by Laura Parker
“Now what?” she demanded at length.
He glanced sharply down at her. “See the river? That would be the Tweed. We’re for there.”
She saw nothing, for she did not care to look. She simply followed him down the incline, too weary now to even complain.
A little while later they entered a small stand of trees near an unseen yet noisily gushing stream. Jack walked over to the largest tree and lay Kit at its base, propping the boy’s head and shoulders against the trunk. He had been asleep some while. Which was just as well. It did not seem he would be fit for walking anytime soon.
Sabrina staggered over to them and would have knelt if her knees had not given way. Instead she collapsed in a heap beside her brother.
“We will be declared outlaws,” she muttered as she bent over her bother and felt his cheek.
“No doubt.” Jack squatted down beside her, his voice surprisingly gentle.
She glanced resentfully at him through the rising mists from the river that refracted the dawn into an opalescent cocoon. “We will be hunted, a reward set upon our heads.”
“A most likely occurrence.” He reached out to pull her to him as he leaned back against the tree and stretched out his legs.
Sabrina held herself stiff as he rubbed his hands lazily up and down her arms. Her natural courage and anxiety-provoked bravado had long since been ground away. Now the weaker emotions of worry and fear began unraveling inside her. “If we are caught, all this will be for naught!”
“Most probably.” How reasonable he sounded, and unconcerned.
She sat up and twisted around. “Then why are you smiling?”
He angled his head toward her. “Am I?”
“Yes!” She was still furious with him over his treatment of her in the aftermath of the struggle at the McDonnells.
He shrugged and leaned back, closing his eyes. “I am too weary to match wits with you just now, sweeting. Will you wait an hour?”
“No.” Now that he was tired, she must rest? Contrarily, that was the very last thing she wanted at the moment. She poked him in the chest with a finger. “I want to know why those men turned against us. After all, you believed they would help us. “
He sighed. “I suppose I embellished my story rather too well.”
“You mean they intended to kidnap Kit and claim the ransom for themselves?”
“Perhaps.”
“A fine mess you’ve made of things!”
Jack opened his eyes and stared at her. Even ravaged by weariness and cold, her care-worn face with its stubborn chin and angry gaze seemed the most pleasant sight he could imagine. He would spare her the knowledge that the men who attacked them were more likely interested in raping her than in taking upon themselves the daunting task of extracting blackmail from the McDonnells. He could not say he blamed them. If he were not as mortally weary as she, tossing her skirts over her head would have been the thing uppermost in his own mind.
But she would think him crude and selfish and unfeeling. She had killed a man. He understood some of her feelings, but she, he knew, would not understand his.
Instead, he closed his eyes and dreamed of a world where the sun rose hard and strong and sultry.
Sabrina sat a long time watching the closed sleeping faces of the men who shared this tiny plot of ground with her. From a distance a nightjar churred from the bracken on the hills, its song a lonely desolate sound. Dear Kit, he seemed less labored in his breathing now. She had Jack to thank for that. As her gaze drifted from one cherished face to the other the thought struck her as a pain in her middle that she loved them both, differently but equally.
Jack had carried her sick brother for hours. Though thin, Kit was no babe. There had been no good reason for him to do that, except for her sake. He had known what she had not realized until they set out, that neither Lyndsey could have made it on his or her own. He had stayed with them, fought for them in a battle in which he had no part. Now his life was at risk and she had only harsh words to hurl at him.
Feeling the need to make amends she moved closer to Jack and laid her head shyly on his chest. To her surprise, for she had thought him asleep, his arm came up and enfolded her to hold her against him.
“I killed a man,” she said after a moment.
“He would have killed Kit,” he answered and turned her face up to his.
Leaning forward he kissed her trembling mouth, which sighed under the touch of his. He could not make love to her here, he told himself. They had no privacy, no comfort. Her brother lay next to them. Yet his arms went about her and he drew her softness tight against his chest, and ground his pleasure in her into her lips.
A cough from Kit finally made her tense and pull back. Jack blessed the breaking of the passion between them, though the throbbing at the base of his belly proclaimed him a fool as he backed away from her.
When she had resettled her brother to her liking, Sabrina moved back to him and placed her head trustingly on his shoulder. Within seconds she was deeply asleep.
This time Jack lay awake a long time, pondering the immediate future opening out before him. Not only was he tied to a mistress with a sense of moral rectitude that exceeded his own sense of duty to himself, but now there was a sickly child into the bargain to further enrich his life. Oh, he had chosen well.
The sun had climbed a hand’s span into the sky before he heard the sound he had been listening for. The jingle of harness bells, the crack of a coachman’s whip, and the rhythmic pounding of horse hooves.
A quarter of an hour later, he had handed both his companions up into the warm dry interior of the southbound coach and dropped enough coins into the coachman’s glove to see them all the way to Gretna Green.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Bath, December 1, 1740
Lotte sat before the blazing hearth with Sabrina’s kitten curled snugly in her lap. The late autumn days had resolved themselves into ones of cold drizzle under slate skies. She had not gone out-of-doors in more than a fortnight and she could think of no good reason to do so today, of all days.
