Fortune's Bride (23 page)

That last word spread like a balm over Esmeralda. She did
not allow herself to think of the many, many reasons Robert could have had for
using the word, all of which had nothing to do with her at all. She only
repeated it over and over to herself until the mingled remains of her fatigue,
anxiety, and reaction from excitement pushed her into a sleep that was deep
and, as far as she ever remembered, dreamless.

Although Molly’s personal anxiety was greatly relieved by
the information that her husband was safe, her sleep was not easy. It was not
physical discomfort that kept her tossing and turning. She had slept soundly in
far worse conditions than the soft hay of the stable loft. It was her
conscience that invaded her dreams, waking her with nightmares of guilt and
fear. Each time she woke, she told herself that there was nothing she could
have done to protect her mistress. In fact, it was most likely that Mrs.
Moreton would have been furious if she had tried to intervene. Most women, at
least in the beginning, preferred to take their beating instead of having the
fact of their husbands’ brutality exposed.

Still, Molly felt vaguely guilty. Mrs. Moreton loved the
captain so much. It was a shame to have her dream broken. The guilt and the
regret continued to permeate her restless sleep, and it was with relief that
she saw the lightening of the sky, which presaged dawn. Molly knew that Robert
had returned to duty each morning, and she had been a soldier’s wife long
enough to know the seriousness of absence from one’s post. Anyway, whatever had
happened was now long over. The captain had been very drunk. He must have slept
soon after he went into his wife’s room, and he would have a most unpleasant
awakening. That thought gave Molly a little satisfaction.

She hurried to the house, dressed, and tapped softly at
Esmeralda’s door. After a moment, she tapped again and called. She was just
about to open the door and go in, although she did not wish to enter without
giving her mistress a chance to cover her bruises, when she heard the latch
click.

“’Tis near dawn, ma’am,” she said into the opening.

Esmeralda stuck her head out. She looked sleepy and
startled. “What’s the matter?” she asked.

“’Tis near dawn,” Molly repeated. “Will th’ captain no be goin’
bick t’ his post?”

“Oh, heavens!” Esmeralda exclaimed. “I’ll have to wake him.”

But she did not look frightened, as Molly had expected.
Instead, she blushed so deeply that Molly could see it even in the very dim
light of the hallway. At first Molly was surprised, but then she barely stopped
herself from laughing. It seemed that Captain Moreton had not mistreated his
wife. Quite the opposite, he apparently had provided better than usual
entertainment and then had fallen asleep in Mrs. Moreton’s bed.

It seemed strange to Molly that that should embarrass her
mistress, but she knew the gentry were odd that way. They slept in separate
rooms and acted as if babies were generated by magic. Amused and relieved,
Molly ran down to start up the fire and heat water.

Molly’s rapid departure left Esmeralda in a dreadful
quandary. What was she to say to Robert? More horrifying yet, what would he say
to her? Perhaps it would be best to call Molly and tell her to wake him, hide
herself away, and pretend nothing had happened. He might have been drunk enough
not to remember.

This cowardly idea was so attractive that Esmeralda turned
back toward the door and was actually reaching to open it when she remembered
why she had only stuck her head out in the first place. She was stark naked.
She hurried to pick up her shift from the floor, but the act reminded her of
the way Robert had looked at her, and inadvertently she cast her eyes down at
her own body—and gasped. Her thighs were all streaked with the brown stains of
dried blood.

For a moment she stood paralyzed, but not because she was
afraid she had suffered an injury, she remembered immediately the sharp,
tearing pain when Robert had penetrated her and the color of the stains was
proof enough that the bleeding had stopped hours ago. Her escape route was
closed. Robert, too, must be covered with bloodstains. It was impossible for
him not to wonder where they had come from and then to remember.

Instinctively Esmeralda began to pull on her clothing,
delaying the inevitable for just a few minutes more. Her mind scurried about
seeking another escape route, but none presented itself and she did not dare
spend any extra time thinking about it, for she could see the sky was growing
lighter It would only make things worse if Robert were late and Sir Arthur
reprimanded him. Drawing a deep breath to steady herself, she leaned over the
bed and shook his shoulder gently.

“Robert. Robert. It’s dawn. You must get up.”

