Patricia Rice (26 page)

“We’ll start with kisses, Bea,” he murmured, hauling her up against him, “just as you requested.”

She closed her eyes when his head lowered and his
mouth seared across hers. His strong arm trapped her waist, and her
breasts pushed against the unyielding muscles of his chest. She parted
her lips for his kiss and sighed in bliss as he accepted the invitation.
This much, she dearly adored.

Only when his free hand invaded her robe and cupped
her cotton-shrouded breast did she panic and push away. A fire burned in
her lower belly, stoked by the big hand that refused to release her.

“One thing at a time, Bea,” he murmured, while his
fingers pressed the strangely puckered, sensitive peak of her breast.
“I’ll not sail away until I have you, but I can wait until you no longer
fear me.” He grinned wickedly. “I shall enjoy the lessons.”

With that warning, he released her, belted his robe tighter, and strode out.

Leaving Bea with an ache in her heart as stubborn as the one he’d aroused in her breast.

“I’m so happy for you, my dear.” Aunt Constance
enthusiastically hugged Bea. “I know you’ll have a happy life with a man
like Mr. MacTavish.” Catching her swooping hat adorned with peacock
plumes, she turned to the large American lingering in the background.
“And I know you’ll do what is right, sir. I shall write your mother and
explain all. Perhaps I shall visit her and explain in person. I’ve not
been to Virginia.”

She enveloped a squirming Buddy in her perfumed
embrace, shouted at her hired driver not to drop the satchel with her
mirrors, then gestured imperiously at James, who hovered just out of
reach. “I shall see your mother shortly. Write to her!” she commanded.

James frowned, but Aunt Constance took no notice.
Bea cursed herself for forgetting to question her aunt about James. So
many things had happened in so short a time that she’d failed to pay
attention to her cousin’s problems. Bea decided she would write her aunt
once she reached town and ask about James. She was much better at
writing than questioning in person anyway.

“Perhaps I shall rent a London house and you may all
come to visit,” Constance called cheerfully, stepping into the carriage
with the assistance of her driver.

She hung out the window and waved all the way down
the drive, until she was out of sight. Bea lifted a sleepy Pamela from
Mary’s arms and hugged her to her bosom to keep from weeping as fear and
loneliness crept in again.

Mac placed a broad, reassuring hand on her shoulder. “We’ll be all right, I promise,” he murmured. “We can learn together.”

She ought to be shouting in joy at his avowal, but
at the moment, emptiness blew through her at her aunt’s departure. She
was on her own now.

The house echoed with silence. The servants
retreated to invisibility. No unexpected guests appeared on the
doorstep. No last-minute dinner invitations stirred excitement. Standing
in the high-ceilinged hallway, glancing from parlor door to study, Bea
heard the silence warning her that Mac’s departure would be next.

Trying to ignore the aching hollow created by that
apprehension, she stopped in the doorway of the stuffy parlor, tilted
her head, and gazed at the litter of ornaments with which her father had
feathered her nest. It was time to do something about the clutter.

Reaching for the bellpull, she stuck out her chin in determination. This was
her
house now. She didn’t need her aunt or Mac to turn things upside down for her. It was high time
she
disturbed things, for a change.

When James appeared, she pointed at the parlor
interior. “As the maids have time, I want everything except the
furniture hauled to the attics. I want room to move in here.”

The thought of so much space produced another idea,
and she glanced with interest to the heavily draped windows. “And have
them start taking down the draperies. I’m certain they’re due for
airing.” She smiled at the thought of the light that would pour in.
Perhaps she wouldn’t have them re-hung. The lace undercurtains would do
just as nicely.

She liked taking charge of things.

Following that discovery, she heard the unmistakable
sound of her husband on the stairs. He was a very large part of her
life over which she had no control.

Holding his grinning nephew on his shoulders, Mac
skidded to a halt in front of her. “I need to take Buddy into Cheltenham
so the physician can see if his arm has healed. He doesn’t seem to
favor it anymore. Want to go with us?”

“To Cheltenham?” She tried not to reveal her fear.
“What if someone recognizes you?” Even more than her trepidation at
venturing beyond the familiar, she lived in terror that the viscount’s
men would return and throw Mac into a dungeon.

