My Favorite Bride (29 page)

William sat at his desk, shoulders slumped, his head in his hands, and wondered how everything had gone so wrong so quickly. He'd fallen in love, passionately, madly in love. He'd abandoned his morals to take Samantha, standing on the porch while the music played and the candles glowed,
while he should have been at the ball as host. A woman not of his own class, of unknown origins, and he'd been so swept by passion . . . well. This proved that his morals were the correct morals. He should have never given in. He should have demanded to know who her family was. He should have investigated her background so this would have never happened.

Except . . . he wanted her again. Right now. Here. On the desk. On the floor. On the sofa. He'd been so mad with passion he had been willing to abandon everything he believed and expose his children to Samantha's thieving ways so he could have her.

And she had rejected him.

He groaned. He writhed with mortification. That lying little thief had slashed him with her scorn and walked out his life.

He would heal, of course. He would get over her, of course.

But right now, he felt as if he was bleeding in his gut. In his heart. And he couldn't stop the one thing that ripped at his peace more than anything.

Doubt.

What if she hadn't stolen those things? What if pride had made her claim she had, and all the while he had another thief in the house, one who knew of her past and for some nefarious reason wished to separate them? But there had been no change in staff.

This misgiving was only the desperate groping of a man in pain. Samantha had done it. She
had.

He didn't bother to lift his head when he heard
the door open. He didn't care who it was. He just wanted them to go away. “What do you want?” he asked.

“I've got the report from the coast,” Duncan said.

“Did it go well?” William didn't care.

“It depends on what you mean by well.” Duncan stood in the doorway, unwilling to come close. No one wanted to be with William now. “The ship weighed anchor in the bay. The boat came in to transport the passengers out. Pashenka did as we anticipated. He snatched Lady Featherstonebaugh's reticule, ran into the water, clambered in the boat and ordered them to push off. Featherstonebaugh brayed like a donkey and chased after him, into the water and almost into the boat.”

William lifted his head. “What do you mean, almost?”

Duncan seemed to alternate between horrified and amused. “Lady Featherstonebaugh lifted her pistol and shot him.”

“My God! Is he dead?”

“Quite dead. Amazing shooting for a woman with a popgun like that.” Duncan blinked. “We rushed in then, shot all around the boat while Pashenka ordered them to row for their lives. We took Lady Featherstonebaugh into custody, but William . . . she seems quite mad. She was talking to people who weren't there.”

“Perhaps the judge will have pity on her, and confine her to Bedlam.”

“If you call that pity. I'd rather hang.”

“So it's over at last.” Odd, to think William had nothing to do now, no mission to accomplish. He
had avenged Mary's death, and he had thought to feel jubilation. Instead, he felt only pain.

Duncan watched William almost . . . sympathetically. “Are you all right?”

“I'll survive.”

“I know that. But will you ever admit that you made a mistake?” Duncan sighed. “Don't answer that. I'm off, then. Taking Teresa home by way of the vicar's. I'll get her wed yet.”

William tried to be glad for his friends. Was glad for his friends. But so envious, too. Standing, he moved around the desk and walked toward Duncan, hand out. “Good luck to you.”

Duncan strode forward and shook hands.

The two men looked at each other, and William remembered all the months and all the patrols, all the deception and all the exhilaration. Each laughed, William with hoarse amusement, and gave each other a brisk hug. “Congratulations,” William said. “Teresa's a wonderful woman.”

“I don't deserve her. But don't tell her that.” With a wave, Duncan went out the door.

William heard him say, “Good morning, L'il Bit. Going in to see your papa?”

“N . . . no,” a small voice stammered.

Mara.

William knew it was selfish,
but he was glad she wouldn't come in to see him. He didn't want to try and explain to his accusing children why Samantha had left. He didn't have an answer, except that he'd failed in the most important mission of his life. Making his way back to his desk, he sank back down in the chair and put his head in his hands again.

But he wasn't to get off so easily.

“Father?”

He looked up quickly.

