Calhoun Chronicles Bundle

by Susan Wiggs

  “So marrying me is your duty?”

  He squared his shoulders. “Nearly as sacred as the oath I took to serve my country.”

  “Suppose I wanted to wait?” Abigail ventured.

  “That’s impossible, of course.”

  “Suppose I changed my mind?” she asked, growing bolder.

  “Well, in that case, there wouldn’t be a wedding, would there?”

  “Would it bother you terribly if there was no wedding?”

  He patted her hand. “Dear, everyone has a wedding sooner or later. Ours simply happens to be sooner.”

  Heavens, it was like talking to a hearth plaque. She tried to interest him in the night sky, pointing out Betelgeuse, which appeared very red in the constellation of Orion. His polite admiration seemed distracted, and Abigail’s heart constricted.

  “Oh, Boyd,” she said, her hand venturing out to take his. “I’ve been awful to you, haven’t I?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You’re even more nervous than I am about all of this, and I never even noticed.”

  “Nonsense, my dear.” He gave her hand a squeeze and then released it. “I’m not nervous in the least.”

  She moved closer to Boyd, feeling the hem of her skirt brush against his legs. Trying to recall the things Jamie had taught her concerning the proper way to invite a man’s kiss, she gazed into his eyes and blinked slowly, then moistened her lips. She found herself distracted by his wide mustache, groomed to stiffness with a wax that smelled faintly of creosote.

  He frowned at her. “Are you unwell?”

  “No, not at all.” I was just wishing you would sweep me off my feet and kiss me senseless.

  “We’d best go inside. You’ll catch a chill out here.”

  She laughed to cover her frustration. “I spend nearly every night under the stars, and I’ve yet to suffer any ill effects.” Since he’d clearly missed her purpose a moment ago, she took his hands and moved in close, tipping back her head. He held himself very tall and stiff, his hands icy cold in hers and his gaze aimed at some point beyond her.

  “Oh, where are you, Boyd?” she asked, studying the play of starlight on his face. She wanted to weep and kiss him all at once. Why was that?

  “Pardon?”

  “You are still such a mystery to me,” she confessed. “There’s so much I want to know about you. I want to know what you think of life and nature. I want to find the poet inside the soldier. I want to know the man who wrote such sensitive letters.”

  “You do know me, dear,” he said. “And you shall have all the time in the world to know me better.”

  He was such a strong presence, she thought, standing in his shadow. But a tiny voice in the back of her mind whispered that he might be the wrong presence. Ah, but how could that be? She had wanted this for so long, worked so hard for it.

  “Now, we really must be going,” he said, crossing to the door and holding it open for her. “I shall stay up late tonight and compose a poem for you. Perhaps that will calm your nerves a little.”

  Abigail didn’t respond. She was too preoccupied with grinding her teeth together.

  He left her swiftly, and she stood in the foyer, staring out into the empty street, damp and aglow with gaslight. She felt a terrible realization pressing at her, something she had been denying for a very long time.

  It built with a steady insistence, crowding out all thoughts save one. How foolish of her. In bringing Boyd out to view the stars with her, she’d tried to duplicate her experience with Jamie Calhoun. She should have known better. There was, after all, only one Jamie.

  Twenty-Eight

  Jamie strode out of the house and crossed in front of the coach horse, signaling to Butler’s driver to wait. Butler opened the half door and stepped down into the street, his faultless uniform gleaming in the lamplight and his breath freezing in the night air.

  “Mr. Calhoun, is something the matter?” he asked.

  “I think you should come inside,” Jamie said.

  To his credit, Butler didn’t hesitate, but followed Jamie into the house and up the stairs to the sitting room. Rowan had drunk himself into a stupor and had staggered off to bed hours ago. There was a lot of intemperance going on in this household lately, Jamie reflected.

  He found himself seeking comfort far too often in the bottom of a glass, particularly since the opening of the aquarium.