“I’ll call myself Warwick,” Mac said. “Even if there
are posters with my description, no one will notice me. I’ll buy you a
pretty bonnet, and we can have a picnic.”

He looked so wonderfully certain of himself. Buddy
had rumpled Mac’s golden brown locks until they half stood on end, and
the irresistible cowlick above his forehead fell forward. Her husband’s
eyes crinkled beneath the curl, and his beguiling grin revealed a flash
of strong white teeth—teeth that had nibbled at her lips the night
before.

Oh, my.
She ought to look
away before he discerned her thoughts, but he seemed captivated by his
current plan and didn’t notice her blush.

“I’ll stay and keep Pamela company,” she demurred.

Eyes narrowing, Mac swung Buddy down and sent him
scampering up the stairs. Straightening, he pinned Bea with a look.
“When was the last time you ventured outside Broadbury?”

Bea straightened a wrinkle on her sash. “I’ve had no need to leave Broadbury.”

Her apparent calm didn’t impress him. “You’ve never
in your life been outside Broadbury?” At her nod, he pressed his
interrogation. “Before I arrived, did you ever leave the damned house?”

She straightened her shoulders and scowled at him.
“Your language, sir!” She could see another curse curling his tongue, so
she indignantly hastened to explain. “I go to church every Sunday.”

“And...?” He lifted his eyebrows.

“I visit the tenants.” She straightened her shoulders and glared back.

Mac made a rude noise. “You’ve scarcely been off your estate, have you?”

She fumbled with her sash again. “There’s not much
reason to,” she muttered, feeling like an idiot. He’d sailed halfway
around the world, and she seldom left her property. “I love it here. Why
should I go elsewhere?”

He looked disappointed. “Is it that you’re happy
here, or afraid to go elsewhere?” Before she could answer, he disarmed
her by wrapping one of her long side curls around his finger. “Bea,
you’re an intelligent woman, but you have a damned narrow view of the
world. Come with me. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

She set her chin stubbornly. “I’ll be here, looking
after Pamela, should the authorities fling you in jail. Perhaps you
ought to take James with you to rescue Buddy, should that happen.”

Exasperated, he released her. “The day I take that
fribble with me will be the day I drown him. I suppose he’s just the
kind of man you’re most comfortable with. Excuse me; I have to change.”

He stalked off, leaving Bea near tears. Mac kept pushing her in directions she didn’t want to go. She didn’t like arguing.

She sat outside teaching Pamela how to play
pat-a-cake as Mac drove the carriage away. She hadn’t thought about it,
but he might have some difficulty managing the horse and Buddy, too.
While she was riddled with doubt, her wretched husband would never admit
to any weakness.

Gazing over her favorite view of rhododendrons and
nodding willow trees, seeing the field where the rabbits played in the
evenings, and the lilac where the robin had its nest, she stubbornly saw
no reason why she should go beyond all she knew and loved. Why would
anyone want to look at a blank ocean for weeks on end?

Of course, she didn’t know what an ocean looked like. She returned to patting her fingers against Pamela’s chubby hands.

***

Carrying a sleeping Buddy—sans splint—Mac saw the
study lamp burning and stopped to see if Bea was waiting for them. A
stack of letters rested on the corner of the desk, ready for James to
post in the morning, but no Bea smiled from the desk.

He wondered who she could be writing to, but he had
his hands full and didn’t stop to investigate. He couldn’t believe lust
had led him into marriage with a woman who was so terrified of her own
shadow that she would scarcely leave the house. Still, he supposed he
didn’t need a wife crusading about the countryside.

He’d be satisfied if he could get her into his bed.

Gently curling the sleeping tot over his shoulder,
feeling Buddy’s moist breath on his neck, Mac climbed the staircase as
confused as when he’d last come down it. What did one do with a wife who
didn’t behave in any fashion that made sense to him?

The sight of Bea tucking in a sweetly sleeping
Pamela wrenched what remained of Mac’s heart. His wife was absolutely
perfect in every way he could imagine—glossy ringlets swinging
seductively against pink cheeks as she leaned forward, creamy swells
meant for touching barely hidden by her scarf, a curvy waist a man could
grasp firmly—

She turned and smiled at him.

