“Why now? As I recall, you told me not to—you even insisted that I not do it. You had faith in me then and I wasn’t even a whole man, just a blank-witted fool. Now I am once more the man you tied yourself to, and you no longer trust me to care for you.”
“The shipyard belongs to me. I want it in my name. I don’t want to be dependent on you.”
He turned on his side toward her, his face suddenly taut with anger. “I was certainly dependent upon your good graces, upon your arbitrary female whims, after my accident.”
“Very true, and I didn’t disappoint you, did I? I stuck close, gave you everything I could. I trusted you, and now look what I have gained for my efforts—another man who disapproves of me more than the man I originally married.”
“I shouldn’t say that my disapproval of your ridiculous male-aping habits has anything to do with you trusting me. I haven’t slept with other women. I haven’t beaten you. I haven’t given you cause to doubt my honor or accuse me of shirking my responsibilities toward you. Now, madam wife, I will say it but once more. I will deed nothing to you. Nothing. You will learn trust for me, and that’s an end to it.”
She sat up and struck his shoulder with her fist. “It’s mine. I demand that you give it back to me. That’s what is fair.”
He grabbed her wrist and bore it down to her side. “I determine what is fair and what isn’t. Now let’s feed you. I don’t want my son to know hunger.”
“It’s a bloody daughter.”
“No,” he said slowly as he jerked the covers back to look at her belly. “It’s a son. I know it. I can’t tell you how I do, but I know it’s true. Would you like your dinner up here? No, don’t answer. I would.”
He rose, naked and long-limbed and beautiful, and pulled the bell cord. He built up the fire, and she watched the play of muscles across his shoulders, across his back, and the long thick muscles in his legs. He stretched then, knowing she was watching him, his body silhouetted by the flames. At last he shrugged on a dressing gown, one of thick black velvet with gold velvet cuffs. He looked magnificent. She watched him stride to the bedchamber door, open it, and give servants orders for their dinner.
Genny felt numb. Why had she married him? She’d known that he didn’t approve of her. The past two months were outside reality, outside anything that could have been predicted. The months were gone now, as if they’d never existed. And this Alec was different. He was more strident, more forceful in his opinions, than the Alec she’d married. It was as if he were afraid to give an inch, afraid that he would lose her, or perhaps himself again.
It didn’t matter, and she was simply making excuses for him. She said slowly, “I was a fool to trust you. I should have had you sign that deed over to me immediately. You were willing then. You might not have remembered a thing, but you were a reasonable man, a kind and generous man. Well, it was my own fault, for at that point I insisted that you shouldn’t. Now I haven’t any money at all. I have nothing.”
“I’ll provide you with an ample allowance.”
She said not a word. When she remained silent, Alec asked a bit sharply, “Don’t you want to know how much I shall give you?”
Her hand fisted in her lap, but he didn’t see it.
Alec looked at her bowed head. He knew she’d spoken more to herself than to him. He realized he hated that defeated voice from her. What had she done, after all? She’d given herself to him, kept all the strain she could from him, comforted him as best she could. And he’d turned on her. But she was a woman, she was his wife—
She’s not at all like Nesta. She wasn’t like any woman he’d ever known before. He sighed and opened the bedchamber door to the two footmen carrying their dinner. He said nothing, watching them pull a low table in front of the fire, arrange the dinner, settle the chairs, then look to him for further instructions.
He thanked them and nodded dismissal.
“Would you like a dressing gown or would you prefer to be naked?”
Genny sighed, then felt her chin go up. She stepped off the dais and walked languidly toward the set table. She sat in a chair, feeling the heat from the fire warm her bare flesh.
Alec stared at her, then smiled. He hadn’t expected this. She liked a challenge, his wife. Odd, how her gentle, sweet behavior had masked that from him. He shrugged out of his dressing gown and, naked, joined his wife for dinner.
They feasted on roast hare, gravy, and currant jelly, followed by rump steak and oyster sauce. The carrots and parsnips were crisp and fresh, the Spanish onions stewed and spicy. Alec poured her a glass of sweet French wine.
