Lost Lords 6 - Not Quite a Wife

by Mary Jo Putney

  Kirkland shook his head in amazement. “What a terrifying amount of energy.”

  “When Missy arrived here, she was so frightened she wouldn’t talk. Her mother was equally frightened and had a broken arm as well.” Daniel nodded toward the auburn-haired woman who had taken the child’s hand. “Laurel is the one who cured them of their fear so they can enjoy life again. There is no one like her.”

  “I suspect that your unspoken message is that saints shouldn’t marry sinners,” Kirkland said dryly. “It tends to tarnish the saint without improving the sinner.”

  “True.” Daniel slanted a glance at him. “But . . . I do understand why you want to try to recapture what was between you.”

  “It’s impossible to regain such youthful optimism,” Kirkland said, his gaze on Laurel, where she held court across the room. “That doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try to build something of value now.”

  “I suggest that you not just try, but succeed,” Daniel said acerbically.

  Kirkland arched his brows. “Or else? I don’t think you could break my neck, Daniel. As a sinner, I’ve had more opportunities to practice my Kalarippayattu.”

  “You’d be surprised what skills I need in my work,” Daniel retorted. “But breaking your neck would be undignified. Far better to call the fires of heavenly wrath down on your sinner’s head.”

  For an instant, Kirkland thought the other man meant it. Then he saw the glint of humor in his eyes. Humor had always been the wickedest thing about Daniel. They’d had a running joke that Kirkland was a sinner in contrast to Daniel’s saintliness.

  At Oxford, Kirkland had sampled the varied pleasures available to a young man of wealth and birth, though his dislike of losing control kept him from overindulgence. But he had indeed been a sinner compared to Daniel. Without making a public display of righteousness, his friend quietly avoided the drunkenness, womanizing, and heavy gambling that were rife around them. Likely he still did.

  “Laurel said there would be dancing,” Kirkland said. “Is that still one vice you’ll indulge in?”

  “That and the occasional brandy. It looks as if the dancing is about to begin.” Daniel gave a parting nod and crossed the room to the musicians. The pianist and the fiddler smiled enthusiastically when he spoke to them, and struck up the music for a country dance.

  A number of the women gleefully descended on a large basket set by the piano. It contained long strips of dark cloth that could be draped or tied around their necks to mark them as male for the purposes of the dance. The lovely Violet chose one in a futile attempt to look less feminine.

  It was a very long way from Almack’s Assembly Rooms. Smiling, Kirkland sought out Laurel, who was flushed and laughing and irresistible.

  It was time to claim his wife.

  Chapter 16

  At other times when Zion House had dancing, Laurel had been too busy, or felt that she really shouldn’t be so frivolous. This time she tapped her foot with anticipation as the dancers formed into two sets for a reel. Young Dr. Holt had arrived and was leading out Elizabeth Ware, the pretty blond volunteer. From the way they looked at each other, they were halfway to a happy announcement. Now where was . . . ?

  She jumped when Kirkland approached from the side and bowed deeply. “Dance with me, my lady?”

  There he was. She realized that on some level, she’d thought it wrong to enjoy dancing with another man when she was estranged from her husband. But now her husband was here, and she intended to enjoy what she had denied herself. She offered her hand. “It will be my pleasure, sir.”

  He took her hand and led her to the adjacent set. As guests of honor, Laurel and Kirkland were waved to the head couple position. Daniel was in the other set with Anne Wilson for a partner, and he looked gratifyingly relaxed. There were enough dancers to make two sets of six couples each, though one giggling girl had to be pulled from a chair to even the numbers.

  Once everyone was in place, an old fellow with a missing arm joined the musicians and began calling steps. It was country dancing at its most basic, and enormous fun because the participants enjoyed themselves so much.

  As Kirkland linked arms with Laurel and they swung around, she remembered why dancing was so popular—it was the closest a man and a woman could be in public. She laughed with delight to feel his strong arm locked with hers, and to return his teasing smile as he gazed down at her. But she also enjoyed swinging around with sixteen-year-old Lolly, a bouncing girl who wore the strip of dark fabric that marked her as male for dancing purposes. After Lolly came Colin Holt, who now treated Laurel as a friend, not a woman he desired. Why had she deprived herself of this pleasure for so many years?

