The Misguided Matchmaker

by Nadine Miller

  “I do not accept that.” Maddy matched his grave expression with one of her own. “There is always something one can do if one cares enough. This I believe with all my heart.”

  Tristan could see he had hurt her, maybe even frightened her—a thing he would regret all the days of his life, almost as much he would regret the weakness that had led him to kiss this innocent, trusting woman with such uncontrolled passion that he had ignited a flame that threatened to consume them both.

  He could not undo the damage he’d done; but neither could he let her go on blindly believing in happiness ever after. At least now she would not be taken totally unawares when her father divulged his plan to make her a countess.

  He told himself that her pain would be short-lived, that what she thought was love was only infatuation for the man who had given her the first glimpse of her own sensuality.

  He told himself she would be better off in the long run because Garth would be a much better husband than he could ever hope to be.

  Unfortunately, the one thing he could not tell himself was how to bear the pain of watching her become his brother’s wife.

  Tristan had purchased only the roughest of seaman’s garb for himself—canvas pants, a jersey, duffel coat, and woolen seaman’s cap. But he’d spared no expense on Maddy’s new traveling dress, which was of French cambric, the rich amber color of an autumn maple leaf. It perfectly matched her eyes, as did her fur-trimmed pelisse of Utrecht velvet and the perky, high-crowned bonnet that covered her freshly washed hair.

  It was without a doubt the most attractive outfit she had ever owned, and ordinarily she would have been over the moon. But thanks to the depressing conversation she’d had with Tristan, all the joy had gone out of the day for her.

  He had made it all too plain that he would never offer for her—not because he didn’t love her, but because his sense of honor forbade it. But what, she wanted to know, did honor have to do with it? As if he hadn’t shown time and time again he was a man of honor despite his unfortunate birth.

  Well, she simply would not accept his declaration—as she had already informed him—not unless he told her he didn’t love her, and those words had never crossed his lips. No indeed, she was too much of an optimist to be defeated so easily, as he would soon see. Still, it was frightfully upsetting. And just when she’d been so certain all was going to be well! Nom de Dieu, what kind of weapons did a woman need to combat a man’s misplaced sense of honor—especially a man as pigheaded as Tristan?

  In a fog of misery, she climbed into the longboat and, with Tristan beside her, was rowed out to her father’s ship, the masthead of which was a mermaid who bore a striking resemblance to Minette, both in face and torso. Needless to say, this did nothing to dispel Maddy’s gloom.

  The longboat circled the hull to where the rope ladder was hung and, raising her eyes, she saw the name emblazoned on the side of her father’s brig—The Madelaine.

  “He named his ship after me.” Instinctively, she turned to Tristan, tears misting her eyes. “All those years when I was so certain my father cared nothing for me, this ship was sailing the oceans with my name on it.” She choked back a sob and accepted the clean, folded handkerchief Tristan pressed into her fingers—one of the four he had purchased on their shopping tour of Calais. What with one thing and another, her emotions were very close to the surface at the moment, and this newest revelation touched her deeply.

  What a wondrous, topsy-turvy carnival her quiet little world had become, and none of it would have happened if this stubborn, impossible, stiff-necked Englishman hadn’t come seeking her in Lyon. She regarded him solemnly, her heart in her eyes.

  “Damn it, Maddy; get that blasted puppy-dog look off your face.” Tristan’s voice was harsh, his mouth a thin slash of disapproval. “Now climb up the ladder so we can get underway.”

  With one last swipe of her brimming eyes, Maddy folded his handkerchief and put it in her pocket. Nothing had really changed, but deep down inside her a tiny seed of hope germinated. “Methinks the fellow protests too much,” she murmured to herself, happily misquoting the favorite bard of the English.

  She reached for the rope ladder dangling at the side of the ship and placed her foot on the first rung. But no sooner had she attempted to move to the second rung than she realized that complying with Tristan’s order in her new traveling costume was not all that simple. The skirt was too narrow to afford easy climbing, yet more than wide enough to allow the two sailors manning the longboat a view of her ankles that no lady could, in good conscience, allow—and however unconventional she might be in some respects, Maddy had been brought up to be a lady.

