Priceless (27 page)

Bronwyn smiled. “You used to stand on the beach with bandages.”

“You snuck into that dark old tomb.”

“You ran and got help when I got stuck.”

“You’re the one who insisted on rescuing Henriette.”

Bronwyn sobered. “You made her last moments comfortable.”

“You wanted to live like a scholar, and ran away to that salon.” Olivia glowed with excitement. “If you want Lord Rawson, you could stop the marriage.”

“Olivia, the wedding’s tomorrow.”

“All the more reason to do it now.”

“Why are you begging me to make a scandal? Is Adam cruel to you?”

“Oh, no.” Olivia’s hands jerked as she twined them together. “If I had to marry someone, he would do better than most. He doesn’t want me.”

“Then why—”

“I don’t ever want to get married.”

“Don’t be silly,” Bronwyn said. “Every woman has to get married.”

Straight and stubborn, Olivia retorted, “No, they don’t.”

“You want to be a spinster?”

“No.” Olivia took a big breath, then another. “I want to be a nun.”

“A nun?” Bronwyn screamed, but it came out in a tortured whisper. “A
Catholic
nun?”

Olivia nodded, her enormous eyes pleading for understanding.

“Olivia.” Bronwyn gulped. “Olivia. Olivia, listen to me…”

“I know what you’re going to say.”

“I’m glad someone does,” Bronwyn muttered.

“You’re going to say we’re not Catholic.”

Bronwyn tried to keep the sarcasm out of her tone, she really tried. “That’s a point.”

“But I remember the convent so well,” Olivia explained patiently. “I remember all their teachings. I loved the chapel, and the singing, and the nursing. I loved Ireland, and the feeling that God dwelt so close among the crags and the mists.”

Hoarse with distress, Bronwyn offered, “We’ll take you back to visit Ireland.”

“But it’s not just Ireland. No matter where the Church is, I feel at home. I’ve thought about it all my life, but these last few months…” Olivia leaned her head against Bronwyn’s shoulder and smiled. “This is all your fault, you know.”

Bronwyn jumped. “Oh, no. You’re not blaming this on me. I’m not jumping onto the sands with the tide coming in.
You
are.”

“When you left, I thought you had run away to a convent.”

Bronwyn swung on her sister. “To a convent? What made you think that?”

“You talked about how you wanted to go someplace where you could do as you wish, speak as you wished, not have to marry.” Olivia faltered under Bronwyn’s incredulous gaze.

Comprehension burst on Bronwyn. “You thought I was in a convent, because that’s where you wanted to be.”

“Oh, yes.” Olivia sighed in relief. “I knew you’d understand.”

“Understand? I don’t understand. Not at all,” Bronwyn said in horror. “And even if I did, do you understand what you would do to us all if you became a Papist? You don’t even have to become a nun, just a Catholic. The whole family will be disgraced. The ministers will roar at us from the pulpit. Da would be justified if he locked you up with bread and water.”

“You could intercede for me,” Olivia said eagerly.

“Intercede for you? You’re marrying Adam tomorrow!”

“But if you took him for yourself, then I wouldn’t have to marry him, and we could gently break it to Maman and Da about me later.”

“Just a minute.” Bronwyn turned to her sister. “You want
me
to create the greatest scandal to rock England as a distraction for you? You won’t stop the wedding yourself? You won’t make the decision to tell Maman and Da? I’ll help you?”

“You’ll do it, won’t you, Bronwyn?”

Olivia had never looked so beautiful. The sun shone on her porcelain skin, her red lips rounded in a pleading bow, her blue eyes sparkled with tears. “If I don’t stop the wedding tomorrow,” Bronwyn elucidated, “you won’t become a nun, because you’ll be married to Adam.”

Olivia nodded.

“Which would save the family two scandals, me untold humiliation, and you the mistake of your life.”

“No!”

Bronwyn stood. “Thank you, Olivia. You’ve helped me make the right decision.”

Olivia dropped to her knees before Bronwyn and grabbed her hand. “Please, Bronwyn. Please help me.”

“I am helping you.” Bronwyn wrestled her hand away
and started down the path toward the house. “If you’re too frightened to refuse to go through with the wedding ceremony, then you don’t want to be a nun very badly.”

“I do.”

