A Wedding by Dawn

by Alison Delaine

  It would be no different in France, riding in jolting coaches from one inn to the next while those devious blue eyes plotted death and destruction at every stop, where she would have plenty of opportunity to beg, cajole, win support...even divest herself of her virtue.

  Hell.

  * * *

  IT WAS WILLIAM who brought their breakfast the next morning. And William again, an hour later, who came with other news.

  “Warre is sick. Had to set sail without my surgeon, thanks to you two, and I need you—” he pointed at Millie “—to tend to him.”

  “Is he going to die?” India asked hopefully from the hammock.

  “Not going to die.” William looked at her pointedly. “Not by your hand, either.”

  That remained to be seen. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.” She pushed the hammock idly with her toe. “The thought of killing someone never crossed my mind. I’m quite content. I can’t think when I’ve enjoyed a voyage more, if you must know—”

  “Devil that,” Millie said irritably, facing William with her hands clenched. “If Lord Taggart’s ailment isn’t life-threatening, then he can tend to himself.”

  “I could tend to him,” India offered.

  William barked a laugh. “You will stay as far away from Warre as the ship allows. And you—” he pointed at Millie again “—will tend to Warre, or you’ll not leave this cabin. You’ll find what you need in the infirmary.”

  There was a small commotion in the passageway, and two sailors wrestled India’s and Millie’s trunks into the cabin and dropped them on the floor with a thud.

  “Don’t get any ideas,” William warned when they left. “Been all through those trunks. Nothing more dangerous in there than—well, might have said a petticoat, but neither of you own one. Best put on something warm,” he said to India. “I’m sending you up the yards.”

  “You are?” The promise of freedom got the better of her, and India jumped off the hammock.

  “In a merciful mood. And we’re a man short. My boatswain is under strict orders that you’re not to have a moment’s rest.”

  India narrowed her eyes at him. “I can’t believe Nicholas Warre approves your releasing us from this cabin.” She studied his expression for any hint that there had been a falling-out, that William might have become an ally.

  “Not Warre’s ship,” he said flatly. “You’ll not throw yourselves overboard without somebody seeing it, and if you try, you’ll not see the outside of this cabin until we reach France.”

  “France,” Millie said sharply.

  “We’re not sailing for England?” India asked. New hope flooded through her so fast she felt light-headed.

  “Marseille,” William said. “And once you go ashore, you’ll be Warre’s problem and not mine.”

  “You’re going to leave me with him? In France?”

  “Aye. Now hurry up—Warre’s green with mal de mer, a stiff breeze is coming up and we’re about to go full sail.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  MAL DE MER. They expected her to spend her life tied to a man who suffered from mal de mer? For the next two days, India watched Nicholas Warre emerge from the cabin for short reprieves on the upper deck, where he would stand with his hands curled around the railing and his elbows locked, staring at the horizon, braced against the ship’s motion—the glorious, magnificent roll and sway that made the wood and ropes creak and splashed sea spray into the air to mist her face.

  From the lower deck India watched him emerge again, making his way up the stairs wearing no wig, no hat, no turban. His dark hair ruffled in the breeze and glistened in the sunshine. Without a waistcoat, his shirt stood out white like the sails against the sparkling sea. He was remarkably steady despite his affliction. She watched him brace himself at the railing, followed the line of his arm to his shoulder. She already knew he was as strong as any sailor on board.

  She pulled a line with Tommy, one of the youngest of William’s crew, who smirked. “There’s ’is lordship again, going to empty ’is stomach over the side.”

  If there was one thing Nicholas Warre had not done—heaven be praised—it was empty his stomach over the side. “I hadn’t noticed him,” India lied.

  “Got no business on a ship, that one.”

  It took a double effort not to stare. The temptation was a matter of morbid fascination, nothing more. What woman would not stare at a man who was threatening to force her into marriage? She glanced at Tommy, who was much, much too young for her purposes, and looked past him to the other sailors.

