Much Ado About Marriage (26 page)

“Aye, I shall have to put my mind to the issue, as well.” Sighing, Fia rested her head on the tub’s edge and closed her eyes, her mind whirling. She had to make it through the next week without allowing herself to fall even more under Thomas’s spell. He was obviously upset that an annulment was no longer possible.

Perhaps
that
was the key. Perhaps if she showed him that
she
still wished for the annulment and would do what she had to in order to procure it, then he would be easier.

She sighed. It wasn’t much of a plan, but for now, ’twas all she and her rabbit could come up with.

Thomas halted outside his cabin, holding the towel he’d wrested from a scandalized Mary, his other hand resting uncertainly on the brass handle.

All morning, he’d grappled with the cold reality of his actions last night. There was no longer a possibility of an annulment; they had crossed that line. Even now, Fia could be carrying his child. Taking the towel from Mary had been a bold move, for it had publicly announced that his wife was now his in more than name only, but he was feeling bold. Bold and determined to do the right thing, regardless of the cost to his happiness. A Wentworth could do no less.

Sweet Jesu, but it had been a short night. First the storm, and then finding Fia alone in his room. His blood heated at the memory. After hours of fighting the storm, he’d been so exhausted he’d barely been able to stand, but the second he’d pulled Fia into his arms, all that was forgotten.

This morning he’d been none too pleased to leave the
warmth of his bed to stand upon the frigid deck, knowing Fia was snug and waiting.

Fia . . . in his bed. He closed his eyes against the heat that instantly rose, astonished that he lusted for her still. Merely hearing her splashing in her bath through the door was an exquisite torture.

Thomas could almost see her white shoulders rising above the water, her hair floating around her like a mermaid’s. His loins tightened painfully, and he scowled. By the saints, but he was as besotted as a stripling.

It was that thought that had sent him from her bed with such haste.

Being married to her would expose him to her charm all the more. He was already discovering that his original idea to see more of her and thus slake his hunger had done the opposite.

“Aye, look where that got you,” he muttered. “Into her arms and more tangled than ever.”

The truth was simple: there was a fierce attraction between them, one that made no sense and did not answer to any plans he’d made for his future.

He leaned his forehead against the door, a strange ache in his heart. Some part of him that had loosened under her sensuous touch had curled back into a tight knot when he’d realized how perilously close he was to falling in love.

And out of control.

His jaw set. If he had anything to do with it, such a thing would never, ever happen.

Yet what was he to do now? He’d compromised her; now he was cursed. But the time for complaining was gone. He’d made his choices and now they were his to live with. He gripped the brass handle and opened the door.

Fia sat with her back to the him, her arms and legs sprawled over the edges of a very small tub. Her wet hair hung in a curtain down her back and pooled into a puddle on the floor, strands clinging to her neck and shoulders. She looked more like a sodden puppy than the mermaid he’d imagined.

She turned at the sound of the door and Thomas caught a glimpse of her profile, her eyes tightly shut to ward off the soapy water dripping down from her hair.

“Mary, pray bring the towel. I’ve soap in my eyes.”

If ever a woman had a voice that whispered of wanton pleasures, it was hers. Thomas tried to ignore the rise of her breasts as she reached blindly toward him. He was struck with an almost overwhelming urge to pull her into his arms and taste that bath-sweetened skin.

“Mary?”

Thomas dropped the towel into her outstretched hand.

“Och, thank you.” Fia wiped her eyes and held the towel back toward him, never turning around.

He took it without saying a word.

“I can’t believe this is all the tub that’s to be had on the Sassenach’s ship,” she grumbled. “’Tis more like a tankard.” She gazed at the steam that rose from the water. “Mary, do you remember the hot springs Duncan took us to see in Wales? The mist off the water curled into fingers, reaching up and up, only to waft away. I was fascinated and fearful yet I couldn’t look away.”

Every word drew Thomas in, feeding something thirsty deep in his soul. She was a conjurer, this woman of his, a magician who turned words into feelings and memories and thoughts he didn’t want to have.

