by Deborah Hale
He was not dissatisfied with his current situation, after all.
He’d come looking for Bethan, to apologise for the way he’d spoken to her last night and for yesterday’s blunder with Rosalia. He owed the child an explanation too, though he wasn’t certain he’d be able to express his feelings in a way she could understand. If he caught a glimpse of reproach in her dark eyes, so like her mother’s, Simon feared he might say or do something to make matters worse.
Overhearing the simple, wise words Bethan used to enlighten and comfort Rosalia, he could not help but admire her understanding of things that had always puzzled him. How was it that after such a short acquaintance, she seemed to understand him so well, yet did not hold his mistakes against him? His prickly sense of privacy felt threatened by her perceptive insights into his character and feelings, but the neglected child that hid in the deepest recesses of his heart responded to her compassion.
Perhaps she understood him so well because they were more alike than he would ever have imagined. They had both been abandoned in various ways as children, growing up in an atmosphere of disapproval. Later they had known the bitterness of betrayal.
As she began to sing, the lilt of her voice reminded him of the sirens in Homer’s Odyssey. Caution warned Simon he should not linger there and risk an encounter with Bethan when his feelings were so confused and dangerously close to the surface. But the mysterious Welsh lyrics of her song seemed to bind him in some kind of enchantment.
He was still standing in the darkened hallway a few minutes later when she emerged from the nursery. At the unexpected sight of him, Bethan jumped back with a startled squeak.
“Forgive me,” Simon whispered, hoping he had not roused disturbing memories from her past. “This time, I must admit, I am prowling.”
“Are you now?” she asked in a breathless voice. “Why is that, may I ask?”
“I want to apologise for the way I spoke to you last night.” He beckoned her away from nursery door. “I’m not angry with you any more than I am with Rosalia. It was true what you told her just now…about not wanting to be reminded of painful events from my past.”
He wished he’d never mentioned Carlotta last night. His rancorous outburst was just the sort of thing to whet Bethan’s curiosity and make her hound him with questions he did not want to answer. “Do you think Rosalia can forgive me for the way I acted yesterday? Or have I ruined any chance of becoming the kind of father she needs?”
“Children are willing to give many more chances than you think.” Bethan reached for his hand. “If my father had ever tried to get in touch with me after he left, I wouldn’t have turned him away. Even after all the hurt he caused me, I still wore that locket with his picture in it. I’d give anything to have it back again.”
The locket that had been stolen her first day in Singapore—Simon had almost forgotten it. At the time, he’d doubted her story. Now he regretted his suspicions and wished he’d tried to retrieve it for her. Perhaps, like his efforts to get closer to Rosalia, it was not too late.
He could speak to one of the Chinese merchants about offering a reward for its return. That was the least he could do to atone for misjudging Bethan. He would not mention it to her, though, for he did not want to raise false hopes in case his efforts failed.
Simon sniffed the air. “Dinner smells good and almost ready. Perhaps while we dine you can give me some suggestions about how I might make up to Rosalia for yesterday. I have been working on my smile, though I fear it looks rather gruesome when I try to force it.”
His wry quip made Bethan laugh and that made Simon smile without any effort at all.
To his relief, she did not ask him a single question about his late wife that whole evening. Instead they talked about Rosalia—little things Bethan had noticed about the child, suggestions for things Simon might do to bring them closer. “You need to do things with her, things that you can talk about together without feeling forced and tongue-tied.”
Simon gave a rueful nod. “That is exactly how I feel when I try to talk to her.”
“I meant Rosalia.” Bethan grinned. “But I don’t wonder you both feel the same way about it. Though she doesn’t look like you at all, everything else about her reminds me of you. The way her smile comes and goes so quickly, but lights up the whole room for that instant. The way she tries so hard to keep her troubles to herself. The way she wants so badly to do what’s right.”
Her words touched Simon more than he could begin to tell her, soothing poisonous doubts about his daughter’s paternity that had long haunted him. Gradually, he became aware of a sensation in his chest that was unfamiliar, but not unpleasant. It reminded him of half-forgotten details from his boyhood in Lancashire, like the prickling of icy toes, as they warmed in front of a cheerfully crackling fire. Or frostbitten fingers wrapped around a steaming mug of mulled cider. Could it be that his heart was beginning to thaw?
He wasn’t certain that was something he wanted to risk, now especially. There were benefits to remaining frozen. Frozen flesh was numb to pain. Frozen ground was hard to break, yielding only with great difficulty to the prying picks and shovels that sought to unearth the secrets buried deep within it.
In spite of all that, Simon found himself tempted to escape the perpetual winter that had held his heart in its protective, stifling grip for so long.
Getting to know Simon’s daughter was helping her understand him a great deal better, Bethan realised as they talked about Rosalia over dinner. It was also making the prospect of marrying him much more appealing.