  Not one of William’s crew was as exciting as the Egyptian sailor. They were like most other sailors—dirty, coarse, loud. She kept her hair pinned up and her tricorne pulled low and her waistcoat firmly buttoned. For now. But beneath her shirt, her unbound breasts strained against clothes that were not made to accommodate them, awaiting the right moment.

  In another day or two, she would choose one of these sailors and orchestrate a tête-à-tête, as Auntie Phil might say. There was a Lorenzo who wasn’t quite as awful as the rest. And he was Italian, which wasn’t quite as exotic as Egyptian, but it counted for something.

  Nicholas Warre remained at the railing for his usual fifteen minutes or so and disappeared below. He would be in William’s great cabin again—had been there every day and evening since they’d set sail, despite his illness.

  And sure enough, when she went below a while later to find Millie, there he was. She paused in the passageway, out of sight in the shadows, and watched him study a large scroll of paper he’d unfurled on the table and weighted with books at each corner.

  A map?

  Her eyes followed the line of his arm to the large hand splayed out, the solid finger guiding his study.

  Betrothed. The word sliced hotly through her mind.

  Husband. The too-real possibility shot by on its heels.

  She studied the broad shoulders encased in the simple dark waistcoat he favored. The hard line of his chin, the shadow of beard on his jaw, the angle of his nose that was slightly too irregular to be called aristocratic. A quiet, pressing tug made her want to look at him, and keep looking.

  As if Auntie Phil were sitting on her shoulder, a laughing voice invaded her thoughts. I daresay this one knows how to conduct himself in a tête-à-tête.

  He exhaled sharply. India tensed. He rubbed the back of his neck and closed his eyes, then reached for a book that had more papers stuck between its covers than pages. He scratched a few notes with a pencil and returned his attention to the map.

  He looked miserable.

  He frowned at the map, pinpointing something with his finger, making a few more notes with a pencil on a leaf of paper. If only it were as easy as it looked. What would he think if he knew she could not even pen an invitation for tea?

  He might decide she was unsuitable for a wife and return her to Malta. More likely, he would think her a disgrace, curse his increasing bad fortune and marry her, anyway.

  He glanced up. Spotted her in the passageway.

  Her breath hitched. And then she forced herself into the cabin, because the alternative was running away.

  “We’re in the Mediterranean Sea,” she informed him breezily. “South of Sardinia. We’ll be passing along—” It wasn’t a map. It was a giant drawing of some kind of mechanical device—a mill, it looked like.

  “What do you want.” He said it as a statement, not a question, and rubbed his hand across his forehead. He looked at her as though he wanted to murder her—or possibly vomit on her, considering the greenish pallor of his skin.

  “Ideally, I would like to be returned to Malta,” she said even though it was obvious he was short on patience and feeling very poorly. “If Malta isn’t possible, then I suppose Italy would do.”

  “If you haven’t got anything intelligent to say, then I suggest you return to your duties.”

  “Oh, I have many intelligent things to say, Mr. Warre. A great many intelligent things. And not to worry—a lifetime
together will allow you to hear every last one.” She hopped onto the table and perched there, crinkling the corner of his drawing.

  “Get down.”

  Instead, she rested her toes on the edge of his chair and studied the drawing. “Surely, if you plan to make your fortune constructing a mill, you don’t need my father’s money.”

  He ignored her and took a measurement, jotting the figure on a chart.

  She leaned closer. “Three and an eighth.”

  His eyes shifted to her, and he stared, expressionless.

  “It was three and an eighth,” she said. “You wrote three.”

  “It was an estimate.” Oh, yes—there was definitely a spark of irritation just now.

  “An estimate. Oh, I see. Do forgive me. One doesn’t estimate aboard a ship, or one could end up in Alexandria instead of Athens.” She dove her brows and cocked her head to the side. “You haven’t been merely estimating the size of your debt, have you? Because I would hate to live beneath my standards even after you’ve pocketed my father’s money.”

