Patrica Rice Read online

  She glanced at Michael’s wide shoulders, and felt a catch in her midsection. She didn’t like acknowledging that Michael wasn’t her court jester but a man with all the faults and foibles of men. He wanted her to behave as a proper wife. And now that she had her independence, she no longer had any desire for obedience.

  He led her into a nondescript inn near the docks, where they would soon share the same bed. His look of both self-assurance and possessiveness as he laid a coin upon the desk warned her of his expectations.

  In their tiny bedchamber, Blanche nervously inspected the small bed while Michael fastened the door and threw their new luggage beneath a chair. She waited for him to come up behind her. Instead, she heard the chair squeak. She turned to see him removing his boots.

  That he didn’t touch her immediately increased her tension. “The bed looks clean,” she murmured, not knowing what else to say.

  He nodded curtly. “I’ve stayed here these last nights. He keeps a clean inn.”

  She didn’t understand his curtness or why he didn’t kiss her now. Everything worked out so much easier when he kissed her. The single candle illuminated little except Michael unlacing his shirt. She wanted to unlace it for him. Her hands itched to touch his warmth again, to feel the hard planes of his chest beneath her fingers. Tentatively, she unfastened the buttons of her bodice.

  He folded up the heavy frock coat he’d just acquired and threw it on the floor in front of the door. “There’s water in the basin. I’ll blow out the candle so you’ll have some privacy.”

  Without the candle’s light, Blanche stared in confusion as Michael settled down in front of the door. She finished unfastening the gown and washed quietly, hating herself, hating him for doing this to her. Must she beg?

  Wearing just her chemise, she climbed between the cold sheets and listened to Michael’s breathing. She didn’t think he slept. She didn’t think either of them would sleep.

  “Why?” she finally inquired, finding the uncertainty intolerable.

  He didn’t pretend to misunderstand. “I want a wife, not a mistress. There’s no use in my learning the joy of your charms only to have them taken away once we reach London. So I’ll just practice abstaining now, thank you.”

  She wanted to kill him. She flung her pillow in the direction of his voice. “Mistress! Is that all I am? You have your nerve Michael Lawrence!”

  “I’m not a Lawrence. I’m not anything. I can’t give you a name or title or wealth. All I can offer is my children and my future. That’s not enough. I’ve always known it, but I foolishly hoped we could work it out. We can’t. So let’s not pretend any longer.”

  Blanche clung to the covers and stared at the place where he lay. “What are you saying?”

  He answered slowly. “I’m saying that I surrender. I won’t fight you. I want to be a part of my child’s life, but I’ll stay out of yours. I’m sure we can arrange something.”

  “That’s not what I want,” she whispered.

  “I consider us married, Blanche,” he answered wearily. “It’s not what I want, either. But unless you’re willing to walk into Anglesey and declare me your husband, I don’t see much other choice for us. Go to sleep. We’ll talk of this in the morning.”

  Thirty-one

  Michael disappeared at dawn, leaving Blanche to wash and dress in privacy. She no longer feared desertion. She knew he would return and take her to the docks. She just didn’t know if she appreciated the knowledge. He considered them married—because of the child?

  The queasiness had returned, and Blanche refused the breakfast Michael brought. He didn’t argue but merely wrapped the rolls in clean linen and tucked them in his capacious pockets for later. Blanche wished he would quarrel with her again. She wanted an excuse to scream and stamp her feet and fling things. Instead, she coolly accepted the shawl he placed around her shoulders and took his arm so they might depart.

  She could feel the tension in him. It gave her some satisfaction knowing he suffered as much as she did. As they boarded the ship, the queasiness intensified, and she insisted on finding a place on deck in the sunshine. If she must heave up the meager contents of her stomach, she would do it in the fresh salt air. Michael wrapped a blanket around her legs and sat cross-legged on the deck nearby, whittling at a piece of wood.

