Читать книгу Regency Christmas Gifts: Scarlet Ribbons / Christmas Promise / A Little Christmas - Lyn Stone - Страница 11

A full week passed and Amalie figured they had all endured enough of Hilda MacTavish’s ill humor. When she was not hovering over young David like a wolf bitch with only one cub, she busied herself flinging ill-disguised accusations at Napier and making snide reference to Amalie’s uselessness.

Napier needed a flogging for allowing the woman to carry on so. Where was the spirit he’d shown when he first came? Where was that humor with which he turned insults aside and made their speaker feel foolish? It was still within him, that was for certain, and neatly employed when the barbs came from her own mouth.

She supposed it fell to her to set the woman to rights. Finally, she found Mrs. MacTavish alone in the parlor embroidering whilst Michael had David outdoors, visiting the stables.

Amalie wheeled herself into the parlor, stopping when the edge of the plush Turkey carpet prevented her getting any nearer. Hilda wore unrelieved black as she always did, a color that in no way flattered her seamless complexion or the honeyed tint of her whitening hair. She was not so old as she tried to seem, probably only forty-five or thereabout. Amalie decided on flattery and distraction as the best approach.

“A word with you, Mrs. MacTavish?” she asked sweetly.

The woman put down her embroidery hoop and glared at Amalie with narrowed eyes. “Why?”

Amalie shrugged. “I thought we should become better acquainted.” She paused. “Tell me, madame, since you have been widowed for nearly two years now, have you given any thought to returning to society?”

That met a short gust of disbelief.

“I mean to say, you are young yet and quite lovely. It seems a shame to deprive so many others of your company. And since you are living not far from London—”

Hilda sat forward, furious, as she interrupted. “How dare you presume so! And I resent your condescension regarding my appearance. I am not lovely and society can well do without yet another unattached female in its gaudy midst!”

Amalie smiled. “Forgive me for the suggestion. I but thought you must be dreadfully unhappy with matters as they stand. You certainly do seem so.”

That took Hilda aback. She let go a heavy sigh and sat back again, roughly fiddling with her embroidery hoop and tangling the threads. “I am quite content and I shall thank you to leave me be.”

“I must speak my mind on this,” Amalie said gently. “Can you not see how your bitter vitriol could eventually affect your grandson? Not to mention how unfair it is to Alexander.”

Hilda immediately rose and left the room without another word. Amalie watched her go, congratulating herself on holding her temper in check and not launching a pithy verbal attack. She might have done so if she had not sensed the fear in Hilda. Perhaps Napier should be told of that.

Or perhaps he already knew, Amalie thought suddenly. Why else would he meet Hilda’s harsh words with such forbearance? If so, it did speak well of the man. That, added to the obvious love he had for his son, warmed Amalie to the core. Napier had a goodness in him she admired. And envied, she admitted.

Goodness, determination and a quick wit. And the ability to love deeply. How many of those qualities could she boast? Amalie wondered whether she even deserved the man a little! Fine one was she to cast stones at Hilda MacTavish for living a bitter-lipped existence that made people miserable.

She rested her chin on her palm and began to examine her own past behavior in earnest.

A good half hour passed before her brother burst in, followed by Napier and the boy. David had one hand firmly clamped on to Napier’s right crutch.

“You should see our lad ride!” Michael exclaimed, turning to urge David forward. All three were grinning proudly, wind tossed, cheeks and noses reddened from the cold.

Amalie’s heart lurched. How she wished she’d been with them out there in the late November sun. Her right leg ached for its position around the curved horn of her sidesaddle, her hands itched for the feel of reins in them. Never to ride again seemed the most awful thing and one she had not allowed herself to dwell upon since her accident.

She forced a smile. “So, he has a good seat, does he? Then he must have a pony!” She shot Michael a worried look. “Surely you haven’t set him up by himself on a fullsize horse!”

“Yes, but on a lead. He managed very well.” Napier’s large hand cupped the boy’s shoulder for an affectionate squeeze. Then he maneuvered himself to the settee and offered the crutches to David. “Settle these for me, would you? Good man,” he said, when the boy had stacked them neatly against the arm and within reach.

David beamed at the praise. He was such a sturdy little fellow and the absolute spit of his father. Amalie felt a surge of something strongly maternal whenever she looked at David. She shared a meaningful look with Napier that defied mere words.

“Well, I’m off for a quick wash before tea. Want to come, David?”

“Yes, sir. Riding’s turrible dusty. Da?”

Napier waved him off. “I’ll bide awhile. You’re the one who reeks of horse.” He added in a stage whisper. “Remember to bow.”

David did so. “Excuse us, please, Miss Amie.”

Amalie nodded and when they had gone, she turned to Napier. “His manners exceed yours.”

“And yours,” he retorted.

“And those of his grandmother! Frightful beast of a woman!”

He frowned at that. “Never speak ill of Mrs. MacTavish.”

“Why? Her one goal in life seems to be making you out a villain of the worst order. And she’s none too fond of me, that’s for certain!”

“She believes I let her daughter die and now will take away the child who replaced her loss.” He expelled a sigh. “And how am I to do that to her?”

