When morning came Alexandra’s eyelids felt as heavy as lead weights, but she forced herself to rise early. She didn’t know how long Nathaniel would give himself to heal, and she wanted to take advantage of the time they had together.
She crossed to the washbasin and splashed her face with water.
“Will you take me to a drapers?” she asked Trenton, who was beginning to wake as well. “Nathaniel and I both need clothes.”
“That will take a long time,” he objected. “We should be leaving in a few days, as soon as Nathaniel is strong enough.”
“I’m a seamstress, remember? I’ll sew us something in no time.”
Alexandra paused near the bed to see that Nathaniel had finally fallen asleep. But he stirred restlessly the moment she moved away.
“Trenton and I are leaving,” she told him. “You try and get some more rest. We’ll be back in a couple of hours.”
“Where are you going?”
“To get some fabric. I don’t know about you, but I’d dearly love some clothes that fit properly. So far since I met you, I’ve worn your stepsister’s gown, your own clothes, a maid’s uniform, and Mrs. Tuttle’s niece’s castoff.”
Nathaniel grunted and rolled over, and Alexandra wondered about the pain his wound must be causing him. At least the stripes from the lash were beginning to heal, she thought as Trenton followed her out.
When they returned, both Alexandra and Trenton had their arms full of small bundles: white cotton for a full dress shirt for Nathaniel, serge for Nathaniel’s trousers, brocade for a waistcoat, and a pretty blue and white calico print for Alexandra’s dress. Her undergarments were not new, but they were still serviceable, and under the circumstances, she knew she’d be lucky to finish the projects she already had planned.
Nathaniel roused again when they entered, and cocked his eyebrow at the paper-wrapped fabric. “How long do you plan on staying here? Through the winter?”
“I’ll be finished before you’re ready to go anywhere,” she retorted, pulling the chair closer to the light that streamed in at the window.
Alexandra worked the entire day and late into the night. She felt Nathaniel’s gaze on her whenever he was awake, but he slept most of the time, and she was glad he was allowing his body time to heal. Trenton remained with them, serving as an unlikely chaperone.
Alexandra took frequent breaks to spoon broth into Nathaniel’s mouth. After the food he had been fed in the hulks, he couldn’t tolerate much at first. By the evening of the second day, however, he was beginning to want something more satisfying.
“You’re recovering quickly,” Alexandra told him, stropping the razor Trenton had acquired for her. Nathaniel’s stubble was quickly turning into a full-blown beard, and she had immediate plans to shave him.
“Have you ever done this before?” he asked, obviously more concerned with the blade she wielded than with chronicling his recovery.
“I used to shave Willy sometimes, when he was too drunk to do so himself.”
“Which means he was too drunk to feel whether or not you did a good job.” He smiled ruefully.
“And drunk enough to get mean.” Alexandra didn’t know why she added that. She had purposely not thought of Willy since the day Nathaniel had asked her about him.
She felt Nathaniel’s hand on her arm and glanced up. He didn’t say anything, but the look in his eyes was somehow gratifying, as though he empathized with her pain without pitying or blaming.
She offered him a smile. “I don’t think about it very often. Neither do I miss him.”
Nathaniel brought her hand to his lips. “I’d like to pay him a visit—”
“No.” Alexandra shook her head. “He’s just a miserable old man. What good could you do? It’s enough that I’m away from him. Promise me you’ll leave him alone.”
Nathaniel watched her thoughtfully. “That’s a promise I can’t make. The thought of him hurting you…”
Alexandra pressed her mouth to his lips. “I’m all right,” she said, then lathered the shaving cream onto the lower half of his face and guided the blade around the contours of his jaw. The cleft in his chin proved a bit difficult. At one point, he tried to talk and received a small nick for his efforts.
“Hold still,” she told him, “before we have to remove the bandages on your back and use them on your face.”
“How am I supposed to stay still when you’re so close?” he murmured.
Alexandra glanced toward Trenton, who tactfully pretended not to hear. “You’re a rogue, my pirate captain,” she said, letting her voice drop to a whisper. “I think my first impression of you was more correct than ever I realized.”