  Cheeks flaming, she clung to the ladder, unable to move either up or down and thinking longingly of her rough peasant’s breeches and the freedom of movement she had enjoyed as a boy.

  “Look the other way or answer to me, you grinning apes,” Tristan barked, and a moment later he moved to the rung below her, shielding her with his own body from any surreptitious ogling by the chastised seamen.

  She sighed. Once again her hero had come to her rescue; how could he or anyone else question his sense of honor?

  The crew was already unfurling the sails when Tristan and Maddy stepped onto the deck. The captain greeted them with obvious impatience and a searching perusal of Maddy when, to her surprise, Tristan introduced her as his friend, Miss Smythe. With a curt bow, the captain left them on their own and repaired to the bridge while the first mate supervised the hasty raising of the anchor.

  “It was your father’s wish that your identity be kept a secret until you reached England and he could make your existence known publicly himself,” Tristan explained once the captain was out of earshot.

  “Why?”

  “That is something you will have to ask him.” Something about the way Tristan avoided her eyes led Maddy to believe he knew a great deal more about her father and his wishes than he had heretofore let on. In fact, now that she thought about it, his answer to why he had been the one chosen to return her to England had been much too glib to be entirely believable.

  But why the mystery? What was he hiding? And why did she have a feeling that somehow her father and his wishes had a strong bearing on his refusal to offer for her? Maybe the answer to that was one of the weapons she needed to combat this mysterious code of honor he had chosen to live by.

  Far above her, the sails caught the brisk salt breeze and the ship lurched forward; beside her, Tristan pulled the collar of his duffel coat up around his ears and jammed the seaman’s cap on his head. Maddy’s breath caught in her throat. More than ever, he looked the part of a buccaneer; she could almost imagine they were heading for the Spanish Main instead of the Straits of Dover.

  The ship cleared the harbor and once in the open water, the wind freshened. She tied the ribbons of her bonnet more tightly beneath her chin to keep it from blowing off and her heartbeat quickened. They were well and truly on their way to England at last.

  Curious, she stared about her at the ship that bore her name. The deck was immaculate, the brass gleaming, and the crew, though a rough-looking lot, appeared to be working with cheerful efficiency. Even the somewhat surly captain appeared in better spirits; quitting the bridge, he joined Tristan and Maddy on deck.

  A short man, he was almost as broad as tall, but he was obviously all muscle without an ounce of fat on his square frame, and his face had the same weathered look as the teak planking beneath his feet. His uniform, if it could be called that, was a nondescript blue with tarnished brass buttons, and beneath his battered captain’s hat, his iron-gray hair was tied at his nape with a narrow strip of frayed black leather. Apparently her father didn’t demand the same look of perfection in his ship’s officers as he did in the ship itself.

  “I’ve been expecting you these past four days, milord, and I don’t mind telling you I was getting mighty anxious,” the captain said in explanation of their hurried departure. “If the Old Man hadn’t issued orders to wait for
you, I’d have weighed anchor long ago.

  “My seamen have heard disturbing rumors in Calais that the Corsican is marching across France and gathering an army as he goes. If this is true, ‘tis no time to be caught lollygagging in a French harbor.”

  “No time indeed,” Tristan agreed. “For the rumors are, in fact, all too true. Bonaparte is already in Paris and even after all he’s put them through these past years, the soldiers who served under him are flocking to his standard by the thousands.”

  “Bloody hell! The man must be a bloomin’ spellbinder.” The captain flushed. “Beg pardon, ma’am. We don’t often carry passengers—especially ladies. I’m not used to watching my language.”

  Raising his spyglass, he searched the horizon. “There’s even talk of a French frigate lying in wait for any British merchantmen trying to cross the Channel, but I put little credence in that. We’ve seen little of the French navy in ten years since Admiral Nelson put them to rout. Still, it never hurts to be on the alert.”

