Patricia Rice (36 page)

“James,” Bea whispered, groping for her nightgown on the floor with her toes.

“Stay there.” Mac crawled out of the bed and located
last night’s trousers. They were a mass of wrinkles, but he didn’t have
patience with clothing at the best of times.

“Bea, Bea, Bea,” a fairy voice chanted from the sitting room. “Mama Bea, Bea.”

Mac threw Bea’s nightgown at her. The children would
be coming in, will they, nil they. Looking enchantingly confused and
flushed, she pulled the gown over her head. While she groped to braid
her hair into some semblance of order, Mac jerked on his shirt and
fastened a few buttons. The knock at the other door was becoming louder.
Even he knew something wasn’t right.

He threw Bea his robe. “The key is on your side,” he shouted at the hall door.

The door cracked open to reveal James looking
distressed. “Viscount Simmons is downstairs with an officer of the law,”
he murmured. “I told them that you are not here and Mrs. MacTavish does
not rise until noon. They don’t believe me and won’t leave.”

Mac uttered a litany of curses. “Fetch Overton and
the others. They have their orders.” Then, closing the hall door, he
turned to watch the children rush in from the sitting room to engulf
Bea, their nursemaid trailing worriedly behind them.

He didn’t know how Simmons had found him, but he
knew enough about English prisons to know an American didn’t have much
chance in one. And he couldn’t desert the children. He had to take them
and flee, as he’d always known he would.

He’d made preparations to safeguard Bea should this
day ever arrive, but he had never fully realized how painful their
parting would be. He watched as Bea hugged and kissed the children and
accepted their slobbery kisses in return.

Her eyes glistened with tears, so the nursemaid must
have told her what was happening. Over their heads, Bea threw him a
helpless look. Her distress tore at his heart. He was confident he could
elude Simmons on his own, but carrying two children... Suddenly the
likes of Digby and Overton didn’t seem enough. He needed an army.

“I’ve packed their bags, miss. Ma’am.” Mary held out
the two satchels with which Mac had arrived. The maid pressed her lips
together tightly, then glanced to Mac. “I’ll go with you, if you wish.
My mam needs me, but she’ll understand if I go for a little while.”

Heart crumbling to dust as he watched Bea’s face,
Mac nodded curtly. He wanted his wife with him, but even he realized why
she could not go. Not so soon. It would take her time. And the estate
was in dire trouble. She wouldn’t run away from the responsibility. He
needed more time to set things right, but fate was against them.

He caressed her cheek, wiping the moisture there
with his thumb. “The ship is ready enough. Perhaps your aunt has found a
governess. If not, I’ll borrow Mary, if you don’t mind. The children
need someone familiar.”

She nodded as she fastened his shirt buttons, but
more tears poured to replace the ones he’d wiped away. “Pack your
things,” she said. “Let me hold them while I can.”

He wanted to hold
her
, but
he could see that last night was all he would have for months. Mac
glanced at the clock—scarcely half an hour left before noon. He had to
get the children and Mary into the carriage and away before Simmons
barged up the stairs.

“Thank you, love, for everything,” he whispered,
caressing her cheek. “I’ve made arrangements with my agent to advance
you any money you need,” he said, trying to think of all the details
he’d planned these last nights. “I’m having the estate set in trust for
you, so no one can intervene should anything happen to me.”

Her tear-moistened eyes widened in comprehension,
but as he’d known, she wouldn’t argue in front of the children. He
wanted to show her he trusted her abilities, but the gaping loss facing
them robbed him of words. He wasn’t ready to go.

He had no choice.

Quickly stuffing his limited wardrobe into a bag,
Mac donned his coat and waistcoat and boots while Bea bounced the
children on the bed. He sent Mary to have the horses hitched to the
carriage. He would drive to Evesham, take the train, and be in London
before day’s end. He’d ordered food, clothing, and toys for the children
to be stocked on board, so that wasn’t a concern. He’d need to find
some way of communicating with Lady Taubee to see if a governess or
another nursemaid had been found.

