With This Kiss Part 11

Ackerley had steered him to the water closet, taken his clothes off, handed him a toothbrush . . . This particular situation made those humiliations seem petty. b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l, he hoped he hadn't made an utter fool of himself.

Then he thought about Ackerley's tone when he summoned the bath. The man wasn't the brightest, but if he had witnessed his employer thrusting away at the air, there would be signs of strain in his voice.

Ackerley had been as placid and uninterested as ever. So Colin must have been alone in the carriage. In fact, he'd bet the d.u.c.h.ess had sent along a second carriage for Ackerley and his trunk. That would be like her.

He briskly finished washing, his body responding with a wave of good feeling that made him think he had done himself a disservice by staying away from women for months. Nor had he enabled himself in a private way.

But now he was almost happy.

He carefully climbed out of the tub, and groped his way to the length of towel Ackerley had left for him.

Five minutes later, he was clean and dressed. Ackerley hadn't returned, but he realized with a surge of energy that he didn't want to remain cooped up in the room. It must be the English air. He felt like venturing outside, and be d.a.m.ned if he lurched about like a drunken cow.

Perhaps he could find someone to take him to the stables. As a boy, he'd dreamed of impressing his adopted father with an ill.u.s.trious career at sea, and never paid any attention to horseflesh. But in the last few years, he'd spent a surprising amount of his sh.o.r.e leave in the stables.

There was something in a horse's whiskery kiss, the peaceful way they cropped gra.s.s, and the comforting musky smell of a stable that helped put the terrible memories in their place.

In the past.

Ten.

Colin descended the narrow wooden stairs of the inn with one hand on the wall and the other on the rail. Once at the bottom, he had a sense of empty s.p.a.ce before him, perhaps a longish corridor leading outside, since a touch of wind came to his face. He heard a burst of noise, along with a potent smell of hops and ale. That must be the public room.

He was about to head toward the outside, when he heard a heavyset man enter the corridor. The feet paused and then bustled toward him, their owner smelling of horseradish and, faintly, of roast beef. "Captain Barry, welcome to my inn. I am Topper. You must be fair hungry."

"Good evening, Mr. Topper," Colin said. "Can you inform my man that I am up? As you can see, I have some trouble negotiating in my current state."

"I was coming to tell you myself," the innkeeper said, his voice taking on a solemn tone. "Not more than twenty minutes ago, your wife's maid fell and broke her wrist. I had to send Mr. Ackerley along with the poor la.s.s in a coach to Dr. Strickner in Andover; he's the only bonesetter in these parts. But it's a good distance and they'll have to stay the night there."

"My wife," Colin repeated.

"Your wife's maid," the innkeeper corrected. "Lawks-a-mercy, Captain Barry, if it had been your lady wife that had tripped, I would have told you immediately. No, it was your wife's maid, and as I said, I sent the two of them off together as I don't have a man to spare at the moment. Mrs. Topper can act as your wife's lady's maid this evening, and I'll do as much for you, Captain. Our own son is serving his country on the seas, and I'd be right honored to help a member of the Royal Navy." He stopped, seemingly out of breath after this flow of conversation.

Colin had a dizzy sensation, as if he were trapped in a laudanum dream that never ended. It was impossible.

He'd never heard of such a thing.

It was one thing to lose a day or two, to have no memory of giving orders regarding a remove to Arbor House. h.e.l.l, he meant to do that anyway. Perhaps he never woke, and the d.u.c.h.ess, knowing his plans, bundled him in a carriage.

No, she would never do that. He must have been awake enough to extract himself from her care and demand his carriage.

But to find himself married was another question.

Who in the h.e.l.l had he married?

"Did you say my wife?" he asked.

There was an infinitesimal pause, and the innkeeper's voice changed, taking on a dollop of sympathy. "I'm guessing that you suffered a fearsome blow to the head, Captain Barry, and you're experiencing some loss of your memory. That is entirely normal, I a.s.sure you. Why, after my neighbor's boy fell from the ridge top, he plumb forgot that he was left-handed and started using his right, like any Christian!"

"I a.s.sure you that I have not overlooked a wife," Colin said, barely stopping himself from reaching out and throttling the man's neck.

"Good, good!" Topper chuckled. "I think we can admit amongst ourselves that our better halves don't take well to being forgotten."

Colin ground his teeth. "I was not aware that my wife accompanied me."

