When I'm with You (4 page)

Marchand's forehead creased and he rubbed it, as if smoothing the lines would smooth away the worries causing them. “I only hope it won't pose a problem for Sally. It will be even colder in New York. And if the weather turns ugly, you could be snowed in there for a while.”

Rafe stilled his fingers, looking from the Earl to his father and back. He hadn't considered that possibility. The thought of being stranded in New York didn't trouble him, but the very idea of being trapped there with only Sally and her maid for company made him feel decidedly ill. There was no way he'd survive with his sanity intact. “And when am I to make this voyage?”

“By the end of the month. I need the new ship as well as the shipment to arrive no later than the beginning of March. But you needn't worry. My staff will have everything ready for the wedding on a moment's notice. Good people, they are. Good people, indeed.”

A wedding on a moment's notice. Although he didn't much care for brandy, Rafe grabbed his glass and threw it down in one gulp, ignoring both the look of horror on his father's face and the sudden inferno raging in his belly. He needed the drink almost as much as he needed air. Quite possibly more than he needed air. Sweat prickled across his upper lip, and he held back a choking cough. “You expect a wedding
before
I go? A wedding on the shortest of notice?”

Marchand nodded, the motion rippling through his pudgy cheeks like waves across the ocean's surface. “Well, of course. I certainly can't have you and my daughter sailing off together in sin!” He practically exploded with raucous laughter, slapping both hands against the table. “What sort of talk would
that
bring about?”

It was on the tip of Rafe's tongue to tell Marchand exactly what he thought of the entire situation.

Papi
looked as uncomfortable as Rafe felt. He held up one hand before Rafe could protest, and said, “We haven't really discussed this, Marchand. I'm not entirely convinced this marriage would be a good one, as Rafe is having second thoughts. I'm afraid I will not force my son into marriage if he isn't willing.”

It was as if all the light in Marchand's face faded, and his eyes narrowed. “Force him? Half of Bermuda's young bucks would offer their right arm in exchange for my daughter's hand.” His glare turned even frostier as it fell on Rafe. “Are you saying you
don't
want to ask for it?”

Marchand obviously couldn't comprehend that someone wouldn't want to marry Sally, but if the Earl thought he could intimidate Rafe, he was wrong. Rafe was not so easily manipulated and wasn't about to cede control. “I've given marriage very little thought, your Lordship. My life isn't the most suitable for a wife. I'm away from home more often than I'm there.”

Rafe reached for the brandy decanter, and didn't care if
Papi
kicked him again. Didn't care if
Papi
kicked a hole clear through his leg. The fireball was little more than an ember now, his upper lip had dried, but if he didn't take another drink, he might say something he'd regret. Of course, if he
did
take another drink, he might say something he'd regret. Decisions. Decisions. To hell with it. He wanted the damn drink.

The Earl's jaw tightened. “So you stay on dry land. You won't be able to inherit the English property or the title, as those will go to my cousin in London. But I will see to it that you are taken care of. And Sally would probably fare better right here. This is her home. I've seen to it that Egg—that is, Edna—and her husband will inherit my Virginia property in the Colonies, and Sally will inherit this house, which will pass to her son.”

“And I should be happy, be content to be supported by you, you mean.” Rafe shook his head as he brought the glass to his lips. The heady perfume stung his nostrils, its rich flavor beckoning to him like a siren. He took a smaller sip this time, to give himself time to organize his words. “I support myself just fine, thank you. I need no charity.”

He braced himself for the sharp burst of pain in his ankle when the Earl's face grew ruddy. “So you are turning my daughter away?”

“I didn't say that.” Rafe set his glass alongside his plate. His pacing seemed to be working. His head stayed clear and his tongue civil. Maybe his leg would even survive this lecture. “But I'm not marrying her in the next fortnight.”

Inigo cleared his throat. The look he shot Rafe was almost as powerful as a swift kick to the shin. “Surely you didn't expect it to happen so soon, Marchand. The two have barely seen each other. It would be foolish to attempt a wedding this quickly. There's plenty of time.”