But he wouldn’t be here to help if the old earl
chose to wreak his vengeance on Bea. Shooting her a searching look, Mac
let the pain and confusion overwhelm him for a moment. She was
determinedly playing with the children and not looking at him. If he was
a morass of doubt, she had to be in holy terror. She’d given him the
children’s safety and some of the best days—and nights—of his life, and
he was deserting her like a rotten cad.

Which was exactly what she expected of him.

Damn it all to hell.
Heaving the remainder of his clothes into the bag, he snapped it shut.

He leaned over and kissed her hair. “Overton will,
help. My father’s agent will look into the mortgage. His address is on
the desk, remember. If you need anything, anything at all, you’re to
call on him. Will you do that?”

She nodded, not speaking or looking at him but hugging the children as if she would never see them again.

She probably never
would
see the children again. When he’d first started on this venture, he hadn’t thought that a problem. He knew better now.

His heart cracking at his wife’s sobs, knowing he
had done this to her, Mac gathered his niece and nephew into his arms,
and let Bea straighten his cravat. He desperately wished he could stay
just one more day, one more night, so he could find all the words he
hadn’t said.

Handing his bag to James, Mac crept down the hall
and the servant stairs, away from the home he’d realized too late was
his—and ought to be the children’s.

Wanting nothing more than to collapse in tears,
pound the bed, and kick her feet in terror and anguish, Bea watched out
the upper-story window until Mac and the children vanished into the
stable. Then she turned away, scrubbing at tearstains.

The tears kept coming—tears of fear as well as grief.

This was no time to give in to hysterics, she told
herself sternly. She’d done that the day her father died, and it hadn’t
helped in the least.

She would not cry. Could not. Not yet.

Calling for her maid, she steadied her careening
emotions by choosing the most elaborate morning gown in her wardrobe, a
vibrant apple green silk with ruffles down the skirt front and sleeves,
and an expensive lace mantelet to cover the bodice.

Mac would have loved the neckline of this bodice.
She touched the place revealed above her breasts as he had done so
many—not enough—times before.

No, she couldn’t think like that or the tears would
fall again. No matter how the idea terrified her, she had to delay the
dangerously unpredictable viscount.

She had her maid heat her hair into shiny ringlets
that peeped from beneath a tight lace cap. It was all last year’s
fashion, but far above anything one would expect in the rural
countryside.

A maid knocked at her door a few minutes past noon.
Bea had dressed at record speed, but she fully intended to delay as long
as possible.

If it were the earl, she would not be so frightened.
No matter what her aunt said of the earl, he had been a friend of her
father’s. But she’d never met his son and knew nothing of him beyond his
neglect of the children. Any man capable of allowing his children to be
mistreated to such an extent would not hesitate to harm an adult.

“They’re threatening to come up the stairs,” the maid murmured.

“Balderdash,” Bea replied. “Tell them I am not
satisfied with my shoes and will come down as soon as I find a suitable
pair,” she added in imperious tones.

The maid nodded and scurried away. Irascibility was a
wonderful, marvelous thing for hiding emotion, Bea discovered as she
wondered where the devil James had gotten to.

The aristocratic tones of the irate shouting below
as her maid delivered the message caused a momentary frisson of alarm.
The low rumble of a second man whose tone she could not discern pacified
the shouts.

Her impossible husband had left without whispering a
single word of love or comfort, just a casual mention of his gratitude.
She’d known it had to be that way, but her heart was bleeding in so
many places, she didn’t think it would survive. Men were a different
breed, she told herself. They operated on an even keel, full speed
ahead, without thought to anything in their way. While her heart was
pouring with tears, he would be checking navigational charts.

When the impatient bellows grew louder, Bea
stiffened her spine, lifted her chin, and soared down the stairs in the
same manner as she’d seen her aunt descend. Except she knew she was far
more fashionably garbed and far grander in stature than her aunt would
ever be. Mac had given her that much confidence.

As she sailed into the visitors’ parlor, the jaw of
the shorter man dropped to his chest. He was quite some inches below
her, although he probably outweighed her by several stone. She assumed
from his lack of tailoring and rough looks that he must be the “law
officer” the viscount had brought with him. An ex- Bow Street Runner was
more likely.

