Because of You (12 page)

Samantha drew a deep, steadying breath. She stared at the meat growing cold on her plate. “I meant what I said last night about loving you. I know you don’t love me…but you should give me a chance.” She raised beseeching eyes to him. “Certainly there are ships that have women on them.”

The lines of his face hardened. “It’s not the life for a lady. I will not endanger you in that manner.”

“But if I wanted—”

“No.”

The finality in which he said that one word doused her hopes. The only thing left was to save face. She picked up her fork and pushed a piece of meat on the plate. Tears threatened, but she would not let them fall. He would not appreciate a scene. “I will miss you,” she said at last.

He came around the end of the table to sit beside her, placing his arm around her shoulders.
“Sam, don’t look so glum. I’m not leaving right away. We have to find a cottage for you and we’ll have more time together.” His breath brushed her ear. “It may be weeks before I can pull myself away from you.”

He made “weeks” sound as if it were a lifetime, whereas to her, they seemed mere minutes until he would be gone…and she would be alone.

“Sam?” he prompted.

She set the fork down and stared at her hands in her lap. “Last night, I dreamt we had a baby together.”

His arm left her shoulders. “Baby?” He made the word sound foreign.

“Well, it could happen, considering what we’ve been doing since yesterday afternoon.”

He didn’t speak.

She felt the heat of a blush stain her cheeks. “I hadn’t had time to think about this, but when I woke after the dream…and you and I were so close…I realized I want your baby.” She raised her gaze to his. “But if you are at sea, our son will grow up barely knowing his father. He’ll have a lonely childhood.”

“Son?” The word sounded as if it had been strangled out of him.

“Yes, a son. That was what the baby was in my dream.” Every man wanted a son, didn’t he? A baby was also the one way she could bind Marvin to her.

But she never heard his response, because at
that moment there was a terrible commotion at the entrance of the inn. Booted heels clumped on the Bull and Bear’s wood floor. Through the common room door, Samantha caught a glimpse of servants in a familiar burgundy livery, and one of them wore a snowy white bagwig.

She leaned close to her husband. “I recognize the man in the bagwig. He’s Fenley, the duke of Ayleborough’s personal servant.”

“Ayleborough?” Marvin repeated. He rose slowly to his feet.

Mr. Sadler had gone out into the hallway at the first sound of new guests. They now heard him say, “Your Grace, it is indeed an honor for you to visit my humble establishment.”

The duke was here in Sproule! What an unexpected surprise.

Now Samantha too came to her feet, as did everyone in the room. “This is very exciting,” she whispered to her husband. “The new duke rarely returns to his seat and has never come all the way to Sproule since his father’s funeral.”

“Exciting,” Marvin echoed the word, but he didn’t sound very excited.

At that moment, His Grace, the duke of Ayleborough swept into the room. He was a balding man of medium height with a rather strong nose. Squire Biggers followed behind him, so close on his heels he almost tripped when the duke stopped to speak to Mr. Sadler.

“I was passing through on pressing business and I stopped by to see the good squire because
I heard there was a wedding in Sproule yesterday. My steward informed me that one Marvin Browne—that’s Browne with an ‘e’—was staying here and married the vicar’s daughter. Is that correct?”

Everyone in the room glanced at Samantha and Marvin. Mr. Sadler bobbed up and down and said, “Aye, Your Grace, it’s true.”

Samantha nudged her husband. “Does the duke know you?”

Marvin didn’t answer.

“Amazing,” Ayleborough said. “Marvin Browne was my tutor. I was very fond of him.”

Again there was mention of the tutor. Something was not quite right. Samantha glanced up in question at Marvin, but he wasn’t attending her. Instead, his gaze was on the duke.

“But I seem to remember the vicar’s daughter as being a young woman, is that not so?” the duke said. “Mr. Browne must be well over eighty if he is a day. A good man, though. I had thought he’d passed on years ago, but I must be mistaken.” He tugged on his glove. “Where is he? I’d like to see him.”

Mr. Sadler shot a look at Squire Biggers, who shrugged. “He’s here in this room now, Your Grace,” Mr. Sadler said, and then stepped back.

