Wanted: Mail-Order Mistress (8 page)

“Simon?” She stretched, pulling the fabric of her gown taut against her body in several intriguing places. “What time is it? Why did you rush away this afternoon?”

“It’s too late to go into all that now. We can discuss it another time.”

“When?” She yawned and rubbed her eyes. “It isn’t something I want to talk about in front of Rosalia, even if you do come home earlier some other day. She was upset after you left, though she tried not to show it. She’s a clever little thing and I know she didn’t believe your excuse about forgotten business any more than I did. She thinks she must have done something to make you angry and I couldn’t comfort her because I wasn’t certain myself. Now I’m not going to bed until you give me an answer I can understand and explain to her.”

“I told you I would
try
to be a more attentive father.” Simon moved back to the other end of the sofa. What would Bethan do if he got up and left without an explanation? Would she follow him to his bedroom, trusting
in his honour to keep her safe? “And I did try. But I fell short, as I knew I would. I feared nothing about children and I’ve never been a demonstrative person.”

“But you were doing so well. Then all of a sudden you started acting like a horse who’d been spooked.
Was
it something Rosalia did? Whatever it was, she didn’t mean to. Is there something wrong with those children she wants to visit?”

“It’s nothing to do with them!” Simon snapped. He was tired and aroused and annoyed with himself and Bethan. He knew she would keep on asking and guessing until she pried the truth out of him.

“What
does
it have to do with, then?” she demanded, just as he’d feared she would. “Something else on that list of things you refuse to talk about, I suppose. Your injured leg? Your wife?”

Her question made Simon wince.

Bethan seized upon that slip. “But Rosalia never said a word about her mother.”

When he jammed his lips together in a stubborn barricade, her angry look muted into one of tender sympathy. “I understand if you grieve for your wife still. Young as she is, I know Rosalia would understand too, if you’d just tell her.”

“I don’t grieve for Carlotta—I never did!” The words burst out of Simon, driven by his desperation to keep Bethan from making any more false claims about his marriage. The things she was saying were so far removed from the truth they were almost obscene. “She drowned one night, while trying to board a
tongkang.
She slipped, struck her head and fell into the river. By the time they got her out, it was too late.”

He bit down hard on his tongue to keep from saying more. He prayed Bethan would not ask why Carlotta had been trying to board a boat at night and where he’d been at the time.

Fortunately, her sympathy overcame her curiosity. “I’m sorry, Simon. It must have brought back such awful memories when Rosalia asked to go for a ride in one of those boats. But she had no idea. You must tell her. She needs to know why you acted the way you did so she won’t think she was to blame.”

Simon sprang to his feet. “You tell her, then, if you think she needs to know.”

“It would be better coming from you,” Bethan insisted gently. “You might tell her more about her mother, too—happy things. Rosalia doesn’t have any recollection of her at all. If you think she can’t miss what she doesn’t remember, you’re wrong. The poor child feels as if a part of her is missing.”

Indignant rage blazed through Simon that Bethan dared to suggest such a thing. “I know you mean well, but what you are asking is impossible. Believe me when I tell you, the less Rosalia knows about her mother, the better!”

“Now will you tell me?” Rosalia settled on her bed the next evening, waiting for Bethan to arrange the tent of netting over it for the night. “You promised you would.”

“So I did.” Ignoring the netting for a moment, Bethan sat on the edge of the bed beside her small charge and considered how best to begin.

Her usual blunt speaking simply wouldn’t do to broach this painful subject with such a sensitive child. She would have to choose her words carefully. Rosalia’s
dark, pleading gaze seemed to draw forth the difficult answers she craved.

“It’s like this.” Bethan took the child’s delicate hand in hers. “Sometimes when things happen that make people very sad, they try as hard as they can not to think about them, so they won’t be sad all the time.”

Rosalia’s fine dark brows knit in a looked of puzzled concentration. Clearly she was trying to work out what Bethan meant and how it applied to the recent incident with her father.

She needed an example she could understand, though Bethan feared it might upset her. “I know you must still miss Ah-Sam, though you don’t talk about her much.”

