For Her Love (15 page)

“Of course I love you, Matu. With all my heart.”

Boat. Ring finger. “Marry him.”

“But…”

Matu placed her fingers to Grace’s lips. Boat. Ring finger.

“Oh, God,” Grace moaned.

The two women wrapped their arms around each other and wept until they were spent and there was nothing left to do but for Matu fetch tea and for Grace to return to the keeping room. Once there, she was surprised to see that Giles was alone.

“Your parents are upstairs, and I thought it would be better if I left you two alone for a while,” he said. His face was drawn and haggard, like it had been the day he had tended to the sick child with her.

She wiped the back of her hand across her eyes, dashing away the last of the tears. “Thank you.”

“I’ll not let this happen,” he assured her. “There has to be a way around it. We’ll steal her if we have to. It shouldn’t be that difficult.”

Grace drew a deep breath. “Let us think on it. She’s not going anywhere. We will come back for her when we figure out what to do.”

“Come back? Then, you’ve decided to—” he hardly dared say it. She might very well say nay.

“Aye, Giles. I decided to marry you three weeks ago. Naught has changed that. It was my grief talking.” Her voice was flat, her eyes dull.

He pulled her to him and wrapped his arms around her. “I’ll not let you suffer long, Grace. I swear, you will have your maid.”

Fresh tears welled in Grace’s eyes, and she held still, letting his strength and warmth infuse her. The comfort that he offered went right through to her bones. “It is not my suffering that matters. And she is not my maid. She is simply Matu.”

He nodded. “And Matu will be free. Someday. I swear it.”

But how, he wondered, even has he held her close. When had he begun to make promises he’d no idea how to keep? Probably when he became the sort of man who sailed headlong into marriage when he’d been given every sign that these were turbulent waters.

*

The wedding was a simple one, the guests few. The Church of England had arrived at the island of Jamaica when the British had seized it from the Spanish decades before, but plantations were spread far and wide. A single church, not much larger than a chapel, served several families and whatever white workers cared to keep up their religion. Right after the morning service, a handful of neighbors stayed to attend the marriage of Edmund Welbourne’s daughter, and Giles’s witnesses numbered but two.

Standing at the altar in her best gown of saffron damask, Grace promised to honor and obey the stranger next to her, placing all her trust in the compassion that she had seen him display in their short time together. Giles, resplendent in a velvet jacket and lace cravat, swore to keep her in sickness and in health, wondering if any amount of time could heal her wounded heart.

An inauspicious beginning, but considering how often near-strangers wed, ‘twas more than many had when they exchanged these vows. The priest pronounced them man and wife, and Giles brushed her lips with his so fast that she had no time to react. The contact was minimal, innocuous, chaste. The contract was sealed. As inconspicuously as possible, both bride and groom wiped their palms against their wedding finery.

Slaves with hampers full of food set up trestle tables in the churchyard for an early supper in celebration of the newlyweds. The air was rich with the smells of roast chicken, pumpkin soup, and sweet rum raisin cake. Giles stood in a circle of men, taking a healthy dose of good-natured back pounding and jokes filled with innuendo. Planters’ wives who had crossed the ocean from England filled Grace’s ears with an abundance of advice for sea travel. Matu worked silently with the other slaves, avoiding the Whites.

Iolanthe stood apart from her family. One of the planters’ wives broke away from the group surrounding Grace and smiled as she walked in Iolanthe’s direction.

“Mistress Welbourne,” the woman said, “how pleased you and your husband must be. Grace looks beautiful, radiant, of course. Did your dressmaker design the gown?”

Iolanthe sneered unpleasantly. “The design is English, not French. For myself, I do not think that yellow becomes her. I suppose the marriage itself is a blessing. The girl will be at sea or in Port Royal, too far away to make a nuisance of herself.”

The woman tried to laugh lightly, as though Iolanthe’s words had been spoken in jest, but with an uneasy curtsey, she drifted back toward the group surrounding Grace.

Edmund was as jovial and elated as any bride’s father might be. But as conventional as his tipsy hospitality was, against the hostility between bride and mother and the apprehension between bride and groom, he seemed out of place. The guests departed for their own farms well in advance of twilight. In fact, there was yet light remaining when the wedding party returned to the plantation, and Giles helped his bride alight from the carriage.

