Midsummer Magic

by Catherine Coulter

  His eyes were on her face then and he saw the fear and panic.

  “Frances,” he said, his voice gentle now, “we are husband and wife. I know too that we are strangers. We will, however, consummate this marriage—”

  His very calm orders made her forget herself. “Why? There is no reason I can think of for you to want to ... Well, you understand what I mean.”

  “As I said, we are husband and wife.”

  “No! I will not allow it! I—”

  “Frances, stop carrying on so. We will consummate this marriage, but not tonight. You are tired and so am I.” He saw the utter relief make her shoulders sag and smiled ruefully to himself. Never in his life had a woman not wanted to share his bed when he wished it.

  Frances turned without another word and bolted toward the door. She didn’t stop bolting until she reached her small bedchamber on the third floor of the inn.

  She was huddled in the soft bed within five minutes, the bedchamber door bolted securely from the inside.

  Hawk toyed with his brandy. She was nervous about sex, something to be expected from one’s bride, he supposed. Well, he would be kind to her, get it over with quickly, not embarrass her more than was inherent in the act. He’d spoken to enough married gentlemen, and all of them agreed that wives, the wives who were true ladies, that is, were meant to be breached gently, not plowed with enthusiasm. They were to be treated with thoughtful decorum until they conceived, then left alone. He would give her another day to accustom herself to the idea. He would not embarrass her by speaking of it again. He would simply do it. He downed the rest of his brandy. He simply couldn’t imagine making love to Frances in a lighted room. The thought of her squinting up at him made him shudder.

  He did wonder, though, what she looked like naked, from the neck down.

  Ruthven pulled Sophia closer and she felt the rumbling laughter in his deep chest.

  “What is it?” she asked, tugging on the hair on his chest.

  “I was just wondering how long it would take my Frances to show her true colors. Lord, to see the look on Hawk’s face when she does. I find myself pitying the poor fellow.”

  “You believe her so impervious, so strong?”

  Ruthven was silent for a moment, no longer laughing. Sophia always had the knack of cutting through his bravado. “Yes,” he said finally. “She must be.”

  “But you are worried now, aren’t you, Alex? All your plotting—oh yes, I know that you’ve written to the marquess about Frances and how you hoped she would be the one his son selected. But that young man doesn’t care for her, not at all, Alex. Your Frances had made quite certain that he doesn’t. It is possible that he will be cruel to her.”

  “No! Dammit, Sophie, he won’t. The boy’s a gentleman.”

  “Frances,” Sophia said dryly, “is known to enrage you, my dear, and you are also a gentleman.”

  “I am her father. That is much different.”

  Sophia could practically hear him thinking, worrying, shoring up flaws in his logic. She hugged him. “Why don’t you try to sleep now, Alex.”

  “You don’t think that he will really hurt her, do you, Sophie?”

  “No,” she said truthfully, “I don’t. If she maintains her pose, there would be no reason. Who would want to strike down a timid mouse?”

  “Hmmm,” said Ruthven. “Tonight is their wedding night.”

  “If I know Frances,” said Sophia in a dry voice, “she will somehow have convinced him that lovemaking with his bride is the last thing he desires.”

  “I heard him say he wants to breed an heir quickly.”

  “Not tonight, he won’t.”

  But Frances’ father didn’t manage to ease himself into sleep for quite a long time.

  At least it wasn’t raining, Frances thought as she stared out the carriage window at the countryside. She’d give anything if she could ride and not be a prisoner in this wretched carriage. She could already feel a headache beginning.

  Curse him! He could have at least inquired what she wished to do. But he hadn’t, of course. She supposed that in his vast experience—and she never doubted for a moment that all his experience was vast—a lady was to be protected from the elements, even if the elements were pleasant and sunny.

  Hawk had said over breakfast, “I wish to continue until it’s dark today. Grunyon tells me we have a good chance of reaching Peebles if we suffer no mishap.”

  How many hours would that mean closed in this dreadful carriage?

  Her headache came on in earnest.

