The Official Essex Sisters Companion Guide (30 page)

A week later, Ewan stood up at the head of a long table. They were all chattering, nineteen to a dozen. He smiled down the table and raised his glass. “I think I speak for both myself and my wife when I say that I hope this becomes a yearly excursion.”

The table was lit by candles stuck in great claw-footed silver candlesticks, brought back by some Ardmore ancestor who traveled out to the Crusades. The ancestor had left Scotland thinking to become holy, and came back laden with gold in lieu of godliness.

But now the current earl looked through the glowing light of those candles and saw his wife. And she was true gold.

Annabel was so beautiful that it made Ewan’s heart ache a bit just to see her sitting there. She was talking to Uncle Pearce, one hand fluttering in the air, and she laughed suddenly.

It wasn’t manly to feel so strongly for a woman. For a moment he wondered what his father would say, were he here to see his son reduced to a lovesick puppy by a woman. By his own wife, which was even worse, because of all the jests about men who were tied to their wives’ apron strings.

He didn’t remember much of his father, but he did have one memory: he had crept out of the nursery, and wandered around the castle after dark, when he was supposed to be in bed. He was full of glee because his nurse was napping, worn out by caring for the twins, and hadn’t even heard him open the nursery door and escape. He had come down the great curving stairs, and there at the bottom of the stairs were his parents. His mother
had her back to the railing, he remembered that. And his father had his fingers spread through her hair and he was kissing her.

Ewan had waited a while, but they kept kissing. And kissing. Until he had finally turned around and gone back to the nursery.

On the strength of that memory, he raised his glass again. “I’d like to make one more toast,” he said, looking directly down the table. “To Imogen, because without you, I wouldn’t have my wife at all.”

Everyone raised their glasses.

“And to my wife,” he said. “Because I love her.” Annabel’s smoky blue eyes grew misty, meeting his down the table, and he didn’t give a damn who thought he was tied to her apron strings. He drank to her.

Father Armailhac was grinning with approval, Josie was giggling, and Imogen looked faintly stricken, at least until Mayne leaned over and said something in her ear. Nana gave him a lavish, approving wink, and Ewan sat down.

Josie was to his right, and Gregory next to her. Gregory had merely rolled his eyes at Ewan’s toast, and now went directly back to telling Josie about singing lauds.

“I see you’re part of this mania for self-improvement,” Josie said to him. “I don’t hold with that myself. Your character is whatever it is; you would do better to read some Aristotle.”

“Prayers are far more important than mere self-improvement,” Gregory snapped.

“Are prayers so different from self-improvement?” Ewan asked.

“The point is that prayers and self-improvement do not necessarily go hand-in-hand,” Josie told him. “Haven’t either of you read Shakespeare’s
Measure for Measure
?”
Neither of them had. “You see, the heroine wants to be a nun. But when she begs a judge for mercy, he offers to save her brother’s life if she will spend one night with him.”

Ewan looked at Josie with some amusement. She looked like a younger version of her sister Tess, with a mass of honeyed brown hair and enchantingly arched eyebrows. But the acerbic spice to her voice was utterly at odds with Tess’s observant nature. And her utter disregard for ladylike topics of conversation must be the reason for her governess’s despairing comment about her unsuitability for polite society.

“That’s revolting!” Gregory said.

“Yes, well, she refuses to do it.”

“I should hope so!”

“So you think she should let her brother
die
? Die?”

“The alternative is unthinkable,” Gregory stated, scowling.

“Isobel—that’s her name—agrees with you,” Josie said with relish. “She has a lovely line:
More than our brother is our chastity.
You religious types are all alike. You
should
become a monk.”

“I certainly hope that the young woman in question did not become a nun,” Father Armailhac said, leaning into the conversation unexpectedly.

“She did not,” Josie said. “The duke finds a way out of her situation. But why wouldn’t you wish her to become a nun?”

“She has no true faith in God,” Armailhac said gently, smiling at Josie as if she were a particularly intelligent student in divinity school. “From what I’ve heard you say, she begs for mercy from the judge, but she doesn’t really believe in the concept. That is, she doesn’t believe that God’s mercy applies to
herself
.”

The whole table was listening now. “So you think this young woman should have spent the night with the judge,” Griselda said, obviously scandalized.

“That would have been a most unfortunate occurrence,” Armailhac said. “I am quite certain that a man so perfidious would not honor his word the following morning.”

“He didn’t!” Josie cried, looking at the father with renewed respect.

“But I am also certain that forgiveness would have come to her for that sin,” Armailhac said, “as indeed for any sin for which one repents.”

