Authors: Lucinda Brant
“But near the Jamaica Pass you rescued a woman and her two children from a burning house; a house deliberately lit by colonial militia believing the woman was harboring the King’s general. The rebels gave no thought to sacrificing those lives if it meant they could flush out and secure the bigger prize of General Clinton. And yet you went into a burning building, with musket fire all around you, and the enemy at close quarters, and saved not only those three lives, but the General’s life, too.”
“I see you keep abreast of the war in the Colonies, and read the newssheet reports on that little skirmish,” he replied with a self-effacing smile. “But no mention was made in those reports of General Sir Henry Clinton’s capture. To do so would not have been good for public morale.”
Rory lost the furrow between her brows as her blue eyes widened and she mouthed the word “Oh”. When Dair mimicked her actions, she dimpled and confessed.
“As the Spymaster’s granddaughter I am privy to some tid-bits not generally known to the public. Of course, I would never reveal my sources, but you are in my grandfather’s confidence, too, so I do not feel if I have betrayed anyone.”
“Rory, you do realize there are those on both sides of any conflict who would not think twice in using innocent lives as a means to an end?”
He was thinking specifically of Lord Shrewsbury. But he would never mention him by name to her, and shatter her loving view of her grandfather. Lord Shrewsbury was a cunning and ruthless Spymaster General, with no conscience when it came to winning at all costs. For him, any price was worth it. Not for Dair. Children were innocent regardless of the actions of their parents, and sometimes in spite of them. Enough of a reason why he could never take Shrewsbury’s place, and would decline the offer if it were made to him. But that conversation was for another day, and with his mentor. He pushed aside his plate, saying flatly, “You may find this hard to believe, but not all women are innocent bystanders of war.”
“Oh, I do not find that hard to believe at all,” Rory contradicted earnestly. “Our sex does not preclude us from taking sides in a conflict, and acting upon our convictions.”
“The husband of the woman I saved was a rebel, but she was not. She was a loyalist and a spy for us. I had to save her. I could not let her fall into enemy hands. She knew too much. But that is not why I saved her. I could not deprive her children of their mother.”
“Of course you could not,” Rory replied with a smile. But then her brow furrowed. “If my husband was a rebel soldier, or one of the King’s men, I could not betray him by being a spy for his enemies. I would support him, help him in any way I could. Isn’t that the nature of marriage? To be supportive of one another in good times and bad?”
“But what if you did not believe in his cause?”
Rory gave a little laugh of incredulity at the very idea.
“Silly. Why would I marry a man whose cause I did not believe in? I should hope that before we married we would know each other well enough, love each other enough, esteem one another, that the ceremony is but a formality. There would be no surprises, no uncertainties. We would be in accord, if not in all things, but certainly in matters of great importance to our union. If this not be the case, well, I-I—I might as well marry a
bedpost
!”
Dair had it on the tip of his tongue to quip that marriage to a bedpost was preferable to marriage with Mr. William Watkins, but he had no wish to spoil their
tête-à-tête
by mentioning the Weasel, so he said as casually as he could manage,
“So what does Miss Talbot consider of prime importance in a marriage?”
Rory shrugged and lifted a hand in a gesture that suggested the answer was self-evident.
“Love. Respect. Friendship. Honesty. Trust…”
“Physical compatibility?”
“Of course. Surely it follows that if there is love, respect, friendship, honesty
and
trust in a marriage, there will also be physical compatibility?”
His lips twitched into a brief smile.
“There can be physical compatibility without marriage…”
Rory’s face flooded with color, with embarrassment, and anger. His smugness and that twitch annoyed her, and more than it should.
“That is something different entirely. That is like-like—stealing food from another man’s table!” she said in an angry rush. “It may satisfy a temporary need but at what cost to self-esteem and the guilt that follows? Such couplings are surely unsatisfactory for they lack the qualities I spoke of that make physical love between husband and wife so satisfying. While I am well aware men have mistresses and females take lovers, I could never betray my husband in that base way. For him to take a mistress…” She took a deep breath, aware she had said more than she should, and stole a look at him, up into his eyes to see if he was laughing at her, for her naïve pronouncements about a matter in which she had no experience. “If my husband were unfaithful, then it stands to reason that those qualities that first brought us together no longer existed. I could not remain married to such a man.”