He found himself lost in a memory that had tucked
itself into a deep corner of his mind. He’d been young, maybe five or six, and his mother had come to the nursery and dressed him in a heavy woolen cloak and leather boots. He’d been excited, for it had rained for what had seemed weeks and weeks, and they hadn’t been able to go outside.

He frowned, the memory slipping more firmly into place. His mother had loved to ride and would go in all weather, to his father’s disapproval. She would come back flushed and muddy, her hair falling about her, her cheeks rosy, a grin turning up her usually somber lips. Those were the few times she’d really seemed happy.

Thomas always thought she looked so pretty then, but it somehow made Father angry, for ’twas not decorous to ride in such a manner. Yet Mother had refused to give up her riding.

This one day had been different, though. Instead of going out by herself, she’d come for him, whispered to him to be quiet, then they’d slipped past his father’s study and outside.

A carriage was waiting and she’d taken Thomas to a clearing deep in the woods where the coachman unpacked a picnic basket. Then he and his mother had sat in the middle of the mist-filled woods, raindrops dripping from wet leaves all around, and had their luncheon. Mother had talked and smiled, but her usual somberness was never far away. Once in a while she’d look at the misty trees, her eyes dark with longing.

Had she wanted to get away even then? When he thought about it now, perhaps his mother had been as lonely as he, locked away in that house with no companions but his stern father.

There had been hell to pay when he and his mother had returned; Father was furious over their “unbecoming conduct” and had admonished the nursemaid not to allow Mother to take Thomas again.

Yet it had been worth it. For weeks afterward, whenever his mother and he would look at each other, they’d share a secret smile, remembering their enchanted time in the woods.

A splash from the tub recalled Thomas to the present. Fia had stretched a leg before her and was busily soaping it. “I feel the same way now that I did when I first saw that misty spring. I’m afraid, yet also excited. Those mist-formed fingers haunted me for weeks after, and I’ve always wondered if they were beckoning me forward or warning me away . . .” Her voice faded as her expression became distant. “Mary, do I go forward with the Sassenach, or away? I don’t know which . . .”

Thomas’s mouth went dry as he noted the seductive curve of her leg, and he wondered if she had any idea how appealing she looked. What thoughts had she become so lost in? He fished in his pocket for a coin.

A glimmer of gold flashed through the air, and Fia blinked, surprised as the glistening coin landed with a splash in the water, coming to rest on the curve of her stomach. Before she could speak, another coin glittered through the air and Fia gasped as it plopped onto the damp slope of her breast.

Behind her, a deep voice said, “Normally I’d offer a penny for a thought, but yours always seem to be worth more than most.”

Thomas walked into her line of vision, a faint smile on his lips though his gaze was somber.

“My thoughts are hardly worth a penny, much less gold.”

“Nay,” he said with apparent disbelief. His eyes held hers, a disturbing flicker in their brown depths. Then his gaze wandered lower, and Fia instantly became aware of her lack of clothing and her ungraceful position.

With a mad scramble, she closed her legs and tried to cover her breasts and reach for the towel all at the same time. Her hand closed about the towel, but Thomas’s booted feet held it firmly to the floor. An unexpected grin lit his face.

The most she could do was cross one leg over the other, fold her hair over her chest, and hope the soapy water hid the rest.

“I’ve already seen everything you’re trying so hard to cover, comfit,” he said in a dry tone.

He had, but that didn’t prevent her cheeks from burning. “I know, but—” She’d been too distracted then to think about it. Now things seemed different. “What . . . why are you here?”

He leaned against the desk and lazily pulled the towel toward him with his foot. “I wished to speak with you privately.”

She tugged on the towel again, but his foot remained firmly in place. ’Tis rude of you to deny me a towel. The water’s growing cold.”

His gaze flickered to her breasts, and his gaze heated. “So I see.”

She glanced down and saw that her nipples peeked through her hair. Her cheeks burned brighter and she hurriedly crossed her arms over her breasts as she tossed about in her head for another topic—
any
other topic.

Her frantic gaze found the blue shoe on the table. “Thomas, the blue shoes from your trunk—who are they for?”