“Don't be stupid, Sebastiano. They've known each other since they were children. They know each other well enough—more so than many couples.” Marchand snatched the crystal decanter back, clinking it loudly against his glass as he refreshed it. So much for thinking the man had only one mood. There was nothing jovial about him now. “And since Aidrian already decided on a bride—”

Inigo glared. He liked being referred to as stupid as much as any man would, and for a moment Rafe felt sorry for Marchand. His “stupid” would grate on Inigo's nerves, would linger in his mind even if Rafe gave in and married Sally.

Before Inigo could unleash his tongue—which would be good for entertainment purposes, but bad for business—Rafe broke in. “You're forced to rely upon your second choice.” He was unable to keep the bitterness from his voice. “Sorry to disappoint you.”

Now Inigo turned his scowl on his son. “Rafael.” His voice held the low warning note Rafe had heard since childhood. It meant he was about to cross the line, and would regret it. “There is no need for that.”

No need for it. No, there probably wasn't, and he didn't want to be responsible for Marchand taking his business elsewhere. Losing them would be a huge blow to Sebastiano Enterprises, as the Earl was one of their wealthiest clients.

Sebastiano had begun as a shipping company, but over the last few years, they'd also ventured into distilling rum. Some of the finest rum in the world came from the West Indies. At first Marchand had acted as a middleman, but since Sebastiano was a rival of sorts, both the Earl and Inigo had thought it best if they worked with one another instead of against. Now the rum was marketed under the Marchand name as well, which lent it a certain air of distinction and turned a quick profit. It was the ideal solution. Marchand was well-known; the Earl held contracts with a good portion of the European market and had a tight grip on the Royal Colonies as well. Without them, Sebastiano would suffer. Rafe couldn't risk that, no matter how great his distaste for an arranged marriage.

“Perhaps we can discuss a wedding
after
he returns from New York,”
Papi
suggested in an even voice. “There is no harm in waiting.”

Apparently Marchand didn't agree, as the chill remained in his stare. “My daughter wishes to visit New York. Are you suggesting I put her on a ship overrun with men? Without the protection of a husband? When I have a much better solution sitting right here before me?”

Inigo looked from Rafe to Marchand and back. “She could travel with her maid, Rafe. Then everything would be perfectly acceptable.”

Marchand pressed his lips together, then pursed them. “Yes. I suppose that would work. Katie is a competent enough sort. I suppose I could hire a chaperone for Sally as well.”

Rafe held back his groan.
No. Dios mio, this
is
not
happening. The last thing he wanted was to be trapped on a ship—even one the size of the
Eastwind
—with Katie and Sally
and
Lady Edna's fiancé for several weeks. It would be his undoing in more ways than one.

“Why don't you do that?”

He cringed inwardly at his father's suggestion, and actually winced when Marchand nodded.

“I think that could work. I'll put out word tomorrow that I'm in need of a chaperone, and I'll have Mrs. Bates tell Katie. Sally would be much more comfortable having her maid with her as well.” His face split into a smile again, and he aimed it in Rafe's direction. “And then when you return, we can begin to discuss the wedding.”

Rafe wanted to throw up, even as he lifted his glass in the Earl's direction and managed to choke out, “Of course. The wedding.”

Chapter Five

Lady Sally smiled into the looking glass as Katie carefully eased the butterfly from her hair to return to its box. “You had a good evening?” Katie pulled the last pin free, then lifted the comb from the table to work through Sally's hair.

“It was a wonderful evening, Katie.” Lady Sally's voice was as light and airy as a summer breeze, the dreamy quality woven into each syllable. “Every supper should be so wonderful.”

The silver comb flashed in the candlelight as Katie slid it through a glossy curl. “What made it so wonderful?”