The sound of Olivia’s sobbing followed Bronwyn, and she pivoted. “You’re an Edana, just like I am. If you want something, you have to reach out and take it. Just”—she waved her arms—“take it.”

“What difference will it make?” Adam wiped his sweaty
palms on the needlepoint cover of his desk chair. “Once the wedding is over, Olivia will never be subjected to the scorn of society. I’ll receive whatever benefits of the Edana persona that are possible for me to receive, and Olivia will be everything I ever wanted.”

Northrup said nothing. He simply stared at Adam, his mouth puckered, his eyes accusing.

Adam snapped, “Mab looks at me in that manner, Northrup, but I’d like to remind you, she is my mother. I’ll accept her evaluation, but not yours.”

“Of course, sir.” Northrup transferred his gaze to the figures he was adding. “However, I’m not the one who brought up the matter of your nuptials.”

It was true. Adam couldn’t keep quiet about this marriage. He returned to the subject, prodding it, justifying it, assuring himself he was doing the right thing when he knew damn good and well he wasn’t. “Gorgeous, none too bright, a good breeder, a good manager, comfortable on the pedestal I place her on. That’s all I ask. That’s all I ever asked.”

“Is it, sir?” Northrup scribbled something on the paper.

That
was
all Adam had asked from a wife. Too bad it
wasn’t what he wanted anymore. Now he wanted conversation, love, laughter with a good woman. With Bronwyn. Bronwyn, who whisked around corners and faked headaches to avoid him.

She wasn’t pregnant, then. He’d been hoping, praying she would come to him, hand on her expanding belly, and screech, “I’m anticipating. What are you going to do about it?”

In his lonely bed he’d spend long hours comforting Bronwyn, placating the Edanas, rearranging the wedding. He’d imagined Bronwyn at his side as they took the marriage vows and he bounced an infant boy on his knee. Of course, Bronwyn was so obstinate, it would probably be a girl.

God, his own head ached when he thought of Bronwyn. “It’s too bad no one will come to the wedding.”

Northrup had not followed the switch of subject, for he said, “Beg pardon, sir?”

Restless, Adam stood and limped across the study to the window. “What with the way everyone feels about me.”

“I think you’re refining a bit much on this, sir. I’d like to point out that this evening the house is filled with guests awaiting your nuptials tomorrow.”

“Waiting for me to make a fool of myself.”

“I’d say you’re already doing that, sir.”

Adam swung on Northrup, but Northrup bent to his work. Adam sighed. Reinstating Northrup had proved to be a problem. The young man no longer respected him. Actually, Northrup respected him, but he no longer feared him. He seemed to think that the gunshot wound he’d suffered freed him to make comments about the wedding, about Adam’s cowardice, about Bronwyn’s sorrow. All in a deferential tone that made it difficult to upbraid him.

“Does your wound ache, sir?”

Unconsciously Adam had been rubbing his recent wound, and he snatched his hand away. “Better call for candles. You’ll hurt your eyes working in this dim light.”

Again Northrup said nothing with great eloquence.

Adam rubbed his leg again and admitted, “Itches like the devil. Looks like hell. Yours?”

“I’m going to burn these bandages when they’re removed,” Northrup groused.

From the door Bronwyn asked, “Yet Daphne did do a marvelous job, did she not?”

Adam spun around. In a simple dress of sapphire, Bronwyn looked wonderful. Her silver hair trailed over her shoulders and caressed her breast, exposed by the bodice and not shrouded by a handkerchief. Her eyes reflected the blue velvet. Her skin appeared to be golden, and a delicate blush tinted her cheeks. Her lips were red, and he found both her lip and cheek color to be suspect. She’d been biting her lips, probably unconsciously, and pinching her cheeks, quite intentionally, he was sure. He’d seen her do that when she wanted to make an impression.

She had succeeded. He was impressed.

He wanted to run to her, take her hands, hug her to him, lead her to his room…

Northrup stood up, straightening slowly, favoring his hurt side like some war hero who wanted to impress a maiden with his courage. “Lady Bronwyn, how beautiful you look, like a rose in spring.”

Perversely, Northrup’s admiration made Adam angry. Perhaps, too, his own unrestrained emotion irked him. Whatever the reason, he decided he would regain control of himself. He wouldn’t let her know how he felt. “Northrup, don’t you have something to do somewhere else?”