“The queen, if she likes them.”

Relief, pure and lifting, washed through her. Suddenly feeling years younger and freer, she nodded. “The queen will love them. What woman does not love pretty things?”

“True.”

“And men, too,” she added.

“Nay. Men prefer things of use.”

“Montley would beg to differ.”

“Montley
does
differ,” Thomas replied, “in every area you could name.”

Fia didn’t want to think of Robert right now. Thomas looked so handsome, and she was achingly aware of him. She wanted to press herself against him, pull his loose shirt from his broad shoulders, and run her fingers through the crisp hair on his chest.

Sweet Saint Catherine, I need to maintain some dignity!
It took all her resolve to gather her wits, but she did. “Robert’s a rare one. ’Tis as hard to teach manners to a pig as ’tis to get Robert to speak sensibly. I had a pig once who was said to possess some magic. I called him King Arthur.”

“Of course you did.”

“Duncan wanted Arthur for Michaelmas dinner. I tried to help Arthur, but no matter how wide I left the gate, he refused to leave his pen. I tried putting a lead about his neck to take him to a safer place, but he squealed enough to wake the dead.”

Thomas tried to tear his gaze from her mouth long enough to follow her recital. “And?”

She frowned, and he was captivated by the slight crease between her eyes. What would she do if he kissed it?

“Och, well, I discovered that the problem was Arthur wouldn’t leave his trough. He even slept in it, so attached was he. Duncan laughed and said ’twas a sure sign Arthur was meant for the table, but I don’t believe in fate. Do you?” Black eyes fixed on him in silent appeal.

He heard himself reply with all of the assurance of a professional swineherd, “Nay. Many pigs sleep in their troughs.”

“So I thought, too.” Her brow creased again. “But Duncan was determined to eat him, for truly there was never so fat a pig as Arthur. So one night I bribed the kitchen maids to help me heft Arthur’s trough onto an old wagon, then we coaxed Arthur into following it up a makeshift ramp.”

“So you saved him.”

“I
think
so,” she answered cautiously, her even white teeth catching at her lower lip.

“But?” he prompted, wishing he could release her lip with a kiss of his own.

She shrugged, the moment causing her breasts to peek through the curtain of her hair again. Thomas gripped the edge of the desk with both hands and willed himself to look into her eyes.

Fia continued, blithely unaware of Thomas’s struggle. “Several months after I helped Arthur escape, an uncommon amount of sausage appeared at the keep. I was suspicious that Duncan had found the poor pig, but he never would say.”

As she contemplated the probable outcome of King Arthur, her lip quivered slightly, and Thomas hurriedly changed the subject.

“I hate to distress you, comfit, but we need to speak of something more complex than the fate of Arthur the pig.”

Her dark eyes flew to him, and after a pause she nodded.

“Fia, ’tis obvious that we can no longer seek an annulment. Especially now that you might be with child.”

She paled. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

“I should never have touched you last night. I’m not usually overcome by desire, but . . . there is something between us.”

“Something,” she repeated, disappointment coloring her tone. “That’s what you think ’tis? Just
something
?”

She wanted it to be more—the realization froze his heart. He set his jaw. “Aye, ’tis passion and naught else. What else could it be?”

Fia forced her lips into a smile. “You may have changed your mind, but I have not. I have no wish to wed.” It amazed her that she managed to say the words without a quaver, for her heart was jagged from his coldness.

“Fia, we have no choice.”

“We do. We can wait to see if there is a babe, and if not, we can continue to pursue a dissolution of the marriage.”

“But . . . your innocence. When you marry again—” He clamped his mouth closed.

“That is my problem and not yours,” she replied coolly. “I came to London to procure a sponsor for my plays, not a husband, so my virginity was my own to dispose of as I wished.” That sounded very far-thinking and strong.

“I cannot in good conscience agree with you.”

“Och, don’t be foolish,” she snapped, her voice hard with the strain of holding back her tears. “’Tis not your decision but mine. And I want the end of this marriage.”
Now more than ever.
How could she remain married to a man who saw their passion as something to regret? Something to wish he could undo?