Ashton's Bride

by Judith O'Brien

  "Please forgive me, Lord and Lady Trendome. I thank you for a magnificent meal, but I just remembered that I have a prior engagement. . ." Before anyone could reply, Ashton was on his way out the door.

  "Well, he was not completely taken with my charms tonight," complained Lucy to her mother as the men retired to their brandy and cigars.

  "My dear daughter, you are too hard. Why do you say he was not attentive?"

  "In case you failed to notice, Mother," she said petulantly, "as he said his abrupt good-bye, he drank the finger bowl."

  "Margaret!" Ashton called as he entered the parlor.

  Although it was just past nine o'clock, the place was dark. She usually read, keeping the lamps lit until eleven or so.

  God, how he had missed her! The entire way home from the Trendomes he had thought of her, of why she felt it necessary to ply him with monkshood on their bizarre escape from the Confederacy. Just as he began to cross Hyde Park, on foot because he lacked the patience to seek a hack, he realized that had the positions been reversed, he would have done the exact same thing. He would have stopped at nothing to preserve her life.

  The uneasy feeling that had been plaguing him since that afternoon was no doubt caused by the confoundedly unnatural way he had been treating her. Without speaking to her, without sharing his feelings, he had managed to stall their healing.

  His heartless treatment of her was unforgivable. Margaret risked everything to save his life, and he treated her with less civility than a hated enemy. Ashton had caused a one-sided civil war between them.

  There was a small scraping sound, and it took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the darkened room. A feminine figure was leaning over the carpet by the writing desk.

  "Mag?" he asked, but even as the name was out, he realized it was not his wife. It was one of the women who worked here, who silently scurried away whenever he appeared. She was busy with a stain on the floor and did not look up.

  Ashton couldn't help but smile. Margaret had mentioned that she would feel uncomfortable with a maid. Something had clearly changed her mind.

  "Excuse me, miss," he said softly. His own accent sounded strange after the rounded British tones. "Do you know where my wife is?"

  The woman kept on scrubbing, but he knew she had heard him. There was a straightening of her back, a self-consciousness that hadn't been there before. He repeated the question, moving closer to the woman, looking down at the carpet as he spoke.

  Blood.

  She was scrubbing blood from the carpet. He had seen enough blood in the past four years to be able to identify it in every imaginable form, on every possible surface. The door to the bedroom opened, and Dr. McCoy emerged, his face set in barely restrained anger. Ashton was about to speak when the doctor silenced him with a brutal glare and motioned to the other end of the room, closing the door behind him.

  Ashton's mouth was suddenly dry, as a fear more potent than any he had experienced in battle ran up his spine.

  "What happened?" he managed to say harshly.

  The doctor straightened and looked Ashton in the eye. "The baby is fine for now, in case you happen to be curious."

  "The baby?"

  "Damn it, that's what I said," Dr. McCoy spat, watching Ashton's reaction.

  With an unsteady hand he reached behind him, feeling for a chair. The doctor guided him to an uncomfortable-looking carved thronelike seat, clearly not intended for someone of Ashton's size or weight. But the doctor was satisfied.

  "What happened?" Ashton said again, wondering if he had slipped into some sort of nightmare.

  "I believe she fainted and hit her head on that table over there." Dr. McCoy gestured toward the maid, who stood to leave, bobbing to the men as she exited with her clanking bucket.

  "Is the blood . . ."Ashton began, not really wanting an answer.

  "It's from a rather nasty gash on her right temple.

  Head wounds always bleed excessively." The doctor poured Ashton a large glass of brandy and handed it to him before he poured one for himself.

  Ashton's hand began to shake, and he quickly placed the tumbler of brandy on a table. "May I see her?"

  "That depends," the doctor replied after a healthy gulp of liquor. "She knows all about what you've been doing here, you know. You haven't exactly made a secret of your stunning nightlife."

  Receiving no response, he continued. "She also knows that you plan on returning to the Confederacy as soon as possible. You are well enough to travel, sir." Ashton said nothing for several painful moments, staring straight ahead at the closed bedroom door, but not really seeing.

  "Well, Doctor," he said at last, his voice unusually quiet. "Have you ever known a man to destroy his life so completely?"

  Dr. McCoy almost smiled, but curbed the urge. "She loves you. Against all reason, I might add. She's alive. Given those two facts, I should think you have a good enough chance. I'd bet a pound that if you stop this ridiculous behavior, things can be mended."

  Again, there was a strained silence. "How is she, Dr. McCoy? Is she strong enough to carry a child?"

  "Ah, so you do have eyes." The doctor drained his glass. "To tell you the truth, it might have been better if she lost the babe today. The further along she progresses, the more difficult it will become. A lot will depend on simple will, how strong her desire to live is. And right now, she doesn't seem to care one way or another."

  Ashton took a deep breath and rubbed his eyes. "How did you find her?" He asked the question with weary concern.