“How can you not? She’s sending him away to school next year! At seven!”

“Not away. I spoke to her about it. He’s going to a school there in Maidstone.”

Amalie regretted broaching the subject and decided to turn it since there was no point to the confrontation. “My back is breaking in this confounded chair.” She tried to move it, but the wheels were stuck on the edge of the rug.

He grasped one of his crutches and hooked the handle over her front wheel, tugging her onto the carpet. Then he pulled her chair closer and beckoned for her to lean forward. When she did, he grasped her body and lifted her onto the cushion beside him. “There. Better?”

The strength of his arms amazed her. The sudden closeness of him overwhelmed her senses. He smelled of fresh air, leather and sandalwood soap. Perhaps a hint of evergreen. She breathed deeply and leaned closer, her shoulder and arm resting against his.

When she raised her eyes, he was looking down at her and the tempo of his breathing changed. His lips opened as if he would speak, but he said nothing. Instead he lowered his head and kissed her softly.

She felt his hand at her waist, the other cup her neck as his thumb caressed her chin. The kiss grew deeper, stealing her breath and her reason. Desire flowed through her veins like warm honey, sweet as the taste. Amalie shuddered, lost in the feelings she had only dreamed about.

He released her and peered into her eyes as if looking for something he desperately sought.

“What is it you want?” she gasped without thinking. “Tell me…show me.”

Her question might have been a dash of cold water. He sat back immediately, releasing her and moving away as if she’d suddenly screamed for help.

“Nothing,” he said, his voice curt. “For a moment, I lost my head. I haven’t kissed a woman in a very long time and here you were.”

“Where you put me!” she snapped. “So any woman would have done, I suppose.”

He cleared his throat and avoided looking at her.

“We kissed by the stairs. Have you forgotten that so soon?” She hadn’t, that was for certain. The feel of his lips on hers had disturbed her sleep and a great portion of her waking moments.

He did look at her then. “I didn’t forget it, but it was you who kissed me if you recall. This was my doing.” His voice was soft with a touch of regret. “You’re not entirely safe with me, you know. Everything about me works but one knee. It would be wise of us to have a care or we could find ourselves wed for good and all.”

“What? How else could we be wed? Surely you are not suggesting a silly handfast marriage such as you have in Scotland! That’s absurd! Not even legal here.”

At that, he smiled. “The custom is a bit frowned upon these days, even north of the border. Nay, I’d thought that once you recover the use of your legs, we could arrange an annulment. Unless we…you know.”

“Consummate the marriage?” Amalie asked bluntly.

He blushed. He actually blushed. Fancy that.

Oh, Lord. Amalie realized she was staring at him, shaking her head, giving him the impression she might want to…you know. Well, perhaps she did, but she would never admit as much to him.

It was only curiosity on her part, surely. She had only kissed two men before. Boys, really. She had never even entertained the thought of physical relations with them. But Napier had stirred something inside her that felt rather dangerous and very enticing. Damn him for it!

She tore her gaze from his. “Fine. If that is what you wish, so be it.” How much plainer could he make the fact that he could never want her as a wife? “Would you leave?”

“Of course. I can be on my way directly after the wedding.”

She rolled her eyes. “I meant immediately. Leave the room.” If he did not, she feared she would grab the nearest heavy object, like the marble lamp on the side table, and brain him with it.

Alex snatched up his crutch and hopped over to retrieve the other one. If he had learned anything in his twenty-eight years, it was that a woman in a snit was best left alone. He couldn’t figure what he had done to make her so angry. He was the one suffering for the restraint, not her.

Michael obviously hadn’t discussed the idea of an annulment with her. Once she’d had time to digest it, she would see it was for the best.

He swung the crutches forward a step, loving the feel of being upright whenever and however long he wanted and not having to balance on one foot to do so. If only he could devise a brace of some kind to make his knee stable, he could probably manage a cane. “I’ll find a way,” he muttered under his breath.

Alex had just cleared the doorway of the parlor when he saw her.

“I daresay you will manage,” Mother MacTavish said, her tone bitter. “But for her sake, you should not.”

Alex was so shocked he couldn’t speak.

“Yes, I saw you kiss her. And I just heard you declare you’d find a way,” she declared. “If the girl is fool enough to wed you, she should know what to expect! You have no thought for anyone but yourself and your pleasure! She is a cripple, Alexander. Will you thoughtlessly get her with child?”

He saw the tears in her eyes and knew she spoke mostly out of grief for Olivia. She obviously had not overheard their conversation, only his last utterance and had misinterpreted that. But even so…“This is none of your affair, madame.”

“No? You plan to marry this girl and take David from me to live with you. Of course it’s my affair! I live for that child since you destroyed the only one I had!”

“I loved Olivia, too, you know.”

“Yes, all too well, unfortunately!” she exclaimed. “And yet far too little.” She turned on her heel and marched off down the hallway, leaving him alone to stew in his remorse.

He glanced back into the parlor. Amalie had turned, facing him with a look of compassion. “That was so unfair,” she said. “So undeserved.”