  The pattern of the reel brought her and Kirkland together again and again. She loved how he entered into the mood of the occasion, smiling and talking with the other dancers. When the dance ended, he bowed deeply to her. “Thank you,” he said with a lurking smile that warmed her to her marrow. “I’d like to dance every dance with you, my lady, but that would be rude. One more before the night is over?”

  She shared the desire to be his partner for every dance, but this evening was for him to meet her friends and for her to say good-bye to them. “Once more. Until later, my lord.” She headed to the chairs around the wall to coax one of the retired soldiers to dance with her, while Kirkland asked one of the elderly volunteers to stand up with him.

  For the first time, Laurel looked forward to entering London’s social world because there would be more dancing. She stood up for all the dances, including one with Violet acting as an honorary male. They laughed their way through a country dance, though Violet said reprovingly, “I altered your gown so you could show your fine figure, and now you disguise yourself with a fichu!”

  Laurel rolled her eyes. “If I am to make a spectacle of myself, I’ll do it in front of strangers rather than with my friends.”

  “Your modiste and I shall plot together in London to show you at your best,” Violet warned before spinning away again. Laurel suspected that the threat wasn’t idle. She and her maid would have to compromise on a neckline that was too high for Violet and too low for Laurel. Life was often the art of compromise.

  By the time the fifth dance, another reel, had ended, most of the children and their mothers had gone to bed. The indefatigable Missy had hauled her patient mother out into the garden to admire the moon, and barely a crumb remained of the bride cake.

  Looking over the remaining dancers, Laurel said, “Time for one last dance?”

  Daniel, who looked tired but happy, said, “Laurel, Kirkland, the two of you used to do a fine minuet. Care to demonstrate for us?”

  “Heavens, no!” Laurel exclaimed. “It’s been years since I danced that. And we don’t have the right music.”

  “I can play a minuet from memory,” Miss Burton, the pianist, said cheerfully. She’d been a governess and a music teacher before illness had left her destitute, and her repertory of music seemed bottomless.

  “Oh, please, show us!” begged Lolly. “I’ve always wanted to see one!”

  As other voices added their encouragement, Kirkland extended his hand, his eyes encouraging. “Shall we? I expect we’ll manage well enough.”

  She hesitated a moment longer. Unlike the jolly country dances, the minuet was a test of skill and grace, and couples were judged on how well they performed. She hadn’t danced it since she’d left Kirkland.

  But these were her friends, and they were here to celebrate, not judge. She clasped Kirkland’s left hand. “Very well, but remember that I’m sadly out of practice!”

  Miss Burton turned to her keyboard, her deft fingers sliding into the rippling notes of a selection from Handel that was often used for this dance. Laurel’s heart clenched; it was the same music as the first time she’d performed a minuet with Kirkland.

  He remembered, too, she could see it in his eyes. Space cleared around them as everyone else withdrew to the walls, leaving the center of the room open. Kirkland said softly,
“Begin on the count of three? One, two, three . . .”

  On the beat they moved forward side by side, her left hand clasping his right and their outside arms held out gracefully as they glided the length of the room, gazes locked. The minuet was a more intimate dance than the bouncing reels because the partners must focus on each other.

  Her feet remembered the small swift steps, and the rhythm of the music swept her along. Kirkland was a superb dancer, and she was intensely, physically aware of him. By the time they reached the end of the ballroom, she felt as if they moved as one person. She’d felt the same when they first danced.

  Though she made some missteps, they didn’t matter. Kirkland compensated and the dance went on. His firm clasp, the strength and precision of his movements, riveted the attention of every female in the ballroom.

  He released her hand and she spun away at a diagonal, then they rejoined and again circled with clasped hands. She had the giddy thought that the minuet reflected the way they circled each other in this reconciliation. Wary. Watching. Wanting.

  The music ended when they were near the open door to the garden and she was grateful for the soft night breeze on her heated body. Kirkland bowed, as elegant as any gentleman at court. She made a deep curtsy, wishing for the fuller, more sweeping skirts of an earlier day.

