The Reluctant Bride (5 page)

‘Thought I'd take Nellie for a bit of a bowl through this neck of the woods and stop in on you,' declared the youth. ‘Lord, I never knew you'd got leg-shackled, Angus. I mean, married! Does the pater know? Well, does anyone? Beg pardon, ma'am,' he added, for Emily's benefit.

‘I've not informed them, no.' Like Emily, Angus clearly did not embrace the intrusion.

‘But married! Good Lord, out of all of us I never expected … well, never mind. Congratulations and all that. Hope you're very happy.'

It was clear he was thrown by Emily's highly pregnant state. Every time he glanced at her his gaze dropped to her belly before a deep blush spread up his neck and he hastily looked away again.

It was not a successful visit. Angus glowered each time the simpering Miss Galway offered her unsolicited opinion on every subject under discussion, and in the most ill-bred of accents. Emily wished Bellamy would stop repeatedly marvelling at the fact of Angus's altered matrimonial state.

‘Good Lord, you didn't even tell Jonathan? I only saw him the other week. When was the happy day?' he asked, adding hastily, ‘Of course, it must have been some months ago, naturally …'

‘Naturally,' Angus replied, dryly.

When mercifully the guests had departed, Angus turned back from the front door and looked at Emily who was bending down to clear away the tea things. ‘I cannot apologise enough for any embarrassment you've suffered. For both my brother's imprudent speech and for his bringing such a highly unsuitable female into your company.'

His apology did not provoke the response he might have expected.

With deliberate care Emily set down the plates once more and turned to look at her husband through narrowed eyes.

‘For contaminating me with a lady of dubious repute? But Angus, how much worse a contaminant would
I
have been had you not married me?' She patted her swollen belly. ‘You'd be apologising to your brother. A fallen woman—'

‘Don't speak like that.' His wide-set eyes burned with undeserved defence of her. ‘Men's impulses can be ungovernable, but ladies do not suffer such … urges … You were … taken advantage of.'

Emily stared at him. She sucked in a long, quavering breath as her simmering anger came finally to the boil. Is that what he believed? That she was insensible to passion? And that was a
good
thing?

‘What would you say if I told you that my impulses were every bit as ungovernable as Jack's?' She could barely control her anger sufficiently to speak. For days she had forced her feelings into the background, using the same emotional device against her unwanted husband as she had when her father insulted her, shutting out the hurt by erecting a barrier as impenetrable as steel.

Now, feeling surged through her, blackening her vision and causing her to sway. She put her hand on the back of the sofa to steady herself.

Angus stood awkwardly by the door, as if unsure whether to move closer to support her, or beat a tactful retreat.

Emily glared at him. ‘What if I told you that I was so consumed by passion in Jack's arms I would not have heeded the Blessed Virgin Mary cautioning me against the temptations of the flesh?' She tried to regulate her breathing, but the rage was clawing its way further up her body, threatening to make her its puppet. She, who never lost her temper. ‘I loved Jack. I was his slave in passion, every bit as culpable as he. If you are so concerned for virtue, spare your condemnation of innocent Miss Galway. You need only cast your eyes upon your wife to be singed by my sin. There! I have confessed my true nature. Whatever you thought of me before, you cannot but think worse of me now.' She registered the horror in his eyes and was glad for it. Much better that she banish any pretence between them.

She'd never expressed anger as poisonous as this. At first it frightened her, then it sent exhilaration pulsing through her. Her love for Jack had been cut off at the root. Now hatred filled her veins, making her feel alive again. ‘And so you know, I care nothing for your opinion,' she added. She managed to remain upright, though her vision came in waves. She could feel her strength leaving her, but she had to spit out the truth so he'd have no illusions as to the kind of woman he'd married. A woman no good man deserved. ‘You married me because you needed a wife. I married you so I could keep my child. We made a contract. My body is yours to do with as you please, but that is
all
you will ever have. My thoughts, my feelings, my love will be forever out of bounds to you.'

She flinched from his touch, saw concern replace his horror as he gently pushed her down onto the sofa. She did not want his compassion.

‘My dear, you are overset—'

‘Overset? I speak the truth. Wives do not talk of ungovernable passions. Not to husbands who know absolutely nothing of passion!' She flicked away his hands which had settled on her shoulders. Awkwardly, she managed to rise without his help this time. ‘But I know my duty. You shall be well tended to. I know what I owe you.' She shook her head as if to clear it, casting her gaze around the room. ‘Those plates,' she said, adopting a tone of briskness. ‘Yes, they're the last things to be taken to the scullery and then all will be in good order once more. After that I must see to some bread.'

