Much Ado About Marriage

by Karen Hawkins

  Robert shrugged. “I hear naught that could not be fixed. She could be taught comportment.”

  “Robert, the woman doesn’t even own a petticoat. And then there’s the wool.”

  Robert blinked. “Wool?”

  “Aye, it clings and is far softer than any wool I’ve ever touched and—” He clamped his mouth closed as he noted the twinkle in Robert’s eyes. “I’ve already admitted that I lust for her, you pestilent cur. What more do you want?”

  Smiling smugly, Robert took a considering drink. “So you think this is lust and not love. You are ever the cynic.”

  “I prefer the term ‘realist.’” Thomas took another draw of his whiskey. There might be no answers for him in Robert’s company, but at least the whiskey was melting some of his tension. “It’s a pity, I admit, for she’s certainly comely, but she’s not the woman for me.”

  “’Tis a sad case,” Robert said, his gaze faraway, as if he could see the solution. “There is only one thing to do, then.”

  “What’s that?” Thomas looked at the bottom of his mug. ’Twas already empty. He found the bottle and refilled his mug. At this rate, he would soon be unable to stand. Part of him welcomed the idea of a few hours of blissful unawareness.

  “You must take her. Make her yours. Woo her and—”

  “What? How am I to do that and leave her a maid? Elizabeth will not grant an annulment if I so much as touch the wench.”

  “Then there is no hope. From what I witnessed in your cabin, that woman will not touch the shores of London still a maid. Your blood is too high.”

  As much as Thomas hated to admit it, Robert was right. There must be something he could do to lessen the tension. Seeing her in such close quarters, her silken hair flying, her mouth soft and begging for kisses . . . He shifted in his chair. The chit stirred his blood just as he knew he stirred hers; her kisses could not lie. Indeed, she’d scarce been able to look away from his bared chest last night.

  It was gratifying that the attraction he felt was shared. Too gratifying.

  All he had to do was outlast this yearning until they reached London. Once there, he’d allow the wiles of the perfumed court beauties to douse his lust. If only there were some diversion here, aboard ship, at least for Fia.

  Thomas set his mug on the table.

  Why not? It wouldn’t hurt Robert to do something worthwhile.

  Thomas eyed his friend. “Perhaps there is something you can do to help with this situation.”

  “Me?”

  “Aye. The queen herself says you’d as soon talk a woman out of her petticoats as pull the laces yourself.”

  Robert beamed and tilted back in his chair, placing his booted feet upon the table. “I must admit to owning some address.”

  “Then you will keep Fia busy during our voyage home.”

  Robert’s boots and the front legs of his chair hit the floor. “What?”

  “You heard me. You’ll keep her busy and well escorted. I’ll not have her out of her cabin without a proper chaperone.”

  “Just how am I to keep her ‘busy?’ We’re on a ship. It’s not as if there are amusing places we could ride to, or people to visit, or—”

  “I don’t know and don’t care; just do it. Perhaps you can play cards or chess, or read books aloud—you know better than I how to entertain a fanciful woman. Better yet, tell her you’ve always wished to be an actor, and offer to act out her plays.”

  Robert was silent a long time before he let out his breath in a long sigh. “I cannot. She’s a MacLean.”

  “So?”

  “The MacQuarries have been pledged to the MacLeans for centuries; I can’t forget the allegiance of my clan. They may have abandoned me, but I’ll never abandon them. ’Tis a matter of honor.”

  “Since when has honor been a concern of yours? You would as soon cheat at cards as take an honest loan.”

  “Cheating a Sassenach at cards is a matter of honor among Scots,” said Robert gently.

  “I never realized just how much of a Scot you are. I’ll not forget it.”

  “Thank you, mon ami. I’ll stand at your side in any venture you care to undertake, be it pirating, fighting, or else. But I’ll not lift a hand against a MacLean.”

  “I never said anything about lifting a hand,” Thomas said irritably. “I merely asked you to keep her busy so she’s not wandering alone on deck, tempting me to—interfering with the crew as they go about their duties.”

