He stared at her, shocked. “That’s not going to happen to you, not in Lord Kirkland’s household. He’d personally thrash any servant who bothered a woman. He’s right scary when he’s angry. I wouldn’t do it anyhow. My mum always taught me to be nice to girls ’cause they’re the weaker sex. Though I think she was wrong when it came to my sister.” He offered a tentative smile.
Violet began to relax. “I’m sorry if I misjudged you. But . . . I have often been . . . offered insult.” And worse.
“With looks like yours, I see why, but wrong is wrong,” he said firmly. “But—you said now you’re free? You weren’t before?”
“I was born and raised in slavery in Jamaica,” she said defiantly. “Miss Laurel freed me at great risk to herself.”
“She did?” he asked, fascinated. “She looks such a sweet, soft lady.”
“She is. But a lioness has soft fur, too.” Remembering what he’d said earlier, she asked, “You called your master Lord Kirkland? I thought he was a Mister.”
Rhodes shook his head. “He’s an earl. Because his lady was shy of having her friends know she was a countess, she asked his lordship not to use the title. But since you’re going to London, you need to know.”
Violet swallowed. It wasn’t difficult to believe Kirkland was a lord. Despite his kindness and impeccable courtesy, he radiated authority. “I didn’t know how grand his household would be.”
“No need to worry,” he said reassuringly. “The housekeeper, Mrs. Stratton, makes sure everything is right and proper, but she’s fair and good tempered. You’ll rank right next to her, being Lady Kirkland’s personal maid.”
“The other servants won’t mind that I’m . . . ?” She gestured at her café-au-lait complexion.
The valet shook his head. “Not at Kirkland House. We’re quite a mix, we are. Lord Kirkland believes in giving people second chances.”
“Does that include you?” Violet asked, intrigued.
“Aye.” Rhodes hesitated, as if unsure how much to say. “After my da died, times were hard for my mum and sister and me. The Kirkland House cook caught me trying to steal food from the kitchen one day and took me to his lordship, who explained that I could be transported to Botany Bay if I chose to pursue a life of crime.” The valet smiled reminiscently. “Scared me out of my bloomin’ mind.”
“How old were you?”
“Twelve. Old enough to be in big trouble for stealing. I told his lordship I’d gladly do honest work if someone would give me a job, so he did. I started out as a hall boy, but I wanted to become a valet, so his lordship had his old valet train me.”
“He sounds like a good master.”
“None better,” Rhodes assured her. “It’s a happy household and London’s a grand city. You’ll like living there.”
She hoped he was right. “Thank you for the information, Mr. Rhodes.”
“My name is Jasper, but I usually prefer just Rhodes.” He smiled shyly, and she realized that he was younger than she’d thought. “On free afternoons, I can take you to visit some of the sights.”
She smiled back, and thought that perhaps she would like London.
Moody swore as he watched the carriages rumble away from Herbert House. A scarred reprobate like him wouldn’t get many answers if he asked where the carriages was goin’, but he’d managed to get close enough to hear a thing or two.
It wasn’t far to Hardwick’s house. The captain kept him cooling his heels for half the morning, the bloody sod, even though Moody was his second mate. When he was finally ushered into Hardwick’s office, the captain looked up impatiently. “What are you doing here, Moody? Come to report that my Violet is still hiding out in Herbert House?”
Moody felt twisted satisfaction at pricking that arrogance. “Your mort just left in a carriage. Looked like she’s goin’ as a maid to some lady.”
Hardwick surged to his feet, swearing. “Why the devil didn’t you follow her?”
“Without a horse or carriage? I’m no bloody pony,” Moody retorted. “But I did get close enough to hear a name. Kirkland.”
Hardwick jerked back. “Lord Kirkland?”
Moody shrugged. “All I heard was Kirkland. A dark-haired fellow who looked slick as a wet eel.”
“Lord Kirkland. Damnation!” Hardwick sank back into his chair, his expression furious. “But at least now I know where to find my Violet.”
