"Yes, it'll make him feel better, and reaffirm just how worthy he really is."
"I said, leave him alone. The pain and suffering that man has endured over the past two months is enough to break anyone. He needs to be left alone. He needs time to grieve. You're both to give him peace, do you understand me?
Peace
."
Silence.
And then:
"Yes, Papa," the sisters said, but beneath lowered lashes, their eyes gleamed with malice and cunning.
~~~~
Charles needed more than just time to grieve. That night, as he lay on his pallet — which had been moved upstairs into Will's room so that he might have more privacy — and stared into the ever-present darkness, he realized he'd sunk as far as he could go. For a man who had always tried to be perfect, to do everything right, to be all that — and more than — everyone expected of him, it was a bitter truth.
He had not learned from his mistake with Juliet. In a moment of passion, he had got her with child and ruined her life.
And now, he might well have ruined Amy's as well.
Oh, what had gone wrong with him? What had gone wrong with his life?
He thought back to the day he'd met Juliet. He'd been astride Contender, drilling his troops on snowy Boston Common. With that strange feeling of eyes on his back, he'd turned, and there she'd been, a dark-haired maiden peering at him from behind the window of a nearby store. And there she'd been every day thereafter, secretly watching him, until he'd finally entered the store on the excuse of a purchase so he could find out who the devil she was and why she was so interested in him. She had blushed wildly when he'd walked boldly through the door, dropped a sack of flour she'd been carrying, and began stammering foolishly — much to his amusement. He had vowed not to have anything to do with her, but he had. He had vowed not to strike up an acquaintance with her, but he had. He had thought he was above the carnal desires that made men do things they shouldn't — but he was not. Boston was a lonely place for an English soldier. Juliet Paige was pretty, sweet-natured, and eager to be in his arms. Within a week, she was. Within a month, he'd got her pregnant. He'd known from the beginning that she'd been infatuated with him, but he had wondered then, and had wondered rather uneasily many times since, if perhaps she'd been more enamored of the sight he'd made in his uniform than she'd been of the man inside of it.
Never in a million years had he thought she would betray him like this, but then, how well had he really known her? When he'd injured himself at Concord, they'd been acquainted for a mere four months. Their times together had been brief and, thanks to the explosive political tensions in Boston, spent in the utmost secrecy. Juliet had declared her love for him. But now, given the ease with which she'd thrown him out of her life, Charles wondered if maybe she hadn't loved him after all.
But did you love her?
Of course he had. Or so he'd always told himself. After all, he'd offered to marry her, for heaven's sake. But was that because of love — or of duty? When she'd come to him on the night of the fateful Concord expedition, with the news that she was pregnant, there was never any question in Charles's mind what he must do. His betrothal to Lady Katharine, planned for him by others and in place since his birth, had ceased to matter, for Katharine was three thousand miles away, safe, and he'd never loved her anyhow. Juliet Paige was right there in Boston and expecting his child.
His child.
Her needs, and their unborn baby's, were paramount. Katharine would find another suitor to marry; Juliet Paige, ruined by "the enemy" and carrying his babe, would not. As a gentleman, Charles had done the only thing he could do: offer to marry her.
But did you love her?
He wasn't sure, now. Nor was he sure if he was only questioning his feelings as a means of protecting his heart, and his pride, from the pain of her betrayal. Certainly, in comparison to Katharine, he had loved her. He had felt a need to protect her, to be with her, and to do right by her, even going so far as to instruct her to go to England and throw herself on Lucien's mercy in the event of his death. But had he mistaken the loneliness he'd felt in Boston — and then his overpowering sense of duty — for love?
His head was beginning to hurt. It was all too complicated, too confusing, and too wearisome to figure out. He had erred, though, and erred badly: that he
did
know. Always conscious of his betrothal to Katharine, he had lived his life free of romantic entanglements, and thus, didn't consider himself an expert in the area. Unlike his brother Gareth, he wasn't as seasoned a traveller along the highways and byroads of pleasure and passion. He had been pledged to Katharine, and that was that. With this aspect of his future already decided for him, he had seen no need to pursue it further, and thus, life's more serious callings had taken priority over any romantic entanglement that could only have ended in his taking a mistress at best, or hurting some innocent young woman like Juliet —
or Amy
— at worst.