  “What will we do, Michael?” she asked as the sails unfurled and the wind caught them. She had hoped to see more of the emerald shores of Ireland, but it seemed she wasn’t destined for more than a glimpse of any other land but her own.

  “We’ve not much choice in the matter,” he answered. “We’re married legally enough. We can have the vows said in church so Neville will acknowledge them. Or you can go on as you planned, have the child on the Continent and declare yourself widow. Either way, you’ll not be rid of me. I have as much right to that child as you do.”

  “Married?” Blanche hadn’t heard a word beyond that. She stared at him in disbelief. “Legally? What do you mean, married? I don’t remember any such service. Have you quite lost your mind?” She’d wanted an opportunity to scream, but she was too stunned to react. Michael never lied to her.

  Shadows hid his eyes as he looked up from his whittling. “Married. In Scotland, it is only necessary to declare yourself man and wife before witnesses and the deed is done. We did that and more. We even have a minister who attests to our vows. England must abide by Scottish law. And there’s obviously no question of annulment.”

  The nausea churned stronger as all the implications roiled in her mind. Married. She was married. To Michael. She had a vague understanding of Gretna Green elopements. But...

  This just wasn’t possible. She couldn’t have a husband. He could go to Neville and her solicitors and demand a settlement. Even though her grandfather’s trust left the control of his estate in her hands, the solicitors would consult with him rather than her. She would become a figurehead, a useless piece of flotsam adorning his house. Her house. He would live in her house, on her money. All because of a few words said in the heat of the moment.

  “That can’t be true,” she protested weakly. “It can’t be legal. I never agreed to such a thing. I don’t want a husband.”

  “You’ve made that plain enough,” he agreed. “But you’re the one who came to my bed, not the other way around. I did what I thought necessary for any child we created. He has a name and a father, just as I said he must. Whether you acknowledge me or not is your decision. I’ll not interfere, except where the child is concerned. And you agreed to that.”

  Pressing her fingers into her stomach, Blanche leaned against the cabin’s outside wall and stared over the choppy waters. Married. Clenching her teeth, she reined in her temper so she didn’t send Michael running.

  “Fine. I never intended to marry anyway. I’ll open the house in Dorset. We can go there in summers and at Christmas. I don’t know how else I can give you access to the child. Neville would find it a trifle suspicious should you make free with the London house.”

  “I’m sure Dorset would be better for a child than London,” he answered agreeably. “But don’t dictate what I’ll do or where I’ll be, not any more than I’ll tell you the same.”

  Ladies didn’t scream, she reminded herself. Ladies didn’t pick up oars and bang gentlemen over the head. Ladies merely picked themselves up and stood at the rail and retched up their insides.

  * * *

  The wind whipped their clothes and hair as the ship sailed into Plymouth harbor. Michael tugged the shawl more securely around Blanche and wrapped his arm around her shoulders for warmth. His wife stood as stiff as a board his arms, and he didn’t feel much better. She’d scarcely spoken since his declaration. He wasn’t certain he could blame her. But he’d done what needed doing, and he would hold no regrets.

  As they sailed, he’d asked what she knew about the mines Eamon had warned him about. She knew pitifully little. Her grandfather must have been demented to dump such a burden on her frail shoulders. Blanche’s neg
ligent father hadn’t raised her to know anything about business. She could run an enormous household and estate, but not factories and mines. She could learn, given time and proper teachers, but she had neither.

  Michael didn’t believe she had the inclination, either. She just stubbornly refused to admit it.

  “I suggest we enter Bodmin incognito.” At her silence, Michael considered doing as he pleased without her consent. But he owed Blanche an explanation. Grimly, he admitted he must learn the adjustments of married life even if she refused. “We will have a better chance of hearing the truth if we’re strangers, and you’ll be safe from a personal attack by the radicals.”

  She nodded cautiously. That was a good sign.