“In this room?” the duke demanded, anxiously scanning the room for Marvin Browne.

Everyone was staring at them now, except Ayleborough.

And then the duke’s searching gaze reached
her husband. His mouth dropped open and he appeared to have a sudden problem breathing.

She started forward, fearing he was having an apoplectic fit, but Marvin’s hands came down on her shoulders. He gently but firmly held her to his side.

“It can’t be,” Ayleborough said slowly. “It’s impossible.”

Her husband drew a deep breath, straightening his shoulders. “Yes, brother, it is I.”

“But we thought you dead,” Ayleborough said.

Marvin opened his palms like a magician showing he played no tricks. “I’m not.”

C
onfused, Samantha looked to her husband, not understanding.
The duke was his brother? But Alyeborough’s family name wasn’t Browne.

She expected the duke to deny the relationship, but once he had recovered from his initial shock, he said in a clipped, polite voice, “I think it best we continue this conversation in private.”

“As you wish,” Marvin answered, equally formal. He could have been addressing a stranger.

“Fenley,” Ayleborough said to the bagwigged servant. “Make arrangements for a private room.” Fenley pulled Mr. Sadler aside and the two men stepped into the hall.

Marvin turned to Samantha. “I must talk to my brother. It will take only a few minutes. Do you wish to stay here and finish your breakfast, or go up to the bedroom?”

She could scarce believe her own ears. “You’re not jesting, are you?”

“About your going to the bedroom, or about
the duke being my brother?” he asked, expressionless.

Samantha made an impatient sound. “The duke.”

“No.”

She rocked back on her heels as she digested this new information. She cast a quick glance around the common room. Mrs. Sadler, Squire Biggers, the duke’s servants—all watched her as if witnessing a play unfold.

Only Ayleborough and her husband seemed not to notice. Then, for the briefest second, the duke’s gaze met hers. He looked away quickly.

Marvin must have seen the exchange. He took her hand. “You know I’ll always take care of you. You understand that, don’t you?”

She searched his grim face, feeling more uncertain than before. He stood so close, she could see the texture in his eyes. This morning, she had teased him about how dark they were, claiming he must be hiding a black soul to have such unfathomable eyes. She had been lying on top of him, naked, happy, satiated. Her teasing had brought a flicker of copper light into his eyes and she had declared him not completely unsalvageable. He’d laughed then and had rolled her down onto the bed, where he’d tickled her, and when she’d begged for mercy, he’d held her in his arms and kissed her tenderly.

Even sitting here in the middle of the common room with everyone staring at them, her body ached for his touch…while her pride, and what
was left of her common sense, warned her to beware.

“You’re not really a sailor.”

He shook his head. “Not here, Sam. I’ll answer all your questions, but not here. There are too many people watching.”

She nodded dumbly. Nothing made sense—

A blinding flash of insight caught her unawares. She forgot his warning. “You aren’t really Marvin Browne. You couldn’t be and also be the duke’s brother.”

The line of his mouth flattened. But he didn’t deny her accusation.

And she had her answer. The realization shook her to the core.

Fenley informed the duke that a private room was ready. Ayleborough looked to her husband. “I’ll be back shortly, Sam. We’ll talk then.”

Samantha started moving with him. “I will go with you. I must hear everything.”

“It would be best if you waited,” he said.

She nodded to the small crowd watching them. “I’ll go mad waiting. I want to be there.”

He hesitated, but changed his mind. “Then come.” He tucked her hand in the crook of his arm. It was a possessive gesture—and yet as she followed him across the room toward the duke, she felt as if she walked beside a complete stranger.

Her legs felt like two rickety poles which could barely support her weight. Head high, she
managed to avoid the curious and wondering eyes of her friends and neighbors.

However, at the door of the inn’s single private room, her husband stopped. “Samantha, wait for me inside. I have something I must attend to.”

Ayleborough already waited for them. A flash of irritation crossed his face. “Yale, you can’t leave now.”