Charles could not bear to hurt people.
He could not bear this sense of guilt and frustration at having messed things up so very, very badly.
There was nothing for it, then, but severing himself from the possibility of ever erring this way, again. It was obvious that he had a certain weakness where pretty young women were concerned; the fact that he'd deflowered not one, but two virgins was proof of that. And the way that Juliet, and now Amy, had reacted to him made him fear that this could happen again.
I will never entangle myself with a woman again,
he vowed.
In fact, I think I have had enough of relationships of any sort. Every attachment I've ever known — with my family, with Juliet, with my army — has brought me only hurt and pain. No more. Never again. I have always been self-sufficient. I have always done my duty to honor, integrity, and the expectations that others have of me as a gentleman. From now on, I shall shun all attachments, for they can bring me nothing but sorrow.
But then there was Amy. Amy who always treated him with respect, always believed in him, always brightened his day just by walking into the room, always found him worthy despite his shortcomings. She had seen him at his very worst, both physically, emotionally, and spiritually — and had not deserted him. She had stuck by him all these weeks when he'd been angry and hurting, a self-pitying wretch, a — what was it that Ophelia and Mildred had called him before they knew that his name was preceded by the word "Lord"? — "drain" upon her resources.
Amy was nothing at all like Juliet.
But no. Amy
was
like Juliet because she, too, was young and infatuated with him. And she, like Juliet, might let that infatuation get in the way of good judgement. Charles raked a hand over his face. He could not deny his desire for Amy, nor hers for him. It frightened him, the loss of control he'd experienced after he'd brought them both out of the river. That wasn't like him at all. He didn't want to get yet another woman pregnant. He didn't want to hurt anyone else. And besides, he didn't have a thing to offer Amy.
Not a damned thing.
If only there was a way to leave Newburyport, if only he could think of somewhere to go — for he knew in his bones that what had happened once, would surely happen again.
Soon.
For Amy — innocent, willing, naive, sweet-tempered Amy — was not safe from him.
And Charles wasn't safe from himself.
Chapter 14
Amy passed that night in vivid dreams.
In them, she was no lowly half-breed, but a noblewoman in silks and satins, diamonds, powder and patches, a woman who was every inch Charles's social equal. In them, she'd been in his arms once again, comforting him, seeking comfort from him, loving him as he deserved to be loved, without feeling the guilt that she was not worthy of him, not worthy of even fantasizing about him. When she'd finally awakened to the pink light of dawn, her heart had plummeted upon the realization that it had all been a dream — until she'd stretched and felt the sudden, dull ache that still lingered between her thighs.
Her eyes had flown open. It had all been real then.
Blessedly real.
A thrill raced through her. Fired by the memories that they had made, reliving each moment of their lovemaking over and over again, she danced and twirled her way through her morning ablutions and all the way downstairs, careful not to wake anyone, her petticoats flying and her cheeks glowing with color.
She had just sobered and got the fire going when there was a creak on the stair and Will came dashing into the keeping room, Crystal, her tail wagging, right behind him.
"Amy! I got back late last night and I've —"
"Shhhh!" She put a finger to her lips. "Everyone's still a'bed."
"I've got the horse!" he whispered, excitedly. "Come on out and see him!"
Of course; she'd almost forgotten that Will had gone down to Woburn for the animal. Oh, this if nothing else would cheer Charles up! Checking the fire to be sure it was safe, Amy picked up her skirts and ran outside to the barn with her brother.
"My goodness, Will, he must be all of seventeen hands!" she gasped, amazed. "How on earth did you ever get up on his back?"