  They hired an open carriage and driver and set out toward Bodmin while the weather held. Michael tried maintaining his distance, but the narrow carriage seat didn’t allow much room, and the jiggling springs kept throwing them together. He hated thinking what the bouncy ride did to her queasy stomach.

  He finally gave up, propped his feet against the driver’s chair, and rested his arm on the cushion behind Blanche. When the ruts threw her into him, he tugged her against his shoulder. She settled there without complaint. It gave him an oddly protective feeling, as if he truly acted as husband, and he spent the rest of their journey imagining how it might be if he had the right to do this all the time. With Blanche, he thought he might enjoy it.

  They arrived in Bodmin late that evening with clouds building on the horizon and distant lightning crackling across the sky. The driver leapt down at an inn on the outskirts of town and returned a few minutes later with news that a room could be had. Michael thanked the man, gave him some of his few coins, and let him lead the horse into the stable where the driver would sleep. He turned and held his arm out for Blanche.

  “It’s your choice. We can sign in under my name, or I will sleep in the public room. Either way, I suggest you take a name other than your own.”

  “I would feel better if you slept with me,” she murmured wearily, leaning on his arm more heavily than usual.

  Without a word, he signed them in under his name and led her upstairs. He ordered warm water for bathing and retreated to the tavern below for the latest gossip. He could learn more in places like this than in any solicitor’s or mine foreman’s office. By the time he returned upstairs, he had some understanding of the mine problem.

  Blanche was sound asleep.

  He wanted to snuggle down in that soft bed beside her, feel her warmth in his arms, measure the growth of his child, but he would only destroy what remained of his sanity by doing so.

  He was well accustomed to hard floors. He supposed, if he applied his mind to it, he could make his fortune and buy soft beds. He’d always known himself capable of it. He’d just never had an incentive before.

  Blanche woke to the sound of soft snores from the floor. She didn’t think she’d ever heard Michael snore. She smiled, feeling a little less alone when she could hear him.

  Bending over the side, she watched him sleep. Magician, juggler, skilled craftsman, and brilliant chameleon that he was, he looked like any ordinary man while asleep. Thick auburn hair tousled and falling over his beard-stubbled face, he slept like one exhausted. Life had honed the harsh angles of his face with hardship. Only when awake, with his mobile lips smiling and his eyes dancing did he lose that grim expression.

  He woke then, instantly alert. His gaze shot to the bed.

  Blanche gave him a pleased grin. She did like being the center of his attention.

  He blinked and regarded her warily. “How do you feel this morning?”

  “Quite well, actually. And starved.”

  He relaxed and propped his head up with his elbow. “The child causes you no distress?”

  She pulled her hair over her shoulder and sat up, holding the sheet high. “It doesn’t normally. Now that I think on it, the only time the sickness comes upon me is when I’m upset over something. I think, perhaps, your child may object to argument as much as you do.”

  Michael grinned and eyed her lap, though she covered it with linen. “Perhaps you should have been a little more particular in your choice of a father for the child. Just think what other bad traits the poor thing might have. You will find him wandering from his crib at six months, disappearing from the nursery at a year. And heaven forbid, he or she might have my hair. Can you see Neville’s face when you come home with a red-headed infant? You had best not choose a dark-haired Italian as a counterfeit father.”

  The possibility that their child might resemble Michael did not displease her at all. But if it should inherit Michael’s character, it would drive her mad. She wanted a docile, loving child like herself. She scowled at him. “By the time the child is grown, red hair might be quite fashionable, but if it insists on running away from home by age six, you can take care of him.”

  Mischief played in Michael’s expression as he rose and sought the washbowl. “Fine, and if it turns out to be a stubborn little termagant, I’ll hand her over to you.”

  “I am not stubborn. Everyone knows I’m pleasant and even-tempered.” Blanche wrapped the sheet around her and tucked it in over her breasts, aware he watched her in the mirror. She gulped when he produced shaving gear and began to soap his face. He’d always done that in privacy before.

