An Inconvenient Wife (32 page)

Westcott exchanged a grin
with St. Clair, stretched out his legs and waited for the final act. Judging
from the sounds of hurried activity coming from the players, they were in for
another change of scenery, and indeed, the curtain opened to show a roughly
built hut partially surrounded by a stockade fence. Crusoe wandered along the
water’s edge. Suddenly he stopped dead in his tracks, crouched down, examined
something in the sand, and began jumping up and down with excitement. He ran to
his hut, grabbed a spyglass and musket, and rushed up the hill to peer around.
The sight below shocked him into dropping his possessions and sent him into a
tizzy. One could almost hear his cries of “woe is me” as he staggered around,
head in hands, and again Westcott marveled at how the puppet could convey so
much.

Drums started, loud whoops
rang out, and the audience gasped as a dark-skinned, curly-headed puppet burst
over the top of the hill. Crusoe reeled back in shock, but at the appearance of
more dark-skinned puppets, snatched up the musket and fired it. Pandemonium
then, the puppets that had been chasing the fugitive milled around with much
arm waving, then turned and ran away.

Crusoe cradled the weapon in
his arms and stared after them for a minute. Then raising the gun over his
head, he strutted around, his chest puffed out with pride. After which, he ran
over to the curly-haired puppet he had rescued and led him to the hut. Crusoe
handed the fellow a shirt and a bowl of food, and side by side they slouched
against the fence.

Days passed—marked with a
notch in a post—and the two friends wandered about the beach. Then, loud enough
to make the spectators jump, the boom of a cannon, and there, coming over the
horizon, a ship! Crusoe raced to the top of the hill, lit an untidy pyre of
brush, fell on his knees in thanks, and then dashed back to his hut. A minute
for Crusoe and his companion to gather a few items, heave bags onto sturdy
shoulders, and with jaunty steps, they went to meet the ship.

A spontaneous cheer broke
from the spectators as the curtain dropped, and the flushed players appeared,
grinning with pride, to take their bows.

Sarah held out her arms to
Westcott. “Papa, did you like it? Guy had trouble getting the cannon to boom
and we forgot to put Mr. Crusoe’s funny hat on him, but I don’t think anyone
noticed. Isn’t Danielle splendid on the flute? It was her idea to add the
music, since it was a pantomime.”

Westcott crouched down
beside her. “I liked it very much.” He gave her a hug and smiled at Danielle.
“The music was delightful. You are quite talented. Did you choose the songs?”

She nodded shyly. “Mother
Anne helped me find the music once I told her what I wanted.”

“Guy, that was you with the
drums and whoops, I suppose.” Westcott rose, smiled at the boy and ruffled his
hair. “Very realistic. They gave me the shivers.”

“Yes, sir!” Face scarlet
with excitement, Guy beamed at him.

“They gave us all goose
bumps!” Anne declared, coming over to them. “It was a grand performance.” She
embraced each of the children in turn and then stepped back to allow the others
to congratulate the trio.

“A marvelous performance,
actually. No wonder it has taken weeks to prepare for,” Anne said as Westcott
guided her aside. “They are frighteningly resourceful.”

He chuckled, brows rising as
the implication sank in. “So they are. It is well for us none of them seem
inclined to mischief.”

“Give them time,” St. Clair
put in as he joined them. “Although I must say we never thought of half these
devices. How did they do it all, do you know?”

“Something I’d like to learn
as well.” Juliette said. “Not just the mechanics of it, but how could they make
those puppets so expressive?  I felt every bit of Mr. Crusoe’s experience.”

Westcott fell silent as his
three companions exclaimed over the show, gazing around the room and reflecting
on the many changes in his life the past few months had brought. The servants
were drifting away, still full of the entertainment, and he knew the entire
household would soon be regaled with the whole of it. The atmosphere of
Westhorp had changed.

