SPENCER ENTERED his dressing room to see Clovis and Anguish waiting for him, standing at attention…although Anguish rather listed to port, more than slightly the worse for drink.
“We’re here to drink to you and your bride before turning in for the night, Lieutenant,” Clovis said, turning smartly to retrieve a silver tray from one of the tables, a tray bearing a decanter and three crude glasses meant more for ale than French brandy. Apparently Clovis’s larceny didn’t extend to fine crystal.
“That’s some of Ainsley’s best, gentlemen, smuggled here from France by the good men of Romney Marsh at great peril to their lives and limbs. Do you expect us all to just throw it back like water?”
“And isn’t that still the best way, sir,” Anguish said with a broad wink, accepting a glass from Clovis and running it beneath his reddened, bulbous nose as he took an appreciative sniff of its contents. “Ah, and I can already feel it warming my thin Irish blood.”
Clovis pulled a face. “He’s been feeling one strong spirit or another warm his thin Irish blood for hours now, sir, drinking to your health. Surprised he can feel anything at all.”
“Now, now, Clovis, not just to the lieutenant’s health, but his lady’s, as well.” He lifted his glass. “To Our Lady of the Swamp—a long and happy life to her!”
“Hear, hear!” Clovis said, tossing back his own glass.
“Agreed,” Spencer said, then joined them in their salute to his bride. “Now, if you gentlemen will excuse me?”
“Oh, yes, sir, that we will,” Anguish said, holding out his glass to Clovis. “Only one more drink, sir, and that’s to me.”
“Really? You’re getting married, then?” Spencer asked as Clovis poured them each another two inches of costly brandy.
“Me, sir? Oh, no, sir. I’m not that balmy—er, not yet found the lady, sir, so it’s a bachelor boy I am for now. Not but a few years past forty, sir, there’s still time enough,” Anguish told him, rocking slightly on the balls of his feet. “It’s a new name I’ve got tonight, sir, thanks to Mr. Becket.”
Spencer looked to Clovis for an explanation, as Anguish now seemed to be having some slight difficulty focusing.
“It’s like this, Lieutenant,” Clovis explained. “Our Anguish here—”
“Aloysius,” Anguish corrected, then loudly burped. “Ah…needed that, I did.”
“Yes, Anguish…that is, sir, our Aloysius here figured that if Mr. Becket had given you a name, or so Bumble told us, and most of the others, too, then maybe he could gift Ang—Aloysius with a new name, as well, seeing as how the one he had might have some bad luck attached to it.”
“And most of my good right arm not attached anymore, if you’re taking my drift. Sir,” Anguish said, nodding. “So now I’m Aloysius Nulty. A fine name, that. Solid. And all my bad luck behind me.” He lifted his glass. “A great day, sir, all around!”
“And I’ll be happy to drink to that, Aloysius,” Spencer said solemnly, not smiling until he’d downed the brandy and turned to his tall dressing bureau to begin stripping off his neck cloth. “Long life and good luck to you. Um…Clovis?”
“Taking him off to his bed, sir,” Clovis said, turning the newly christened Aloysius at the shoulders and frog-marching him to the door. “You’re all packed and ready, Lieutenant, and the coaches will be ready at nine of the morning. A good night to you, sir.”
Spencer shook his head at his two loyal companions as he stripped off his jacket and waistcoat, then unclipped Mariah’s father’s watch and fob and held them in his hand for a long moment, looking at his bride’s gift to him. “I promise, sir,” he said quietly, “I’ll keep her safe for you.” Then smiled as he added, “Even if I have to kill her to do it.”
He set the watch on top of the bureau and opened his shirt buttons at his throat, removed the studs from his cuffs, pulled his shirttails free of his pantaloons and rid himself of hose and shoes. He slept in the buff and had done so since childhood, but for tonight he believed he’d be best served by greeting his bride while still fairly decent.
She was in the dressing room on the other side of his bedchamber even now, with Onatah in attendance, probably filling her with dire warnings about obedience and cooking pots, none of which Mariah, he felt sure, would take to heart.
He poured some still fairly warm water into a wash basin and splashed his face, ran his damp hands over his hair, washed his hands, cleaned his teeth—the sweetness of the tooth powder jarred badly with the lingering taste of brandy—and then examined his reflection in the small mirror that topped his dressing bureau, hoping to see the man and not the wharf rat.
