Brandywine: Regency historical romance (The Brocade Series, Book 1)

by Jackie Ivie

  “If our luck holds, Helene, we’ll make Le Havre by nightfall. Not that I’m a judge, but it’s not that much farther than Calais, and we made good time. Who knows? With luck we might make Tremayne Hall before our grandchildren are born, after all.”

  Her blush at that should’ve made him grin, but it didn’t. It made his chest tight and his arms shake.

  “Gil?” she whispered.

  He forced himself to look at her.

  “I know you only tease, but I...I wish you wouldn’t.”

  “Why?” he managed to ask.

  She tossed her head and looked away, adjusting her nondescript cloak over her golden dress. He wondered if she’d answer him after taking so long. And then she did, with such a soft voice, he had to lean a bit.

  “Is Tremayne Hall beautiful this time of year?” she asked.

  As much as he needed sustenance, swallowing anything at the moment was going to be difficult if not impossible.

  “Like no other place on earth,” he told her.

  She wouldn’t meet his eyes, and he thanked God for that small mercy.

  ***

  “Is this cabin sufficient, Monsieur?”

  The portly captain laughed heartily as he shoved open the door on a cubicle of space she’d barely fit in. Helene tried not to show her disappointment.

  “This will be convenient, Captain, no more. We can expect privacy?”

  “But, of course. Are you not paying customers?”

  Helene nearly snorted her disbelieve at the man’s words, but the price would probably go up if she did, and they were already paying an amount that frightened her. Then again, the captain of the Mighty Gull had every reason to charge whatever he wished, especially for running the risk of capture. She stooped and entered the compartment. Gil followed, at a crouch.

  “I’ll have to lock you in, Monsieur and Madame, and I trust you’ll keep quiet?”’

  The way he said madame told her how little he believed it. With Gil’s ripped uniform and the wrinkled gold of her gown peeking out occasionally, they didn’t look like a married couple. Nor did they act like one.

  Gil hadn’t looked at her since breakfast the previous day. No. She was wrong. It had been before that, when she’d asked him not to tease her anymore.

  That had been so stupid! Hadn’t she learned yet? Any of his attention was better than none.

  “Well. Well. Not even a porthole.”

  Gil’s tired whisper dented the blackness that descended as the door was locked. Helene didn’t answer for fear he’d hear her disappointment, too, and think it was meant against him.

  They’d received only a fraction of the necklace’s value, but Gil was right. He looked like a deserter who could be shot on sight, and she looked like a high class courtesan. It was lucky they received what they had.

  “Oh, for a nice, hot bath.”

  She sighed and reached out blindly, connected with what had to be his thigh, and jerked her hand back quickly.

  “I was thinking more along the line of a bit of light. What the hell’s he keeping in here, anyway?”

  She heard scuffling sounds, and then Gil suddenly laughed.

  “I should’ve known. It’s brandy! Care for a nip, My Lady? If that’s all I keep running into, I believe I’ll give up drinking.”

  He sounded disgusted, dispirited. Depressed. She didn’t dare ask why.

  “I...I rather like you when you’re drinking, Gil,” she finally answered.

  “Oh, sweet. My little…Brandywine. That’s what I’m going to call you from now on, love. Brandywine. It has panache, and I’m a stickler for that sort of thing, you know.”

  It was too dark, but she was easy to find, and she longed to cry at how his arms trembled as they wrapped about her.

  “You’re an idiot, Gillian.”

  “Yes, but please try to remember that I’m a disgusting idiot.”

  “You’re ridiculous. Are you sure you haven’t purloined some of the stock already?”

  “Quite sure. Do you want me to?”

  Helene took a deep breath and decided to be brave and ask for what she really wanted. “No. I’d rather have you...hold me.”

  She could live long enough to regret being brave and was trying to find a way to make her next request sound lighthearted, but he forestalled her.

  “In my condition? Christ! I’ve a three-day growth of beard, I’m badly in need of a bath, we’ve had one chip of hickory to chew, making my breath the least of my problems, and—”

  “For once in your life, Gillian Tremayne, just do as you’re told and don’t argue!”