  As she rose, someone called out, “Kiss ’im, Miss Laurel!”

  Another voice chimed in, “Aye, kiss your husband!”

  She froze, her gaze meeting Kirkland’s. He looked dubious, then wryly resigned. “It’s no different from meeting under the mistletoe at Christmas, my lady.” He bent his head and brushed her lips with his.

  No different from mistletoe . . . but she’d melted into him the one Christmas they’d been together when they’d met under mistletoe. Now, damnably, it was indeed no different. His mouth was warm, firm, beckoning her to intimacy. She would have known his touch anywhere, even in the darkest of dark nights.

  His hands moved to her waist and he drew her closer until her breasts pressed against his broad chest. Mindlessly she leaned into him, eyes closed as the tip of her tongue touched his. This kiss felt so right. His heartbeat accelerated and she yearned for the next step of their dance.

  Why had she been resisting him so hard? Yes, he was capable of dark deeds, but surely never without reason. He was her husband, the father of her unborn child—and desire sang between them, hot and sweet. James, her husband, lover, nemesis . . .

  She was jarred out of her trance by applause and cheerfully raucous comments and suggestions. The clients of Zion House were not a demure lot. Flushing, she jerked away from Kirkland.

  “I didn’t realize . . . mistletoe was so dangerous,” he whispered under the applause. His eyes were stark. Vulnerable?

  “It’s poisonous, you know,” she managed. She closed her eyes for a moment, centering her thoughts and emotions so that she was the Miss Laurel everyone knew.

  What would happen when she and Kirkland were alone? After the dancing and that kiss, would he attempt to seduce her? And how would she respond if he did?

  She was about to say her last farewell when a woman’s frantic scream rose outside. An instant later it was echoed by a child’s high-pitched shriek of pure terror. Even as Laurel gasped with shock, Kirkland was in motion, bolting through the open door into the garden at unbelievable speed.

  Heart pounding, Laurel lifted her skirts and darted after him, almost falling down the steps into the garden. The cool, bright moonlight illuminated a frightening tableau as Eileen Bailey struggled to break free of a hulking man. She kicked him in the shins. “No! No! You bastard, Bailey, I’m never going back to you!”

  He snarled, “Shut up, slut! You’re my wife and you’re comin’ with me!”

  A smaller man wrestled with the tiny, furious figure of Missy. Bailey barked at his companion, “Don’t let the brat go, Sal! I can get fifty quid for her!”

  Kirkland leaped at the second man. With one arm, he wrenched Missy from her captor’s grasp. Then he smashed a knee into Sal’s groin and chopped the back of the man’s neck, abruptly cutting off the howls of pain.

  Seeing Laurel, Kirkland thrust the child into her arms, his face grim. “Take her!” Then he charged at Bailey.

  Half strangled by Missy’s frantic clutching, Laurel stroked the child’s back and murmured soothing words while others poured into the garden from Zion House. She could smell the stink of cheap gin on Bailey even twenty feet away. Drunkards were dangerously unpredictable, but surely Kirkland could handle him.

  Bailey’s eyes widened with panic at the sight of so many people. Backing away, he yanked out a wickedly gleaming knife and held the point to his wife’s throat. “Get back or I’ll kill ’er!”

  Eileen made a strangled sound and stopped struggling, the whites of her eyes showing as she gasped with fear. Kirkland halted in his tracks and said in a clipped voice, “That’s not a good idea. Release your wife and we can talk about this like sensible men.”

  “No! The bitch and brat are mine! Took me months to find ’em and I’m not lettin’ ’em go.” A thin line of blood trickled down Eileen’s neck from where the blade was pressed.

  Stalemate. Laurel could almost hear Kirkland’s brain whirling as he considered how to get Eileen safely away from her crazed husband.

  Laurel’s horror turned to cold fury. Men could be very simple creatures, so perhaps she could use that. Anne Wilson stood frozen at Laurel’s side, so Laurel transferred Missy to the other woman’s arms. The child’s hysteria had faded, but she was still shaking and tears ran down her face as she stared desperately at her helpless mother.