“I thought,” he said to her, “if it suits you, that we might spend the night on board
Reliance
, in my cabin.”

Grace’s knees buckled slightly under her damask skirts. On the one hand, she wanted Matu close; on the other, she could hardly call out to her in the night. She was a woman now, a married woman, not a child. And if she did disgrace herself, did cry out, she did not want Iolanthe to bear witness to her shame. She nodded mutely, unable to trust her voice.

Giles explained the arrangement to Edmund, who hesitated a moment, but then squeezed his daughter’s hand reassuringly and bid her goodnight at the dock.
Reliance
had sent one of her own rowboats to fetch them, and Geoff, Faith, and little Jonathan came too, so they all simply stayed in the tiny craft while it was hauled up to the main deck. Where Grace had once climbed eagerly over the rail to see the ship, she now required Giles’s strength to help her over.

Her mouth was dry and tasted of stale wine, drunk too long ago to lend her any courage.
I must be brave and quiet, brave and quiet.
Her uncle’s past words were a litany, chanted in her mind by the voice of a ten-year-old girl.

Giles held a lantern aloft as he led her down the ladder below deck, then through the narrow passage with the Hamptons close behind. The group paused between two doors, one on each side of the corridor, and each man set his hand to the latch of one of the portals, though Geoff had the other hand full supporting his sleeping son on his shoulder. Geoff winked at Giles, who took a deep, shaky breath, and it suddenly occurred to Grace that he looked nervous, too. It helped to think that perhaps he was no more eager for this than she.

A small hand slipped inside hers and Grace caught the scent of lavender. Faith gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “‘Twill be all right,” she whispered. “Giles is a good man, and kind. You’ve naught to fear.”

But it felt like Grace’s mouth was glued shut it was so dry. She only nodded, then followed her husband into his cabin.

It was such a small space, and there seemed to be no real signs that anyone lived there. The bed was neatly made, without so much as a wrinkle to suggest that it had ever been sat upon or occupied. There was a sturdy trunk at the foot of it, but no other personal effects in the room, not even an ink well on the desk or a jacket draped over the chair. There were a number of cupboards, but their contents were a mystery.

She thought of her own room, its vanity usually scattered with combs and trinkets. Matu tidied up behind her, but Grace was ever tripping over her own shoes, and more often than not she forgot to close her wardrobe, leaving her skirts and petticoats spilling out. She and Giles had so much to learn about each other.

“Would you rather I left you alone to ready yourself for bed?” he asked softly.

She started to say aye, but to her dismay, she realized that her gown laced up the back and Matu was not there to help her. “I can’t...” she choked. Unable to finish, she simply turned her back to him. Attempting speech again she mumbled, “Matu usually…” but it was futile.

“Ah,” Giles said, and she could almost hear a little smile in his voice.

She felt his hands tug gently, deftly at the lacing that bound her bodice. They were quick and unerring, as though they had performed just such a task countless other times.

“Did I tell you how beautiful you are today?”

She nodded. He had. Three times, but this made four.

I will be brave and quiet, brave and quiet
.

He pushed the thick damask aside, and her shoulders and back felt suddenly cool, covered by nothing more than her fine linen shift. Soft as rose petals, his warm breath tickled the nape of her neck, then he pressed his lips just where her neck curved to her shoulder. The shiver that danced down her spine was not entirely unpleasant, not entirely fear.

Giles inhaled the sweet aroma of his bride, lingered over her silken skin. He felt her quiver, heard her breath hitch. An intoxicating mix of desire and reverence reeled in his head. This woman was his. She had never been touched so by another and would not be gone upon the morrow. The seeds they sowed tonight would provide the harvest for the rest of their lives, and so he proceeded slowly, savoring every moment.

His hands skimmed her ribs beneath her bodice and set to work as efficiently on the fastening of her skirts as he had the laces of her bodice. She stepped away from him, not quite willing to let him tug the gown from her body entirely. Tactfully, he turned away and shrugged out of his jacket, folding it neatly and opening his sea chest, giving her a semblance of privacy. As he placed the garment carefully into the chest, Grace let the bodice of her gown fall to the floor. Giles pulled off his cravat and laid it smoothly atop the jacket, and Grace’s skirts formed a puddle of costly fabric at her feet. Grace’s shoes and stockings topped the mound. Giles’s boots were set neatly to the side of the chest. She was unwilling to part with her shift or petticoat; he left his shirt and breeches on in deference to her innocence.