“I would like to say something, Alec.”
“You wish to go to work in a shipyard in Liverpool? A pregnant lady climbing the rigging?”
“No.”
“It’s difficult to pay attention to your words since your breasts are so very beautiful, but I shall endeavor. Go ahead.”
“It’s not about our situation, our personal situation, that is, but rather about your steward’s murder. I’m beginning to believe that it wasn’t one or several of your tenants—murdering rabble, I think you said Sir Edward called them—who are the villains in this. I think your steward is the one we should look to.”
“My steward is quite dead. I don’t believe it’s likely that he did away with himself.”
“The theory is, if I understand it aright, that Arnold Cruisk discovered that some of your tenants were dishonest and had threatened to have them transported, and thus they killed him. I think the answer lies rather in the direction of Mr. Cruisk’s dishonesty.”
“I hired the man myself some five and a half years ago. He always sent me detailed accounting records. He always kept me informed. He religiously deposited quarterly sums into my bank. He’d been the steward for Sir William Wolverton before he came to me. Sir William wrote that he was an excellent man who knew his job and could be trusted.”
“Where is Sir William now?”
“Good heavens, Genny, why do you want to know that? Oh, very well, he lives in Dorset, near to Chipping Marsh, if he’s still alive. The reason my steward left his employ was because his son had taken over the estate management.”
“I think we should write to him. Perhaps, just perhaps, Mr. Cruisk forged a letter from Sir William. You’ve never met this Sir William Wolverton, have you?”
Alec stared at her a moment, then said, “I thought I told you it wasn’t your place to play detective. It isn’t something I want you to do.”
Genny ignored him, saying, “That’s why I was searching through the papers in his office this afternoon. There must be something, Alec, to prove he was a scoundrel. His papers to you could have been pure fiction. I’ve also spoken at length to Mrs. MacGraff, to Giles, and to Smythe. There are several hotheaded tenants, but vicious? Murderers? They don’t think so. On the other hand, Arnold Cruisk wasn’t one of their favorites. He swaggered, so Smythe told me. He treated the Grange as if he were the owner, not you.”
Smythe had told Alec much the same thing even as he’d exclaimed again and again how happy he was that Alec was home.
“Of course, their perceptions can’t be considered proof. I also spoke to an upstairs maid. Her name is Margie.”
Alec placed the very pretty, young upstairs maid. He studiously chewed on a parsnip and swallowed it. “So?”
“I can’t be sure as yet. I found her crying as if her heart would break. She seemed quite distraught. But she didn’t really say anything. Still, it was the air of desperation about her when I asked her questions that made me wonder. That and what she didn’t say. I think—no, I am certain she knows something but is afraid to tell.”
Alec played with his fork. It was heavy and it was gold and his family crest was displayed elegantly: an eagle’s head behind a gold shield, the shield supported on either side by a winged sable, its throat encircled with a gemmed collar. The Carrick motto below the shield was: Fidei Tenax, or Firm to My Trust.
The one thing he couldn’t seem to
capture from his wife—trust.
Odd, how her reasoning paralleled his own. He, however, hadn’t yet thought to write to Sir William. He would now. He knew every one of his tenants, had known them since his birth. There were a couple of bullies, several greedy louts, but most of them were honest, hardworking people. Even the bullies wouldn’t murder. Besides, he’d asked himself again and again what sort of dishonesty they could have done. Could they have stolen and sold an estate plowshare? It was a rather ridiculous theory when closely examined.
He’d not known anything about this upstairs maid. He looked up to see his wife gazing at him. At his mouth. He smiled, a very male smile. It was nice to be wanted by one’s wife. Very nice indeed. He would write the bloody letter tomorrow.
He wanted his wife now.
He took her with all the intensity that was within him, and she was his in those long minutes, but at the same time, he thought on the verge of sleep, she’d captured him, completely, irrevocably. He heard a sound and turned his head slowly on the pillow toward her. Another sound. It was a sob. He stilled. He didn’t know what to do. He raised his hand to caress her shoulder, then slowly lowered it to his side again.
