“Oh, how wonderful!” she gasped. “She’s been working hard on that for months.”
He didn’t answer. They made it to the top of the line and were busy congratulating Samuel and giving best wishes to Penny. It was rushed with all the people, but the wishes were enthusiastic, and Irene found herself grinning. It was impossible to dwell on her worries in the face of such joy. So she embraced happiness as she kissed Penny’s cheek.
Then they moved aside, and Grant joined her in the carriage that would take them to the wedding breakfast, generously hosted by Lord and Lady Redhill. Even more, it would include special cakes made by Francine herself.
All of that flitted through her thoughts, a brief moment of knowledge soon lost as she looked at Grant. He loved her, she realized. Though he had never said it aloud, the knowledge was a quiet assurance that still managed to crackle and pop in her mind—like a fire roaring to life.
He loved her.
She loved him.
And yet, they held apart from each other. Fear. Duty. Madness. Only words, but they were like bricks set between them as impenetrable as any wall.
“I understand, Irene. It’s a hard thing to wed a lunatic.”
She spit out a very unladylike curse. “You move from one extreme to another, my lord. And it makes me want to scratch your eyes out!”
He recoiled, obviously startled. “And you accuse me of being extreme?” he said blandly. He was retreating into his charming persona, but she would not let him do it.
“Do you not see? You cannot just win a bet. You have to learn how to blow fire and burn down a barn to do it. You cannot just work at a mill. You change your name and separate yourself from your family for years. You cannot just hear the voice of your conscience. You are a violent lunatic, whom—I might point out—is neither violent, nor hearing things anymore. And yet you put me in fear for our children.” She huffed out an angry breath. “It is not hard to love a lunatic, my lord. It is hard to wed a man who cannot simply be… simple.”
He arched his brows. “Simple?”
She huffed. “Not simple stupid. Simple, as in not complicated.” She twisted on the seat to look at him directly. “Grant, do you not see that you are fighting me? I think you are Mr. Grant, and then I find out you are Lord Crowle. We are attacked by a footpad, and you turn it into a murder attempt. I tell you I love you. You tell me you are insane. It’s not a voice in your head that makes you mad, Grant. It’s the way you cannot simply be a man in love. A man who wants to marry a woman.”
He looked at her a long moment, but in the end, he shook his head. When he spoke, his voice was soft, with such aching sadness that it broke her heart. “I cannot be a young boy for you just as you cannot be a naïve girl for me. I am thirty-two years old, Irene. I have lived a strange life, and as much as I try to make it easy, it isn’t. Not now, and probably not ever.”
“I’m not asking for an easy life.”
“Aren’t you? You’re asking me to simply be a man in love with a woman. I am. I love you, Irene. I want to marry you.”
Oh, to finally hear those words now, when her thoughts and her heart were at war. They warmed her. They frightened her. And most of all, they had her pressing her hands to her eyes to hold back the tears. “But what of your title? You need a virgin wife who doesn’t work. What if our children are mad? What if—”
“Irene,” he said softly, the quietness of his words stopping hers. “Those are not my objections, but yours.” Then he gently pulled her hands from her face. And while she was trying desperately to steady her breathing, he slid off the seat of the carriage and onto one knee. “I had not meant to do it now, but I can see that you will make me do this over and over until we come to the right answer. Lady Irene, I love you. Will you do me the greatest honor and become my wife?”
Twenty-eight
Some part of Grant’s conscious mind realized that the carriage had stopped moving. Some part of him heard the bellows of the coachman and the shift in weight as the footmen jumped off the carriage to deal with whatever problem was clogging the often difficult London streets. Some part of him was aware, but most of him was focused on Irene.
He watched as myriad emotions shifted through her expression. He thought he caught hope and delight… or was it horror? His own mind was filled with thoughts—fears—that he couldn’t be sure of anything.
And in this most difficult moment, the bizarre occurred. The carriage door flew open, and there silhouetted in the doorway was the footpad. He looked worse than he had before, his eyes wide and his mouth set, firm and angry. There was a long, sharp knife in his right hand. Grant saw it distinctly as the sunlight flashed on the blade. Then he saw the man search the interior, focus on Irene, and lunge for her—knife outstretched.