Pale and frightened, Mara stood staring at him.

He modulated his tone to be kind and fatherly. “Mara, is this something that could wait? I'm really busy here.”

She glanced back at the door as if the thought of escape enticed her. Then she shook her head and dragged the toes of her boots on the carpet as she slowly walked in.

He managed not to snap out an order to march briskly with her head up and her shoulders back. If he were to be fair—and if Samantha were here, she would insist he be fair—he wasn't currently a portrait of military demeanor himself.

Mara got to the other side of the desk and stared at him with large, wondering eyes. “What is it, Mara?”

In an incredulous little tone, she asked, “Father, have you been crying?”

“No. Not crying.” Not with his eyes, but with his heart.

Looking down, she dug in her pocket and brought out a small gold frame. Her hand shook as she extended it across the desk.

He caught her skinny wrist.

It was his wife's miniature.

“Where did you find this?”

“I didn't find it.” She took a quavering breath. “I took it.”

His hand loosened. His mind blanked. He didn't
know what to think. What to say. He gazed at the painting of Mary held in that small, shaking hand.

His own daughter. His own blood. Once a thief, always a thief. Black is black and white is white and shades of gray never existed.

He could scarcely speak. “Did you take all of Mama's things?”

Mara nodded, her complexion so white it was almost green. Her mouth worked as if she was trying not to bawl. He saw her swallow.

What had he done?

He stood.

Mara skittered backward, a little girl who had worked up all her courage just to face her father and tell the truth.

Moving slowly, careful not to frighten her more, he sat again. He shoved back his chair. He patted his knee. “Come and tell your papa all about it.”

Chapter Twenty-nine

The coach careened down the mountain and with each curve, Samantha smacked the side of the coach, and all of the backward-facing passengers smashed into her. Then, as the coach straightened out, they pulled themselves back into seats and waited grimly for the next bend, the next slide across the crowded seat. Eight people, four facing front, four facing back. Six men, two women, all suffering passengers, stuck in a stifling coach with the windows closed to keep out the dust, all anxious for their arrival in York.

Samantha stared out the window of the coach, trying hard to be glad to leave these rugged fells behind. She hated the country. She had always hated the country, with its fresh air, waving grasses, and carnivores waiting to devour an unsuspecting city girl. Yes, she couldn't wait to be
back in London, with its constant noise, the smell of rotting refuse, the filthy fog that painted everything from the buildings to a woman's best gloves black. Adorna would not be happy to see her . . .

“Whoa!” she heard the coachman shout. “Whoa, there.”

“Why're we stopping?” The burgher from Edinburgh lowered the window and craned his neck out. “Ach, ‘tis a tree doon in the road.”

The passengers groaned.

Samantha tried not to indulge in a leap of joy. The tree was an unnecessary delay, an inconvenience . . . and one that would give her a few more minutes here, in the Lake District. Minutes standing on the road, looking at Devil's Fell, at the waterfalls, at the drystone walls . . . and crying because she had to leave. For no matter what she told herself, the truth was she'd grown rather fond of the region. Or rather—of the people she'd met here.

“Stand and deliver!” The cry sounded from off the road.

Stand and deliver?
Samantha frowned. And a tree down in the road. Coincidence, surely. That was
not
William's deep voice, made menacing with practice. He would not have come after her. Not after the bitter words they'd exchanged. She had made her thoughts quite clear.

The housewife on the other side of the coach fell back against the seat, her hand clasped to her ample bosom. “Highwaymen.” Her voice grew louder. “Highwaymen! They're going to rob us and rape us.”

“You first,” Samantha muttered. She really had to get a grip on her misery.

“There're a lot o' them.” The Scotsman squinted with puzzlement. “Some are wretched short.”

Short? What did he mean, short? But she was afraid she knew. “Like children?” she asked.

The robber outside shouted, “We're looking for a female, tall, thin, beautiful.”

Lowering her head, Samantha slid down in her seat. It was William, and she would never forgive him as long as she lived.

And at the same time . . . she wanted to laugh.

