A Most Unsuitable Groom by Kasey Michaels (7 page)

"Our son has Spanish blood," he began slowly, feeling his way. "At least that's what we believe. I'm told that I spat some fairly choice Spanish at Ainsley the day he found me, took me home with him. Unfortunately, I've forgotten most of it."

"I don't understand."

"I wouldn't expect you to," Spencer told her, smiling even as he sorted facts in his mind, deciding what to reveal, what to conceal. "Ainsley isn't my father or father to any of us except Cassandra— Callie—whose letter you found. The rest of us? Flotsam and jetsam he picked up along the way when he was living in the islands. Haiti. Have you heard of it?"

Mariah nodded. "I think 1 could point it out on a map, yes. To the south and east of the American Florida, yes? It must be warm there."

And then it got hot...too hot to remain there.

"Papa...Ainsley owned sailing ships. Trading ships," he said, keeping to the story that had been told for so long that he sometimes even believed it.

"And you all lived on the island.
Haiti."

"No, not on Haiti itself.
We, um, we had our own island. There are several to choose from in the area"

Why, the man sounded positively embarrassed. Or leery of telling her about his youth. Which was it? "Oh, my. That does sound important. And wonderfully warm weather for all of the year. No snow, no ice freezing over the rivers every winter so that you are virtually isolated from the world. How could you bear to leave?"

"The girls were beginning to grow up, so he decided it was time to return to England. And here we are."

"And who are we?"

Spencer felt on firmer ground here. "I told you that Callie is Ainsley's own child. Her mother died shortly after she was born. Callie's—good God, she's about sixteen now. You'll meet her soon enough, I'm sure— it's difficult to keep Callie away from anything she wants. And then there's Morgan. This is her bedchamber, hers and her husband's, when they visit here from Ethan's estate. Morgan's the Countess of Aylesford now and the mother of twins I've yet to see, now that the earl is making himself useful at the War Office and a nuisance in Parliament—but that's another story"

"One I hope to hear," Mariah said, committing the names to memory. "And the young man from last night? Rian, was it?"

He nodded, "You'll have to excuse him. He isn't usually so silly. Ainsley gathered up Rian and Fanny from the rubble of a church that had taken cannon fire." He smiled wanly. "Another long story, I'm afraid."

"Fanny and Rian," Mariah repeated. "Are they brother and sister?"

"No, not by blood." The baby stirred slightly, made a small sound, and Spencer's heart lurched in his chest. "Is he all right?"

"I think so. He may be getting hungry, poor little scrap. You should probably call someone. And that's all? You, Rian, Callie, Morgan and Eleanor, who has already told me that she lives here with her husband, Jack..."

"And Fanny," he added helpfully. 'Then there's Chance, the oldest of us all. He has his own estate north of London and is married, with two children of his own. And Courtland. God, let's not forget Court. He still lives here and probably always will. You'll recognize him by the perpetual scowl on his bearded face. The world sits heavily on Court's shoulders, you understand."

Mariah lifted William's hand to her mouth, kissed it. "Why?"

"Why?" Spencer repeated, inwardly wincing. Damn his tongue for running too hard. Explaining his family without exposing his family was difficult in the best of times. "No reason. Court just likes to see himself as being in charge of all of us. Elly, too, come to think of it. But they're not. Ainsley is the head of the family, very much so."

"Such a large family. I had only my father," Mariah said. "It must be wonderful, having so many brothers and sisters."

Spencer smiled. "Many would think so, I suppose."

"But you don't?"

"That's not—of course I do. But I'm a younger son and sometimes I feel as if I'm standing at the end of a long queue, awaiting my turn to—never mind."

"No," Mariah said, truly interested. "Waiting your turn for what, Spencer?"

My turn to live.
The words were in his mind, but he didn't say them, ashamed of his desire, his
need,
to be his own man, unburdened by the shadow of Ainsley's past and the dangers that past still held for them all. Because he'd always believed there was a life away from Romney Marsh and, now that he'd seen it, he felt more confined than ever. Because to say the words out loud would brand him as an ungrateful bastard.

Mariah felt the sudden tension in the room and raced to fill the silence. "So Ainsley was once in the shipping trade, you said. What do you all do here? Farm? Herd sheep? What do people do in Romney Marsh?"

Free trade. Ride hell for leather across the Marsh after midnight as the mist rises all round, outrunning the militia as the casks of brandy and tea are moved inland. Race ahead of the wind on the
Respite
upon occasion, just for the thrill of it, playing cat and mouse with a French frigate patrolling the Channel. Cool their heels two weeks out of every four and stare at the choppy sea, aching to see what lies beyond the water.

Spencer bit back a smile. "We keep ourselves busy," he said, standing up once more. 'I'll go find Odette."