If Grant hadn’t been on the carriage floor, he wouldn’t have been in a position to react. He certainly wouldn’t have had his bent leg lodged with the foot against the opposite door in the tight confines of the carriage. He was on the floor, and he was in a near perfect position from which to spring toward their attacker.
But he wasn’t quite fast enough. The assault caught him by surprise. The bastard had his hand on Irene’s dress and was hauling her bodily out of the carriage before Grant could gather his strength. But what he’d missed in speed, he made up for in sheer fury.
He launched himself at the attacker, his focus completely on the knife. While Grant tackled the man, throwing him backward, he grabbed hold of the wrist that held the knife, making sure to shove it in the opposite direction from Irene.
Irene screamed, and he heard a thump as she banged against the side of the carriage. Meanwhile, the footpad twisted beneath him, bellowing his fury. He was trying to keep hold of Irene, but he hadn’t the strength. Not with all of Grant’s body slamming him back into the street.
The man fell, Grant on top, and they hit the cobblestones. Grant felt the jerk of impact then heard a loud thudding splat. He barely noticed, so focused was he on the knife. He slammed that hand down, doing his best to break the man’s wrist on the stones. Thankfully, the knife skittered away.
Then Grant straightened, readying his fist to deliver a punishing blow to the man’s face. But the bastard didn’t move. In fact, the footpad wasn’t moving at all, and it took him a moment to realize why.
The scent of blood filled his nostrils, and he saw a pool form beneath the footpad’s greasy hair. Grant was still breathing hard, his heart beating loud in his ears, and his mind simply could not comprehend what he saw.
The thief was dead. Grant had launched himself forward, toppling the man backwards. One hard slam on the cobblestones, and his skull had broken. Only now did Grant remember hearing a choking gurgle, a dazed blink, and then…
Dead.
Men ran forward. Irene screamed his name. But he just crouched there looking at the bastard, while his fury warred with confusion.
The man was dead?
“Grant! Grant, are you all right?”
Irene was scrambling out of the carriage, even as one of the footmen was trying to keep her inside. Grant turned to her, absurdly panicked at the idea of her seeing a dead man in the street.
“Stay back!” he bellowed. “Don’t come out. Not until we’re sure it’s safe.”
She froze half out of the carriage, her gaze burning over his body as she checked him for wounds. He did no less as he stared at her. Her gown was ripped and her hair mussed, but there was no blood. No wound that he could see.
“Grant,” she whispered.
“I’m fine. Just get in the carriage.”
She nodded then shrank back inside. Meanwhile, the other footman was squatting down beside their assailant. “That’s Hank Bagley,” he said with a grunt.
Grant frowned. Did he know that name? The man answered without being asked.
“He’s one of the men we noted at The Dog’s Bone. Got tossed off his ship for drunkenness and theft. Couldn’t get a job, then his daughter gets sick and dies. Blames Knopp for everythi
ng.”
“Knopp? Why?”
“It was Mr. Knopp himself who caught the man thieving. Fired him on the spot then made sure everyone knew what the bastard had done.”
Grant straightened, his mind slowly piecing bits together. “So he couldn’t get another job.”
“And when his daughter died—”
“The anger becomes a murderous rage.” Grant frowned. “But why attack Irene?”
“Here’s why,” said a calm voice. Samuel Morrison, still in his wedding attire, squatted beside the body. As Grant looked over, the man revealed a dark tattoo on Bagley’s inner arm. It said Exodus 21:24. “An eye for an eye,” Samuel said. “He lost a daughter, therefore Captain Knopp should as well.”
“Oh no,” Irene murmured from her position inside the carriage. “Oh… no.”
It was her thready moan that snapped Grant into motion. They couldn’t just stand there staring at the body. And Irene shouldn’t sit in a carriage in the middle of London. Not with a body right beside her.