His first response was a heartrending groan. Esmeralda bit
her lip and fought back tears, thinking the sound to be an expression of
regret. Nonetheless, she persisted, shaking him again, a little less gently,
and repeating, somewhat louder, that he had to get back to camp. As she said it
she realized that she had no idea what had happened in the battle. Had Robert
been drinking to drown the sorrow of a defeat?

“My head,” he moaned. “Don’t. Oh God, my head.”

Esmeralda bit her lip again, but this time to stifle a
giggle. How foolish she was. She had forgotten the morning punishment for
drinking too much the night before. Her father had very rarely drunk to excess,
but occasionally he had done so. Robert’s plaint recalled the results of that
overindulgence to her mind. And then a brilliant thought occurred to her.
Perhaps Molly knew of a remedy. At least, she could say she was going to ask
for one. Then she could allow Robert to remember what had happened on his own.
She would not have to see his first, unguarded reaction.

“You must get up,” she repeated. “Sir Arthur will expect to
see you at six o’clock. I am going down to find out whether Molly knows of
something that will help your head.”

She fled the room as Robert rolled over toward the edge of
the bed, groaning pitifully and reaching blindly for the chamber pot. As she
closed the door, she wondered whether she was being unkind. If he was going to
be sick, should she have stayed to hold his head? She would not have minded
doing so but thought that it might embarrass Robert. Somehow being sick seemed
a rather unromantic first contact with one’s bride, even on a delayed wedding
morning.

Esmeralda’s spirits had risen mercurially. She was delighted
with the excuse she had found to leave the room, which had permitted her to act
just exactly as a good, loving wife should act and still would allow Robert to
remember in her absence that he had consummated their marriage. Even if he were
appalled at what he had done, he would be far too kind to show it once he had
mastered his first shock of realization. And if he showed no open rejection of
the situation, that would provide time—time for her to show what a good wife
she could be in every sense, since it would be ridiculous now that she was no
longer a virgin for them to continue to live apart, and time for him to grow
accustomed to the idea that she was a permanent acquisition rather than a
temporary one.

Presented with a most moving description of the sufferer’s
anguish, Molly laughed. “Ah, weel,” she said indulgently, “he’s no doin’ it
often, ‘nd he’s no mean with it, is he?”

The last two words were a trifle pointed, but Esmeralda only
looked puzzled. “Mean?” she repeated.

“Theer’s men as git to foightin’ or hittin’ theer woives
whin they drink,” Molly remarked.

“M’Guire?” Esmeralda asked, shocked.

Molly laughed again, for it was plain that her mistress
could not even associate such an idea with her husband. “No, niver M’Guire,”
she assured Esmeralda, “nor me first man, but me da wuzn’t above it, though no
often. He’s dead, God rest him, ‘nd God forgive him, too. Now, whut the
captain’ll be needin’ is a hair o’ th’ dog wit a wee boite to it. Jist let me
gi’ a thought to whut’s heer.”

“Yes, and you had better show me,” Esmeralda said. “It’s
just luck that you are here this morning instead of in camp with M’Guire. If it
should happen again, I want to know what to do right away.”

Upstairs, Robert had indeed been sick, although it was
mostly dry heaves that shook him. After the first spasms were over, he opened
his eyes cautiously. The dimness of the predawn light seeping into the room was
helpful. A stronger light would have intensified the lances of pain that
stabbed through his head and made him sick again. The half dark permitted him
to look straight ahead without any new disaster overtaking him, although he was
sure that if he moved his head or his eyes, he would expire at once.

What he saw was so startling, however, that he temporarily
ceased to feel his physical symptoms. There were his boots, neatly side by
side, but in the middle of the floor. On the other hand, his coat, shirt, and
breeches were strewn about in untidy heaps here and there. His smalls were
nowhere to be seen at all. Robert stared around the room. He knew he had been
very, very drunk, but he had been very, very drunk many times before.
Occasionally he had slept in his clothing, but never had he thrown it hither
and thither. Nearly ten years of military service had ingrained in him certain
habits. One of them was to fold his clothing neatly when he took it off,
particularly when he had been drinking heavily. That way he could find his
things and get them on no matter how sick or blind with pain he was, and he
would look tidy outside no matter what the wreckage inside.

