The Wedding Escape (15 page)

Instead he stepped inside and closed the door.

“What's wrong?” he demanded.

She lay frozen another long moment. And then she sat up and looked at him, her eyes sparkling with tears.

“I'm sorry,” she apologized in a small, soft voice. “I didn't mean to disturb you.”

“You didn't disturb me. What's wrong?”

“Nothing.”

He made no move to leave.

“Everything is fine. I'm just a little tired, that's all.”

He said nothing.

“I think it's just that so much has happened in these last few days,” Amelia ventured, realizing he wasn't satisfied with her answer. “One minute I'm a wealthy heiress getting married to the Duke of Whitcliffe in the most spectacular wedding of the decade, and the next I'm a nobody on an old cargo ship sailing to Inverness, with a price on my head and no idea what is to become of me. I suppose I just suddenly found it all rather overwhelming.”

Her chin was up and her tone was artificially bright, as if she were making light of it. But her eyes were wide and silvered with pain, and Jack knew she was merely trying to deflect his concern.

“You're hardly a nobody, Amelia.”

A small, strangled laugh escaped her throat. “Ah, yes—I'm the famous American heiress, Amelia Belford, wayward daughter of John Henry Belford, newly expelled from the family fold. I haven't any money. I have no family I can turn to. I have no home, no career, no plans, and no prospects. The only things I thought I did have were my appearance and my charm, which Lord Philmore falsely claimed had caused him to fall in love with me, and Lord Whitcliffe endlessly pointed out were severely lacking. I was ‘too American,' in his opinion, which meant that my skin was too freckled, my teeth were too big, I dared to have an opinion on matters of consequence, and couldn't understand all the rules that shackle every move one makes in English society. Oh, yes, and let's not forget my atrocious accent,” she finished bitterly.

“Philmore and Whitcliffe are both idiots,” Jack observed with irritation, moving closer to the bed. “You're better off without either of them.”

“Am I?” She bit her lip and stared at the dusky veil of light seeping in from the porthole. “I don't know. I don't know who I am anymore. I ran away from Lord Whitcliffe thinking that I was being terribly daring and brave, but all the while I believed I was running to a life with Percy. But Percy didn't love me just for me, as he had claimed so often—he just wanted my money. I suppose it's inevitable, when one comes from a family of enormous wealth, that people can't see beyond that.” She wrapped her arms around her knees, looking small and lost. “Tonight when I discovered that Percy had betrayed me, I felt as if something within me shriveled up and died,” she confessed brokenly. “I suddenly realized that every relationship I have ever had in my life has been because of my family's wealth. That every girl who has ever befriended me, every servant who has ever assisted me, and every man who has ever spoken with me, or laughed with me, or claimed to love me, has done so not because of who I am, but because I am the daughter of one of the wealthiest men in America. Somehow everyone who meets me hopes that they will benefit from that.” Her voice was ragged as she finished in a tiny, defeated whisper, “It is a cruel lesson.”

“You're wrong.”

She looked up at him, startled by the anger in his voice.

“I didn't help you escape from your marriage to Whitcliffe because of your wealth, Amelia,” he informed her brusquely. “And I didn't try to protect you from Philmore, who is, incidentally, not worthy to shovel manure in one of your father's stables, never mind marry you, because of it. I also didn't take you away from that mob at the Wilkinsons' and hide you on one of my ships because I thought that I might benefit financially from such an escapade. I don't give a damn whether you have any money or not, and I'm certain there are others in your life who don't care about that, either.”

“There are no others,” she whispered with pained certainty.

“Then we'll find new friends for you. Now that you have no money, you can be sure that whoever extends you friendship is doing so because of who you are, not because of your father's wealth.”

“That might have been true if my father had not offered such an enormous reward for my return. With ten thousand pounds hanging over my head, I'll never be able to trust anyone.”

“You can trust me.” He spoke the words with harsh finality.

Amelia stared at him in wonder. He was standing beside her, his half-naked form outlined in the waning shadows of the night and the velvety soft beams drifting through the window. He was tall and powerful against the darkness, filling the small cabin with his strength and determination, crowding the unadorned walls and spare furniture with the intensity of his anger and resolve. He was incredibly beautiful to her as he stood there, as ruggedly simple and honest as his ship and his cabin. The chiseled muscles of his chest and arms were clenched, as if he were ready to do battle for her, and his eyes held hers with unwavering determination.