“Let’s get you out of the street,” he said as he looked about. They weren’t far from Redhill’s home.
“I’ll stay here and make sure everything is settled,” offered Samuel, but another man interrupted.
“The devil you will,” said Mr. Tanner. He’d been a guest at the wedding, but had chosen to walk to the Redhill home rather than use a carriage. “You’ve got a bride to see to, man.” Tanner clapped Samuel on the back. “Right fine ceremony, Samuel. Now go on. See to your woman.” He jerked his head back to where Penny was stepping out of their carriage.
Samuel’s expression flashed to alarm, and he smoothly moved to block Penny’s view of the body. “Get back inside, my dear. I’ll be there in a moment.”
“Go on,” said Mr. Turner. “I’ll talk to the watch. You two…” he said, pointing to the footmen, “…help them get the carriages moving.” Then he made shooing noises to everyone else: Samuel, Grant, and the half-dozen people gawking nearby. “I’ll come to Redhill’s house after it’s all sorted. Explain it then.”
Grant nodded, and he turned to climb into the carriage. Irene shifted to give him room, and he studied her face as he entered. She looked pale but composed. He settled onto the seat beside her then turned and gently touched her arm. It was all that was needed.
A moment later, she was curled against him, her body shuddering in his arms.
***
Helaine and her husband were waiting by the door to their home, having been the first to depart for the wedding breakfast. They had no idea what had delayed everyone, and as Irene and Grant rushed quickly up the walkway, their faces shifted into alarm.
Irene tried to speak, but no sound came out. She just couldn’t get anything past the thickness in her throat. She looked to Grant, who summarized what had happened in quick, short sentences. Lord Redhill’s expression went grim, but it was Helaine who took charge.
“Let me get you some tea to steady your nerves,” she said as she reached a hand for Irene.
Irene was still wrapped in Grant’s arms and loathe to leave him, but that was ridiculous. The danger was past. The man was dead. God. “It’s over?” she asked as she looked at Grant.
He gave her a slow, reassuring nod. “I believe so,” he said, but he didn’t release his hold.
“It’s safe,” she said softly.
He nodded, and their gazes caught and held. Everything was over. Life could return to normal. She had no need to cling to Grant as if he were her bulwark in an uncertain world. She watched him swallow, his eyes haunted, but in the end, he nodded.
Slowly, he released his grip. She was trying to tell her own fingers to open when a scent hit her nostrils. Kippers. That’s what she smelled. Strong. Nauseating. Her stomach roiled, and she clapped a hand over her mouth.
“Oh!” she gasped.
Helaine grabbed her hand. “Upstairs. Now.” Together they sprinted for her bedroom. They burst into the beautiful chamber where, almost front and center, was a chamber pot set out as if for this purpose alone. Irene dropped to her knees and retched. Her stomach cramped, her body rebelled, and what little she’d eaten in the last twelve hours came back up.
Fortunately, there wasn’t much. Just agonizing cramps that eventually eased. And when she was done, she sat back on her heels, while a maid she hadn’t even noticed passed her a damp cloth to wet her face and neck. Almost immediately, she was handed a dry piece of toast to nibble.
Irene took it gratefully, only now having the breath to look at her best friend. Helaine had her eyes closed and a hand clamped to her mouth. She was breathing shallowly through her nose, and her whole body was tense.
The maid glanced at her mistress nervously. Then she looked over as a footman knocked quietly at the door. He was holding another chamber pot at the ready. Quick as a wink, the used one was replaced with a new one, and everyone waited in tense silence while Helaine just stood there. A second later, Helaine held a hand out to her maid, who pressed another piece of toast into her hand. Helaine nibbled it without even opening her eyes. Meanwhile, the girl passed a glass of water to Irene.
Eventually, Irene’s stomach eased. Helaine’s too, apparently, as her breath deepened.
“Well,” murmured Helaine finally. “I believe that’s over for the moment.” She smiled warmly. “Thank you, Ruth. I think the danger has passed for now.”
Irene, too, managed a weak smile. “I feel much better. Thank you.”
