The Reluctant Bride (2 page)

When her passion subsided, Emily dragged herself into a sitting position and rested her head on her updrawn knees.

Jack, the man who had wooed her with such tenacity despite her initial reluctance, the man who had breached her defences with his teasing humour and whose twinkling eyes and boyish grin never failed to make her pulse beat faster, was gone.

Wiping away her tears, she bent to pick up a half-smoked cheroot lying nearly obscured beneath an old log. Jack had smoked it just over a week ago. Clenching it in her fist, she closed her eyes and pictured the scene: Jack's smooth, muscled chest upon which she'd rested her head. With loving reassurances he had coaxed her out of her fear. Tenderly he had massaged her temples with his long, sensitive fingers; fingers which had taught her that not only lips could show what joy and delight there was in loving. Her body burned at the memory, but not with shame, for she was proud to have loved a hero.

An image of grim-faced Major McCartney intruded, pushing aside her recollections of smiling, tousle-haired Jack. The scar puckering the soldier's cheek and his stiff, military bearing only reinforced her aversion to men with no sense of humour. Men who did not know how to wring the joy from life. Unlike Jack. But Jack was dead and her world had fallen apart. There would be no more joy for her now.

Wind rattled the shutters. Distracted, Emily noticed the rain had begun to breach the meagre defences of the crudely constructed hut. She let out another sob. She didn't care if the water rushed under the door and drowned her.

After a few minutes, rational thought returned. How could Jack have been in Chester when he had intended crossing the channel on another secret assignment the day after his visit to Emily?

If only she'd quizzed the major more thoroughly. He'd said he was putting up at The Four Swans and to call on him if he could be of assistance.

Emily shuddered. She never again wanted to lay eyes on the tense, awkward soldier whose life had been saved through Jack's sacrifice.

Autumn had set in and the surrounding patchwork of fields looked barren.

Angus shivered, despite his army greatcoat, as he and his brother navigated the narrow cliffside path on horseback. He glanced at the base of the froth-fringed sheer drop far below him to his left and wondered when the bridle path would be swallowed up by erosion. This was smuggler's territory. No doubt the excise men would have a field day if they only knew which caves and caverns harboured the contraband he had no doubt sustained the local community.

‘How was mama?' Jonathan, older by a couple of years, twisted his head. His ready smile was amiable, differentiating him from the sibling he had once most closely resembled. That, and the now generous coating of flesh, a legacy of his comfortable seven-year marriage.

‘Same,' Angus replied shortly, drawing level once they'd reached more hospitable terrain. Then, as if remembering he addressed his brother who really was interested, and not some cavalry man who expected only a monosyllabic answer, added, ‘In delicate health, of course. Apparently only a visit from her dear boys stood between her and her eternity box.'

Jonathan chuckled. ‘Forever susceptible to the damsel in distress, aren't you, little brother? Incidentally, I hear you were in these parts not so long ago.' He indicated the emerald turf on the chalk downs with a sweep of his arm then directed Angus a candid look through a pair of myopic blue eyes. ‘Rather an out-of-the-way place to find yourself?'

Angus shrugged, not feeling it necessary to give any reasons. ‘Not really.'

‘Business? Military? By the way, how are you faring on half pay? I understand you want to assess your future after fighting so long for king and country, but you'll have to make up your mind what you're going to do before much longer.'

Angus gave another non-committal shrug. ‘I'm a half step ahead of the creditors. Tedium's the worst of it, though without Johnson it's the very devil taking off my own boots.' Angus had not yet replaced his loyal batman who'd been pensioned off to a small cottage in Norfolk since Angus had given up soldiering as his main livelihood. ‘Thought I might go to Africa and be a mercenary.' He gave a wry smile. ‘You advise me, Jonathan.'

‘Find yourself a wife.' Jonathan put a hand to his expanded girth. ‘A rich one. You look half-starved.'

‘Don't pity me.' Angus glanced towards the beech wood. He hated it when his brother broached this topic.

Jonathan gave a snort. ‘I wouldn't dare.' Reflectively, he added, ‘Can't pretend to know all the answers either, though I
do
know you never chose the army willingly and wonder why you don't pack it in altogether.'

‘It doesn't suit me as ill as I'd once supposed.' The truth was, Angus didn't know what to do with his life. War held no appeal. Hostilities with France had been a fact of life for as long as he could remember and men of his calibre were always needed to repulse the Corsican invader. ‘I was hardly cut out for London revels, and as a military man I have some purpose.'

‘Unlike the rest of your ramshackle family?' A grumble of laughter escaped his brother as they forded a shallow stream. ‘You haven't answered my question. What brought you here?'

