The Vengeful Bridegroom (5 page)

“No time for changing. Perform your ablutions, and I’ll have your trunk taken down to our carriage.”

“But I can’t,” she began, then shook her head. She needed to conserve her energy, having decided she would do whatever it took to leave Mr. Gabriel Westcott and this marriage far behind.

After a quick breakfast, they sat silently in their carriage continuing west, both occupied with their own thoughts.

Gabriel had known Miss Madelene Colgate would not be easily subdued, but he wanted her and wouldn’t let her go.

Madelene hated Gabriel for tricking her into marriage and removing her from her home and family. As the carriage wheels bumped along, taking her farther from London, she kept telling herself, “Escape, escape, escape.”

“You want me go with you to Shropshire?” Mr. Leonard Brelford looked over at Sir Matthew Colgate with surprise, his drink forgotten in his hand.

“Yes. You’re the only one I can depend on to help me.” His friend stood by the Fleeting Stag’s fireplace with his brandy, staring distantly down at the amber light.

“I see,” Brelford said, but he didn’t. “You plan to save your sister from this Westcott bloke and bring her back here so I can marry her as we had planned?” he asked, dreading the answer. Although he much admired his friend, he had been greatly surprised and greatly relieved when someone else had married his sister.

Colgate frowned and shook his head. “No, no. I have to travel to Shropshire to collect something my sister mistakenly stored in her trunk. I have to take it to Canterbury within the month, and I am uncertain how long this endeavor may take.” He dropped his voice, clearly concerned someone might overhear their conversation.

“But your sister. Surely you’re worried about her welfare.”

“Of course,” Colgate responded. “However, the man who married her is known to me to be an honorable one and will see to her needs. But I promised a person of great power that I would recover this valuable dagger and deliver it to his family. In turn, I will receive a great deal of money.” He finished his brandy in one long swallow.

“I see.” Brelford paused. “A dagger. Why was this dagger in Miss Colgate’s trunk again?” Certainly it sounded like a far-fetched plan, which still didn’t sway Brelford’s admiration and affection for Colgate. If only he could show him how he really felt, the young man would have no further need for the female sort.

Colgate grunted before replying. “I had it on good authority someone planned to steal the dagger from me, which is when I decided to hide it in Madelene’s trunk, until I could safely hand it over to the—rightful owner. If I cannot return the dagger, I cannot even consider what might happen.”

“I see,” Brelford replied, not quite understanding Colgate’s lack of interest in his sister or his recklessness in willing to bargain with a nefarious person. Surely money was the root of all evil. “How long will we be gone and when shall we get started?” he asked, rising to his feet. He had preparations to make for their trip.

His friend looked over at Brelford with a smile. “Early tomorrow morning. Meet me at my house in Bloomsbury. We’ll leave from there, perhaps be gone about a week or more.”

Brelford nodded, then asked, “Have you thought about what you’re going to do if Miss Colgate sees you? She might want you to bring her home.”

Colgate waved his hand in the air, as if what his sister might want was inconsequential. “If we’re quick about it, she’ll never know we were there. That’s my plan.”

“And have you considered what to do if she or her new husband has already found the dagger before we arrive?” Brelford’s left eye began to twitch, which always happened when he became nervous or distressed.

With his empty glass in hand and a fierce look in his eyes, Colgate replied, “I mean to collect that dagger with or without my sister’s help. No one will stop me.”

Brelford could not resist chiding him. “Isn’t her new husband the man you fought a duel with and lost? Grateful he didn’t kill you. Leastwise, that is what you told me soon after.”

“I don’t plan to lose twice to the same man,” his young friend told him before heading in the opposite direction for more libation.

Another night, another inn. Bed warmers and any other potential weapons had been deliberately removed from their bedchamber. He grinned remembering how puzzled the staff looked when he requested any sharp objects be removed from their bedchamber, or any tools to start a fire. The idiosyncrasies of the gentry.

At the door to their room, he gestured for her to enter before him as he leaned against the doorjamb, glancing around the room. Nondescript, sparse of furniture with little décor or niceties, their bedroom resembled most inn accommodations.

She seemed nervous tonight, skittish, probably believing tonight would be the night he would truly claim her as his own. A desire he could not deny.