After a moment’s reflection, Rosalia gave a solemn nod.

“If I started talking about all the things you used to do with her,” Bethan continued, “things that
made
you think about her when you didn’t want to, you might run away from me so you wouldn’t have to hear what I was saying.”

The child toyed with the end of her braid.

Bethan rubbed the pad of her thumb over Rosalia’s knuckles. “I know this might be hard for you to believe, but grownups can feel that way, too. Even big, brave men like your papa. The other day, when you said how much you’d like to go for a ride on one of those river boats, it reminded him of something very sad that he didn’t want to think about. That’s why he went away so suddenly.”

“Was he angry?” The child sat bolt upright, very agitated. “I didn’t mean to make him sad.”

“Of course he’s not angry,
cariad
!” Bethan gathered the little girl into a reassuring embrace. “He knows you didn’t mean to.”

“What was the sad thing I made him remember?”

That was the question Bethan had been dreading.

“I’m afraid it will make you sad, too.” She eased Rosalia back on to her pillow. “But it might help you understand some of the things your papa says and does. Are you sure you want to know?”

Her features tensed in an anxious look, the child whispered, “Yes, please.”

“Very well, then.” Bethan stroked her dark, silky hair. “You know your mama went to heaven—that’s another way of saying she died. Some people die because they get very old or very sick. Others have accidents and get hurt so badly that they can’t live. If a person stays under water too long, they can die by drowning. That’s what happened to your mama.”

Rosalia stared up at her with eyes as big as saucers, taking in every word. Fortunately she didn’t seem too upset, perhaps because her mother was a vague, shadowy figure of whom she had no recollection.

As gently as she could, Bethan repeated what Simon had told her of his wife’s drowning. “So you see, when you asked to go for a ride on one of those same boats, it reminded your papa of what happened to her. And perhaps it made him worry about you.”

Rosalia looked doubtful.

Bethan felt drawn to this sensitive little girl far more powerfully than to any of the cheerful, boisterous youngsters she’d cared for in Newcastle. She understood the doubts and sorrows that beset Rosalia’s small heart. And she could not help wanting to heal them, even though it might be beyond her power. “People have different ways of showing how they feel, you know.”

“They do?”

Bethan nodded. “Some people find it hard to show their feelings at all. That doesn’t mean they don’t get just as sad or happy or loving as other people who make a bigger show.” In an encouraging tone, she added. “Do you know anybody like that?”

Slowly one corner of Rosalia’s mouth arched upwards.

“I know somebody like that, too,” said Bethan. “Your papa. He has a hard time showing his feelings because he’s used to keeping them to himself, just like you. But the reason he built this fine house and works so hard to make his fortune is so you can be well cared for and have everything you need. It’s his way of showing how much he loves you.”

What had made her put off this talk until Rosalia’s bedtime? Bethan chided herself. How could she expect the poor child to go to sleep after all she’d heard?

“Would you like me to I sing you a lullaby?” She stretched out beside Rosalia and pulled the bed netting over them both. “I hope you don’t mind if the words are in Welsh. It’s a song my daddy used to sing to me.”

There’d been a time she couldn’t hear this song without weeping, but lately it brought her a kind of wistful comfort. Only in those familiar words could she properly recall the sound of her father’s voice.

Softly she began to sing, all the while continuing to stroke the child’s hair. That repetitive movement and the familiar melody lulled her, letting her thoughts drift in the direction from which she’d struggled to divert them since her conversation with Simon.

What had his wife done to make him want to forget all about her? Whatever it was, she must have hurt him
very badly. Was that what made Ah-Sam work so hard to bring up Rosalia as a well-behaved child who would not dishonour her father? And could it be part of the reason Simon had trouble getting close to the little girl who bore such a strong likeness to her mother?

Rosalia seemed peacefully unaware of the turbulent thoughts racing through Bethan’s mind as she sang the strange soothing words of the lullaby. Or perhaps it was the closeness and a woman’s caring touch that relaxed her. In a very short time, her eyelids drooped and her breath came in slow, easy waves.

