by Cheryl Holt
At the prospect his distaste was painfully evident. So . . . this was his genuine opinion. In her mind, she’d realized that he regarded her strictly in a carnal fashion, but her heart and pride had invented other scenarios.
She was such an idiot! When he was so fine, he’d never ally himself with someone so much lower. She was a fool to have presumed otherwise.
She tamped down her distress, her shame, and blandly replied, “He wouldn’t order such a silly result. Not over a mere bit of fornication.”
“I’m so relieved!”
“He’s very practical. He understands how affairs happen between adults.”
“Too true.”
“Yes, isn’t it?”
Obviously, he didn’t share her heightened emotions. He craved one thing from her and one thing only. Desperate to mask her wounded feelings with darkness, she leaned over and blew out the candle.
Very likely, the Captain would send him to London, so this might be her last chance to be with him. She wanted him to remember how it had been, to remember—and to never forget—that she had been his first.
She cradled him to her and started in again.
12
It’s about time you arrived, Mr. Smith.”
“I apologize, Captain.”
“I asked you to attend me at six. It’s gone past eleven. Up late, were you?”
At the sexual innuendo Robert blushed. “I appear to have dozed off. Let me apologize again.”
When he’d opened his eyes and discovered the hour, he’d nearly expired with alarm. He’d sneaked out of Patricia’s bed, donned his wrinkled, messy clothes, then raced to find the Captain awaiting him in the library. They faced each other across the huge desk—Westmoreland sitting, Robert standing—and he struggled for aplomb, but with his tardiness and disheveled condition it was difficult to muster any composure.
He’d proved himself an immoral sluggard. If the Captain fired him, it would be the least of the penalties he deserved.
Westmoreland scrutinized Robert’s rumpled suit, his unshaven cheeks, and smirked. “Well, let’s hear it. What have you to say for yourself?”
“I make no excuses, and I will accept any punishment.”
Robert bravely offered himself up for castigation, but inside, he was horridly irked that he had to atone for his indiscretion. To the Captain of all people! The man was the most prolific libertine on earth, and for him to reproach for conduct in which he regularly engaged, himself, was certainly a case of the pot calling the kettle black.
Robert recognized how awfully he’d transgressed, so he didn’t need a preachy lecture from the worst of sinners. Should the criticism be acute, Robert wasn’t sure he could remain civil.
From his first moment with Patricia, Robert had known that what he was doing was wrong. He’d become little more than a feral beast, his only thought on copulation. With no regard for the consequences, he continually spilled himself in her sheath. Eventually, he would have her pregnant, and then what would he do? He was poverty-stricken, with no income and no family he’d acknowledge, so he couldn’t marry her.
More important, if they forged ahead into matrimony, what sort of union would they have? She was accustomed to combative men, who reasoned with their fists. In comparison, he was a frail ninny, and ultimately she would grow to hate him for his failings.
He was disgusted with himself and had to gain control, but he had no idea how. If he was lucky, the Captain would murder him and put him out of his misery.
“So,” the Captain mused, “you’re thinking you should be punished.”
“Yes.”
“And what—precisely—would I punish you for?”
“Illicit fornication. I admit to every lapse, and despite what Miss Reilly claims, it was all my fault.”
Westmoreland rocked on the hind legs of his chair, studying Robert, while Robert squirmed and sweated, and he received the distinct impression that the Captain was enjoying Robert’s discomfort.
“I’m amazed, Mr. Smith.”
“By what?”
“By your assuming the blame. Perhaps there’s hope for you yet.”
“Although my recent activities scarcely reflect it, I was raised a gentleman. It’s only proper that I own up to what I’ve done.”
Just then, the door banged open, and Patricia stomped in. With a sword dangling from one hip and a pistol strapped to the other, she was a sight, a lithe, tough virago who looked as if she might tear Westmoreland limb from limb.
