She searched his face. “Forgive you what exactly?”
He grinned and she felt her heart turn over. She would probably forgive him anything, he made her feel so besotted.
He traced his fingertip over her cheekbone, down her nose to the small dimple in her chin. “For forbidding you the joys of being a detective, for forbidding your men’s clothes—”
“You’ve already destroyed all of them.”
“I’ll buy you twenty pairs of trousers. Boots? Ten pairs at least, white leather with tassels. And—”
She sent her fist lightly into his arm. “No more, please.” Her head was lowered, her voice tight.
“But most of all, forgive me for forbidding you to be you. The you that you are is the you I fell in love with, Genny. I like the sweet, submissive creature who cared for me when I was a blank slate, but I married the wench with all the vinegar. She drives me to bedlam and to ecstasy as well. She makes me furious and blissful. She makes me want to howl at her stubbornness and moan with desire. Say you’ll forgive this stupid man, Genny. Be my love and my wife and my partner.”
She stared up at him, mute.
“Why have I changed so suddenly? I can see you wanting to ask, but I’ve made you so wary of me, haven’t I? What should I expect? The truth is that I discovered what a bloody fool I’ve been to you. But, Genny, in all fairness, it took me less than twenty-four hours to come to reason. That’s progress, wouldn’t you say? I realized there shouldn’t be pain or distrust or anger between us, at least not for more than a ten-minute stretch. We’ve a marriage that’s matched two very strong, very stubborn people, and I doubt not that we’ll roar and yell and make people tremble around us, but it will be for our ultimate amusement, Genny, for we’re bound together, you know. For always, and I am more than ready to accept it. I want you to accept it and believe me and try your best to forgive me. What do you say?”
“You’ll not try to be a domestic tyrant?”
He gave her a slow smile. “Is that what I was being? I’m not certain understand. You mean just because I was telling you what to do, ordering you about, and sneering away all your ideas and opinions, you believe me a domestic tyrant? Good heavens, what a lowering concept. Yes, I very probably will try. It’s in my man’s makeup, I suppose. What about you? Won’t you try to rule me? Make me your lapdog?”
“Very probably. I think I should like you lying at my feet, with a meaty bone in your mouth.” Her own smile faded and she shook her head. “I don’t know what’s to be done. It’s a difficult situation, Alec.”
“Isn’t that splendid? I thrive on difficulties. Difficulties make me randy as the devil. In fact, you know what I should like to do right this minute? Well, I’d like to do it just as soon as you tell me you love me more than the stirrups on that Spanish saddle.”
“I love you more than any stirrup ever made, regardless of its nationality.”
“And I you, Genny. And I you.”
He turned and locked the tackroom door. He turned back and smiled at his wife, raising his hand to her.
“Can we begin again?”
She smiled and placed her hand in his. “Yes,” she said. “I should like that.”
Epilogue
CARRICK GRANGE NORTHUMBERLAND, ENGLAND JULY 1820
Alec had never been more scared in his life. He knew he’d never forget that day as long as he lived. Now he felt drained, unutterably weary, and wonderfully contented because it was over and Genny was safe and his small son was alive and healthy and wailing. If he listened closely, he could hear him through the adjoining door. Then it was abruptly quiet and Alec smiled. His son was doubtless at his wet nurse’s breast, suckling like a little stoat.
He sat down in a chair beside the bed and leaned back, closing his eyes. Dear Lord, the messes one got oneself into. He and Genny had decided to picnic the previous morning and had taken the dogcart and a huge basket filled with every delight Cook could concoct to Mortimer’s Glen, a beautiful, quite primitive and quite private place complete with a cold mountain stream, scores of oak trees, and soft moss-covered ground.
He’d made Genny forget her aching back and her swollen belly for a little while. He’d told her tales that made her laugh and groan, and they’d had such joy together until the damnable rain had begun abruptly, without warning, a thunderstorm that had turned the glen into a quagmire.
And the dogcart had broken a wheel and turned over. And Genny had gone into labor a week early and they were miles away from the Grange.
Alec opened his eyes and looked over at his sleeping wife as if he feared she wasn’t really there, that she’d died as Nesta had died and he’d failed her and was alone. But there was color in her cheeks, her breath rhythmic, her hair brushed and shining. Looking at her now, Alec found it impossible to tell that she’d been in agony twenty-four hours before.
He winced, his belly muscles tightening at the thought of it. No one should have to bear such pain. He’d never before stayed with a woman birthing a child. It wasn’t allowed. Gentlemen were banished. Although he’d heard Nesta’s cries, they hadn’t pierced his soul, for he’d been so far away from her.
But Genny had stared up at him, her eyes filled with agony, and she’d grasped his hand and squeezed, moaning when she couldn’t bear it anymore. He’d been an abject fool, dithering and frightened, he thought now, until he’d realized that what he’d learned from that Muslim physician was no longer just an intellectual exercise. He would deliver his own child. He would save his wife. There was, after all, no one else.
Thank God for the small dilapidated cottage he’d remembered that was but a quarter of a mile from the glen. He’d carried her there, stopping to hold her close when the contractions hit her. He’d stripped her, laid a fire, and begun to act like a man who knew what he was doing.
And when she’d screamed and screamed, apart from him, the pain imprisoning her into her body, he’d finally pushed down on her belly, then slipped his hand inside her, easing his child further into the birth canal. His son had slid into his cupped hands and he’d stared for a moment, not really believing the miracle before his eyes. “Genny,” he’d whispered, looking at his wife’s white face. “We’ve a son, love. It’s over now and you’ve given me a son.”
