Imposter Bride (14 page)

“Please, ma’am, I’ve got to see ‘im,” the woman
wailed, clutching the bundle to her chest. “‘Tis the captain’s
house, I know it. They said he’d help his fellow Scot.”

“They shouldn’t have sent you here,” Mrs. Betrus
chastised. “Not to this house.”

“I come on my own, ma’am. Please. They arrested my
man, and my bairn’s sick t’ dyin’! I dinna ken what else to
do!”

Sophie swept forward. “Let her in, Mrs. Betrus!”

The housekeeper turned, shocked to see Sophie, but
then she urged the wretched woman over the threshold and closed the
door behind her.

“Och, thank ye, lass,” the woman said, trying to
smile at Sophie. She wasn’t much older than Sophie, but her face
looked middle-aged, ravaged by poor food, worry, and exposure. Some
of her teeth were missing. She was soaked through and her eyes
glittered with fever or hunger or both.

Sophie pushed a chair near the warm kitchen stove.
“Sit down,” she said, “You must be exhausted, coming through all
that snow.”

“I dinna ken what else to do!” Tears sprang to the
woman’s eyes as she sank to the chair, still clutching her bundle.
“I been up three nights with my bairn. No food, no fire, nowhere to
turn. So cold. So cold!”

Sophie knew only too well what cold and hunger felt
like. She glanced at Mrs. Betrus. “Is this truly the captain’s
business?” she asked.

Mrs. Betrus shrugged, alarm etched in her face.

“Then get him. I’ll take care of our guest.”
Quickly, she poured a cup of tea from a pot Mrs. Betrus had already
steeped and added generous portions of sugar and cream.

“Warm yourself with this,” Sophie urged, “And I’ll
hold your little one for you.”

“Thank ye. Oh, bless ye, lass.” The woman’s hand
shook as she reached for the cup, while at the same time, Sophie
gently lifted the damp bundle.

Having spent her entire life as a maidservant, she
hadn’t had much experience with handling babies. But she knew
enough about them to realize the child was unnaturally quiet,
especially when being taken from its mother. Though the blanket of
the child was sopping wet, she tenderly clasped the baby to her
bosom and gently raised the plaid from the baby’s face to get a
glimpse of its condition.

The baby’s face was pitifully small, pitifully
drawn, and shockingly gray. Sophie knew the child was dead. Did the
mother know? Or had it died en route, while she struggled to get
help? Who knew how long and how far the woman had walked?

Sophie looked up, her heart breaking, just as Ramsay
strode into the kitchen.

“What have we here?” he called, not unkindly.

“Captain!” The woman jumped to her feet and rushed
into his arms. “Captain Ramsay!” She clutched at him like a
lifeline, hugging him fiercely and sobbing into his cravat. For a
moment he let her cling to him, while he instructed Mrs. Betrus to
get a blanket and a glass of his finest, and then he gently helped
the woman back to her seat.

He knelt in front of her, clasping her frozen hands
in what Sophie knew to be his very warm ones. “Now what can I do
for ye, lass?” he inquired. Sophie was surprised to hear him slip
into a speech pattern that sounded nothing like an American accent
and in a tone much warmer than he’d ever used when speaking to
her.

The story spilled in a torrent from the woman’s
lips—how they’d journeyed to England looking for work, how the
soldiers had detained her husband on a trumped up charge and taken
all their money, how they wouldn’t let her see him, how she’d run
out of food, how the baby fell ill.

“I didna mean ye nae trouble, Captain, but I just
had t’ come here! The bairn couldna last another night!”

“‘
Tis all right, lass.” Ramsay
tucked the blanket around her and urged her to drink a hefty dose
of whisky while he assured her that she’d come to the right place,
that she shouldn’t worry. He shot a quick demanding glance at
Sophie, instantly conveying his question.

She shook her head and hugged the bundle a bit more
closely, as if to protect them all from the grief to come.

Resolutely, the captain turned back to the woman.
Sophie wondered how he would break the news—bluntly or tenderly—or
if he would postpone the inevitable until the woman wasn’t so
hysterical.

“How do they call ye, lass?” he asked.

“Molly, sir. Molly MacRell.”

“Where d’ye hie frae, Molly?”

“Aberdeen.”

“Ye’ve come a long way.”

“Aye. We’d dreams, Hugh and me.”

