“Sophie will take care of all that,” Braddon said carelessly. “I’ll give her some blunt so she can pick up a few dresses for you.” He was deeply enjoying the fact that Gracie’s huge bulk was pressing his body against Madeleine’s.
“Oh, this is impossible!” Madeleine cried in a passion, pounding her fists against Gracie’s back. Gracie snorted in surprise and turned her head to see what was happening. Then she backstepped a bit to get away from the annoying sensation. Braddon almost groaned as Gracie pushed his body even more firmly against Madeleine’s.
“What are you doing?”
She sounds really furious now, Braddon thought muzzily.
“Get away from me! I can feel you … you … you reprobate!”
In response, Braddon wound his arms around her. “I love you, Maddie,” he said, his voice husky. “I love you. I want you. Please, darling, do this for me so that we can be married.”
“No,” she said stubbornly, edging her hips away. Braddon was pressed against her in an utterly inappropriate fashion.
“Then I’ll marry you anyway,” he said with quiet determination. “It doesn’t matter to me, Maddie. I’ll marry you and we’ll go live in Scotland—or in America. I don’t care, as long as I’m with you.”
Madeleine gasped. “You can’t mean it. You’re an earl. You would be cast out.”
He tightened his arms around her. “I mean it,” he said. He rubbed his cheek against her sweet-smelling hair. “I won’t marry anyone but you, and if you don’t wish to pretend to be a French aristocrat, then I shall marry you as you are.”
“Your family will never speak to you again!” Madeleine was horrified.
“I never liked my family much,” he said without hesitation.
“Your mother!”
Braddon sounded happy now. “I won’t miss her.”
“No, no, no,” Madeleine cried, her French accent thickening. “I cannot allow you to make such a sacrifice.”
“No sacrifice,” he muttered. She seemed to not have noticed that he was holding her so tightly that he could feel every curve of her body. “Nothing to worry about, Maddie. Our son will still inherit the title.”
“But … but he’ll be an outcast!”
Braddon shrugged. “Perhaps by then the ton will have forgotten. Anyway, who cares? There’s aeons of time between then and now.”
Madeleine frowned. Her practical French soul was incapable of dismissing the future the way Braddon could. Go live in America? Was he crazed? Everyone knew that America was a vast wilderness, inhabited only by criminals and savage Indians. Rousseau was all very well in the pages of a book, but she doubted that American sauvages innocently longed to do nothing but good.
“No,” she said. “If there is a chance that our son could be born with the approval of society, then we must try to do that. Even if it involves lies, and learning how to be a lady.”
Braddon responded by capturing her mouth and muttering love words against her lips. But just when he was sinking mindlessly into the kiss, Madeleine erupted into speech again.
“Oh no! We forgot my papa! He will never agree to your wild scheme.”
“Perhaps you’re right.” Braddon rubbed his hands up and down her back in a comforting manner, hoping that Madeleine wouldn’t notice how his hands trailed over the delicious rise of her bottom. “Let’s get married tonight, Madeleine. The scheme will never work. We’ll go to the border.”
Madeleine twitched herself away from his straying hands and frowned, an adorable line appearing between her brows. “You are a reprobate,” she snapped. “Lord only knows why I want to marry you.”
Braddon snatched her up the minute the words left her mouth. “You do? You will? You want to marry me? Oh Maddie …” He bent his head and ravaged her mouth.
Madeleine shivered as a wave of heat rose from her knees to her breast. He might not be the brightest in the world, her Braddon, but there was something about his kisses that turned her into a puddle of jelly.
As the Lark headed to its first port of call on the Welsh coast, Sophie and Patrick were sitting on the deck, enjoying a bout of unusually temperate afternoon sunshine. Sophie was soundly beating her husband at backgammon.
“It’s not fair,” Patrick said moodily. “You’ve no strategy at all, other than throwing those bloody doubles every other turn.”
Sophie smiled as she gleefully scooped up two of his pieces, sending them back to the beginning.
“My grandfather used to say it was my only skill at board games.”