Casting him a haughty, condescending look that had
him twitching his hat in his hands, she didn’t soften her stance as she
turned to the enemy.

Viscount Simmons was a handsome blond man of average
height who carried himself as if he owned the world. He wore an
expensive high-crowned beaver hat, knee boots that no doubt revealed his
reflection, and sported a useless gold-handled cane. His cravat was
immaculate, his waistcoat ribbed with gold embroidery, and he had not
seen fit to replace his fashionable London tailcoat for the tweed of the
country. Puffiness about his eyes suggested the dissolution of his
life, but other than some softness about the jaw, he appeared hale,
hearty, and furious.

“Where is that damned MacTavish? I will not be stalled a minute longer.”

Bea nodded regally. “If my husband’s company is all
you require, I believe London is the closest port. You could start
there. Good day to you, sir.”

She turned around and swept out again, every nerve in her body quivering as heavy boots followed her.

“Dammit, woman! Get back here. I want my children. Where are they?”

She drew herself up to her full height, whirled in a rustle of petticoats, and glared down her nose at him. “
Your
children?” She sniffed haughtily. “I should hope not. No decent man
would claim to be father to those poor abused hoydens. If I cannot be of
help to you, then James will show you out.”

She looked up to discover Digby waiting at the front
door. Her eyebrows soared, but she didn’t let the viscount see. “Escort
these gentlemen out, please.”

“Gentlemen,” her ex-butler intoned, bowing and opening the door as Bea turned her back on them and entered her dining parlor.

She couldn’t hope that she’d be rid of them that
easily. Ignoring Digby, both men followed her. She helped herself to a
plate and began filling it.

“Doesn’t it even matter to you that your husband is a kidnapper?” the viscount roared, shivering the chandelier.

Bea held a tight grip on her terror by gazing down
her nose at him. “My husband is a man of integrity who cares for those
weaker than he. But I am certain you would prefer taking this argument
to him rather than browbeat a mere woman. I have no idea how often ships
sail to Virginia, but I am told he can be easily found there.”

Bea prayed her hands didn’t shake as she set the
heaping plate on the table. She had no idea at all what food she’d piled
onto it. The mere smell made her nauseous.

Digby arrived to pull back her chair, and she took
the seat gracefully, arranging her skirts as if she had all the time in
the world. She hoped her visitors were good and hungry. She had no
intention of inviting them to the table. She had never been so daring
and obnoxious in her entire life. She had Mac to thank for that.

“He is here, I tell you!” the viscount shouted.
“Bobbins watched the house all night. He could not have gotten away. And
I know he has my children.”

Raising her eyebrows in his direction, Bea gently
patted her lips with her napkin. “You have been reduced to spying on our
household? For shame. It would have been much simpler to knock on the
door.”

“I
did
knock on the door. And then I’ve cooled my heels—”

The “officer” tapped the viscount’s arm. “He
probably took off the back way. I’ll take a look around. He’s not likely
to get far with them two brats.”

“That depends on how far you think Virginia is,” Bea
said serenely, although her heart skipped two beats. “I believe his
ship sailed last night, but I cannot say for certain.” She glanced at
Digby, who hovered between her and the outraged viscount. “I don’t think
there is anything more I can tell the gentleman, Digby, and I would
prefer to dine in peace. If you would...” She gestured toward the door.

She rather thought the burly officer would like to
grab her by the neck and throttle her, but she reeked of society. He
didn’t dare touch her.

The viscount, on the other hand, was a different
story. He seemed prepared to explode. Had she been a frail, fainting
sort, he would have threatened her within an inch of her life. Had she
wrung her hands and displayed any hint of fear, he would have been down
her throat. She imagined he’d never encountered someone like her before.

She almost smiled at that. Almost. She certainly
hoped Marilee hadn’t been a frail and fainting sort, but she rather
thought Marilee might have tried placating the beast, as most women had
been taught to do.