“Good morning, Reilly,” the Captain welcomed. “I’m pleased to see that you could drag your ass out of bed before noon.”
Patricia bristled and marched over. In a protective gesture, she stepped in front of Robert, shielding him from Westmoreland’s wrath, and Robert was aggravated by the move. He had so few masculine qualities, and he didn’t need her reminding the Captain of that pitiful fact.
“Leave Robert alone, Captain,” she demanded. “If you have something to say, say it to me.”
“I suggest you butt out,” Westmoreland responded. “This isn’t any of your business.”
“If it’s not my business, then whose would it be?” she asked. “You’re not to bully him. I won’t allow it.”
“You won’t?” Westmoreland stared at Robert. “Have you any reply, Mr. Smith?”
Robert was humiliated beyond words. It was bad enough to be braced for a dressing-down, but to have Patricia interfering and pleading his case!
“Patricia!” Robert scolded. “Stop it. You’re embarrassing me.”
At his sharp rebuke she glanced over her shoulder. “I won’t have him badgering you.”
“He’s not,” Robert insisted. There hadn’t been time! He nodded toward the hall. “Wait outside. I’ll be out in a minute.”
“But . . . but . . .”
She was furious with both of them and eager to wreak havoc, but Robert couldn’t be further disparaged before Westmoreland.
“Go, Patricia!” he stated more vehemently than he typically would.
To his astonishment, she frowned, then complied. As she arrived at the threshold, she halted and glared at Westmoreland.
“If you harm him,” she vowed, “you’ll answer to me.”
“I’m sure I will,” Westmoreland agreed, sounding downright cordial.
She departed, though Robert envisioned her directly outside, her ear pressed to the wood. With minimal provocation, she’d probably rush in again and leap to his defense.
Westmoreland pointed to a chair. “Sit down, Mr. Smith.”
He felt like a felon about to meet his executioner. “I prefer to stand.”
“And I order you to sit.”
So much for defiance! When Westmoreland issued a command, there was no denying him. Robert pulled up a chair, centered it, and perched on the edge.
Westmoreland rose and started toward the sideboard, then detoured to the door. He jerked it open and, as Robert had suspected, Patricia was leaned against it, and she tumbled in.
“Head to your room,” Westmoreland said, “and stay there till I send for you.”
“I won’t,” she mutinously declared, daring to be insubordinate. “You can’t make me.”
“If you don’t obey—this very second—it’ll be twenty lashes in the yard, with the servants watching. I’ll use the cat-o’-nine-tails, and after I’m finished, you won’t see your precious Mr. Smith for six months.”
She tarried, debating whether to refuse, but she thought better of it and tromped off. Westmoreland dawdled till he was certain she’d left; then he went to the sideboard and poured two whiskeys. He returned, seated himself behind the desk, and passed one to Robert while he sipped his own. Robert gaped at the liquor but didn’t reach for it.
“Drink up, Mr. Smith.”
“No.”
“Drink!” His tone brooked no argument.
“I don’t imbibe of hard spirits.”
“Maybe you should begin. I’m positive it would have a beneficial effect o
n your dour character.”
Robert was angrier than he’d been in years, and he gripped his chair, restraining himself lest he dive across and pummel Westmoreland. With how the Captain had menaced Patricia, could he actually presume Robert would act as if nothing had happened? Were they to have a friendly beverage and a chuckle? Was the man truly that thick?
“If you lay a hand on her,” Robert seethed, “I’ll kill you. Not immediately, but someday when you least expect it, I’ll . . . I’ll . . .”
“You would? Really?”
“Yes.”
Not intimidated in the slightest, the Captain waved away the remark. “I’d cut off my arm before I hurt her.”
“Then why threaten her with the lash?”
“You haven’t had much experience with women, Mr. Smith, especially one as independent as Patricia. Trust me when I tell you that some of them require a firm rein, or they’ll run all over you.”
“If I ever decide I need your advice on how to deal with a female, I’ll let you know.”