Patrick cast her an unwilling look of admiration. “I wouldn’t say you’re a peagoose at the chessboard, m’dear.”
“Pooh! You’ve beaten me two out of three times.”
“Yes, but normally I can’t be beat at all,” Patrick pointed out. “And never before by a female,” he added, with just a trifle of an edge in his voice.
“Dear Patrick. It quite wrings my heart to see how much you are suffering.”
Patrick bared his teeth at her. “You’re a witch, wife. A witchy wife.”
Sophie delicately licked her lips. “Hmm … I wonder what spell I might cast on you?”
Despite himself Patrick leaned forward, a finger tracing the dainty outline of Sophie’s lips. “You have the most kissable lips in the world, witch.”
Her eyes glinting, Sophie touched his finger with her tongue and then drew the finger into the warm recesses of her mouth. “Perhaps you have cast a spell on me,” she whispered.
Patrick was just rising from his chair when an awkward cough sounded at his left ear.
“Excuse me, sir.” Captain Hibbert was standing, cap in hand, looking a bit worried. “I wonder if you’d cast your eye to the east and let me know what you think. Begging your pardon, madam.”
Sophie smiled at him. She liked the tongue-shy captain, with his clumsy manners and bashful looks.
“Please, Captain Hibbert, don’t let me interrupt your discussion,” she said, rising from her chair. “I was about to retire to my cabin.”
As Captain Hibbert bobbed an inept bow and turned back to his barometer, she cast Patrick a glance under her lashes. But Patrick was frowning off toward the east, where the sky had turned a streaky blue-green color.
“Is it a storm coming?”
“We call it a mackerel sky,” Patrick said, throwing an arm around Sophie’s shoulders and drawing her snug against his body. “See that dappling effect off to the right?”
“The rows of little clouds?”
“That’s it. Hibbert was right to interrupt us before we retired down to the cabin.” Patrick laughed as he saw Sophie’s cheeks gain a slight flush. “My wife might not have let me out of bed for hours,” he whispered.
Sophie didn’t say anything, just leaned her head against Patrick’s shoulder.
He gave her a reassuring squeeze. “There’s no need to worry. This boat can outsail any storm. Hibbert and I have outrun hurricanes, on occasion.” His blood raced with anticipation of the moment when the boat strained at every sinew, boards groaning and screaming, ropes flapping, the wind howling as they raced across the ocean. Fleeing in front of a gale was the only way to test a boat’s mettle. No boat went faster than when it was in the arms of a storm wind.
Suddenly he looked down at the soft curls nestled against his shoulder and rethought the idea.
“Not that we’re going to do anything of that nature today.”
Sophie looked up, startled. “Why not?”
He bent down and kissed her, lingeringly, on the lips. “Because you’re onboard.” His deep voice allowed no argument.
Sophie stared after her husband as he followed Captain Hibbert. Then she turned and wandered off to the main cabin.
She realized more and more why gentlemen left their wives at home when they went about their activities. Patrick had been throwing his boat before a gale, while she prided herself on the remarkable freedom of being allowed to learn Turkish.
With a sigh, Sophie pushed the thoug
ht away. Her nurse had always said that there was no point in getting vexed to death over things that couldn’t be changed.
Within an hour the Lark was nosing along the western coast of Wales, looking for a good place to draw in for the night.
“Aye, cap’n!” came a call from the lookout.
Patrick and Hibbert looked up from where they stood on the aft deck.
“I see a light!”
Patrick picked up a telescope and focused it on shore. There was a deep cove, so slender that it wasn’t visible with the naked eye, at least from this distance. And the lights twinkling behind it looked like those of a large building.
“Could be an old monastery,” he said to Hibbert.
Hibbert took a turn at the telescope. “It’ll do,” he said with characteristic brevity. He headed toward the wheel, trusting no one but himself with the tense job of bringing the Lark into a strange harbor.
A half-hour or so later, Patrick headed downstairs, whistling. He almost knocked but then stopped himself. With luck, he could surprise Sophie during her afternoon bath.
