She went straight back to her first reaction to the act. She had been enjoying it until a certain point. She frowned, realizing what must be the truth. That first part was for her. And the second part was for him. Presumably the second part wouldn’t hurt as much next time, though obviously it would never be as much fun as the preliminaries. She could probably live with that.
She took a pillow from the bed, put it on the chair, and then eased herself down while she waited for her bath to arrive. She would have to think about how often she would agree to have marital relations. Once a week at the outside. Perhaps once a fortnight.
No wonder young girls weren’t informed about the details of such intimacies. They’d probably run off to Spain and join nunneries.
She looked up, caught a glimpse of herself in the glass, and actually gave a little shriek. Lord knew what that innkeeper had thought of her. Her hair was tumbled over her shoulders, and her lips looked swollen. There was—she turned down her collar to examine it more closely—yes, there was a bruise on her neck. As if he’d marked her. Like a savage.
Yes, it was no wonder that married women kept all these details to themselves.
Eight
Colin woke with an aching head. He rolled on his back and his elbow struck a wall; for a moment he thought he was on the ship again.
Then he froze. Where in the hell was he? This wasn’t the townhouse of the most elegant woman in England.
There was a smell of roast beef in the air. He seemed to be lying on top of a bed, fully clothed. The pillow under his head was lumpy, and of a quality that the duchess would never allow on a guest’s bed, and probably not even in the servants’ quarters.
He sat up, bracing himself against the wall. What in the hell had happened to him? He had an indistinct memory of another laudanum dream. He couldn’t remember all the details, but he knew it had ended satisfactorily, and that it was far more acceptable than those dreams that left him unmanned.
In fact, barring the headache, he felt better than he had in weeks. Since before the cannonball exploded just off the ship rail. Thinking of how he woke to total darkness, he reached up and patted the bandage around his head. It was still firmly tied.
The door opened and Ackerley entered. In the six weeks since he lost his sight, Colin had gained an extraordinary ability to judge people by how they walked: literally by how their feet struck the ground. Ackerley ambled. You could tell him there was a fire in the privy, and he would amble over to look. Hell, you could tell him that his own coattails were on fire, and he would think about it before he turned to peer at his arse.
“Where the devil am I?” Colin demanded, with no preliminaries.
“The Cow and Tulip, Captain, on the Bath Road.”
He was half way to Arbor House, then. That made sense. But somehow, he had lost a day or two, because he had no memory of getting in the carriage. In fact, the last thing he remembered was telling a doctor that he didn’t want laudanum…
Laudanum.
The old sod must have given him a dose anyway. Well, he could hardly curse the doctor for giving him the best dream of his life. The memory shot a little pulse of fever through his blood.
“How did I get here?”
“In the carriage,” Ackerley said, without a trace of irony in his voice. “Would you like me to order your bath?”
“Yes.”
Colin brooded while Ackerley banged about the room. How the hell did he end up in a carriage? He must have had some sort of waking dream, because he managed to get out of the duchess’s townhouse.
Ackerley removed his clothing and steered him into the large tin bathtub. “Your hair, Captain Barry?”
He hated this. He hated having to be bathed with every inch of his soul, but there was nothing to be done about it. “Yes,” he said shortly. He closed his eyes as Ackerley pulled off the bandage and poured liquid soap on his head.
A moment later the man tied the bandage back around his wet head and handed him a toothbrush.
Colin used it and handed it back. “Put the towels and my clothing on the bed. You may leave.” He was at the limit of his tolerance; he would not allow another man to wash his body.
Only once he was certain the door was shut did Colin reach out, finding the edges of the bathtub, searching for the small bottle of liquid soap.
He caught the bottle just as it toppled off the side, pouring some into his left hand and rubbing his right arm. There was an odd little purr of well-being in his body, something he hadn’t felt in months.
Washing his other arm, he realized that he might not have felt this good in a year. Even his headache had disappeared. It was that dream, of course.
He washed his chest, thinking about it. No wonder men became addicts who wasted into scarecrows in back alleys. The dream had offered him everything he wanted: Grace.
When he had walked into the duchess’s townhouse, he had known instantly that Grace was in the entryway. He had smelled her; she favored soap that smelled like lemon verbena, and the scent hung on the air.
But just as he was about to greet her, there had been a shuffle of feet, and McIngle had stepped forward with his damnably pleasant voice. His words had been like a dose of ice water, but also a salutary reminder. Grace was betrothed to McIngle. She was going to marry the man.
So he hadn’t thrown himself at her like a ravening beast. He had been polite and cool, even though he felt a tearing pain in his chest. It made him realize that in some dark corner of his soul he had been hoping that Lily was wrong, and Grace wasn’t betrothed to McIngle.
But she was, and why shouldn’t she be? He had asked for Lily’s hand in marriage.
His hand slid farther down his stomach to his crotch—and froze. He was no mere stripling. He knew what his tool felt like when it had been in use.
Impossible.
But he couldn’t deny the feeling. He must have spent his seed in the carriage in the midst of that dream, which was a bloody embarrassing idea. He must be losing his mind. He couldn’t remember ordering the carriage, getting into it, opening his placket, buttoning it back up, never mind doing himself a service in the grip of that dream…
Thank God Ackerley wasn’t in the carriage. Or was he? A searing pulse of humiliation went through Colin.
He had put up with a great deal since the ship doctor ordered a bandage over his eyes. The man had said he would stay blind if even the slightest ray of light struck his eyes during the following six weeks. Hell, he might end up sightless anyway.
Ackerley had steered him to the water closet, taken his clothes off, handed him a toothbrush… This particular situation made those humiliations seem petty. Bloody hell, 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 duchess 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 damned 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 illustrious career at sea, and never paid any attention to horseflesh. But in the last few years, he’d spent a surprisi
ng amount of his shore leave in the stables.
There was something in a horse’s whiskery kiss, the peaceful way they cropped grass, and the comforting musky smell of a stable that helped put the terrible memories in their place.
In the past.
Nine
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 space 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 lass 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. Hell, he meant to do that anyway. Perhaps he never woke, and the duchess, 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 hell 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 assure 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 assure 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 duchess 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 butterfly 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 damn it, if he chose to do so, he wanted the happiness of his parents, or of the duke and duchess. 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 duchess party to such a wedding. He must have been married to a complete stranger, likely by the same lying bastard 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 hell 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 duchess 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. “Bloody hell,” 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 hell 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?”