'They've already bound my breasts," Mariah heard herself say, and then lowered her head, her cheeks hot. "They won't even let me try. But if it's best for William, I suppose I understand."

"I'm...I'm sorry," Spencer said, sure that Mariah was upset. "You haven't had an easy time of things. I'm sure your woman is only thinking of your own health, as should you. I don't remember most of my voyage home. Was yours an easy crossing?"

She shook her head, wishing away these silly tears that kept threatening. "We had storms most of the way. For six long weeks I spent the majority of my time with my head over a bucket, I'm afraid." She lifted a hand, let it drop onto the coverlet once more. "I know they're right." Her face crumpled slightly. "But I'm his mother."

Spencer felt as useless as a wart on the end of Prinney's nose and sighed in real relief when the door to the hallway opened and Odette came sailing in, a young woman following behind her.

"Here now," Odette said, taking in the scene. "Is this what you're good for, Spencer Becket? Making the girl cry? Take yourself off and be glad I don't turn you into a toad and step on you."

"But I—oh, never mind. Who's this?"

"I'm Sheila, sir," the small brunette said. "Jacob's wife."

"Jacob Whiting? Morgan's Jacob?" Spencer asked, remembering how Jacob had followed Morgan like a puppy for years, the poor besotted fool.

"Not no more he ain't, sir," Sheila said, raising her chin. "I'm weaning my own little Jacob now, and Odette asked for me to nurse the new little one, and that's what I'm doing. Sir."

It seemed he was being put in his place every time he opened his mouth, so Spencer merely nodded and quit the room, promising to return later to see his son again, adding to himself:
when there weren 't so many damned women around.

Mariah sniffled, still feeling sorry for herself, and watched him go, because asking him to stay would make her appear weak and she had the feeling that, no matter how rosy a picture Spencer had painted of Becket Hall and its inhabitants, she would need to be very strong in order to survive here in this strange place. What was odd was that she was beginning to think that Spencer thought the same thing about himself.

Four days passed with Mariah sleeping almost constantly, regaining strength dissipated by the long journey and the hours of labor. And she was content, except when she was complaining. She could see William. He could be laid on her bed. She could stroke his head, kiss his fingers. But she couldn't hold him because, Onatah explained, to hold him would be to draw more milk into her breasts.

She saw Spencer twice during that time, as he, seemed to be avoiding her chamber, even as he used the separate door from the hallway to the dressing room to see his son.
He
could hold William and, irrational as she knew her feelings to be, she hated him for that.

On the fifth day, Mariah decided she'd had enough. Remain in bed for ten long days ? What nonsense! She had given birth. Surely a natural process for a woman. And she felt fine. Well, as fine as anyone could possibly feel, being deprived of most fluids in order to keep the milk away, her breasts strapped tight to her—not to mention the layers of folded cloth between her legs as she continued to bleed, also something she had been told was perfectly natural.

Onatah and Odette had already come and gone, fussing over her, subjecting her to the indignity of washing her, just as if she couldn't do such basic things for herself—it was an amazement to her that they let her clean her own teeth! William was back in his cradle, sleeping the sleep of the well fed; Sheila Whiting had gone back to her own baby.

Mariah was alone. Blessedly alone.

She pushed back the covers and swung herself into a sitting position, ignoring the fact that lying prone for five days could tend to make a person slightly dizzy when that person first attempted to stand up. She took a few deep, steadying breaths, then looked down at the floor, which seemed quite far away.

There was a knock at the door moments before it opened. "Damn it!"

"Mariah? Mariah, what are you doing?"

"Shh, Callie," Mariah called quietly. "Come in here and close the door. Lock it, if necessary. I'm getting up. I'm getting up, I'm getting dressed and I'm going downstairs to see something besides these four very pretty but confining walls before I go stark, staring out of my mind. And it wouldn't be quietly, I promise you."

Callie closed the door and padded across the room to stand at the bottom of the bed. Such a petite, pretty child, all golden-brown curls and huge velvet-brown eyes over a small, pert nose and bee-stung mouth. An angel of a child. Except that, as Mariah had learned to her delight over the past days, Cassandra Becket had the heart of a warrior. And all the deviltry of a born mischief-maker.

"Odette won't like this, you not obeying her orders. Everyone obeys Odette, you know, and is afraid to take a step wrong around her," Callie pointed out and then grinned. "Should I get your clothing for you?"

"Would you?" Mariah asked, sliding off the mattress until her bare feet connected with the carpet. "Everything has been washed and pressed, thank God, not that there's much I didn't strain at the seams these past months." She looked down at her belly beneath the voluminous white night rail. "Oh, would you look at me? Do you think there's another babe still to come out? I still look as round as a dinner plate."