The mention of her stolen locket made her realise how little progress she’d made towards finding out what had become of her brother. Such a bewildering number of ships had been through Singapore in the past three years, she wondered if anyone here would remember the Dauntless, let alone one young crewman. She’d been a fool to think she could accomplish such a task. Almost as daft was her belief that finding Hugh would somehow restore her family. The chance to do that had been lost long ago. Had she persuaded herself it was possible so she would not feel completely abandoned in a big, uncaring world?
Whatever the reason, she was not sorry she’d tried. The search for her brother had led to Simon and Rosalia—a family who needed her to make it whole. With them, she had a chance to create a new family and to gain the kind of comfort and security she’d never known.
“Thank you for telling Rosalia about her mother,” said Simon as they headed toward their bedrooms at the end of the evening. “If my daughter does give me another chance, I shall have you to thank for it.”
It occurred to Bethan that this was the first time she’d heard him refer to Rosalia as his daughter. Until now he’d always called her by name or said the child. This had to be a good sign for the future.
“I am not accustomed to being understood so well.” His murmured words sounded like the sweetest endearment. “It is rather disturbing…yet strangely comforting, too. You’ve come to know me better in a few short weeks than anyone else has in years and years.”
Some people might think it strange to call being understood disturbing, but Bethan thought she knew what Simon meant. Understanding might mean prying into all those forbidden subjects he did not want to be reminded of. She had bitten her tongue more than once this evening to keep from mentioning Rosalia’s mother, though her curiosity was like a bedevilling itch. In a way she was relieved to discover Simon had not adored his late wife so much that he had no room in his heart for a new love.
She smiled up at him. “That’s the second nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me. You’re not an easy man to understand, Simon—there are so many different sides to you. Just when I think I’ve seen them all, another one surprises me. Parts of you I understand because they’re a lot like me. But in other ways, we’re as different as can be.”
“That’s not such a bad thing, is it?” He leaned towards her. “Some likenesses as a basis for compatibility, some differences to add a little zest.”
If only she had more experience with men, she might know how to send him a signal that she wanted to feel his arms around her again and taste his kisses. The best she could manage was to gaze up at him through the fringe of her lashes and whisper, “You make it sound very nice, indeed.”
Then she held herself as still as possible, not wanting to make any move that might discourage his attentions.
It worked.
He bent a little lower, tilted his head and slowly approached until his lips came to rest against hers. Their touch was so mild, Bethan wondered if he was as worried as she about making the wrong move. She savoured the smooth, restrained warmth of his kiss, trying to be content with it when part of her was greedy for more.
Her patience was soon rewarded when Simon raised his hands to caress her shoulders. Many times in the past fortnight she’d caught herself admiring his large, powerful hands. Now the deft strength of his touch encouraged her to part her lips and invite his kiss deeper. The hot, slick caress of his tongue carried the mellow sweetness of coconut, from the little cakes they’d eaten to finish off their dinner. It fed a different kind of hunger that had gnawed at her for days.
Dizzy with desire, she raised her hands to grip his shoulders. Their broad strength helped steady her. Then one of his hands strayed upwards to entangle itself in her hair. The other skimmed down to fondle her breast. His thumb rubbed over the nipple, making it harden and push out against her bodice. Every stroke sent ripples of delight lapping through her. A soft purr of pleasure rolled in the back of her throat as she clasped Simon around the neck and melted against him.
Then suddenly he wrenched his lips away from hers and pushed her away. “Forgive me, Bethan! I promised I would control myself and not do anything to frighten you or bring back distressing memories.”
Frighten her? What sort of timid mouse did he think she was to be frightened of a kiss? And what distressing memories was he talking about? Had the heat of passion addled his wits?
Before she could master her voice to ask, he continued, “I want you so much I got carried away. But I swear I will never press my attentions upon you against your will. I only want to bring you pleasure. Your previous experience may have made you doubt that is possible. But with the right man, I assure you it is.”
Her previous experience? Could this be what he’d meant by those baffling words after their kiss on Government Hill, when she’d thought he was talking about her brother?
“It’s all right, Simon. You didn’t frighten me. I like the way you kiss.” She gave a nervous trill of laughter, hoping he wouldn’t think her next suggestion too forward. “In fact, I wouldn’t mind going on from where we just left off.”
In the long, uneasy silence that followed, she wondered if Simon disapproved of her brazen offer?
“I cannot deny I am sorely tempted.” A shudder ran through him. “But I do not trust myself at the moment. I will wait until you are prepared to take that big step.”
With a sudden movement, he thrust his bedroom door open and marched over the threshold. “Goodnight. Sleep well.”
Bethan had no time to protest before his door swung shut, leaving her out alone in the hallway. After a few moments waiting in the hope that he might change his mind, she gave up and went to bed. Puzzled and consumed with yearning, she doubted she would sleep at all that night, let alone well.
His barely controlled ardour had not frightened Bethan. Simon considered that hopeful notion the next day as he returned home early. She’d claimed to like it and what he could recall of her response led him to believe her. Or was it only his longing for it to be true that persuaded him?