But as he swung open the door he saw his wife sitting in her favorite chair, reading. She didn’t hear the door, so he paused for a moment, watching her.
She was reading so intently that her lips moved as she read. Poor sweetheart, Patrick thought. The education given to females was so trumpery that she was still mouthing words while reading. For some strange reason, the thought of Sophie as a schoolgirl made his heart twist tenderly.
As he stepped forward, Sophie caught the whisper of his boots on the floor and looked up, startled. In fact, to Patrick’s dismay, she was so startled that she gave a little shriek and jumped up, only to sink back into her seat, frowning at him mightily.
“You gave me a proper fright!”
Patrick walked over and looked down at his petite wife, a smile lurking around his mouth. “I was hoping to catch you in déshabillé.”
Sophie reluctantly smiled back.
“What have you been doing?”
“Waiting for you.” Sophie’s eyes were wide and innocent.
Patrick frowned. “You were reading, Sophie. Don’t lie to me. At this moment, you are sitting on your book.”
Sophie looked at him calmly. “So I am,” she replied. The memory of something said by Patrick’s school friend David raced through her mind. Patrick hated fibs, hated any kind of falsehood. Lord but he would be cross if he found out just what she was reading!
Patrick raised an eyebrow. Sophie must be indulging in a lurid French romance that she doesn’t want me to know about, he thought. Politely he moved away and busied himself with pulling off his shirt. But he watched out of the corner of his eye as she tucked her book in a drawer with practiced ease.
Likely Eloise had never let Sophie read anything interesting, Patrick thought to himself with a grin. Stiff-rumped, the marchioness, that was for certain. She would have had an apoplexy if she caught her daughter with a popular novel. Hell, Eloise was probably the reason Sophie couldn’t read very well. She likely had never let her daughter read anything but sermons! I’ll have to speak to Sophie about it, Patrick thought, a bit complacently. I can’t have a wife who’s ashamed of reading, or thinks that novels are immoral.
“You should ring for Simone,” he said, turning about as if he hadn’t seen Sophie hide her book. “We’ll be going ashore in a half-hour or so. John has been over in a row-boat and says there’s an old monastery where we can stay the night. I hope to God they have a decent bed, because it’ll be a little unsteady onboard the Lark tonight. I’d rather we weathered the storm in an eight-hundred-year-old building.”
Sophie searched his face. For a minute, when Patrick pointed out that she was sitting on her book, he had such a look on his face—as if he knew about her Turkish grammar and was secretly laughing at her. No, it couldn’t be. He looked perfectly normal now.
She rang the bell for Simone as Patrick pulled on his boots and left the cabin.
“Come above when you’re ready, darling.” With a kiss on her forehead, he left.
Sophie slowly pulled a warm gown from the built-in wardrobe along one wall. Patrick had taken to calling her “darling” the last few days. And there was something about the endearment, even though she knew it was casually given, that made her feel unsteady in the knees and near to tears.
Simone burst through the door. Her hair was blown out of its neat knot, and her cheeks were flushed.
“We must go, ma’am! There’s a nasty wind blowing up, that’s what John says. It’s a mickle sky, he says.”
“A mackerel sky,” Sophie corrected her. She hadn’t got any further than her second stocking.
“Whatever kind of sky,” Simone replied tartly, “there’s a nasty color to it, and John says we needs get off this boat right away!” Simone had struck up a flirtation with the first mate, and she was full of sealore and seamen’s slang.
With a sigh Sophie stood up as Simone threw a gown over her head with reckless haste.
“No time to do anything much with your hair.” Simone’s fingers were trembling as she bundled her mistress’s curls into a loose coil on top of her head. Simone had finally gotten over her seasickness, but she didn’t want to be on the ship when a storm hit, no indeed. Likely the Lark would just break free and toss its way across the waves. Across the waves and right to the bottom, Simone thought, her fingers moving even faster.
Before Sophie had time to think, Simone had bundled her into a plum-colored pelisse, thrust a fur muff over her hand, and pushed her out the door.