Bethan sang softer and softer until her voice died away altogether. Then, grazing her lips across Rosalia’s brow, she whispered, “I believe your papa needs you every bit as much as you need him,
cariad.
I wish for both your sakes I could make him see that.”

With all her heart, she longed to help heal this small family in a way she had been powerless to heal her own.

S
tanding in the hallway outside the nursery, Simon listened as Bethan spoke to Rosalia. A powerful sense of gratitude welled up inside him. If his stepmother had been half as understanding and open-hearted as Bethan Conway, his life might have taken a very different path. Catching himself, Simon roughly dismissed that thought.

He was
not
dissatisfied with his current situation, after all.

He’d come looking for Bethan, to apologise for the way he’d spoken to her last night and for yesterday’s blunder with Rosalia. He owed the child an explanation too, though he wasn’t certain he’d be able to express his feelings in a way she could understand. If he caught a glimpse of reproach in her dark eyes, so like her mother’s, Simon feared he might say or do something to make matters worse.

Overhearing the simple, wise words Bethan used to enlighten and comfort Rosalia, he could not help but
admire her understanding of things that had always puzzled him. How was it that after such a short acquaintance, she seemed to understand him so well, yet did not hold his mistakes against him? His prickly sense of privacy felt threatened by her perceptive insights into his character and feelings, but the neglected child that hid in the deepest recesses of his heart responded to her compassion.

Perhaps she understood him so well because they were more alike than he would ever have imagined. They had both been abandoned in various ways as children, growing up in an atmosphere of disapproval. Later they had known the bitterness of betrayal.

As she began to sing, the lilt of her voice reminded him of the sirens in Homer’s
Odyssey.
Caution warned Simon he should not linger there and risk an encounter with Bethan when his feelings were so confused and dangerously close to the surface. But the mysterious Welsh lyrics of her song seemed to bind him in some kind of enchantment.

He was still standing in the darkened hallway a few minutes later when she emerged from the nursery. At the unexpected sight of him, Bethan jumped back with a startled squeak.

“Forgive me,” Simon whispered, hoping he had not roused disturbing memories from
her
past. “This time, I must admit, I
am
prowling.”

“Are you now?” she asked in a breathless voice. “Why is that, may I ask?”

“I want to apologise for the way I spoke to you last night.” He beckoned her away from nursery door. “I’m not angry with you any more than I am with Rosalia. It
was true what you told her just now…about not wanting to be reminded of painful events from my past.”

He wished he’d never mentioned Carlotta last night. His rancorous outburst was just the sort of thing to whet Bethan’s curiosity and make her hound him with questions he did not want to answer. “Do you think Rosalia can forgive me for the way I acted yesterday? Or have I ruined any chance of becoming the kind of father she needs?”

“Children are willing to give many more chances than you think.” Bethan reached for his hand. “If my father had ever tried to get in touch with me after he left, I wouldn’t have turned him away. Even after all the hurt he caused me, I still wore that locket with his picture in it. I’d give anything to have it back again.”

The locket that had been stolen her first day in Singapore—Simon had almost forgotten it. At the time, he’d doubted her story. Now he regretted his suspicions and wished he’d tried to retrieve it for her. Perhaps, like his efforts to get closer to Rosalia, it was not too late.

He could speak to one of the Chinese merchants about offering a reward for its return. That was the least he could do to atone for misjudging Bethan. He would not mention it to her, though, for he did not want to raise false hopes in case his efforts failed.

Simon sniffed the air. “Dinner smells good and almost ready. Perhaps while we dine you can give me some suggestions about how I might make up to Rosalia for yesterday. I have been working on my smile, though I fear it looks rather gruesome when I try to force it.”

His wry quip made Bethan laugh and that made Simon smile without any effort at all.

To his relief, she did not ask him a single question about his late wife that whole evening. Instead they talked about Rosalia—little things Bethan had noticed about the child, suggestions for things Simon might do to bring them closer. “You need to do things
with
her, things that you can talk about together without feeling forced and tongue-tied.”

Simon gave a rueful nod. “That is exactly how I feel when I try to talk to her.”

