The Wedding Escape (23 page)

And then she was exploding into a thousand fiery pieces, quivering and trembling as she disintegrated into a silvery shower.

Jack caught Amelia as she collapsed against him, holding her close as he lowered her to the floor. He shrugged off his shirt, then tore open the fastenings of his trousers and peeled away the layers of wool, kicking off his shoes and stockings. He wanted her with a staggering desperation, a need so awesome and consuming that he did not think he could bear it. She was his, he told himself desperately. She had given herself to him, had kissed him and opened herself to him and wrapped her arms around him, willingly offering him her heat and tenderness and trust. If that did not make her his, then what did? He was wrong for her, he knew that, just as he knew that she was wrong for him. No woman of Amelia's birthright and grace and tender romanticism could ever survive a life with a baseborn, despised criminal like him. And yet in that moment nothing mattered beyond the apricot flicker of firelight as it played against her heated cheeks, and the soft pants gusting from her throat as she lay before him, staring at him with smoldering eyes.
I will not leave you,
she had told him, the words filled with innocent, fervent promise. But she would leave him, and the realization was like a dirk plunging into his chest, leaving him empty and bleeding and torn. She was already leaving him, although she didn't know it, with her growing independence and her burgeoning discovery of her own strengths and abilities. She no longer needed him, and with every day that passed, she would need him even less.
Stay with me,
he pleaded silently as he stretched over her, cupping her face with his hands and lowering his mouth to hers.
Do not leave me,
he begged feverishly, his hardness poised against the wet heat of her, feeling as if he were about to cry.
I need you,
he confessed brokenly, wanting her to understand even though he did not understand it himself. All this he wanted to say to her and more, certain that if he could but make her realize the depths of his need for her, then she would never be able to go. He inhaled a ragged, steadying breath, staring at her in despair, determined to make her his and knowing that it could never be.

And then he whispered her name and drove himself deep inside her, losing himself forever as he crushed his mouth to hers.

He felt her freeze beneath him, her body locked in a startled spasm of pain and fear. He cursed silently, hating himself for being so selfish and lacking in control that he did not remember that she was a virgin and needed special care.

“It's all right, Amelia,” he managed roughly. “Hold fast to me—the pain will pass soon.”

In truth he had no idea whether it would or not, for he had never lain with an inexperienced woman before. It was torture to be so tightly sheathed within her velvet heat and not be able to move, but he held himself steady nonetheless, vowing that he would rather die than cause her any further pain. To ease her anxiety he began to rain tender kisses upon her eyes, her cheeks, along the elegant curve of her jaw, and down into the fluttering hollow at the base of her throat. He stroked the silky fall of her darkened hair, which had escaped its pins and spilled in shimmering waves across the intricately woven carpet. And just as he began to fear that she would never experience the pleasure he so wanted to give her, she sighed and shifted slightly, wrapping her arms around him as the tension seeped from her like sand spilling from a sack.

He started to move slowly within her, gently easing himself in and out of her tight heat, stretching her, filling her, binding her to him with every aching thrust. And then he slipped his hand between them and stroked the pearly center of her, rousing her once more with his kisses and caresses and gentle thrusting, making his own pleasure even more intense as she began to twist and pant beneath him.
Stay with me,
he pleaded as she gripped him ever tighter and began to suckle upon his lips and jaw and neck.
I will keep you safe,
he vowed, moving faster and deeper within her, wanting to lose himself in the glorious depths of her. He would stay that way forever, buried within Amelia's magnificent body, with her softness flexing against him and her fragrance and tiny gasps intoxicating his senses. Faster and harder and deeper he thrust, trying to bind her to him, wanting to be a part of her, not just in that moment but forever. In and out he moved, taking her, possessing her, giving himself to her until finally they moved with one flesh, one breath, one heart. He wanted to slow himself, to make it last forever, but his body was treacherous and moved faster instead. And suddenly he was falling into an abyss, and he cried out in wonder and in anguish, crushing his mouth to hers as he spilled himself inside her. Again and again he drove into her, fighting to keep her, until finally he could endure no more. He gathered her into his arms and rolled onto his side, kissing her with shattered hope as he cradled her body with his own.

Do not leave me,
he pleaded, wondering how he would bear it when she did.

He broke the kiss and closed his eyes, unable to look at her for fear that she might see the painful tearing of his soul.

Amelia lay her cheek against Jack's chest, feeling the rapid pounding of his heart. Nothing had prepared her for what had just passed between them. Nothing. She lay perfectly still, listening to him breathe, wondering if he were experiencing emotions nearly as intense and confusing as those that were coursing through her. She wanted him to say something, to tell her what must happen between them now.

He said nothing.

