Honor Bound

by C. J. Archer

  "I doubt she'd speak to me," she said, her voice low and ominous. "Besides, I won’t attempt to speak to that wretched girl."

  "Mother—!"

  "And nor should you, Nicholas. As I told you from the start, you’re best to be rid of the scheming little whore."

  His head jerked to the side as if she’d slapped him. It took him a moment for his wits to gather and his body to react, but when they did, he went cold, like he’d fallen into a frozen lake. But instead of being numbed by the ice, he felt invigorated for the first time since the poisoning. He gripped his mother’s arms and shook her until she looked him in the eye. "That’s enough!" He barely recognized the harsh, raw voice as his own. "You will never call Isabel that to my face again. Now get out."

  When he let go, she rubbed her arm then let her hand drop to her side. He turned away, too disgusted to look at her.

  "Listen to me," she said. When he didn’t look at her, she caught the side of his face, forcing him to turn his head. "I am your mother. I only want what is best for you. I know what is best for you." Her eyes glistened with unshed tears, catching him off guard. His mother never cried. Not even when Father had died. "Seek an annulment."

  He moved away so that her hands were left holding nothing but air in a supplicating gesture. "No," he said.

  "You don’t understand. You’re not seeing things as clearly as I am. She will only undermine everything you have achieved since she left. Your knighthood, the expansion of your landholdings, your rising position at court—it will all be ruined if you do not cut yourself free from her."

  He frowned, shaking his head, partly because he didn’t know this woman anymore and partly because he was honestly confused by her remark. "Why would she do that?"

  "Because she humiliated you once, she will do it again. If you do convince her to return with you, how can you be sure she will stay this time?"

  "I..." He didn’t know. Damn it, another point he hadn’t considered because he’d been too preoccupied with getting Isabel back. "If I can fix what is wrong, then she will stay."

  His mother shook her head. "Don’t you see? She likes it here. She likes being an apothecary’s assistant. She likes to associate with the filth of London’s streets."

  "Filth? Mother, what are you talking about?"

  "Her customers, her friends, are whores, Nicholas."

  "How do you know?" he asked, already knowing the answer anyway. How could he not—he was his mother’s son after all.

  "When I received your letter, I learned what I could about her life here. It was the least I could do to protect you from yourself."

  "Myself?"

  "Yes." She set her jaw as if ready for a battle of words and wills. "I knew you would try to woo her again once you found her. I sensed it from your letter. But I also knew that would be the worst thing for you to do. Nicholas, listen to me." She clutched his hands and brought them to her lips. "Listen to my reason. I am your mother. I would never do anything to harm you. But she—"

  He pulled his hands away. "She is the only woman who could make me happy. Even if Isabel doesn’t come back to me, I won’t get an annulment because I don’t wish to be married to anyone else."

  She sat as stiff as a fence post, blinking back at him as if he had said something so incredulous she couldn’t possibly comprehend it. "But your future and the future of the Merritt family depends on you begetting legitimate children! You must remarry. You must find a woman who will have you. There are many suitable—"

  "Don’t." The word rumbled from deep within him, bubbling to the surface along with uncontrollable vibrations that racked his body.

  "You’re shaking," she said, reaching for him.

  "Leave." He turned his face away so he didn’t see the righteous indignation he knew would be imprinted there.

  A moment later the door closed softly behind her swishing skirts and he closed his eyes. His ragged breathing and the wild thumping of his heart filled his ears, drowning out the crackle of the fire. He lay against the pillows and slowly became aware of the smell of the burning wood and clean rushes, the shouts of shopkeepers and children playing outside, the cracks of the carter’s whips as they drove their drays along Bishopsgate Street. Finally his anger dissolved, replaced by a renewed determination to get better so he could speak to Isabel. The issue of her departure was going to be resolved once and for all.

  But that could be too long. He needed to see her immediately.

  He called for Mary and the maidservant came running. "I want a message sent to Isabel at Shawe's apothecary at once. Tell her I need to talk to her. Urgently," he added.

  Mary bobbed. "Very well." She began to close the door but stopped. "It’s a pity she didn’t come up when she was here before. Could’ve saved herself another walk."

  "What?" Nicholas sprang out of bed but regretted the swift movement when dizziness swamped him. He gripped the bedpost to steady himself. "When was she here? Why didn’t you show her up?"

  Mary looked alarmed and he apologized for his vehemence. "Mistress Merritt, er Camm, came by this morning," she said, lowering her eyes, "but left when Mistress Merritt, your mother, told her she’d sent for Dr. Kendall."

  "Mother?" Nicholas shook his head, unable to believe what he was hearing. "Mother saw Isabel? Today?"

  Mary blinked. "Yes. Downstairs. Mistress Plunkett was there too if you don’t believe me."

  "I believe you. Thank you, Mary."

  She nodded and lowered her eyes again to his legs.