Yale.
Of course. She felt stupid that her befuddled mind was taking so long to put all the pieces together. “You are the prodigal? The one who died at sea?”

He frowned at her use of the word “prodigal.” “I will explain everything, but I need one moment.” Without further explanation, he left her alone with the duke of Ayleborough.

“Please come in,” Ayleborough said in a kind voice. “It’s Miss Northrup, Vicar Northrup’s daughter, isn’t it?”

Samantha nodded mutely.

“Well, sit here in this chair, my dear. My brother has always had his own priorities.” He guided Samantha to one of the four chairs sitting in front of a cheery fire burning in the hearth. Gratefully, she sank down onto the hard wood chair seat. She felt cold, very cold—but her chill wasn’t from the weather and the heat of the fire could not help her.

“Fenley, fetch something for Miss Northrup to drink,” Ayleborough said. The servant hurried to comply. The door shut behind him.

Samantha raised her eyes to his. “I’m not really married, am I?”

“Married?” This news seemed to surprise the duke more than discovering his brother was alive.

She grasped her hands in her lap. “Yes, Marv—I mean…” Her voice trailed off. “I don’t know what to call him,” she confessed.

The duke drummed his fingers on the table. “Don’t call him anything for now. Just tell me what happened.”

Samantha told him of the marriage in a low monotone. She kept her emotions firmly in check. In reality, she was afraid of feeling anything. Afraid of the truth. When she’d finished, she forced herself to ask, “Is he the one everyone thought had died at sea?”

The duke clasped his hands behind his back. “Yes.”

Samantha was thankful she was sitting, or she might have swooned. She’d unknowingly married Yale Carderock.
The prodigal
…
the rakehell
…
the scoundrel!
She’d called him as much the night they’d met.

The door opened without a knock. Her husband came back in the room, closing the door firmly behind him. She stared at her hands lying uselessly in her lap, listening to his steps walk the wooden floor toward her.

His booted feet stopped in front of her. “Sam, I’m sorry you heard the truth this way.”

“Which is?” she asked carefully, needing him
to explain all—yet fearing the explanation.

“I’m not Marvin Browne.”

There. He’d admitted it. “With an ‘e,’” she added softly.

His hand came down on her shoulder, but suddenly she could not bear his touch. It sparked too many memories, too many questions.

She shook his hand off and came out of the chair, practically fleeing to the other side of the room. She would have run further if she could have. Instead, she crossed her arms protectively against her chest, waiting.

Fenley interrupted them with a tray of drinks. Understanding that his presence was not wanted, he placed the tray on the table and backed out of the room.

The duke took command. “Yale, tell us what happened. We’re both shocked. After all, everyone in England has believed you dead for years.”

“I survived the storm,” Yale said curtly. “I don’t know how you received news of my death. You would know more about that than I.”

“But why didn’t you contact us? And why have you returned now, after all these years?” Ayleborough asked.

For the span of a heartbeat, Samantha thought she saw regret in her husband’s dark eyes, but his voice revealed no emotion as he said, “I came to see Father.”

“You’re late,” Ayleborough said crisply.

“I gathered that,” came the dry response.

For the first time, seeing the two men standing
together, Samantha was struck by the uncanny resemblance. Yale towered almost four inches over his brother and had dark hair and eyes, yet both shared lean jawlines and strong noses. Worse, they shared the ability to look right through a person. They were doing so right now to each other. Stubborn, resolute, arrogant…it was a quality born into them and more telling of their paternity than a certificate of birth.

She also sensed they were more strangers than friends.

She cleared her throat and dared to ask, “Why didn’t you tell me your real name?”

“Yes,” Ayleborough agreed. “Why didn’t you tell her who you really are? Or have you no pride in your family name?”

“Damn you, Wayland,” came the low, dangerous growl from the man she’d married. “I owe an explanation to her, not to you. Father disinherited me…or have you forgotten?”

Ayleborough’s blue eyes flashed with anger. Samantha doubted if anyone ever talked to him in that manner. “I have not forgotten,” he answered, but then he paused, the stiffness leaving his body. “It was the one thing in our father’s life he truly regretted. Yale, he’d sent runners out to look for you. He realized he shouldn’t have done it almost the moment it was done. He hadn’t really planned for matters to go so far. It was all a mistake.”

