Tallie's Knight (18 page)

“No,” she muttered,
turning her lips away. She couldn’t bear to eat or drink anything, knowing she
would only lose it in a few minutes.

“Trust me.” He
grasped her chin in his hand and tipped what seemed like half the contents of
the flask down her throat.

Tallie shuddered as
it burnt its way down her throat, then coughed as it hit the pit of her empty
stomach, depriving her of all ability to breathe for a moment or two.

“What?” she
spluttered indignantly.

“Brandy.”

She subsided, gasping
against his chest, and closed her eyes, waiting to die, but after a few minutes
she found a warmth stealing into her body which seemed to banish the dreadful
queasiness. Wearily she laid her face against his throat, taking comfort in the
scent of his cologne water and his skin. She felt the faint prickle of whiskers
against her cheek and rubbed against them, enjoying the sensation.

He had been so very
kind to her, she thought drowsily. The last thing she would have expected of
Lord d’Arenville was that he would prove so gentle and sympathetic in the
sickroom. He was such a fastidious person. She would have expected him to be
revolted by her illness. Gentlemen were, she’d understood.

But instead he had
cared for her with a quiet competence that, now she thought about it, made her
almost want to weep. She could not remember when anyone had cared whether
Tallie Robinson was well or ill, if she lived or died. And now, this —this
so-called Icicle had tended to her needs with a careful tenderness that nearly
broke her heart. It was wicked for people to call him The Icicle. He wasn’t at
all. He was…

“You’re so kind,” she
mumbled into his skin, feeling tears prickling, hot against her eyelids.

Kind? Had she said he
was kind? Magnus was stunned. He must have misheard her. No one had ever called
him kind before. Any one of his acquaintances would laugh at the notion. He
shifted his hold on her slightly, tucking her more securely into the curve of
his body, savouring the relaxed weight of her, the feel of her soft cheek
against his skin. Errant tendrils of her hair tickled his chin, and he inhaled the
scent of it, soap and sea and the faint sour remnants of her recent illness.

Poor little mite. Her
seasickness had come as such a shock to her. A blind man would have seen how
thrilled she’d been when they had finally embarked, her eyes sparkling with excitement.
And not a half hour later she had been drooping, green and wan, over a basin,
retching her little heart out, a picture of misery.

And she thought him
kind. It wasn’t kindness that caused him to look after her, he reflected
ruefully. He’d had no choice —there was no one else. And besides, she belonged
to him now. He had a duty to her. He was her husband.

He felt her body
relax against him, felt her breathing slow to an even rhythm. She was asleep.
In his arms. His wife.

Magnus watched the
waves, enjoying the brisk salt spray which blew occasionally against his face.
He pulled the blanket up to protect her from the wet. It had been nothing like
he’d expected, this business of marriage. Lord, what a simpleton he’d been,
thinking to get himself a wife in order to get children. He’d thought about the
children only; he’d barely considered the wife, except to find a healthy woman
who would disturb his life as little as possible. He laughed silently.

What a gudgeon, to
think a woman would not disturb his life.

Perhaps if he’d
married one of Laetitia’s candidates. Ironic to think he’d picked Tallie
because she’d have so few expectations. She was simply bursting with
expectations; that was the trouble. She had a thirst for life that amazed him.

If he’d chosen one of
Laetitia’s girls he’d have had a conventional bride trip —to Brighton or Bath,
perhaps, or even to his country home.

Then a season in
London, by which time she’d have been pregnant and would have retired
gracefully to the country to give birth. And when she’d been ill she would have
had her mama and a dozen attendants to care for her. And after the birth she
would have returned to London and they would have resumed their separate lives
in the normal civilised fashion of the ton.

But instead of a cool
sophisticate who understood her duty he’d chosen this naive little creature,
who’d thrown his life into chaos. He’d not realised just how alone in the world
she was —Lord, she didn’t even have a maid. He hadn’t even arranged to get one
for her— he’d just assumed one of Laetitia’s maids would accompany her. His
cousin had refused, of course.