“A better life in England?”

“Nay, the colonies. A place called South Carolina.”
Her mouth twitched into a fleeting smile, as if just saying the
words gave her renewed hope. “Have ye heard o’ th’ place,
Captain?”

“I’ve been there, lass. To Charleston. A beautiful
city. Warm, gentle waters in the bay, palmetto trees rustlin’ in
th’ breeze. Warm sand. Warm rain.”

“Aye.” The woman sighed. “Hugh and me, we planned to
find work, save for passage. Make a new life, ye ken? Leave th’
bloody trouble behind us.”

He nodded and squeezed her hands. Sophie gazed at
him, wondering just what Ian Ramsay had left behind in Scotland,
for this glimpse of him was very revealing of the man he kept
hidden from English eyes.

“We’ll see what we can do,” Ramsay said. “You’ve
friends here in London, Molly. Friends that can help.”

“Bless you, Captain!” She hugged him again.

When he pulled away, he took her hands once more.
“But your bairn, Molly. Now buck up for what I’m about to say.” He
stroked her hand. “I’m afraid your babe won’t be makin’ th’
trip.”

“What d’ye say?” She yanked away her hands and
stared up at Sophie. Sophie stepped forward and gave the child back
to her.

“I’m sorry,” she said, wishing she knew what more to
say to soften the blow.

Molly flung off the blanket, tears springing to her
eyes. She stared at her baby, her lips pinched together to fight
off a scream of anguish.

“Ye must think of your husband now,” Ramsay urged.
“Of goin’ on. ‘Tis the only justice th’ bairn will have.”

She closed her eyes and nodded, tears spilling from
beneath her lids. She began to rock back and forth, weeping,
holding her too still child.

Ramsay touched her shoulder and rose. “I’ll get
Molly some help,” he said to Mrs. Betrus. “While I’m gone, find her
some dry clothes, and try to get her to eat.”

“Yes, sir.”

Then Ramsay’s dark eyes met Sophie’s. She
straightened, unsure what would come out of his mouth—a scolding
for having stuck her nose in his business, a thank you for her
assistance, a request that she would never speak of what she’d
seen—because it was obvious such traffic did not usually show up at
his place of residence—or more curt instructions such as the ones
he’d given to his housekeeper. For a moment he stared deep into her
eyes, as if just about to speak, and then he broke off the glance
and strode toward the front of the house, calling for Mr.
Puckett.

She watched him go, wondering who Ian Ramsay really
was.

Late that evening, Sophie held the little wooden box
in her arms as Ramsay helped Molly MacRell into an awaiting
carriage, bound for an unnamed but safe harbor. Once Molly was
inside, Sophie surrendered the box while Mrs. Betrus blubbered into
her handkerchief. The carriage rolled away in the slush of the dark
alley behind Ramsay’s townhouse. For a moment, the trio stood in
the rain, watching Molly go, until Ramsay sighed and said, “A drink
to Molly MacRell, eh, ladies?”

“No disrespect, Captain, but I’m bone-tired,” Mrs.
Betrus replied, blowing her nose. “I’m to bed.”

Ramsay turned to Sophie. “Miss Hinds?”

“I could use one, thank you.”

He held the door while they returned to the house,
their steps and spirits dampened by the evening’s sad business.

Mrs. Betrus paused at the back stairs. “Good night,
sir. Miss Hinds.”

“Good night to you, Betty.”

Sophie murmured good night and followed Ramsay into
the study, where they had previously passed the evening hours.
Though she was dying of curiosity in regard to Ramsay’s background,
she was also feeling the emotional effects of the past few hours,
too. In fact, she wasn’t sure she would be much company, as subdued
as she felt. She longed to sit quietly, curled up in a chair with
another human being, as she had heard children sometimes did with
their fathers. She longed for the comfort of a human heartbeat, a
protective arm wrapped around her shoulders with its promise that
everything would be fine, that she was safe from harm.

Yet she was no longer a little girl. She would never
know her father. And there was no guarantee of safety in this
world.

As if he read her very thoughts, Ramsay remarked,
“It’s a damnable world,” as he opened the cabinet behind his
desk.

“That’s exactly what I was thinking,” she put
in.

He stared down at the open cabinet. “What’s your
pleasure, Miss Hinds?”