She took a couple of steps before doubling up with pain. But still she would not let him help her. Brushing past him, she left the room.

Angus closed his eyes, gripping the sofa back as yet another wave of misery swept over him. With an effort he swallowed down the lump in his throat as he assimilated the magnitude of all she had just said. The sounds of his wife struggling to acquaint herself with the scullery were further recrimination.

So she thought he'd sought a wife in place of servant and doxy, to tend to his practical needs and physical desires.

Unconsciously he had been crumpling the missive Bellamy had delivered on behalf of his mother. Now he drew it from his pocket, broke the seal, and, because Emily did not want him, scanned the two blunt lines.

Your father is dead. Please come.

The churning in his stomach which had started during his encounter with Emily assumed volcanic proportions. He had to sit down, reread the words and decide what to do.

His father was dead. Not the father whose name he shared with Bellamy and Jonathan and his other brothers, but the remote stranger he shared with one half-sister he had never met.

And then he heard a splintering crash, as if the entire contents of the crockery cupboard had hit the floor, followed by the unmistakable dull thud of a body.

Angus crossed the threshold of the scullery, skidding in the growing pool of dark, sticky liquid to crouch beside Emily who was curled up on the floor by the kitchen fire, gasping. She jerked her head up at his touch, her eyes wild.

Dear God, she reminded him of a terrified enemy soldier with a sabre at his throat.

‘I'll call for the doctor. He'll be here soon,' he reassured her, turning his head from her pain and fear to seize a piece of flannel Miranda had left over the back of a chair. Right now, stemming the flow of blood was his most urgent task.

When Miranda clattered in through the rear door only seconds later Angus sent her to raid his linen chest for its meagre resources, then next door to dispatch Mrs Cooper's boy to fetch help.

Now Emily lay on the bed with her legs raised upon a cushion, a bloodied blanket between them, whimpering that she needed to cover her soiled dress for modesty's sake.

‘Mrs Cooper is fetching blankets,' he hedged, knowing he had no more linen unless he tore down the curtain.

‘Cover me,
please
.' Emily clenched her fists and Angus recruited his heavy, none-too-clean greatcoat which he snatched from the hook on the back of the door.

‘Hush. Be calm. The doctor will save the baby.' Angus stroked her brow, calling on platitudes to comfort her, knowing how much more she'd hate him if his reassurances were empty.

He stared out of the window, preoccupied with the best course of action, unaware he was unconsciously now stroking her swollen belly. Surprised at the warmth that penetrated her gown, he glanced down.

He'd never touched her so intimately before and was suddenly overcome by the desire to feel the living, breathing unit that was his wife and the child. Without considering her reaction, he placed both hands on the taut mound. A weak, indistinct movement fluttered beneath his hands, and in sudden excitement he cried, ‘I can feel it moving,' before dropping his hands as Emily convulsed, shivering.

The flowering of hope was quickly extinguished and his stomach contracted. Emily was going to die of cold unless he got her out of her sodden, blood-soaked clothes, and soon. He strained to hear sounds beyond the squawking of chickens and masculine shouts of the farm boys which drifted in from outside. Miranda and Mrs Cooper had been gone a long time.

‘What are you doing?'

Angus glanced down at her terrified face and registered the knife in his hand, poised at the fastenings of her gown. He'd lost patience with the promise of help and had raised Emily into a sitting position, but now he dropped his arm so the knife was out of her line of vision while he attempted a reassuring smile. ‘You'll catch your death in those sodden garments.'

She retreated into the pillows more furious, he thought, than fearful. ‘You will not use a knife to rip my clothes from my back! I have precious little to wear, as it is.' Her voice contained an edge of hysteria. ‘What do you know about delivering a baby? Where's Miranda? Where's the doctor?'

‘They'll be here soon,' he soothed, although her questions echoed his own concerns. Despite her protests, he sliced off the buttons that ran down the front of her gown. Then, taking a fistful of linen in each hand, he tore the garment from neck to hem.

‘How dare you?' she shrieked, collapsing into tears as if it were catharsis to channel her fear into anger.

He'd seen reactions like it before in the army and was more concerned that she was quivering like a jelly, her skin now icy to the touch. Once he'd rid her of her blood-soaked garments he'd have to find more blankets.

‘Do you make a habit of tearing women's clothes from them in wartime? Do you enjoy listening to their protests as you take a knife to them?'

