Christmas Belles (20 page)

A bittersweet longing shot through him as he held the babe,
bathed in the glow of Chloe's gentle smile. From some great distance, he could
hear the wind beating against the cottage. But for one moment he felt strangely
bound to Chloe in some safe harbor, far removed from the elements, removed from
time itself as he stood there imagining that not only might this be her babe,
but his. Except that if he ever had a son, he would likely be far away at sea,
just like Tom Green was when the little lad was born. And Chloe would not be
the mother of his child.

He handed the babe back to her, filled with a regret as keen
as it was unexplainable. "We had best be going," he said. "The
vicar stopped by here for a few minutes to tell me that Charles went back to
Windhaven to fetch the carriage for us. It looks like there is going to be a
storm."

Chloe nodded with a tiny sigh. Slipping into the other room,
Trent could hear her handing the infant over to the midwife. Trent helped Chloe
into her coat and then held the door for her.

Any words they might have spoken would have been snatched
away by the brisk wind, but neither of them seemed to have anything to say.
Lost in silence, they trudged back along the shingled beach.

Chloe's bonnet blew back, hanging by its strings, her hair
becoming a wild tangle. Shielding her eyes, she stared out to sea. When she
spoke, Trent had to lean closer to catch her words.

"I like the look of a beach in the morning. Everything
is washed clean and new as though it were a chance to begin again. The birth of
a baby is something like that, too, isn't it?" She paused to glance up at
him. "I mean, no matter how terrible things might seem, it is still the
beginning of a new life, new hopes."

"I suppose so," Trent agreed, though he hardly
knew what he was saying. It suddenly occurred to him that long after he
returned to his ship, in the lonely hours standing watch on deck, he would be
seeing her this way, her honey brown hair blowing in the wind, her lips softly
smiling, her light blue eyes always so wistful with dreaming.

He would see her everywhere, in the foaming waves, in the
night sky, in the crisp billow of the sail as it sang in the wind. Somehow she
was in his heart now as much as the sea itself.

His hands came up to grip her shoulders, and he began
drawing her forward. He wanted nothing so much as to clasp her in his arms, to
hold her fast forever. The desire came upon him as strong and fierce as the
gathering storm.

He heard Chloe give a soft gasp, but she didn't resist. What
he saw reflected in the depths of her eyes fairly took his breath away. He
would have kissed her then, but she ducked her head, and his lips merely grazed
her forehead.

Somehow he retained enough sanity to release her. Reaching
up, he drew her bonnet back over her head. As he secured the ribbons at her chin,
tying them in a bow that was most militarily precise, he noted how badly his
fingers were trembling.

Chloe caught his hand between her own. "Will, I
..." she began and  then stopped, her face full of despair. "I
suppose we had best hurry. Emma will be worried about us."

"Yes," he said hoarsely. She released his hand and
turned, fairly running up the beach. Trent watched her for a moment, stifling a
soft curse.

It was a poor time to be realizing such a thing only hours
away from his own wedding. But he was about to marry the wrong sister.

Chapter Nine

As afternoon shadows lengthened, the entire Windhaven
household gathered in little St. Andrew's Church for Emma's wedding. Even
though the ceremony had yet to begin, Old Meg was already reaching sentimentally
for her handkerchief. Polly sniffed gustily, though no one was sure whether it
was over the present occasion or the absence of Mr. Doughty.

The steward had thus far eluded capture, much to Chloe's
relief. At least his arrest would not cast any further pall over a wedding day
that already seemed lost in gloom. The gray clouds without had brought on an
early darkness, causing the sexton to scurry about, lighting more candles.

The storm that had threatened all afternoon had yet to
break, but the wind could still be heard setting up a mournful wail. Sitting in
the front pew, Chloe shivered a little, her heart feeling as heavy as the
overburdened skies.

The rest of her family appeared no more cheerful than she.
They might well have been attending a funeral service instead of a marriage.
Attired in her best bonnet and gown, a pale Emma stood before the altar, her
nervousness betrayed by the fluttering of her hands. Lucy and Lathrop were the
picture of misery. Situated across the aisle from each other, they exchanged
longing glances.

The only one at all composed was Agnes, staring vacantly up
at a stained-glass window. But then her mind was likely far away, daydreaming
about some musty old Romans.

Lucy fidgeted on the seat beside Chloe and whispered in peevish
accents, "What is taking the captain and Mr. Henry so long? What else
could Trent possibly have to say to him?"

"Perhaps there is some last-minute detail that has been
overlooked," Chloe said. She had no more notion what might be causing the
delay than Lucy did, but she stood fiercely ready to defend any of Will's
actions.

Lucy scowled. "Doesn't the captain think Mr. Henry
knows his own business? You were right about Trent all along, Chloe. He is a
high-handed, interfering tyrant."

"He is nothing of the kind!"

"Oh yes, he is! He cannot give one good reason, yet he
is forbidding Charles and me to become engaged."

"As your guardian, Will is obliged to keep you from
making a mistake, and—" Chloe ducked her head, adding quietly, "And
he does not believe anyone can fall in love that fast."