  He grinned sheepishly. “If the truth be known, I’d rather face Bonaparte and all his legions than the Old Man if I let anything happen to The Madelaine while she’s under my command. She’s his flagship, you see, and his pride and joy. I doubt he’d have let her leave her home port if he’d had any suspicion Old Boney was about to cause more trouble.”

  Once again, he studied Maddy with undisguised curiosity. “Unless I miss my guess, he’s cursing himself out this very minute for letting you talk him into putting the brig in harm’s way. You must be a very persuasive fellow, milord, to have convinced him to let you use The Madelaine for your own purposes.”

  Maddy could see he was fishing for information, but Tristan merely smiled obliquely and sent him on his way none the wiser. She held her counsel, but more than ever, she felt certain the captain was not the only person from whom Tristan was withholding information. Minette had pegged him correctly. Tristan was very adept at divulging only what he wanted his listener to know—which, she supposed was a very useful talent for a spy.

  But damn the arrogant Englishman and his half-truths. She had lived with half-truths all her life and she was heartily sick of them. Her temper flared and with it an irresistible urge to do something so unbelievably outré it would shock Tristan out of his smug, self-righteous shell and wipe that infuriating look of cool indifference from his handsome face.

  She curled her fingers around the smooth, polished wood of the ship’s rail and breathed in the cold, salt spray thrown upward as the ship plowed through the choppy waters. “An idea just occurred to me,” she said, raising her eyes to gaze at his stern, implacable profile. “You, sir, are rather deeply in my debt.”

  He turned toward her with a scowl. “How so?”

  She smiled sweetly. “I saved your life, as you yourself admitted. Surely that warrants some compensation.”

  His eyes widened with surprise. “I cannot dispute the fact that I’d have had a knife between my ribs but for you, but look askance at your lack of taste in demanding compensation for such a thing.”

  His scowl deepened. “But admitting a debt and paying it are not necessarily one and the same. You are the heiress, Maddy, not I. All I have in my pockets at the moment is what’s left from the sale of the horses after outfitting us both with decent clothes—and I’ll need every farthing to see us from Dover to London. I am afraid my greedy little friend, you will have to wait for your compensation until I draw my last six month’s pay from Whitehall.”

  Maddy watched the same wind that was billowing the sails whip a strand of Tristan’s shoulder-length black hair across his face and smiled to herself. Just as she’d expected, he was falling nicely into her trap. She raised a querulous eyebrow. “But you do admit the debt?”

  “Very well. I do admit the debt.”

  “Then it must follow, that you also admit it is my right to determine a just compensation.”

  Tristan leaned on the rail, his gaze riveted on the white-capped waves rolling back from the bow of the ship. The smallest of smiles curled the corner of his sensuous mouth as if, in spite of himself, he was enjoying their verbal sparring. “Ah,” he sighed, “but what, pray, is a just compensation? Surely not the same thing to an heiress as to a man whose pockets are to let. I should not like to find myself in a debtors’ cell at Newgate over this ‘just compensation’.”

  “On my oath!” Maddy raised her right hand. “The pittance I ask would not empty the pockets of the poorest chestnut vendor we passed just yesternight outside the Tuileries.”

  “Very well then.” Tristan turned his back to the railing and, leaning his forearms on it, regarded Maddy with a speculative gaze. “Why do I have the feeling that something is amiss here—that you are not being entirely forthright?”

  “Probably because, like all men, you tend to look at the world through your own devious eyes. So, let me see. How much will it be?” Maddy raised her left hand and counted off the fingers with her right. Forefinger, index finger, ring finger. “Three it is then.”

  “So I owe you three pounds for saving my life? That strikes me as more than fair.”

  “Three pounds? What are these ‘pounds’ of which you speak? I have not yet set foot in England and know nothing of your confusing currency.”

  “Three francs then? I believe I am insulted. Is that truly all you think my life is worth, mademoiselle?”

  “But of course not. My life in France is behind me; I no longer deal in francs.”