Lady Sally's smile widened, grew even more wistful, and her eyes seemed to soften as her gaze met Katie's in the glass. “Captain Sebastiano. We're going to be married, you know.”

Katie smiled, even as a sour taste rose in the back of her mouth. “So soon?” Her words came out as little more than a squeak. She swallowed hard.

“Yes. Most likely shortly after my sister's wedding.” Lady Sally's brows lowered and her mouth pursed, but she nodded, brushing her fingers over her collarbone. “I've known him since we were children, Katie. Our fathers have been associates for years.”

One of the comb's teeth snagged on an unexpected tangle, and she sucked in a sharp breath. “Take care!”

“I beg your pardon, Lady Sally.” Katie scowled at the comb. The dark strands had gotten wrapped about several teeth in a terrible snarl. Gripping a handful of tresses just above the tangle, Katie held firm with that hand and tugged the comb free. Lady Sally flinched but said nothing, and Katie bit the inside of her cheek to keep her swearing at bay as she worked at the knot. She wasn't quite as careful as she should be and twice Lady Sally gasped in pain.

Glaring at Katie in the glass, she reached up to rub the spot on the back of her head. “What is the matter, Katie? You're not usually so rough.”

“Again, I beg your pardon, m'lady. I seem to be all thumbs tonight.” She wound her Ladyship's hair into its nighttime braid and secured it with a dark blue ribbon.

The lady's wrapper lay draped over the foot of her bed, so Katie swept it up and held it for her to wriggle into. Although it was the last thing she felt like talking about, she had the distinct impression that Lady Sally wanted to chat about her future groom. “So, tell me,” she managed in as offhand a voice as she could muster, “when you do think the wedding will be?”

“It will be whenever Egg deems the time to be right. She's the firstborn, and although she's marrying a commoner, there will still be much pomp for their wedding. And then I will have my moment to shine. Younger daughter, younger son—not quite the same fairy tale, but pretty nonetheless.”

A hint of unfamiliar bitterness had crept into her Ladyship's voice, and Katie couldn't help but pat her shoulder. “Any wedding is a fine occasion. None overshadows another.”

“True, I suppose.” Lady Sally slapped her palms against her thighs. “But it would have been nice to have my wedding day when I want it and not have to wait for her to decide first.” She glided away from Katie in a dramatic flutter of ivory silk, going to the window to throw open the shutters. It worked too well, as the ocean breeze tore the shutters from her hands, sending them slamming into the walls. A delicate china lamp was blown off the low chest of drawers, spraying shards as far as the hearth.

The wind practically roared through the room, whipping Lady Sally's wrapper so that it billowed out behind her. The hair Katie had so patiently combed and braided was torn free, the black strands floating about her face like a sinister halo.

Katie lunged to help her before the swinging shutters did serious damage to the walls. The wind made it difficult, and by the time she'd wrestled her shutter closed, her cap had blown off her head to careen across the room, where it wedged beneath the door. She leaned against the shutters, breathing a sigh of relief. “At least only the lamp suffered.”

Lady Sally clawed her hair from where it had wrapped about her face. “Oh, Papa is going to kill me! He brought me that lamp from France.”

“It wasn't your fault, m'lady.” Katie slipped out of her apron and crouched to sweep the broken china into it. She plucked up the shards with careful fingers, not wanting to cut herself and bleed all over everything. “Let me toss this, and then I'll see if I can fix your hair.”

Lady Sally waved her suggestion away. “That isn't necessary, Katie. I can fix it on my own. It's late. Finish cleaning up and then go to bed.”

“Yes, m'lady.” The wind continued to howl outside the windows as Katie picked up as much of the glass as possible. She'd come back with a broom to make certain no small particles remained.

“I'll be back in a few minutes, Lady Sally. I just have to throw these in the rubbish bin and fetch a broom from the cupboard.”

“Of course,” Lady Sally murmured. She'd returned to her own dreamy world, staring into her mirror as if her reflection entranced her.