“But there is no way out of a marriage for a female.”
Rory held his gaze.
“Hence the importance of making the right choice, or no choice at all, before marriage. Though why we are speaking of marriage, I do not know, because I am completely witless on that subject and-and of-of—anything else. Thus my opinion is worthless—”
“No, that is not true. Your opinion matters, it matters a great deal—to me. I apologize for making you uncomfortable. I merely wished to express the idea that while it is possible to have physical compatibility outside of marriage, it is impossible for a marriage to flourish if physical compatibility is not present. But I take your point. If love, respect, honesty, trust
and
friendship exist, then there is no reason why a husband and wife should not enjoy physical intimacy. And if they do not, then surely the fault lies with the husband, who is the experienced partner. Although, in some rare instances, both parties may be ignorant—”
“Surely not?” Rory found the notion absurd, particularly in present company. But when Dair did not disabuse her, she lost her incredulous smile, wondering to whom he was referring, for he must have some one or some couple in mind. “Then should not both parties work equally at finding a solution to their—to their—
conundrum
?”
He laughed out loud. “
Conundrum
? Oh, Delight, I do so love your choice of words!
Conundrum
. A perfect euphemism!”
His laughter was infectious. She giggled and was about to make an inappropriate quip when they were interrupted by what sounded like a wounded mouse. It made her lose her train of thought and look over at her maid, for that was where the noise had emanated. But there was no mouse, no small wounded animal at all. Just Edith, sitting tall, with her hands grasped tightly in the lap of her gown, eyes wide and staring at Rory, mouth shut tight, so tight the tendons in her neck were visible.
With her ear to the conversation, every word marched the couple toward an intimacy that was inappropriate between a bachelor and a spinster. And when talk turned to the wholly inappropriate topic regarding the intimate relations between a husband and wife, and then onwards to the scandalous notion of lovemaking outside the vows of marriage, Edith was unable to hold herself in check any longer. But instead of ending such inappropriate talk with the excuse it was time to return to the Gatehouse Lodge, and pointing to the pony and trap awaiting them under the shade of the large spreading Linden tree across the rolling lawn from the pavilion, she expressed her disapproval in a most unintentional manner. All her suppressed words came out from between her lips in a thin high-pitched squeal of alarm that sounded as if a mouse had been pounced on by a cat, or, to Dair’s ears, that of a cat’s tail caught between sill and window sash.
Yet, the noise had the desired effect of bringing the couple to a sense of their surroundings. And while it highlighted the unsuitability of their conversation, it did more to make them aware of how comfortable they were in each other’s company. This was evidenced when Rory glanced at Dair from under her lashes and he winked at her. They exchanged a conspiratorial smile, as if caught out collaborating in something utterly wicked. Still, they respected the maid’s unspoken edict, and dutifully turned their attention to their respective plates and the food on offer. They consumed the rest of their meal in silence, Rory picking at her food while Dair ate ravenously, as always. She wondered if large vigorous males had bottomless pits for stomachs. Despite the swim in the lake giving her an appetite, with him, she was now curiously not hungry at all. When he drank down a tumbler of pear cider and refilled hers, she asked in a whisper,
“Why must you row like-like—
bloody hell
?”
He gave an involuntary smile at her hesitancy to swear and had an overwhelming urge to leap across the table and kiss her lovely mouth. He curbed this desire and finished off the rest of the bread piled with slices of beef and smothered in chutney, saying when he was replete,
“You won’t believe me—No, that is not true.
You
, more than any other, will believe me, because you see through the performance. You see
me
, do you not, Delight?”