  “Get down,” he repeated. “Now.”

  “Such a tremendous effort you’re making to win my hand. Very commendable.”

  He waited for her to obey his command.

  “I must say it is flattering beyond all description,” she went on, “being pined after with such heartfelt devotion and such puppy-dog eyes. It’s only too obvious that you love me to distraction.”

  “Lady India.” He leaned forward. “As much as I burn endlessly for you body and soul, as I suffer in lovesick torment, as I can scarcely keep my wayward mind from composing spontaneous sonnets in your honor—” he pushed to his feet and braced his hands on the table, looming over her “—I must request that you remove yourself from this table else I shall do the removing for you.”

  “Will you.”

  His face was inches from hers. “One.”

  One?

  His gaze touched on her lips, raked across her breasts, returned to her eyes. “Two.”

  “Are you counting, Mr. Warre?” Her pulse leaped a little. Those eyes were nothing like a puppy dog’s. They were predatory and on fire with thoughts that would make Frannie sound like someone reading from a ladies’ companion.

  “Control yourself, Mr. Warre.” She slid off the table and onto unsteady legs, but refused to break his gaze. “Wearing one’s heart on one’s sleeve is dreadful unseemly.”

  “Were I not overcome by love and adoration,” he said, still much too close to her face, “I would certainly be capable of greater discretion.” The ship banked and lolled with a wave, and he gripped the table, clenching his jaw.

  “Overcome by seasickness, rather,” she scoffed. Trapped in the space between his body and the table, the subtle scent of his cologne teased every breath. “If you’re feeling that ill, I can’t imagine why you aren’t in bed instead of sitting in here.”

  “For the same reason you study every empty barrel and piece of potential flotsam aboard this ship.” He returned to his chair and seated himself.

  “Why, Mr. Warre, if this mill can help me escape an unwanted suitor, you must explain it to me at once.”

  He picked up his ruler, silently took another measurement. Wrote it down.

  One and three-eighths.

  She went to the door. Turned. “Do not insult me by suggesting that we have even a single motive in common,” she said with her hand on the jamb to steady herself. “I merely want my freedom, while you are motivated purely by—”

  The desire to escape? Escape what?

  “—greed.”

  She left him, frowning to herself, and returned to the quarterdeck.

  * * *

  A FEW HOURS later, Nick stood on deck, staring at the horizon as Miss Germain suggested, telling himself it helped when it didn’t, wondering how in God’s name he was going to survive a life wed to Lady India, hating that he had no choice.

  This was what it had come to: an arranged marriage—no, forced. Definitely forced. She was right about that much. A forced marriage to a young woman who had strayed so far from the usual expectations that she was hardly recognizable as a lady.

  A wave of nausea gripped him and he let his head fall. He needed to accept that his life was not going to turn out the way he’d hoped, and that he would be doing well if he managed to save Taggart.

  His shipping operation was defunct—destroyed by storms and pirates in the space of two months. All that remained was his debt, and the deadline he’d agreed to with Holliswell was fast closing in on him. Holliswell had “graciously” given Nick enough time to pursue Lady India and collect the dowry—Nick much preferred to think of it that way—from her father. But if Nick didn’t manage it in...God, a few more weeks, Holliswell would take Taggart. That was the agreement: more time to pay off the debt, with Taggart itself as collateral.

  There would be little left after that, and he would need to make the most of it. He would not risk another investment on the seas. He needed to have the plans for the new mill works ready by the time they reached London, which meant he needed to prepare drawings for each mill site and lay out projections for how quickly the new corporation—if the other men agreed to form it—might turn a profit.

  It wouldn’t be much of a profit. Barely enough to make all the repairs Taggart Hall desperately needed and pay the cost of maintaining Lady India in the standard that the wife of a peer should maintain. He’d already been forced to sell his house in London, which meant he had nowhere to keep Lady India while they were in town, except with James or Honoria.

  What kind of man had to lodge his wife with his siblings?

  Wife.

