Sattler, Veronica (68 page)

He
loved her, and was presently bent on a course to make her care for him if he
could. He realized she had every reason to hate him, after the way he'd behaved
in the past. But his mother had given him good advice that day: to be gentle
with her and court her, much as if they were not yet even wed. And since he'd
taken that advice and begun to see it bear fruit, he'd made up his mind to do
more than court her to win him her good opinion; he began to hope he could make
her love him, if not as much as he loved her, then at least a little, and
perhaps, in time, even more than a little.

But
now, as he clamped his jaws rigidly together, he was beginning to see that the
process would not be as easy as he'd imagined. Going slowly, biding his time...
Merciful God, how was he to do it when the slightest closeness, the merest
touch, as now, set him afire?

Gritting
his teeth, he forced himself to release slowly the breath he'd been holding and
stepped back, away from her slightly, at the same time wondering what was
taking Carter so long to return to the bridge following the errand he'd sent
him on.

Ashleigh
felt the loss of his body heat as he moved away and with it, a return of her
spinning senses. She breathed deeply to hasten this sense of release, then
glanced upward.

The
star-studded brilliance of the sky was quite unexpected, for her thoughts had
been turned inward. It was the heavens such as she had never seen them before,
and their beauty nearly stole her breath away. In a canopy of midnight-blue
velvet, the stars seemed to hang so low, she felt if she reached up, she could
almost touch them. And yet, at the same time, she felt the vastness of it all
and felt herself, Brett, and even the sturdy ship they were sailing on, to be
nothing more than tiny ripples in the ageless, eternal beyond that surrounded
them.

"Oh,
Brett," she breathed, "isn't it just... perfect? Isn't it a
miracle?"

Taking
the wheel with one hand, Brett turned her to him and found himself gazing down
into her wondering, upturned face. "Yes, love," he whispered
hoarsely, "a miracle."

Ashleigh's
lips parted expectantly, for suddenly she wanted nothing more than the touch of
his mouth on hers. Oh, she loved him so much! And she suddenly found herself
screaming inwardly with the longing to tell him so.

But,
as his eyes held hers, she caught the look of restraint in them, little
guessing at what an effort it took for him to maintain that restraint. Forcing
her emotional inclinations aside, she made herself focus on her initial reason
for coming out here.

"Brett,"
she heard herself say in a quivery voice, "I—I want to talk to you about
my reasons for running off, for leaving you in—in England." There! It was
out. Now all she had to do was follow it through carefully.

"But
you've already told me," he said easily.

"I...I
have
?"

He
smiled. "Back at the villa, remember? You told me how Lady Margaret
insinuated that she was in London to—"

"Oh,
that!
Oh,
yes, I recall our clearing up that misunderstanding, but it was the—the other I
was referring to. The morning after our wedding when—"

"When
Elizabeth came to do her dirty work. Yes," he added, "you told me
about that, too. Apparently she quite convinced you that you had just wed the
greatest cad that a woman could ever take as husband."

Wide-eyed
and somber, Ashleigh nodded.

"I
imagine Elizabeth could have been quite convincing on that score. You see, in a
way, she was right."

Seeing
the dismay on Ashleigh's face, he leaned down and kissed her lightly on the
lips. "If it had been she I'd wed, silly goose, but not you! Never,"
he added softly as he bent to brush her lips with his again, "never
you."

Ashleigh
felt her lips tingle with his kiss and a tremor ripple through her body.
"I—I don't understand," she managed to say.

Brett
smiled down at her. "I'm afraid what Elizabeth suspected of me at one time
was true. I was prepared to marry merely to provide myself with heirs while at
the same time pleasing myself with mistresses and whatever other, ah, pursuits
I chose to indulge in, on the side. Indeed, if it had been she whom I'd wed, I
would have done exactly that."

"But—"

He
reached to place a pair of fingers gently against her lips. "But I did not
wed Elizabeth. I wed you, and suddenly found myself with a wife so different from
anything I'd imagined, I'd have had to be mad to be taking my... inclinations
elsewhere."

Ashleigh's
mouth gaped in astonishment. "You mean—?"

"I
mean, my very perfect, womanly little idiot, that you were all I, or any man,
I'm sure, could ever wish for in bed! Does that answer your question?"

As
she glanced downward, he saw her deepening blush even in the moonlight that
silvered her features. Gently, he curled his fingers under her chin and raised
it until she met his gaze again. "But it goes beyond that," he told
her. "For I must admit I've had mistresses in the past who were...
pleasing in bed, and yet I was never faithful to any of them."

"
Oh
."
The look of dismay again. "I see."

"No,
little one, you don't see."
Not yet,
he added to himself. "I
told you, with you, it goes beyond anything that went before. Ashleigh..."
He paused, searching for the right words. Finally he decided a direct approach
was best until such time as he might chance confronting her with his deeper
feelings. "Ashleigh, I want to tell you, here and now, that I never had
any intention of being unfaithful to you, and I have no such intentions now. I
shall always remain faithful, I swear it."

He
saw several expressions cross her face as she took this in. Astonishment,
pleasure, doubt—each left its mark.

"You're
not certain you believe me," he said.

"Oh,
Brett!" she exclaimed. "I simply don't know!" Her eyes grew
remote and subtly filled with pain. "Those nights in London... after—after
we quarreled, you came to bed smelling of—of perfume that was not mine. You...
cannot tell me there weren't other... females then."

He
sighed, then ran his hand impatiently through his hair. "You're right, of
course. But that was when I was under the impression that you were different.
That was when I was cut to the quick by the knowledge that you had left me,
just as I was beginning to think—"

The
wind shifted and the wheel pulled from the loose hold he had on it as the ship
veered sharply to starboard. Catching Ashleigh firmly with one arm, he grabbed
hold of the wheel with his free hand and worked to steady it.

