Captain's Bride (29 page)

“And just how do you intend to make me?”

Nicholas looked at her hard. He had hoped she’d see
reason, and in time he felt sure she would have. But he hadn’t
counted on McMillan. Time was running out. “If you don’t marry me
now, this minute, I’ll bury you in scandal, just as I did before.
I’ll tell all of Boston the child’s my bastard. I’ll ruin any
chance of happiness for all of you.”

Her look of despair, of utter betrayal, tore at his
heart.

“You would do that to your own child?”

“What do you think?” he asked. Then inwardly winced
when she replied.

“Of course you would. You’d do anything to get what
you wanted. You always have.”

He ached to tell her she was wrong. That he would
never do another thing to hurt her or their child. That if she had
truly loved George McMillan he would have let her go. That once
they were married, he would spend the rest of his life making
amends for the pain he’d caused her. But the words wouldn’t
come—there was just too much at stake. His love for her. The love
he hoped to rekindle. The child she carried in her womb.

“Then let’s get on with the ceremony,” was all he
said. Unwilling to face George McMillan, Glory moved woodenly
toward the altar. “The captain is right, Mr. Markham. I was
marrying the wrong man. Please begin again. This is Nicholas
Blackwell—my bridegroom.” George rushed to her side. “Glory, what
are you saying? Has this madman threatened you?”

“It’s his child, George. There’s nothing else I can
do.”

“Glory, please, there must be some other way.”

“No, George. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I’m sorry for
everything that’s happened. I hope you won’t think too badly of
me.”

“I love you, Glory. How could I possibly think badly
of you?”

“I think it’s best if you leave us now. In time
you’ll find someone else to love.”

George McMillan bristled. He rose to his full height
and turned his attention to Nicholas. “Captain Blackwell, I demand
satisfaction.”

“Oh, Lord, no,” Glory whispered. Not this, too!
“Please, George,” she pleaded, “don’t do this. He’ll kill you.
Don’t fight him, I beg you.”

“Listen to the lady, George,” Nicholas said without a
trace of arrogance. “You seem to be a good man. There’s no need for
you to die.”

“I’m asking for satisfaction. Are you a coward as
well as a cur?”

Nicholas fought a surge of temper. A month ago he
wouldn’t have wavered. Now he looked at Glory, who was perched on
the edge of hysteria, then at George McMillan, and wished there was
some way to spare the lady more grief. McMillan stood erect,
waiting for an answer. It was obvious the man would not back down.
“Will tomorrow be soon enough?” he said with a casualness he didn’t
feel. “After all, today’s my wedding day.”

McMillan’s handsome face flushed an angry beet red.
“Tomorrow morning at dawn. There’s a small grove of trees just
below Breed’s Hill. Be there.”

“As you wish.”

George turned and stormed down the aisle, hitting the
double doors so hard Glory feared they might splinter.

“Please, Nicholas,” she said, her tone pleading,
“don’t do this.”

“Right now the only thing I want to do is marry you.”
He looped her cold hand over his, then nestled it securely in the
crook of his arm. Glory felt the smooth fabric of his black serge
tailcoat beneath her cold fingers. She was angry and more than a
little afraid. It was all she could do not to turn and bolt for the
door.

“Shall we get on with it?” Nicholas said to the
minister before she had the chance. His eyes held a gentleness
she’d seen only a few other times, and the look, and the strength
of his hand, helped to calm her raging fears.

“Trust me, love. Everything’s going to be all
right.”

“I trusted you before,” she said and was sure she saw
him flinch.

The ceremony went smoothly, what little Glory
remembered. Nicholas laced her stiff fingers through his warm ones,
and she felt his strength and power. Some of it seemed to flow into
her, giving her the courage she needed. Aunt Flo sat quietly
dabbing at the tears in her eyes.

When the minister asked for the ring, Nicholas
surprised her by pulling a tiny velvet box from his pocket.

“I wanted to propose last night, but . . . I hope you
like it.”

He slipped the emerald-cut diamond solitaire onto her
finger, the fiery lights throwing a rainbow of color against her
skin. Glory didn’t tell him how lovely the ring was, so simple, so
exquisite. It only made her more angry that he had chosen exactly
what she would have.

