Читать книгу A Wedding By Dawn - Alison DeLaine - Страница 10
ОглавлениеTHE ONLY THING truly clear to Nick was that it would be a short leap from marrying Lady India to being committed to an asylum.
“I suppose you’ve brought my things from the ship,” she said. Sixty seconds. Possibly less. That was all it took for her to ignore his warning.
Not for the first time since embarking on this hellish voyage, Nick wondered if there might not have been an easier way to get his hands on fifty thousand pounds.
They rounded a corner, and the inn came blessedly into view. He didn’t give a bloody damn about her things. His jaw hurt, his eye throbbed and the by-blow from her pistol had singed one of his fingers—all of which meant little compared to the real problem.
“Well, I can’t imagine how you expect me to prepare for my wedding without my things, Mr. Warre,” she scolded. “Or to travel, which raises another question. How, precisely, do you plan to convey me back to England? By ship, I hope. The roads on the Continent are devilish rutted. Auntie Phil and I took weeks upon weeks to travel to Venice, but of course that was years ago. Oh, I would love to see Venice again. And Vienna. All cities beginning with V, in fact. Perhaps we can—”
“That’s enough.”
“Am I bothering you, Mr. Warre?” she inquired with false concern. “Do accept my apologies. Truly. One does so hate a yammerer. Such a nuisance. Of all the qualities one might find in a person, I daresay chattering has got to be the least—”
“Silence.” He pushed her inside the inn, ignored the frowning concierge, hauled her upstairs by the arm and managed to drag her into his room.
“Well, since you hadn’t the foresight to collect my things—” Good God, he would have to gag her “—we shall simply have to return to the Possession.”
He went to the pockmarked bureau. “By all means, let us proceed there directly.” The looking glass in this third-rate inn was so shoddy it was good for little more than guessing where the blood was as he inspected the damage from the bar brawl.
“Sarcasm is an ugly thing, Mr. Warre. Everyone says so. You really ought to be more sincere, if not for me then for the sake of your soul, because—”
“Lady India,” he said sharply, and turned on his heel to face her. She observed him craftily with eyes better suited to a courtesan. “For the sake of your soul—” he pointed at the fraying sitting suite behind her “—sit.”
There was a beat. A little twitch at the corner of her too-full lips. And then she turned away and sprawled herself in a shabby velvet armchair like a man, except there wasn’t one bloody thing masculine about her—a fact his hands were having difficulty forgetting.
“I wish he’d broken your nose,” she said, staring him directly in the eye.
“A charming sentiment.” He turned back to the glass. He’d lost his peruke in the tavern, and his hair—too long for the damned thing anyhow after nearly five weeks aboard that godawful ship—lay in a mess of near-black waves. He’d have a black eye by morning. That, a bloody lip and sore ribs were the perfect cap to an endless bout of seasickness.
No. No, the perfect cap was sitting in an armchair behind him, observing him disdainfully.
He checked his pocket watch. Where the hell was Jaxbury?
“You did not succeed in ruining Katherine’s life to pay your debts,” she told him haughtily, swinging a small foot back and forth, “so you’ve decided to ruin mine. You will not succeed.”
Ruining Katherine’s— Of course. Lady India was loyal to her former captain, and apparently the fact that Katherine was now Nick’s sister-in-law carried little weight. But Lady India would not want to hear that ruining Katherine Kinloch’s life had never been his objective, and that sometimes one pursued options in one’s desperation that one would never consider otherwise.
Such as agreeing to pursue a young hellion and force her into marriage.
“Your life is already ruined,” he told her.
“It isn’t.”
Yes, it is. No, it isn’t. There was no doubt Lady India would be able to keep up that conversation for the better part of an hour.
In the glass he watched her rise from the chair and approach him. She had the kind of shapely mouth that could earn a fortune doing unspeakable things at Covent Garden.
He refused to think of what Lady India might do with that mouth. Leave a man singing two octaves higher, most likely.
“My life isn’t ruined, of course,” she said conversationally, “but my body—well, that is another matter entirely. I regret to inform you, Mr. Warre, that I am not a virgin.” She put a hand to her belly. “At this moment, I could well be carrying a child. An Egyptian child, if you must know, although strictly speaking I suppose Ottoman is the better—no. No, in truth he was from Tunisia, I think, so if one wants to be strictly factual—”
“And I do, Lady India. I do wish to be strictly factual. Which is why I must remind you that less than an hour ago you spoke of giving your virtue to a sailor.”
Her mouth curved in a bemused smile. “I really don’t consider anything properly done until it’s been accomplished a minimum of three times, so—being strictly factual now, mind you—tonight would have marked the final demise of my virtue. I was referring to the coup de grâce. The triple cut, one might say.”
My daughter is a wild harridan, Cantwell had said. The man had a talent for understatement.