“Blonde hair so fair it's like moonlight. Give her up to us, and we'll let the rest of you go.”

Every gaze was fixed on her.

“She's not beautiful,” the housewife declared, “but she fits the rest of the description.”

One of the men kicked the door open.

Everyone in the coach lent a hand to lift Samantha out of her seat and shove her out. She stumbled and landed in a heap on the road.

“Now see here!” the coachman shouted at the six little highwaymen and one full-sized highwayman, all with scarves pulled up over their noses. “I can't have ye abductin' me passengers. I'll get a bad reputation, I will!”

The tallest of the children shouted, “You already got her fare. What do you care if she's abducted?”

Agnes. Agnes was participating in this outrage. In fact—Samantha staggered to her feet—all of the children sat, masked, on horses beside the road.

Well, the two littlest highwaymen were on ponies with leading reins.

The whole Gregory clan had come to get her. Although why they'd bothered . . . she flashed a glance at William.

He looked exactly as he had the night she'd arrived. Dressed all in black. Too tall, too broad, too masculine. Unreasonable, domineering . . . and those eyes. Those brilliant blue eyes that watched and mocked and lusted. At her.

She blushed, but lifted her chin at him.

“I can't allow ye t' take her,” the coachman protested. “Miss Prendregast is me passenger an' I have a dooty t' perform.”

Samantha saw Vivian nod to the littlest robber.

Right on cue, Kyla piped up, “She's my mama and I miss her.”

The coachman cranked around to glare at Samantha. “Geeze, lady, ye're leavin' yer kids?”

“These are not my children,” Samantha said crisply.

The passengers gasped in shock.

“Mama, how can you say that?” Agnes whined. “We miss you.”

“Mama.” “Mama.” “Mama.” Depending on their ages and prediliction toward drama, the children whimpered in various tones of despair or hilarity.

Arms crossed across his chest, William watched the touching scene.

Samantha ignored him and flayed the children with her gimlet, teacher's gaze. “I might have expected something like this from your father, but I insist on better behavior from you children.”

Hanging their heads out of the window and the door, the passengers listened avidly.

The large lady made a pronouncement. “This isn't a robbery. This is . . .” Words left her, and her gaze narrowed on Samantha.

“But Miss Prendregast.” Emmeline pulled her scarf down. “You stole something.”

Samantha caught her breath in outrage, and slashed William with a look.

He impassively stared back.

Emmeline said, “You stole my heart.”

“You stole my heart, too,” Kyla said.

Samantha wanted to groan at this farce. Instead she found herself torn between sappy tears and exasperated laughter.

“You took all of our hearts.” Agnes dismounted, walked to Samantha, and took her hands. “Please, Miss Prendregast, won't you stay with us?”

Samantha gazed at the girl. Gazed at all the girls.

Looked up at William. Stripping off his riding gloves, he touched his chest over his heart with his fingertips.

To her embarrassment, her own heart squeezed with passion. That eternal, desperate passion.

With a grunt of disgust, the coachman untied Samantha's trunk and dumped it onto the side of the road. The tree was moved. The coach rumbled off leaving a trail of dust that drifted away on the breeze.

The rest of the children dove out of their saddles. They jumped up and down. They hugged Samantha. “Weren't we good, Miss Prendregast?” “Did you want to cry?” “Aren't you happy you're staying?”

She hugged them back and laughed at their antics.

“All right, girls.” William dismounted and clapped, once, loudly. “Give us a few minutes alone.”

The children looked at each other and giggled. Then Agnes herded them toward their horses. The older girls helped the little girls into the saddles.

Samantha tried to watch them. Tried to ignore William. But he commanded her attention. Filled her vision. Stood too close and breathed too much of that abhorrent fresh air. He must be breathing too much of it, because she felt rather faint and breathless.

“We love you, Miss Prendregast,” the children called as they rode off, towing their father's horse with them.

She waved feebly.

The sun shone, caressing her face with its warmth.