Up on deck there wasn’t nearly the frenzy there had been in the main cabin. Patrick was standing at the rail. The crew was pulling down the sails and lashing the masts in a calm and orderly fashion.
Sophie walked over to Patrick and stood for an instant, gazing at the sky. It looked like shot silk now; the coppery color was laced with darker, jaundiced-looking stripes. The fluffy little clouds had thinned into sullen streaks, like a banker’s smile. And there was a wind starting. Strands of hair pulled loose from her velvet bonnet and whipped against her face.
Patrick’s face was alive with excitement. “See how livid the air has become, Sophie? The wind is blowing, and yet in between gusts the air is heavy and still.”
Sophie nodded. Now she was very glad that they had anchored the Lark.
There was a thud and a shout. The crewmen were ready to send a small boat over to the shore.
“Now’s the trick.” Patrick grinned at her. “We have to get you and your maid down a rope ladder. We couldn’t sail all the way in, as the bottom is too shallow near the dock.”
Sophie walked to the side of the Lark and peered over. It seemed a long way down, and the rope ladder was swaying in an alarming fashion. Moreover, the water had a gray tint that promised an icy bath to anyone who let go of the ladder.
“I shall carry you down.” Patrick was standing at her shoulder.
“Nonsense,” Sophie replied. “I shall climb down on my own. Simone!”
Simone edged over next to her mistress, clearly frightened out of her wits at the idea of scrambling down the ladder.
“If you climb down without screaming, fainting, falling off, or needing assistance, I will give you the ball dress with the fabric roses.”
Simone was silent for a heartbeat. “The one with a train?”
Sophie nodded.
Simone’s thin Gallic face lit with determination. Without a second’s hesitation she moved over to the side and allowed a sailor to place her at the top of the ladder. Then she sturdily climbed down.
Sophie watched until Simone reached the skiff and was helped to a seat. But just as Sophie was about to move over to the ladder, two warm arms encircled her from behind and a voice whispered, “Don’t you want a bribe?”
Sophie giggled. “Are you offering me one of your embroidered waistcoats?”
A deep chuckle tickled her ear. “The only one I own was embroidered by Aunt Henrietta with cornflowers and b
luebells. It’s a dreadfully garish piece, and besides it’s too big for you.”
“Oh dear,” Sophie said sadly. “I’m afraid you’re right. I simply haven’t got the gumption to go down that ladder … especially now that I realize how pitiful your attempt at bribery is.”
“Vixen.”
Teeth nipped her ear, and she leaned back against Patrick’s muscled chest. Her whole body was tingling warmly, despite the fact that a wintery sea spray had begun to blow across the deck.
“So clothing won’t bribe my Sophie. You seem oddly unaddicted to fashion, given that you are considered the next best thing to a Frenchwoman by the London ton.”
Sophie resented that. “I adore clothes!”
“Well, you don’t spend hours getting dressed,” her husband retorted. “And you don’t talk endlessly about points of lace and such things. How about kisses as a ladder-bribe?”
“I seem to be getting those for free,” Sophie pointed out saucily.
“That’s true.” Patrick’s voice had deepened to liquid velvet. His lips were still caressing her ear. “Perhaps I shall bribe you with actions. They say that actions speak louder than words, or dresses. Ask me for something, Sophie, and I’ll grant it.”
Sophie didn’t know whether she trusted herself to enquire exactly which actions he was referring to.
“All right,” she said, ignoring the warm tongue caressing her ear. “I am very fond of …” But she couldn’t think of anything that she could say aloud. Whenever Patrick touched her, her mind seemed to go hazy.
“The French miss is about to flash her hash, sir.” The sailor who had been leaning over the railing was now pointing down to the skiff.
Sophie peered over the railing. Sure enough, Simone was wailing miserably and leaning over the side of the boat. Sophie moved toward the seaman, but again a strong arm caught her.
“Wait here, Sophie.” Patrick swung his leg onto the ladder, hooked an arm around the rail, and held out his other arm.
“I can certainly climb down that ladder by myself,” Sophie said with some annoyance.