In that moment, she could almost believe that he would do anything for her. She could feel his pledge across the silence, as surely as she could feel the strange sensations now heating her blood and flesh and skin, making her achingly aware of the narrow distance between her and the man who had offered his help again and again from the moment he had found her in the ridiculous process of trying to steal his carriage.

“Why?” she whispered, holding his gaze with her own. “Why do you keep helping me, Jack?”

He stared at her a moment, saying nothing. The covers around her had fallen, revealing that she was wearing one of his shirts. It was far too large upon her slender form, making her look small and soft and achingly lovely. Her champagne-colored hair was spilling over her shoulders and the ivory column of her neck was exposed through the open neckline, disappearing into shadows at the base of her throat. He had thought she looked utterly exquisite when she stood upon the marble staircase earlier that night, her elegance radiating about her like an explosion of light, easily eclipsing the beauty of every other woman in the room. But she was even more glorious to him as she was now, stripped of her gown and her jewels, her hair pouring in tangled disarray around her, her body clad in a simple linen shirt, whose only flaw was that it covered her too loosely, denying him the pleasure of seeing the curves and swells of her silky body.

He swallowed thickly and stepped away, trying to ignore the sudden hardness in his loins.

She sat huddled upon his narrow bed, waiting for his answer. What could he tell her? he wondered helplessly. That he understood with sickening clarity the desperation of being sentenced to a life one does not think one can bear? If he told her that, it would only invite more questions, and he had no desire to answer them. Once they began they would not stop, and then he would have to admit that he was not the man he appeared to be. That instead of being the coddled son of the Marquess of Redmond, as she knew him, he was also the abandoned bastard of a drunken whore. That he had spent most of his childhood being beaten to a pulp at the hands of the brute into whose tender care his hopelessly defeated mother had entrusted him, until one day he could bear no more. That he had picked up a shovel and fought back, smashing the old bastard on the head with such force that he had fallen back dead, turning Jack into a murderer at the ripe old age of nine. That he had then lived his life on the streets, scraping by on his wits and his fists, stealing from anyone stupid enough to be robbed, or even swallowing the scraps of his arrogant pride and begging when he was too weak from hunger to steal. This was his ugly legacy, and although much of it was more or less known amongst the gossiping echelons of society in Scotland and England, it was not known by the magnificent woman huddled on his bed before him. On some innocent, misinformed level, Amelia Belford believed that he was something of an equal. To her he was the son of an aristocrat, a member of her precious Percy's Marbury Club, a guest at her own wedding. What harm was there in maintaining that illusion, he wondered angrily, if only for a few more days?

“I'm helping you because I like you, Amelia,” he told her simply.

“Why?”

He shrugged his shoulders. “Lots of reasons.”

“Why?” she persisted.

Her expression was almost pleading. In that moment, Jack realized how very much she needed to be reassured.

“Because you would rather break your neck scrabbling down a church wall instead of going through with an obscenely lavish wedding to a man you didn't love. Because you aren't afraid to stand up to your family, even if it means causing the most incredible scene London society has witnessed in decades and running headfirst into the unknown. Because when you see people in need you actually do something to help them, whether that means rolling filthy barrels off a dock or offering your precious jewelry in exchange for food and blankets. Because you aren't afraid to admit when you are wrong. And because you aren't offended by what you so quaintly refer to as ‘colorful language.' Are those enough reasons to satisfy you?”

Amelia stared at him, transfixed.

And then she leapt from the bed, flung her arms around his shoulders, and pressed an ardent, inexperienced kiss upon his lips.

“Thank you, Jack,” she breathed, her face lit with pleasure as she released him and dropped back down onto his bed. “You're a good friend.”

He nodded briskly, fighting the overwhelming urge to follow her onto the bed and take her mouth in his, to slip his hands beneath the loose linen of her shirt and feel her breasts against his palms, to stretch out beside her and hold her close, until there was nothing but heat and desire and the sweetness of her pulsing beneath him.