  He looked down and saw he wasn’t wearing any hose, just his shirt which stopped above the knee. "And Mary?"

  "Mmmm? I mean, yes, Sir Nicholas?" She looked up again and met his gaze, her cheeks aflame.

  "Please send my message to Isabel immediately."

  "Yes, Sir." She left and closed the door behind her.

  Nicholas sat on the bed, feeling as though he’d run the entire length of London. It was as if he couldn’t get enough air into his body. He wondered if it was a lingering symptom of the poisoning or the shocking news of his own mother’s lies.

  Damn it, Mother, you’re not helping.

  There was no point calling for her. She had already made it clear what she thought of Isabel. Her lying to him about Isabel’s visit reinforced her view. Her plea to his sense of duty hammered it home.

  Well, to Hell with his duty. He’d fulfilled his obligations as best he could. He’d built on his father’s fortune and extended the family’s influence into the deepest inner sanctums at court. He’d done his duty to his family name because he’d had nothing else to do in the last six years. Now it was time to do his duty to his wife.

  He lay down on the bed with a loud sigh and closed his eyes. How much damage had his mother’s antics done to his fresh relationship with Isabel? And was he too late to mend it or had the single, weak thread that he’d been trying to strengthen these last few days been severed forever?

  ***

  When the bitter cold wind blew into the shop as the door opened, the hairs on the back of Isabel’s neck rose in response. She looked up and wished she’d stayed out back with only the jars of herbs and her thoughts for companions. They would have been better company than the woman who’d entered the shop.

  "Constance," she said. "I assume this isn’t a social call."

  Constance didn’t answer immediately. Instead she looked around, her sharp, all-seeing gaze taking in the counter, the jars, the books and finally Isabel. She wrinkled her nose, but whether at the smell the shop always emanated (a delicious blend of the herbs cut, boiled or distilled that day) or at her daughter-in-law’s presence, Isabel couldn’t tell. Constance drew herself up to her formidable height and held her head high. A challenging stance, ready for battle. Well, Isabel was ready too. She’d had her cry, vented her frustrations at this new setback, and now she had to face her demons—demon—head on.

  But the last thing she would do, the very last thing she would ever tell this woman, was that she had won and Isabel w
as going to leave Nick. Again. It may be the truth but she couldn’t abide seeing the triumph in Constance’s eyes when she told her. So, she simply would not tell her.

  "I wanted to ensure you weren’t going to do something foolish," Constance said.

  "Foolish?" Isabel cocked her head to the side. "You mean visit Nick again?"

  "I mean stay in London." She wandered idly to the bookshelves and inspected the tomes without picking them up. "You understood me earlier, did you not? If you see my son again I will report your...peculiarity to the authorities. I’m sure the news will intrigue them."

  Isabel shivered as a chill seeped into her bones. Partly to stall for time to collect herself and partly to warm up, she walked slowly to the fire. She stretched out her hands to the flames then turned around to feel the heat on her back. When she felt more composed, her temper under control, her gaze slowly rose to look at Constance standing on the other side of the room, one knife-sharp brow raised as she waited.

  "I understood you perfectly," Isabel said, trying hard to keep her voice steady.

  "Good. You see, now that he knows where to find you, it’s not possible for you to remain here and keep your part of our agreement."

  "I said," Isabel said through a tight jaw, "I understand. Now, unless there is anything else, you may go."

  Constance prowled around the shop as if she hadn’t heard her, looking more like a crow than ever with a stern hood covering most of her gray streaked hair and her hard eyes taking in everything over a beakish nose. "Your marriage will be annulled," she finally said.

  "I see." Isabel expected as much but hearing it spoken by this grim-faced woman made her believe it more. She’d lived six years beneath the specter of an annulment—thinking Nick had got one—but it had never seemed as real as it did now. "Then you will have what you want. I will be out of Nick’s life. However, if you want my advice, you should treat his next wife more like one of the family if you want her to dutifully bear his heirs then fade into the background like an old piece of furniture."

  Constance’s lips flattened, hardening her jaw line. "Your kind could never have belonged to our family. My son made a mistake marrying you."

  "My kind?" Isabel’s fists clenched at her sides. She must control her anger or the consequences could be fatal. She almost didn’t care—and that scared her. "Are you talking about my...female inheritance or my family’s lack of fortune and status?"

  "I will not be drawn into the particulars," Constance said. "But you are a scheming, greedy girl who will do anything to further herself."

  The accusation was so far off the truth Isabel almost laughed. She crossed her arms over her chest and fixed Constance with a level, sure gaze. "I fell in love with your son," she said, "and he fell in love with me. And that bothers you more than anything, doesn’t it? You can’t abide having him love someone else. You would rather see him unhappy than see him with me."

  "Love?" Constance snorted. "This has nothing to do with such a frivolous, common notion. But I do wonder how you can speak of love for Nicholas after what you did to tear his beloved family apart."