  It was dark when the weary horses trudged into Peebles and came to a halt in front of the Flying Duck Inn.

  Frances felt so ill that she wanted to vomit. The only thing that saved her from that ignominy was her husband’s curt voice coming from the innyard.

  She felt dizzy and befuddled when Grunyon assisted her from the carriage.

  “My lady?” he asked, seeing her pallor.

  “I’m all right,” she managed.

  Her husband, curse his vitality, strode over to her and announced in a nauseatingly enthusiastic voice that he’d ordered up a neat dinner for them.

  “I’m not certain—” Grunyon began, only to be cut off by Frances.

  “I wish to dine in my room.”

  “Do you feel ill?”

  “Yes, I do. A headache.”

  Hawk’s lips thinned. Damnable excuse for a wife to present a husband on their second night of marriage. Well, it wouldn’t do her any good.

  “Fine,” he said, and strode into the inn.

  A few moments later, he found himself watching her climb the stairs, a chattering maid in her wake.

  “You’re pushing too hard, my lord,” said Grunyon.

  “What do you expect me to do? Stop every hour and let her smell the daisies alongside the road?”

  “There ain’t any daisies.”

  “Dammit, Grunyon, you know what I mean! Do you so easily forget about my father?”

  He saw that his valet would remonstrate further, and raised his hand. “No, no more. I’m dining now, then I’m going to see to my bride. I fancy she doesn’t know that her bedchamber is also mine.”

  Grunyon stared at him and Hawk suddenly realized that such a speech was most inappropriate. He cursed under his breath and strode into the parlor.

  Frances stared at the tray of food and quickly covered it. The headache was ferocious, one of the worst she’d ever experienced. But then again, she’d never been forced to spend ten hours in a closed carriage.

  She didn’t like to dose herself, but the thought of sleep induced by laudanum was appealing. She searched through her valise and unearthed a small vial of laudanum. She poured several drops into a cup of now tepid tea and drank it down.

  She undressed quickly, donned her nightgown, and staggered to her bed.

  It didn’t occur to her until she crawled to the center of the bed that both the bed and the room were much larger than the one of the night before. She fell back against the soft pillow, too ill to think about anything.

  Hawk finished off his meal in fine style. Every few minutes he found himself thinking about the woman upstairs. He had to get it done tonight. He had no idea how many times one had to have sex to bring about conception, but he couldn’t be so lucky to manage it the first time. No, he had to get started tonight and keep it up.

  He drank three more glasses of brandy. It was close to ten o‘clock when he finally made his way up the stairs toward his bedchamber. He was pleasantly drunk, but not too drunk to do his duty. And do his duty he would.

  He paused a moment outside the bedchamber, aware that there was a light coming from beneath the door. So, his bride was awake and waiting for him. He started to turn the knob, and paused yet again. What the devil was that noise? He frowned, then resolutely turned the knob and pushed the door open.

  He stepped inside and came to an urgent, appalled halt.

  Frances was on the floor, on her knees, vomiting into the chamber pot.
Her white nightgown flowed about her and a thick braid fell over her shoulder perilously close to the chamber pot. He felt like a monster. He’d believed her blasted headache all an act.

  “My God, what is the matter with you?”

  He strode toward her.

  7

  I was struck all in a heap.

  —RICHARD SHERIDAN

  Frances heard his voice, but she felt too miserable and too ill to move, much less respond.

  “Frances,” Hawk said, leaning down over her. “What is wrong?”

  She felt his hand on her shoulder, felt his fingers pull back her braid.

  “I’ll be all right,” she said between gritted teeth, and promptly proved herself wrong. Her body shuddered and heaved, but there was nothing left in her stomach.

  “Just a moment,” Hawk said, now seriously worried. “I’ll fetch Grunyon.”

  But Grunyon was already standing in the open doorway, his face a study of appalled concern, his nightcap askew on his bald head.

  “My lord—”

  “She’s ill. Can you help her?”

