The Secret Rose (19 page)

He offered her one of his heart-warming smiles, and she couldn’t help but return it. “I would like that, Mac. And you will call me Abby, as only a few in the world do.”

They both laughed. Even Ethan gave a quiet chortle. But when he looked at her, his expression told her their conversation wasn’t finished.

Abby indicated a chair beside the bed. “Won’t you sit? I’m sure you have things to discuss with Ethan in private, so I’ll leave you two alone.”

“Before you leave, I have a message for you from Captain Parker. He wants you to know he will be ready to set sail by the end of next week. He thought you would like to witness the maiden voyage of the
Abigail Rose
.”

Abigail looked down at Ethan, but before she could make an excuse, he answered for her.

“Of course. We’ll all be there.”

“No,” she argued. “You are not nearly ready to travel yet.”

“I will be by the end of next week. I’ve spent enough time in this blasted bed. It’s time I left it. And there’s nothing I’d rather witness than the
Abigail Rose
setting sail.”

She could hardly argue when there wasn’t anything she’d rather see. “Please, tell Captain Parker that nothing could keep me from being there when he takes the
Abigail Rose
out for the first time.”

“It will be my pleasure.”

“Thank you. Now, if you gentlemen will excuse me, I have some work to take care of.”

Abigail felt Ethan’s eyes on her as she softly closed the door behind her.

Somehow, she still had to convince him she couldn’t marry him. Somehow, she had to keep Mary Rose a secret from him. And somehow, she had to find a way to survive the rest of her life knowing he was lost to her forever.

“What on earth do you think you’re doing?” Abigail rushed into her father’s study where Ethan sat behind the desk. “You should be resting.” She couldn’t believe it when Stella told her Ethan had not gone up to rest all day.

“Good afternoon to you, too,” he said.

He lifted his head as she took off her bonnet and gloves and handed them to Palmsworth, along with her heavy woolen cloak. There was something different in the way he looked today, something predatory. Something that whispered a warning.

“Have you been out again?”

“I needed some fresh air.”

He shoved the papers that littered the top of the desk forward and laid down his pen. “Your father’s estate records are a disaster. It’s a wonder Fallen Oaks has stayed afloat this long, even with the help of Langdon Shipping.”

She ignored the truth of his warning and walked cautiously across the room. “You shouldn’t be out of bed, Ethan. You’re not strong enough yet.”

“We leave for London in two days. I’ve got to be ready.”

She looked at him, at the deep color of his cheeks. “You look flushed. Are you feverish?”

“I’m fine. You still haven’t told me where you went.”

“Just out.” She reached over and felt his forehead.

“See?” He clasped his fingers around her wrist and held her. “I’m fine.”

The feel of his flesh against hers sent waves of molten emotions gushing to every part of her body. Every day it was harder to fight the pull he had on her, the yearning she felt deep inside her when she got too near him. “You should be in bed.”

“Not yet.”

He studied her with more intensity than she wanted to have to battle. How could his mere gaze do this to her? How could his touch affect her even more?

He rose to his feet. “Is everything all right?”

“Of course. What could be wrong?”

He lifted his hand and touched her face. Fiery tendrils spiraled to the tips of her toes.

“Your cheeks are warm,” he whispered, cupping her cheeks more intimately.

She turned her face away from him. “Don’t, Ethan.”

He placed his hand on her upper arms and pulled her back against him. The air caught in her throat. Every inch he touched heated as if she’d sat too close to the flames of a fire.

“Why are you trying so hard to ignore what is happening between us?”

“There is nothing happening between us,” she said, turning out of his arms.

“You can’t deny it, Abby. There is something between us.”

She shook her head, wanting to deny his words even as her traitorous body proved her denial a lie. He stepped up behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist.

“Please, don’t,” she whispered, her breath coming in short, rapid gasps. “I can’t.”

Her chest heaved, whether from fear or anticipation she couldn’t tell. Without warning, he lowered his head and nestled his face in the crook of her neck, touching her sensitive skin with his lips, sending her emotions soaring out of control.