At that, the girl bobbed a curtsy and withdrew, shutting the door quietly. Meanwhile, Irene was able to focus on her friend. “Congratulations,” she said. “I take it you’re increasing?”
Helaine flashed a wan smile. “I was over the moon when I realized. But I have to say, it’s terrible being tired all the time. And the nausea.” She sighed and gave a wry gesture. “As you can see, the whole house has had to adjust for my difficulties.” Then she frowned as she looked at her friend. “How about you? How are you feeling now?”
“I… I’m all right now, I guess. I’ve been feeling so… so…” She swallowed. She’d been about to say tired and nauseous. The same symptoms that Helaine had claimed. Except Helaine was pregnant. Helaine was married and pregnant, which was wonderful. Whereas Irene was not married, and she couldn’t possibly be pregnant now, because that would be a disaster of epic proportions.
It would be, except that the very idea filled her with giddy warmth. Was it possible? Well, of course, it was possible. But was it true? Was she was pregnant with Grant’s child?
She took a moment to take stock. She tried to still her racing heart, but she couldn’t. She wanted a baby. She desperately wanted Grant’s child. A babe with the man she loved.
Was it true?
Yes.
She was pregnant. She knew it on an instinctive level. And honestly, she felt a fool for not realizing it earlier.
“Oh,” she breathed, having no more words than that as she looked at her belly. Was there a bulge? A tiny bump? She didn’t think so, and yet her imagination had no trouble bringing forth the idea of a little baby growing right here.
It took Helaine perhaps ten seconds to realize what had just happened. She slowly settled onto her bed, and the women exchanged looks. “Oh my,” the woman murmured.
Irene smiled, slowly at first, but with growing strength. “Oh my, is right! Oh my my!”
Helaine picked up the smile then soon began to giggle, which Irene echoed. Within moments, they were laughing together as they hadn’t done since they were schoolchildren: with joy and hope and no fear whatsoever.
It couldn’t last. As wonderful as it was, the adult fears settled in. The realization that she was unwed and pregnant. That it was a child who might carry madness. What would her in-laws think? What did she think?
“I take it the child is Lord Crowle’s?” Helaine asked quietly.
Irene nodded. “He was proposing in the carriage,” she said quietly. “Just before…” She closed her eyes as images flashed through her thoughts
. The attack, the dead man, the look on Grant’s face when he’d realized he’d just killed a man.
“Oh my,” she said, that last thought taking root in her mind. She pushed to her feet. She had to go to him. She had to make sure he was all right. There was nothing wrong with what he’d done. He’d been protecting her. She might have died without his immediate interference. And yet, she’d seen his face. She still shuddered at the enormity of it all. He’d killed a man. He should not be alone at a time like this.
Helaine rose as well. “Does he know?”
“Does he—oh!” She blinked, her mind whirling. “Everything is happening so fast. I don’t know what to do!”
“First,” Helaine said, taking hold of her hands, “you must take a breath. Settle your thoughts. You love him, yes?”
Irene’s eyes watered. “Yes. But Helaine, I… I…”
“You’re afraid. Of course you are.” She smiled, her expression so warm and sympathetic, Irene nearly collapsed into tears. “You are afraid that if you marry him, he will die like Nate did. You know that’s not going to happen. He’s not a sailor for one.”
“That’s not the point,” Irene said, her voice becoming tight.
“Of course not. Fears never are.”
“What?” Irene frowned, trying to follow her friend’s words.
Helaine gently pulled her back to the bed, and together they sat hand in hand. “Do you know that I am terrified? I’m elated about this child, but there are so many things that could go wrong. So many women die in childbirth.”
Irene winced. She hadn’t even thought of that.
Helaine tightened her grip on their joined hands. “I’m not helping, am I?”
“No.” Irene’s word was thick with misery.
“And then Robert could die too, just like your Nate—an infection. Thrown off a horse. The house could catch fire too. Sometimes the cook overboils something, or maybe a poison seeps into the air.”
“What?”
Jade Lee - [Bridal Favors 03] Page 28