Alex couldn’t answer. In his mind he knew he had done everything within his power to save his wife, but it had not been enough. The fact remained, he had been the cause of Olivia’s travail. Without the stress of childbirth, she would still be alive. He had always loved and wanted Olivia, had adored her first as a friend, then as a husband and lover. Theirs had been a comfortable and expected union, a match both had welcomed and treasured. But his feelings for Amalie were keener, more intense. Somehow deeper despite their brevity.

And here was another young woman, one he desired even more than he had Olivia and deserved even less. Amalie was not ambulatory, her strength depleted by so many months of lassitude. She should not be put at risk of a pregnancy in her condition and he would see she was not.

He needed to think. Obviously, Amalie wanted to wed and expected a real marriage to ensue. Maybe she thought his was the only offer she would ever receive, given her belief that she’d never walk again. If he simply refused to marry her and left things as they were, who would change that belief? She would remain a cripple all her life and that would be his fault.

They must marry. And he must somehow convince her to keep their union platonic.

Amalie puffed out a breath of frustration. What was she to do about Napier and his dratted guilt? Mrs. MacTavish seemed determined to keep it at the forefront of his mind. For some reason, the woman had not yet poisoned his little son’s opinion of the father, though. One would think she would have done so at every opportunity.

Her mother chose that moment to enter the parlor. She carried several swatches of fabric with her and sat down beside Amalie, plopping the samples in her lap. “Which do you think for your gown, my dear? Should it be the pale blue—a color that will surely enhance your eyes—or the yellow to highlight your hair?”

The dress didn’t signify, Amalie thought impatiently. What did it matter whether she made a beautiful bride or not? Napier would probably not notice in any event. “It doesn’t matter, Mama. Whatever you think.”

“I like the blue.” She glanced up from the swatches. “Are you afraid of him?”

The question jerked Amalie from her musing about Napier’s regard. “Afraid? Why ever should I be afraid of him? He’s a perfectly nice man!”

Her mother shrugged as she nervously fiddled with the fabrics. “For a Scot, I suppose. They are notorious for quick tempers. And Mrs. MacTavish has said he was overly…passionate. Before, you know, with her daughter. Your father and I shouldn’t like you to be exposed to such.”

Amalie coughed a short laugh of disbelief that her mother would even broach such a subject. “You and Father discussed this?”

“Of course we did! And he is not so set on the marriage as you suppose. Michael is adamant we go forth, however. I think he fair worships Captain Napier.”

Amalie figured it was time she asserted herself. For months now, she had decided on nothing for herself, letting the winds of life blow her whatever way they would. She had become the very kind of woman she had always pitied before. No more of that. If her life was to be her own, she must direct it.

“I will marry him, Mother, and you are not to worry.” She plucked one of the samples. “I choose the blue, a simple empire style, no embellishment, save a white lace frill at the neckline.”

Her mother frowned. “You are certain? About Napier, I mean.”

“I am certain. He is the one.”

That drew a small gasp. “I should have a talk with you before you’re wed. Your father says I should.”

Amalie patted her mother’s hand. “Unnecessary, I assure you.” Tempted as she was to see just how her mother would address the matters of the marriage bed, Amalie would spare her sensibilities. “I am well-read and observant, too.” She leaned to kiss her mother’s cheek. “And I will muddle through as all women do, I expect.”

She noted her mother’s frowning glance at her immobile legs and the slight shake of her head. Mama said nothing, but she was very obviously wondering how…

“Either we will manage or we won’t. As it stands now, Napier wishes our marriage to be in name only.”

And when that changes, Mama, Amalie thought to herself, you need never know it.

“In name only. My, what a relieving notion.” Satisfied, her mother kissed her cheek and left, humming a little tune. Amalie belatedly recognized it as the off-color song she had played as a poor jest to discombobulate them soon after her betrothal.

Perhaps Mama knew her better than she thought.

Well, Amalie realized if she meant to take charge of her life, there was no time like the present to begin. She envied Napier his mobility. She envied his determination. And she dearly wanted to prove him right about her own ability to walk.

Could she have given up too soon? The truth was, she had never felt she deserved a normal life after the tragedy that was her fault. If only she had not been so set on riding Morgana, the mare Father had warned her not to attempt.

She had made friends with the roan, had her taking sugar lumps and apples out of hand without biting. Amalie had even sat astride Morgana’s back without incident. It was only when she took her out of the enclosure that the poor thing had gone wild.

Then Jem, the stable lad she had known since their infancy, was trampled to death trying to keep the mare from attacking Amalie after she’d been thrown. And Father had ordered the beautiful Morgana put down.

Two needless deaths, Amalie thought with a sigh. Her fault entirely. Did she have the right to recover?

On the other hand, did she have the right not to make the most of her life in recompense for the loss of Jem’s?

She made her decision.

Carefully, Amalie did a half turn, braced her hands firmly on the arm of the settee and pushed herself up. She balanced, stiff, tense, afraid to breathe. But she had barely straightened fully when the muscles in her legs trembled and then, as if her bones turned to liquid, gave way. She fell back to the cushions with a solid thunk.

“So much for will and effort,” she grumbled under her breath. But in that all too brief second or two, she had felt almost whole again and she craved more.