But there had been one moment back there on the beach when
Chloe had questioned the captain's lack of faith. For one moment, when he had
drawn her closer, the look in his eyes had spoken not of skepticism, but of a
passion as strong and deep as the sea itself. But either Will's common sense
had reasserted itself, or it had all been the product of her own wild and
wicked imagination. Most likely the latter, Chloe thought.

Lucy stole another wistful look at Charles, then grumbled,
"Well, I think Will Trent is a great fool."

"No, he is simply a man who will always adhere to his
own notions of duty and honor," Chloe said with simple pride. And she
loved him for it, even though it was those selfsame qualities in Will that were
likely to break her heart.

She inched farther away from Lucy, not wanting to hear any
more of her criticisms. Chloe knew she would have enough to do simply to put on
a brave front, to be able to offer Will and Emma her congratulations. Her only
hope was that given time, perhaps the strength of her feelings for Will would
fade to become something more sisterly. It was a poor consolation, but all she
had. In the meantime, she could only wish that Trent would come with Mr. Henry
and make an end of this ordeal.

In the small robing room behind the altar, that was
precisely what Trent was trying to do. While Mr. Henry donned his vestments,
Trent paced the cramped quarters. Clad in the full regalia of his best uniform,
he felt more like he was about to plunge into battle than into wedlock Which
perhaps he was—a battle for the only happiness he might ever know.

Chloe had always been so certain that Emma and Mr. Henry
were still in love with each other. Trent had his doubts, but he prayed
fervently that Chloe's instincts might prove more accurate than his own. If she
were wrong--- No, he could not consider that prospect. It was far too bleak.

Clearing his throat, Trent launched his first tentative
barrage, heaping praises upon Mr. Henry until the poor young vicar turned quite
pink.

"And never have I been so moved as by your sermons.
Such clarity of thought, such force of expression."

Mr. Henry looked as though he thought Trent quite mad, but
he said politely, "Indeed? It is heartening to know someone stayed awake
long enough to listen."

"You are a man of great talents, quite wasted upon this
tiny parish. You should be in possession of a much better living, and I intend
to see to that."

"You overwhelm me, sir. I scarce know what to
say."

"Say nothing but that you will accept my friendship and
allow me to exert my influence on your behalf."

"That is most kind of you, but I assure you I am quite
undeserving."

"This is no time to be modest," Trent growled.
When Mr. Henry shrank back apace, Trent reminded himself that he wasn't
browbeating one of his midshipmen. Modifying his tone, he said, "Forgive
my impertinence, but I understand that you are charged with the support of your
mother and several younger siblings. Think what an improvement in your position
could mean to them."

"Well, one does not like to be thought mercenary,"
Mr. Henry said wistfully. "But a slight raise in income would be most
welcome."

"And then you could afford to take a wife." Trent
gave the slender vicar a hearty slap on the back. "As Saint Paul said,
better to marry than to burn."

Trent watched Mr. Henry's face anxiously, fearing he might
have overdone it a bit. He couldn't imagine the quiet vicar even smoldering.
But a flicker of something appeared in Mr. Henry's mild eyes.

"Yes, I could marry then, couldn't I?" he said
eagerly. "I have always thought it good for a clergyman to set an example
for his flock by choosing a proper bride."

"And there is no lady more proper than Miss Emma
Waverly. She would make an excellent vicar's wife."

"Aye, indeed she would—" Mr. Henry began warmly
and then stopped, looking deeply self-conscious. His spark of animation died.
"But Miss Waverly is betrothed to you, Captain."

"Ladies have been known to change their minds,"
Trent hinted with mounting desperation. "Emma is such an attractive woman,
I would not blame you if you were tempted to steal her away at the altar
itself."

Mr. Henry drew himself upright, looking outraged, and Trent
silently cursed himself, realizing that his last salvo had been a grave
misfire.

"Sir!" Mr. Henry said in offended accents.
"That is a most dreadful jest. Eloping with your bride! Do you think a
respectable lady like Miss Waverly would countenance such behavior?"

"She might find it rather romantic," Trent
suggested weakly.

"She would find it reprehensible and the most baseless
ingratitude to one who is proposing to become my benefactor,"

Trent nearly groaned aloud. Damn his eyes. Why did the vicar
have to be so blasted honorable? Trent already felt as if he were strangling
upon enough honor for the both of them.

"It is not as if I would be that heartbroken if
something happened to stop the wedding," Trent said, trying to sound as
callous as possible. "Emma and I barely know each other. We are virtual
strangers."

"In time you will come to realize what a jewel she is,
to love her as much as—" The vicar checked himself. Looking extremely
noble, he concluded, "We must no longer keep the bride waiting, sir."

Without giving Trent a chance to say any more, Mr. Henry
took to his heels, rushing out of the room with as much haste as though he fled
from the tempting whispers of the devil.

"Damn! Damn! Damn!" Trent muttered, heedless of
the sacred walls surrounding him. He smacked his fist against the wall, wishing
it were Mr. Henry's thick head. He would go grab the good vicar by the scruff
of his surplice, haul him back here, and shake some sense into him.

