The Wedding Escape (18 page)

Jack laid his cheek against the tangle of Amelia's hair and closed his eyes, filling his senses with her softness and scent. He wanted to lay her on the carpet and bury himself into her, to lift the ivory cotton of her gown and sheathe himself in her silky heat, to feel the velvet skin of her pressing against him as he pulsed inside, making her his own. He had never had a woman as rare and beautiful as she, a woman whose beauty extended far beyond the façade of her face and body. He wanted Amelia more than he had ever wanted anything, and the fierceness of his desire terrified him.

She was not his, he reminded himself savagely, and she never would be. While she had somehow managed to endure her upbringing without suffering the typical afflictions of superiority and entitlement, she was nevertheless of a birthright and a quality that was, quite simply, beyond him. He could never escape the loathsome crudity of his own creation, or the repugnant life he had led before being rescued by Genevieve. He made no apology for his early years, but he was scarcely proud of them, either. He could not expect Amelia to share her life with a man such as he—a bastard and a criminal, whose legacy included countless acts of thievery and violence, and one murder. She had no inkling of who he really was. That was why she had permitted him to kiss her. That was why she had thrown herself against him when he tried to break away, eradicating what little willpower he had as she opened her mouth to his.

Appalled by his staggering lack of control, he released her and turned to look out the rain-drenched window, hating himself.

The moment Jack broke his protective hold upon her, shame welled up from the pit of Amelia's stomach, extinguishing the flames that had burned there but moments earlier. Suddenly cold, she picked up her fallen blanket and wrapped it around herself.

A horrible silence stretched between them.

“I'm sorry,” she whispered finally.

Jack turned to look at her, his self-loathing complete as he stared helplessly at Amelia. “I'm the one who needs to be sorry, Amelia. I had no right to touch you.”

She stared at him in silence, struggling with her emotions. No, she supposed he had no right to touch her, if having that right meant a legally signed betrothal contract followed by an opulent wedding ceremony attended by eight hundred people. They had not had that between them. There had been nothing between them at all.

Except a passion that had filled her with such magnificent desire she had thought she would certainly die from it.

“It will never happen again,” Jack vowed, desperate for her to believe him. He was suddenly afraid that she would leave him. That he would wake the next morning and find she had fled, too frightened by his behavior to risk another night under his roof. “I swear it.”

She should have been comforted by his assurances. Instead Amelia felt strangely betrayed. What had she expected from him? she wondered. Did she expect him to fall to his knees and profess his undying love the way Percy had? To swear to her that there would never be another for him, and that he would be honored if she would consent to become his wife? She had nothing, she reminded herself. No family, no dowry, nothing. And even if she did, she knew that Jack had little interest in the institution of marriage. He was devoted to his shipping company and the sea. What could he possibly want with a wife when he was not home enough to care if his house was properly furnished?

“I understand.” She turned toward the door, unable to face him even a moment longer. And then, because she did not want him to know how deeply he had hurt her, she managed to add in a flat, polite voice, “Good night.”

Jack watched as Amelia left the room, taking all its heat and joy and life with her. He poured himself a glass of whiskey and turned to the window. The light from the oil lamps burning in his study mirrored his reflection in the glistening windowpanes. He stared at himself in disgust, lifting his fingers to trace the jagged path of the scar that streaked across his cheek.

Then he drained his glass and hurled it with helpless rage against the fireplace.

Chapter Nine

F
OR THE NEXT TWO DAYS AMELIA DID NOT SEE JACK.
He rose at dawn and left the house before she had awakened, and returned long after she had gone to bed. Oliver told her that Jack was busy managing the affairs of North Star Shipping, which had suffered a serious blow with the destruction of the
Liberty
. Amelia supposed that the demands of Jack's company could well absorb his complete attention. She could recall many occasions when she scarcely saw her father for weeks at a time. Nevertheless, she could not help but feel that Jack was avoiding her. Given her profound humiliation after the passion that had exploded between them in his study, she should have been relieved that she was spared the awkwardness of seeing him.