No, it was more than that. She’d invited him to keep on, after all, even when he’d made it clear that his self-control was tenuous at best. Did she know him well enough to sense he was a far more honourable man than the one who’d taken her innocence by force? Did she trust that no matter how deep the powerful current of passion carried him he would not let it sweep them into dangerous waters? If that was the case, she trusted him far more than he trusted himself.
Her lack of fear boded well for the future, though. It gave him hope that she would soon be ready to become his mistress.
To prepare for that, he’d spent part of the day trying to find a suitable woman to help her care for Rosalia. He’d also called on one of the Chinese merchants he knew well and asked the man’s help to recover Bethan’s stolen locket. They agreed that a reward should be offered and no charges brought against whoever turned in the stolen property. Though that chafed against Simon’s rigorous sense of justice, he was prepared to make allowances for Bethan’s sake.
Looking back over his day, Simon realised he had spent very little time attending to business matters. Yet trade at Vindicara had gone on as usual with no catastrophes. That encouraged him to head home early, hoping he might spend some time with Rosalia.
When he arrived home, Simon peeked into the nursery, only to find it empty. His disappointment eased when he heard the sweet harmony of feminine laughter rising from the garden. A moment later, he stole up behind Bethan and Rosalia, eager to share in their cheerful company without casting a shadow upon it.
They knelt in the shade of a laurelwood tree, digging with small spades in a circle of freshly turned earth around the base of the trunk.
Rosalia was chattering away with more animation than Simon had ever heard in her voice. “You’ll like Chinese New Year, Bethan! Cook makes all sorts of special treats and there are parades and fireworks.”
With a rush of sweet anticipation, Simon pictured the three of them watching from Government Hill next winter as sparkling explosions lit up the night sky.
“Look at you two,” he called out. “Training to become kebun, are you?”
Rosalia jumped up, coming to attention like a miniature sepoy soldier. “Do you mind us planting the flowers, Papa? Bethan said it would be all right.”
“Of course I don’t mind.” He glanced past the anxious child to Bethan, silently seeking some cue from her about how to reassure his daughter.
Her encouraging smile told him he’d made a good start.
Simon sank into a crouch so he would not tower over the child and intimidate her. “When I was your age, I wanted to be a gardener when I grew up.”
Rosalia’s dark eyes widened, as if she had trouble believing he’d ever been a small boy.
Behind the child, Bethan gave a nod of approval. He recalled the advice she’d given him the other night about finding subjects of mutual interest to talk about with his daughter. At the time he’d doubted they had any common interests. He was pleased to discover otherwise.
“What sort of flowers are you planting?” he asked.
“Kenekir.” Rosalia seemed uncertain what to make of her father’s sudden interest in her doings. “Samad says they’re easy to grow and they smell pretty.”
Simon glanced toward the seedlings. “Excellent qualities in a garden flower. It’s been quite a few years since I wielded a spade back in Lancashire, but I’d be happy to help, if you’ll permit me.”
“I say the more the merrier.” Bethan slapped the dirt off her hands. “What do you think, Rosalia? Could we use an extra helper?”
The child replied with a nod that was not particularly eager, but not reluctant either. “Where is Lancashire, Papa?”
The question took Simon by surprise. Did his own daughter not even know where he came from? “It’s in England, where I was born. Once we’ve finished here, I will dig out my atlas and show you where it is.”
They spen
t a pleasant hour planting the seedlings while they talked about gardening and his childhood in the Ribble Valley. Afterward, they looked at maps, tracing the long sea route from England to Singapore with their fingers.
When he ventured to suggest that Rosalia might stay up a little later so she could join them for dinner, it was hard to tell who seemed more pleased—his daughter or Bethan. After a pleasant meal, he helped put Rosalia to bed. Then he and Bethan wandered back out into the garden.
It was an altogether different place at night. The rising moon bathed all the tropical greenery with a magical, silvery glow like one Simon had glimpsed in Bethan’s eyes. The lush aroma of jasmine perfumed the sultry air. As silence fell between them and the warm, tropical darkness wrapped around them, Simon was more intensely conscious of her nearness. Her fresh, wholesome scent reminded him of a field of clover in a Lancashire meadow on a sunny June morning. It took him back to a time when his life had been so much simpler and sweeter, before he’d encountered things like rejection, cruelty and betrayal.
“Today went better than I expected with Rosalia,” he said. “Far better than I had any right to hope. I know I still have my work cut out for me to become the kind of father she deserves, but I believe I’ve made a start. And I owe it all to you.”
Bethan shook her head. “You give me too much credit. You heeded my warning and made the effort. Rosalia gave you the chance. All I did was give you both a little nudge toward each other.”
“A little nudge?” asked Simon.
“Perhaps more like a great, rough push,” Bethan admitted.
They both chuckled over that. He liked the way his laughter harmonised with hers.