“Good night,” he managed roughly, wrenching open the cabin door. He escaped through it and slammed it shut, anxious to have some barrier between them. Then he staggered down the corridor, aroused to the point of pain, and utterly certain that he would not be able to sleep.

She would learn the truth about him soon enough, he realized with bitter regret.

And when she did, he would never again know the gentle trust he had seen in her eyes as she kissed him.

Chapter Eight

A
MELIA LEANED AGAINST THE HEAVY RAILING OF
the
Charlotte
and inhaled deeply, filling her lungs with the salty, cold wind gusting off the Moray Firth. Waves were crashing against the ship's wooden hull, sending bracing sprays of mist into the air, wetting her skin and causing her damp hair to curl against the soft charcoal wool of the coat Jack had given to her. She sighed with pleasure and closed her eyes, washing her mind clean as she rode the invigorating rise and fall of the churning ocean.

It had taken them nearly three days to sail up the east coast of Scotland through the frigid blue waters of the North Sea. Initially Amelia had endured the journey with trepidation, for with every mile she had felt more isolated from the glittering world she once knew, and more afraid of the unknown life she faced in the barren highlands of Scotland. Everyone aboard seemed to sense her anxiety, and Henry and Oliver had done their best to distract her from it.

“Would ye like to try yer hand at shooting again?” asked Henry, who had just finished his ritual polishing of his precious rifle.

Amelia smiled. “No, thank you, Henry.”

“Are ye sure?” He looked disappointed. “Ye'll nae have much of a chance to shoot once we dock in Inverness, and 'tis clear ye've a rare talent for it.”

“You're being very kind, considering I was just shooting at clouds. I don't know how you could tell whether my aim is any good or not.”

“When ye've been shootin' as long as I have, ye know these things,” Henry declared immodestly. “I can see how ye hold the rifle straight and true, and yer eye becomes one with the barrel. Just ask the captain here to give ye a gun, and ye'll be well able to blast a hole into any rogue who gives ye trouble.”

“I'm not giving her a gun, Henry,” Jack repeated for the hundredth time.

“They're too clumsy and noisy,” Oliver agreed. “Not at all suitable for a lass. All she needs is a wee dirk like this.” He pulled a wickedly sharp silver blade from his boot. “An' she'll have nae to worry about. Here, lass,” he said, handing the glinting weapon to Amelia. “Show the lad how well ye've learned to throw it.”

“You taught her how to throw a dirk?” Jack was appalled.

“Aye, and she's a swift learner, too. She got a feel for it much quicker than you did. Go on, lass.” He nodded at Amelia. “Show the lad what ye can do.”

Amelia wrapped her fingers around the cool hilt of the dirk. Turning toward the pile of crates that she and Oliver had erected as a makeshift target, she took careful aim, lifting the dirk up beside her ear. Then she stepped forward and hurled the blade with all her might.

Oliver beamed with pride at the sight of the weapon planted straight in the heart of the middle crate. “An' that's after scarce two days. Think what the lass will be able to hit after I've had a wee bit more time with her.”

“She doesn't need to know how to throw a dirk or fire a rifle,” Jack said firmly.

“Why not?” Henry scratched his head, bemused. “Ye said she had scum chasin' her.”

“That scum happens to be her family,” he pointed out. “Somehow I don't think she'll want to shoot them or stab them if they should find her.”

“It doesna hurt to be prepared,” argued Oliver.

“It does if she ends up killing someone—”

“You're absolutely right, Oliver,” Amelia interjected. “Although I don't think I'll shoot or stab anyone, I have enjoyed your lessons immensely. Sometimes it's good to learn something just for the sake of learning, regardless of whether or not one thinks one might actually have use for the knowledge.”

Henry furrowed his brows together. “Really?”

“I've nae learned anythin' I didna have use for at one time or another,” reflected Oliver.

“But you must have learned some things without knowing that one day you might have need of that skill or knowledge,” Amelia argued. “For instance, when I was a girl my daily lessons included all kinds of things that I felt certain I would never have use for. Languages like German, Italian, and Latin, which seemed hardly necessary when everyone spoke English in New York, and subjects like history and literature, which were horribly tedious when taught by my governess. But worst of all were my lessons in deportment.”