  “You are stubborn and intractable and want your own way, and you sweet talk anyone until you get it. I’m not one of your blind-with-greed suitors, my lady. I know your foibles as well as anyone. But I’ll willingly put up with them in return for some very admirable traits you also possess.” He raised a leering eyebrow at the mirror.

  She flung a pillow at his bare back, but he deflected it with his shoulder and let it fall to the floor. “I also have one other trait of which you’re apparently not aware,” she replied with ominous softness.

  He gave her a quizzical look over his shoulder.

  Blanche smiled maliciously. “A need to relieve myself every few hours while carrying your child. Out.” She pointed at the door.

  Eyebrows raised in surprise and chagrin, he beat a hasty retreat.

  * * *

  Michael watched Blanche pick at her food over the breakfast table while he tried to explain Eamon’s warning about the Bodmin miners and the state of her affairs. He wasn’t at all certain she was listening, but at least she hadn’t bashed his brains out yet. If she hadn’t done so for telling her they were married, she really was better tempered than most.

  “From what I can ascertain, your mine had an accident last week that killed three men,” he told her. “There have been similar incidents lately, with eleven lives lost all told. The men are claiming the owner demands every inch of the seam mined, which leaves weak or no supports at all. They believe the owner will close the mine as soon as every possible cent is removed, while risking all their lives in the process. And once the mine is closed, they will have lost their livelihoods. Some have already moved on, but those with families cannot.”

  Blanche raised her eyebrows, appalled. “I am not so desperate for funds that I need cost men their lives for every farthing. I cannot understand Barnaby acting under such an impression. And I have just got rid of the latest steward for making similar suggestions.” She looked at him with open curiosity. “How is the mine manager paid? On the basis of profits?”

  She caught on quickly. Michael produced a folded sheet of vellum from his pocket. “Since I don’t have access to your records, I can’t say for certain, but I would assume so. And I’m not at all certain that Barnaby didn’t have some such agreement with your grandfather also. It’s only reasonable to expect men to make more money when they share in the profit. Unfortunately, some men are more greedy than others, and that is likely the case here. I want to go to the mine office as Barnaby’s replacement. I’ve drawn up a letter for your signature, appointing me as your agent. If the manager thinks I’m another Barnaby, he should tell me all I need to know.”

  Blanche’s eyes widened.
Under other circumstances, Michael would have simply forged her name and gone on. But they had to develop some means of working together, and she must trust him before they could.

  “And what will you do if what you suspect is true?” she asked.

  “I will order the mine closed until you can hire inspectors. If the mine actually is played out, we must locate other mines in the area you could invest in.”

  He hadn’t realized he’d been tense until she nodded in agreement, and he relaxed.

  “You signed us in as husband and wife last night,” she said. “Would a man like Barnaby travel with his wife?”

  Michael thought he saw the direction of her thoughts, and he considered his answer. “He could travel with his wife or mistress, I suppose. My main concern is that they not know who you actually are. Somehow, they know you and not the duke as owner, and I think you would be in physical danger should anyone recognize you. I would feel immensely better if you stayed in the room while I was gone.”

  “I understand your concern, but how can I learn these things myself if I must always hide behind men? I would talk to these people, too, and learn what kind of men they are.”

  “A man like Barnaby would not bring his wife to a mine. No man would. If I can, I will bring the manager back here for tea, and you can meet him then. You might, however, visit the village. You can learn much from talking with other women.”

  “I don’t like it,” she said, “but I understand. When do you think I can start doing this for myself?”

  When the moon turned indigo and the sea dried up, Michael thought grimly. He would never let her suffer any heavy burden if he could prevent it. Blanche might be capable of making the right financial decisions, but the hard edge she’d developed lately that was required to enforce them was taking a toll.

  “I think your first objective is to learn what you own and how it operates. That’s an enormous task in itself. We’ll find you a good teacher when we reach London.”