From
below them a voice called out, "I'll be there in a moment, Your Grace! I'm
sorry I took so long!"

Ashleigh
looked to see the young seaman she'd run into when coming topside.

"Looks
like the wind's changed, Your Grace. Had I better summon Mr. Scott and—"

"I'll
take care of it, Mr. Carter," said Brett as he handed the wheel over to
his newly promoted second mate. He gazed up at the sky. "It doesn't look
too serious yet, but if it continues, we're liable to have a bad time of it
crossing the Channel. Hold her steady, Mr. Carter. I'll rouse the hands."

He
turned to Ashleigh. "Let's get you below before some weather hits."

"Did
you say, 'The Channel'?" she asked as he escorted her from the bridge.

"I
did." He grinned. "By this time tomorrow, we should be home."

Ashleigh
paced the length of the beautiful Aubusson carpet in the drawing room of the
house on King Street, waving a sheet of paper in her hand.

"I
simply cannot believe it!" she exclaimed as she cast a look of outrage at
Maria who was standing near the marble fireplace.
"Arrested!
How
dare they arrest them!"

"Ashleigh,
cara,
calm yourself, please!" Maria told her. "You'll sour
your milk if you go on this way. Think of the
bambina!
Why, if Megan
weren't crooning her that Irish lullaby right now, she'd be as fussy as she was
for hours after the first shock you received at the dock."

"But
how can I be calm when my husband and my brother have been arrested for
spying!"
She whirled as she reached the end of the carpet and began to pace again.

"Now,
the letter doesn't say that!" Maria admonished. "You read it
yourself, in Brett's own words. It says, 'under suspicion of spying,' and there
is quite a difference."

"Yes,
but when those men met us at the dock they merely said Brett and Patrick were
being 'detained for questioning'!
Now
it seems
detaining
is not
sufficient!
Now,
they are under
arrest!"

"Merely
a terrible formality, darling, I'm sure of it. Why, what do they have for evidence?
Of anything?"

"They
have evidence of Brett's ship passing suspiciously near the escaped enemy's
landing site after an unexplained visit to a land crawling with his
sympathizers, and in the company of an American flying a false British flag on
his ship! Oh, it is all too dreadful!"

"Yes—"
Maria sighed "—it is." She tried to force a smile. "But I still
wish you wouldn't work yourself up over it so. Try to trust Brett's judgment
that it is all just a tempest in a teapot, my dear. After all, he does have connections
in the Foreign Office and at the Admiralty—not to mention at Carlton House.
Just you wait. They'll have him and Patrick cleared of these ridiculous charges
in no time. Before we know it, the two of them will be standing right here,
sharing a laugh with us over it, and these past two days will seem like a bad
joke, no more."

But
Maria was mistaken about the ease with which their men would be released. As
Brett explained in the letters he was allowed to write to his wife, the problem
was twofold. First, Bonaparte's escape from Elba had resulted in his attracting
thousands to his cause, enabling him to march on Paris and force Louis XVIII to
flee. As a result, the entire nation was in a state of panic, and men in high
places who would normally have listened to Brett's story with reason and good
judgment, were now behaving as if they were afraid of their own shadows and
trusting no one. Secondly, although the Treaty of Ghent had been signed in
December, thus officially ending the War of 1812, Patrick's position was by no
means secure. One of the oddities of the conflict with the Americans was that
the Battle of New Orleans was fought—and won by the Americans—a full two weeks
after the treaty was signed, because of poor communications. How were the British
officials to know that Patrick's illegal behavior wasn't another piece of
post-treaty hostility? The fact that Patrick was now also a peer of the realm
and had thereby attempted to justify his flying of the Union Jack on his ship
held little weight; letters would have to be sent to Washington and ambassadors
contacted, and until satisfactory answers arrived, His Grace and Sir Patrick
would remain as unwilling guests of His Majesty's government—with official
apologies to Her Grace, the duchess, of course.

After
the first week passed with no resolution to these difficulties, Ashleigh grimly
determined to settle down and await their outcome, for she realized Maria was
right; it would do her and her daughter little good to sit around and weep over
the situation. She therefore joined Maria and Megan in setting up as normal a
household as they could in the large King Street house, doing everything
possible to maintain an aura of outward calm for the sake of the children.
Menus were planned and meals served, lessons were given in one of the upstairs
chambers hastily converted into a schoolroom, and clothes were ordered from
Madame Gautier, who was delighted to see Ashleigh again and totally charmed by
the
contessa,
her beautiful mother-in-law. Brett had immediately sent
word to his solicitors that his wife was to have any necessary funds at her
disposal so that she might run their household effectively until this sorry
mess could be straightened out.

One
of the side effects of the visits to Madame Gautier was that news of their
situation quickly found its way into the
ton's
grapevine, and Ashleigh
and Maria began to have callers. At first there were just the curious—the
gossips who came to see if all they'd heard were true, and whether they might
learn something new to embellish their own telling of tales as they sallied
forth from one afternoon tea to another.

But
then a curious thing happened: as word got out as to who Maria was—or Mary, as
she now called herself in an attempt at being supportive of Brett's patriotism—a
steady stream of well-wishers appeared at their doorstep. There were, it
seemed, a number of people who remembered Mary Westmont from before the time of
her so-called disgrace—remembered her and liked her well enough to call her a
friend. These were members of the upper crust who, they confided, had always
thought she'd been unfairly treated by the Westmonts, and now that they'd
learned she was reconciled with that family, went out of their way to welcome
her back into their society.