He spoke to the empty place where his secretary had been. Northrup had already slipped away, had shut the door behind him.

At the cabinet that held the drinks, Adam poured a shallow draft of brandy. Glass in hand, he saluted her with it. “Daphne did a marvelous job—for a woman.”

Bronwyn’s maidenly blush faded. Her eyes sparkled, her
bosom heaved. Fists clenched at her sides, she stepped into the room. “No man could have done any better. No man ever searched for the silvers of wood that caused you so much discomfort.”

He lifted the glass and swallowed. The brandy stung his throat, enlivened him in a way no spirits had ever done before. Surely it was the spirits. Surely it wasn’t the proximity of one indignant woman.

“Do you know what your problem is?” she asked.

“No,” he drawled, “but I’m sure you’re going to tell me.”

She stalked to the liquor cabinet, pulled a clean goblet from the tray, placed it with a crash that almost broke the delicate stem. “You’re ungracious and ungrateful.”

The scent of oranges tickled his nose, titillated his taste buds, made him hungry—for her. She stood too close. How was he supposed to remain distant when she came so close? “It’s a family failing,” he said.

She poured herself a brandy.

“Rather strong for a lady, isn’t it?”

After checking the level in his goblet, she lifted and poured again.

“How childish.”

The golden liquid swirled as she lifted it. “You think that excuses everything, don’t you?”

Startled, he demanded, “What?”

“Your father was hung as a counterfeiter, so you think it doesn’t matter what you do—society will never approve of you anyway. You think you can buy a bride, and when she proves to be too ugly for your taste, you can trade her in for one of her sisters.”

He meant to sound patient, dignified. Instead his reply came out in a yell. “Now wait a moment. I didn’t just trade you. You ran away.”

Jutting out her chin, widening her eyes, she said, “Humph.”

She made him so angry. Grabbing her bare shoulder to
shake her, he found his palm filled with the heat of her. He’d grabbed a hot poker, and he let her go, knowing he’d been burned.

She knew it, too, and juggled the goblet carelessly in her fingers. “Why shouldn’t I run away from a man who’s so intent on correcting the past that he’s incapable of recognizing the quality of the present, the potential of the future?”

“A pretty way of telling me you’ve at last realized the repercussions of my father’s crime will echo forever.”

She finished her brandy in one irritable gulp. “Why should I care what your father was?”

He grabbed her hand and held it still to refill her glass, then filled his own. “You were supposed to marry me. Do you want to take the chance our children will be tainted with such dishonesty?”

“I have an Irish great-grandfather who was hung as a murderer. My mother’s family can be traced back to William the Conqueror, and a right bunch of knightly thieves they were. Do you want to take the chance our children will be tainted with such dishonesty?”

Was she making a joke? Why did she refuse to see how his paternity had stigmatized him? “That’s different,” he shouted.

“How?” she shouted back.

Clenching his jaw so hard he could scarcely speak, he said, “We have talked about this before. I have been marked by my father’s crimes.”

She choked on the rich brandy and in meaningful tones said, “I find that hard to swallow.”

“You can joke about this?” he asked incredulously.

Waving her hands, glass still clenched tight, she ignored the liquor that slopped onto the rug. “Joke about what?”

“I was almost killed for counterfeiting South Sea stock.”

“Judson very skillfully set you up to take the blame.”

Like a mouse on a treadmill, he explained the same thing over and over, changing the words, hoping this time
she would understand. “Judson chose to set me up because my father counterfeited good English money. If anyone,
anyone
else needs a dupe, where will he look? Why, to me.”

“That’s true,” she agreed, “and there’s nothing you can do about it. But why spend your whole life trying to convince the world you’re honest?”

A bitter note tinged his voice. “A situation such as Judson set up must always cast doubt on my character.”

Patiently she asked, “Did you counterfeit South Sea stock?”

“No.”

“Would you ever do anything so deceitful?”

“No.”

Lifting her glass in a toast, she said, “Very well, I support you. Your word is good enough for me.”

In a rage, he threw his glass at the fireplace. It shattered into a thousand shards, brandy spraying the marble. The strong scent of it struck him, pleased him with its statement. “You’re a stupid woman. You shouldn’t trust someone just because he tells you something.”