"It wasn't easy," he admitted, patting the animal's sleek brown neck. "Isn't he a beauty, though? Oh, I can't wait for the captain to see him!" And then, realizing what he'd just said, he added, "Well, you know what I mean . . ."
"Yes. I know what you mean." Amy was still gazing up at the magnificent steed, who was stretching his neck over the stall door and sniffing the equally curious Crystal. Most of the horses she knew were sturdy, stocky, tough little animals as hardy as the New England land from which they came. Most were ill-proportioned and rather ugly. But this handsome stallion had obviously been brought from England — and looked as aristocratic as its owner.
His dark chestnut hide gleamed like glass. His legs were long, his neck proudly arched, his small ears set atop an expressive, intelligent head. His eyes were like velvet, and he had a perfect star in the middle of his forehead. With his deep chest, laid-back shoulders and sloping croup, he was obviously bred for speed and endurance. Amy could see him on a race track. She could see him galloping across an English countryside with the hounds in pursuit of a fox.
And she could see him carrying his master, splendid in his scarlet regimentals, into battle, and standing as still as a rock as the bullets flew around him.
She reached out and stroked the velvety nose. "He's a beauty, all right."
"Come on, let's go wake the captain!"
Together, they hurried back into the house, Amy waiting in the keeping room while Will, taking the stairs two at a time, went to get Charles. A few moments later the boy was bounding back down the stairs, a sleepy, tousled Charles a few paces behind him and stuffing his shirt down into his breeches.
Amy's throat went dry.
"The devil take it, lad, what
time
is it?" he grumbled, ruffling his hair and coming into the keeping room, where Amy felt herself melting all over again just at the delicious, sleepy-warm sight of him. "'Sdeath, I haven't even heard the damned cock crow yet."
"It doesn't matter what time it is, Amy and I have a surprise for you!"
"I dislike surprises. I've had damn well enough of them lately."
"But you'll like this one. Come on, let's go!"
Will grabbed his hand and Amy, after a brief hesitation, grabbed his other; then, unable to conceal their excitement and laughing at his half-hearted protests, they dragged him out of the house, across the lawn, into the barn and straight up to the stall where the huge stallion stood.
The horse's head jerked up at sight of his master, and he began pushing his chest against the stall door in his eagerness to get to him. Will quickly opened the door and attached a rope to his halter. Then, eyes gleaming with excitement, he looked at Amy and nodded.
"Give me your hand," she said, pulling at Charles's fingers.
"Madam, you already
have
it."
"Yes, but relax."
"For God's sake, girl, I don't have time for this nonsense —"
"Stop being such an old grouch, you have all the time in the world." And with that she pulled him forward, and touched his outstretched fingers to the horse's soft, velvety nose.
Charles froze, a look of stunned disbelief coming over his face.
"Contender?"
Amy and Will glanced excitedly between one another, watching, waiting, barely able to breathe.
"Contender, old boy . . . is that you?"
The horse began stamping impatiently, dancing in place and half-rearing in excitement, only to be brought down by Will's firm hand. Then he whinnied and lowering his head, drove it straight into Charles's chest, rubbing up and down in delight.
Charles closed his eyes, his face rigid with controlled emotion, his Adam's apple moving up, then down. And Amy, watching this emotional scene, felt tears shimmering in her eyes, and one or two of them sliding down her cheek as Charles stood there with his horse, never moving, only murmuring softly to him as he ran his palm alongside the animal's jaw, up around his ears, and down the long, crested neck, over and over again.
"Contender. Contender, old fellow." He continued stroking the animal's neck. "I thought never to see you again . . . Pray tell, Will, where did you find him?"
"My uncle had him. I went down to Woburn and brought him back for you as a surprise."
"You should not have gone to such trouble on my behalf, Will."
"I wanted to. You've had such a rough time of it lately, and we all thought that having your horse back might perk you up a tad. Besides . . . " Will looked down and began kicking at a loose hank of straw. "It was the least I could do, after what I did to you back in Concord . . ."