In another situation her words would have been wounding barbs, but Angus was familiar enough with blood, fear and urgency to remain unmoved by Emily's terror-induced taunts.

Once he'd peeled off her outer wear he inserted his knife beneath the drawstring of her chemise and again, shredded that in half. For a brief moment she lay still and naked before giving an outraged shriek as she brought her hands up to cover her breasts.

His gaze did not linger. There was no room for sentiment and this was no seduction scene.

‘I'm sorry, Emily.' Gently, he again covered her with his greatcoat. ‘It's hard to be so helpless.' He squeezed her wrist before stepping back, but her gaze was blank.

When Mrs Cooper arrived bearing an armful of blankets for which he paid her handsomely on the spot, she told him the doctor was attending a breech birth and would come as soon as he could.

Angus relayed this to Emily who chewed on her knuckles and muffled her sobs as she moved her hips to try and shift the pain.

‘I'm losing the baby, aren't I?' she whispered.

‘Not if I can help it.' Angus sat on the bed beside her, listening to Mrs Cooper boiling more water downstairs. He reached for her hand, but she pulled it from his grasp, turning her face to the wall. ‘It'll be a relief if I die, too,' she whispered. ‘A relief for all of us.'

He didn't know how to answer. Did she want soothing, or fierce rebuttals?

So he said what was in his heart, understanding her rage at her impotence and the power he had over her. It was a strange relief to be able to unburden himself to her like this. Careful not to touch her, he was also careful to see she was attending to him.

‘We're strangers, Emily, but we won't always be.' Her body was an indistinct mound beneath a pile of coverings but she was still, her eyes open. Alert. He placed his hand on top of her covers, somewhere in the region of her shoulder. ‘And this won't always be where we live nor will this coarse woollen greatcoat be your only comfort. One day I will buy you silk and cashmere and you will know I love you and perhaps even be glad for it.'

She did not answer and he sighed, preparing to let her be. Then reconsidered. He would not be deflected by her coldness. This was not the Emily he'd fallen in love with: the dazzling, joyful creature whose movements on the dance floor had held him captive as if she were a proud Spanish beauty performing her finest for her coterie of admirers.

Insinuating his hand beneath the covers, he searched for her hand. This time she did not pull away.

‘Silk and cashmere,' she repeated in a murmur. He felt the splash of tears before they fell upon her wrist, though there was no trace of them in her voice. ‘Why would I deserve silk and cashmere when I'm lucky just to have a roof over my head?'

It had gone quiet outside. It was just him and his wife.

‘I suppose your father said that.'

With her other hand, Emily reached out to touch a mark on the wall. ‘And that I am beyond redemption,' she whispered. Another large tear oozed from the corner of her eye. Angus could see it in the dull light.

He squeezed her hand. ‘No doubt your father deeply regrets what was said in a moment of anger.' His own father was remote and distant to all his sons. The one he called father. Angus thought of the note his mother had written and knew he'd have to dispatch a reply shortly. He still wasn't sure how he felt. Disconnected. Unaffected. He'd only met his real father twice. Had not known who he was until his mother had told him and then he'd been so consumed by anger he'd not spoken to her for a week.

‘Papa never says anything he doesn't mean.' Emily sounded like a young child. Angus felt the bond between them grow. The only interest his real father had shown in him was when he'd bought him a commission in the prestigious Rifles. Angus had written to thank him but there'd been no contact since.

‘Shall I send for your mother?'

Emily gave a mirthless laugh. ‘Papa would never let her come.' She moved restlessly. Sighed. Added listlessly, ‘Papa had such plans for me. I tried so hard to please him but I couldn't marry the man he chose for me. I just couldn't.' She swallowed and her sorrow dissipated, her gaze suddenly luminescent. ‘Then he introduced Jack to me. Perhaps it was atonement … I don't know.' She shrugged. ‘I couldn't believe he'd sanction such a match for Jack had no title or fortune.' Her mouth curved at the memory though her eyelids grew heavy. ‘But it was love at first sight and for the first time for as long as I could remember, Papa seemed happy. As for me, all my dreams had come true.'

He could see she was drifting. Her eyes fluttered shut and her voice was indistinct as she added, ‘Papa said I'd made an excellent choice.'

Angus stretched out his legs as he stroked her brow. Let Emily reminisce about Jack, though when the child was born it would be raised to call Angus Papa and Jack would have faded from Emily's mind.

God, he hoped it would come to pass.

Emily stroked her belly. Despite the fact it was an effort, she was clearly disposed to talk. About Jack. ‘Jack knew how to charm people. He told me that in France he lodged with a family called the Delons when he was doing his government work—'

‘Government work?'