That made the man much happier. "Of course, of course! You were deep asleep when you arrived and I had the men carry you up the stairs. Your lovely lady did come with you, Captain. She did indeed. She waits for you in my best private parlor. We'll have a meal served to the two of you within the quarter hour."

"No," Colin said. "I should like some time alone with my . . . wife."

He could hear the innkeeper rubbing his hands together. "Of course you do, of course you do!" he all but shouted. "Young lovers separated by war are eager to be alone." Then he leaned closer, breathing roast beef onto Colin's cheek. "If you'll excuse the presumption, Captain, I could see from your wife's face when she entered the door that she'd given you a hero's welcome back to England!"

Colin hand shot out and unerringly caught the innkeeper around his fat neck. "If you ever speak of my wife in such an impudent fashion again, I shall knock you into the next county."

The innkeeper coughed and gabbled, "I'm sure I didn't mean the slightest presumption, sir, not in the slightest."

Colin let him go. "Lead me to the private parlor." The innkeeper took his arm and he suffered it, cursing Ackerley silently. What the devil was the man doing, trotting off with some maid to a bonesetter?

That would be the maid belonging to a wife he didn't remember. It made sense that he couldn't remember the maid, either.

And there was a woman waiting for him.

The innkeeper trundled down the corridor and turned left through an open door. Colin waited until the door closed behind Topper. Then he stood, back to the door, waiting.

He was greeted by silence.

This must be some sort of elaborate hoax, though to what end, he didn't know. There was a trace of roses in the air, the scent of the woman who walked into the chamber before him.

Roses? His heart plummeted into his boots. Could he have married Lily? Could the duke and d.u.c.h.ess have remembered his long-ago request and paired him with Lily in an excess of patriotic zeal? Would he have gone through a marriage ceremony in a laudanum daze? Was that even possible?

There wasn't a sound in the room. Whoever she was, she was sitting still as a mouse. That didn't seem like Lily. She fluttered like a b.u.t.terfly here and there, unable to sit quietly, as far as he remembered.

Still . . . Who else could he have married? He didn't want to have married Lily, with every ounce of being in his soul.

"Lily," he said, flatly. His life was over. He would have to sit opposite Grace at a hundred family dinners, watching her smile, watching her eyes light up at McIngle's jests, while he was paired with her silly sister.

There was a rustle of cloth across the room and a little gasp. Another drift of perfume reached him.

"Exactly when did we wed?" he asked. He might as well begin this marriage with honesty. "I have no memory of it." He would have walked forward, but he didn't want his wife to see him stumbling about like a fool.

Wife?

Impossible.

Suddenly rage flowed up his spine. He hadn't planned to marry, but d.a.m.n it, if he chose to do so, he wanted the happiness of his parents, or of the duke and d.u.c.h.ess. He had hoped for that soul-deep connection.

"Madam," he said, hearing nothing but quick breathing. "I must confess that I find this marriage not only unexpected, but questionable."

He heard a faint creak as she rose from her seat, and then the whisper of slippers against the carpet as she walked toward him. She was clearly young and lithe. Surely it was Lily, rather than an utter stranger. He crossed his arms over his chest, knowing that his face held the arrogant rage of a shipboard captain, but helpless to soften it.

He could not imagine the d.u.c.h.ess party to such a wedding. He must have been married to a complete stranger, likely by the same lying b.a.s.t.a.r.d of a leech who drugged him. Her Grace would never be party to criminality.

Then memory of his discovery in the bath shot into his mind: the fraudulent marriage was consummated. He'd been taken, as neatly as any innocent maiden kidnapped by a rogue. The thought made him blind with rage-an oxymoron, in his situation.

"C-Colin," he heard, the voice just audible over the drumming of blood in his ears.

He located the woman by that whisper, took one step and caught her arm in a fierce grip. "Who are you?" His mind darted through possibilities. He'd been kidnapped, drugged, and married for his money . . . for his connections . . . "Who are you?" It came out in a bellow.

"Grace," came a faint voice, followed by a hiccup and another sob. "I'm Grace, Colin. Not Lily. I'm-I'm so sorry."

His mind reeled. "Grace? What in the h.e.l.l are you-" He dropped her arm, fell back a step, and jumped to the obvious conclusion. "You were in my carriage. I-we-that was you."

There was another sob, and he surged forward again, gathering her into his arms. She folded against him, her body as fragile as that of a bird. He was holding Grace, just as he'd dreamed of doing. Every male instinct he had roared with triumph.