She’d seen him worse, God knew. But he hadn’t promised her a long, slow lovemaking then, had he? Loneliness, grief and fear had led to their first encounter. Passion and excitement had led to their second. But this was a beginning, the beginning of a lifetime together.
And he’d damn well better get it right.
Taking a deep breath, cursing himself for a fool, he opened the door to his bedchamber just in time to see Mariah entering the chamber from the opposite side.
She saw him and paused, her hand still on the door handle, her long, perfect form outlined inside the thin, white gown by the candles behind her, still lit in the dressing room, her unbound hair a halo of living fire tumbling to her bare shoulders.
“Spencer,” Mariah said, letting go of the handle as she took three steps into the large chamber.
“Mariah,” he answered, inclining his head in a rather self-mocking bow.
Screaming, running, hiding. Options Mariah quickly considered, then discarded, as she wasn’t afraid of the man. She already knew the man, in a most intimate way. This night was no different from the nights after Moraviantown, from that almost embarrassing coming together aboard the Respite. What was a bed, after all? How did a bed make anything different? How did vows spoken under duress make anything different?
But they did. And it was. And she was all but trembling from nerves. Damn the man!
Spencer walked slowly toward her in the soft yellow glow cast by candles and firelight, his gaze locked with hers, his heart pounding in a way that told him he was taking his first steps toward his future, her future. Their future, theirs and their son’s, the children she would give him, the life they would make together in a new land. A new beginning, away from the dark and dangerous shadows of the past; a place where they would belong.
Tomorrow he would think of that past and how what had happened in the islands still haunted them all, and the dangers they faced in trying to banish that past and its demons forever.
Tonight? Tonight he would do his best not to think at all….
Mariah walked toward him, saying without words that she would meet him halfway, that they would try for William’s sake, perhaps even for their own, to make this marriage between them work as more than a mere convenience, a nod to propriety.
“You’re beautiful,” Spencer breathed softly as he stood in front of her and raised one hand to cup the curve of her cheek. “Frightened?”
Mariah closed her eyes, her body turning boneless as she pressed her cheek against his hand. “Terrified.”
“Me, too.” Spencer dipped his head to touch his lips to hers; gently, lightly, even hesitantly. Their bodies still separate, their only connection the kiss they shared. That kiss. And the next. And the next….
He stepped closer, clasped her waist lightly with one hand as he trailed his fingers slowly down the side of her throat, along the sweep of her shoulder, down the length of her arm, where he entwined his fingers with hers.
Mariah sighed audibly, raised her other hand to press her palm against his chest to feel his beating heart. Her own heart felt like a trapped bird in her breast, beating its wings furiously fast, frantic to be free. To fly. To soar.
Her terror melted away to be replaced by a yearning, a hunger, a curiosity heightened by a swiftly rising passion.
Her lips parted seemingly of their own volition and Spencer eased his tongue inside, meshing their mouths more firmly together as he let go of her hand and raised his arms to push his spread fingers up into the warm, fiery hair at her nape, to hold her head as he deepened the kiss; take and give, take and give.
Her senses swimming with sensations familiar and yet new, Mariah slipped her arms around him, curling her fingertips into his back, clinging to him as he lifted her in his arms and carried her over to the high, wide bed that had been turned down for them, welcoming them.
“Still terrified?” he asked, breathing the question softly into her ear.
She bit her bottom lip for a moment, then said, “Could we…could we possibly discuss this later?”
Spencer dipped his tongue into her ear, tracing the perfect curve of it. “Later?”
Mariah moved beneath the heat of him, raising a hand to cup his neck. “Yes. Much later…”
He kissed her hair, her eyelids, suckled lightly on her velvet-soft earlobes, licked at the sensitive skin at the base of her throat. His mouth followed his hands, his fingers busy unbuttoning the modest night rail, lifting her slightly so that he could slip it up and over her head. He covered her nakedness with his body, rousing her with long, drugging kisses that she returned tentatively at first, then with building passion.
Mariah caught her breath in shock and pleasure as he cupped her breasts in his palms, his gaze steady on her as he licked at her nipples, nipped lightly, drew her into his mouth as he flicked at her with his tongue, rubbed her sensitive nipple between finger and thumb.