Westmoreland laughed. “You seem awfully annoyed with me. Why is that? You wouldn’t be in love with her, would you?”
“Me?” Robert scoffed. “How could I be? I have no money.”
“I’ve heard that money has little to do with the emotional state. It can strike without warning. Has it struck you, Mr. Smith?”
Westmoreland’s shrewd assessment dug deep, and Robert felt like an ant trapped under a glass.
“Of course I’m not in love,” he maintained. “You’re being ludicrous.”
“So . . . this is merely a pleasant romp?”
It was so much more than that, but Robert fidgeted and lied, “Yes.”
“I have to admit that I’m surprised at you.”
“Why?”
“Such reckless spontaneity is so contrary to your nature.”
“I guess I can be as impulsive as the next fellow.”
“And as randy, it appears.” Westmoreland sighed. “You’re being extremely irresponsible.”
“I am not!” he asserted, though he knew Westmoreland was correct. He’d never behaved so negligently, and he couldn’t fathom why rashness suddenly appealed.
“If she winds up pregnant, what are your plans toward her?”
“You’re aware of my financial position. How could I have any?”
“How indeed?”
Westmoreland had a way of focusing in, of delving to the crux of the matter. His disappointment was clear, his disapproval excruciating. Under his avid scrutiny, Robert twitched with dismay. He wanted to defend or explain, but there was no rationalizing the unjustifiable.
He took a stout gulp of whiskey, so overcome with regret that he didn’t flinch as the searing liquid washed down his throat.
“Are you familiar with her past?” Robert inquired, desperate to change the subject, to urge the conversation away from his personal flaws.
“Yes, I know all about her.”
“How did the two of you meet?”
The Captain shrugged. “If she hasn’t chosen to inform you, then I don’t suppose I ought.”
He made it sound sinister, and Robert could barely stifle a shudder of dread. He couldn’t bear to imagine what predicament she might have been in when the Captain had stumbled upon her.
“Does she owe you money?”
After being purchased at the slave market, Robert, himself, was in debt to Westmoreland for hundreds of pounds and, barring some windfall, would never earn the amount necessary for reimbursement. If Patricia had to repay him, too, they’d never be free.
“No,” Westmoreland answered, “I didn’t buy her. I simply rescued her.”
“She said it was your idea that she pretend to be a man.”
“The Egyptian I stole her from was gravely offended, and he offered a huge reward for her to be murdered. He sent out assassins who’d like to collect it. They still look for her and always will. When she left with me, I vowed to her that I’d never let them find her.”
“They’re searching for a woman.”
“They have been, but they’ll figure it out eventually.”
A terrible notion dawned on Robert. “Is she safe here at Mansfield?”
“I believe so. England is far from the Mediterranean, and we’re in the country rather than on the London docks.” He went and refilled his liquor, and he stared out the window. “But I have to tell you, Mr. Smith, that she’ll constantly be in danger. She’s tough, and she can brawl with the best of them, but she must have a partner who will watch her back.”
“Why is this Egyptian gentleman so determined?”
“He has a long memory. There’s pride involved over her audacity, you see, as well as a strong need for vengeance. So if I was to give her to someone else—say someone who loved her and wished to marry her—that fellow would have to swear to me that he would protect her with his very life. He’d have to prove himself worthy, that he was capable of fighting to the death for her.”
Blue eyes icy with resolve, he spun and faced Robert. “Do you know of a man who might want her, who might be inclined to that sort of bravery and dedication?”
Obviously, Westmoreland was asking if Robert could be that man, when they both realized he wasn’t and never could be. Robert flushed with shame and glanced away.
“No,” he muttered, “I don’t know anyone like that.”
“Just as I suspected,” Westmoreland murmured in reply. An awkward silence ensued; then Westmoreland said, “You’re excused, Mr. Smith. You may be about your duties.”
“Thank you, Captain.”