  Layla, for Christ’s sake. She was the last person on earth he’d expected to encounter. And quite clearly, she’d been more surprised than he, since she’d witnessed his execution more than two years before. She used to lie in his arms and wish she could go to America. But that, like everything else she’d told him, was a lie. They’d arranged to meet in secret at the port of Almulla, but instead of Layla, he’d encountered a gang of palace guards armed with cold weapons and deadly intent.

  Women were natural deceivers, but Jamie had found the one exception. She was his reason for dragging Boyd Butler into his house. Despite all his intentions, Jamie was plagued by concern for Abigail.

  Her needs were simple and honest. She wanted so badly to be happy. Did Butler realize that?

  The two men entered the sitting room, lit only by the subtle flicker of flames from the iron stove. Rowan claimed to have installed electrical lighting in the house, but it never seemed to work.

  “Whiskey?” Jamie demanded, holding out a decanter.

  “No, thank you,” Butler said. “Mr. Calhoun, what is this about?”

  “Your future wife,” Jamie said, nearly gagging on the words. Setting down the bottle, he advanced on Butler, practically cornering him. “I wish to know your intentions toward Abigail.”

  Butler laughed, sounding more confused than amused. “I’m going to marry her, of course.”

  “How much time have you spent with Abigail? How well do you know her?”

  Butler’s military bearing sharpened with his temper. “What do you take me for? And for that matter, who are you to question my intentions regarding Abigail?”

  “I’m a friend of the family,” Jamie said, a bit startled to realize it was almost true. “Abigail is a special young lady. She has a guileless nature and a heart full of love.”

  “I know what is in her heart,” Butler said, and Jamie realized he was referring to the letters. “Just what is it you expect from me?”

  “I’m glad you asked.” Jamie took another step toward him. “I expect you to cherish Abigail as though she were a national treasure. Better yet, worship her like a goddess.”

  “Sir, I am a gentleman. I know how to treat a wife.”

  “But what do you know about Abigail? Do you know she’s looking for a comet?”

  “A what?”

  “Christ, she didn’t tell you?”

  “My fiancée has more important things on her mind.”

  What could be more important than her comet? Jamie wondered. Butler would never understand. “Look, you have to trust that I know what she wants. You’ll encourage her to pursue her science.”

  The lieutenant smiled slightly, a patronizing expression Jamie wanted to pound off his face. “She won’t be needing a vocation other than that of being my wife.”

  “Have you asked her that? Because if you do, you’ll find out that she wants to visit the Vatican Observatory, and she wants to climb to a mountaintop and look at the night sky to her heart’s content.”

  “Not that it’s any of your affair, but my duties leave me no time for a wedding trip.”

  “Then make time, damn it.” He couldn’t seem to keep the words in. Although he couldn’t stand the thought of her with another man, he also couldn’t deprive her of the happiness she craved. “Are you prepared to do those things, Lieutenant? Because if you’re not, I’ll—”

  “Sir, I am trained in hand-to-hand combat,” Butler said. “You don’t want to tangle with me.”

  Jamie was startled to realize he’d drawn back his fist, ready to strike. But at the lieutenant’s words, he began t
o laugh loudly and bitterly. Given all he’d survived in Khayrat, he was hardly intimidated by a naval officer’s threat. Besides, in his current state of mind, he might do real damage. “No, Lieutenant,” he said, lowering his fist. “I don’t.”

  Butler slowly released a long breath, as though he’d been holding it in. “Tell me something, Calhoun. Why do you care so much?”

  “Because I—” He caught himself. “What matters is that you care.”

  “Believe me, Mr. Calhoun, you’ve nothing to worry about.”

  There was nothing left to say. Jamie realized he’d only cause Abigail hurt if he didn’t back off. He accompanied Lieutenant Butler out to the coach and stood there for a long time after it rolled away. A futile anger filled him, and he didn’t know why. Or perhaps he didn’t want to examine the reason. He wanted it to be enough that he’d done his duty, found a decent man for Abigail. The steady, letter-writing Butler would not transport her to the heavens, but neither would he break her heart. There was much to be said for preserving one’s heart.