His body ached with wanting his nubile bride after spending much time in close proximity to her during their journey. He could smell the rosewater scent on her skin and shiny black hair. The previous night, he had glimpsed fair skin and graceful ankles in her borrowed robe and knew a fierce desire to possess her.

But he wanted her to want him with the same ferocity. After they consummated the marriage, it wouldn’t be long before he would be satiated with her and anxious for their sham marriage to end. Then he could begin his search for a more suitable wife.

Appreciating the fact they both wanted their journey to be over, Gabriel thought to ease Madelene’s mind. “Since I can’t trust you not to effect a plan of flight, we will sleep in the same room and in the same bed, as we did last night. However, I have no intentions on your body. You’re much too skinny for my taste, and your feet are a bit scrawny, almost like a child’s.” He ignored her blazing blue eyes and turned to remove his coat and boots before starting to wash.

Perhaps this will give her something else to think about.
He heard Madelene’s footsteps on the creaking boards as she paced the room. Gabriel dried his face and turned to watch Madelene stop long enough to pull off her bonnet and gloves, her lips in grim impatience.

“Madelene, you must be exhausted. Tomorrow we should reach Westcott Close, which will certainly be a relief to both of us.”

She turned to face him with her hands on her hips. “Sir, the only relief I will know is to return to my own home, and for an annulment to take place in the greatest of haste, if I am, indeed, Mrs. Gabriel Westcott.” She paused. Her words boiled in fury.

Gabriel sat on the bed and sighed. “You are truly my wife. After you signed your name to the registry, I had Caroline call you away in order that I might sign my correct name. I planned for you not to know my true identity until we were far from London.”

As he stretched his legs out on the bed, he realized again the painful cost he would have to pay to have her near him. “Please join me, or I will have to carry you over here.”

She must have believed he was serious because in no time, Madelene had washed, slipped into her bedclothes, and hesitantly climbed onto the bed. His eyes closed, he promptly rolled over and pinned her next to him. He actually felt more exhausted than he appreciated, because in little time, he let sleep overtake him.

The hour grew late. Madelene lay stiffly in bed, noticing the stars from the window and wondered what tomorrow would hold when they actually arrived at his estate in Shropshire. She blinked, remembering. Skinny? Child’s feet? Even with a cuff to his shoulder in indignation, he merely grunted, stretched, and continued slumbering. She finally drifted into slumber worrying why it seemed important he desire her instead of being relieved he didn’t.

She dreamt someone stroked her arm, then the curve of her cheek, and next her lips, the touch as soft as silk. She smiled, thinking this must be what bliss felt like, and snuggled deeper into the side of another warm body.

Body? She sprang into wakefulness and tried to pull away from strong arms that held her tight against him, her husband. Her husband? She was still unaccustomed to thinking of Mr. Westcott as her husband.

She struggled briefly until daring a glance at Mr. Westcott, who, with eyes closed, appeared to be sleeping. She watched him suspiciously, but his controlled breathing indicated he continued to slumber.

Had she imagined his touch? Or perhaps, Mr. Westcott himself dreamed he held another woman in his arms? She steamed, thinking her best revenge would be to roll him off the bed. But one glance of his strong physique gave a halt to that idea. If only she could stay awake, then he couldn’t touch her again without her knowledge.

But I can’t stay awake, and it really had felt quite lovely
. With little choice, she fell asleep in his arms, missing the smile on her husband’s face.

Madelene couldn’t believe they had almost arrived. She felt like she had been riding in a coach for months instead of three days. A few miles back, Mr. Westcott had decided to exchange the carriage ride for a horse, anxious as he was to arrive at his home.

Earlier on the journey, Mr. Westcott had offered that he had inherited his uncle’s estate several years earlier. His wife Aunt Adelphia had raised his sister and him but she had been gone some time. After a sojourn in Italy, he now divided his time between his town house in London while managing his shipping affairs, and on his large estate on the border of Wales.

Madelene had heard about the death of his sister and thought it best not to mention it.

From the carriage window, she enjoyed the view of early summer’s green passion as they approached the village of Ludlow in Shropshire. The carriage rumbled on past the village, down a few more dusty roads, until turning into a long, graveled driveway. Passing through a large stoned archway, Madelene could see the terraced landscapes with a magnificent neoclassical home sitting atop a small hill.

She leaned out the window to delight in the subtly altered hills and valleys, naturalistic plantings of trees and breathe in the sweet if dusty spring air. There even appeared to be a serpentine lake nestled through a band of trees on the horizon.