Why couldn’t she be as he wished her to be? Was it so very much to ask of her?
The sobs trailed off. Alec listened to her erratic breathing soften and even off into sleep.
He stared upward into the darkness for a very long time. He realized just as he was dozing off that Genny never bored him. She enraged, infuriated, and beguiled him, but she never bored him. She’d been a mystery to him at the very beginning and she still was.
He remembered his cruel words to her, that he’d married her because she’d been so pathetic.
He was a fool and a cheat and a coward. He’d married her because he didn’t want to live without her. And that was the truth. A truth that should be said. Perhaps trust was gained by complete acceptance of the one loved. And respect. She had both from him. It was time he told her that.
Late the following morning Alec forgot his vow to tell Genny the truth—that he loved her, She was poking about in his steward’s office again. She wasn’t wearing her men’s clothing—he’d shredded each and every garment. She was, however, wearing one of the new gowns he’d selected for her in London, a pale peach silk. And she’d ruined it in the filthy, smoke-blackened room.
“I haven’t found a thing,” she said as she looked up to see him watching her. If she noticed his stern expression, she chose to ignore it. She shook ashes and burned paper off a bound pamphlet, looked through it quickly, then tossed it aside. “Nothing. It is most depressing not to be able to prove one’s theory. Have you written that letter yet to your Sir William?”
“Yes. I even sent it by special messenger. We should, hopefully, hear back within three days.”
“I understand from Mrs. MacGraff that we are to have Sir Edward dine with us this evening.”
“Yes. I trust you will change your gown. I would dislike Sir Edward believing I keep my wife on such an abjectly short string.”
“A short string,” Genny repeated slowly, smiling. “I’ve never heard that before. It’s terribly English, I suppose.”
She’d defused him. His lips thinned. “What do American men say when they wish to express that they’re not at all niggardly toward their wives?”
“Perhaps they say that they love them, and that’s all that’s necessary.”
He stared at her, remembering his vow, seeing the surge of hope in her expressive eyes. As he remained silent, he saw the hope drain away, to be replaced by pain and wariness. She was waiting for him to speak, and in speaking, to wound her.
“Damnation,” he said very quietly, strode to her, and hauled her into his arms. “Forgive me,” he said against her hair. “Forgive me, Genny. I’m a damnable beast and I’m sorry for it.”
She remained tense, and he felt the depths of the pain he’d given her, heaped upon her so gratuitously. He kissed her temple, her ear. “Forgive me,” he said again.
“My lord—oh! Do forgive me, that is—”
Alec slowly released his wife and turned slowly. “It’s all right, Mrs. MacGraff. What is it?”
“I, ah, that is, I wished to speak to her ladyship, but—”
Alec heard Genny’s harsh breathing from behind him. He said mildly, “Her ladyship is a bit short of breath at the moment. She will fetch you in fifteen minutes.”
“No, no,” Genny said, quickly coming around from behind her husband. “What is it, Mrs. MacGraff?”
“I’m not quite certain, my lady. ’Tis Margie. She’s crying and carrying on and she begged me to let her see you. I don’t understand it.”
Genny didn’t want to leave Alec, not yet, not when he seemed to be—but there was no hope for it. “Take Margie to the small yellow room. I’ll be there shortly.”
Alec was frowning. He was full to bursting with words and feelings and vows and apologies and decorations. But now wasn’t the time. “Can I come with you?” he said instead.
Genny didn’t think that would be such a good idea. “Wait here, Alec, over there in the shadows. I’ll bring Margie back with me. I spoke to her again earlier. Pressed her as far as I could. It’s about what she knows of Mr. Cruisk’s murder, I’m sure of it.”
In five minutes Genny was back, Margie in tow. It was obvious that the girl didn’t want to come into the burned-out room. But Genny urged her forward and pulled shut what remained of the door.
Alec stood quietly, out of sight, and watched his wife. She was gentle but firm. He watched Margie burst into tears and Genny comfort her. But she brought her back again and again. And he listened openmouthed when Margie burst out with:
“He raped me, milady. My Gawd, he forced me and told me if I said a word to either Mr. Smythe or Mrs. MacGraff, he’d make sure me ma and me little sisters would starve in a ditch. He said he could do anything when the baron wasn’t here, that he was the master and he could do just as he pleased with me, with everyone.”