Katie rolled her eyes as she clunked and clinked her way from Lady Sally's chambers, taking care not to spill any of her apron's contents. She made her way along the darkened corridor and down below.

The kitchen was quiet and dark, and she carefully maneuvered through it to the back door. Mrs. North's chambers were just off the kitchen, and Katie could hear Mr. Jamison still in his office. He hummed quietly behind the door. She wouldn't be scolded for being in the kitchen at this hour, but she still didn't want to have to explain why she was there. She just wanted to finish her chore, put the broom away and the litter in the rubbish bin, and go to bed. The chance was slight, but Martha might still be awake and willing to help her read for a bit before sleep beckoned.

The kitchen door opened without a sound. She propped it open with a rock and made haste in dumping the shards into one of the rubbish bins.

“Katie?” Mr. Jamison's voice cut through the night silence like a scythe, and she nearly jumped out of her skin. The apron slipped from her grasp, disappearing into the dank darkness with a merry tinkle of broken china.

“Oh, bloody—” She bit the inside of her cheek to hold back the rest of the oath.

Her back cracked as she straightened. “Mr. Jamison, forgive me if I disturbed you. I didn't know anyone was out here.”

“You didn't, but what are you doing out here?” He held a stump of a candle on a pewter plate, and the flickering light made him look more imposing than usual. His frock coat was gone, likely hung up in his wardrobe for the night, and his sleeves were rolled to his elbows. It was the first time she'd ever seen his bare arms, and the sight of him in such informal attire made her stare. However, the air of authority still wafted from him like an overpowering perfume. He was stern-faced and grim, his silver hair poking up wildly thanks to the wind, and his dark eyes were sharp beneath heavy black brows. Those brows were lowered now as he looked from her to the rubbish bins.

“Lady Sally accidentally broke a lamp in her room.”

“Was it lit?”

“Thankfully, no. The wind blew open her shutters and took the lamp with it.” She pressed her hand into her right thigh to hold her skirts in place as the wind swirled hard about them. It wouldn't do if they suddenly whipped up and gave Mr. Jamison a surprise. The shock alone might kill him, and the embarrassment would surely kill her. Palm fronds rustled in the darkness, and she winced as sand blew in to sting her face and neck.

Cupping his hand about the dancing flame, Mr. Jamison said, “Come inside now. Be sure to tell Mrs. Bates you've lost another apron.”

Heat crept into her cheeks. Mrs. Bates would not be pleased to hear that. Katie seemed to have a special talent for ruining aprons. The last one had suffered a large burn from a too-close encounter with a drawing room candle. Fortunately, it had been the only casualty, as she'd managed to put it out before her entire dress went up in flames. Before that, she had got a little too close to Lucy, Mrs. North's helper, and had ended up with a kitchen knife pinning her apron to the table. She didn't relish telling Mrs. Bates she needed yet another apron. “I will, Mr. Jamison.”

He held open the door for her, and she ducked by, bidding him a good evening as she hurried back toward the servants' staircase. She didn't know why, but it seemed he watched her with more intensity than he did any of the other maids, and she thought she felt his gaze on her back, between her shoulder blades, as she left the kitchen. She paused in the corridor between the kitchen and Mrs. North's chambers, and a damp chill wrapped around her like a musty shroud. She cast a nervous glance over her shoulder.

The candlelight was dimmer, a floorboard creaked, and Mr. Jamison began humming once more. No. He wasn't watching her this time. It was her imagination playing tricks on her. He couldn't possibly know the truth about what she'd been in Jamaica. He'd lived in England with the Hamiltons before coming to Bermuda. As far as she knew, he had never even heard of Kingston.

No one knew what she had done there, or how she had forged her references to give her the chance at being in service in a house like Marchand Hall.

When she returned to her room, she found Martha readying herself for bed. Like Lady Sally, she wore a dreamy expression.

Katie smiled as she closed the door. She knew the reason for that look. “I see you managed to find time to sneak off with Robert.”