“I meant Rosalia.” Bethan grinned. “But I don’t wonder you both feel the same way about it. Though she doesn’t look like you at all, everything else about her reminds me of you. The way her smile comes and goes so quickly, but lights up the whole room for that instant. The way she tries so hard to keep her troubles to herself. The way she wants so badly to do what’s right.”

Her words touched Simon more than he could begin to tell her, soothing poisonous doubts about his daughter’s paternity that had long haunted him. Gradually, he became aware of a sensation in his chest that was unfamiliar, but not unpleasant. It reminded him of half-forgotten details from his boyhood in Lancashire, like the prickling of icy toes, as they warmed in front of a cheerfully crackling fire. Or frostbitten fingers wrapped around a steaming mug of mulled cider. Could it be that his heart was beginning to thaw?

He wasn’t certain that was something he wanted to risk, now especially. There were benefits to remaining frozen. Frozen flesh was numb to pain. Frozen ground
was hard to break, yielding only with great difficulty to the prying picks and shovels that sought to unearth the secrets buried deep within it.

In spite of all that, Simon found himself tempted to escape the perpetual winter that had held his heart in its protective, stifling grip for so long.

Getting to know Simon’s daughter was helping her understand
him
a great deal better, Bethan realised as they talked about Rosalia over dinner. It was also making the prospect of marrying him much more appealing.

The mention of her stolen locket made her realise how little progress she’d made towards finding out what had become of her brother. Such a bewildering number of ships had been through Singapore in the past three years, she wondered if anyone here would remember the Dauntless, let alone one young crewman. She’d been a fool to think she could accomplish such a task. Almost as daft was her belief that finding Hugh would somehow restore her family. The chance to do that had been lost long ago. Had she persuaded herself it was possible so she would not feel completely abandoned in a big, uncaring world?

Whatever the reason, she was not sorry she’d tried. The search for her brother had led to Simon and Rosalia—a family who needed her to make it whole. With them, she had a chance to create a new family and to gain the kind of comfort and security she’d never known.

“Thank you for telling Rosalia about her mother,” said Simon as they headed toward their bedrooms at the end of the evening. “If my daughter does give me another chance, I shall have you to thank for it.”

It occurred to Bethan that this was the first time she’d heard him refer to Rosalia as
his daughter.
Until now he’d always called her by name or said
the child.
This had to be a good sign for the future.

“I am not accustomed to being understood so well.” His murmured words sounded like the sweetest endearment. “It is rather disturbing…yet strangely comforting, too. You’ve come to know me better in a few short weeks than anyone else has in years and years.”

Some people might think it strange to call being understood
disturbing
, but Bethan thought she knew what Simon meant. Understanding might mean prying into all those forbidden subjects he did not want to be reminded of. She had bitten her tongue more than once this evening to keep from mentioning Rosalia’s mother, though her curiosity was like a bedevilling itch. In a way she was relieved to discover Simon had not adored his late wife so much that he had no room in his heart for a new love.

She smiled up at him. “That’s the second nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me. You’re not an easy man to understand, Simon—there are so many different sides to you. Just when I think I’ve seen them all, another one surprises me. Parts of you I understand because they’re a lot like me. But in other ways, we’re as different as can be.”

“That’s not such a bad thing, is it?” He leaned towards her. “Some likenesses as a basis for compatibility, some differences to add a little zest.”

Bethan hoped he wouldn’t rush away without kissing her, as he had on the night of the storm. Her body responded to his nearness in a way that had become familiar in the past two weeks. Her pulse speeded up
and her breathing with it. A mysterious heat hummed through her flesh while her skin became sensitive to the slightest touch. Now that she knew Simon better, Bethan did not fight to subdue those sensations. She was curious to discover where they might lead.

If only she had more experience with men, she might know how to send him a signal that she wanted to feel his arms around her again and taste his kisses. The best she could manage was to gaze up at him through the fringe of her lashes and whisper, “You make it sound very nice, indeed.”

Then she held herself as still as possible, not wanting to make any move that might discourage his attentions.

It worked.