  "I decided to take her up on her offer of afternoon tea. When she failed to answer the door, I obtained the keys and found her over there."

  "I can never thank you enough." Ashton's eyes were suddenly bright. "But I have no money, at least I don't think so. She's been handling the finances. I've been too angry to discuss anything with her. I don't know if I can pay for . . ."

  "I have been paid."

  "By whom?"

  The doctor stood up. "I'll be back in the morning. She should be fine, just watch her carefully. And please, treat her kindly. No matter what your ultimate plans, she needs you now."

  He began to leave, when Ashton stopped him. "Excuse me, Dr. McCoy. Who is paying you?"

  With an enigmatic tip of his worn hat, the doctor left without another word.

  CHAPTER 19

  Everything felt heavy. Her arms and legs, her head, even her hair, falling loosely over her shoulders, seemed to weigh an extraordinary amount. Her head pounded as if it had been struck; still she couldn't remember exactly what happened.

  It was an oppressive drowsiness, with no pleasant stupor to erase the nightmare of the last few weeks. Although her limbs felt weighed down, her mind was alert, repeating every furious look and angry glance she had received from Ashton. The most vivid image in her mind was his perpetual absence, an emptiness from her life that seemed to speak eloquently of how he detested her.

  Slowly, she moved her hand over her body, pausing to rest as she worked her way to the throbbing temple. Her eyes remained closed, partly because she lacked the energy to force them open, partly because there was no reason to look around the huge bedroom in which she had spent so many solitary hours. She knew every corner by heart, each piece of furniture as if she herself had carved it; even the cluttered bric-a-brac shelf was achingly familiar.

  Margaret also knew what she would not see. She would not see Ashton.

  Memories of the day before began to return, hazy at first, then a little clearer as she went over them again. As if it had happened to someone else, Margaret remembered Dr. McCoy placing her gently on the massive bed she shared with no one. He had been kind, reassuring her that her baby was fine; she had simply hit her head. He left abruptly, mumbling about another patient. Before drifting off to sleep, she had heard him speaking to someone in the next room, probably a maid.

  A soreness in her throat made it difficult to swallow, and she recalled crying at some point, although she could not remember exactly what cau
sed such an avalanche of tears. But it really didn't matter. She cried easily lately, set off by the near certain knowledge that Ashton was leaving her. The numbness she experienced at first, when she realized he would return to Richmond, was replaced by an emptiness that even the prospect of a baby failed to lessen.

  Soon she would be alone in this strange place in a very strange time. She was just getting used to boots and layers of undergarments, hoops, and corsets, and music only when she herself clanked "Chopsticks" on a piano or when she happened to hear someone else play. The physical limitations were nothing compared to the social restraints placed on women. A lady was expected to be delicate and discreet, worshipful of her husband, devoted only to her children. A female with an opinion on politics or science was taken as seriously as a talking parrot.

  As long as she had been with Ashton, the sense of being an utter alien in this century hadn't seemed to make so much of a difference. Now the prospect of raising a child in this era of infectious diseases and limited medical knowledge was absolutely terrifying. And before she could follow that hazardous path, she had to actually survive pregnancy and childbirth.

  With a heavy sigh, she reached up and touched her head, wincing as she felt the stiffened wound, wondering if the doctor had stitched it closed. "Does it hurt?"

  She stopped. Was she hearing voices? Had she imagined Ashton's question, full of tenderness? Opening her eyes, she turned in the direction of the voice.

  It was Ashton.

  A feeling of panic rushed over her. Was he telling her that he was leaving today? Is that why he was wearing such formal attire? Torturing herself, she kept her eyes on him, realizing that he was more handsome than ever. Gone was the slightly wild look of the renegade cavalry general. In its place was the smooth aristocrat, still devastatingly masculine, slightly more polished. His hair, which once skirted past his broad shoulders, was collar-length, brushed off his face. The mustache had been trimmed, making the sensual mouth more visible.

  He had been slouched in a chair, and from the rumpled state of his clothing, that was where he had slept. He rose slowly, his gaze never leaving hers, and he frowned slightly at her expression. With a terrible pang of recognition, he realized it was fear. "Margaret," he whispered. "May I sit down?" She nodded, and instead of pulling a chair up to the side of the bed, he settled directly on the mattress.

  The nearness of his body unnerved her, his thigh so close to hers. She cleared her throat and fumbled with her hands, clasping and reclasping them over the cover. "So," she said with a valiant attempt at light chatter. "Do you come here often?"

  He did not smile. Instead, he reached over to her, resting his large hand on her shoulder, his thumb stroking her softly. "Not often enough."

  The compassion in his voice was her undoing. Margaret tried to bite her lower lip to prevent it from trembling, hoping that she would not dissolve into a puddle of sloppy tears. At least she could maintain her pride, hang on to a hollow feeling of self-respect once he was gone.

  Instead, she burst into tears.