  Tristan’s expressive black brows drew together in a frown. “Three of what, then, Maddy? What is it you think I owe you?”

  Maddy closed her gloved hand around the railing and braced herself against the rolling of the ship. Heart pounding with trepidation of her own daring, she raised her gaze to the heavens just as a pale sun burst through the bank of clouds blanketing the sky above the Channel. A good omen, she felt certain.

  “Three of what?” Tristan asked again, a note of impatience sharpening his voice.

  “Why the only currency in which you and I may deal equitably, of course. By my reckoning, monsieur, you owe me exactly three…kisses.”

  Chapter Nine

  “Devil take it, Maddy, you go too far. You have always shown a penchant for the outrageous, but this is beyond anything!” Tristan gritted his teeth in frustration. “How can you suffer such ladylike distress at showing a glimpse of an ankle one minute, and then act like the veriest hoyden the next?”

  “It is not ladylike to enjoy being kissed?” Maddy looked positively dumbfounded. “But that simply does not make sense. I have only been kissed once, but I could plainly see it was a most pleasurable pastime. If I must pretend I dislike it to project an appearance of propriety, I fear the cause is hopeless, for I have never had the least talent for dissembling.”

  Tristan groaned. That blasted kiss again! What kind of monster had he created with that one moment of moonlight madness? “I fault myself for your confusion,” he said stiffly. “In an unguarded moment, I succumbed to my baser instincts—a transgression for which I am heartily sorry.”

  “You infer then that if I were truly a lady I should find kissing abhorrent?”

  “Of course not.” Lord, how had he gotten himself into this bumblebroth? “There is nothing wrong with enjoying a kiss, but a lady reserves such feelings for the man she plans to marry.” Too late, he realized his blunder. Maddy had that starry-eyed look again.

  He chose to ignore it rather than risk digging a deeper hole than the one he already found himself in. He hunched into his duffel coat and stared out to sea. “We will simply forget you ever broached the unfortunate subject.”

  “We will do no such thing!” Maddy’s voice fairly crackled with indignation. “You were the one to make such a point about honor. What is honorable about refusing to pay one’s debts?”

  “This has nothing to do with paying debts. You wouldn’t understand, but there are unwritten rules about such things. No man with even a modicum of ethics would poach another man’s p
rivate preserve.” Another stupid slip of the tongue; he had almost given the game away with that one.

  Maddy drew herself up to her full height and stared him in the eye. “And what bearing does that have on the subject at hand, pray tell? I am no man’s private preserve—and I’ll tell you something else, Mr. Tristan Thibault. I am not some missish young schoolgirl whom you can wangle out of her due. I am a woman grown, and a merchant’s daughter besides. One way or another, I intend to collect what is owed me.”

  Tristan gnashed his teeth. He wasn’t certain how or when he had lost control of the situation, but lost it he had, for he could plainly see that nothing he said had changed her mind one iota about the kisses she planned to collect from him. She was, without a doubt, the most stubborn, the most unreasonable, the most infuriating woman he had ever had the misfortune to meet.

  Turning away from her, he leaned on the rail and stared at the churning water beneath him, his thoughts as turbulent as the white-capped waves rocking the ship. Hell and damnation! She had even gone so far as to blithely declare she would not collect the kisses all at once, choosing instead to keep them as special treats for when her spirits needed lifting. Like pieces of candy she could savor whenever the desire for a sweet struck her.

  Though he racked his brain, he could find no logical reason for her bizarre behavior. She was not some trollop with the morals of an alley cat like Minette. But neither did she display the modesty and rectitude of a true lady. Rather, she was halfway between the two—a lady-hoyden, if there could be such a thing.

  What kind of wife would this “lady-hoyden” make his staid, conventional brother? And what possible explanation could he give her father, and Garth, if she actually made good her threat to waylay him whenever she felt in the mood for a kiss?

  As he saw it, his only hope lay in the possibility that once they reached London she would become so caught up in her new life, she would forget the whole silly idea. Or, failing that he would find the will and the way to stay out of her sight until Garth and she were safely married.