Anne’s doing, of course. She
had stirred everything into a new stew.
Is that so ill a thing? Music,
laughter, that urchin running along the halls; everything different—except you.
Westcott dismissed the thought impatiently. He had no desire to change. Get
involved and open to more heartache? He already had enough for a lifetime.

A light touch on his arm
brought him back to the conversation around him.

“We have been invited backstage
before refreshments arrive, if you are interested,” Anne told him, a
questioning look on her face.

“Certainly. I am curious as
to how some of those effects worked—and I expect those responsible are eager to
tell us.” Against his better judgment, Westcott tucked her arm under his,
ignoring her tiny start.
A fine thing, when your wife is surprised if you
touch her.
Irritated by the idea, his mouth tightened. “Shall we go?” Cool,
his voice, and her smile faded at the tone.
Well done, Westcott
,
you’ve
managed to hurt her again. Stop acting like an oaf or leave her alone.
Something that was becoming more difficult every day, and he despised the
weakness in him that craved what he should not want—and did not deserve.

The festive atmosphere did
nothing but deepen his dark mood. Westcott stood apart from the adults gathered
around the enthusiastic children. Sarah was in the thick of it, not missing him
in the least, and Anne appeared to have shaken off any thoughts of his latest
slight.

“The Durants have been good
for her,” St. Clair said in a low voice, “and Anne, of course.”

“Of course, Anne,” Westcott
said evenly.

St. Clair slanted a frowning
glance at him, reading more into the flat agreement than Westcott wanted. The
last thing he needed was advice from a man as supremely satisfied with his
marriage as Devlin.

“Shoulder hurting you,
Nick?”

Concern, not censure, in St.
Clair’s voice, and Westcott felt a stab of remorse for assuming his friend
meant to take him to task. “Yes, a bit, but it’s nothing.” Westcott jerked his
chin toward the window and casually moved away from the others. “I need a word
with you, Dev. I’ve learned something that may have a bearing on this senseless
attack. But first, has there been any progress at all in determining the
culprit?”

St. Clair leaned against the
window sash, the picture of indolence, and Westcott grinned. “You do that so
well. I think you must practice in front of a mirror.”

“A natural talent, I assure
you,” St. Clair said with such an air of false modestly Westcott had to laugh.

“What a nod-cock you are.
How Juliette puts up with you I don’t know.”

“She finds me vastly
entertaining, I believe,” St. Clair said, looking highly amused at some private
thought.

Suspecting St. Clair’s idea
of entertaining was other than the normal meaning, Westcott looked askance at
him and chuckled. “You are fortunate, my friend.” There was no rancor in the
comment; he meant it. He was not so churlish as to begrudge another’s
happiness. “We’ve just a few minutes, Dev.
Is
there any news?”

St. Clair’s expression
reflected his frustration. “Nothing. Not a sighting or even a rumour of any
strangers in the area, and I’ll be damned if I believe it was anyone local.”

Westcott leaned closer and
lowered his voice. “This may not be relevant. In fact, it is entirely
speculation but I’ve just learned there is something in Anne’s past you should
be aware of.” His mouth tightened at the thought of her treatment at the hands
of this bounder—and the lingering fear in her eyes. “When Anne was in
Gibraltar, there was an officer….” Westcott related what Anne had told him
about Major Reynard.

“Bastard,” St. Clair swore
softly. “And you think he may have followed her here?”

Westcott let out a hiss, his
jaw clenched with unvoiced anger. “Improbable, but it needs looking into.”

“The man would stand out
like fleas on a mongrel, Nick,” St. Clair said. “I don’t know how it could be
possible, but just in case, I will write to Strathmere and ask him to check in
with the War Office to see if they know where the man is at present.” He
inclined his head and gave Westcott a cautionary look. “He is probably still in
Gibraltar, so don’t pin too much on this theory. In the meantime, stay close,
until we hear back from London.”

“Umm.” Westcott was
non-committal. He’d take reasonable precautions. He did not, however, intend to
be a prisoner in his own house. From the look in St. Clair’s eyes, he knew
exactly the direction of Westcott’s thoughts, but other than a resigned smile,
made no protest.