She threw her glass after his. Its splatter was equally satisfying. “I don’t trust everybody, but I do trust you. Don’t you know why you’re not a popular man? It’s because of your total honesty, your rigid refusal to take bribes or play social games. Oh, when you make the effort, you can be polite, make small talk, pretend to be like the other dilettantes. But you can’t sustain the effort. It becomes too much for you. You revert to being Adam Keane, former seaman, merchant, broker. You’re as steady as a rock, and when you say you haven’t been counterfeiting, I believe you. If you had never spoken of it, I would still believe
in
you. You have never told me a lie.”

The violence of her action shocked him. The vigor of her words convinced him. His gaze bored into her with all the intensity of the temperament she described. “You don’t believe I’m a counterfeiter?”

“How silly do you think I am?”

“If I told you everyone else in London believes it, what would you say?”

“That they’re fools.” She sighed. “Like someone else I could name. But not everyone in London believes you’re a counterfeiter. If they don’t know you, they may believe it. If they are acquaintances of yours, they may pretend to believe it, to further their own ends. But your friends don’t believe it. Robert Walpole doesn’t believe it. Neither does Northrup, nor Rachelle.”

“You don’t know that,” he said automatically.

“Of course I do. Ask any of them.”

He staggered under the impact of these new ideas. He’d lived his whole life proving his worth, proving his reliability, and knowing all the time it counted for nothing because of his father’s corruption. Now this bit of a woman before him insisted…“Northrup believes in me, of course.”

“Of course.”

“And if you say Madame Rachelle does…well, I’m flattered.”

“Good.”

“Robert is here.” He rubbed his chin with his fingers. “I could ask him.”

“You do that.”

“You believe me?”

“I believe
in
you,” she answered steadily.

“You never doubted me?” he probed.

“No.”

He pressed his fingers to his face. Inside, he experienced a subtle shift. If Robert believed in him, and Rachelle, and Northrup, why hadn’t he been able to accept it? Not even his mother’s support had convinced him of his worth in others’ eyes. What was the difference? Cautiously he lowered his hands and looked at Bronwyn. Bronwyn, impatient, quick-tempered, impetuous with her affections, yet intelligent enough to attract the admira
tion of some of London’s best minds. It was Bronwyn’s assurances he’d needed, Bronwyn’s logic that convinced him. “Then what my father did doesn’t matter.”

Briskly she agreed, “That’s correct.”

He reached out his hands, took hers, squeezed them. “No, I mean—I can give him up. All the hurts, all the abandonments, all the careless affections he lavished on us even as he destroyed us.”

Something in his countenance must have alerted her to the changes sweeping over him. Never releasing his hand, she led him to the chairs beside the desk and pressed him down there. Seating herself, she asked, “Did you love him?”

Instinctively he said, “No!”

“Oh. I thought perhaps you did. I know I love my father, despite his failings.” Amusement curved her lips. “Because of his failings.”

Relaxing back on the chair, he thought about his father for the first time in years. “Did I love him? I don’t know. Maybe. Yes, I suppose. Sometimes I wonder if he knew it was too late for him. He bought my naval commission with counterfeit money and put me on my ship before I could even say good-bye to my mother. Years later I found out he was arrested within the week, hung within the month.”

“Did they let you keep your commission?”

“By the time word reached my captain, we’d been around the world twice and I was his right-hand man.” He smiled harshly. “British ships avoid home port when possible. The conscripts leap from the rails.”

She pressed him for revelations. “Did your father know it would be years before his crimes caught up with you?”

“No doubt.”

With delicate good sense she pointed out, “Then perhaps he loved you.”

Why not admit it? The healing Bronwyn had imparted
to him provided sanctuary even for his father. “As much as was possible for that shallow man to love, I suppose he did.” Cupping her face, he confessed, “I’ve searched the world over for someone like you.”

Bright and jagged as a bolt of lightning, she said, “Don’t worry. You’re not stuck with me. I may howl a bit, but you can marry Olivia. I’ll even be her bridesmaid. Why not? I’ve been bridesmaid to every one of my sisters.”

Olivia. “My God, I’d forgotten about Olivia.”

“Everyone has,” she said, jerking her hand from his and ducking away from his caress. “That’s why I came in to see you. She’s miserable. Can’t you take the time to reassure her about this marriage?”