His eyes were so dark, filled with passion that seemed to enhance her own. She was sure he would take her now, give release to the passion building inside them both. But he didn’t.
Instead, he moved slightly away from her, stripped off his clothes without concern for buttons and fastenings and then returned to her, to kiss her shoulders, the crooks of her elbows, the palms of her hands.
She moved beneath him, wordlessly telling him she was ready, but he ignored her, his fingers now busy stroking her rib cage that rose and fell with her quick, shallow breaths. He dipped his tongue into her navel, curling something tight, deep in her belly. His hands skimmed her hips even as he moved lower, lifted her leg to nibble the soft flesh on the inside of her thigh.
“Spence, please…”
Her skin was so fair, the sunlit fire of her hair spilling across the snow-white pillow, nestled so cunningly between her legs, drawing him into her fire. He could touch her all night, kiss her all the night long, watch the emotions on her candlelit face, see the wonder, the need, the realization.
He drew his tongue across the skin behind her knee, kneaded the creaminess of her thighs, drew himself back up to the center of her, the heart and heat of her.
“I…Spencer…”
“Shh, sweetings,” he told her, his fingers already spreading her. “I promised…until the world goes away…”
Mariah watched as he slipped his hands beneath her buttocks, raised her slightly, then lowered his head to her. This was impossible, unbelievable, surely forbidden. But he was touching her, exploring her. She felt his warm breath against her skin. Shivered as his tongue glided over her, again and again and again.
Her head fell back against the pillows when he covered her with his open mouth, drawing her into his mouth, into his world, even as he moved his long fingers deep inside her.
She lifted herself to him as her world got smaller, centering only on what he was doing to her, how her body was reacting to what he was doing to her. There was nowhere else, there was nothing else. There was no one else but Spencer and herself…and the sweet tension building, building. Spreading. Flowering.
Her limbs went limp, all but numb. Now there was only Spencer’s mouth, Spencer’s fingers. Spencer, moving the world far away, building a new world with room only for the two of them.
She had let her legs fall open, giving her strong mind, indomitable spirit and sensitized body entirely over to him. Trusting him. Allowing him. Giving to him. Spencer knew it was time. He found her center, sucking at her as he flicked his tongue faster and faster, buried his fingers deep inside her, felt her explode around him, clench him, take from him.
“Now take me with you,” he whispered to her as he raised himself between her legs, slid into her, felt her arms grasp him tightly even as she lifted her legs up and around his hips. “Into the fire, Mariah…take me into your fire…”
They built their own world and stayed it in until dawn before they finally slept in each other’s arms, waking only slowly, reluctantly, as sounds of the household coming to life invaded the bedchamber.
“Good morning, wife,” Spencer said, stroking her tangled mass of sun-kissed hair as she lay against him, her head on his chest. “Is it much later?”
Mariah blinked to clear her brain of a dream that had featured Spencer quite prominently, to find that she had her arms and legs wrapped around the reality of him. “Is it what?”
“Later. Much later. You said we’d discuss…well, I don’t think we need to have that discussion now, do we? As a matter of fact,” he said, twining one long, sleep-warm curl round his finger, “I think we’ve found at least one part of our married lives that will be completely free of problems.”
Mariah pushed herself up on her elbows—one of them, hopefully, taking a bit of the hot air out of the man as she dug it into his side—to look at him through the veil of her hair. “Oh, you do, do you? And I suppose, delighted as you are about…about that one part, you now expect every other part to simply fall into line, making me a compliant wife and yours an easy life, yes?”
Spencer pushed himself up against the pillows, fairly certain he had just stepped at least one foot into quicksand. “I said all that? I don’t think I did.”
“Well, maybe you didn’t,” Mariah said, suddenly unsure of herself. “But you are looking smug, you know.”
“Ah, but I’m not looming,” he pointed out, grinning at her.
“And I’m not going to stay here at Becket Hall while you go haring off to London.”
“Did I ask that?”
“No, but you were going to, weren’t you?”