Chapter 19
After Violet and Rhodes’s carriage left, Kirkland turned to Laurel and offered his arm. “Shall we depart, my lady?”
From his expression, she guessed this was a test of whether she could bring herself to touch his fabric-covered arm. She could; the previous night’s intense revulsion had passed, and this kind of casual touching was part of their attempt to reconcile. She took his arm. “It’s time.”
As Kirkland escorted her to their carriage, Laurel said, “The woman who knows how to fight. Could she teach me? Perhaps give lessons at Zion House as well?”
Kirkland’s brows arched. “I’m sure she’d be willing. You’d want to learn such skills yourself?”
“I doubt I’ll be able to fight well,” she admitted. “But last night reminded me how vulnerable women are. I should at least try to learn to fight back.”
Kirkland helped her into the carriage. She’d left her work bag inside earlier, but for the moment she pushed it aside and slid across the seat to make room for her husband. He settled beside her, the carriage began to roll, and her new life began.
As they rumbled through the Bristol streets, she said, “Is the woman who teaches fighting one of your agents?”
“Yes, Hazel is a Londoner who grew up in one of the city’s most dangerous neighborhoods. She had to fight to survive, and she had the intelligence and discipline to better herself. She likes helping others and making a difference.” Kirkland smiled. “As do you, though in different ways.”
She wondered if Hazel was one of his mistresses, then forced herself to bury the thought. It wasn’t her business what he’d done during their years of separation.
Since it would be a long journey, she retrieved her work bag and pulled out her hook and a ball of soft, ivory-colored yarn. As she began a square, Kirkland asked, “What kind of handwork is that? Knitting is two needles, isn’t it?”
Laurel displayed the single needle with a hook at the end. “A Belgian woman who stayed at Zion House taught several of us how to do this. She said it was called ‘nun’s lace’ or ‘crochet in the air.’ Anne Wilson called it ‘hooking,’ and now we all do.” She pulled a finished piece about four inches square from her bag and handed it to him. “This is easy to do while riding in a carriage and makes travel less boring.”
He rubbed the square between his thumb and forefinger. “It’s beautifully soft. How will you use it?”
“A baby blanket for an infant at Zion House. Most of the children have so little when they arrive there.” She squeezed the ball of yarn. “I like the softness of undyed wool. Since sheep come in slightly different shades, the result is subtle and rather pretty.”
“Will you make one for our baby?” he asked softly.
His fingers brushed hers when he returned the square. The slight touch sent tingles through her. She tucked the square away, which gave her an excuse to avoid looking at her husband. “Surely the child of an earl should have nothing but the best.”
“What could be better than a blanket made with love?”
She swallowed hard, inexplicably near tears. “Perhaps I shall make one. I’ll need something to keep me busy in London.”
“You can be as busy or as quiet as you choose, Laurel. As I said once, I think you’d enjoy meeting the wives of some of my friends.” Kirkland opened a leather case that had been tucked in a pocket on the wall. Inside was a small lap desk, the brass corners and leather covered writing surface showing signs of heavy use.
“Can you really work in a jouncing carriage?” she asked.
“Papers tend to follow me around, so I mi
ght as well use the time when I’m traveling. Particularly since the Bristol road is one of the best in the country.” He lifted the slanted lid of the desk and removed a sheaf of documents. “Reading and writing notes in pencil only. I’ve learned that ink and a quill can be disastrous.”
“A good reason for usually wearing black, as you do,” she remarked. He chuckled, then turned his attention to the papers.
“Business or spying?” she asked.
“Business.” He tapped the topmost document. “All the low forms of trade that made my English relatives despise me. Besides the shipping company, I own and manage a number of properties, from estates to manufactories. Many people depend on them for their livelihoods. I have good managers, but I still need to pay attention.”
She’d always liked that he was a responsible man. As she returned to hooking her squares, she realized that it was also one of the values they shared. They each took care of people, in very different ways. If she concentrated on his good points, his more dangerous traits might not upset her as much.