Instead she felt as if she had lost her only friend.

“There, now that the meat and marrow bone have simmered, ye skim the scum off,” directed Eunice, handing Amelia a skimming spoon. “Careful now, lass, ye dinna want to burn yerself on the steam.”

Amelia's brow puckered in concentration as she carefully captured greasy spoonfuls of gray scum and deposited them into a dish. “Why did we put the marrow bone in if we didn't want all this fat?”

“We needed it for flavor,” Eunice explained. “There's nae enough in the lamb itself because the real taste is in the bones. 'Tis the same with any meat, be it chicken or beef or hare. Ye must always boil the bones 'til they're bleached to make the broth rich and sweet.”

“Eunice makes the best hotchpotch in all of Scotland,” declared Oliver, who was busy pouring several pints of strong vinegar into an old black pot.

“ 'Tis what we call lamb and greens,” Eunice explained to Amelia.

“That and her haggis are famous in Inverness,” boasted Oliver.

“Well, I dinna know about that.” The color in Eunice's cheeks made it clear she was pleased by his compliment. “His lordship is nae fond of haggis, so I only make it when the children come for dinner. They grew up on haggis and tatties and peas, and they're nae so fancy now that they dinna appreciate a good, simple meal when they come home.”

“Where is home?” asked Amelia, still focused on her skimming.

“His lordship and Miss Genevieve have an estate some ten miles from here,” said Doreen, who was aggressively grating a turnip. “We all moved there from Inveraray after they got married. 'Twas a fine time we had, with the six children thinkin' they'd all but gone to heaven to be livin' in such a grand place. It was a fair change for them, after all they'd been through. For nearly a year they still slept in but three bedchambers, even though there were more than enough for each of them to have their own.”

Oliver chuckled. “They took comfort bein' close to each other.”

“Except for Jack,” Eunice pointed out. “He was older than the rest, and was pleased to have his own room.”

Amelia paused in her skimming, confused. She had thought that Jack and his brothers and sisters were born to Lord and Lady Redmond. Clearly that wasn't the case. “So Jack's mother was married before she met his father?”

“She almost was,” Oliver replied, measuring a cup and a half each of ivory black and treacle into his pot. “But when wee Jamie came along, the spineless cur broke their betrothal. He couldna bring himself to care for another man's bastard, and thought Miss Genevieve had gone soft in the head for wantin' to keep the bairn.”

Amelia's eyes rounded in shock. “Jack's mother had a child out of wedlock?”

“Jamie wasn't born to Miss Genevieve,” Eunice hastily explained. “He was the bairn of her father, Viscount Brynley, and a maid. Her father died afore he knew Cora was with child, and Genevieve's stepmother threw Cora out. She died in prison while giving birth, poor lamb, and instead of lettin' her wee brother go to an orphanage, Miss Genevieve brought him home to raise him herself.”

“How old was she?”

“Barely eighteen, with nae to call her own except an old house,” said Doreen. “When the Earl of Linton refused to marry her, Miss Genevieve had nothin'—except wee Jamie, of course.”

“I must have it wrong then,” Amelia reflected, trying to sort out the order of Jack's brothers and sisters. “I thought Jamie was Jack's younger brother.”

“He is,” affirmed Oliver.

“But he can't be—Jamie came first.”

“Aye, and then came the rest of us,” Eunice explained. “First Miss Genevieve took me from prison, where I'd been jailed for stealin'—”

“Because she'd been livin' on slave's wages,” Doreen interjected.

Eunice smiled at Doreen. “Well, after prison 'twas certain no one was goin' to hire me, as I had nae references and was considered a dangerous criminal. But Miss Genevieve came to me and said if I would live with her she'd keep a roof over my head and food on the table, and if I ever needed anything else I had but to ask.”

