The Improper Wife (2 page)

“You’ve lost it,” Gray said.

“What do you mean, I’ve lost it?” she gasped, her eyes looking a bit wild.

“It went back . . . inside.”

“Don’t you think I know that?” she rasped. “It’s inside
me.
” Her face was red now, and her muscles tensed. Suddenly she wailed. The intensity of the sound pierced deep into his gut.

“It is coming!” He dropped the towel.

The head moved out slowly as she strained. With one final feral cry, she pushed. The baby shot out, landing in Gray’s bare hands.

The woman sat up, grasping for the baby. “Is my baby alive? Is my baby alive?” Her fury was gone, replaced by fear.

Gray turned away from her. The infant made no sound, no movement. It was deep purple.
Oh, God.
That could not be a good sign. He hurriedly wiped off the child, jostling it as he did so. It was a boy, but so small, much smaller than he’d expected. Would such a tiny baby creature have had any chance to survive?

“Give me my baby!” She grabbed his arm, nearly knocking him off balance. How the devil could he tell this woman her baby was dead?

At that precise second, a cry burst from the miniature mouth. Tiny arms fluttered and shook. Gray laughed with relief.

“Oh!” the woman cried. She released Gray’s arm and held out her hands for the infant.

He unwrapped the cord from around the newborn’s abdomen and placed him into her hands. Deuce. He’d have to cut the damned thing. But before he figured out that unpleasant task, she groaned again. As she clutched the baby to her chest, her body convulsed once more.

The afterbirth. “Bloody hell.”

Unmindful of his difficulties, the woman cradled the baby in her arms. “Dear, dear baby.” Tears rolled down her cheeks, but her face was radiant with joy. She fingered each tiny hand, counted every tiny toe, examined every inch of him. “You are a boy! A lovely boy.”

Gray stared at the infant. He’d never seen a newborn, except for his nephew, and that had been only a glimpse after the boy was swathed in blankets. “He’s well equipped.”

She glanced at him. “Well equipped?”

He gestured with his fingers. “You know, his . . . male parts.”

Lifting one eyebrow, she regarded him with reproach.

He cleared his throat and jumped up to rummage through a box on the bureau, searching for a piece of string. He grabbed his razor. Not wishing to think too much on the task he would put the razor to, he tied off the cord and cut it, wincing at the same time. That odious job done, he pulled the blankets out from under her and folded them into a bundle containing all the unpleasantries of the birth.

Turning back, he caught sight of her gazing down at her baby. Her face was aglow as if lit from within. Her dark hair had come loose of its pins and tumbled around her shoulders in disordered curls. She put Gray in mind of a statue of the Madonna he’d seen in a Barcelona church. As he watched, she placed her lips on the soft down of the baby’s head.

His throat went dry.

An overwhelming wave of regret washed over him, leaving an incredible void inside. He continued to stare at the mother and child, but all he saw were the blackest recesses of his soul. Had he been a better man, he might have held another infant the way she held this babe. Would that child have been as wrinkled as this little one? Would it have turned the same healthy shade of pink? Would its cries have been as angry? This little creature ought to be angry. Gray had delivered him into an abominable world.

The woman then lifted her eyes to Gray. Tears clung to her dark lashes like tiny jewels. She smiled at him, a look of wonder on her face. Gray’s breath caught in his throat. She was a living, breathing Madonna, sharing with him an intimate moment he did not deserve. He thrust his own misery aside.

“Let me help you to the bed,” he said. “Hold the baby tight.”

He lifted her in his arms and carried them to the bed. Straightening the rumpled linens, he realized there were more tasks to perform. He lifted her skirt and, with a shaking hand, gently wiped her off. He fashioned padding from another towel and placed it between her legs to stanch the flow of blood.

She did not attend to this strange intimacy. For her, nothing existed but the infant, who now rooted against her chest. He cleared his throat. “We must remove that dress of yours. It is wet.”

She cooperated with his undressing her as if she were a child herself, keeping hold of her baby, lifting her arms one by one as he slipped her dress and shift over her head. He watched transfixed as she guided the nipple of her breast to the baby’s eager mouth. When the baby found it at last, she shot Gray another awed glance.