The weather was dry, the coach well sprung, and the road well maintained, so they made good time. Laurel found their quiet companionability oddly domestic, like the evenings they once spent together sitting beside the fire, each engaged in separate projects, but glad to be close.
After two changes of horses and a luncheon, Laurel grew sleepy. Covering a yawn with one hand, she said apologetically, “Sorry, I’ve been taking naps these days. An effect of being with child, I’m told.”
Kirkland closed his lap desk and set it on the floor, then leaned forward and raised the padded seat of the opposite bench to reveal neatly folded blankets and pillows. “Allow me to make you comfortable.”
Not wanting him to tuck her in, she leaned forward and pulled out a pillow and blanket. “I shall make a nest for myself.”
The seat was well padded, and with the pillow in the angle between seat and carriage wall and a blanket over her, she was surprisingly comfortable, despite the swaying. She settled down, and retreated from her disturbing husband into sleep.
Though their wedding was mere weeks after they’d first met, each week had felt like a year. James’s lightest touch or smile sparked her to yearning life. She hadn’t known that passion was so powerful, so urgent. They’d been hard pressed to keep their hands off each other when they were with others. In private, they didn’t even try, though they stopped well short of the final intimacy.
Now, finally, their wedding night had arrived. The senior Herberts would have preferred a grand wedding with half the county invited to see that their daughter had caught an earl, but Laurel and James hadn’t wanted that. The ceremony was simple and lovely, with Daniel acting as best man.
After the wedding breakfast, the newlyweds had departed in a cloud of good wishes to a destination known only to James. Laurel was delighted to find that their honeymoon retreat was less than an hour’s drive away because her new husband had rented a beautiful little estate overlooking the Severn River. Surrounded by gardens and a park, River House gave them privacy and peace for the first days of their marriage.
She’d been dazzled and a little intimidated by the idea of so much wealth that he could rent an estate as easily as most men would hire a room at an inn. But he never let her feel the disparity between their ranks. He made her feel . . . adored.
At River House, they ate a light supper before retiring to adjoining bedrooms to prepare for their wedding night. Laurel’s room was filled with fragrant flowers. She sat by the dressing table and brushed her hair into a shining bronze mantle that flowed over her shoulders. As she studied her image in the mirror, she looked almost beautiful because she was radiant with love. Absolutely sure of her marriage and the man she would spend the rest of her life with.
She rose and paced impatiently to the window. The days were very long at this time of year and the sun was only now setting, burning a path across the vast breadth of the Severn as the river rolled down to the sea. She burned like that sun, yearning for her marriage bed so she and James would truly be husband and wife, forever and ever, amen.
When her door opened, she turned her back to the window. Her nightgown had been ordered by her mother and the long sleeves and high neck were intended to convey demure, maidenly innocence. Laurel had known better than to argue, but she’d chosen the fine white lawn fabric herself and knew the sunlight pouring through the river behind her would reveal her body in very un-demure detail.
James closed the door behind him, then halted, his gaze devouring her. He wore a long banyan robe, the dark blue fabric emphasizing the breadth of his shoulders. “You are so beautiful,” he breathed. “So impossibly, perfectly beautiful.”
She laughed and crossed the room toward him. She knew her appearance to be nothing special, but when he looked at her like that, she did feel lovely. His intense blue eyes showed not only the strength and kindness that she loved, but also a vulnerability she hadn’t recognized before. He needed her as she needed him.
“Tonight doesn’t have to be perfect. Being together is enough. More than enough.” She stepped from the sunshine and crossed the room toward where he stood in the shadows. “You’re the one who is beautiful, my lord and master. If he was here, Michelangelo would beg you to model for him.”
James’s eyes danced. “If Michelangelo was here, I’d ask him to leave so we can have our privacy.” They met in the center of the room near the foot of the vast four-poster bed.