“Abby.” He pressed a kiss against her neck, just below her ear. “You smell of lilacs in the springtime.”

His fingers spanned the black bombazine stretched across her small waist, splaying outward and upward, coming perilously close to brushing against her breasts.

She moaned, a cry for him to stop his torture turning to encouragement for him to touch more of her. With a confidence that told her he knew her need, he turned her to face him.

“See, Abby?” He touched his lips to her forehead, then kissed her cheeks and the tip of her nose. “See how perfectly we suit one another?”

He cupped her cheeks in the palms of his hands and tipped her chin upward. He took possession of her eyes with a look that granted no quarter.

With the gentlest of touches, he stroked her lips with his thumb, then lowered his head and pressed his lips against hers. He touched her softly at first, then with more intensity, then with a desperation that matched her own. He molded his lips to hers, sampling, then tasting, then taking what she couldn’t help but offer.

His relentless thumb pressed downward on her chin, and she opened to him. The velvety warmth of his tongue skimmed her lips, her teeth, then broached the opening she created for him.

Her breath caught in her throat when their tongues touched. Starbursts of light exploded behind her closed eyes, bright white and shimmering silver. Her knees crumpled beneath her. There was no explanation for what he did to her, for the havoc he caused in her body, the mind-numbing explosions shattering inside her head.

She wrapped her arms around his neck, as she rationalized her desperation with the excuse that her legs wouldn’t support her if he let go.

That was only a half-truth. In reality, it was the only way she could gather more of him to her. She needed to feel him against her, around her, within her, touching her, taking her, making her a part of his strength, his warmth. He was all she wanted, needed, ached to have take possession of her heart—fill the void deep inside her even little Mary Rose couldn’t fill.

Mary Rose. Mary Rose.

Every kiss made it harder for her to push him away, more impossible to keep him from stealing her heart, the heart she’d guarded with such care. How could she have forgotten what a threat he was to her? How could she have forgotten how much he could hurt her?

She turned her head to break their kiss.

A wave of cold emptiness slapped against her, painfully wrenching her heart from the welcoming place it had found.

A soft, agonizing sigh escaped from deep within her. She tried to stand on her own and couldn’t. She could not separate herself from him just yet.

Thankfully, she didn’t have to. He held her tight.

Abigail leaned her forehead against him. His chest heaved in and out in small waves of uncontrolled distress as he struggled to catch his breath. Her breathing came no easier. She clung to him in desperation because she didn’t ever want to let go. She didn’t ever want to lose him.

Through the soft fabric of his white lawn shirt, she could feel the unbridled pounding of his heart. It equaled her own, wild and frantic, a violent thudding in counterpoint to the rhythm beating within her breast.

“Do you think you can stop what there is between us?” he gasped, the words coming with effort.

“I have to. I have no choice.”

“Can’t you bring yourself to turn to me for help just once? Can’t you trust that I will overlook what great transgression you think you have committed?”

“No,” she sighed past the lump in her throat. “Not even you are that magnanimous.”

She turned out of his arms and stepped across the room.

“Abigail.”

She halted with her hand on the door latch.

“Turn around. Look at me.”

She slowly turned. The deep blue of his eyes became almost black as they pierced her with his riveting glare.

“Would it be that impossible for you to be married to me?”

Her breath caught in her throat. “Yes,” she whispered.

“Why? Is there someone else?”

She turned her face, afraid he might read the truth in her eyes.

He glared at her, his look filled with astonishment, as if he finally understood. “Bloody hell,” he said, a look of disbelief on his face. “Is it Stephen? Are you still in love with him?”

She opened her mouth to deny what he implied, then stopped. What did the reason matter? All that was important was that he understand that she could never marry him.

For just an instant, her pent-up fear receded, and she saw the hurt she’d caused him. He turned his back to her and walked to the window. For several long, agonizing minutes, he stared out into the late winter sunshine. The muscles across his shoulders bunched, and the hand at his side fisted. When he spoke, she heard the fury in his voice. “How badly do you want Fallen Oaks?”