Today was the first anniversary of her marriage.
The occasion was a most painful reminder of the one fact she could no longer avoid. She was alone and very likely to remain that way. Ran was not going to come for her.
“I must go home,” she murmured as she stroked the sleeping ball of fur.
The decision had been made weeks ago, shortly after Sabrina had disappeared with Jack Laughton. She knew then, there was nothing to be done but face the truth of her situation. She was going to have Ran’s child.
Yet her resolve had yet to translate into the necessary action required by her decision. Nothing would change a moment of the past or the reality of the present dilemma.
How to proceed? Should she write Ran, informing him of her imminent return? Or would it not be better to simply present herself to him and plead her case in person?
In a bitter moment of self-recognition she had to admit to herself that she was to blame for so much of the strife between them, certainly this last act of disaffection. She had blundered and blundered badly by running away. By then, the trouble between them was months old, straining the once impregnable bond between them. Now that she had had the time to think deeply and at length, she had come to the conclusion that while he had taken a mistress to spite her and make her jealous, she had failed miserably in her part as the wife. Perhaps, if she had remained to fight for his affection he would ultimately have returned to her.
Was it now too late?
Pride was a dangerous commodity, she was learning. The cost of maintaining it was higher than she had ever suspected. What had the struggle to preserve it cost her? Everything!
She lifted the kitten from her lap, rose to her feet and placed it on the warm seat she was deserting, and then crossed the room to her secretary. Two documents lay unfurled on top. The first was a diagram she had been working on for nearly two
weeks. It contained her plans for remodeling the children’s wing of her London residence into a nursery. Beside it lay the most feared legal document of the land: a will.
It represented the truth that she had faced shortly after Sabrina’s departure, that she was pregnant and that it might end, as it had for her mother, in her own death.
For the next weeks she had drifted through her home like a ghost: silent, secretive, and infinitely sad. Fears of her own death had been uppermost in her mind. And then last evening a remarkable thing had occurred. As she lay in bed paging though the local gazette in hopes of distracting herself from thoughts of her early demise, a vague tremble in her lower belly caught her by surprise. At first she thought she must be mistaken. Then she wondered if the broiled lamb chop she had consumed at supper might be the culprit. Finally she felt it a third time, unmistakably, a movement as light as butterfly wings.
Though she had heard Lady Henrietta, who birthed a child a year as regularly as a brood mare, speak of “the quickening” she had never considered that she might experience such a thing. Yet before rising this morning, she had felt again that mysterious stirring of life.
Lotte lowered a hand to her belly and pressed lightly, smiling in dreamy delight. Though she had been forced to loosen her corset strings, no casual observer would yet notice what she knew to be true. Those subtle little flutters were tangible evidence that she carried another life within.
The morbid whims that had preoccupied her for months had suddenly vanished before a more substantial realization. She would soon have a child to rear and she did not trust anyone with the job, certainty no straw-haired mistress!
“Lady Henrietta has survived six lying-ins,” Lotte mused thoughtfully aloud. “And Ran has often said she has no more wits than a milch cow. Certainly then I, whom Ran once accounted prodigiously clever, can master the trick of remaining alive while giving birth.”
This new life depended upon her well-being, and her well-being depended upon her close proximity to the man she loved.
She reached over and pulled the servant’s bell. She would leave for London immediately. To waste even another day would be foolhardy. First she would set about winning back Ran’s affections and then she would find a method to oust her usurper! After all, she was the wife! And soon she would be the mother of Ran’s child.
She reached out and lifted the will from the desk and then tore it neatly in half. She would not need it, after all.
“I shall need a new dressing gown of emerald green, Ran’s favorite color.” She smiled a secret smile that added smoky depths to her eyes as a flush of carnal desire swept over her. It had been long time since she lay secure and happy in his strong protective arms. Much too long.
London, December 1, 1740
Ran stood with one foot braced against the brass fender of his library fireplace and stared into the flames of the blazing hearth. Beside him, his mastiff lay sleeping on the heat-warmed slate. Bleak, mist-enshrouded London was all but deserted in December as hunting parties and house parties heralding the approach of the holidays drew the inhabitants to their pastoral residences. Half a dozen invitations had arrived for the present weekend alone, yet he could not think of a single good reason to accept them at this of all times.
Today was the first anniversary of his marriage.
The occasion was a most painful reminder of the one fact he could no longer avoid. He was alone and very likely to remain that way. Lotte was not going to come home.
“I must do this,” he muttered as he beat a fist softly against the marble mantel.
The decision had been made weeks ago, shortly after he had seen Lotte in the arms of Jack Laughton. By the time he had ridden back to London he knew that there was nothing to be done but face the truth of his situation. He had lost Lotte to another.
Yet his resolve had yet to translate into the necessary action required by his decision. It was useless to put it off, foolish, in fact. Nothing would change a moment of the past or the reality of the present dilemma.