  “Mr. Bailey.” Her voice warm and soothing, Laurel took a step forward, at the same time loosening the fichu tucked into her décolletage. She’d always had an embarrassingly good figure and had learned early to conceal it if she wanted to keep men’s gazes on her face rather than her breasts. Now Violet’s alterations to the celestial blue gown exposed a lush expanse of curves.

  “I do not allow violence at Zion House,” she purred as she undulated toward him, trying to imitate the provocative motions of the prostitutes she’d seen at the port. “Please lower your knife and we’ll talk.”

  His skittish gaze moved to her and stuck, his eyes widening as she peeled away the gauzy fichu to reveal her new, dramatically plunging neckline. She inhaled deeply and allowed the long length of white muslin to flutter sensuously in the breeze.

  Mr. Bailey was indeed a simple creature. He stared at her breasts as she neared him, swallowing hard. When she was almost within touching distance, the hand holding the knife sagged away from his wife’s throat.

  She’d counted on Kirkland being able to take advantage of the distraction she was creating. For a moment, she feared she’d failed because her husband’s gaze was also riveted on her.

  But only for a moment. In the next instant he exploded forward, grabbing Bailey’s wrist to wrench the knife away with one hand while he broke the man’s grip on Eileen with his other hand.

  The knife slashed downward, cutting at his wife and Kirkland before Eileen staggered clear of the fight, gasping and pressing her hand to her throat. Grimly Kirkland engaged with Bailey in a swift, violent struggle for possession of the knife.

  Even with the bright, cool moonlight it was hard to see what was happening, but the end came swiftly when Bailey pitched backward, pawing at the knife buried in his throat. Blood spurted out, some splashing on Laurel. She stumbled backward, her anger turning to horror at the swift, deadly violence. Kirkland ordered, “Stay here with the others while I see if there’s anyone else out there.” Then he vanished into the shadows.

  Daniel raced by Laurel as the battered Sal clambered to his feet, swearing filthily. “The brat is Bailey’s!” Sal snarled indignantly. “I was just helpin’ him take what’s his.”

  “Tell that to the magistrate,” Daniel growled as he gripped Sal’s neck in a furious choke hold designed to stop blood to the man’s brain.

  A
fter Sal went limp, Daniel moved to Eileen Bailey, steadying her with one arm. “Let me take a look at that cut.” He did a swift examination by touch. “A bit messy, but not deep. Laurel, give me your scarf.”

  Numbly she handed it over, realizing that Daniel had immobilized Sal with the same kind of ruthless skill that Kirkland exhibited. But now he was her kind, civilized brother again. He ripped the scarf in half and used one end to gently blot away the blood that oozed from Eileen’s injured throat. The other end became a light bandage.

  “Missy!” Eileen said hoarsely as she scanned the onlookers. “She’s all right?”

  “She’s fine.” Anne turned the little girl in her arms so Missy and her mother could see each other. “Upset, but unhurt.”

  Eileen reached toward her daughter, but Anne halted her with a raised hand. “Your gown is bloody. She might find that upsetting.”

  Eileen swallowed hard, then nodded. “Set her down. We can walk to the infirmary together.”

  Anne obeyed, and Missy darted forward to wrap her arms around Eileen’s legs. “Mama,” she whimpered. “Mama!”

  “It’s . . . it’s all right, sweeting,” her mother said, brushing her daughter’s wild red curls. “We’re safe now.” Her gaze went to her husband’s body. “Truly safe.”

  Daniel stood after examining Bailey. “He won’t bother you again, Eileen.”

  Kirkland reappeared. “There was a ladder up against the outside wall and a rope falling on this side. Apparently only these two broke in.”

  “Your hand is bleeding,” Daniel said. “Come to the infirmary so I can see to it.”

  Kirkland looked at his left hand, which was dark with blood. “It’s nothing. Just a slash across the heel.” He clumsily wrapped his handkerchief around it.

  “Nonetheless.” Daniel frowned at Bailey’s corpse. Sal was being neatly trussed up by Ned, one of Zion House’s disabled sailors, who hadn’t forgotten how to tie knots. A former soldier limped out with a ragged blanket and threw it over Bailey’s body.