  “Leave me alone,” Frances said. She managed to pull back from the champer pot and come up on her knees. She sent a bleary look toward her husband, then a cramp seized her, and she moaned, wrapping her arms around her stomach.

  Grunyon dropped to his knees beside her. “My lady, did you take anything? Any medicine for your headache?”

  Frances managed a nod.

  “What was it?”

  “Laudanum, I thought, but now I’m sure it was something else. I’m all right now ... no I want to die.” She shot a brief look at her husband, who was standing quite close, his eyes narrowed with worry. “Just leave, please.”

  “Don’t be a fool,” Hawk said shortly. He leaned down and pulled her to her feet and then into his arms. “Grunyon, get me some water and a clean cloth. She’s sweating like a pig.”

  Frances felt too awful to take more than a passing exception to his words. Another cramp seized her, and she twisted in his arms.

  “Shush,” he said. “You’ll be all right, Frances.” He laid her on the bed and covered her shaking body with the blankets. Grunyon handed him a wet cloth and he wiped her face. If anyone could look colorless and green at the same time, she did. Her eyes were tightly closed, her lips pressed firmly together.

  “My lord,” Grunyon said from behind her, “here’s the vial, but I can’t tell the contents.”

  Frances couldn’t bear to have this stranger, this husband/man staring down at her as if she were some sort of freak. She forced her eyes open and saw him take the vial from Grunyon and sniff the contents. She turned her face away and said, “I think it was a medicine I packed for colic.”

  “Colic?” Hawk asked blankly. “Why the devil would you pack something like that?”

  “Horses get ill. It’s a special mixture of herbs, I didn’t want to forget it.”

  Dear God, Hawk thought, stiffening. What the hell was it? He said, without thinking, “We must rid your system of it. Come, we—”

  “There’s nothing left in my system,” Frances said, gritting her teeth against another cramp.

  “I think tea, my lord,” said Grunyon, hovering beside the bed. “Lots of strong hot tea.”

  Frances groaned.

  “Fetch it now,” said Hawk. He watched Grunyon’s nightcap slide off his head as he rushed toward the door.

  He continued wiping Frances’ face with the damp cloth. He said more to himself than to her, “So, you were really ill with a headache after all.”

  Anger at him fought with nausea and the anger won for the moment. “You thought I wasn’t? You believed me a liar?”

  “Yes,” Hawk said honestly, “but not a liar exactly. I just thought you’d do anything to keep me from bedding you.”

  “You’re right about that,” Frances said. The nausea faded and she allowed herself to relax. She sighed deeply, but still kept her face averted. She wasn’t wearing her spectacles. That, she decided, in a moment of irony, would have been the final touch. She could imagine what she looked like. Heavens, with the spectacles, he would probably have left her hanging over the chamber pot and escaped the room without a word.

  He realized she was on the verge of feeling a bit better and remembered well enough that distraction was a good thing for a sick or wounded soldier. For anyone, he supposed. “But why?” he asked after a moment, wanting to distract her, but also utterly serious.

  He doesn’t even realize how arrogant and conceited he is, Frances thought.

  “We are married, Frances. You know that we must sleep together and make ... and be intimate.”

  He sounded so genuinely confused that she wanted to laugh. “I saw you naked, you know,” she said.

  “What?” He quickly placed his hand on her forehead, wondering if she’d lapsed into delusion.

  “When you were bathing in the loch, the day you arrived at Kilbracken. I was there. I didn’t know who you were, at first.”

  “Ah,” he said, and grinned. He remembered clearly the shock of that icy water. “In that case, you must know from your firsthand observation that I’m not ill-formed.”

  “No,” she sighed. “No, you’re not. Not excessively, in any case, save perhaps for the hair. You’ve a lot of it and it’s black.”

  Hawk stared down at her, bemused. Just to keep her distracted, he said smoothly, “At least I provided you the opportunity to see what you were getting in a husband. I wish I had enjoyed the same opportunity and assurance.”

  She sucked in her breath.

  “My lord, here is the tea.”