“Papa! Uncle Devlin!”
Sarah’s call put an end to further discussion. Juliette was coming their way,
and Anne was staring at them with a curious look on her face. Westcott smoothed
his expression to hide the disquiet he felt. Enlisting Strathmere’s aid was
wise, but he planned to make his own inquiries in the meantime—and talk to Bill
Fenton, who certainly knew better than anyone just how real this possible
threat to Anne was.
To you as well, if this Major was behind the shooting,
but keeping Anne safe is more important.
He’d failed to keep Camille from
harm. He would not fail Anne.

Chapter Twenty-six

Safe? Who is to protect her
from you
? Westcott downed the last of his brandy, set the glass
aside and heaved himself to his feet. The glowing embers cast just enough light
for him to make his way to the window and push open the heavy draperies. Light
from the full moon scattered shadows around him. Did Anne sleep with her
curtains wide this night? Was the light changing the blond strands to silver,
outlining the curve of her cheek?

The picture of her with hair
unbound, as it was that night in the library, spread across the pillows and
over the pale skin of her breasts, filled his head. A long time since he had
taken a woman into his bed—too long. No wonder his cock stood at the ready,
just thinking about sliding into her warm bed, sliding into her. Bloody hell,
he was just a man, with a man’s needs—and she was his
wife.

“Too much brandy, Nick. Stay
out of her room. One of these nights Anne is going to wake up and see you
looming over her like some voyeur. Go to bed.
He
rested his forehead against the door connecting their rooms while every reason
he should not touch her marched through his brain with leaden steps, and still,
his hand raised the latch and his feet carried him forward.

She lay partly on her side,
her nightdress taut around her breasts, as though she had had restless dreams
disturbing her sleep. Perhaps the same dreams were responsible for the hair
loosed from its braid to curl around her face. How would she react were he to
climb in beside her? Somehow, he
knew
, with absolute certainty, she
would welcome him, without expectations, commitment, or false declarations of
love.

Westcott removed his robe,
laid it on the bottom of the bed, and stepped from his slippers before lifting
the bedcover to stretch out beside his wife, all the reasons why this was so
very wrong fading from his mind at the feel of her body spooned against his.
One night, just one night.

~* * *~

The unexpected heat at her
back pervaded Anne’s dreams, pulled her into a drowsy realization that she was
not alone. Strong fingers at her hip, kneading, stroking, and she breathed in
the unmistakable scent of her husband with a shocked gasp. “Nicholas?”

“You were expecting someone
else?” Warm lips brushed the nape of her neck, lingered on her sensitive skin.

“I was not expecting
anyone
.
Whatever are you doing up at this time of night? You should be in bed.” Her
voice sounded strange in her ears, thin and breathy, and she forced herself to
ignore the rapid pulse beating in her throat.

“I
am
in bed.” The
tip of his tongue touched her ear, licked.

God, what was he
doing
?
Butterflies danced through her belly. Was this a dream, her longing for
Nicholas so urgent she imagined his touch? If she did not move, would it go on
and on?

“But this is not your bed,”
she said, in a puzzled voice. Had he wandered in here in error, half-asleep?
Please,
don’t let it be so
.

 “No, it isn’t. It is your
bed I seek tonight. I want you, Anne.” He turned her to face him. “Let me kiss
you.”

Shocking, the feel of him on
her lips, tasting, exploring, his tongue hot in her mouth when she opened to
him, swamping her with unfamiliar sensations. He wanted her? As in man and
wife? Dared she believe it?

The kiss was long, the
gentle pressure deepening, until she clung to him, shivering with need and
almost unable to speak when he raised his head. “I thought you….”

“Don’t think. Tonight, we
forget about everything else.” He feathered kisses along the line of her jaw
and licked at her lips, until his mouth covered hers, insistent, compelling,
his hand splayed on her back pulling her to him.