Noah. Would he blame you for the forced marriage? Would he forgive you? Would he hate you? Would he ever love you? Not once did you say, I don’t want to marry the man.”
“But I really didn’t want to—before,” Emily said, puzzled at Augusta’s words. There was truth in what she said. Emily hadn’t fought the marriage since she left Noah’s ship. Why? The question floated through her mind, softly at first, then faster, gathering momentum and spinning like a top before crashing with a loud thud. Out of the wreckage, emerged the answer, clear and true.
She loved him, loved the glimpses of honesty and vulnerability he’d shown. No man, not even Ian, had ever forced her to accept responsibility for her actions the way Noah had. He understood her.
“But you want to marry him now?” Augusta prompted in a soft voice, clasping Emily’s cold hands.
“Yes,” Emily admitted, full of equal parts awe and despair. “Yes, I do, despite our differences.” A tiny shred of hope unraveled with her words. “Oh, Augusta, do you really think we could have a chance?”
“Absolutely,” Augusta assured her, squeezing her hand. “Who knows, one day he may even take you to America.”
****
“Damn you Noah, that was an underhanded thing to do,” Ian barked.
Noah took care to keep his expression blank. It wouldn’t do to let Ian see how important this was to him. “I’m a man of means. My wealth at least equals yours and I want to provide for my ‘wife’ as befits a Sandleton. That includes setting up a household.”
Ian stood. “That wasn’t part of the deal.”