“And the rest of us followed,” said Oliver, mixing a half cup of oil into his pungent black brew. “Now that she'd seen the nastiness of jail and knew that lads and lasses with nae kin were sent there for stealin' a bit o' bread, Miss Genevieve decided to help. First came Grace, then Annabelle and Simon—”

“Then poor Charlotte came,” Eunice interjected, “and a pitiful little creature she was, half-starved and her poor leg near crippled by her wicked beast of a father.”

“And me and Doreen got taken in, too,” Oliver continued. “Doreen had been in prison for stealin' from the tavern where she worked—”

“Because they paid me slave's wages,” Doreen huffed angrily as she reduced another turnip to shreds.

“—and I was the best thief in the county of Argyll.” His voice was filled with pride. “There's nae a lock in Scotland I canna get past, and if Jack had but given me the chance, I'd have shown you I'm skilled in England as well. I'm a fair pickpocket, too, though I dinna get to practice much.” He flexed his aged hands and sighed. “Miss Genevieve doesna like it when I lift the odd thing from her guests.”

“And nae wonder,” scolded Eunice, tossing a few sprigs of parsley, thyme, and bay leaf into her pot. “Ever since ye took that scented hankie from Lord Healey, he's refused to visit again.”

“I gave it back to him,” Oliver protested.

“Aye, in front of his wife, who was sorely displeased that it wasn't her own.”

“I've nae seen a woman so red,” marveled Doreen. “I thought she was goin' to drop dead on the floor.”

“She willna die afore he does.” Oliver chuckled. “She's too mad at him to grant him any peace.”

“You mean to say Lord and Lady Redmond aren't really Jack's parents—or the parents of any of his brothers or sisters?” Amelia regarded them in amazement.

“We dinna mean to say that at all,” said Eunice.

“Miss Genevieve may not have borne them, but there's nae question she's their mother,” Oliver added emphatically.

“And his lordship loves them and treats them exactly the same as the children that followed after he and Miss Genevieve married,” finished Doreen.

“Miss Genevieve still goes to the Inverness Jail now and again, lookin' for someone to hire.” Eunice smiled. “She's a great believer in seein' the good in people. That's how she came to know his lordship—he was in the same jail cell with Jack, convicted of murder.”

Amelia's eyes widened.

“But eventually 'twas proven that he was just defendin' himself from ruffians who had been hired to kill him,” Oliver hastily added. “If nae for Miss Genevieve believin' in him, he'd have been hanged.”

“What had Jack been imprisoned for?”

“Stealin', same as the rest of the children.” Eunice clucked her tongue. “Livin' on the streets, they had nae choice.”

“Jack had a rare talent for it,” Oliver observed proudly. “He managed to stay out of prison 'til he was fourteen.”

“ 'Twas good Miss Genevieve found him then, or he'd have ended up dead,” predicted Doreen.

“On the streets there's always those who will kill ye for as little as a crust of bread,” Oliver added. “Children suffer the most, because they're easy to lift from.”

Amelia thought back to the incident two nights earlier, when she had startled Jack in his sleep and he had reacted with swift violence.

The dark days of his childhood were long past, but they had left their mark.

She turned her attention back to the puddles of fat floating in the pot, overwhelmed by the tale of Jack and his family. She wondered why Jack had not told her about any of this.

Did he believe that if she knew the truth about his beginnings, she would think less of him?

“There now, we let that simmer until the meat is tender.” Eunice placed a lid on the pot. “Thank ye, lass.”

“Is there anything else I can help you with?” Amelia wondered.

She had rarely been in the enormous kitchen of her mansion in New York, with its tall, glass-faced cupboards, expansive marble counters, and the most modern equipment available for cooking. The preparation of food had not been part of her education, as her mother had expected Amelia would always have servants to cook her meals for her. If her mother could have seen her at that moment, wearing a plain woolen dress and grease-spattered apron, skimming puddles of fat off a pot of hotchpotch, she likely would have fainted. But Amelia loved the warm, fragrant kitchen, which smelled of gingerbread and herbs and whatever that black mess was that Oliver was stirring.