Grace’s hands clutched convulsively in her petticoat, balling and rumpling the soft cloth.

“‘Tis all right,” Giles said, his voice tender and soothing. “We have all night, Grace. There’s no need to rush. Matu cared for your hair as well?” At Grace’s nod, he crossed to a cupboard and opened it, withdrawing an ivory comb from the shadowy interior. He gestured to the bed. “Have a seat.”

She sank onto the mattress, but kept her back rigidly straight. He was as skilled at pulling the pins from a woman’s hair as he was at unlacing her gown, and Grace could no longer deny what her mind had been trying to tell her. He had done this before, and not just once or twice. With whom? Why? Had he hurt that woman?

But there was no pain now. If anything, he was gentler than Matu as he spread her mantle of curls over her shoulders and slowly worked the comb through it.

“I have never seen a woman with hair such as yours,” he whispered, threading a lock through his fingers.

She raised a hand self-consciously to the mass of ringlets. “‘Tis impossible.”

“‘Tis beautiful.”

A smile tugged at the corners of her lips. If he stayed this mild and sweet, she might yet endure the night.

“Near to five hours wed,” he murmured in her ear, “and I’ve yet to kiss you properly.”

She pivoted in place, facing him. There was nothing ugly or cruel in his gaze, only sweet longing, and she found that she actually welcomed the touching of their lips. As she knew he would be, he was cautious, hesitant, giving her time to relax. His lips were soft and undemanding. She sighed, breathing in his vaguely spicy scent and leaning toward him. The sensation that flowed through her was like warm honey, sweet and delicious. His arms enveloped her in a loose embrace, and she felt safe and protected.

Then he changed. His arms pulled her closer, drawing firmly around her. He tilted his head and his lips laid full claim to hers, his tongue brushing against her. She went stiff and tried not to cry out.

Be brave and quiet, brave and quiet
, a child’s voice admonished.

His hands drifted from her back, clasping her shoulders for a moment before moving downward over her arms. Her wrists! He was going to grab her wrists, hold her down! She parted her lips to protest, but he slipped his tongue inside. Unable to help herself, she began to struggle in earnest, and he released her instantly.

“Grace?”

“I—I’m sorry. I just—”

“Nay,” he argued, “the fault is mine. I went too fast.”

“I’m sorry. I wasn’t entirely expecting you to—to kiss me like that.”

His brow furrowed slightly. “I didn’t even think to ask if you knew what to expect. I mean, your mother, she did tell you what would happen, didn’t she?”

Grace almost gave a hysterical little laugh. Iolanthe? Talk to her about the marriage act? Nay, her education had come from Jacques, and he had told her everything a man might do to a woman. She had just foolishly thought her husband would be different.

“I know what is to be done,” she answered. “Perhaps, if you wouldn’t mind, just please don’t hold me down. I promise, I’ll lie still. And mayhap you might not cover my mouth so. I’ll be very quiet. I’ll not cry out.”

“What?” His voice was incredulous.

“I’ll not struggle or make any noise, but when you hold me down and do that, kiss me like that, I panic. I cannot breath.” She blinked back the tears that stung her eyes and tried to keep her voice steady. “I’m sorry. I’ll learn to bear it, surely. I am just a little frightened.”

He reached out to touch her, then pulled his hand back. “My God, Grace, what did that woman tell you? What do you think I’m going to do to you?”

“It hurts, I know.”

“Aye, at first, but I’ll be gentle with you. I promise. I wasn’t going to hold you down. I only wanted to touch you. And I didn’t kiss you like that to keep you quiet. I want this to be good for both of us.”

She stared at him in obvious confusion, and Giles sighed in frustration. “I do not know what Mistress Welbourne told you, but I think ‘twas warped by whatever it is that makes her so angry all of the time. Mayhap she and your father do not suit, in more ways than just their constant fighting, but I assure you, many women enjoy this.”