But her shoulders were shaking as she wept.

Slowly, it dawned on him. He hadn't been taken: he had taken. He'd ruined her. Worse, she likely hadn't even consented. Perhaps he lunged at her like a beast. Laudanum was no excuse if he had raped her. He had committed an evil for which he himself had cashiered sailors.

"I gather the d.u.c.h.ess asked you to accompany me to the country," he said, swallowing hard. "Where's McIngle?"

"In London," she said against his waistcoat.

"We are not married, are we?"

"No." Her voice was a thread of sound.

He followed that truth to its logical conclusion. "You told the innkeeper that we were married because I took advantage of you in the carriage." He felt as if he had woken to find himself a stranger. "I was in the grip of a dream, Grace; I didn't know what I was doing. I would never have done such a thing if I had been in my right mind. I am deeply, deeply sorry."

It was a cry wrung from his heart. "It must have been terrible for you." His arms tightened around her. "b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l," he whispered when she didn't respond, just cried harder. How could he have done such a thing, even in a dream?

"How-how awful was it?" he asked, needing to know, his conscience burning like glowing coals in his gut. "Grace, please. Tell me."

She said something against his waistcoat.

To h.e.l.l with his eyesight. Whether he lost it or not, he had to see her eyes. He released her and raised his arms to his bandage.

"No!" She shrieked it, small hands grabbing his wrists with surprising strength. "What are you doing?"

"I need to see you," he said hoa.r.s.ely. "I have to see in your eyes the pain I caused you."

She pulled, hard, so he allowed his arms to descend. "You didn't," she said, so quietly he could hardly hear it. Her hands slid down to hold his.

"What?" His heart beat in his throat, hard. The feeling of her hands in his . . . it made him crave more of her, all of her. "I didn't-in the carriage?" He thought back to the bath. "I know we did."

"This is so embarra.s.sing."

But Colin was feeling a faint hope. Perhaps it wasn't quite as bad as he'd thought. "Did we make love, Grace, or did I take you forcibly?"

He heard her take a huge breath, and then she said, "We made love but . . . but you were making love to Lily and I was making love to you!" Then she burst into tears again.

He scooped her up into his arms, holding her against his chest. She weighed nothing, this girl who had captured his heart. He waited until she sniffed, rather inelegantly, and then said, "Grace, I can't see which way to walk."

"Do let me down. This is silly." She began to struggle, so he tightened his arms.

"Which direction shall I walk?"

A little shudder went through her body. "There's a chair ahead of you," she replied, her voice thick with tears. "Just walk a few steps and I'll tell you when you can put me down."

Put her down? He walked forward until she said, "The chair is directly in front of you." He tested the distance with his knee, then turned about, and sat down.

"You could have fallen!" she gasped.

"I've been practicing for almost six weeks."

She moved again, as if to struggle free, but he didn't relax his arms. "Grace."

"Let me go," she whispered.

"No." A great, weary sense of peace was coming over him. He'd done something very wrong, and he would spend his entire life trying to make up for it. He'd taken Grace away from McIngle in the worst possible fashion. He'd ruined her, in the old-fashioned meaning of the word. But he hadn't broken his own sense of honor, and apparently, he hadn't raped her.

He didn't even like thinking about the word. Ravished her, perhaps, but not raped.

And she was his now. It satisfied a deeply primal side of him, which frankly didn't give a d.a.m.n about McIngle. All he truly cared about was the fact that he had hurt Grace. He had made her cry.

He dropped a kiss on her hair, an entirely inadequate apology. "We'll have to be married as soon as we can."

She sniffled again. "I can't marry you, Colin."

"Yes, you can. And you will." There was no question in his mind about that.

"I cannot."

"Because of McIngle?" A hint of steel dropped into his voice. He should be sorry for the fellow. But in truth he wasn't sorry for him. He wanted to kill him for having the pretension to ask Grace for her hand.

"No."

His body relaxed. "Why, then?" His mind supplied a hundred reasons, and he added quickly, "I know you are probably deeply shocked by what happened in the carriage, Grace. We needn't . . . I'm so sorry."

She started crying again.

"We don't have to do it again," he added, feeling rather desperate. "Not until you feel differently about me."

"I'm sorry," she said, her voice cracking. "I thought . . . I hoped you knew who I was."