  “Thank you, Grunyon. I’ll see that she downs all of it. I’ll call if I need you.”

  Grunyon gazed a moment at his mistress, lying in a wretched huddle in the center of the large bed. Poor little mite, he thought, shaking his head. Then he looked at her, really looked. Without the spectacles, she wasn’t at all homely. Not at all. Even though her hair looked sweaty and lank in its braid, it was a lovely color and the braid thick as his wrist. Was the earl blind? He stepped back and watched his master gently lift his wife and put the teacup to her pale lips.

  “It’s not too hot,” Hawk said, feeling her resist him. “Come on, drink it.”

  She felt too weak to argue with him. She drank, all of it. He eased her onto her back, turned, and poured another cup.

  “Please, please, just leave,” Frances said. He’d seen her vilely ill; it was mortifying.

  “I can’t. This is my bedchamber as well as yours. Come on, my girl, drink some more.”

  “No, no more.”

  Her refusal had no effect on him. She drank two more cups of the bitter hot tea, but with ill grace. “Well done,” Hawk said.

  It needed but this, she thought, realizing she had to relieve herself. At that moment, she wished she could throw up the damned tea. But she didn’t. It had washed right through her.

  “Sir,” she began, “I would ask that you leave me for a while. Please.”

  “Sir? Why? Really, Frances, I’m not such a cold-blooded brute to leave you alone when you’re ill.”

  “I have to use the chamber pot,” she said baldly, beyond niceties.

  “Again? Ah, good. Grunyon emptied it. Come along, I’ll help you.”

  “Sir ... Philip ... Hawk, please. Go away now.”

  “Frances, stop being an ass.” He was getting impatient with her. “For heaven’s sake, my sensibilities won’t be unduly lacerated by your vomiting, for God’s sake.”

  “It’s not my mouth that needs the chamber pot!”

  He laughed, he couldn’t help himself. “I see,” he said, and quickly rose. “Can you manage alone?”

  “Get out!”

  “You have five minutes. I don’t want to take the chance of finding you sprawled unconscious in a heap on the floor.” With that, Hawk strode out of the room, closing the door behind him.

  “My lord, why are you leaving her ladyship?”

  “You still up, G
runyon? Of course you are, I’m turning into a blithering idiot. Yes, I left her alone. She had to use the chamber pot.”

  “But in that case ...” Grunyon headed toward the door. “I’ll help her, my lord, I‘ll—”

  Hawk laughed. “She had to relieve herself after the three cups of tea.”

  “Oh,” Grunyon said, and surprised Hawk by blushing right to his eyebrows.

  Hawk grew abruptly serious. “Do you think we should fetch a doctor?”

  Grunyon shook his head. “If she managed to keep the tea down, she will be all right, I believe.”

  “Down and through,” said Hawk.

  “My lord!”

  “Sorry,” Hawk said. He thrashed his fingers through his hair. “This has been the strangest two days of my life. I really thought she was lying about the headache to avoid ... well, to keep from—”

  “Yes, my lord,” Grunyon said quickly. “I do understand.”

  “I think her five minutes are up. Go to bed, Grunyon. I intend to.” He grinned. “Hell, a first time for everything. Sleeping with a woman and not making love to her.”

  “My lord!”

  He quirked an eyebrow at his valet, then quickly entered the bedchamber. Actually it was also a first time to sleep with a woman who had been vilely ill. There was but one candle lit on the small table beside the bed. Frances was turned on her side away from him, the blankets drawn to her nose.

  “How do you feel?”

  “All right,” she said, not emerging from the warm and protective cocoon.

  He wanted to leave but knew that he couldn’t. He said, “Look, Frances, I’m staying with you tonight. If you get ill again, you don’t want to be alone.”

  “I won’t get ill again.”

  “You won’t, huh? If you’re so smart, then why did you drink down horse-colic medicine?”

  “Go the devil,” she said very clearly.

  Hawk was taken aback for a moment. So she wasn’t all dimness and diffidence. There was a bit of bite to her when pushed hard enough.