And so, because of
Laetitia’s spite and his own lack of forethought, he’d had to be maid, groom,
sickroom attendant and protector to his wife. Everything except husband. And
because of crowded inns, stinking waterfronts, vulgar cits —not to mention his
delayed wedding night— he’d been bad-tempered and unpleasant a good deal of the
time.

And yet she called
him kind. He wasn’t, of course. Magnus knew that. Along with the knowledge of
his duty to his lineage, his lands, and his family name, his father had drummed
into him a rigid sense of responsibility for those who were dependent on him.
And there was no doubt in Magnus’s mind that his bride was more dependent on
him than anyone had ever been in his life. Kind? She just didn’t understand noblesse
oblige.

But he did enjoy the
warm weight of her in his arms.

By the time they
reached Calais, she had almost fully recovered from her seasickness.

“France!” she
announced in relief as they headed towards the customs house.

The French officials
examined their passports with an insulting attitude of suspicion and searched
their baggage with greedy hands.

One turned to examine
Tallie’s clothing —while she was wearing it— and Magnus stepped forward with a
warning growl. There was a short muttered exchange, gold passed from English to
French hands, and they were allowed to leave. John Black, Magnus’s coachman and
general factotum, remained behind to supervise the luggage.

With every step on
firm, dry land, Tallie gathered animation. Her eyes darted everywhere, drinking
in the sights and sounds and smells of her first foreign country. A foreign
country, moreover, which only a short time ago had experienced bloodthirsty
revolution and war —and murdered almost all of its aristocrats. She was now an
aristocrat by marriage.

Tallie pressed close
to her husband, thrilled by the sense of danger, secure in his presence.

And what sights there
were too, for almost every man had savage black whiskers and gold earrings, and
wore a cocked hat with a red, white and blue cockade pinned to it —the tricolour.
Some grenadiers marched past, looking very daunting and military, with
prodigious moustaches and an erect, menacing gait.

The girls, grisettes,
were very smartly dressed too, adorned with sparkling crosses, necklaces,
earrings —all kinds of glittering decoration— and pretty starched white caps
close upon their heads.

The sounds of French
surrounded them, and Tallie frowned as she listened. These people spoke very
differently from Mademoiselle, who had taught French at Miss Fisher’s, and
Tallie could only understand a word here and there.

She was surprised at
how cheerful and friendly people seemed, but the Peace of Amiens had been
signed almost a year before and things had obviously settled. She had half
expected them to be rude, or hostile, but nothing could have been farther from
the truth —particularly when the landlord bustled out of the Lion d’Argent,
bowing and smiling, welcoming Milord Anglais et la belle milady with genuine
pleasure.

“I… I do not think I
am very hungry,” said Tallie as they entered the private dining parlour. Her
stomach had settled a good deal, but it was still feeling a little peculiar.

Magnus frowned.

“You will feel more
the thing with some good hot food inside you.” He summoned a thin, lugubrious
garçon and ordered coffee, eggs, steak and ale for both of them. The garçon
gave a Gallic shrug and pointed out that they were not in England now, and
decent Frenchmen did not drink ale. Magnus gave an English shrug in response
and said nothing.

Tallie waited until
the garçon left.

“I have no wish for
food, thank you. I am not at all hungry.”

“Nonsense,” Magnus
said bracingly. “You will eat, and that’s the end of it.”

The garçon returned in
a few moments and placed a plate of poached eggs in front of her. Magnus
addressed himself to a large, rare steak.

Tallie glared at him
mutinously and pushed her eggs away. How could she have thought her husband was
kind? She was very sure she had not a trace of her insides left. No man with an
ounce of sensitivity would expect her to eat runny eggs —or watch him devour a
greasy steak— when she was still feeling so delicate. She averted her eyes from
the disgusting sight and stared out of the window, where two men dressed in ragged
finery played republican tunes on an organ and tambourine.

Magnus signalled to
the garçon. A moment later he brought in a large cup of steaming, fragrant
coffee and a dish of rolls and placed them on the table. Tallie watched Magnus
break open the rolls. Wisps of steam escaped as the golden crust broke. The
scent was heavenly. He buttered a piece with pale butter and, before she knew
what he was about, popped it in her mouth. Reluctantly she chewed and
swallowed.