Griselda muttered something to Mayne about the
ton
apparently being less forgiving than God. Ewan didn’t feel any real interest in joining the conversation. What he wanted was at the other end of the table. Annabel was laughing again. Uncle Pearce must have reached into some nearly forgotten well of courtly language because he was certainly keeping her entertained. With a start, Ewan realized that he was jealous.

Jealous of his own uncle, a man in his eighties? Of any man who made Annabel laugh?
You’re losing your sanity
, he thought, and caught Father Armailhac’s eye.

“It’s a gift from God,” Armailhac said quietly. “Accept the blessing.”

Ewan smiled wryly. Father might not be so gentle if he knew the images that were racing through Ewan’s mind. They had naught to do with godliness.

He had a mind to fill that bathtub with hot water and then turn his wife’s sleek stomach against the marble and—

He wrenched his mind away. Thank goodness, the meal was finally drawing to an end. Footmen were removing the walnut praline gâteau, and Annabel would take all her sisters and his grandmother off to the drawing room for tea. Not that Ewan wanted any
port. But any more time spent staring at his wife down this long table and he would burst out of his chair and take her upstairs.

A few minutes later, there was no one left in the room but men. Gregory went off to his bed; the rigor of singing lauds at five in the morning sometimes made him fall asleep over supper. Uncle Pearce never drank port and so made his good-nights; Uncle Tobin had a mind to leave in the morning on a fishing expedition, and he said good night as well. Two of the monks left, but Father Armailhac stayed, smiling gently at Rafe when he poured himself a monstrous amount of brandy.

“When you’re ready to give up that servitude, I’d be happy to help,” he said.

“Servitude?” Rafe said. “With whiskey this glorious, I may never stop drinking!”

Father Armailhac just smiled.

Mayne lit a cheroot, and a smoky, comforting smell drifted down the table.

“Come join us at this end,” Ewan said, beckoning to Mayne and Felton. They amiably moved their chairs and for a moment they all just sat around in a comfortable, woman-less silence.

“So . . .” Rafe said after a moment and a half beaker of golden whiskey. “Tell me about Rosy, then.” He had in mind as Annabel’s guardian that there were a few things he should be asking, but for the life of him, he couldn’t remember most of them.

Ewan explained who she was, and why she came to be part of the household.

“Gregory’s mother,” Mayne said, frowning. “I had no idea. He seems thoroughly rational.”

“He is,” Ewan confirmed. “As was Rosy, before she was kidnapped. Her father described her as a most docile and cheerful girl. She was only thirteen at the time,
though, and I’m afraid she lost her mind. In the beginning, the doctors had some hope she might recover, but they gave that up some time ago.”

“Thirteen!” Rafe said, chilled by it. “That’s god-awful. Did you catch the curs who did such a thing?”

“We did,” Ewan said. “But only after they caught another young woman. I’m afraid that we have a recurring problem here in the Highlands with marauding bands of criminals.”

“But what are you planning to do with Rosy in the future?” Rafe asked, remembering one of the things he meant to say. “Because that young woman, although I regret wholly that she has suffered so, is dangerous.” He said it firmly, because he had a clear vision of a terrifyingly enraged woman looking at him with all the maddened frenzy of a Medusa, and he didn’t think he’d ever forget it. “For a moment, I thought she was trying to kill me.”

“I have no doubt but that death was on her mind,” Father Armailhac said quietly. “In one way, we could consider this an improvement in Rosy’s condition. She now feels comfortable enough that she can enact revenge on the men whom she assumes have been abusing her. Time doesn’t have the same meaning for her as it does for us.”

“I didn’t touch her,” Rafe said, unnerved even by the suggestion.

“No one thinks you did,” the monk said. “I’m quite certain that Rosy thought you were one of the men who originally attacked her, years ago.”

“Well, I can’t say it looks as if she’s likely to improve,” Mayne put in, stubbing out his cheroot. “She needs a nurse day and night, Ardmore.”

“She has one,” Ewan replied. “Her nurse fell asleep.”

“You can’t keep a madwoman on the premises,” Rafe said, remembering again that he was Annabel’s guardian. Practically her father. “You have children to think about.”

Ardmore blinked at him. “Children? What children?”

Mayne laughed. “There speaks a man after my own heart.”

Father Armailhac laughed as well. “
Your
children, Ewan. Rafe is quite rightly concerned that Annabel’s own children may be threatened by Rosy. And I am afraid that he makes a good point.”

“Nonsense,” Ewan said. “Why, Rosy was never other than loving toward Gregory as a child.”

“But that was eleven years ago,” the monk said. “At that point, Rosy did not erupt into open rages the way she does now. Had she struck Rafe with that vase, I am not entirely convinced that the duke would have survived the attack.”