“More than anything in the world.”

“Then it’s yours.”

The air left her lungs. Relief and regret surged through her at the same time. Along with a pain she couldn’t explain. “You will give me the deed to Fallen Oaks and take the ships?”

“Yes.”

“With what conditions?”

“None. The deed is yours.”

She couldn’t believe she’d heard him right. She couldn’t believe the battle was finally over.

She’d gotten what she’d demanded. She should feel like celebrating her victory, but she didn’t. She hurt too much. More than she’d ever hurt in her life.

She stared at his back, rigid and straight, the tense muscles across his shoulders pulled taut against his white lawn shirt. “Why have you changed your mind?”

He laughed, but his laughter rang bitter and hollow. “It’s simple. I can’t fight you any longer. Fallen Oaks will be yours. The
Abigail Rose
will be mine. You can keep the other ships. They should earn enough profit to keep Fallen Oaks from going bankrupt, provided you manage well. We’ll see Sydney to take care of the final details when we return to London.”

He turned away from her and walked to the small table that held a decanter of her father’s favorite brandy and a half-dozen cut crystal glasses. He picked one of them up and filled it with the amber liquid.

“You are not going to change your mind?” she asked, watching his tense movements as he brought the glass to his mouth.

He lowered the glass a few inches and smiled at her. “Why would I insist on marrying you, knowing it’s Stephen you’ll always want in your bed?” He threw a swallow of the brandy down his throat and looked at her again. “As you reminded me yourself, even I am not that magnanimous.”

Abigail felt as if he’d stabbed a knife through her heart. His words hurt more than she thought possible. And there was nothing she could do to lessen the pain she had caused him.

Abigail left the room, knowing she should feel happiness and relief. But all she felt deep inside was a hurt that wouldn’t ease. She had won, and yet, somehow, she feared she had lost.

Lost more than she would ever know.

…

Something woke him.

Ethan opened his eyes to nothing but murky darkness. He remained quiet and listened.

From the blackness that surrounded him, he calculated it was the middle of the night. He listened to the sounds of a house gone to sleep many hours ago. Then he heard it again.

Muffled voices. The soft thudding of doors quietly opening and closing. The padding of footsteps rushing down the hall past his room, then fading as they descended the long flight of stairs. His heart quickened in his chest, an uneasy warning of things not right.

Agitated tones and anxious words echoed from below. He couldn’t make out what was being said, but he knew Abigail’s voice was among them. There was a rush of activity, then the front door closed. All was quiet.

Ethan threw the covers back and leaped from the bed, then gasped in pain. The cuts on his back were well on their way to healing, but still tender enough to let him know he’d not given them the care and consideration they demanded.

He stretched his shoulders, then rushed to the window. He pulled back the drapery in time to see a carriage drive away from the house and turn at the end of the lane.

A feel of unease washed over him. Every nerve in his body grew tense. Surely Abigail hadn’t gone out in the middle of the night?

Fear followed by anger welled inside him, building with ferocious intensity.

He threw on his clothes as quickly as his back would allow and opened his bedroom door just as Stella walked past.

“Where is your mistress?”

Stella looked up at him, her eyes rimmed red from tears, her face pale and puffy. Without explanation, she lifted the corner of her apron and wiped at her eyes.

“Where did she go?”

“Out, sir.”

“Where?”

“Oh, sir,” she said, sobbing into her apron. “There’s nothing you can do. Nothing anyone can do.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I can’t say. I swore I wouldn’t.”

“Tell me, Stella! Where has she gone?”

Stella fidgeted with her apron, wringing the corners together until the threads threatened to break. “Oh, merciful heaven. I swore I wouldn’t.”

“Tell me!”

“Oh, Captain Cambridge. It’s Sister Constance. She’s ill.”

“The sisters can’t tend their own? Your mistress had to go to them?”

“Oh, sir. You don’t understand.” Stella sobbed uncontrollably into her apron, her whole body shaking. “I told her not to go.”

“What are you talking about, Stella?”