How to proceed? Should he write Lotte, informing her of his decision? Or would it not be better to simply present the document to her through a messenger rather than risk the inevitable scene that was certain to follow when she read it?
As much as it grieved him, he could admit it now. He was to blame for so much of the strife between them, certainly the last act of disaffection. He had blundered and blundered badly in allowing her to run away. Perhaps if he had gone after her at once—no, the trouble between them was months’ old by then. She was right. He had taken a mistress to spite her and make her jealous, and had failed miserably in the enterprise. Perhaps, if he had listened to her and apologized she would have remained in town where he could have fought to regain her affection and she would ultimately have remained with him.
Now it was much too late.
Pride was a dangerous commodity, he was learning. The cost of maintaining it was higher than he had ever suspected. What had the struggle to preserve it cost him? Everything!
He lifted his foot from the fender and turned to cross the room to his desk. The document lying unfurled on top had been delivered two days ago. He had yet to sign it. It was the most scandal-making legal document of the land: a divorce decree.
It represented the truth that he had faced shortly after his return to London, that Lotte was lost to him and that their marriage might as well end.
For the past weeks he had stalked about London like a wounded bear: belligerent toward his adversaries at Whitehall, short-tempered even to his colleagues, and infinitely sad when left to his own devices. He had drunk enough to be named a sot, had he not had a head as hard as his will.
Fears of his wife’s desertion becoming part of the Beau Monde rumor mill had been the uppermost in his mind. He knew of men who suffered in silence their wives’ peccadilloes, in the hopes that the women would tire of their lovers and return home. But he was not such a man. He could not grind his teeth and pretend that it did him no injury that another man shared his wife’s affections and body. There was only one remedy for it. He must file for divorce.
For two weeks the document had lain like an omen of disaster upon his desk. And then last night a remarkable thing had occurred. As he sat at his desk, poring over bills that his party hoped to introduce in the next session of Parliament, a visitor had been announced. Ordinarily, he did not receive unexpected guests, but the name of his guest caused him to rescind his rule.
Millpost had come to call. What could possibly have brought the gossiper to his door—except news about Lotte?
A quarter hour later, he knew. Darlington was back in town. Moreover, he was not alone!
Millpost had come to convey his latest on dit to Lotte, who Ran announced was still away taking the air in the country.
Unsatisfied to leave without imparting his scandal, the baron had offered his juicy bit to Ran.
“Rumor, though I know you do not indulge in thuch things,” Millpost had lisped maliciously, “whispers about how the licentious viscount hath brought back with him a new mithtress. Thome thay he ith tho jealous of her that he will not allow her out of hith rethidence. Do you thuppose, ith her appeal tho great, that he dare not trust other men with even a glimpse of her?” His pale eyes had gleamed with salacious delight. “Fenwell ith recently back from Bath where he thwears Darlington attempted to path off a mythterious ebony-trethed beauty ath hith West Indian thithter-in-law! One mutht give him points for invention. He hath no brothers! We are all agog. Thoth island women are thaid to be prodigiously proficient in the amatory arts!”
So! Darlington had thrown over Lotte that quickly. Ran picked up the document and stared at the royal seal and ribbons attached near the bottom. Lotte was jilted! Darlington had never been known for the length of his liaisons, only the number. Now Lotte could be counted among them.
He stared at the names he had filled in and the blank space where the reason for the petition had yet to be writt
en.
He should be pleased by this turn of events. The tryst was over before any of their set had become aware of it. He should be gloating at her comeuppance. By a few strokes of a pen he could make public her shame and salve his pride at the same time by the declaration of divorce. He should be pleased, he should be relieved, he should be triumphant … but he was not.
“Poor silly Lotte,” he murmured as he returned to a contemplation of the degree. He would have ample grounds now to divorce her and leave her penniless. If she thought she could come back to him, contrite and on her knees, he would not—
No, that was as a lie. In the wee hours of every night of the last two months he had lain awake in his bed aware of a truth he had tried to deny, that he loved Lotte with every fiber of his being and always would. The effectiveness of his political life depended upon clear-headedness, and his well-being depended upon his close proximity to the woman he loved.
He could not let her go. He could not simply walk away from his feelings. She would be humble now, see the error of her ways, or would she be so ashamed that she would never come back?
He reached over and pulled the servant’s bell. He would leave for Bath immediately. To waste even another day would be foolhardy. First he would bring her home and then he would set about winning back her affections and finally he would find a method to forgive her for her indiscretion. After all, she was still his wife! And, despite all, he still wanted her to be the mother of his child.
He reached for the top of the decree and then tore it neatly in half. He would not need it, after all.
“I shall soon be with you again, Lotte.” He smiled the bold reckless smile of a conquerer who could afford to indulge in a rare show of mercy to a truly repentant and vanquished adversary. That thought added smoky depths to his dark eyes as the heat of carnal desire swept him. He had not bedded a woman in months, not since his last night with Lotte. That was a long time. Much too long!