“I could have warded her off,” Rafe protested, feeling like a weakling. “I simply had no idea what was happening. One moment the library was dark and quiet, and the next she walked out and started looking at me. I could tell something was a bit odd, but—” He broke off and shuddered.

“It would break Rosy’s heart to be put away,” Ewan said with a flash of anger at Father Armailhac. What kind of Christian was he to suggest that Ewan put Rosy into an institution due to the mere suggestion that she might be violent toward children? Children who were not even conceived?

“Where is she now?” Mayne asked.

“You needn’t worry that you’ll be attacked,” Ewan said sharply, suddenly irritated beyond all measure with these feeble Englishmen. “I’ve sent her to stay in one of the cottages with her nurse.”

Father Armailhac smiled around the table. “Ewan has cared for and loved Rosy as if she were his own sister.”

“I can see that,” Lucius Felton said, rather unexpectedly. He spoke rarely, and Ewan had almost forgotten he was there. “But it seems to me that encounters with strange men are likely quite discomfiting for Rosy, if she indeed thinks herself back at the time of her rape. Perhaps an all-female living environment would be more restful.”

“Perhaps,” Ewan said. He rose. “If you will forgive me, gentlemen, I must talk with Mac before going to bed.”

“Mr. Maclean is a treasure,” Lucius said. “I would offer him double his salary to work for me, but I have a suspicion that he’d turn me down.”

“Ewan inspires great loyalty amongst his servants and tenants,” Father Armailhac said. “Of course, he gives equal loyalty to them in return.”

Ewan left the room, taking care not to slam the door behind him. No doubt they would continue to discuss the situation in his household.

But it was
his
household. His and Annabel’s. At the thought, his heart quickened. He didn’t have to make these decisions alone. Perhaps he and Annabel could discuss the matter of Rosy that very evening . . . in the bath.

He put his head into the drawing room. The ladies appeared to have finished their tea. Griselda was demonstrating a tatting stitch to Josie, who was making a sad bungle out of it. His grandmother had fallen asleep and was snoring gently. Annabel looked up.

“May I request your assistance?” he asked her, keeping his face merely polite. “Mac has a suggestion and I thought we should consult you.”

“Of course!” Annabel exclaimed. “I’ll return in a moment—”

“I’m afraid it’s a matter of some complexity,” Ewan interrupted.

“In that case, I’ll say good night,” Annabel said, stooping and kissing Lady Griselda’s cheek. “Perhaps Mrs. Warsop would help Nana to bed tonight?”

“Don’t stay up too late,” Tess said, a flash of mischief in her eyes as she glanced at Ewan. “Household affairs can be
so
wearing.”

Annabel was saying good night to Imogen and didn’t hear her, but Ewan gave her a grin. Tess was a beautiful and intelligent woman, rather like her sister.

And he liked her husband too. He would think about Lucius Felton’s comment. Tomorrow.

Annabel couldn’t help giggling. “
This
is a matter of great complexity?” she asked, gazing at a steaming bathtub.

“Certainly,” Ewan said. “I’ve sent your maid off, so you’ll have to depend on me for the night. All those fastenings and strings that hold your clothing together are quite complex.”

“You’re getting experienced at disrobing me,” Annabel said. “And if I hadn’t wished to engaged in this sort of marital dalliance? What then, pray?”

“Then I’d do my best to change your mind,” Ewan said, with all the certitude of a man who’d had an erection since approximately eleven o’clock that morning, when he glimpsed the curve of his wife’s neck in a mirror.

She bent that neck now, so that he could unbutton her gown. It was long and graceful, as exquisite a neck as he could ever remember seeing. He started kissing it and forgot her buttons, his hands straying around her front, his body fitting against hers like two puzzle pieces.

When Annabel spoke, her voice had taken on that slightly husky tone that he loved. “The water cools,” she pointed out. “I greatly dislike cold water.”

He had her dress off her shoulders in two seconds, her corset unlaced and her chemise over her head, and there she was, wearing nothing more than clocked silk stockings, direct from Paris, and beautiful little taffeta slippers. There was no courtesan in the world who looked as sensual as his own wife.

“Why don’t I help you?” she asked, probably because he was standing there like a schoolboy, gaping through a window at the butcher’s wife in her chemise.

She unwound his cravat, and Ewan let his fingers dance down the slim curve of her sides, down the lush swell of her hips. Her stomach had an enchanting curve, a belly—he stopped, struck by the thought of those children Rafe had mentioned.

“Did you think that you might be carrying a child?” he asked.

Her fingers stilled for a moment, about to pull his shirt over his head. “Oh, I doubt it. From what I have heard, it can take up to a year.”

Ewan grinned at her, but she shook her head. “No, truly, I think it often takes a year or even longer—”

“Or just one night,” he put in.