  Robert frowned. “Why can’t you simply order her confined to her cabin?”

  Because she’d refuse. “For three weeks? Robert, you have ever been good at weaving stories. Tell her . . . tell her you’ve no skill at sailing and are of no use on deck, and so are bored and wish for a merry companion to pass the days. ’Tis only for three weeks, at most.”

  Robert stroked his trim beard. “I cannot believe you’d ask me to dally with your own wife.”

  Thomas stiffened. “I did not ask you to dally with Fia.”

  “Dally, entertain—what’s the difference?”

  Thomas’s jaw ached from clenching it. “Robert, don’t make me—” Robert chuckled, and Thomas realized he’d been teased. He managed a grudging grin. “I suppose I ran into that full sail.”

  “Head-on.” Still laughing, Robert said, “Very well; I will keep Lady Fia company, if that’s all you’re asking.”

  “That’s all.”

  There. Now he would reach the banks of the Thames with his wife’s virtue intact. Relief filled him and the tiredness he’d held at bay returned in full force, accompanied by the effects of the whiskey. He yawned and stretched. “I’m exhausted. Therefore, I must now request you leave.”

  “But this is my cabin.”

  “Nay, this is my cabin. You placed Fia’s trunks in mine, and she will most likely rise before me and will need access to those trunks, so I’ll use your cabin, instead.”

  “But—”

  “No buts, my friend.” Thomas stood, stretched again, and went to the bunk. He sat down, pulled off his boots, then climbed in and pulled the blankets over him.

  Robert corked the whiskey bottle and gathered the mugs with an offended air. “I plan and plot to help you, and this is the thanks I receive. Very well. I’ll share the cabin with you, but—”

  “Nay,” interrupted Thomas as he fluffed his pillow and settled into it. The bed wasn’t as fine as the one in his cabin, but it was better than naught. “You may have my cabin if you need to nap before I arise.”

  “But I—”

  “Or if you wish, you may bed down with the crew. But I have no wish to hear you snore.”

  “I do not snore.”

  Thomas didn’t answer.

  After a great deal of huffing, Robert finally left, slamming the door behind him.

  For the first time in two days, Thomas relaxed. He yawned and settled deeper into the blankets. His eyes grew heavy and his breathing deepened. Soon he was sound asleep, his peace interrupted only once, when he dreamed of a black-eyed Scottish wench dressed in his best captain’s coat as she sailed his ship across a racing sea, laughing at him where she’d tied him to the mast.

  Chapter Twelve

  Robert squinted and slowly lowered the mug to the top of the leaning stack. He had managed to pile fourteen mugs of varying sizes into a complex tower. ’Twas a record, he was sure—and Simmons had sworn it could not be done!

  The most difficult part was adjusting for the constant shifting of the deck. He would have sworn that the first mate was sailing against the wind just to make his task more difficult.

  As his hand lowered with the fifteenth and final vessel, he became aware of someone standing just beyond his range of vision. He forced himself to stay focused on his task. If he could just get this mug atop the pile without it falling over, Simmons would have to pay up. And since there was little else to do for entertainment, this offered considerable amusement.

  The person moved and Robert became aware of a generously rounded bosom, f
ull and plump.

  The mug tower wavered and then toppled with a rousing chorus of thunks and thuds.

  Simmons gave a shout of laughter from the foredeck. Robert sighed. Well, it had been worth it. ’Twas a truly magnificent bosom, and over the course of the last week, he’d had to fight the urge to look at it more than once.

  His assignment to keep Lady Fia busy had turned out to be a delight. The lady was educated, well-read, and sweet natured, facts Thomas had failed either to report or to realize. She was a charming companion, unexpectedly witty and possessing a lightning wit that left him gasping for laughter.

  Another reason his assignment was a delight was the effect it had on Thomas. The earl was never beyond earshot, his expression growing more dark and brooding as the days wore on, apparently unable or unwilling to completely trust Robert in his task.