She was tall but he was taller. He caught her hands, then bent into a kiss so that only their fingers and mouths touched. Ah, his warm, sensual mouth . . . She closed her eyes, savoring the sweet nectar of his lips. The delicious stroke of his tongue.
She drew closer until she was pressed against his lean, powerful body. After the weeks of waiting, only light layers of fabric separated them—and both of them burned.
“I’ve been waiting for this,” she murmured. “Dreaming of you.”
He stepped away, his expression strained. Puzzled, she cocked her head, trying to read his enigmatic expression. “Isn’t it the virgin bride who is supposed to be nervous?”
He cupped her face with both hands. “I want this to be perfect,” he said, his voice intense. “So right, so wonderful, that you’ll never leave me.”
“Of course I won’t leave you, my one and only love. This morning I made a sacred vow to forsake all others.” She brushed a featherlight kiss on his left cheek. “I can’t imagine ever wanting any man but you.” An equally soft kiss on his other cheek. “Perfect is a cold, lifeless concept. Who needs perfection when we have the warmth of love and passion?”
She kissed his mouth, opening her lips, dancing her tongue over his. On impulse she yanked on his sash and his robe fell open.
Whatever worries he had vanished. He caught the neckline of her demure robe with both hands and ripped the light fabric so that it tore almost to her knees. Then he embraced her so that they pressed together skin to skin, heat to heat.
She claimed his mouth again, dizzily curling her nails into his back as she melted into him, desperate for the ultimate joining. . . .
Laurel gasped as she jolted awake. Disoriented, she lifted her head. Where . . . ? When . . . ?
She’d been sleeping on James’s shoulder. His arm was around her, his face only inches away. Her instinctive pleasure in his nearness was followed instantly by shock. Had he pulled her close as she slept? No, he hadn’t moved, she had. Drawn to him even in her sleep.
Now her side was pressed against him, their thighs were touching, and the air was thick with sensual tension. Her chest was so tight she could barely breathe.
In his face, she saw the same desire that consumed her. He raised his hand and traced the side of her face, his fingertips warm and not quite steady. “Laurel,” he whispered. “My Lavender Lady . . .”
Beautiful hands, skilled at writing or playing the piano or rousing her to madness.
Locking around a knife and slicing it into a man’s
throat.
She shoved violently away until she was flattened against the wall of the coach, shaken by the agonizing collision of past and present. For years, she’d suppressed all thoughts of the happiness and certainty of those early days of their marriage. Now the memories were almost unbearable.
Nor was she the only one in pain. Kirkland hadn’t moved a muscle, yet she knew that he felt as if she’d slapped him. Struggling to repair the damage she’d done, she said raggedly, “Sorry, it took a moment to remember where I was when I woke up. I don’t usually sleep so soundly in coaches. I must have moved in my sleep? My apologies for interfering with your work.”
“You didn’t. I dozed a little also.” He regarded her with unnerving steadiness. “You really shouldn’t act as if nothing happened. You looked at me as if. . . I had horns and hooves and tail.”
She drew a steadying breath. “I’m sorry. I was dreaming of. . . our wedding night. Then I woke and . . . remembered how much has happened.”
“It’s been less than a day since you had a close view of me killing a man,” he said with cool detachment. “I wasn’t sure you’d be willing to go to London with me.”
She pressed a hand to her abdomen, where a tiny spark of possibility was playing merry Hades with her life. “The reasons for rebuilding our marriage haven’t changed. I can’t even condemn you for killing that horrible, dangerous man.” The man whose blood had splashed over her. “But . . . my head and my emotions are at war.”
He nodded gravely. “Head and heart have their own truths, and too often they’re opposite. As we are.”
“As we are.” Her mouth curved in a rueful smile. “We keep drawing together like opposite poles of magnets.”
“Male and female are opposite enough without invoking magnets,” he said dryly.
“The genders have some things in common,” she pointed out. “The desire for home and comfort and . . . affection.”
Lost Lords 6 - Not Quite a Wife Page 13