“If ye're nae afraid of handlin' a hot iron, I can show ye how to take grease out of a shirt,” offered Doreen.

“I've never ironed before,” Amelia admitted. “Is it very difficult?”

“Nae if ye're careful. First ye lay the shirt out nice and flat,” Doreen began, arranging the shirt on the table. “Then we lay a scrap of brown paper over the mark and set the iron on it, liftin' and settin' it down until the grease starts to come through. Then we put another scrap of paper over the mark and keep on 'til the grease doesna come through any more.”

“Does that take the spot out entirely?” asked Amelia, amazed.

“Most times it will. If it's stubborn, ye wrap a wee bit of flannel around yer finger, dip it in spirit of wine and give it a rub, and that takes the last of it out nice as ye please.”

Oliver frowned. “Is someone knocking?”

“ 'Tis just the wind,” Eunice assured him, sifting flour into a large bowl.

“Then 'tis a wind with a fist,” said Doreen. “Ye'd best go see who it is, Ollie, afore they decide to—”

“Hello, there!” called an excited voice.

“Is anybody home?”

“Jack?”

“Sweet Saint Columba,” gasped Eunice, covering herself in a cloud of flour as she dropped her sifter into the bowl, “ 'tis the children!”

“Where can I hide?” Amelia looked desperately around the small kitchen.

“There's nae time for that—just bow yer head and keep to yer work,” Doreen instructed, handing her the iron. “And dinna open yer mouth—the minute they hear yer accent they'll know something's about.” She grabbed her knife and started rechopping her carrots as the door swung open and Jack's brothers and sisters poured into the kitchen.

“Hello, everybody,” said Jamie.

“Something smells wonderful,” Grace exclaimed, hurrying toward the stove. “Is that beef and barley you're making, Eunice?”

“It smells like lamb.” Annabelle wrinkled her nose. “It must be hotchpotch.”

“I'm starving,” reported Simon, gazing longingly at the stove. “Is it ready to eat?”

“We don't mean to invite ourselves to dinner.” Charlotte smiled as she limped through the door. “We just came by to visit with Jack.” She seated herself on a chair and stretched out her stiff leg.

“He's nae here,” Oliver said, stirring his black concoction with such vigor his face was covered with dark speckles.

“We'll be sure to tell him ye dropped by,” offered Doreen, savagely reducing her carrots to mush.

“If ye come back tomorrow ye might be able to catch him,” Eunice finished, sifting a snowstorm of flour into the air.

“He's sure to be back soon, isn't he?” Jamie was disappointed. “After all, it's nearly five o'clock.”

“He said he was goin' to be late,” Doreen replied briskly. “We dinna expect him 'til the wee hours of the morning.”

“If he isn't coming home, why are you preparing all this food?” wondered Grace.

“It's for tomorrow,” fibbed Eunice, stirring melted butter into some treacle.

“You're making treacle scones for tomorrow?” Charlotte regarded her curiously. “Don't you always say they're only good when they're fresh from the oven?”

“Yes, well, these ones are for us,” Eunice stammered.

“Wonderful—I love treacle scones.” Simon went to the stove and peeked under the lid of the pot. “When will this hotchpotch be ready, Eunice?”

“I'll just put the kettle on and we can have some tea,” said Annabelle, filling the kettle with water.

Jamie smiled at Amelia. “I don't believe we've met. I'm James Kent, and this is my brother Simon, and my sisters Annabelle, Grace, and Charlotte. We're Jack's family.”

“This is Miss Maisie Wilson,” interjected Oliver so Amelia wouldn't have to introduce herself.

“We've hired her just for today, to help with the laundry,” Doreen explained.

“The lass is a bit shy,” finished Eunice.

“I'm pleased to meet you, Miss Wilson.” Jamie studied Amelia with interest. “I actually need someone to come and take care of my laundry. Do you take laundry in?”

Her gaze downcast, Amelia pressed her iron hard upon Jack's shirt and shook her head.

“I'll come to help ye,” offered Doreen, trying to divert Jamie's attention.