“The doctor removed Buddy’s splint,” she noted in satisfaction, holding out her arms to take Mac’s sleeping charge.

Mac was oddly reluctant to release his burden. This
might be the only time he’d ever see the rascal holding still. “An
untrained monkey would be better behaved,” he grumbled, grudgingly
releasing his nephew into Bea’s arms.

“He just needs love and attention,” she whispered,
loosening the boy’s neckcloth as she lowered him to his bed. “I imagine
he loved having you to himself all day.”

Mac swelled with pride at her recognition of his
efforts, and with something else entirely as he watched the deft way she
removed the boy’s clothes. He imagined those fingers doing the same for
him.

“I can’t understand how his father could give him
up,” he admitted. If he were entirely truthful with himself, he didn’t
know how
he
would give the boy up. How could he
divide his time between the children and Bea and his business and still
get anything done? It was a mystery he’d yet to resolve, but he had
confidence that a little planning and organization would do it.

Bea shook her head. “The poor tykes, losing their
mother and father at the same time, for all practical purposes. He ought
to be ashamed.”

If he had children of his own... Mac eyed the curve
of his wife’s bosom, the swing of her skirts, and tried to imagine his
child growing in her belly, but he couldn’t get past the image of
planting one.

“I’ve some work to do,” he said gruffly. “I’ll join you a little later.”

Work to do, his foot and eye. He needed to find an icy stream.

Bea waited nervously in her new bedroom as the time
came and passed when Mac usually said good night. Had she truly
irritated him with her refusal to go with him today?

She shied away from her usual habit of thinking
herself a coward. She’d stood up to him, hadn’t she? She was trying to
manage her life for once. That wasn’t cowardice.

Pacing the room, clutching her robe tighter, she
resolved to blow out the lamp and go to bed without waiting for him.
What did it matter if they had scarcely seen each other all day, and
she’d like to hear about his visit to Cheltenham? She might as well
become used to hearing nothing from him.

The door to the hall flew open and Mac marched in,
waving her letters in his fist. He wasn’t dressed for bed. He’d gone to
the study. He’d found her letters.

Folding her fingers into her palms so she wouldn’t
look guilty, she turned her back on him. Why on earth had she left those
there for anyone to see?

“What are these?” he asked without inflection, as if
they were of no interest at all. Of course, if they weren’t of any
interest, he wouldn’t have carried them up here.

Bea sat down at her dressing table and picked up her
brush. “They look like letters to me.” Deception didn’t come naturally
to her. The courage to argue or fight didn’t come at all. She just
wanted it all to go away so he would kiss her and leave her alone.

She desperately wanted him to kiss her and not yell at her.

“To the Bank of London? And Lady Fenimore? Isn’t her
husband a member of Parliament? For someone who never leaves the house,
you certainly have an interesting circle of acquaintances.”

He paced up and down like an angry tiger. What on earth did he
think
was in those letters? “One needn’t
know
a person to correspond with them,” she said cautiously.

“One must know something to correspond
about
,”
he replied mockingly. “I cannot imagine you’re corresponding with the
Bank of London about flower posies for the Sunday service. If you know
where your father’s accounts are, why haven’t you told me?”

“Am I not allowed to write letters without arousing
your suspicions?” she demanded. “Must I show all my correspondence to
you like a child before I post it?”

“Did I say that?” he barked loudly enough to take
the roof off. “I just want to know where your father’s damned accounts
are and why you haven’t told me! There are things I could be doing while
I’m stuck out here watching the sun rise and set.”

“Oh, heaven forbid that you should be bored, or idle
your time on such foolishness as family or a lowly estate in the back
of nowhere,” she shouted back. “Why don’t you hurry back to your London
business and forget about the children?”

Wide-eyed in horror that she’d said such a thing in
such a manner, she swung on the bench to see how Mac reacted. He stood
with hands on hips, legs akimbo, staring at her in disbelief. And then
his gaze dropped to her dressing gown, and he seemed to mentally shake
his head.