The Reluctant Bride Read online

  Angus returned from his visits to find the household in uproar.

  ‘Thank the Lord you’re here, Major!’ Miranda dropped a bloodied sheet upon the hearth and wiped her forehead with her hessian apron. ‘She’s losing the babe, sir. Oh, Lordy, but it would come too early. Doctor’s on his way so you must go up to her.’

  Angus took the stairs two at a time and flung himself onto his knees at Emily’s side.

  ‘Help me up,’ she whispered, her face white as chalk. ‘I need to move. I can’t bear the pain just lying here like this.’

  ‘But shouldn’t you—’

  ‘Just help me to my feet!’ She clenched shut her eyes and flinched as another spasm of pain gripped her.

  ‘Emily …’ He didn’t know what to say, but he did as she bid, supporting her weight on his arm, helping to keep her upright. ‘The doctor won’t be long.’ He had no idea when the doctor would come but he had to give her hope.

  ‘He won’t be able to do anything.’ Her eyes flared with another sudden pain before she resumed her rhythmic circuit of the small bedroom. ‘I can feel the pangs. The baby’s coming too early and there’s nothing anyone can do,’ she sobbed.

  God! He could almost feel her pain. ‘Please know how much I want this baby, Emily.’ He held her to him for a brief moment before she pulled away, compelled, it seemed, to keep moving. It did not deter him from saying what had to be said. ‘This baby will unite us. I wanted to marry you, Emily, but you’d not have had me unless you had no other choice. I’m sorry that’s the way it was. I’d have wanted you to accept my suit on my own merits, but—’ He bore the weight of her as she paced, hoping she was registering his words though she said nothing. ‘That’s why I rejoiced in this child. It was because of it that we could become united. A family.’ Anguish clawed at him. She had to understand the truth of it.

  ‘Well, it’s too late,’ she sobbed between clenched teeth. ‘I’m losing the baby and there will never be another—’

  ‘There will be more.’

  ‘Not Jack’s baby!’ She clapped her hand to her mouth. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she gasped, on another spasm of pain.

  He rubbed her shoulders as she pressed herself against the wall, seemingly to escape the pain. Dully, he said, ‘I heard nothing.’ It was the only response he could think of, but her words cut deep. Jack had been dead nearly six months and still her heart cleaved to him with as much passion as she obviously rejected her marriage to Angus. Swallowing, he begged her in a low voice, ‘Come, sit down on the bed, Emily. You should rest.’

  ‘You know nothing of what it is to suffer birth pangs!’ she cried, pulling out of his grasp. ‘I cannot sit down. I’m a prisoner to the pain. I must move.’

  She continued to pace, clutching her stomach while she muttered, ‘I should have known I’d not paid my dues. My father told me I would pay for my sins. He said I got off too lightly by marrying you.’

  Angus stared at her, helplessly. ‘This is not your punishment, Emily. For reasons we’ll never know, the baby is coming too early, but it’s not your fault.’

  She forced a smile and he felt a pang to his very core as she reached out and briefly touched his hand. ‘You are a good man, Angus,’ she whispered. ‘I wish I could love you, but you must leave for France tomorrow and I am glad for it. I don’t think I could have borne this sorrow with you by my side.’

  Chapter 7

  Not even the beauty of the passing elms, bright in their sunset-coloured foliage amidst fields of golden corn in a new and different country, could dispel Angus’s gloom.

  I don’t think I could have borne this sorrow with you by my side.

  Her words scored his heart like the pain of a thousand lashes, but at least she wasn’t going to be alone. The baby had been born during the night and had breathed for half an hour before it had died. Before the priest had come.

  Caroline, as good as her promise, had been there, arriving only an hour after he had. Instead of putting up at the Black Crow in modest comfort, she’d insisted on attending Emily so that Angus could leave first thing in the morning on his mission to France.

  She’d also promised to lay out the dead child.

  Angus delayed his departure until the last moment although Emily seemed not to register his parting kiss.

  He would visit Emily’s father on his return, certain that despite what Emily declared, nothing would be more calculated to restore her spirits than her father’s acceptance.