When the ceremony ended, they returned to the
brown-stone, where a Christmas dinner of roast goose with oyster
dressing, fresh steamed vegetables, homemade cranberry sauce, and
mincemeat pie waited in celebration of the newlyweds. No one
mentioned Glory’s substitute groom.

Glory didn’t speak to Nicholas at all. She felt angry
and resentful. He’d thrust himself into her life, just as he had
before. All she had worked for—her independence, the life she’d
been building in Boston, her convictions—seemed threatened by
Nicholas’s intrusion.

She didn’t love him anymore, of that she was certain.
She’d lost whatever she felt for him a long, long time ago. That he
still stirred her blood, she grudgingly admitted. But that was
lust, not love. She had already come to grips with her passionate
nature. Her father had been a passionate man; she’d inherited the
trait from him. She refused to acknowledge the fact that George
McMillan never once stirred a passionate chord.

Wherever she went, Nicholas watched her, never
standing more than a few feet away, his eyes warm and light. He and
Aunt Flo jousted back and forth, and though her aunt had tried and
failed repeatedly to discourage Nicholas from meeting with George,
Glory feared her aunt was succumbing to Nicholas’s powerful
charm.

After dinner Nicholas sought Jeremy out. Watching
them, Glory wondered what they discussed.

“Jeremy?’ Nicholas approached him in the foyer. “I’d
like a moment if you please.”

The little butler nodded stiffly. He’d been sullen
all evening. It was obvious he felt guilty for revealing Glory’s
wedding plans.

“I know you believe you’ve done Glory a grave
disservice,” Nicholas said. “You think she’d have been happier
married to McMillan.”

The little man just stared, his eyes fixed on the
ceiling somewhere over Nicholas’s shoulder.

“I can only tell you that I love her. That I want her
happiness more than anything in the world. If I didn’t truly
believe I could give her that happiness, I wouldn’t have forced the
wedding. I hope you’ll believe that and put your conscience at
ease. I promise you won’t be sorry.”

Jeremy Wiggins felt stunned. Never in all his years
of service had a gentleman spoken to him as an equal. Never had a
member of the upper class deigned to explain his actions to a mere
servant—not even George McMillan. As he watched the tall sea
captain move back to the place beside his bride and pull her hand
onto his lap, he felt a surge of admiration for the man he’d been
determined to hate. And a grudging feeling that he had accidentally
done the right thing.

As the hour grew late, Glory became more and more
edgy. Nicholas seemed perfectly relaxed as he reclined comfortably
beside her on the tapestry sofa in the sitting room. He never tried
to force her into conversation, just carried on politely with Aunt
Flo, speaking as if they were truly the blissful newlyweds they
appeared. It was all Glory could do to remain in the room. How dare
he look so pleased with himself! My Lord, the man had taken her
virtue, ruined her reputation, and forced her into an unwanted
marriage! Who knew what other evil intentions he had?

Every few minutes her glance strayed to the top of
the stairs. Surely he wouldn’t claim his husbandly rights with the
baby so close. But there were men who did. If the baby had a
tenuous hold on life, as the doctor feared, making love might harm
it in some way. If she spoke to Nicholas about her misgivings,
surely he would understand. Surely he was as concerned with the
child’s safety as she.

But when she chanced a look at those light gray eyes
she saw the old hunger, and a new edge of worry gnawed at her
heart. Would Aunt Flo and the few servants they had be able to stop
him? Or would he take her out of the house, demand she share his
cabin on the ship? She’d seen his cruelty. She couldn’t trust
him.

Swallowing hard, she twisted the folds of her plum
velvet skirt until she felt the warmth of Nicholas’s hand against
her cheek. He turned her face toward his, forcing her to look at
him.

“Tell me what it is you fear?” he said softly.

“What makes you think I’m afraid?” She raised her
chin defiantly. But her eyes strayed to the stairway, and
Nicholas’s gray eyes warmed.

“You used to enjoy my bed,” he teased, but Glory
didn’t smile.

“I . . . fear for the babe.”

“The babe?” He seemed incredulous.

She stiffened, suddenly realizing how ridiculous she
must sound. “I’m sorry. You must think me a fool. Obviously you
have no interest in a woman whose waistline is as large as a flour
barrel.”