He quickly averted his eyes. “I’ll find something for you to wear.”

“And something I may wrap my baby in?” She smiled sweetly.

“Of course.” Trying to still the heart thumping in his chest, he returned to the spot on the floor where the baby had been born. Something jabbed through the stocking on his heel. Hopping on the other foot, he pulled out a hairpin. Stifling an oath he grabbed a towel that had somehow escaped the untidiness of the birth. He limped back to hand it to her. She gently eased it around the tiny baby.

Now he had a sore foot, a naked woman in his bed, and a newborn baby he still didn’t know for sure wasn’t his. To top it all off, his head ached. She was oblivious to it all.

He limped over to his chest and pulled out a clean shirt. “Let’s put this on you.”

He slipped the cambric shirt over her head. Her skin was smooth beneath his hands. The infant lost his hold when she put first one and then the other arm through the sleeves. The small creature let out a shrill cry that felt like a bludgeon in Gray’s head. She brought the baby to her breast again and the infant sucked, emitting a small, sweet, contented sound.

“You are kind,” she said, an apparent afterthought.

He did not feel kind. He felt as if he’d landed in Bedlam, where he’d surely end up if this trial lasted much longer.

Gray grabbed a glass and his bottle of brandy from the bureau and sank into a chair. He poured the brandy to the brim, his shaking hands clinking the bottle against the glass. The familiar woody fragrance filled his nostrils as he swished the burning amber liquid around in his mouth, letting it slide slowly down his throat to heat his chest. He regarded her through slitted lids.

Why could he not recall meeting her? A man must be mad not to remember such a woman. True, he had drunk himself insensible those days with Lansing.

No. No.
No!

Gray sat up like a bolt. Now that he thought of it, she had not known him when he answered the door. Surely if they had met in
that
fashion, she would have recalled.

She did not know him!

Every muscle in his body relaxed. He was not the man responsible this time.

“Sir?”

“Yes?” She didn’t even know his name. He almost grinned.

“May I have a drink of water?”

Gray shot out of the chair, his body back on alert. This inclination to help her seemed totally reflexive. He’d damned well lost any will of his own. “Certainly.” He walked over to the pitcher of water on the bureau. After using his sleeve to wipe the glass out of which he had just drunk, he poured her the water and walked over to her side. “I fear I am a poor host.”

She stared at him with a blank expression, completely missing the irony in his voice.

He shrugged and handed her the glass.

“Thank you.” She sipped the water as if trying to keep from drinking it too fast. When she finished, she placed the glass on the table next to the bed and immediately checked her little son, as if something might have gone amiss with him during her infinitesimal moment of inattention.

Gray retrieved the glass and went back to his chair, pouring himself another drink. He let his eyes rest on his two unwished-for charges. Who the deuce was she?

He was about to speak when her eyes fluttered shut. She turned her head so that her forehead nearly touched the infant’s.

Another pretty picture. Much more of this and he’d have to secure himself another bottle of brandy. Gray drained his glass and held it against his forehead.

What might his life be like right now, if Rosa had obeyed his orders and remained with her father?

Foolish girl. She’d fled her father’s house and followed Gray into battle, arriving in Orthes in the thick of an artillery assault, not having the sense to seek a place of safety.

Instead, God saw fit to throw another woman and baby in his path. Hell, straight into his hands. Irony, again.

He’d drink to irony. Gray poured himself another full glass of brandy, drained it, and wearily rose to his feet. He pulled on his boots and shrugged into his jacket. Grabbing the bundle of soiled blankets, he walked out the door, almost tripping on the threshold.

Maggie woke with a jolt, heart pounding. Where was she? Her eyes quickly focused on the baby, and she remembered. She stroked the infant’s cheek with her finger, tenderness welling inside her. How was it possible to feel so acutely? This much love was almost painful.

She raised herself on one elbow and sank back, exhausted. The man was not here.