  Silence greeted her. And then he chuckled.

  “Well. What can I say? My lady commands.”

  The floor was rough and grit-covered. The wooden crates, filled with bottles of brandy, were rough-hewn and filled with slivers. There wasn’t any space to stretch out, but Gil settled her onto his lap, his bent knees supporting her back and his head against her shoulder. She didn’t say it, but she’d never had a more comfortable berth.

  ***

  The inn at Dover hadn’t changed, but Helene almost cried out with joy at the sight. Because of their recent stay, the landlord knew of their ability to pay. They were ushered into a suite almost the moment they walked in. And Helene was never so thankful to see shabby red drapes in her life.

  The walk from the dock to the inn had been excruciating in her sodden dress, while Gil squeaked with every step in his wet boots. She’d have laughed at the picture they presented, but was afraid it would turn to sobs. But at least any tears would contain joy. They’d done it! She actually toyed with dropping to her hands and knees and kissing the soil. That’s how good it felt.

  “I guess we should be thankful the captain brought us as close as he did.”

  Gillian dropped his wet pants onto his even wetter boots, and Helene had to look away. He could fuss all he wanted about his deplorable state, but he still looked masculine. Fit. And absolutely heavenly.

  “You’re only saying that, because you dropped me.”

  Her gold dress was plastered to her body everywhere. She’d probably need help to get it off, but she wasn’t prepared to ask.

  “You slipped, Madame, and I already gave you the clothing off my back.”

  “That’s only because my cloak was too heavy to swim in. Besides, you couldn’t walk the streets dressed as a French deserter, now could you?”

  “A valid point, love. I’d really hate to disagree with you, but that coat didn’t foil your chances with the local gentry, I noticed.”

  “You’re only angry, because that nice man offered me a ride to town without offering you one, too.”

  “I’m not the type he favors, obviously.”

  “Disgusting.”

  She tried to glare at him, but, since he’d also flung his shirt onto the pile of clothing, she couldn’t look long.

  “Could you save the insults for later? I’m due a hot bath, a shave, a decent meal of boiled sop, and a bed. I can’t be responsible for what I say in this condition.”

  “You ordered a hot bath? Oh…thank you, Gillian!”

  “You don’t pay the least attention to me, do you, Helene? I ordered a hot bath, a meal, and sent messages to Tremayne Hall. By morn, we’ll have access to our wardrobes and funds and can set this entire sordid experience so far back in our collective memories that it’ll never resurface.”

  “Was it truly that bad, Gillian?”

  “If I tell you the truth, Madame, you’ll run screaming from the room. Imagine what the scandal mongers would say.”

  “Oh, I shudder to think it!” she exclaimed.

  He bent his head to peer out at her from beneath his eyebrows, and she smiled at his attempt to intimidate her.

  “Don’t you ever run out of flippant remarks?” he asked finally.

  “Do you?”

  He sighed and folded his arms to regard her. He didn’t have enough clothing on for her to continue the argument. She had to avert her eyes
and found it fascinating to study where the bottom of one leg of his drawers had been ripped to make her bandage. That was almost too much. She narrowed her eyes, studiously keeping them from where the lacings tied at his waist. Or the little line of hair that led there. Or the span of naked chest above that.

  Oh my!

  She couldn’t stare him down if she blushed from her own thoughts. He was too virile, too self-confident, and too arrogant. And now she added self-righteous. He’d proved to himself that she lied and managed to escape capture simultaneously. That was quite an accomplishment if she stopped to think about it.

  He’d never think her unsoiled. He’d never trust her. Oh…if only he’d been there when she found out about Sherry! Maybe that would’ve been worth something. Or…if she could have discovered why the new regime was so obsessed with Helen. Or....

  She’d find herself in tears if she continued to ponder, and it was time to be brave again. She’d never visit France again. She might never have a chance to get Gil to listen. He’d contacted Tremayne Hall. That was their next destination. And he’d leave her there. That had been the plan before he tried to make her prove her tongue false, and she doubted he’d changed it.