Emily opened her eyes and clasped a hand to her mouth. ‘Did I say that? I swore I'd never—'

‘Then I'll ask you no more.' Angus smiled as if the indiscretion meant nothing, but he was surprised. He knew Jack Noble for a womanising braggart. Not the kind usually recruited by the Foreign Office.

‘Well, Jack was so charming that the Delons considered him like family after his first stay with them.' Emily shifted and stared at the ceiling. ‘If the child is a girl I want to call it Madeleine. The Delon family had a daughter Jack was fond of. She chose the ribbons Jack used to send me. He said if we had a daughter we would call her Madeleine.'

‘If it's a girl you can call her anything you like,' Angus murmured. ‘But if it's a boy, we must choose a name together, for it will be a McCartney and we McCartneys have a proud naming tradition for our sons.'

‘But—'

He put a finger to her lips to stay her protest. Forgetting his diffidence, he leaned over her and cupped her face. ‘Emily, like it or not, your child will be a McCartney.'

No, he was not a true McCartney, but he'd been reared as one. He drove his point home. ‘Regardless of how many children we have, Emily, they shall all be reared without distinction but with love and affection. You surely didn't imagine it would be any other way when you married me?'

He'd hoped for a flicker of appreciation. Resting her hands on her swollen belly she said woodenly, ‘Papa says I am beyond redemption and you will forever despise me.'

‘It's not true.' Before he could reassure her further she twisted her head away from his touch.

‘I thought I'd found happiness and a few days wouldn't matter. Now,' she lowered her voice to a whisper, ‘I'm in Purgatory.'

He gripped her wrists almost roughly so that she opened her eyes in surprise.

‘Purgatory is when there is no hope, which would indeed be the case if I despised you. Now count your blessings, Emily, for here is the doctor.' He put his hand around her waist to support her into a sitting position and drew back the curtain to confirm the truth of his words.

‘Forget about what your father says and start believing what I say, for like it or not, I am your husband.'

He was not ashamed for the rough edge to his voice. Though her slavish devotion to her dead betrothed was understandable there was a limit to how long he'd indulge her.

Angus had his pride.

Emily awoke to the sound of splitting wood outside. She raised herself, blinking in the light that gleamed through the curtains from a sun that was high in the sky. She was not usually such a late sleeper, but then she'd been in bed for five days and her life and that of her child had been hanging by a thread.

Her hands went to her stomach. It was huge and taut. And she felt movement.

Joy battled with grief. With a shuddering breath, she swung her legs over the edge of the bed, silently blessing the conscientious young doctor who had attended each day. Jack's baby lived. Her last link with the man she loved still breathed within her.

She managed to dress herself unaided, tidied her hair which Miranda had freshly braided two days before, then went in search of Angus.

He was working near the wood shed. Emily hesitated upon the back step, reluctant to approach him and ask whether she were required to provide breakfast now that she was up. She wanted to thank him for all he'd done but hadn't the words. Angus had stayed with her, reassured her and tended to her physical needs. Angus, more than the doctor, had ensured she'd kept her child, but Angus was still a stranger.

… Though not such a remote one.

Stripped naked to the waist, her husband wielded the axe with strong, rhythmic movements.

First glance caused her to blush and lower her eyes, but then she strained for a closer look. She was surprised at the bulk of muscle, and the thick sinews of his arms which stood out at each stroke. This almost ascetic man was unexpectedly the athlete beneath his uniform.

Unconsciously she stroked her stomach as she leant her weight upon the door frame, watching him. There was something cathartic and relaxing in the sight.

‘Mrs McCartney?'

She gasped at the interruption, guilty embarrassment burning her cheeks.

For a moment her visitor appeared as discomposed as she. ‘
Miss Micklen
?' Rising from his bow, banishing the astonishment from his tone, the soldier before her added formally, ‘Good morning to you.'

‘Good morning, Major Woodhouse.' Emily forced a smile for the young man she had met on a handful of social occasions. A friend of Jack's and now, it seemed, wanting Angus.

‘I'm here on business, though … your husband'—he made it sound a question—‘is not expecting me.'

The last time Emily had seen Major Woodhouse she'd been on Jack's arm at the Christmas Regimental Ball. She remembered his courteous admiration, had thought him handsome and likeable with his brown curling hair and open expression. Now his green eyes darted to her stomach and his smile seemed assessing – although perhaps that was only her imagination – as he remarked, ‘Major McCartney is a lucky man. I did not know he'd married.'