The breeze blew, fluttering the scarf at his throat. “So. Here we are. On the road again.” He took her gloved hand, and with great deliberation, worked the glove off. Bowing, he pressed his lips to her palm. “Alone at last.”

His warm breath sent goose bumps up her arm. Her traitorous nipples beaded at once. She tried to shift backward, but he followed, and what she gained by stepping away she then lost by his advance.

“Thank you for agreeing to listen to me.”

He was making assumptions already. “I didn't agree to anything.”

“You didn't run away. That's something. That's enough.” He gestured toward a fallen log inside the shade of the woodlands. “Would you do me the honor of sitting with me while we talk?”

She had to talk to him, but she hesitated.

He knew why. “I'll check for snakes,” he reassured her, and he didn't appear to be smirking at her fears.

So she walked through the grass beside the road into the rich brown humus laid down by ten thousand years of autumn leaves, and allowed him to roll the log back and forth to chase away any creatures that might be lurking. Peeling off his black riding coat, he folded it and placed it on the log. She seated herself, taking care to sit in a ladylike manner, as if that would wipe her wanton behavior from his mind.

Then, to her horror, he knelt on one knee before her.

“Please don't.” She tugged at his arm. “Colonel Gregory, please, this isn't necessary.”

He didn't budge. “Colonel Gregory? You called me William . . . this morning.”

Color warmed her cheeks. “Yes, but before we had just . . .” But she was being foolish. “You're right, of course. Since we already
have
, it's ridiculous to pretend we didn't.”

“Quite.”

“But please, don't kneel.”

“I'm a great believer in protocol. I believe that
one should curtsy to the queen. I believe one should salute one's officers. And I believe that a couple should court before they wed, that they should come to the marriage bed only after the ceremony, and a man should propose on his knees.” He took her other hand, the gloved one, and removed that glove, also. Both gloves went into his waistcoat pocket, and he clasped her bare hands in his. “I've done everything wrong with you.”

She remembered last night. And this morning. And blushed again. “Not everything.”

“Thank you for that, at least.” An enigmatic smile played around his mouth. He banished it, and in a serious tone, said, “I also believe a man should kneel to beg a lady's pardon when he has grievously wronged her—as I have wronged you. Mara took my wife's things.”

A tightly wound part of her relaxed. After Samantha's lecture, Mara had confessed. Samantha had done one thing right. “I know.”

His eyebrows shot up. “How did you know?”

“A thief always recognizes another thief.” Samantha gave a little shrug. “She's the child in the middle. Unlike Agnes and Vivian, she's not growing into a woman. Not yet. But she's not an endearing little girl anymore, like Henrietta or Emmeline or Kyla, so she's lost.”

He looked thunderstruck. “I hadn't even thought of that. How did I handle my children before you came along with your insights and your wisdoms?”

Samantha wanted to accuse him of flattery—but
it was true. He'd been heading for trouble, and she'd saved him a great deal of grief.

“She told me the memory of her mother was fading. When she was lonely at night, she tried to see Mary's face, but she couldn't remember her. Mara took Mary's things in an attempt to bring her mother back. For comfort.”

Samantha choked, “Poor little girl.”

“I'm having the miniature copied, one for each of the children.” He kissed Samantha's knuckles on both hands. “And I'm hoping to get them a new mother who will tuck them into bed.”

She looked away.

“If I can convince her to forgive me for accusing her on the basis of her past.”

All the hurt, all the rancor, all the years of abuse and scorn, rose to the surface. She swallowed. She wanted to do it. She loved him so much she should be able to forgive him anything . . . but she couldn't.

There were some things, she discovered, that were unforgivable. She shook her head. “I can't.”

He shifted uncomfortably, spoke more quickly. “I've been unbending in my ethics. Everyone knows the difference between right and wrong, and never could there be a good enough reason to cheat, to lie . . . to steal. But my daughter, my own flesh and blood, requires my compassion, and I will not reject her for her wrongs.” He pulled a long face. “Although she and I are going to have serious discussions about morality.”