“In the meantime,” he added as Robert slithered away, “I recommend that you let the relationship cool a bit.”
“Yes, sir, I will.”
Feeling numb, he walked into the hall and sneaked to his room.
13
Helen hurried down the stairs. She was late for supper, and the Captain would be irked by her tardiness. He rarely dined in the house, and for once, he would be present and was demanding that she join him.
She’d spent hours consulting with the cook, selecting the menu, fussing with the china and silver, and picking out her dress. She yearned for everything to be perfect so she could illustrate the sort of repast that would be served in London when he met his father. He’d asked for her help in preparing for the grand event, but he’d given her few chances to assist.
If she had a more personal reason for wanting the intimate meal to be a success, she refused to linger on her ulterior motives. Since he’d visited her bedchamber, he hadn’t stopped by again. In fact, he’d been notably absent from the premises. Obviously, he was avoiding her, and she was in agony, trying to deduce why.
The evening had been a romantic, splendid experience, and she’d been expecting a similar episode to occur, but he must have found their tryst a tad less interesting. The prospect—that he’d been dissatisfied—was eating away at her.
She’d been informed that he left the property at night. Why? Was he visiting other women in the village? If he was, she had to figure out how to prevent him from straying.
Her pride was now involved, as were her emotions. It galled her to acknowledge the truth, but she was smitten beyond any sane limit, and she was desperate to seduce him so that he’d stay at home where he belonged.
She reached the foyer and increased her pace, racing around the corner when she bumped into Mr. Smith. He and Sergeant Reilly were huddled together and . . . and . . . kissing! Directly on the mouth!
They leapt apart.
Mr. Smith cleared his throat and tugged at his cravat. “Miss Mansfield, if I may explain . . .”
“No, you may not.” Helen held up a hand, halting any confession. “Whatever is happening here, I really don’t wish to know.”
She rushed by them and down the hall without glancing back, and momentarily she was at the door to the salon where Westmoreland awaited. At the thought of being with him she was giddy as a schoolgirl, and she paused, taking several deep br
eaths to calm her pounding heart; then she entered.
To her dismay, the room was empty—except for the maid Peg, who loitered at the sideboard. Wondering if he’d gone to supper without her, Helen inquired, “Has the Captain arrived?”
“No, miss.”
Had he decided not to attend, after all? Was he detained elsewhere?
Crushed by the notion, she sank down on the sofa and was fretting over where he was, over what he might be doing—and with whom!—when she heard him marching down the corridor.
“Mr. Smith,” he barked, “don’t you have somewhere you need to be?”
“Yes, Captain,” Smith replied, though not sounding embarrassed.
“You know,” the Captain went on, “when I suggested that you let your relationship cool, this isn’t exactly what I had in mind.”
Smith grumbled a remark Helen couldn’t decipher; then the Captain started toward her. Self-conscious and aflutter, she waved for Peg to pour her some wine.
When he saw her, she wanted to look serene, as if she hadn’t been virtually bristling with impatience. She moved to the window, gripping her glass and staring outside as if she’d been there for ages and his appearance was of no consequence whatsoever.
The instant he crossed the threshold, she could tell. She’d planned to ignore him, but she couldn’t resist the pull of his gaze. She spun and, on espying him, she inhaled sharply, bobbling her wine and nearly dropping it on the rug.
“Oh my!”
He was wearing one of his new suits, and he was so fashionably attired that she was speechless. The coat was flawlessly tailored, a stunning sapphire that hugged his broad shoulders, his thin waist. His breeches were tan, his boots black, his shirt blinding white. The colors set off the blue of his eyes, the blond of his hair, so that he seemed more majestic and more imposing than she could have imagined possible.
From the first, she’d recognized how handsome he was, but with his hard body and calloused hands it had been in a rough way. Through nefarious methods, he was gradually growing rich, but his affluence was recent, his anatomy still bearing the signs of decades of toil and strife.