  Her reaction caught them both by surprise, Ashton not knowing quite what to do, Margaret suddenly sobbing uncontrollably. They were fleshy, thick sobs, the kind that consume all energy and thought. The kind of tears that lead to hiccups and red-nosed embarrassment.

  Through her tears she saw his confusion, not quite sure where to place his hands, fumbling with words of comfort.

  "Oh, Margaret, well, come now .. ."

  With a part moan, part wail, she flipped the covers over her head, not wanting him to see her like this. The moment she was under the blanket, she realized that she looked more ridiculous than ever, like an emotionally unstable linen closet. So she stopped crying—which was easier to do with Ashton out of sight—the sobs dwindling to infrequent sniffs, and sat very still.

  Ashton did his best not to laugh, looking down at his shoes, trying to conjure horrific images of battle. But the very thought of Margaret sitting stock-still under the blanket, as if it was the most normal position in the world, and trying to begin what promised to be the most difficult conversation of his life, wore down his brittle defenses.

  At first it was a quiet, contained chuckle, and Margaret felt the bed shake slightly. She assumed he was shifting his weight and remained under the blanket, trying to think of a graceful way out of the position. Then she noticed the vibrating motion was increasing, and a sound very much like a mirthful snort escaped from the direction of her husband. Surprised, she turned her head toward him, which, under the cover, reminded Ashton of a startled bird, and a full-fledged guffaw overtook him.

  Curious and more than a little irritated, Margaret emerged from the blanket, peeking out cautiously at first, then pulling the covers down completely as she realized he wasn't even looking at her.

  Reluctantly, she smiled, suddenly realizing how much she had missed his wonderful, rich laugh. His eyes were glistening with hilarity, and he glanced at her, sharing the warmth of his laughter.

  "Ah, Mag," he finally sighed, wiping a tear from under an eye. "I do hope our child has a sense of humor. Otherwise, life will be pretty rough for the poor thing with us as parents."

  Margaret was speechless for a moment, allowing the meaning of his words to filter through her apprehension.

  "You know?" she stammered, her fists clenching the blanket.

  Sobering, he nodded and placed both of his hands over hers. "And the notion has me torn in two." Before she could read any sinister meaning behind his simple words, he elaborated. "The idea of you having our child delights me, Mag. But I'm terrified that something may happen to you, that I may lose you." Unconsciously his eyes focused on the L-shaped laceration that was partially hidden in her hairline.

  A cool thrill passed through her; a sudden lightness like a warm spring breeze seemed to lift her soul. All of the darkness receded as she threw her arms around his neck. Without hesitation, he drew her closer, his face buried in her silken tresses, inhaling her familiar fragrance. "Ash,” she murmured her voice husky. "I'm so .. ."

  "So . . . what, my love?" he coaxed. "I'm so hungry," she sighed. "Is there anything to eat around here?"

  She was instantly rewarded with a deep kiss followed by a five-course breakfast.

  "Will you please let me get out of bed now?" she pleaded, as a sprightly red-haired chambermaid scurried away with the breakfast dishes.

  "You heard Dr. McCoy. You are to remain in bed until you regain all of your strength." Ashton had shaved and changed into fresh clothes, looking impossibly rejuvenated for a man who had stayed up all night.

  The past two hours had been pleasant, their chatter confined to nothing more personal than the weather. It was as if they both understood that this fragile truce was only a temporary fix, that they needed to find a way to restore their shattered faith in each other.

  Margaret would glance at him, so happy to have him by her side, yet wondering where he had been all those evenings, and ultimately why he had felt the need to desert her. He still seemed remote, infinitely polite and considerate, yet a barrier stood between them. It separated them as effectively as a physical block.

  Quite simply, she knew it was their vastly different ideas that put such a distance between them. Of course, she intellectually understood his belief in honor and pride, but to her they were little more than hollow words and certainly less precious than his life.

  He smiled in agreement at some comment of hers about the weather; yet he was wondering how on earth he was ever to fathom the workings of her mind. Margaret had done things no woman he had ever known could be capable of—from the gruesome duty of nursing to plotting the outrageous hoax of his death. His air of casual friendliness masked a thousand questions that demanded answers, wrenching discussions that had to be completed before they could resume their marriage.

  She leaned forward at his gentle prodding, allowing him to straighten the pillows behind her back. "Ugh," she said, settling into the fluffed cushions. "I believe I ate everything on
those plates. I feel like a human vacuum cleaner."

  Ashton paused, a perplexed expression crossing his face. "What on earth is a 'vacuum cleaner'? By its very definition, a vacuum is nothing—a total void. Why on earth would you need to clean a void?"

  Margaret closed her eyes. "We need to talk," she said softly.

  He sat by her on the bed, not touching her.

  "I know," he agreed. "I need also to get a few things straightened out." She nodded, and he continued.

  "I will not allow you to interfere in my life." He stood suddenly, as he was no longer able to contain his energy. "You played with my life as if I were a puppet, yours to manipulate at will."