Genny drew the girl to her, cradling her head on her shoulder even though Margie was much larger and taller. “Oh, Margie, I’m so sorry, so very sorry, but it’s over now, truly over, and there’s nothing more for you to fear. Baron Sherard is a fair man. He’ll understand, I promise you. All you must do is tell the truth. You’ve nothing to fear, truly.”
Margie drew back, her dark eyes filled with more tears and her mouth filled with confession. “Ye don’t understand, milady! He tried to rape me again, here, in his office. I fought him and I picked up the candle branch and struck him with it, and the candles went flying and they were lit and they caught the draperies on fire, and I tried, truly I did, but I couldn’t stop it and I ran and it was awful—horrible!”
“I know. I know.”
Alec wanted to emerge but he waited. Genny would handle it just fine. “And then Sir Edward came and you were more frightened, weren’t you?”
“Oh, Gawd, I was never more afraid in all my life.”
“I know. You did right to tell me, Margie. I’ll speak to his lordship and to Sir Edward. You acted in self-defense. Everything is all right now. Don’t be frightened anymore. Now, why don’t you go up to your room and have a nice sleep. You’re very tired, aren’t you?”
The girl was exhausted. She nodded numbly. After she’d left, Genny turned to face her husband. He stepped out of the shadows.
“The bastard,” he said. “None of us realized or suspected or anything—”
“Odd, isn’t it? What shall we tell Sir Edward?”
“Not the truth,” Alec said thoughtfully. “He has an inflexible mind. He’d believe the girl a slut, no doubt, and want to deport her. No, I’ll think of something to tell him. Margie will be safe enough now.”
And he did, over dinner that evening. It was a wonderful tale about how Mr. Cruisk was dishonest and he had been afraid that he, Alec, would discover his perfidy and send him, Arnold Cruisk, to Newgate. It appeared to Alec that the steward, in attempting to
flee, had accidentally knocked over the candle branch and died in the resulting fire.
Sir Edward, no fool, wanted to applaud the baron’s melodrama, but he had just finished his third glass of excellent port and thus really didn’t care if the truth of the matter matched the baron’s tale. It would do, he thought, and nodded benignly.
Alec was told the following morning that the baroness was, at last sight, going toward the stables. It was cold, the sky overcast and bloated with snow. Alec quickened his step. He paused in front of the slate-roofed stables. Some of the slate tiles were loose, others missing entirely. The older section of the building sagged. The wood looked rotted and some of the windows hung precariously in their casings. Alec frowned. There was much to be done here at Carrick Grange. He entered the tackroom at the back of the stables.
“Hello,” he said to Genny. “Sir Edward was here again, his head free of the effects of my excellent port. Doubtless he wasn’t certain he’d heard aright last night and wanted to see my performance again in full daylight. I trod the boards once more for him, a born actor, I daresay, and now he is again on his way, content, hopefully, because Baron Sherard is content.”
Genny lowered the rag she was using to polish the stirrups on Alec’s Spanish saddle. She looked at him, remembering his words spoken the day before. She’d finally fallen asleep waiting for him the previous evening. Sir Edward had held him in three rubbers of piquet until very late. Alec hadn’t awakened her.
“We make a fairly decent team, I think,” Alec said, closing the tackroom door. The room smelled of leather, linseed, and the comforting odor of horse.
“Perhaps.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“You handled Margie very well. You got the truth out of her. I’m really quite proud of you.”
Genny stared at his cravat. “Are you really?” she said, and she sounded both wary and defensive.
Alec frowned, seeing again what he’d brought her to. How he’d wished that Sir Edward would have left the previous evening, but the man hadn’t budged away from the deck of cards. Alec had thus lost ground. “Come here,” he said and drew her into his arms again. “Now where was I? Ah, yes, I recall that I was waiting like a martyr pleading divine intervention. Will you forgive me?”
Night Storm Page 35