“Well, then.” He dropped the cloth in the basin and turned toward her. “You won’t mind if I have a taste of what I may look forward to once we’ve celebrated our nuptials.”
The quick apprehension in her eyes told him everything he needed to know about whether she might be carrying a Tunisian sailor’s illegitimate child.
Those eyes were blue—real blue, not gray-blue like Clarissa’s. Nor was her hair the pale, flaxen shade of Clarissa’s. It was pure honey, alive with ten shades of gold.
Desire ripped through him. Devil take him, he was an idiot.
But those eyes had taken on a decidedly less bold light, so he let his lip curve. “Not so adventurous as you claim, I see.”
She laughed, and it transformed her face in a way that wasn’t helpful at all. “My, Mr. Warre, you do think highly of yourself. You’ve already seen my taste in men. You’re hardly exotic, and much too old. I could never bring myself to bed someone so ancient.”
Fifty thousand pounds. Cantwell suffered from a severely overinflated view of his daughter’s worth. Or, depending where one stood, a severely underinflated one. “Indeed. God knows how I manage to stay upright with thirty-four years behind me.”
“Thirty-four!”
“Fortunately, our relations will be more of the lying-down variety.”
“Thirty-four?”
“Shocking, isn’t it?”
“Ought you to remain standing? You mustn’t tax yourself on my account.” She gestured toward the sitting suite. “Please, do be seated.”
“I find that I am particularly fit for my age,” he said drily. If only someone were transcribing this priceless conversation. “As for exotic, if you like, I shall wear a turban when I ‘bed’ you.” He regretted the words the moment they left his tongue.
“What a generous offer, Mr. Warre. But I worry about engaging in anything so vigorous as bedding with a man of your age. My Auntie Phil once spoke of a Lord Garth who dropped stone dead in the middle of—”
“Lord Garth was two and eighty.” Something like a laugh escaped him, and he went to his portmanteau because it was too easy to imagine her splayed across that bed, and his dropping dead would not be part of the entertainment. Good God. Lady India’s Auntie Phil, the young and widowed Lady Pennington, should have a care what she discussed with impressionable minds.
“Regardless, one can’t be too careful when one gets up in one’s years,” she said. “I would hate for anything to befall you.”
His hands itched to open the door and toss her out. Let her go back to her stolen ship and her lusty sailors. Let Jaxbury deal with her, while Nick finally, blessedly got some sleep after the hellish weeks of sea travel.
But he was in too deep to turn back. Holliswell had granted him time to pursue Lady India and collect the money from her father, yes. But if Nick did not succeed by their agreed-upon date, Holliswell would take ownership of Taggart. It was either marry Lady India or lose Taggart.
And he’d be damned before he’d lose Taggart.
“I assure you I shall take the utmost care,” he told her. “At least we may content ourselves that the marriage will be short, as I have one foot in the grave already.”
“There will be no—”
“Marriage. Yes, I understand your position thoroughly. Unfortunately, you’ve got no say in the matter.”
“You cannot force me to say the vows,” she informed him.
With the right priest and enough money, she could recite bawdy tavern songs for all he cared. “I have a signed contract and assurances from your father that I may do whatever is necessary to carry it out.” He pulled Cantwell’s contract from inside his waistcoat and unfolded it. “You may read the contract if you like, but you will understand if I hold it for you while you do. I would hate for anything to happen to it.”
She wrinkled that shapely little nose that would have been perfect were it not dusted with a handful of freckles. “That contract means nothing to me.”
“Perhaps that will change when you read it.”
“I don’t need to read it, because I shan’t be agreeing to its terms.”
“Then it’s a good thing its terms don’t require your agreement,” he said, and tucked the contract away. Once again he checked his watch. For God’s sake, Jaxbury— Perhaps the man had gone to the church instead of coming back here.
He looked at Lady India.
She narrowed her eyes at him. “I will make you regret the hour you decided I was the answer to your problems, Mr. Warre.”
“Believe me when I say you already have.” Did he dare drag her through the streets again in the hope Jaxbury would be waiting at the church? He glanced irritably at the door. There wasn’t much choice. “I’ve waited long enough. Let us be off.”
“Off.” A spark of fear lit her eyes. “Where?”
“To see this business finished.” He walked toward her, and she backed away.
“We scarcely know each other, Mr. Warre. Certainly it would benefit us both if we had the opportunity to become better acquainted. For instance, how deeply in debt you are to a certain Mr. Holliswell.”
“I have all the information I require. And you may ask me anything you like on the way to the church.”
“You’re free to change your mind, you know.” He watched her struggle valiantly for composure. “Nobody would think less of you if you allowed me to escape. You could salvage your pride by saying how grateful you are that I did escape, as you realized your ill fortune the moment you set eyes upon me.”
For a moment she looked so young and frightened he almost felt sorry for her.