  Gil hadn’t wasted time thinking. He stood, indecently attired as too many maids for Helene’s liking filled the tub. She knew he enjoyed the attention, but he didn’t have to stand at the damn door, holding it open! And then it was done. The tub beckoned. The door was shut. Sealing them in.

  “Gillian, there’s something I have to say.”

  “Now?”

  It should be easy, but then he cheated again, removing the last of his clothing and stepping into his tub.

  “I won’t be put off again!”

  “Can’t it wait?”

  He bent forward, ducking beneath the water, only to emerge, looking akin to a damp statue. And then he shook his head, sending droplets at the fireplace where they made little hissing noises.

  “If I ask nicely, will you consider washing my back?”

  He lathered his face until all she saw was his eyes.

  “Will you listen to what I have to say first?”

  He ignored her, reaching for the strop razor beside him. She couldn’t resist watching. She caught her lower lip in her teeth, finding it more and more difficult to breathe each time he slid the blade across his skin. He did it by feel. Not once did he break their eye connection.

  She was trembling before he finished and wiped his face, and he probably knew it. He was very aware of his effect on her. He always had been.

  “Are you going to say anything I wish to hear?”

  The iron-hard note was in his whisper again, and she looked at the floor before he saw how she reacted.

  “Probably not,” she admitted.

  “Then I’ll be suitably deaf.”

  He scrubbed unconcernedly at his forearm, while his words brought her head up.

  “You took me to France for a reason, Gillian.”

  “Did I?”

  He was working at his chest now, lathering that span of flesh that made her fingertips tingle.

  “I want to make sure, before I’m banished to Tremayne Hall…that you get what you went for.”

  “You’ve read too much poetry, darling.” He rinsed off.

  “Everything I told you last time we were here was a lie, Gillian. Everything.”

  “Oh. I already know some of that.”

  “You do?”

  “Of course.”

  She waited for him to elaborate. He didn’t. Which meant she had to, despite the knot in her throat that closed it off. Swallowing didn’t even help. In fact, it was particularly painful when she tried.

  “I really was there, Gillian. In Paris. I watched my Grandpapa led...to the platform. Furthermore…he saw me. I’ve never been so proud in my entire life as when he simply inclined his head toward me, almost like a salute. And then....”

  She tried not to become emotional, but her body wasn’t cooperating.

  “I’m sorry, darling. Did you say something?”

  He was washing his ears. If she’d been closer, she would’ve bruised her other fist against his thick skull.

  “Yes, I did. I’m telling you that my entire family was executed and I saw it! I wasn’t at the damned Bingham estate! I was orphaned and alone and in danger. And that’s why I acted insane. I’ve never been, nor will I ever be, mad! It’s Helen and Gerard, and my oh-so-illustrious uncle, who are the liars, not—”

  “That’s very nice, Helene. Could you hand me that towel?”

  He used his iron-hard whisper to interrupt and probably didn’t notice how it clashed with his words. Her jaw dropped.

  Helene whirled and approached the door, but was unable to open it. She could barely make it out. Finally, the wood came into focus, but she exerted every ounce of determination to send her tears back. The effort left her weak. And that’s when she knew. He’d never listen to her, because he didn’t care either way. He’d done what he set out to do. All that was left was to see her ensconced at Tremayne Hall and resume the life she had so rudely interrupted. And there wasn’t one thing she could do to stop him.

  “Helene?”

  He’d managed to sneak up behind her easily, because she’d closed out everything to regain control of herself. And if he was intent on leaving her to her own devices at Tremayne Hall, the least she could do was appreciate it. Wasn’t that their bargain, after all?

  Gillian Tremayne had changed her life in a very short time. Not only had he rescued her from hell, but in forcing her to face the past, he’d banished the nightmares. And now she knew what Grandpapa had been telling her. Chateau Montriart may be destroyed, but the Montriarts lived on. Through her.