A quiet forlornness seized her, vanquishing the overwhelming joy that had been there moments earlier. Jack would never want to marry her, she realized. To him she was little more than a spoiled heiress, who was incapable of understanding the world from which he came or the dreadful life he had been forced to endure. That was why he had not shared the truth of his past with her. For the first time in her life, her birthright actually discredited her. Perhaps if she still had a dowry, she might have had more appeal for him, for at least then she would have been able to offer him some assistance with the building of his shipping line. As it was, however, she had nothing. Nothing except herself and a pitifully inadequate income of two hundred pounds a year, providing she didn't do something to get herself fired while she charted the unfamiliar waters of being an employee.

If that had been enough, surely this was the moment for him to say so.

He said nothing.

Her tear-blurred gaze fell upon the portrait of Charlotte hanging above the fireplace. When Amelia had first seen it she had not known that the girl seated in the chair was Jack's sister—the namesake of his precious clipper ship. Now that Amelia had met Charlotte, the painting held greater meaning. If Charlotte attempted to pick up the rose at her feet she would injure herself on its thorns, but if she left it where it was, the flower would die. In her life, if Charlotte attempted to walk then everyone would judge her for her affliction—with pity, of course, but also with the conviction that there were many things she could not do. Yet if Charlotte did not try to walk, her life would be cloistered and small. Amelia thought of how lovely Charlotte was as she awkwardly moved about, how she had insisted upon accompanying Amelia to her interview, even though that had necessitated that she climb many steps and endure the stares of others. Yet Charlotte had smiled at each stranger she passed, trying to put them at ease. Although she lacked the vivaciousness of Annabelle and the practical confidence of Grace, Charlotte had overcome her considerable challenges and created a fulfilling life for herself.

Perhaps, Amelia reflected shakily, she could do the same.

Loud, long snores cracked the quiet of the small study. Jack's hold upon her had eased, enabling Amelia to extract herself from the warm cocoon of his body. Feeling cold and ashamed, she quickly gathered up her discarded clothing and dressed. The combination of liquor and exhaustion had put Jack in a deep slumber. Moving carefully so as not to waken him, Amelia gently covered him with his wrinkled shirt and trousers, then bent to brush a dark lock of hair from his forehead.

She left the room and quietly closed the door, destroyed by the realization that she had to leave him, before he completely shattered her heart.

Chapter Eleven

S
HE'S GONE.”

The old man tapped a bent, chalky finger thoughtfully against his chin. “Gone where?”

Neil Dempsey shifted uneasily on his blistered, aching feet. He dreaded it when Lord Hutton asked him a question to which he had no answer. Furious with himself for failing to comprehend the potential importance of the mysterious young woman who had suddenly appeared in Jack Kent's life, he flipped back to the previous day's entries in his leather-bound journal of notes.

“She went off by carriage early yesterday mornin', and to my knowledge, has not returned. The old driver, Oliver, came back without her at around a quarter past nine in the morning. At about a quarter of ten he came out again, strugglin' to carry some boxes, which looked to be the same ladies' garment boxes the old maid, Doreen, had brought into the house a few nights earlier. He placed them inside the carriage afore drivin' off, and returned again about an hour later. At ten after eleven, Oliver came out of the house with Mr. Kent and drove him down to his office, where he stayed until just after two in the mornin'. When Mr. Kent finally emerged, he required assistance to walk, which Oliver provided with some difficulty, Mr. Kent bein' a very large man.”

“What was wrong with him?” demanded Lord Hutton, struggling to raise himself off his pillows. “Was he sick?”

“He did lose his supper on the side of the road—”

“Was he rushed home? Was a doctor sent for?”

“—after which Oliver made him stumble beside the carriage a mile or so in the cool night air, in an attempt to sober him up.”

The earl huffed impatiently, annoyed. “Go on.”

“He left the house at noon today, and went to the offices of the Royal Bank of Scotland, where he met for nearly two hours with a Mr. Stoddart, the bank's manager. After that he went down to the docks, where he supervised the final loading of the
Lightning,
which set sail for Ceylon at precisely five-thirty.”

Lord Hutton sighed. “With him aboard, I presume.”

“No. He returned home shortly after, and was still there when I left at eleven o'clock.” Neil closed his journal. “It seems he changed his plans.”

“Indeed.” Edward sank back against the damp linens of his bed and steepled his hands together, thinking. He knew that Jack was typically desperate to be at sea, and rarely stayed in either Inverness or London longer than a week or so. He also knew that Jack's shipping company was suffering dire financial consequences as a result of the recent loss of the
Liberty
in London. Had the urgent need to secure more financial assistance prevented Jack from sailing on the
Lightning
? Did he feel that he could be of greater use to his ailing company if he remained in Inverness, negotiating further loans with the bank and perhaps endeavoring to secure more contracts? Or had he forfeited his trip for more personal reasons? Edward had the power to make some enquiries as to the nature of Jack's negotiations with the bank, but to do so was dangerous. It would only invite curiosity and gossip, and that was something he was determined to avoid.