She thought for a moment of how much she wanted an
embrace from him, just a warm embrace, the same sweet hug Molly
MacRell had received from him. A simple embrace would do more for
her than any amount of spirits. But a proper young lady wouldn’t
dream of making such a scandalous request. Besides, this man wasn’t
her father, put in the world to comfort her.

“Brandy,” she answered finally. “It’s a brandy kind
of evening.”

“Hear, hear.” He flashed her a sardonic smile. He
was back to his American self: the wry comments and the dry
delivery.

Sophie heard him pour the drinks, heard the clink of
the stopper replaced in the decanter. A moment later Ramsay
strolled back to her and gave her a small goblet with a generous
portion of brandy rocking in the bottom.

“Try that,” he said, looking at the amber drink.
“It’s not exactly brandy, but I think you might like it.”

“What is it?”

“Drambue. Whisky and honey.”

She took a sip. “‘Tis strong!” she exclaimed.

“Aye. But smooth, eh?”

“I’ll certainly forget the evening if I drink all of
this,” she commented, trying to lighten their mood.

“‘
Twould be best that ye do, lass.”
His tone was so serious and so pointed that she glanced up at him
to find him regarding her just as seriously.

“I do have trouble when I drink strong spirits.” She
took as deep a draught as she could manage. “Not that I’m
accustomed to heavy drinking, Mr. Ramsay. But when I have drunk a
goodly portion,” she raised a brow at him to let him know she had
understood him completely, “I can’t remember a single thing that
transpired beforehand.”

He sipped his drink, still standing in front of her,
his dark eyes never wavering from her face, as if he gauged her
character and weighed it on a scale only he could define. Then he
reached out for the back of her head. His hand slipped down her
hair to her neck, urging her to step nearer to him. She complied,
moving closer, close enough that her skirts swished over the tips
of his boots, close enough that she could smell his light, heavenly
scent. His warm, whisky-laced breath fanned her face as he paused
to look deep into her eyes.

“Not a thing?” he questioned, just above a
whisper.

“Not a single thing.” Her voice trailed off as she
was caught up in the spell of his intensity.

“I will have to remember that,” Ramsay murmured,
“for the future.” And then he bent down and softly kissed her on
the mouth.

She hung in the air, her fingers laced around the
bowl of the snifter, too stunned to react, too stunned to reach for
him or to kiss him back. And then the kiss was over as quickly as
it had begun. The heat of his lips vanished from hers, leaving only
the essence of the sweet liquor on her mouth and a sudden swell of
hunger inside her.

“My thanks,” he said softly, releasing his hold on
her. “Good night.”

A quarter hour later, Sophie fell into bed, once
again thankful for the haven she had found in Captain Ramsay. If
not for him, she might still be suffering the same fate as Molly,
spending the nights on the street, hungry and cold. Because of
Ramsay, she was well fed and warm, and she pulled clean sheets and
a luxurious down coverlet over her. Because of Ramsay, she snuggled
into bed, her body warmed by his Drambue and her soul aflame from
his unexpected kiss. She closed her eyes, running the scene over
and over in her thoughts. She had never been kissed by a man
before. In fact, his actions had taken her so much by surprise that
she hadn’t reacted the way she would have, given the right
circumstances.

Given the right circumstances, she would have
wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed into him, kissing his
mouth, his cheeks, his jaw—kissing him everywhere. She would have
stroked his silken black hair, run her hands down his broad back
and across his firm chest. Given the right circumstances, she would
have made it clear how she was beginning to feel about him, instead
of standing there like a simpleton, frozen in place, letting him
walk away.

An ache she had never felt before seared through
her. She flopped over on her stomach, too disturbed to sleep,
wishing she had acted like a woman instead of an innocent ninny.
Captain Ramsay had probably been with scores of women and knew a
novice when he kissed one. He must be laughing at her. Why else had
he left the study so quickly? Nothing of interest for him
there.

Yet she couldn’t imagine Ramsay laughing at her or
at anyone. It wasn’t like him.

She recalled the words he’d spoken so softly, so
close to her mouth.
He’d have to remember for the future.
She squeezed the pillow with her hands. Whatever had he meant by
that? Did he envision a future with her?

The ache burned through her again. Whatever Ramsay
envisioned and whatever she wished to do to him given the right
circumstances would never come to pass. Not if she were to save her
own skin.