And Genny, nearly unconscious with fatigue, had rallied and croaked in her hoarse voice, “Nay, Alec, it must be a daughter. You’re wrong. I promised you a daughter.”
He’d laughed and cut his son’s cord and wrapped him in his own now dry shirt. “Hallie will be pleased, and you, madam wife, will come about. Now let’s rid you of the afterbirth.”
He and Genny and their wizened little babe had been found three hours later, just as the sun was setting, by a contingent of servants sent by Smythe to search for them.
Alec dozed off. He didn’t know how long he slept, but when he awakened he saw his daughter staring at him, her serious little face filled with worry.
“Papa? You’re awake? Genny is all right? My brother is all right as well? His nanny treats me like a little girl and won’t tell me anything. I slipped in here when no one was looking.”
“Yes to everything, pumpkin.” Alec lifted Hallie onto his lap. “Everything is wonderfully fine.”
“Mama looks awfully tired, Papa.”
I would, too, if I’d gone through what she had, Alec thought but didn’t voice it aloud. “She’ll be right as rain in a couple of days.”
“What’s his name?”
“Your mother and I haven’t decided yet. What do you think, Hallie?”
“Ernest or Clarence.”
“Why such pious names?”
“Nanny said he’s so beautiful he’ll be a terror when he grows up and he should be kept on the straight and narrow, and religion and a series of good works would be good for his character. I thought a dull name would help.”
“Goodness, and here I thought he looked like a wizened little monkey. Just like you did when you were his size.”
“Papa, I’m
not beautiful.”
“No,” Alec said dryly, staring at his daughter’s upturned face, “not at all. You’re naught but passable-looking. Doubtless you’ll be a spinster and take care of me and your mother in our old age. What do you think of a life of good works for yourself?”
“Papa, we must name the baby.”
Alec suddenly remembered that it had been many days before Hallie had been named. He hadn’t wanted to think about her, he—He shook his head. “All right. We’ll ask Genny when she wakes up.”
“I’m awake, I think.”
“Mama, do you feel all right?” Hallie had scooted off her father’s lap and gone to the side of the bed. Her small hand lightly stroked Genny’s cheek.
“I’m just fine, love. Now, your father has already picked out a name, Hallie. We discussed it thoroughly when I was in labor at that cottage. Tell her, Alec.”
“James Devenish Nicholas St. John Carrick.”
Hallie stared.
Genny laughed and took the little girl’s hand. “He’ll grow into it, Hallie. And your papa is adamant. We’ll simply humor him, I think, and call your little brother Dev.”
“Dev,” Hallie said slowly. “I like that. Can I go see him now?”
“Of course you can,” Alec said. “But if you love me, don’t wake him up. His lungs are too powerful for my sanity at present.”
Once alone again, Alec eased down beside his wife. “No protruding stomach,” he said thoughtfully.
“Thank goodness for that.” Genny yawned.
“You feel just the thing?”
“Yes. You’re quite the handy man to have about, Alec, particularly when a lady is having a baby.”
She saw his throat constrict.
“I was scared out of my wits, what few I had left.”
“It was only temporary. Mrs. MacGraff told me that Arielle and Burke are due to arrive in a couple of days.”
“Yes, Arielle wanted to be here in good time for your lying-in.”
Genny giggled or tried to, but what emerged from her throat was a raspy creak.
“Hush, madam.” He pulled a blanket over himself and eased Genny against his side. “Let’s nap. The good Lord knows that I deserve it, and since you’re but a weak female, the good Lord will understand when you fall asleep without good reason.”
“You’re a lovely man, Alec, even when I want to kick you.”
“I know.” He kissed her cheek.
“I made a lot of money the last quarter. My design for the clipper is marvelous. I shall become quite rich.”
He grinned against her temple. “Whatever brought that on?”
“I just wanted to remind you what an excellent woman of business I am. And now I’m a mother. Behold a very talented—”
“Wench. Abandoned wench—at least you used to be. Do you think you will be again?”
She wanted to laugh but she was too tired. She felt warm and comforted and sublimely happy. Life was sweet.
“Probably,” she said against his shoulder. “Very probably.”
“I’ll be counting the days,” Alec said. “But I shan’t complain. I’ll care for my son and daughter and see that the stables are properly finished and I’ll even learn to be a better horseman, though I’ll never ride like Knight or Burke.”
“No, let’s go traveling, Alec. Let’s take the Night Dancer and sail away. I want to see the monkeys on Gibraltar. And meet the governor. What was his name?”
He felt his blood stir as she spoke. The sea. Yes, he wanted to feel the deck rolling beneath his feet. He could forgo the damned monkeys, but if Genny wanted to see them, well—
She was asleep.
He kissed her temple and closed his eyes. He pictured the four of them aboard his barkentine. Bound for Gibraltar. And he could show her Italy and northern Africa, and perhaps they could sail to Greece. Ah, Santorini in the summer; there was no more beautiful a spot on the face of the earth—
About the Author
CATHERINE COULTER is a perennial New York Times bestselling author of both historical romance and romantic suspense novels. She lives in Northern California with her husband Anton and her cat.
Do let her know which of the novels in the Night Trilogy you like best. Write her at P.O. Box 17, Mill Valley, CA 94942, or e-mail her at [email protected]. Visit her website at www.CatherineCoulter.com.
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Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
NIGHT STORM. Copyright © 1990 by Catherine Coulter. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of PerfectBound™.
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