Martha was all smiles as she flopped down on her narrow bed in a cloud of staid linen. “For a few minutes. In the pantry. We had to be quick because Mr. Jamison was lurking about. Neither of us wanted to be caught by him, of all people. I think I'd die from the embarrassment.”

“Is he going to ask you to marry him or not?” Katie reached up to undo the small cloth-covered buttons at the top of her dress. No matter how hard she tried, there was always one button she couldn't reach. “Help me?”

“Of course.” Martha rose, and a slight chill bit into Katie as the row of buttons opened and the night air touched her skin. “And yes, Miss Nosy,” Martha added with a laugh, “he is going to ask me. As a matter of fact, he did so right there in the pantry.”

Katie spun about to find Martha beaming at her, and she caught her by the hands. “Did he? And you said yes, didn't you?”

“I said yes.”

“Oh, how wonderful!” Without thinking, she threw her arms about Martha. “I'm so happy for you.”

“Robert already spoke to his Lordship, who offered to help us find a cottage in the village, so we can both keep our positions here.” Martha stepped back and her smile faded. “Although it will mean that you and I won't be sharing a room any longer.”

“You aren't going to worry about that now, are you? And it isn't as if we won't still be working together every day.” Although she was genuinely happy for Martha, Katie still felt an uncomfortable, albeit familiar, pang. Jealousy. Everyone around her was marrying, and there she was, the lone hand clapping. Or trying to clap, anyway.

At the same time, she couldn't begrudge Martha her happiness, any more than she could have begrudged Vanessa hers when she'd married Aidrian. It was wonderful to see the glow that being in love brought to her friends' faces. Besides, she hadn't entirely given up hope that her own face would one day glow just as brilliantly, even when the likelihood seemed to lessen each day. She couldn't give up that hope. Not just yet.

“But still…” Martha grasped her quilt and sheets to draw them down. “I'd like to find you someone as well. I think a man would consider himself lucky to have you for a wife.”

“I don't know about that.” Katie turned, trying not to scoff at the notion of being considered acceptable. Martha should only know how impossible that was. “Unlace me?”

Martha chattered as she loosened the laces. “Why not? You're kind and sweet, and would take wonderful care of a house and children, never mind a good man. And like I said, any man would consider himself lucky to have you, Katie. What about Marcus?”

“The footman?” Katie didn't mean to wrinkle her nose. It just seemed to do it on its own. “I don't think so. He's a bit…
odd
.”

“How so? I mean, aside from the fact that his eyes are a bit lopsided.”

“He doesn't say much.”

“Well, neither do you and no one thinks
you're
odd. But then again, your eyes aren't lopsided, are they? There!” Martha loosened the last inch of lace and the corset opened. For the first time since daybreak, Katie was able to draw in a deep breath, and her head spun from the sudden rush of air.

She stumbled, but caught herself as well as the corset, tossing the latter onto the straight-backed chair next to the simple washstand. The servants' quarters at Marchand Hall were nice by most standards, but still sparse. The furnishings were plain and sturdy, and a bit battered from years of use.

They lived two to a room—two beds, two small tables, a chair for each of them, the screen, and two washstands. Her bed was the one nearest the door, narrow and as spare as the rest of the room. The linens were white, the quilt a faded shade of blue that had probably been a bright royal at one time. Still, they were soft sheets, much softer than Katie had been used to in Jamaica, where her existence had given new meaning to the word “meager”.

However, they were
not
as soft as the sheets upon which she'd slept in the captain's cabin aboard the
Eastwind
. Those were by far the most luxurious sheets she'd ever felt.

Stop it.

Martha slid beneath the covers and snuggled into her pillow. “So what is so odd about him?”

“It isn't something I can put my finger on. He's just…
odd
.” Katie hung her dress in the unadorned wardrobe, whisked her cap from her head and tossed it atop the corset on the chair. “And it's more than just lopsided eyes. He just seems a little…off.”