But she wasn’t an object to be pitied. She was a hoyden and a pirate and much too comfortable with a pistol.
“I realized my ill fortune long before that. But I have no intention of allowing you to escape.” He smiled tightly. “You, Lady India, are as good as a bank draft to me. And you can imagine how well I would safeguard one of those.”
* * *
IF IT WEREN’T for Nicholas Warre safeguarding her by the arm as he dragged her once again down the street, India wasn’t sure she’d be able to stand. Her knees trembled violently as she frantically tried to think of a way to stop him.
“This is not at all how I envisioned my wedding day,” she told him as they closed in on the shadowed hulk of a church at the end of the street. “Surely we have time to find some flowers. Or a gown—you can’t possibly imagine I could marry without a new gown. It’s a disgrace to both of us, and only imagine what the guests will think.”
He didn’t even bother to tell her to be quiet. She didn’t dare glance at his face and risk meeting those eyes, not after the way he’d—
She exhaled. After the way he’d looked at her. At the inn.
She’d come very close to pushing things too far. But now every step over the uneven cobblestones brought him closer to victory, while bringing her closer to—
“Devil!” She stopped short.
“Keep walking.”
“A moment—”
“Understand me well, Lady India,” he practically growled into her ear. “I’ll not fall for your tricks. You may either walk the rest of the way, or I shall carry you.”
“It seems only appropriate that you do carry me,” she managed, “being as this is our wedding day. One does expect one’s wedding to be romantic, and one does so bemoan the lack of chivalry displayed by the modern male in general. Although the older generations do seem to have a better grasp of the concept, so I suppose I may expect more from you than I might otherwise. Indeed, if I weren’t afraid you might come to harm I would insist that you carry me.”
He ignored her and kept walking, while she tried to slow their progress by taking the tiniest steps she could. If only he and William had arrived tomorrow, at this moment she would have been becoming intimately acquainted with that Egyptian sailor, and her tale of lost virtue would be fact and not fiction and Nicholas Warre would not want her as his wife.
They passed a narrow alley, a street that led to the harbor, another that led into shadows. Where had William taken Millie? There had to be an escape. It could not end this way—him forcing her into marriage, dragging her back to England, locking her away—
Oh, God. Her legs buckled, and cobblestones bit into her knees.
“Stand. Up.”
“I will. I certainly will. Only give me a moment—”
He didn’t. Instead, he hauled her to her feet and hooked her around the shoulders— “Wait!” But it was too late, and she struggled uselessly in arms that disproved her assertions of his frailty.
“Your antics will get you nothing but imprisonment under lock and key,” he told her sharply. “Where you will remain until you—”
Stop behaving like a spoiled child.
“—stop behaving like a spoiled child.”
Panic made a grab for her lungs. He was exactly like Father. Exactly. And why shouldn’t he be? Hadn’t Father been the one to choose him? Breathe. Breathe. But when she did, there were only lungfuls of him—that expensive cologne emanating off warm, male skin that badly needed a shave.
“Oh, Mr. Warre,” she managed, resting her cheek against his shoulder, “what a romantic you are.” She pressed a palm against that same stony chest she’d been unable to budge in the alleyway. Beneath her hand, his muscles flinched.
Pain?
“I do hope you’re not so battered from your tavern brawl that it hurts you to carry me.” She shifted a little, curled one arm around his back, slid the other higher on his chest and squeezed. She felt his fingers splay across the side of her thigh. “Not at all, Lady India.”
Her breath caught, and she snatched her hand away from his chest.
Now the church loomed just ahead, and she could make out William and—thank heavens—Millie, standing by the door.
If she were going to escape, she would have to think—think! Could they really be married if she refused to say the words? She could appeal to William’s conscience. Behave calmly inside the church, waiting for any kind of opportunity.
There was still hope.
That hope died when she saw William’s battered face. His turban was gone, and even in the shadow of night she could see his left eye was dark red. He had one hand locked around Millie’s arm. “God’s blood, you’re a thrice-over fool,” he said to India. “We could have been killed.”
“Open the door,” Nicholas Warre bit out at William, and transported India across the threshold. Inside the cavernous sanctuary, he deposited her on a pew near the front.
“India...?” Millie’s anguished tone said she feared the worst—that Nicholas Warre had pressed his advantage since leaving the tavern.
“I’m all right, Millie. My dearest betrothed has been most solicitous, haven’t you, darling?” Nicholas Warre wasn’t paying any attention. He was scowling toward the front of the church looking for a priest. India sat up and looked dreamily around the shadowed church. “It’s lovely. Everything I always hoped my wedding would be. Isn’t it perfect, Millie?”