It was delicious.

Clearly he was not
going to allow her to refuse to eat. Grudgingly she reached out, buttered the
next piece herself and ate it cautiously.

Next she took a sip
of coffee. It was wonderful —hot and strong, milky and sweet. She drained the
cup, then looked up to see her husband watching her, a faintly quizzical look
on his face. As their eyes met, the long grooves down his cheeks deepened and
the grey eyes almost twinkled.

Wryly she smiled,
feeling a little foolish.

“Very well, it is
delicious. I do feel better.”

He nodded.

“Food is the best
thing after a bout of seasickness. Will you have the eggs now?”

Tallie glanced at the
orange yolks and shuddered.

“No, I thank you. I
will be content with these rolls and some more of this lovely coffee. It is
different from English coffee, is it not? And then I would like to wash and to
change my clothes.”

“Make haste, then,
for we do not stay the night here,” said Magnus.

Tallie looked up in
surprise.

“We made good time in
the ship,” he said, “but it will not be long before this town is as crowded as
Dover was. I have every intention of beginning the journey to Paris as soon as
possible and avoid the inconvenience of over-full inns.” He added, “We shall
stop in Boulogne, which is some hours’ travel from here. I understand there are
several decent inns where we can repose ourselves for the night.”

Tallie nodded and
wiped her mouth with a napkin.

“Very well. I shall
postpone my bath until just before I retire for the night.”

Magnus met her eyes
in an oddly searing glance for a moment, then stared at his plate, “John Black
is, at this minute, arranging transportation with the postmaster. We shall
depart as soon as he has hired a post-chaise and four.”

The trip along the
post-road from Calais to Boulogne delighted Tallie, the faint aroma of onions
that lingered in the hired vehicle notwithstanding.

“One would think that
farms would be farms and fields the same the world over, but it is not so at
all, is it?” she commented to Magnus. “Even the people in France look
different.”

He nodded, never
having given the matter any thought. He’d decided not to ride, the horses for
hire being decidedly inferior in his opinion, so he was sprawled lazily in the
corner of the chaise, observing his bride’s fascination with the passing
scenery. Her ability to be pleased by the smallest things struck him again, and
it occurred to him that, had he wed one of Laetitia’s collection, he would, no
doubt, be having to exert himself to entertain her. Tallie was young, he realised,
but she had never yet bored him as Laetitia’s friends had.

The late afternoon
sun was sparkling on the Channel when they reached Boulogne. They found the inn
the landlord of the Lion d’Argent had recommended. Magnus engaged a suite of
rooms, bespoke an early supper, then went for a stroll while a bonne ushered
Tallie up to a large chamber and then went to arrange for her bath to be drawn.

Tallie explored. Her
chamber was spacious, with a small dressing room attached. It was comfortable,
rather than elegant, and contained an enormous bed with a heavenly feather
mattress. On top of the bed were several quite peculiar pillows —long, round
and narrow— more like bolsters than pillows. She wondered if Magnus’s bed had
proper pillows and decided, if it did, she would borrow one of his.

Connecting doors led
to a private parlour and a narrow balcony overlooked the sea. Tallie passed
several enjoyable minutes observing the scenery until the bonne returned with a
pile of soft towels.

Behind her trooped
footmen, carrying an enamelled hip bath and numerous buckets of steaming hot
water.

Tallie bounced into
the wonderfully soft bed and snuggled down under the thick down quilt that the
inn provided instead of blankets. It was very light, and quite insubstantial
compared with the thick woollen bedclothes she was used to, but it seemed warm
enough.

Her first day in
France. It had been very exciting, for Magnus had taken her for a stroll
through the town before they had sat down to an utterly delicious supper. She
had heard about French cooking, and now she knew! Even quite ordinary
vegetables took on a new splendour in the hands of a French cook, with
delectable subtle sauces and interesting combinations. And the variety of
dishes. Wonderful.