Oliver frowned. “Deport-what?”

“Lessons in how to sit and stand and walk,” Amelia explained. “Try as I might, I just couldn't remember to keep my head high and my back straight at all times. So my mother had an awful contraption made, which I was forced to wear while I was doing my lessons. It was a long steel rod, which pressed against my spine and was strapped on at my waist and my shoulders. There was another strap that went around my forehead and pinned my head to the rod. That meant I had no choice but to keep my back perfectly straight at all times. If I had to read I had to raise the book to my eyes, and I had to learn to sit at my desk and write without bending forward. Of course it was horribly uncomfortable, and I hated wearing it. Many days I cried when my governess put it on. But now I have near-perfect carriage no matter what I'm doing. When I was little I didn't understand why that mattered, but ultimately my good posture was very important when my mother introduced me to society. People notice that sort of thing.”

The men stared at her in stunned silence.

“Well, now,” said Oliver, venturing into the uncomfortable quiet, “that's a rare way of lookin' at it.”

“Aye,” added Henry helplessly.

Jack's fists were clenched with rage. “How old were you when your mother first made you wear this device?”

“About eight years old, I think,” Amelia answered. “Why?”

He stared at her with impotent fury, hating her mother for inflicting such a cruel torment on her young daughter as she groomed Amelia, even then, for her future value on the marriage market. “I was just thinking of what I might say to her if I ever have the pleasure of meeting her.”

Amelia studied his hard gray gaze in confusion. It surprised her to realize that he was actually upset by her story. “You mustn't think ill of my mother, Jack,” she protested. “She has always only wanted what she believes is best for me. She knew I was growing up in a world where people would constantly be evaluating me and criticizing me because of who I was and what I represented. She tried to see to it that I was well prepared to endure their scrutiny.”

“And where was your father while your mother
prepared
you?”

“My father isn't interested in society and appearances. But he is also the first to admit that he doesn't know much about what to do with girls, so he left my upbringing in the care of my mother.”

“If I had a daughter, and anyone dared try to put her into such an evil device, I'd damn well kill—” Jack stopped himself. “I wouldn't tolerate it,” he finished with barely suppressed fury.

“Well, of course, having endured it, I would never do that to my daughter, either,” agreed Amelia. “But I don't think my mother did it because she was cruel. I believe she did it because she loved me.”

He shook his head, unable to comprehend how Amelia could defend her mother's actions.

“I dinna think anyone in Inverness is going to be overly concerned with how straight yer back is,” Oliver speculated. “But I'm sure Miss Genevieve will be able to teach ye a thing or two about gettin' along on yer own.”

“You mean Jack's mother?”

“Aye. She managed fairly well for herself afore she met his lordship, with a wee bit of help from me, of course,” he added, “and she raised Annabelle, Charlotte and Grace into fine young lasses who ken how to take care of themselves. Now she's got her new brood to work on, but I'm sure she'd be happy to make time for ye.”

“I'd be very pleased to meet her,” Amelia declared enthusiastically.

“Amelia won't be meeting Genevieve or Haydon, or any of the family,” said Jack.

Oliver looked at him in surprise. “Why not?”

“Because I don't want them dragged into this,” he explained. “We've already created a scandal by running off in the middle of her wedding and causing a near riot at the Wilkinsons' ball. We haven't seen a newspaper in days, but for all we know her parents have claimed that she's been kidnapped in order to preserve her reputation. If the police somehow decide to search for her in Inverness, I don't want my family associated with her disappearance.”

“Ye know them well enough to realize they'd be glad to help. Besides, ye need another lass stayin' with her.”

“They are not to be involved, Oliver.”

Oliver regarded him impatiently. “Surely ye're nae thinkin' ye can keep Miss Amelia with ye alone and nae destroy her reputation in the process?”

“You'll stay there, too.”

“Oh, well, that's fine, then,” Oliver drawled sarcastically. “Have ye honestly been away at sea so long ye've nae sense about what's proper?”

“Fine,” Jack said, exasperated. “What do you suggest?”

“We'll ask Doreen and Eunice to stay with us,” Oliver decided.