Trent lowered his arm with a weary sigh. No, by God, he'd
been a naval captain long enough to know a defeat when he saw it. He had done
everything but pick up Emma and thrust her into Mr. Henry's arms, and still,
his tactics had utterly failed.

So now what was he going to do? Go out to Emma and say to
her, "I am sorry, my dear. I cannot marry you today. I have fallen in love
with your sister."

Trent knew how much luck he would have trying to get those
words out. Hadn't he already tried to talk to Emma when he had taken Chloe back
to Windhaven to prepare for the wedding? How did one say anything so
devastating to a woman who was rushing about in an apron tied over her bridal
dress, helping to bake the bread for her own wedding supper?

He was about to pay the price for his cowardice in keeping
silent. He had failed with Mr. Henry, and there was no approaching Emma now.
Trent could hardly jilt her at the altar, humiliate her in front of her family
and servants. Even if there was a chance that Chloe would ever return his love,
she would never forgive him for hurting her sister. More important, he would
never forgive himself.

"Oh, Chloe. What a fool I've been," he murmured
sadly, knowing that it was the last time he could ever allow himself to
pronounce her name with such tenderness.

Well, there was little point in prolonging this agony.
Squaring his shoulders, he opened the door and marched out into the nave of the
church. Years of rigid close-order drill stood him in good stead, for he looked
neither right nor left. Above all else, he avoided meeting Chloe's eyes,
fearing that for once his sense of duty might fail him.

He focused instead upon Emma, who was waiting patiently for
him in front of the altar. She was obviously as nervous as any bride might be,
but her placid features revealed no great inner distress. Her eyes were quite
dry, and she did not even look at Mr. Henry as he opened his prayer book.

Trent moved woodenly to Emma's side, taking her by the hand.
She felt quite cold. Or was it his own flesh lacking any warmth?

Dear God, Trent prayed. I've seldom troubled you unless I
thought my ship was in danger of sinking. Unless you send a miracle quickly,
this time I shall definitely fetch up on the rocks.

The only answer was a silence so vast, Trent could hear the
old cook sniffing at the back of the church. Mr. Henry fumbled with the prayer
book, and the ceremony began.

As though determined to belie all Trent's praise of him, the
young vicar was more than usually awkward, stammering over the words, losing
his place in the text.

"If-if anyone knows just cause," he faltered,
"why this man and this woman should not be—"

Mr. Henry dropped the prayer book. Red-faced, he retrieved
it, thumbing through the pages with trembling fingers as he sought to begin
again.

"If any man man knows..." His voice trailed away
to nothing. He closed up the book, his eyes meeting Emma's with a look of
complete despair. "I am sorry, Emma. I cannot," he whispered. "I
simply cannot do this."

All color drained from Emma's face She struggled for her
composure, but for once she seemed unable to keep her heart from surfacing in
her eyes. A single tear trickled down her cheek.

Turning to Trent, she hung her head. "I am sorry, too,
Captain Trent. I fear I cannot go through with this."

His miracle had come so quietly, Trent was slow to recognize
it. When he realized what was happening, his relief was so vast, he was made
nigh dizzy by it.

"No need to apologize, my dear," he said, wringing
Emma's hand. "No need at all." For the first time in their
acquaintance, Trent experienced an urge to grab Emma and plant a hearty kiss on
her cheek, and he did so.

A restive murmur ran through the assembled witnesses, and
Trent realized Mr. Henry and Emma had spoken so low that very likely no one
else understood what was happening.

Turning, he confronted a gathering of astonished faces, but
Trent sought out only one. Biting upon her lower lip, Chloe regarded him with
anxious eyes.

Stifling an idiotic grin, Trent tried to give his
announcement all the gravity the situation demanded. "I am sorry to
disappoint you, but—"

It was an announcement he never had the opportunity to finish,
for the church door crashed open. At first it seemed as though the heavy portal
might have been blown by the wind, but then a burly man rushed in.

Amid astonished cries, Doughty staggered down the aisle, his
hair standing up in wild tufts. Breathless with coughing, his face and clothes
were streaked with soot.

Any tentative happiness and relief Trent had been feeling
were driven from him. Before the steward could manage to choke out a word,
Trent charged at him.

"Doughty! You damned villain." Trent seized him by
the collar. In a low voice meant for the steward's ears alone, he hissed,
"You bloody fool. What the devil possessed you to come back here?"

"Had to warn you, Cap'n." Doughty wheezed.
"Fire. Me 'n' the groom tried to put it out, but 'tis already out of
control."

"Fire! What fire? What the deuce are you talking about?
If this is more of your tricks—" Trent said, uneasiness sluicing through
him as he noticed that Doughty reeked of smoke.

"No trick, sir. Fire up at the house. Fire at
Windhaven."

His rasping words echoed through the church with greater
effect than a thunderclap. After a moment of stunned silence, everyone made a
mad rush for the door. Trent was the first to cross the threshold, staring off
to the west, in the direction of Windhaven Manor.

Even against the gathering darkness, a most unnatural glow
lit up the evening sky.