  Isabel frowned, slowly dropping her hands to her sides. "What are you talking about?"

  Constance scoffed. "Do not play the innocent with me, girl. You know very well what you did."

  "Uh, no, I don’t. Please remind me."

  "You used your powers against my husband and my son, my oldest son, so that Nicholas would inherit everything, therefore making you lady of Lyle Hall with all the Merritt wealth at your fingertips."

  Isabel’s insides plunged. Good Lord, Constance thought she had killed them!

  Perhaps she shouldn’t have been so shocked at the accusation—part of her had always thought her mother-in-law suspected her of being involved in their deaths. Even so, hearing it so baldly put made Isabel want to retch. "But I was nowhere near them at the time of their accidents."

  Constance shrugged. "Your powers must work from afar."

  "No, they don’t."

  "I don’t believe you."

  "I’m sure you don’t." Isabel had often thought her mother-in-law’s fear of her powers lay at the heart of the matter, particularly her fear that Isabel had murdered the elder two Merritt men. In a way, bringing the accusations into the open after so many years of speculating was quite liberating. At least Isabel could defend herself properly against such ridiculous claims now she knew for sure what they were.

  "And another thing," Isabel went on, "if I was after Nick for his money, then why did I not lavish riches on myself when he inherited? If you even bothered to notice, you would have seen that I wore simple clothing and that I don’t like elaborate jewelry. I didn’t even like being called mistress of the house. That title firmly belonged to you."

  "And still does, despite your efforts."

  Isabel sighed. There were just some battles that would never be won, some minds that could never be changed, no matter how much logic was employed. It was a waste of breath to try. "Believe what you will, but I did not murder your husband or son. I’m a healer, I abhor violence of any kind."

  "Liar! You nearly killed me!"

  Isabel pursed her lips, feeling her patience unraveling thread by thread. "That was an accident. My powers were new and I had not yet learned to control them."

  "And what of Nicholas’s current illness? What do you have to say about that?"

  Isabel gasped and stared open-mouthed at Constance. "My God, do you honestly think I tried to poison him?"

  "It is a coincidence that you see him again after six years and he suddenly falls terribly ill."

  "But I healed him!"

  "So you say."

  Isabel shook her head, unable to believe what she was hearing. To think that she would have put anyone through what Nick had gone through—the piercing pains, the dizziness and violent retching. Didn’t Constance see that her son would have died if not for her? Didn’t she know what a horrible, cruel death that would have been? "Is that the sort of person you think I am? That I would do that to the man I love?"

  Constance snorted. "Of course you would if it meant inheriting the portion due you as his widow. You’ve already proved what you are capable of doing."

  Isabel continued to shake her head. To battle onwards in the face of such willful misunderstanding and ignorance was a waste of effort. She would never change the old crow’s opinion on the subject no matter how much she argued with her, no matter how much evidence she presented to the contrary.

  "Believe what you will," Isabel said, suddenly feeling too tired to have a conversation with anyone let alone with her crow-in-law. "But I have nothing on my conscience."

  "Except that you are a witch."

  Except that. Always that. Isabel dropped her gaze and drew in several deep breaths. After a few moments, the calming scents inside the shop eased her temper and she raised her gaze again. "I think you should leave now." She was surprised at how gently the words came out, despite the turmoil churning within her.

  "Do I have your word that you will leave London?"

  Isabel strode past Constance to the front door and opened it. The wind wrestled with her skirts and lifted the rushes nearest the entrance. A few sharp needles of rain splashed on her cheek and the hand that held the door open. "I can no longer give you my word."

  An elderly woman, hunched over a walking stick, her cloak covering a stooped frame, thanked her for opening the door as she bustled as fast as her crippled body would take her into the warm shop. She bypassed Constance and made straight for the fire where she stretched her gloved fingers towards the coals.

  "Well," Constance said, surprise softening her features and her tone. "Then you leave me no choice. I will tell my son everything." She swept past Isabel but stopped in the doorway and looked back, perhaps waiting for her daughter-in-law to change her mind.

  Isabel held her gaze, not even blinking. "Then go ahead and tell him." She closed the door in her face and turned to the customer.

  CHAPTER 11


  If pacing his bedchamber didn’t make his head feel like it was spinning out of control, Nicholas would have worn a path through the rushes. Instead he had to sit up in bed, drumming his fingers against his knee as he willed the door to open. If Mary didn’t bring a message from Isabel soon—or even better, bring Isabel herself—then he would just have to ignore the nausea and go to Buckerlsbury Street himself.

  When the door finally opened he stopped drumming. "Well, it’s about time," he said, already half out of bed.

  "Time for what, Son?"

  Nicholas lay back against the pillows with a heavy sigh at the sight of his mother. He rubbed his temples as another headache brewed and his frustration rose. "What do you want? Another swipe at Isabel?"