  He grinned and turned toward the bosom that had disturbed his concentration. “Lady Fia! How fare thee this beauteous afternoon?” He rose to his feet and made an elaborate, if unsteady, bow. ’Twas perhaps unfortunate he had felt the need to drink out of each mug before adding it to the stack. It hadn’t been precisely necessary to win the wager; ’twas more a question of style.

  “Och, ’tis a lovely day. The wind is fresh and free today.”

  The voice drew a shiver from him. God’s breath, as soon as we land I’ll write a sonnet to that voice.

  The ship rocked upon a wave and Robert’s lack of balance caught him unawares. Grabbing at the barrel, he quickly lowered himself to his makeshift seat.

  “Lord Montley, you’ve been drinking.” The lush voice carried a touch of reproof and he was instantly apologetic.

  “Aye, but I’m lucid and bored with my own company, so pray do not leave me to mine own devices. I can only hope that you’ll forgive me for my state.”

  Her lips quirked into an irrepressible smile. “Actually, your ‘state’ might help me in my quest.”

  “Which is?”

  “Information, my lord. That’s all.”

  She spoke so innocently that his guard was instantly up. Had one of his sisters spoken in such a tone, he would have immediately known she was up to something. “For you, fair lady, I am an open book. Ask what you will, but first, pray take a seat.” He raised his voice so Simmons could hear him. “Whilst the Glorianna is a fine ship, her crew is inexperienced and frequently heads into the sea like an unrestrained horse gallops over the moors.”

  Lady Fia, who didn’t seem to notice the first mate’s sputtering presence, said, “I would indeed like a seat. The ship’s rocking badly today.”

  She gathered her skirts and perched upon the barrel, looking magnificent as the wind tugged at her skirts and hair.

  Robert decided that he would have kissed her, had he not been so lamentably drunk and she so damnably innocent . . . and married to his best friend, of course.

  God’s wounds, how could he have forgotten that?

  One of the mugs rolled to Fia’s feet and she hopped off her barrel, retrieved the mug, then found her seat again, all without staggering on the rocking deck. She was innately graceful doing even the most awkward of things, and the roiling ship never gave her pause. She seemed a born sailor.

  “Lord Montley, I—”

  “Pray, how many times have I asked you to call me Robert?”

  She pursed her lips, her eyes twinkling. “Twenty-one. Twenty-two if you count the time Mary interrupted you yesterday.”

  He waved a hand, his fine lace cuff drifting about his wrist. “Allow me to make it twenty-three. Lady, pray call me Robert. There can be no formality between us, as we are nearly family. Thomas is as a brother to me. Thus, you are my sister.” More’s the pity.

  “Very well . . . Robert.”

  His name rolled off her silken tongue and made his heart grin.

  Unaware of her effect, she smoothed her skirts over her knees and regarded him from beneath her lashes. “Since you are almost as a brother to Lord Rotherwood, you must know his lordship very well.”

  Aha, so that’s it, is it. If there was one thing his sisters had taught him, it was to beware a woman who asked a question about another man. He answered cautiously, “We’ve been close these past fifteen years.”

  She slanted him a look redolent with doubt. “Only fifteen? Then there is probably much you do not know about him, then.”

  Her eyes were the velvet black of midnight with the veriest tinge of amber in their depths. Such eyes. No wonder Thomas feels he must avoid her like the plague. He could fall victim to eyes like those and—

  “Lord M—I’m sorry. Robert, you don’t answer.”

  He blinked. “Forgive me, Fair Damsel. I was lost in wonder at thy beauty.”

  She frowned impatiently. “Pray listen. I asked a question.”

  Robert’s lip twitched, but he replied meekly, “Forgive my impertinence. What did you ask?”

  Her cheeks pinkened, but she said with an air of great determination, “I was saying that I—” She straightened as if facing a mountain. “Robert, I want to know what a man such as Lord Rotherwood might require of a wife.”

  God’s wounds, she’s serious. “I am a bit befuddled.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m not used to women asking my opinion of other men when they’re basking in the sunshine of my companionship.”

  Her lips quivered. “No one basks in the sunshine of your companionship as oft as you.”