“Where you are concerned, I cannot pretend to think only chaste thoughts.” His gaze lowered to her breasts while the quirk of a smile turned up his lips.
“Promises, promises,” she murmured, teasing him. “You have yet to keep a bargain with me on any count.”
His eyes narrowed dangerously. “Don’t tempt me too far, Alexandra. I’ve never been known for my scruples. “
Trenton cleared his throat, probably hoping to end their lovers’ repartee while in his presence, and Alexandra smiled.
“There,” she said, speaking louder as she toweled his chin dry. “With that face you could capture the heart of every woman in London.”
“But I want only one,” Nathaniel said softly.
* * *
The Marquess of Clifton sat in the noisy tavern across the table from Captain Rene Montague of the
Eastern Horizon.
A glass of brandy stood in front of him; the captain had preferred a pint of gin. Clifton swirled the amber liquid, raising it against the light before turning his attention back to Montague.
“The other shipment reached Russia?” he asked.
“Of course. Without one single problem.”
“Good. Then why did you want to meet me?”
Montague played with his glass. “We’ve found the guns.”
“You’re sure?”
“Mais oui.”
“How?”
“I have had my men searching Bristol ever since you told me Nathaniel’s ship put in there. We could find nothing at first. I was about to give up when I heard tale of an old couple who were attempting to sell a warehouse full of guns. Their son was recently killed in the infantry. They wanted to move to the country and had no response to the notices they sent their lessor. When I confirmed the details, I knew we had found the rifles at last.”
Clifton took a sip of his drink. “And the details are?”
Montague, looking irritated, waved a hand. “They are inconsequential. The important thing is that the guns are in a warehouse just off the docks at Bristol, and Mr. Kent will undoubtedly try to use them against your father, if he can.”
“It sounds as though you think Nathaniel’s alive despite the knife wound he received when he escaped.”
“He has never struck me as an easy man to kill. But I am only going by what you told me—that he did indeed escape. We want the guns regardless, no?”
Clifton swallowed the brandy he had been holding in his mouth, savoring the gentle burn as it descended to his stomach. Alcohol was his only balm against the pain he felt in a hand that no longer existed. He found himself craving more and more of his favorite spirits. “Of course. And we must move quickly, before anything else can go wrong.”
Montague nodded. “I’m heading to Bristol at first light. Are you coming?”
The marquess considered the question. If the guns were in Bristol, chances were good that Nathaniel would go there to retrieve them. And Clifton wanted nothing more than a second chance at his half brother.
“I’ll go,” he said, “for several reasons. First and foremost, I need to make sure Nathaniel is as dead as we hope.”
* * *
“They fit.” Nathaniel teetered near the bed, on his feet for the first time in a week, trying on the trousers Alexandra had sewn for him. His pale face still looked drawn, but his strength seemed greatly replenished.
Alexandra handed him the shirt she was making so he could try it on, too, admiring the way the trousers hugged his long legs and narrow hips. She remembered the fabric she had found in his chest aboard the
Vengeance.
How her fingers had itched to sew for him almost from the beginning. She knew even then that she’d need no pattern. With very few measurements, she had created clothes that fit him perfectly.
Thoughts of Nathaniel’s sea chest reminded her of the small picture she had found hidden in the folds of the fabric. She frowned. The lady in that picture had haunted her dreams more than a few times. At odd moments, she worried that he was holding out for that woman, and now that Alexandra knew her time with Nathaniel was coming to a close, she ventured the question she had always wanted to ask.
“You know that portrait you keep in your trunk?”
He glanced up at her and grinned. “You mean I had more than rats going through my things aboard the
Vengeance?”
Alexandra felt herself flush. She was tempted to explain, except that she
had
been going through his belongings. “Who is she?”
Nathaniel chuckled and arched one brow. “Jealous?”
Alexandra started to deny that she felt anything so base, then shrugged in acknowledgement. “She’s beautiful.”
“I’ve always thought so.” A far-off look claimed Nathaniel’s features. “When I was a child, I used to pretend that smile was meant specifically for me, though I’ve never seen it, except in the picture. Somehow it made life easier to believe she would have loved me, had she been given the chance.”
“She was your mother?” Alexandra asked softly.