  Jamie took himself off to bed, but he couldn’t sleep. He wondered why it troubled him so to surrender her to Butler. He supposed it was because she was the one good thing that had happened to him since losing Noah. In Abigail, Jamie found genuine goodness, and he felt cleansed just being with her. But their friendship could only be temporary. She would be much better off with bland, safe Lieutenant Butler.

  Unable to sleep, Abigail crept downstairs in her nightgown. She donned her winter cloak, opened the door and slipped out into the night. The cold air struck her like a slap in the face, and she found it bracing, welcome, because she finally understood something she’d been avoiding for a long time.

  What a ninny she’d been. The truth was staring her in the face, yet she’d willfully blinded herself to the desires in her heart. But no more. Now she knew it was time to trust her own judgment, not bend to the dictates of someone else’s expectations. Tonight she would stop forcing herself to make the safe choice, the proper choice. Tonight she would take the only risk that made life worth living.

  She didn’t expect anyone to respond to her knock, and no one did, so she let herself in and made her way swiftly to Jamie’s room. A pale wash of moonlight bathed the tall bed, and a sound of surprise and annoyance rose from beneath the covers.

  Not so long ago, the idea of barging into a man’s bedroom would have paralyzed her with horror. But true love, she discovered, was a source of great courage.

  Stepping inside, she began speaking at once. “You haven’t fulfilled your promise to me,” she said, dismayed at the prissy note in her voice but determined to speak her piece. “You swore you would teach me to—Great Red Spot of Jupiter!” Her hands flew to her cheeks. For the first time since barging into his room, she noticed that he was naked, at least from the waist up. And she dared not look lower.

  Cold moonlight through the window gave his skin the smooth sheen of a marble sculpture, and his expression was that of a stranger. He glowered at her as he reached for the decanter of water on the bedside table. “What the hell do you want?”

  She kept her eyes averted, or tried to. But it was impossible not to stare. Muscles shaped his shoulders and chest with a powerful symmetry she simply couldn’t help staring at. There was something about the combination of strength and smoothness that held her riveted.

  “Well?” he demanded, drinking straight from the decanter. “Has a star fallen out of the sky? Did you spot another moon?”

  “Why are you being so disagreeable?” she asked. Nervousness and uncertainty made her irritable. “I’ll bet it’s that Arabian princess at the aquarium.”

  “What about her?” He spoke with bland indifference, but he often used bland indifference to mask his deeper feelings. It was something she had learned about him.

  “They say she was your lover many years ago.” She knew Helena had only been guessing, but Helena’s instincts were usually correct. “They say you were madly in love with her.”

  He laughed unpleasantly, then leaned over to light the lamp. Bathed in a golden glow, his bare skin was even more fascinating than ever. Despite his relaxed posture, he looked faintly intimidating. Abigail felt a spasm of warmth inside that reminded her of her purpose in coming here.

  “You know better than to listen to gossip.” He laughed again. “You know I’m not the sort to lose my head over a woman.”

  “They say her family wanted you executed and you barely escaped with your life.”

  “They also say angels dance on the head of a pin. That doesn’t mean it’s true.”

  She knew she would get nowhere with this line of questioning. Besides, digging into his past was not her purpose at all tonight. She had a far more important agenda. She’d come to admit the terrible mistake she had made in agreeing to marry Lieutenant Butler.

  But she hadn’t realized how hard it would be to explain.

  “Are you ill?” he asked, leaning back against a bank of pillows. Unlike her, he seemed completely unperturbed by the shocking impropriety of the circumstances. “You look strange.”

  “You’re the second man this evening to ask me if I’m ill,” she said. “I’m not. I came to tell you—” She hesitated. Words would never say what was in her heart. Her failed correspondence with the lieutenant was proof of that. And Jamie had a special talent for rendering a heartfelt declaration null and void. She simply didn’t know how to tell this bitter man how she truly felt about him. He’d only laugh at her, tell her love was a trick of the light, as elusive and insubstantial as mist.