  The thought made his lungs constrict, a bit like the thought of being locked in prison for the rest of his life. This forced marriage ran both ways. Most of the time he managed not to think about all the things that would be lost to him forever once he married Lady India. But sometimes...

  God, he was a fool for wanting something most people didn’t even have.

  Something like the marriage his brother James had—companionable, passionate, loving.

  You love me to distraction.

  He couldn’t imagine ever loving Lady India to distraction. But he could damn well imagine making love to her, which only made him more furious—mainly at Jaxbury, for releasing her from that cabin when she should have stayed safely locked away. She should not have been allowed to roam the ship. To sit on the table, giving him a view of shapely thighs encased in those breeches. Leaning forward so that her unbound breasts—God, her breasts—moved freely beneath her shirt and peaked against the fabric, scarcely hidden at all beneath her ridiculous waistcoat.

  Even now, her raised voice drifted from somewhere near the bow of the ship.

  He looked up, saw her climbing the yards. Bloody hell. Cantwell would have a fit of apoplexy if he could see her running amok like a common sailor. And Nick...

  He would force her to marry him, collect the money her father had promised, take her to Taggart...and then what? Stand by while she swung from the chandeliers like an ape? While she ran about the estate dressed in a waistcoat and breeches?

  A large wave rocked the ship, and he gripped the railing as his stomach rolled. Deep breaths, deep breaths...a few moments, and the nausea subsided. He reached into his pocket for a piece of the candied ginger Miss Germain had given him.

  Footsteps sounded behind him. “Contemplating a good French wine?”

  “Sod off, Jaxbury.” Nick didn’t bother to turn. But he did glance at Lady India, who was working a line up in the yards. High above in the rigging, he caught a glimpse of long legs and tight buttocks clad in a pair of old breeches. One fall, and his chance at fifty thousand would be gone.

  Jaxbury grinned. “At least you’re enjoying the view.”

  * * *

  IF THE MOON hadn’t been half-full, she would not have been able to see a thing in Nicholas Warre’s cabin. Any fuller, and it would have been too bright.

  His sleeping
form was a dark heap on the bed as she tiptoed by. Across the cabin his trunk sat open with his coat and waistcoat draped over the edge. She crept toward it, pausing to make sure his breathing was slow and steady. One of the floorboards creaked with the ship’s rocking. He showed no sign of waking.

  There was nothing inside his coat. Nor his waistcoat, blast him. He must have hidden the contract inside his trunk. The moonlight was too dim to let her see anything but a black pit, so she plunged her hand inside and blindly groped around, feeling for paper. Her fingers touched linen. Silk. Wool. Velvet, covering something—coins! She was no pickpocket, but she would remember this. One might say he owed her, after all.

  A book, then another book. She slipped them from the trunk and fanned the pages, but no papers fell out. She groped some more. Leather—a shoe. Another shoe. Cold metal—

  “Whatever you’re searching for, Lady India,” came a gravelly voice from the bed, “you won’t find it.”

  Damn, damn, damn! She inhaled sharply, and her head whipped around, even as her fingers touched cold metal. He hadn’t moved, and it was too dark to see that his eyes were open, but clearly they were. She felt the length of the metal—a pistol! She closed her fingers around it and smiled.

  “Perhaps not, but you will find it for me.” She stood quickly, taking the pistol with her and pointing it at the bed.

  “I don’t think I will.”

  “I suppose you’ll tell me no ball has been loaded, but I am convinced I could find your powder and load one before you could lurch over here to stop me.”

  He groaned and rolled to his back. “You threaten nothing but blessed relief.”

  She crouched down, still facing him, and groped for the powder and shot. “That’s twice in our brief acquaintance that you’ve expressed a desire to see your life end. Hardly a noble sentiment.”

  He inched toward the edge of the bed. “I’ve long since dispensed...with being noble.”

  First one of his legs swung out of the bed, then the other. She still hadn’t found the shot and powder. “Stay where you are,” she warned.