“Fine, then,” he said, suddenly weary. “Tomorrow you will watch him again.”

“If the girl returns, do you want me to follow her as well?” asked Neil. “Find out where she went?”

“If you follow her, then you cannot follow Kent.”

“I could get someone else—”

“No.”

“I've a friend who's very reliable, yer lordship. Very discreet. He wouldna say a word—”

“If I have to say no again, our association is finished.”

“Aye, yer lordship,” Neil returned swiftly, anxious to appease the old bugger. “I'll nae let Kent out of my sight.”

“See that you don't.”

The door swung open with a bang, and the bounteous form of Mrs. Quigley marched into the room.

“Here now, what's he doin' here?” she demanded, casting a glacial look at Neil. “I told ye there were nae visitors today.”

“And I told you to bloody well knock on my goddamn door before entering my chamber!” Edward glared at her, but whatever air of menace he might have achieved disintegrated beneath the sudden streak of pain that coursed through his belly. Feeling as if a dirk had been plunged into his gut, he gripped his stomach with his emaciated hands and clamped his mouth shut, fighting to smother the cry that had escaped the back of his throat.

“All right, then, bide a wee bit, 'tis nearly past.” Mrs. Quigley's voice softened slightly as she swiftly mixed water and laudanum in a glass and brought it to his melded lips. “Here now, drink this.” She threaded her well-padded arm underneath his shoulders and pulled him up a little, until his gaunt cheek was pressed like a child's against the plump pillow of her bosom. “Drink it down and then have a sleep, and ye'll be feelin' much better, I promise.”

Edward choked the bitter elixir down. It did not ease the pain, but the possibility that it might dull it eventually, or at least make him groggy enough to sleep, was enough. When the glass was empty he pressed his lips together once more, still fighting the grip of pain that had seized his bloated, rotting belly. He allowed Mrs. Quigley to lay him back against his pillows like a bairn, too weak to protest. He wished Dempsey had not been there to witness his frailty. He wanted Mrs. Quigley to order the young fool out, before his treacherous innards did something else to humiliate him.

“Ye should go now,” Mrs. Quigley informed Neil as she briskly adjusted the covers over Edward. “His lordship needs to rest.”

Neil regarded Lord Hutton with uncertainty, afraid to leave without his dismissal. “If there's anythin' else, yer lordship…”

A loud eruption of gas escaped Edward's body.

“Get out!”
he bellowed, mortified to the depths of his being.
“Now!”

Neil raced out the door as fast as his feet would carry him, nearly knocking over an elaborate porcelain vase in the process.

“You go, too, Mrs. Quigley.” If his bowels were about to do anything more, he was determined to endure it alone.

“I hope ye're nae thinkin' I'm bothered by a wee bit o' wind,” Mrs. Quigley said sternly as she opened the windows. “We all have to relieve ourselves when the body tells us 'tis time—that's the way the good Lord made us. Even I've been known to use the privy on occasion.” She went to the washbasin and wrung out a cloth.

“At least you can still get to the bloody privy,” Edward grumbled.

“Aye, and so could you if ye'd rest when I told ye to and stopped drinkin' those spirits ye keep tucked beneath yer pillow,” she told him, gently sponging the perspiration from his face. “I've half a mind to tell that maid she's out on her ear if she brings them to ye again.”

“Those spirits are the only thing that keep me relatively civilized,” Edward said warningly. “You don't want to find out what I'm like without them.”

“Dinna be thinkin' ye can chase me off with yer ranting and threats when things dinna go yer way,” she countered, washing his hands. “Ye may be nae so swack as ye used to be, but there's more than a breath or two left in ye yet. As long as there is, I'm fixin' to stay with ye.”

“If you think I find that reassuring, I don't.”

“If ye think I feel sorry for ye, I don't,” she retaliated evenly. “Rest now,” she ordered, rinsing out her cloth in the washbasin. “I'll be back in a wee bit with somethin' for ye to eat.”

“I'm not hungry.”

“Ye will be after ye've slept a little.”

“No, I won't.”

“Well, that's a pity, then, since I was thinkin' to bring ye a nice glass of port with it, just to help yer digestion.”

“You can bring the port and leave the rest.”

“Ye can eat yer supper and then have the port.”

Edward sighed and closed his eyes, too exhausted to joust anymore. “Fine,” he muttered, his senses veiled beneath the dizzying mantle of his medication. “Now leave me.”

She left the room in a swish of righteous satisfaction.

He lay there despondently, waiting for sleep to overtake him. In all the months she had tended him, Mrs. Quigley had never permitted him to have a drink.

Either she was becoming more indulgent, or he had even less time than he thought.