Spencer decided that the least he could be was honest. “Yes, I was. We have a son, Mariah—”
“Yes, we do. And I would very much appreciate it if you would not hang him over my head every time I want to do something you don’t want me to do. I can help, Spencer. I won’t do anything foolish. But I can play the silly woman and hang on your arm as we go about London looking for Renard and Nicolette. I can do this, I really can. We can help keep this new peace between the world and France. We can possibly avert a disaster in London. We can find this Edmund Beales and none of you will have to hide anymore. And then we can—”
“And then we can leave here, go to Virginia,” Spencer finished for her. “Which of those things holds the most appeal, Mariah?”
She sat back, feeling threatened, as if her answer would either free her or damn her. “Can’t…can’t it be all of them?”
Spencer threw back the covers and left the bed, pulling on his dressing gown. “I suppose so. And I’m an idiot for asking so much of you when we’ve just married, when we, hell, when we barely know each other…what we really think, what we really feel.”
What was the matter with the man? Mariah reached for her own dressing gown, lying at the bottom of the bed, and pushed her arms into it before sliding her feet to the floor, hastily tying the sash at her waist. “What’s wrong, Spence? Oh. Wait. I see it now. You think…you think I’m only thinking of myself, of William, and not of you. Don’t you?”
She marched around the bed to confront him, but he wouldn’t meet her eyes.
“Don’t you, Spence? Perhaps you even think I deliberately set out to bear your child, knowing you lived in a place so grand it was known by your family name? You think I came here already knowing the size of this house, the fortune that built it—and now all I want is to be taken care of, William and I? Oh, and Virginia! What a coup that is, isn’t it? My own home in a new land? I’ve certainly landed on my feet, haven’t I? Is that what you think?”
He took hold of her at the shoulders, gave her a quick, short shake. “No! No, damn it, I don’t. I—”
“You did,” Mariah said accusingly, cutting him off. “Admit it, Spence. You might not think it now, now that I’ve dragged it all out for an airing, but you did.” She smiled, painfully. “Well, isn’t this above all things wonderful? Your family accepts me, your family trusts me. But my husband? My husband still wonders, doesn’t he? I never should have married you.”
“Mariah, I’m sorry. I’m an idiot, I’ll admit it. I can’t explain myself to you. That’s impossible. I’m a part of this family, yes. But a part of me has always been alone, separate. I don’t know why. Hell, I don’t even remember my life before I was a Becket.” He shook his head slowly, trying to banish the fog that crowded his brain. “I’ve spent my entire life being…angry…feeling apart from everyone else…longing to go my own way. I just never…I just never thought anyone would want to go there with me.”
Mariah raised her hand to his face, stroked his cheek. Such a complicated man, living such a secretive, complicated life. “You have a son now,” she told him quietly. “And, for good or ill, you have a wife. Is that really so terrible? To not be alone anymore?”
He shook off his melancholy mood, not without effort, and smiled at her, covered her hand with his own. “I’ve been reading one of the books in Ainsley’s study, and I think I can probably find a bearskin for you in Virginia.”
Mariah’s heart did a small flip in her chest. She wouldn’t push at him anymore, but just follow his lead. They had their lifetimes to talk about the past. “And cooking pots? Fine cooking pots? I’m afraid I’ll have to insist on the very best cooking pots.”
They were standing so close together, in more than a physical way, perhaps even standing on the brink of something wonderful. Spencer sensed it…and then he ruined it. “Don’t go to London with me, Mariah. Don’t make me worry about you when I should be concentrating on finding Renard.”
“Oh, Spencer,” Mariah said, closing her eyes. “If we’re ever to have a future together, you’re going to have to understand that I’m going to walk beside you, not behind you.”
Then she turned away from him and walked to her dressing room. She’d be gowned and ready before he was, and sitting in the coach, ready to leave for London, even if that meant missing her breakfast.
“You’ll drive a man to drink,” Spencer called after her.
She stopped, then turned to face him, her smile wide and genuine. “My father said that all the time. You really should have known him. Then, maybe, you’d understand me.”
Spencer stood alone in his bedchamber for a full minute, attempting to figure out what in hell was happening to his life, his solitary life. But then the mantel clock struck the hour and he realized he had to get ready to leave for London or, hell’s bells, Mariah would go without him.
So they’d start off on their wedding trip to the metropolis, one that would be filled with deceit, treachery, danger and the very real possibility of disaster. That was life. That was being a Becket. And, damn him, now that there was a possibility that life could be different, he resented the hell out it.