  With Emily in the good care of his capable sister-in-law, Angus realised he must turn his attention to the future. His and Emily’s. Fantastic possibilities had opened up his horizons. He was about to direct his talents towards the good of his homeland while his personal rewards extended well beyond that. He could provide for Emily: a fine home, a carriage and a wardrobe full of gowns.

  He slumped back against the squabs of his post chaise.

  What good were fine trappings if Emily did not love him … and perhaps never would now the reason for their union was gone?

  Restlessly, he shifted in his seat. He wished he’d chosen hard riding to this endless jolting over rutted roads, but he’d decided there were advantages to not arriving travel stained and exhausted wearing muddied riding clothes. Even if riding clothes were pretty much the extent of Angus’s wardrobe these days. Lord knew, he was on few invitation lists.

  He swallowed, his throat dry. He must make an effort and emerge from his reclusive ways to promote his lovely wife into the arena she deserved. Once he’d settled upon a handsome house, ideally not far from Honeyfield House, he envisaged the determined-though-nurturing Caroline directing operations with her usual efficiency, grooming Emily for her new role as one of the foremost ladies of the district.

  If this pleased Emily, Angus didn’t mind swapping his riding breeches and boots for formal attire, on occasion. That was a small price to pay for seeing her smile.

  As he consulted his timepiece he wondered rather gloomily if he’d ever see Emily smile again.

  The countryside was changing and he remembered Woodhouse’s description that indicated the distance covered. He should be at Monsieur Delon’s within the next hour, but exhaustion was fast claiming him. Angus knew his strengths and the few traits that he believed recommended him: he was tenacious, discreet and he could sleep anywhere. But he was a terrible sailor, and by God the crossing had been slow and rough.

  The Delons lived in a handsome stone house in the centre of the pretty Cathedral town of Saint-Omer, twenty-eight miles, or three hours’ travel from Calais. French aristocrats, they’d survived the Reign of Terror, fleeing Paris twenty years before, making connections in England, and then being reaccepted by France’s new regime. Monsieur Delon was a canny local politician and, Angus had been informed, a secret campaigner for a Bourbon restoration, a goal shared by the English bureaucrats who’d recruited him.

  Peace. Angus had spent too much of his life at war and he relished his role in this mission. He remembered the euphoria that had gripped him and his countrymen eleven years before when the Treaty of Amiens had brought short- lived peace. As an eager art student he’d been on the verge of seizing the opportunity to indulge his passions when suddenly the treaty was dissolved and hostilities were again the order of the day. As one son amongst so many, the army had offered him a livelihood.

  Since then he’d seen too much horror. The thought he might in some way contribute to a more permanent peace between warring nations would make him feel his life had been good for something.

  The house was silent as Angus was led by the parlour maid to an elegantly decorated drawing room. He recalled Emily’s mention of the Delon daughter, Madeleine, and listened for the sounds of playing. The thick stone walls filtered the noise from outside and he could have heard a pin drop, indoors. Madeleine must have no boisterous brothers. He knew nothing about girls but supposed that one small one, alone, would make little impression on a household like this.

  The silence of the Delon residence, disturbed only by the tick of the grandfather clock in the hallway, reminded him of the Micklen household, but he was relieved that his greeting from Monsieur Delon was a good deal warmer.

  As the parlour maid announced him, the exquisitely attired Monsieur Delon rose from his wing-back chair before the fireplace, declaring in perfect, accented English that any foe of Napoleon was a friend of his.

  ‘A message came last night that we were to expect you, Monsieur McCartney.’ From beneath Monsieur Delon’s elegant, grey eyebrows a pair of bright eyes regarded him with interest and good humour. ‘My daughter and I have been eagerly anticipating your visit.’

  Angus judged him to be in his sixties. He spoke with pride of his daughter, before outlining his plans to present Angus later that evening to the most important figure in their operation. ‘Count Levinne heads Le Congregation de la Roi and we greatly anticipate that your delivery of the necessary documents on such short notice is a prelude to greater involvement in an operation that aids a cause which we hope is as close to your heart as it is to ours: freedom and peace. Ah, Madeleine, our guest has arrived.’