Maggie had been shocked when he first opened the door. Not only was he not who she expected, he looked like the blackest pirate ever to grace a Minerva Press novel. He was tall with the widest shoulders she’d ever seen. His clothes were wrinkled and his open shirtfront revealed a chest peppered with dark hair. The hair on his head was equally dark, hanging in curls nearly to his shoulders, in sad need of tying in a queue. His chin and cheeks were covered with stubble. Not the genteel appearance of the man she’d come to find. Most jarring, however, was the etching of pain in the corners of his eyes. If she had encountered this man on an empty street, she would have crossed to the other side, for fear he would murder her.

Instead, he’d removed her clothes, wiped her off. He’d seen and touched the most private parts of her body . . . no, she would not think of that. He delivered her baby safely, and she would be forever grateful to him.

Even though something about him made her tremble.

She glanced around the room again, peeking into corners, spying small drifts of dust skittering at the floor’s edge.

Where was her husband? Why had that man opened his door?

Maggie had been near despair in the shabby Chelsea inn where she’d been staying. Down to her last shilling. No place to go. No family to take her in. Then she’d picked up a discarded London newspaper and read John’s name. He was soon to leave for the Continent to rejoin his regiment, the paper said.

John? Alive? She still could barely believe it. The last she’d seen of him—God knows she could not wipe that scene from her mind—was his shocked expression as he slid off the river’s edge and tumbled into the gray, rain-fed water.

All these months she’d thought she killed him, but he was alive, here in London. He would have to help her.

Maggie gazed at her baby, his miniature face like a miracle, one piece of beauty and joy rising from the debacle of her life. She’d do anything to make sure he survived.

The door opened and Maggie braced herself to face John.

Instead, the man who delivered her baby walked into the room.

“You are awake.” There was no friendliness in his tone, and the room filled with his presence. It also filled with the scent of food, and Maggie momentarily forgot everything but the emptiness of her belly.

“Meat pasties.” He placed the food on the table. “Would you like one?”

Maggie struggled to get up. “Please.”

“Stay where you are.” He lifted the table and brought it to the side of her bed. “There’s some light ale, too.”

Before his hands released the table, Maggie grabbed for the meat pasty, not even able to utter thanks. It was still warm from baking and fragrant of cooked beef and buttery crust. She held it in both hands and took bite after bite after bite.

His huge hand fastened on her wrist, stopping her. “Go slowly,” he ordered. His grip was firm and his skin rough, from soldiering, she imagined. “Chew carefully. You want to keep the food down.”

He did not release her, so she did as he commanded, looking into his face and forcing her jaws to rise and fall at the pace of a snail.

He gave her a curt nod when she swallowed, and released her wrist. She attempted a smaller bite, licking a crumb from her lip. She glanced at him again.

His brow furrowed. She took another bite.

“Drink some ale.” He handed her the tankard.

She dutifully took a sip, but quickly bit into the meat pasty again, chewing slowly and deliberately, conscious that he watched her every move.

The bit of food only whetted her appetite. She remained ravenous. He handed her the tankard again, and the ale cooled her throat.

“Forgive me,” she said after gulping the ale. “I must seem wholly without breeding.”

He frowned. “When did you last eat?”

She shrugged, having no wish for this man to know the extent of her miserable circumstances. “Two or three days. Maybe four, I cannot recollect.”

He stared at her with eyes the color of cold steel.

He reached for the remaining meat pasty and brought it halfway to his mouth. Unable to help herself, Maggie’s eyes traced its progress.

“Deuce.” He scowled, but handed it over to her.

She ought to refuse, but . . . She took it and forced herself not to gobble it down this time.

“Finish the ale,” he said.

Maggie obeyed, though she hardly required him to tell her to fill her stomach. By the time she placed the tankard down on the table, she felt pleasantly full. She lay back down next to her baby. Dear baby! She touched his soft little cheek. His mouth made sucking movements as he slept. She smiled.

The man cleared his throat. Maggie looked up.

He sat in the chair with his legs crossed. “Madam,” he said. “I regret there is not the means to be properly introduced, but might I know who the deuce you are and why you knocked on my door?”

“Your door?” She blinked in confusion, resting her cheek against the baby’s head. “My husband’s door, you mean.”