He nodded. “Martha managed to acquire the picture from a friend who worked for my father long after we left. The duke hated her, you know.”
“Who?”
“My mother.”
“It seems he had no more affinity for his next wife.” Alexandra hesitated, wondering if Nathaniel already knew of his father’s sexual exploits, and whether or not the knowledge would bother him. “Your father prefers prostitutes and easy women to highborn ladies. At Greystone House, I found a locked metal box that I hoped might contain information on what the duke had done with you. Instead it held a letter from Lord Clifton and Lady Anne’s mother, claiming he gave her syphilis, though he didn’t seem ill when I was there.”
Nathaniel shook his head. “Selfish bastard,” he said. “For all his arrogance, he chases barroom wenches about the taverns of London by night, eh? God, my poor mother.”
He chuckled, and Alexandra laughed with him, but her mirth didn’t reach her heart, which was filled with sadness. The beautiful woman in the portrait could have changed so much for Nathaniel. If only she had lived.
* * *
By the time Alexandra woke the following morning, Nathaniel and Trenton had gone out. Where, she didn’t know, but that Nathaniel was strong enough to venture beyond the room left her with a feeling of dread. Their time together was dwindling, falling by the wayside like the shavings of a whittler. And like the whittler’s wood, Alexandra felt helplessly acted upon, unable to control the paths their separate lives would take.
While grateful for the fact that Nathaniel was getting better, she knew it was only a matter of time before he left to take care of the guns at Bristol. The Lord High Admiral expected to see the rifles in a few days—and she knew Nathaniel would retrieve them without her. He had to. His patriotism demanded that he stop his father, and with the duke shadowing his every move, Nathaniel believed she wasn’t safe with him. He thought she might never be.
Alexandra buried her head beneath her pillow, longing for the situation to be different.
A tear squeezed out from the corner of her clamped eyelids. God help her, she loved him. The mere sight of his tall, muscular body, the briefest glance from his blue eyes, the honey-rich sound of his voice in her ear, made her tingle with a response that was as immediate and natural as the pealing of a bell follows a pull of its ropes. Deep down, she wondered if she could ever feel such an intensity of emotion for anyone else—no matter how steady, no matter how safe, no matter what.
Cursing the vicissitudes of life, Alexandra flung her pillow to the floor and rose from the bed to finish sewing her dress. Could she bear for him to kiss her and leave, without so much as a promise?
Her heart twisted at the thought. She couldn’t endure good-bye. She couldn’t stand idly by and wave as he and Trenton started off. She had to leave on her own. She had to dredge up the strength to make things easier for both of them. But how, when the very core of her being rebelled at the thought?
Alexandra jammed her needle back into the hem of her dress. A breeze whispered through the open window, carrying sounds from the street outside: the voices of children as they ran about, the cackling of hens, the grate of cart and wagon wheels. It was a humid day, though otherwise mellow—a perfect day to look for work, Alexandra decided as she tied off the final stitch to her dress. Though her experience with Gunther had frightened her, she was wiser now. And she was definitely stronger.
Determined to take control of her mutinous emotions at last, Alexandra paid the obese innkeeper to locate some lackeys to haul water for a bath. Then she hired a small boy, who stood selling flowers on the sidewalk with his mother, to retrieve the clothes she’d sent to the laundress down the street. She’d been wearing the shirt and pants Mrs. Tuttle had loaned to Nathaniel since the day before, and was eager to have her underclothes back.
By midmorning, Alexandra had her hair twisted into an attractive style with ringlets framing her face. Her new dress had a basquine body that was open to the waist, worn over a chemisette, with pagoda sleeves. The perfect fit of her costume made her feel absolutely luxurious as she twirled around in the matching slippers she’d found when she’d purchased the fabric.
She wondered if Nathaniel would appreciate the transformation in her appearance, then attempted to rein in such errant thoughts. She couldn’t think about him now. She’d never leave if she did. And she wanted to go before he returned. She had delayed too long already.
* * *
Nathaniel was feeling tired and weak by the time he and Trenton returned to the inn. He turned the key in the lock and swung the door open while speaking to Trenton over his shoulder.