Could this magnificent estate truly be her home for a short while? Madelene had heard rumors Mr. Westcott earned his money in the Far East trade, and he must have been successful in order to keep up such a large home in the country and a home in Town.

The clacking wheels on the cobblestones announced their arrival. When the carriage stopped in front of the grand stone steps, Mr. Westcott appeared and opened the carriage door to greet her and assist her from the carriage. As she walked up to the manor’s entrance, Madelene noticed more weeds than late spring flowers. She mused it would be a lovely place with the proper care and attention.

The house had almost a forlorn feeling, as if it had been neglected for too long and forgotten like a spinster’s heart. She couldn’t understand why it had not been better maintained.

As Mr. Westcott unlocked the large wooden doors and beckoned Madelene to enter, she heard the driver wheel the carriage around and clack out of the courtyard.

Following her husband inside, Madelene stepped farther into the small but high-ceilinged hall, admiring the grand staircase in the center, with a flight of steps flowing down on each side as if curtains parted for a stage. Although the wooden rails hadn’t been polished in some time, the railing had not lost its majestic splendor.

Studying her surroundings, she noticed through an open door to the right a drawing room with covered furniture, a large fireplace, and covered paintings on the walls.

No servants to greet them. Odd, that. Her husband made no comment or offered an explanation.

Unable to keep her curiosity contained, she inquired to the back of his head as he pulled linens off the few straight chairs standing sentinel in the hall. “Mr. Westcott, where are the servants?” Back at their house in Bloomsbury, they had had a full entourage of servants until their father passed on. Then with Matthew’s gaming losses, they slowly, one by one, released all their servants, housekeeper, butler, until they retained only Millie, who cooked and cleaned for them.

“The house has been shut for over a year, and the servants released. I could not be certain when I would return. I plan to visit the village tomorrow and bring our old housekeeper, Mrs. Henchip, and the assortment of cooks, gardeners, and groomsmen. We’ll simply have to handle matters ourselves until then. My man, Windthorp, should not be far behind. Tomorrow night in all probability.” His tone nonchalant as he headed for the mahogany doors to the right of the staircase.

Madelene hurried to follow him, lost in a fog of uncertainty. No servants? Who didn’t have servants to open their house for them and prepare for the master’s home-coming? Was this Mr. Westcott’s oversight, or had he merely been in a hurry to marry her and win the bet? Perhaps his investments had recently soured or he had empty pockets and couldn’t pay their wages? No matter. She had never before been without a servant.

“Mr. Westcott?” she called to him, in her attempt to halt his progress.

He turned around to look at her with hands on his hips. “Yes?”

“Mr. Westcott, this simply will not do. We could return to the village, spend the night at an inn, then return here tomorrow with the servants.” She thought it a sound and plausible idea, a pleading smile on her lips.

Her husband obviously thought differently because he looked at her cryptically as if to see if she intended humor, then shook his head. “Madelene, this is now our home. I’m sure one night without servants catering to your whims will do you no harm.” He turned and continued farther into the house.

Her boots tapped down the corridor as mistress followed master. It certainly appeared her new husband had not considered her needs in the slightest. Mr. Westcott had not heard the end of this untenable position in which he had placed her. What could he possibly be thinking? She had no intention of performing any duties. It wouldn’t do. She wasn’t a servant, she was a baronet’s sister. He needed reminding.

In his commanding stride, his long legs easily swallowed the length of the hallway, which permitted no dallying on Madelene’s part for peering into the richly colored rooms they hurried past. Late-afternoon shadows followed her following him, first down a short set of stone steps to two thick doubled oak doors, and then another short flight into the kitchen, the oblong room still warm from the day’s sun.

If he presumed that she would be cooking for him, she would start walking home. She began, “Mr. Westcott—” before he interrupted her.

“Let’s check the storeroom to see if Mrs. Henchip left provisions. I had sent her a note earlier this week,” he told her, proceeding into an open door to the left.

Unable to continue the conversation without an adversary, Madelene looked around at the stone kitchen. It was quite large with only the last remaining sunlight filtering from the ceiling windows and well stocked with tinned pots, stills, spits, and serving dishes. The room felt quite stuffy as she crossed her arms and leaned against the large wooden table, waiting for her husband to reappear.