  Angus turned as his nostrils were assailed by a waft of peony scent, the assault on his senses intensified as he beheld an exquisite apparition in white, her lovely pale arms holding an arrangement of hot house blooms which she placed on the sideboard, her long dark hair simply bound in an ivory comb. Smiling, she swept back an escaped tendril.

  For a moment Angus was speechless, the sudden constriction of his airways forcing him to straighten while he composed his features into registering nothing but neutral, courteous interest. Meanwhile his mind whirled and the surface of his skin tingled with an extraordinary combination of admiration and disgust.

  Madeleine Delon was remarkably like Emily on firs
t glance, with her glossy dark hair, clear-eyed gaze and perfect skin and features. She was also at least a dozen years older than the child he had been expecting.

  Her simple white muslin gown moulded her shapely body, which she moved with an obvious understanding of the allure she must hold for most men.

  ‘A pleasure to meet you, Monsieur McCartney,’ she murmured as she curtsied before advancing towards him with the languid grace of a young woman confident of her powers of attraction.

  ‘I see it was not a good crossing,’ she added, raising one eyebrow in amusement as her eyes met his.

  She was exquisite but he forced aside the admiration, imagining her instead sizing him up like a well fed cat sized up its prey; wishing he didn’t care that she’d found him wanting after the rigours of his journey.

  ‘I shall have the kitchen prepare something soothing.’

  In only a glance she’d accurately summed up the reasons for Angus’s obviously pallid looks. Now she took his arm and led him to a chair while her father set about procuring them both a glass of Madeira. ‘Poor Major McCartney,’ she crooned, ‘We shall do what we can to make you feel better.’ Angus was uncomfortably aware of his vulnerability.

  Mademoiselle Delon exuded an incredibly powerful magnetism. After arranging the cushions to facilitate his comfort, the young woman moved to the mantelpiece from where she regarded him with sharp interest as she draped one arm languidly along the marble. ‘Captain Noble, now he was a good traveller, n’est ce pas, Papa? We were saddened to hear of his death but are very happy such a brave man has replaced him. Our cause needs you, Major.’

  The perfect symmetry of her face reminded Angus of a Gallic Madonna with impish eyes. Now she no longer reminded him of Emily, though both were of similar height and build, each with a smile notable for their small, white pearly teeth.

  To his embarrassment he realised he was looking directly at Madeleine’s mouth, full and sensuous, the lips moist and slightly parted, and he shifted and swallowed, feeling the heat in his face as he realised Madeleine was studying him with equal interest.

  He forced his thoughts under control. Madeleine, the poised beauty with her raven tresses and confidence of her place in society and appeal to the masculine sex, was no match for Emily’s purity and modesty.

  He returned Madeleine’s smile with the courtesy required while his skin prickled with the knowledge that this was the Madeleine after whom Jack would have Emily name their child. What duplicitous swine would do such a thing?

  ‘Though the crossing was bad, I hope you recovered while riding over our excellent roads, Monsieur.’ Mademoiselle Delon smoothed her glossy coiffure, smiling at Angus as her father handed him a drink.

  And although Angus replied appropriately, he could only wonder how much Madeleine knew about Jack Noble’s betrothed and whether she’d entered into the malicious fun of deceiving Emily.

  After refreshment had been taken, Monsieur Delon laced his hands across his neat, round, beautifully upholstered belly and gave a sigh of appreciation.

  ‘You would, Major, probably care to rest for an hour or two before dinner. I’d hate Madeleine to weary you with her childish prattle.’

  Father and daughter nodded in familial accord, and Madeleine swayed against her father’s side as she focussed her amusement upon their visitor.

  ‘I would, sir,’ Angus said stiffly, his thoughts turning to how much Monsieur Delon knew about his daughter’s dealings with Jack Noble and whether the personal deceptions practised in this household compromised the operation.

  He forced a smile. ‘As you accurately surmised, Mademoiselle Delon, the crossing was diabolical but the carriage ride was not as bad.’