“A mistake?” Yale shook his head. “He posted the announcement in the papers, Wayland. He
turned my life upside down. My friends refused me and all doors were shut to me. He left me with nothing. And now you tell me it was a mistake.”

“He only wished to point out to you the error of your ways,” the duke answered, defending their father.

“Well, he did that,” Yale answered. “It was a bitter lesson. I wouldn’t have wished it on my worst enemy.”

Ayleborough shifted uncomfortably. “Yes. Well, you know how our father could be.” Almost as if for Samantha’s benefit, he added, “He expected much from his sons.”

“And I was a far cry from what he thought proper,” Yale injected crushingly. “He couldn’t wait to turn me out.”

“Yale, that’s not it. Perhaps if you’d done better in school,” the duke said, as if picking up the threads of an old conversation.

“It was more than that, Wayland, and you know it.” He looked to Samantha. “It’s true I was a poor student, the bane of my tutors. Father hated imperfection in any form…especially when he had perfection in Wayland.”

“Yale, I was not—”

“Nonsense, brother. You were—and are—the very image of our father. He couldn’t help but admire you more.”

Ayleborough turned toward the mantel, staring into the fire a moment before saying in a
quiet voice, “I’m also different in many ways.”

“Yes?” Yale drawled with a lack of interest. “That remains to be seen, doesn’t it? So far I’m unimpressed.”

Samantha drew in a sharp breath. She’d never heard anyone even dare to speak of the powerful duke of Ayleborough in this manner.

Nor was the duke accustomed to it. His eyes narrowed on his brother as if he studied a disagreeable insect. “You will remember my station.”

Yale smiled, his expression cynical. “I have never been allowed to forget it. After all, I was the one too unworthy to be the son of the duke of Ayleborough.”

Ayleborough pounded his fist against the mantel. “Damn you, Yale. You never were one to listen to reason. Can’t you see what a devil of a fix you are in? I’m the only one who can release you from it. Once those villagers realize you’ve married Miss Northrup under false circumstances and played a prank on all of them, they’ll want to see you hanging from the highest tree in Sproule.”

Yale’s fists doubled at his side. He stood ramrod straight, towering over his brother. “My marriage to Miss Northrup is not a prank. Nor do I need or seek your help. We would have been gone from Sproule by now, except for your appearance.”

“Oh, pardon me for inconveniencing you.”
Ayleborough’s voice dripped sarcasm. “By the way, what were your plans for her? Were you just going to drag her here and there like a wandering gypsy?”

“She’d be with me,” Yale said.

“To do what? To go where?”

“That is none of your bloody business…
Your Grace.
”

“Oh, but it is now. I’m the head of this family—”

“And I’m not a part of it. I was given the boot, the sack. I have no claim on the house of Ayleborough, and it has no claim on me!”

For a long moment the two men squared off, their eyes alive with anger. Samantha didn’t know what to think. She resented their talking about her as if she were nothing more than a sack of wool—yet she felt she was witnessing a clash of titans.

Then the duke hit the table with his fist so hard it jumped. “Damn you, Yale. You are the most infuriating person. You never would listen to reason. Eleven years has done nothing to change you!” He paced the floor in silence.

Samantha glanced at her husband. He was completely unmoved by the duke’s outburst.

She broke the silence. “Were you ever going to tell me the truth?”

With a start, both men turned to look at her. It was as if they’d forgotten her.

Yale took a step toward her. “Sam…I don’t want you to think the wrong thing.”

“Then what is the right thing?” she asked, her voice a quiet contrast to their shouting. “I want to hear the story from your lips.”

For a moment she feared he wouldn’t answer her. And then he spoke. “Seeing my own grave in the vault that night shocked me. I’d come to Sproule because I’d been told my father was dead. I didn’t believe it. Childish of me, wasn’t it, to think he would live forever? But then, Wayland will tell you Father possessed that sort of charisma.”