“And what will we tell Genevieve?”

“Ye'll think of something.”

“Who are Eunice and Doreen?” asked Amelia.

“They're part of my family,” Jack explained. “Eunice was Genevieve's cook at one time, and Doreen used to help to keep the house clean, but really, they're more than that.” He did not want her to think the two women were mere servants.

“Sort of like two old aunts,” Oliver supplied. “Miss Genevieve took them from jail, same as she did me, and they've lived with her ever since.”

Amelia's eyes widened with fascination. “Really? What were they in prison for?”

“Stealing, but they weren't professional thieves, like me,” he qualified, making it sound as if he had had an illustrious career. “They were strictly amateur.”

“Ye'll be able to learn a thing or two from them,” Henry speculated. “Not about how to shoot, mind.” It was clear that he felt he was her sole tutor for that particular skill. “But other things, I'm sure.”

“We'll be docking in Inverness in less than an hour,” predicted Jack, assessing the wind in the
Charlotte
's sails. “You'd best go below and change. I've laid some clothes out for you on your bed.”

Amelia regarded him in surprise. She had been wearing her evening gown during the day for the past three days, with Jack's coat overtop for warmth, because she had not been able to find anything suitable in his cabin for her to wear. “You have some women's clothes aboard?” She wondered why he hadn't offered them to her earlier.

“I have a disguise for you,” Jack replied. “Since word of your disappearance and reward has probably reached the newspapers here, we have to be careful you don't stand out when you leave the ship. Your ball gown will attract too much attention—even with my coat thrown over it.”

“Ye'll need to cover that hair of hers as well,” Oliver reflected, frowning. “That's sure to turn a few heads afore we can hire a carriage.”

“I've thought of that.”

“Well, that's fine, then.” Amelia found herself looking forward to wearing a fresh dress that was not as heavy and uncomfortable as her extravagant evening gown, and arranging her hair beneath a pretty hat. “I'll just go and get changed.”

 

I
F MY MOTHER COULD SEE ME NOW, SHE WOULD FAINT.”

“The shirt and trousers are a wee bit large,” Oliver allowed, “but other than that ye make a fine lad.”

The heavy trousers and dark coat Jack had given to her were far too big, as was the white linen shirt underneath. Her hair had been stuffed into a thick woolen cap, which effectively hid it, but looked ridiculous in tandem with the rest of her apparel. She had pleaded to be allowed to keep her own shoes, arguing that with the trousers pooling around her feet no one was going to see her evening slippers anyway. That at least had spared her from the huge, clumsy boots Jack had given her, which she was certain she would have tripped over as she hurried across the dock to the carriage he had engaged.

“ 'Tis nae far to the house, and then ye'll be able to change back into yer gown if ye like,” Oliver promised.

“There's a carriage following us.” Jack's voice was tense.

Oliver stole a cursory glance out the back window. “Aye, and there's one followin' behind it, and another after that. Ye're frettin' over nothing,” he chided. “No one here is expectin' us, and there's nae way anyone could know Miss Amelia is here.”

“Oliver is right, Jack,” Amelia agreed. “No one knows I was on the
Charlotte,
so we must be safe for the moment.”

Jack continued to watch the small, dark carriage trailing behind them, trying to get a clear view of its driver. After a moment the vehicle turned off the street they were on and disappeared. He sank back against his seat and restlessly stretched his legs. Oliver was right, he realized moodily. He was becoming paranoid.

“Inverness isn't a very big town, is it?” remarked Amelia as the carriage rattled down the narrow cobblestone streets.

“Not compared to London or New York,” Jack allowed. “But it is important economically for the Highlands because of its access to the North Sea through the Moray Firth. Most of the goods entering and leaving the Highlands come through here.”

“Are you from here?”

He shook his head. “I'm from Inveraray, which is further south and east.”

“What brought you to Inverness?”

“Genevieve moved here after she married Haydon. He has an estate not far from here. When my brothers and sisters got older, they all settled in the area as well.”

“And do you see them often?”

“When I'm not away on business. That was why I was in England. I had just arrived back from India, and was planning to leave again the following week. Since my family had made arrangements to attend your wedding, I decided to join them so I could see them briefly before I left.”