She waited for Millie to tell William to go to the devil, to unhand her, but Millie only stood woodenly in his grasp, gripping and regripping her own wrist. And now India was too aware of William’s hold on Millie’s arm, the possibility that he might be angry enough to thoughtlessly hurt Millie even knowing what she’d suffered in London. He would show no mercy—they may have been shipmates once, but Katherine was William’s closest friend in the world, and he would not easily forgive India and Millie for taking her ship.
She looked pointedly at his hand on Millie’s arm. “I am the bride, William—at least allow Millie to attend me.”
William didn’t budge.
Millie’s eyes darted about the church for a possible means of escape, already dulled with the conclusion that there would be none.
India dragged in a breath. “So far this day has been everything a wedding day should be. In fact, even had I dreamed it I could never have hoped for something this unsurpassed in beauty and...” Nicholas Warre stalked off toward the church’s recesses. “And splendor.”
She tried to stop herself from shaking, but her whole body trembled. Millie’s silent conclusion was correct: there was no chance for escape now. Nicholas Warre would offer the priest money, and they would be wed in a sham ceremony. And then they would return to that inn—
“William,” she hissed the moment Mr. Warre was out of earshot, standing up, abandoning all pretense. “You cannot possibly be a party to this. After what he did to Katherine? Do I mean nothing to you at all?” The dark tomblike church swallowed her plea. It was deathly quiet, with the eerie flicker of candles sputtering in small banks next to a dozen shrines.
William forced Millie onto the pew. “At least he tried to take from Katherine in broad daylight—unlike the two of you, who sneaked away under cover of night.”
“She wasn’t using the ship.”
“That didn’t make it yours to steal,” he bit out.
“At least give us a fair hearing!”
“The kind of hearing you’d receive if I hauled you back to England and accused you of piracy? You’d be hanged.” William may have laughed in the tavern—William always laughed—but he wasn’t laughing now, which was worse than anything he could have done. “You have a fine way of showing your thanks to Katherine. Would have expected more loyalty from you, under the circumstances.” He looked at Millie. “Especially you.”
Millie stared up at him, still working her fingers mechanically around her wrist. “I won’t return to England,” she said. “I can’t. You know I can’t.”
“Millie and I apologize about the tavern,” India said, more desperately now. From somewhere in the dark recesses of the church came the sound of Nicholas Warre knocking on doors and calling out. “Don’t we, Millie. We never meant to put you in danger. And we know taking the ship was wrong—” depending on one’s point of view “—but you’ve secured it once more—” unless she and Millie could somehow find their way back on board “—and this goes too far. You can’t possibly approve of this marriage, William. You can’t possibly. And it can’t be what my father intended.” But it could be, and it probably was.
What she wouldn’t give to know what that contract said. If only she weren’t such a muttonhead. If only those books in the Possession’s great cabin had done her any good. But she was, and they hadn’t. Some people were easy to fool—Nicholas Warre would not be. She would have pretended to read the contract, understanding nothing, and he would have understood very clearly how stupid she was.
“Past time someone took you in hand,” William said. “Daresay Warre is better than having the crows peck the rotting flesh from your bones at the mouth of the Thames.”
“You would never allow that.”
“Not here on my own behalf, and the law is the law.”
For a split second the image of a stinking, crowded room at Marshalsea paralyzed her lungs. “I won’t say the vows,” she warned, trembling harder now.
“You’ll say them, or you’ll suffer the consequences.”
“Dear God—” Millie made a sudden dive to exit the pew, but William caught her by the shoulder.
“Sit.”
“I’d rather you kill me now than return me to England,” Millie seethed at him.
“And I shall kill Nicholas Warre if you do not stop this wedding,” India warned. From the back of the church there was another knock, another call. “You know I shall.” She would not be taken to England and locked away again—not in prison, and not by Nicholas Warre.
“You’re a pair of fools,” William barked. “Millicent—” He struggled against her. “Enough.”
Millie kicked him. “Let go of me.”
India scooted out of the pew. William snatched her arm but imperiled his grip on Millie. “Warre!” he shouted.
Almost immediately Nicholas Warre was there, pulling her away from William, who now held a wild, struggling Millie by both arms. “Where’s the bloody priest?” William barked.
“There’s nobody here.”
“Got to be. Devil take it—” He turned Millie’s arms behind her back and held her head down, immobilizing her.
“Let me go!” Millie shrieked.
“William, you’re hurting her,” India cried.
“I’m not bloody hurting her.”
“Anyone would have heard us long before now,” Nicholas Warre said, holding India tightly against his body. “There are other churches—”
“Can’t drag this one through the streets like this. I’ve got to get her to the ship.”
“I’ve got my bag at the inn, and I’ll be damned before I’ll leave this island unwed,” Nicholas Warre snapped.
“Listen here,” William said. “I’m— Millicent, cease!” He adjusted his grip on her. “I’m taking this one to the ship. You want to be wed? Then stay and take care of the bloody business yourself.”