  Very well, she would show him then. Taking a deep breath, she said again, “You haven’t fulfilled your promise to me.”

  “Me? Break a promise? Never.” He clutched at his heart, putting his hand over his bare chest.

  “No need to be sarcastic. You did promise, didn’t you, that you would teach me all the aspects of conducting a romance?”

  “And haven’t I done so? You’ve got the poor sod eating out of your hand, Abby. What more do you want?”

  She swallowed hard, marshaling her courage. “I know virtually nothing about physical love.”

  Just for a moment, he looked utterly confounded. Then he leaned back against the pillows and chuckled, his bronzed throat rippling with mirth. “You’re a smart woman, Abby. I’ve seen you poring over Rowan’s anatomy texts. And don’t pretend you didn’t study every page of the Kama Sutra when you thought I wasn’t looking.”

  Oh, Lord. He’d noticed.

  “It’s not the same,” she persisted. “I read books about riding a horse, but until I actually rode one, I had no idea how it was done.” She stepped boldly forward, nearly touching the edge of the bed with her knees. “Think what a disappointing bride I’d be if I proved graceless and bashful on the wedding night.”

  “If you believe I’d think about that for one moment, you’re insane,” he said, waving his hand with impatience. “Go away, Abby. You don’t want to be with me tonight, or any other night.”

  She sniffed. “You’re afraid of what will happen if I stay.”

  He laughed again in that strange, cruel way. “I can’t teach you about love, physical or otherwise. If it’s whore’s tricks you want—”

  “What if I do?”

  “Take your clothes off,” he said.

  He was trying to frighten and intimidate her into running away, but this was Jamie, she reminded herself. She could never be afraid of him.

  Resolutely, she dropped her cloak to the floor. Beneath it, she wore the dainty batiste nightgown Madame Broussard had created. Then the awful truth struck her, something she hadn’t thought of until now. In fact, she hadn’t thought much about her infirmity in weeks. Jamie had kept her too busy with dress fittings and mule-barge rides down the C&O Canal, with mock social engagements and riding lessons. He had, she realized, kept her too busy living to worry about her foot.

  “Put out the light,” she said.

  “No.” He folded his arms across his chest.
“Love doesn’t just happen in the dark. You’ve got to learn that.” He crossed his arms over his chest, looking quite sure of himself. He expected her to flee and hide.

  She resisted the urge. He’d once told her that she was afraid to take a risk. Now she was about to risk everything. How terrible could this be? she wondered. Surely no worse than the uncounted humiliations she’d suffered in the past. Women all over the world disrobed in front of men and survived the experience.

  But most women didn’t look like she did.

  Taking a deep breath, she stepped out of her slippers, undid the row of pearlized buttons down the front of the gown. Finally she let the garment slide to the floor, leaving her clad in nothing but a thin shift. When she saw the way he stared at her, she battled an even stronger urge to flee and never come back. But deep down, she realized she didn’t want to go. There was something compelling in his angry stare, something that made her yearn to stay, to touch him.

  “Now what?” she asked.

  Again, she glimpsed uncertainty—just a flicker—beneath his façade. But all too quickly, the cynicism returned. “Come to bed, and I’ll show you.”

  She took a step toward him, lurching a little. And then she realized he was staring at her foot.

  Abigail froze, wishing the floor would swallow her up. She didn’t dare look at him as she backed away, groping for her cloak. But then he was there, standing before her, taking her in his arms.

  “Oh, honey,” he said, smiling down into her face. “Is this what had you so worried?”

  With a decided lack of inhibition, he swept her up and laid her on the bed, still warm from his body heat. He slid his hand down her leg, cradling her foot.

  She wasn’t sure what startled her more, his reaction to her foot, or her reaction to the fact that he didn’t have on a single stitch of clothing. Good heavens…

  “Abby, love, don’t look at me like that. I would never hurt you,” he said. All his cruelty had dissolved into a new tenderness he’d never shown her before. “You needn’t hide a single precious part of yourself, don’t you know that?”