She nodded and extended her hand across the table between the empty plates and dishes, hoping Edith had returned to her needlework, for if her maid had considered the table conversation inappropriate she would surely disapprove of the couple holding hands. But Rory was beyond caring what her maid or anyone else thought. She was lightheaded with happiness, but perhaps that was because she had not eaten? No! Surely this was how people felt when they were in love? Lightheaded, unable to eat, so full of joy they wanted to run out onto the lawn and share their feelings with the world. And she knew it was so when he entwined his fingers with hers, and a warm sensation not unlike pins and needles—she did not know how else to describe it—flooded up her arm, invaded her body and settled in her chest. It was as if she were suddenly immersed in a bathtub full of warm fragrant water. But it was when he smiled into her eyes and made his frank admission that she knew in her heart that he felt as she did.
“How is it I did not see
you
until recently?” he asked with a note of wonder. “How could I have been so blind…?” He shook his head at his own amazement, and grinned sheepishly. “I am not the most perceptive of men, particularly when I am inhabiting the guise Society expects of me. You said yourself I am a fine actor. I am good at hiding my true self and intentions from others. A spy must be an expert at disguise, in feelings as well as form.” He rubbed his cheek then his ear lobe between thumb and forefinger. “I grow a beard, put in a gold earring, tie a red kerchief about my neck, and I can walk amongst the natives of Portugal as a privateer, undetected and unbothered. I have worn the uniforms of my enemies, faced battle for His Majesty as a dragoon without fear… Yet, when it comes to rowing, or swimming in blackened water where reeds grow thick and strong—” He leaned into the table, smile gone, and not wanting to be overheard, “I am—I am a-a
coward
.”
Rory’s fingers convulsed in his on the word
coward
, realizing the courage it had taken him, a soldier, who had risked his life upon many an occasion for king and country, to confide his fear to her. She cleared her throat of emotion and found her voice.
“A war hero is no coward.
You
are not a coward. It is as natural to fear drowning as it is to breathe. How many of us can swim or care to learn? Our sailors are not required to know how to swim, and they spend most of their lives at sea.”
“Rory, I can swim. At least, I think I still can. I have not been called upon to do so in many years. I was taught as a boy. I presume it is much the same as learning to ride a horse. Once it is learned, it cannot be unlearned. You will think me doubly foolish when I tell you I have no qualms about going to sea. Sailing on the high seas does not trouble me.” He shrugged. “Mayhap it is the smell and taste of the salt in the air, or the motion of the waves, or both, that quells my dread of large bodies of water? Whatever it is, it is fortuitous, or I would’ve had a damned awful time of it sailing to and from the Americas with my regiment.”
“So it is only still water that bothers you?”
He smiled. “Thank you for using the word bother. Yes, it
bothers
me. It bothers me greatly.”
She looked at their fingers knotted together, and was surprised how small and thin her fingers were in comparison to his. He was a bear of man, and it was difficult to comprehend that with such size there could be a fear of anything, least of all the cool, calm waters of a lake where she spent so many happy hours swimming, feeling graceful and completely alive. She truly did like him with a beard. Close-cropped and as dark as the hair on his head and chest, it suited him. Somehow it made his eyes darker and his smile brighter. What a pity the fashion was for clean-shaven faces.
She was procrastinating, wondering how best to ask him what had happened in his boyhood to make him fear swimming in a lake. It must have been something monumental, something appalling that had scarred his mind, for he was a soldier who had faced death time and again, and was in every other way fearless. She heard herself ask the question.
“Why does still water bother you, Alisdair?”
“Because, Delight, on my tenth birthday my father drowned me in a lake.”
T
WENTY-ONE
H
E
DID
NOT
SAY
tried to drown
. He said
drowned me
. Rory was more appalled than she thought possible. So many questions crowded her thoughts that she considered it wise to say nothing at all. He would tell her in his own good time, and in his own way. She did not want to say anything that might forestall him. Yet, the presence of Edith bothered her, possibly more than it did him. It was not right her maid should hear his intimate and clearly harrowing confession, so she sent her away quietly, with a few words, up to the dower house to fetch a footman to clear away the nuncheon things. It must have been the stricken look on her face, for Edith complied without a word of protest, gone from the pavilion with a quick curtsy.