Angus was uncomfortably conscious of their proximity to the honey-coloured pile of stone which housed the beautiful, bereaved Miss Micklen. She'd occupied so many of his waking thoughts these past months. He wondered how she did.

And wished he didn't care.

Unconsciously he fingered the scar that puckered his cheek, an old habit of his when thinking. The disfigurement did not trouble him. No point concerning himself with his physical appearance when he could do so little about it. Jonathan had once remarked it was as well Angus did not aspire to be a Corinthian like the rest of their brothers.

‘Military business,' Angus said shortly, shifting in the saddle.

‘Distasteful, I would gather, by your reaction?'

‘Oh no,' responded Angus with an uncharacteristic curve of the lips as he compared Miss Micklen with the wives of other officers. He turned his head away, irritated with his lack of discretion.

Obviously Angus was getting too comfortable. Jonathan had been his only champion during a lonely childhood, but now he was an adult Angus had learned the folly of letting down his guard, even with Jonathan. Especially with Jonathan.

They had been on the road for more than two hours, returning from a visit to a prospective boarding school in Dover for Jonathan's eldest boy. The small town of Deal where Jonathan had business was just coming into view, after which they'd turn their mounts west and Angus could enjoy his sister-in-law Caroline's hospitality for one night of comfort. The thought of returning to his sparse soldier's lodgings in Maidstone brought Angus no joy.

Silence lengthened and when Jonathan continued to direct his enquiring gaze at him, Angus replied stiffly, ‘It is always unpleasant reporting a casualty to loved ones.'

Staring ahead, he was conscious of the flush that stole up his neck as his brother remarked, ‘Didn't know that fell within the line of duty. Thought correspondence was the usual. After we've taken a nuncheon at The Four Swans why don't we call on the young lady and see how she fares since she's in these parts?'

‘I'd rather not. The nature of her betrothed's death was not …' Angus left the sentence unfinished. Trust Jonathan to have guessed it was a female. At his brother's raised eyebrows he sighed and continued. ‘The man she was to have married, a fellow officer, died in a brawl over a camp follower. A woman.' The hard look he directed at Jonathan was meant to convey his desire to end this line of questioning.

Jonathan continued to look enquiring.

Angus gave in, realising as he spoke a kind of catharsis in unburdening himself. ‘The woman's protector came upon the pair
en flagrante.
He seized Captain Noble's sabre which was lying outside the tent, and I arrived at the scene in time to see the cut which ended Noble's life.'

The image was branded on his conscience. Noble was a deceitful, untrustworthy braggart but he hadn't deserved to die. Angus forced out the words. ‘
I
directed the man there. He was a foot soldier who regarded the female with whom I suspected Captain Noble was dallying as his wife. Righteously, I admit, I felt that Noble, affianced as he was, ought to be brought to task.' He cast a beseeching look at Jonathan. ‘I therefore hold myself partly responsible, but of necessity have had to put another light on the incident … for the sake of Miss Micklen.'

‘As your brother
and
as a man of the cloth, I grant you absolution.'

To his surprise Jonathan appeared not the slightest bit condemnatory. He went on, ‘You might be
insufferably
righteous, as you put it, at times, but you are not vengeful. Therefore,' he added, patting his horse's neck, ‘I strongly believe it will help your conscience to know how his lady fares while lightening her grief to be reassured her sacrifice is appreciated.'

It took a great deal of persuasion before Angus reluctantly agreed to the detour.

There was, however, no friendly welcome for them at Micklen Hall.

‘You wish me to convey your respects to my daughter?' Mr Micklen, standing by the mantelpiece, was an intimidating character. Like his bristling eyebrows, his thick thatch of hair was pure white, his eyes an unsettling pale blue. Though slightly stooped, he'd clearly once been a handsome, commanding figure. Now any claim to handsomeness was obliterated by the ugly twist to his mouth. Angus could imagine men quailing like girls when subjected to such sneering, belittling scorn. It was hard to know how to respond to a reception that all but painted him as Jack Noble's murderer, but the sooner he took his leave, the better.

He added sympathy to the other feelings he harboured for Miss Micklen. Noble must have offered a welcome escape from her father's house. In the uncomfortable silence, Angus went over what his investigations had revealed about the old man, though why he should have been interested was a moot point.

Bartholomew Micklen was not, by birth, a gentleman, but in just a few years he'd trebled the fortune brought him by the French bride he'd rescued from the guillotine and brought to England in the midst of the revolution in France twenty years before. Micklen's detractors hinted at nefarious dealings that went beyond the smuggling that contributed to the livelihoods of so many who lived along this part of the Kentish coast.