He bent a little lower, tilted his head and slowly approached until his lips came to rest against hers. Their touch was so mild, Bethan wondered if he was as worried as she about making the wrong move. She savoured the smooth, restrained warmth of his kiss, trying to be content with it when part of her was greedy for more.

Her patience was soon rewarded when Simon raised his hands to caress her shoulders. Many times in the past fortnight she’d caught herself admiring his large, powerful hands. Now the deft strength of his touch encouraged her to part her lips and invite his kiss deeper. The hot, slick caress of his tongue carried the mellow sweetness of coconut, from the little cakes they’d eaten to finish off their dinner. It fed a different kind of hunger that had gnawed at her for days.

Dizzy with desire, she raised her hands to grip
his
shoulders. Their broad strength helped steady her. Then
one of his hands strayed upwards to entangle itself in her hair. The other skimmed down to fondle her breast. His thumb rubbed over the nipple, making it harden and push out against her bodice. Every stroke sent ripples of delight lapping through her. A soft purr of pleasure rolled in the back of her throat as she clasped Simon around the neck and melted against him.

Then suddenly he wrenched his lips away from hers and pushed her away. “Forgive me, Bethan! I promised I would control myself and not do anything to frighten you or bring back distressing memories.”

Frighten her? What sort of timid mouse did he think she was to be frightened of a kiss? And what
distressing memories
was he talking about? Had the heat of passion addled his wits?

Before she could master her voice to ask, he continued, “I want you so much I got carried away. But I swear I will never press my attentions upon you against your will. I only want to bring you pleasure. Your previous experience may have made you doubt that is possible. But with the right man, I assure you it is.”

Her previous experience? Could this be what he’d meant by those baffling words after their kiss on Government Hill, when she’d thought he was talking about her brother?

“It’s all right, Simon. You didn’t frighten me. I like the way you kiss.” She gave a nervous trill of laughter, hoping he wouldn’t think her next suggestion too forward. “In fact, I wouldn’t mind going on from where we just left off.”

In the long, uneasy silence that followed, she wondered if Simon disapproved of her brazen offer?

“I cannot deny I am sorely tempted.” A shudder ran through him. “But I do not trust myself at the moment. I will wait until you are prepared to take that
big step.
”

With a sudden movement, he thrust his bedroom door open and marched over the threshold. “Goodnight. Sleep well.”

Bethan had no time to protest before his door swung shut, leaving her out alone in the hallway. After a few moments waiting in the hope that he might change his mind, she gave up and went to bed. Puzzled and consumed with yearning, she doubted she would sleep at all that night, let alone
well.

His barely controlled ardour had not frightened Bethan. Simon considered that hopeful notion the next day as he returned home early. She’d claimed to like it and what he could recall of her response led him to believe her. Or was it only his longing for it to be true that persuaded him?

No, it was more than that. She’d invited him to keep on, after all, even when he’d made it clear that his self-control was tenuous at best. Did she know him well enough to sense he was a far more honourable man than the one who’d taken her innocence by force? Did she trust that no matter how deep the powerful current of passion carried him he would not let it sweep them into dangerous waters? If that was the case, she trusted him far more than he trusted himself.

Her lack of fear boded well for the future, though. It gave him hope that she would soon be ready to become his mistress.

To prepare for that, he’d spent part of the day trying
to find a suitable woman to help her care for Rosalia. He’d also called on one of the Chinese merchants he knew well and asked the man’s help to recover Bethan’s stolen locket. They agreed that a reward should be offered and no charges brought against whoever turned in the stolen property. Though that chafed against Simon’s rigorous sense of justice, he was prepared to make allowances for Bethan’s sake.

Looking back over his day, Simon realised he had spent very little time attending to business matters. Yet trade at Vindicara had gone on as usual with no catastrophes. That encouraged him to head home early, hoping he might spend some time with Rosalia.

When he arrived home, Simon peeked into the nursery, only to find it empty. His disappointment eased when he heard the sweet harmony of feminine laughter rising from the garden. A moment later, he stole up behind Bethan and Rosalia, eager to share in their cheerful company without casting a shadow upon it.