  Robert found himself chuckling with her. She reminded him of his sister Aindrea. Like Fia, Aindrea was a dreamer, yet very practical when occasion demanded. “That is a very short but very complicated question. What men think they want in a wife and what they actually desire are two very different things.”

  Fia grimaced. “Och, ’tis so complicated.”

  His blue eyes warmed. “Do not despair yet, lass. Let me think on it for a moment and see if I can put it into an understandable form.”

  She nodded and waited, grateful yet again for Robert’s attentions this last week. Without him, there would have been no one to talk to but Mary. After the first night on ship, when Thomas had surprised her in his cabin and kissed her as if he couldn’t kiss her enough, he’d avoided her as if she had the plague.

  At first, she’d just assumed he was busy. But twice now upon leaving her cabin, she’d chanced upon Thomas coming down the passageway. On seeing her, he’d come to a sudden halt and glanced at the closest venue of escape. Then, after mumbling a disjointed phrase, his face as red as fire, he’d turned on his heel and marched back the way he’d come.

  She wondered if he thought her forward for kissing him so passionately that first night. And that wasn’t the first time I kissed him, either. Perhaps he thinks me loose.

  “Fia?” Robert was regarding her with a puzzled air. “Your expression. You look as if—”

  “’Tis nothing. A fleeting thought is all.” Pasting a smile on her lips, she said, “Robert, perhaps I ask too much. ’Tis obvious I’m not the sort of woman my husband prefers as wife. I was just—” She shrugged, her heart unexpectedly pained at the admission. “I don’t know what I was hoping for.”

  Robert waved his hand. “Pssht. Ask what you will. The trouble is this: the question is as big as the sea and best answered by the man himself.”

  She plucked at her skirt with restless fingers. “’Tis not a question one can easily ask. He would feel bound by politeness to try to encompass me in his answer, though that is not how he feels.”

  “Hmm. I can see where ’twould be awkward.” Robert stroked his trim beard, his expression thoughtful. “I can only tell you what I think, not what I know, for men do not discuss such things with the passion and frequency of women.”

  “I understand.”

  “I think the problem lies not so much in what you aren’t, but in what you are.”

  “And what am I?”

  “His wife. Thomas doesn’t believe good can come from any marriage. His father soured him on the idea when his mother ran o
ff with a stable hand.”

  “No! Did Thomas go with her?”

  “Nay, she left him with his father—a stern, unlikable man who treated his son with a coldness that I cannot begin to describe.”

  How sad. Fia thought of her own childhood, during which she was cherished and loved.

  That went a long way in explaining why Thomas immediately demanded an annulment and didn’t consider attempting to make the marriage work. “I think he believes ’tis possible I or my cousin trapped him into this marriage, too, though the truth could not be farther from that.”

  Robert shrugged. “Did he love you, it wouldn’t matter.”

  A shaft of pain shot through her as surely as if Robert had loosed an arrow at her heart.

  Fortunately, Robert’s gaze was now fixed on his fine Italian leather boots. After a moment, he began to speak in a low voice, his blue eyes darker than usual. “Since he’s taken on the title, Thomas Wentworth has known nothing but success and good fortune. ’Tis a family inheritance, of a sort.” He pursed his lips thoughtfully. “You could call it a curse and not be far wrong.”

  “Being blessed with success is a curse?”

  “Do you know what it’s like to be known as the luckiest man alive? The whole world begins to plan your downfall. Oh, not intentionally. ’Tis just that one success must lead to another. Thus, the more luck you have, the more daring the wager you are expected to take. The more successful you are, the more dangerous your next assignment must be.”

  “Assignment?”

  A shadow crossed Robert’s face. “Assignment, or wager, or queenly request—it matters naught. It just matters that you win yet again. Thomas has worked since childhood to become an excellent rider, a master tactician, an outstanding swordsman, a sea captain without rival—he is driven to be superior in everything he does. His father drove him mercilessly, and Thomas became what his father wanted—a man as near perfect as could be. His accomplishments would earn any other man esteem and praise, yet for Thomas, he is only doing what is expected.”