Shortly after Angus had returned from his condolence visit, a subaltern in his cups had eagerly informed him that a furious Micklen had withdrawn the generous dowry that was a condition of his daughter marrying the well-connected, rather elderly bridegroom he'd selected for her, and that White's Betting Book had Miss Micklen earmarked for a viscount at the very least, given her father's ambition. The impecunious, raffish Jack Noble was a surprising substitute.

Angus wondered how they'd met since he gathered Miss Micklen had spent a year in isolation following her rebelliousness.

His host kicked a burning log into the grate, then turned to glare at his visitors from beneath his shaggy white eyebrows. ‘And your regrets? It's
my daughter
who has regrets!'

Mrs Micklen, who was staring into the fire, made a convulsive movement. Her hands trembled in her lap and her eyes were glazed. Clearly she was following the conversation but her husband had not addressed her.

‘Lucy! Show the gentlemen out.'

‘My apologies for troubling you, sir.' Angus bowed as the parlour maid opened the drawing room door to usher them into the passage. Stiffly, he added in parting, ‘I had wished merely to enquire after your daughter, sir, since it was I who broke the news of her bereavement.'

Micklen grunted.

The maid, whom he remembered from before, handed them their coats, then waited with frightened brown eyes as they donned hats and mufflers.

‘Please, sirs,' she whispered with a furtive glance behind her. ‘Miss Micklen is staying with the master's sister, Miss Gemma, in Sussex.' Her mouth trembled. ‘Don't know as I'm doin' the right thing telling you, but me brother was a brave soldier what fought at Corunna – only Charlie never came home. Well, he were a hero too, what rescued a lass in sore need of a friend just before he left with his regiment … A lass just like my poor Miss Emily, so I feels it only right to beg you to do the same.'

‘Seems as if poor Miss Micklen's fit of the dismals has sent both parents queer in the attic,' remarked Jonathan as he vaulted into the saddle. ‘Sussex? To pay a social call? I don't think so.' Picking up the reins, he glanced at his brother with a droll look. His mouth dropped open. ‘Good Lord, Angus,' he said, ‘you have got it bad.'

Emily sat on the edge of her bed chewing her finger nails, cursing the fact her curiosity had got the better of her.

To be seen at the casement by Major McCartney of all people! Why he should wish to call on her, she had no idea. But it was beyond anything to be caught out in such a shameless snub which reflected more on her, yet would no doubt be taken personally by him. Not that she was in a mood to care greatly for anyone else's sensibilities. She had enough to worry about.

She put her forehead into the palm of her hand as she hunched over the bed and tried to think sensibly. Well, regardless of how far he had travelled to see her, or why, she was not going to receive him.

It was at that point she received the summons from her aunt. Interfering, controlling Aunt Gemma who was not one to be thwarted, as evidenced by her threat to fetch Emily down herself.

Emily crossed to the dressing table. What a sight she looked. Was there any point in taking pains with her appearance, to at least make herself a little more presentable? The major would leave, shocked, either way. But moments after Mary had withdrawn there was Grummidge, Aunt Gemma's personal dresser, upon the threshold.

What on earth was Aunt Gemma up to?

Emily made her appearance in the blue saloon ten minutes later, dispatched by the thin-lipped, stiff-backed retainer with the dubious reassurance that she looked as good as she ought, under the circumstances.

And those circumstances were not the most auspicious, anyone would agree.

‘Major McCartney.' How she managed to retain an aura of calm dignity in the face of the almost instantaneous fiery blush that rushed up from his shirt points, Emily never knew.

And then, suddenly, Aunt Gemma had abandoned her and she was left alone with the tongue-tied soldier.

Almost defiantly she stood in the window embrasure with the light behind her, throwing her silhouette into relief. There really could be no hiding the swollen belly that proclaimed her spectacular fall from grace.

‘Miss … Micklen,' he stammered, bowing, his eyes seemingly reluctant to travel upwards from the tops of his boots. So ludicrously apparent was his discomfiture that Emily actually laughed.

‘You see how it is with me,' she said harshly, smoothing the loose, unflattering garment over her stomach. ‘I don't wonder you are struck dumb, Major. Nor do I know why my aunt, who has been at such pains to keep me hidden, should have me flaunt myself before you.'

‘When I told her I'd come from Kent she seemed to realise my interest was sincere. My—'

‘Commiserations? Condolences?'

The young soldier bit his lip. ‘Did Captain Noble know?'

‘That he was to be a father? No, Major McCartney. He was killed before even I knew.'

‘I'm sorry.'

‘Sorry that he never knew? Or sorry for my predicament?' Crossing the room she lowered herself awkwardly into a chair, gesturing him to be seated while she poured the tea that Mary had just brought in.

‘Both.' Frowning, he leaned forward to accept the dainty china cup she offered him. ‘What will you do …?' Clearly too embarrassed to complete the sentence, he coloured once more.