  ‘Perhaps you’d like me to rub your neck with lavender balm,’ the young woman suggested. Her bright amber eyes raked him with undisguised appreciation. ‘Captain Noble found it helped ease the ill effects of his journey.’

  ‘I’d prefer to sleep, but I thank you.’

  ‘Then go to your bed, major,’ his host exhorted him. ‘Madeleine will show you the way.’

  Monsieur Delon’s words sounded a hundred miles away. Angus forced his chin up as Madeleine placed her hand in the crook of his arm.

  ‘Count Levinne is looking forward to meeting you at tonight’s soirée, Monsieur,’ she said as she led him from the room. ‘The loss of Monsieur Allaire’s papers has put us all in a difficult, if not perilous, situation should his identity become a matter of curiosity.’ Leading him through darkened corridors, she stopped and pointed. ‘Your room is in the attic. If the house is for any reason searched, the ladder can be pulled up. Many brave men have been housed here but none so brave as poor Captain Noble and now’— fleetingly, seemingly unconsciously, she ran her fingers down his arm—‘yourself.’

  Even in his current state of exhaustion, her smile sent uncomfortable tremors though him. She was so like Emily in certain lights.

  Ignoring Angus’s protests that he needed no further help, Mademoiselle Delon insisted on accompanying him to his chamber.

  He finally gave up protesting when Madeleine pushed him back upon the bed and knelt to remove his boots. The truth was, he didn’t think he could have torn off his Hessians without help in his current state of exhaustion.

  ‘No doubt you have someone to do this for you at home.’ The look she sent him when she glanced up as she knelt at the base of his bed was sly, the fleeting touch of her quick, deft hands both horrifying and uncomfortably erotic. Jessamine had been the last woman to have removed his boots. He closed his mind to the thought.

  ‘I manage,’ he mumbled.

  ‘You do not have a wife?’ She arched an eyebrow. ‘Poor Monsieur. Every man needs a wife and you are so handsome—’

  ‘I have a wife,’ he cut her off, wincing at the relief of lying on a comfortable bed in stockinged feet, aware of the unintended sharpness of his tone.

  She straightened, stepping back to regard him curiously from the centre of the wooden floor. With speculation in her eyes she looked nothing like Emily, though he wished Emily would look at him like this.

  ‘Ah yes, but you are newly married, non?’ Obviously she had been well briefed.

  ‘Newly married, Mademoiselle, and very tired.’

  ‘Yes, you must sleep.’ Her lips curved in a secretive smile as she leaned over him, her breast brushing his cheek as she tucked the blanket under his chin. ‘You have important work to do if you are to satisfy our organisation and to make your new bride proud. When you have rested you must tell me all about her. I take great interest in the brave men who lodge with us, and the women at home who make their own sacrifices.’

  Chapter 8

  Consciousness lapped at the periphery of Emily’s brain and although she knew someone was in the bedroom she wasn’t ready to emerge from the nether world just yet. She held her dream fiercely to her as she gave her mind free rein to wander. She and her infant son were tumbling in the sweet green grass beneath a clear blue sky surrounded by a dozen gambolling lambs. Jack’s eyes stared out at her from her child’s cherubic face as he extended his chubby fists to be picked up. Invisible bonds that could never be broken bound them together.

  She bent down to scoop him into her arms, her heart filled to bursting at the anticipation. The thought of his soft curly hair tickling her cheek, his little arms wrapped about her neck made her breath come more quickly as she savoured the excitement.

  She opened her eyes suddenly. He must have darted out of reach. Stumbled perhaps.

  But no. He was not there and this was no rose-coloured reality or even a wonderful comforting dream. It was her reality. Her painful reality: a cramped bedroom in a soldier’s barracks, devoid of physical comfort or friends or love. The only thing to recommend it was that it was free of the man who now had complete control over her.

  She gave a sob. The child was to have been her future. It was to have been a little Jack protecting her from loneliness, providing her with a reason for existence, a reason for her marriage. It was … everything.