“That is most unusual,” Annabel told him. “And don’t tell me that you wish that I were lying about casting up my breakfast and scolding you? Because women are terrible scolds when they’re carrying a child.”

“I didn’t know,” Ewan said, lifting one of her elegant feet and pulling off her shoes. Then he rolled down a stocking and threw it to the side.

“It’s the truth,” Annabel said. “Lady Bendlemeyer threw a book directly through the window. She had aimed it at her husband, but he ducked.”

That reminded Ewan of Rosy, and he didn’t want to think of her now. Besides, he had Annabel’s second stocking off and there was his delectable, naked wife . . . about whom he’d been thinking all day. So he picked her up, hardly listening to her stream of evidence about the irritability of women with child, and sat down in the bath with her on his lap, facing him.

The water surged dangerously and almost splashed over the side.

“Oh!” Annabel said, startled.

He scooped up water and poured it down her breasts. They were pressed against his chest, their lovely round shape flattened. So he pulled back and they stood out, round and full again, her nipple standing out, a delicate pink against her white skin.

Suddenly Ewan wasn’t sure that he had time for the lengthy seduction he had carefully planned. Why hadn’t he just taken off her clothes and coaxed her onto the bed? He could have been inside her by now and—

But Annabel was never one to just sit about and let her husband admire her, as if she were a rather naughty statue. She wiggled off his lap until she was leaning against the opposite end of the tub. She’d seen
that
look before.

So, grinning, she raised her knees, and he actually closed his eyes.

“Well,” she said. “I think I should wash.”

“I can wash you,” he said instantly.

“Oh, no,” she said. “Why don’t you just watch this time? After all, washing is a delicate art.” She poured a small amount of almond oil into her hand. “For example, I never use soap twice in one day, and I already had a bath this morning. It’s too drying for my skin.” She came up on her knees, the water sluicing off her upper body as she rose. “I just rub oil instead . . . like this.” She poured the oil over her shoulder and began rubbing the sweet, gleaming oil into her arm.

His eyes were almost glazing over, his hands reaching toward her.

“Not yet,” she said. “You see, I put the oil
everywhere
.”

“Everywhere,” he breathed, his voice little more than a scrap of sound.

She cupped the oil and poured a little between her breasts and then began gently massaging it into her skin.

He was breathing deeply, to her enormous satisfaction. So she played it up a little, batting his hands away when he tried to help. But something wild was building in her too, with every stroke of her own hand, with the look in his heavy-lidded eyes, with the fact that he sat opposite her, leaning back against the bathtub edge now, his large body indolently sprawled for her admiration.

She rubbed the oil slowly down her stomach, unsure how bold she wanted to be, driven to recklessness by the intensity of his gaze. Her hand dipped lower. And lower. Finally he reached out a hand and this time his voice allowed no compromise. “I believe you cannot reach your back.”

“No,” she whispered, and then sank into the hunger of his kiss. When they surfaced, he turned her about so her belly was cool and slippery against the marble. And then his hands began smoothing the oil into her shoulders, sending little wakes of flames as water races from the prow of a boat.

Suddenly she heard a gurgling and knew that the water was draining away, but his hands were practicing magic, stealing around to her front, driving her head to arch against his chest. And when his body fit against hers, she arched back against him, her breath caught in a moan. She felt wild and safe at the same time, trapped against the side of the bathtub, trapped by the hard enclosure of his arms, braced on the sides. Safe.

They migrated to the bedroom sometime later, and Annabel lay in the sleepy circle of her husband’s arms and grinned to herself.

So she’d been wrong about the important thing in a marriage being a castle and a lot of money. Although her common sense compelled her to note that those things were very pleasant. The only thing that mattered was the sleepy man next to her, the hot curve of his body around her, the sweetness in his green eyes when he told the table—the whole table—that he loved her.

It was enough to make her giggle, even remembering. Ewan murmured something in his sleep and pulled her tighter, and she simply relished the memory . . .

She was never the sort of woman who thought she’d be in a love story. Whose husband would
love
her. Imogen, yes. Or even Tess, in her quiet way, because she was so eminently lovable. Annabel had always seen herself as
desirable
.

Which was quite different.

But at dinner . . . Ewan said he loved her.

Annabel felt as if she were daydreaming. Someday her children would sit at that same table, likely taking sides between their father’s beliefs and their mother’s lack of them . . .

It was a lovely daydream. She had never imagined, in those miserable days in her father’s house, that life could ever be so safe, and that she could feel so beloved.

Dreams are like bubbles . . . beautiful, gleaming, quick to break.

Annabel managed to keep her dream intact for a few more hours.