 

A
MELIA STUFFED A HALF DOZEN PAGES OF NOTES
into her reticule as she hurried down the steps of the Royal Hotel. It was already half past six o'clock, and she knew Oliver would have been waiting for her at least an hour. She still had much work to do on the arrangements for the MacCulloch wedding, but she would have to do it later that night, after dinner.

In the week since she had moved into the home of Annabelle and her husband, Oliver had very kindly offered to drive her both to and from her work at the hotel every day. At first Amelia had protested that this was far too much of an inconvenience for him, but Oliver had been adamant. Ultimately Annabelle convinced Amelia that she might as well resign herself to it, since Oliver was not likely to change his mind. It also made things easier in Annabelle's household, as she and her husband had four children, and between all of them their coachman was already well occupied. It had the added benefit of keeping Amelia in touch with Jack's household, so that every day she was able to enquire about Eunice and Doreen. After she had been well versed as to what the two elderly women were busy cooking, cleaning, or complaining about, she would be silent for a moment. And then, feigning only the mildest of interest, she would ask about Jack, her expression bland as she hungrily devoured whatever scraps of information Oliver might have for her.

She had left Jack's home the morning after their shocking intimacy without seeing him to say good-bye. She had attempted to write him a letter in which she explained her hasty departure, but an overwhelming sense of shame and confusion had left her unable to find the necessary words. And so ultimately she had left saying nothing to him whatsoever. While Eunice, Doreen and Oliver had been openly disappointed that she was leaving, they seemed to accept her explanation that it was simply more fitting for her to stay with Annabelle and her husband. Amelia had pointed out that her departure freed Jack of his responsibility for her, which meant that he could now sail with his ships wherever it was that he needed to go, while Oliver, Eunice and Doreen could return home to Haydon and Genevieve's estate.

Strangely, Jack had remained at his home, and consequently so did the elderly trio. Amelia could not imagine what was keeping Jack in Inverness when he had made it so clear that his business required him to travel immediately, but she tried not to dwell on it. She had liberated him from his role as her protector. By doing so, she was now learning to cope with a wholly foreign measure of freedom and responsibility. Of course Annabelle and her husband were providing Amelia with a place to live, but in her role as Mrs. Marshall Chamberlain she was experiencing an autonomy unlike anything she had ever known.

She rose each day to carefully apply her makeup and arrange her darkened hair as Oliver, Eunice, Annabelle, and Grace had painstakingly taught her, before going to work at the Royal Hotel. Although the hours were long and her work challenging, she was finding her fledgling career very rewarding. Mrs. MacCulloch was extremely pleased with Amelia's tastefully innovative suggestions for her daughter's wedding, which was now promising to be one of the greatest social events of the year in Inverness. The wedding itself was still two weeks away, but already Mrs. MacCulloch had been praising Amelia's style and vision to friends and associates, who were eagerly booking dinners and events well into the following year—on the condition that Amelia be in charge of organizing them. Mr. Sweeney was so thrilled with the escalation in new business that he had given Amelia a raise of an additional twenty pounds a year. Amelia did not think twenty pounds was very much, but Annabelle had told her that two hundred and twenty pounds a year was an exceptionally generous salary for a young woman, and Amelia realized she had to trust her on that. She was a long way from her coddled existence as Amelia Belford, the bride-to-be of the Duke of Whitcliffe. For the first time she felt as if she exercised some control over the course of her life, and more, she felt like she was doing something challenging and useful, in which she was renowned not merely for her wealth, but for her own singular abilities.

It was a wonderful feeling.

“Evenin', Mrs. Chamberlain,” said Oliver, for the benefit of anyone who might have been near as he opened the carriage door for her.

“Good evening, Oliver. I'm so sorry to have kept you waiting—”

Her words disintegrated into a startled gasp as her reticule was suddenly jerked off her wrist.

“My notes!” Amelia cried in horror as a small figure raced down the street. “Stop, thief!” She gathered her skirts and ran after the child as best as she could, given the cumbersome burden of her petticoats.

“Here, now—come back!” Realizing he couldn't run after the two of them, Oliver climbed back onto his seat and snapped his reins, sending the carriage clattering forward.

A heavyset gentleman grabbed the lad as he sped by. “Got you, you wee ruffian!” he proclaimed triumphantly, gripping the boy by his filthy coat.

“Let go, ye pissin' bugger!” The lad kneed the man hard in his groin.

“Sweet Jesus!” Looking as though he might faint, the man released his hold. “You goddamn little—”

The lad was off and running again, cleverly scooting back and forth as he avoided the outstretched hands of the other men who now only halfheartedly tried to capture him. Amelia watched in defeat as the boy zipped down a narrow alley. She would never be able to catch up to him, she realized hopelessly. All her precious notes were lost, which meant hours of work would have to be done again.