  For all that, Gillian Tremayne deserved the best acting of her life, and maybe…if she ceased arguing, he’d find her attractive enough to help her fulfill the comte’s last, unspoken request.

  “Yes?”

  She turned around. He was wearing the towel, while dark locks of wet hair curled beneath each ear. Her heart stumbled. Again.

  “Your bath awaits, love.”

  “Oh.”

  She watched him walk through the door to their bedchamber. And couldn’t think of one way to stop him.

  PART FOUR

  Brandywine

  CHAPTER ONE

  Gillian Bartholomew Tremayne was the twelfth baron in a long line of indeterminate lords who hadn’t distinguished themselves for their monarch enough to grant them a larger title. However, each baron seemed to know that his duty in life was to gain more ground and money without staining the family name. Land accrued at an amazing rate, mostly due to marriages, but there had been ancestors willing to fight, gamble, or, possibly cheat to obtain more prime land, adding to the coffers simultaneously.

  In direct contrast, Reginald Dunston’s impoverished estates stood nearer Brighton, and none of his forebears had done much for the entitlement except drain it, which was why Reg had to marry into money. That the young marquis was looked on as a fortune hunter was well-known, and he was often chided for it, never losing his good humor.

  Reg had once mentioned his true feelings to Gil, and he’d been hard-pressed not to laugh at Reg’s insistence that he wouldn’t put up with just any pock-faced heiress. His wife must be elegant, poised, and even-tempered so as not to cast a bad light on the titles and estates of the Marquis of Dunsberry — such as they were. The fact that Reg had passable looks, charm, and was only twenty-six years old stood him in good stead for his quest.

  No man should have to marry before he was ready. Gillian had long decided he’d be ready when he was near forty — not before. He would marry to beget an heir and add to the family coffers in some way, too. And until then, he was free to enjoy the favors of any woman who caught his eye. No one needed to tell Gillian his role.

  He’d known since he was in swaddling clothes that he could marry wherever he chose. Being the younger son gave him that freedom. He’d lost it, however, when Brode
rick was killed in 1795. His older brother hadn’t the mentality for warfare, even if his commission was purchased. He wasn’t even supposed to see active duty. As heir to the Tremayne estates, Broderick had been brought up knowing of his responsibilities while the younger Tremayne, Gillian, enjoyed all the freedom. None of those strictures were placed on him. He’d been spoiled from the day he was born, and he knew it.

  That his older brother was felled by a stray bullet was markedly the single worst experience in young Gillian’s life.

  Helene’s words during his bath were decidedly the second.

  He was a gentleman. He’d been raised as one, obeying a strict code of honor even in the matter of light-skirts. A gentleman could go outside the pale, taking almost any woman who offered, as long as there wasn’t any gossip. He’d known since the age of thirteen how he affected ladies. The chambermaids had flirted with the young lord back then, and he’d been the object of feminine admiration ever since.

  He was blessed with the Tremayne looks, his mother’s family’s height, and had towered over Broderick since his thirteenth birthday. Once Gillian inherited, he became the darling of society. Reginald often compared their lots in life — Gil had invitations scattered about the foyer, while the marquis could count his engagements on one hand. Gillian was an available man in every sense of the word, while Reginald was a fortune hunter. That didn’t change the facts. Gillian was a gentleman. He wasn’t to stain the family‘s name.

  Most definitely, he wasn’t supposed to do what he’d just done to his wife.

  She undoubtedly still looked at the door to the bedchamber, her eyes full of hurt and disillusionment. She’d been raised until the age of eight as a comte’s granddaughter, for pity’s sake! Marriage with a minor baron would never have been possible before the French revolution, even if, according to Helene, her father might have allowed Gil’s suit. Her grandfather would never have agreed. No comte’s only heir could wed so ignobly. As soon as Gil’s mother found out Helene’s lineage, his mother had been ecstatic. It was all the Dowager Lady Tremayne could do to keep it secret long enough for Helene to make her debut on Gil’s arm.