He chuckled softly, the sound no more than a rumble
in his wide hard chest. “To you it may seem so, but I assure you,
that is not the case.” His eyes moved to the fullness of her
breasts, heavier now with the babe. “You look beautiful and
womanly, and I desire you just as I always have. But I’ll not force
myself on you.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time,” she said with a
surge of spirit.

“I was wrong to do what I did.” He settled his hand
on her stomach, the warmth of his touch spreading all the way to
her toes. “You needn’t fear. I’ll not take you to my bed until
you’re ready.” His gray eyes caressed her face. “Never doubt I want
this child as much as you do. I shall do nothing to harm it. I’ll
be returning to the ship tonight. You may have the rest of the week
to ready yourself for the journey to Tarrytown. We can be there by
the end of the following week. I want you safely installed in your
new home before you are any further along.”

“But I . . .”

“You what?”

“It isn’t important.”

“Tell me.”

“No.”

“Please.”

The word sounded so foreign coming from Nicholas she
weakened. “I’ll sound like a coward.”

“Never.”

“I was only thinking about . . . about when the baby
comes. Would it be all right if Aunt Flo attended me?”

“Of course. Your mother, too, if that’s what you
want.” Her mother. Funny, she’d hardly thought of her mother since
she left Summerfield Manor. Proof they were strangers after all.
She’d written several letters, none of which mentioned the child or
the circumstances that had taken her so far from home. Superficial
letters, meaningless.

The ones she’d received in return had demanded that
she return to Summerfield Manor—with Nathan in tow. She had duties,
her mother reminded her, responsibilities. Reading between the
lines, Glory assumed that meant she should resume her relationship
with Eric Dixon. Bring their two plantations together. After what
she’d been through, it all seemed senseless to Glory.

She glanced away. “Thank you,” was all she said.
“You’ve had a long day. As much as I hate to leave, I think you’d
better get some sleep.” He smiled. “Walk me to the door like a
dutiful young bride?”

Her head came up. “If you’ll promise not to meet
George McMillan on the morrow.”

His eyes turned stormy. “He gave me no choice. I want
nothing more to come between us. I’ll not have it said you’re
married to a coward.”

“Nicholas, I’m begging you.”

“No.”

“You owe me this. I’ve never asked you for anything.
I’m asking you now.”

He touched her cheek, took a long deep breath, and
released it slowly. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“After you’ve killed George?” she asked, temper
barely in check. “If you harm him, I’ll never forgive you,
Nicholas.”

“Sleep well, love.” Long strides carried him from the
room.

Glory mounted the stairs to her room, tom between
anger and despair. If Nicholas dueled with George on the morrow,
George was bound to be wounded or killed. He was a gentleman, not a
fighter. She was surprised he even knew how to use a gun. She had
pleaded with Nicholas, and, as usual, he’d ignored her wishes. She
slammed her hand against the banister, the sound ringing in the
empty foyer. Damn him! Damn him to hell! He was every bit the cur
George said he was, and yet . . . when she looked at him, she felt
that same deadly attraction she’d felt before. What was there about
Nicholas Blackwell that sent all reasonable thought fleeing on the
wind?

Unable to find an answer, Glory readied herself for
bed. By the time she climbed between the pan-warmed sheets, she’d
made a decision: George McMillan was a kind and decent man. Beyond
that, he was her friend. She wouldn’t stand by and see Nicholas
Blackwell murder him. Pregnant or not, she’d be at Breed’s Hill at
dawn.

“Are you ready, gentlemen?” McMillan’s second, a
wispy, sallow-skinned man who looked to be a few years younger,
stood in front of the dueling men.

“It’s not too late to call this off,” Nicholas said
to the man who faced him, pistol in hand, a look of cold
determination lining his handsome face. “Your concern for the
woman’s honor is well noted. Dying seems a senseless means of
proving it.”

“In case the thought hadn’t crossed your mind,
Captain, it’s you who will die this day. Glory’s husband is already
presumed dead. I’ll just be marrying the widow Blackwell instead of
Hatteras.”

Nicholas nodded. “If that’s your final word, we may
as well get on with it.”