Surprise still holding back pain and nausea, Robert bent his
head to look closer to the bedside for his smalls, and in sweeping from the
foot toward the head of the bed, his gaze passed over his own naked thighs. He
gasped with shock at the brown stains on his skin and the clotted blood that
matted the golden curls of his pubic hair.

“Oh, my God,” he whispered. “Merry.”

But there was no regret in his voice, and a definite feeling
of triumph swept over him. Perhaps he should not have done it, but she was his
now, for good. As the thought came and he remembered more clearly the events of
the previous night, his shaft stirred and began to rise. Robert laughed
shakily. He wished he were not on duty so he could get Merry back into bed. The
notion lingered pleasantly for a moment or two, Robert even toying with the
idea of sending Carlos to headquarters with a note to say…

He grinned at the thought of requesting a day’s leave to
continue making love to his wife. He could imagine Sir Arthur’s face as he read
the note. It was never a serious intention. Robert would not really consider
sending a young boy unfamiliar with the area alone through a countryside where
a battle had been fought. Then the grin froze on his face as it occurred to him
for the first time that Merry might not be willing.

There was evidence that he had not been very gentle with
her. He got up, wincing at the renewed pain in his head, and walked unsteadily
to the stand that held a basin and pitcher of water for washing. What the devil
was he to say to Merry? he wondered, as he poured water into the basin and
washed away the dried blood. When he stooped to pour the soiled water into the
slop pail, he almost fell, shuddering as he fought a renewed desire to retch.

Better leave the bowl. He shoved it onto the stand and
staggered back to the bed. His smalls must be under the bed, he thought,
shuddering again at the notion of bending down to retrieve them. However,
before he could put this hazardous enterprise into motion, there was a brief
tap and the door opened. Robert barely had time to sit down and pull part of
the tumbled blanket across his lap when Merry was in the room.

“Here is a horrible concoction that Molly says will put you
to rights,” she said.

Her voice was light, but she was blushing furiously. Robert
stared at her, almost ready to weep with gratitude. There was no woman in the
world like Merry, he thought. No matter what, she never made a fuss. Whatever
happened, she picked up the pieces and went ahead as brave and steady as the
best trooper. He saw her glance at his naked body and shift her eyes, and he
blushed, too.

“I couldn’t find my…my…”

Ridiculously, Robert could not say the word, even though he
knew Merry had packed and unpacked his undergarments. Besides, it was a crazy
thing to say. He had meant the statement as an apology for his nakedness, but
the words came out almost as an accusation, as if he were blaming her for
misplacing his garments. She came closer without speaking, but hesitated at
about arm’s length and held out the mug she was carrying. Robert took it from
her. His gorge rose at the idea of trying to swallow anything, and his hand
shook so that some of the contents slopped over. Merry took another step
forward and put both her hands over his and the mug to steady them.

“Never mind about the clothes,” she said softly. “I’ll bring
you clean ones. Those will have to be washed and mended before you wear them
again anyway. Oh, Robert, Molly told me you beat the French. It’s wonderful!”

He had been looking at the liquid in the mug, trying to
nerve himself to take a pull at it, while at the back of his mind he wondered
if it would frighten Merry if he kissed her hands. He looked up as she spoke,
just catching her eyes as they lifted from his body. She was red as fire again
in an instant and turned away quickly. Robert swallowed and tried to speak, but
nothing came out on his first attempt.

“I’m sorry I hurt you, Merry,” he said desperately, just as
her hand fell on the door latch.

She stiffened, almost as if to withstand a physical blow,
and the remainder of what Robert intended to say, assurances that he would be
more gentle in the future, apologies for his drunkenness, died in his throat
because she so quickly turned back toward him and smiled, although the
expression was rather strained.

“We haven’t time enough to talk now,” Esmeralda said
rapidly. “Molly told me Lord Burghersh and some others were with you. You’ll
have to find out whether they went back last night. If they didn’t, you might
have to wake them. You’ll be late on duty, and Sir Arthur won’t like that.” She
was not sure whether the stricken expression on his face was owing to his physical
discomfort, to regret, or to her seeming rejection of his apology—and she was
afraid to find out—but she could not bear it. “Don’t worry so, Robert,” she
added softly, and then went out before he could speak.