Authors: Kelly Jameson
She’d noticed his large hands; his long, capable fingers were not callused. He probably hadn’t known a hard day’s work in his life.
Camille looked at her own hands. They were red and chafed from scrubbing grimy, ale-soaked floors at ungodly hours of the night and washing greasy platters night after night. They were certainly not the hands of a well-bred lady with a retinue of servants, nor would they ever be. Maybe once she had dr
eamed of that kind of life, long ago. She lowered them self-consciously to her sides.
She was in a fine mess now. She couldn’t very well walk back to the tavern, so she would just have to find the stables―and then hope she could sweet-talk the stable boy
into lending her a horse for the ride home. She could stable it down the street from the tavern until Nicholas could come and collect it; she knew the stable owner, a kind elderly man with young daughters who wouldn’t ask questions. Harley had taught her how to ride, always had a fresh apple for her to give the horse.
Considering she was dressed like a street urchin’, it wasn’t going to be easy to convince the stable hand for the use of a horse. But it held less repugnance than facing Nicholas Branton again and asking him for help.
She walked around the side of the house, across a thick sweep of lush grass. Farther down the hillside, the river water glinted pearl-gray in the spring sunlight. Seeing a path, and the roofs of several whitewashed outbuildings, Camille headed that way.
3
Nick strode through the gardens thinking about the contract he’d signed on his father’s deathbed. He would never forgive himself for being in
England
when it had all happened. If he’d come home sooner, perhaps he could have talked his father out of it. Perhaps he could have made a different decision. As it turned out, there was no time to discuss it, no time to find out why the betrothal had been arranged in the first place.
While he was in England, he’d received the letter from his father begging him to come home immediately. Caindale Branton never asked anyone for anything—let alone begged.
Nicholas had been on American soil only a few hours when he finally reached home and raced up to stairs to his father’s darkened bedchamber. Genevieve, tears in her eyes, had caught him on the stairs.
“He’s so sick, Nick. I’ve never seen him like this. He’s grown worse in the past few days.” She hugged Nick fiercely. “I’m glad your home. He keeps lapsing in and out of consciousness. He’s been trying to tell me something, but I can’t make any sense of it. He’s delirious. He’s been asking for you.”
Nicholas was not prepared for the sight that greeted him. His father, a virile, forceful man, was weakly propped up on a mountain of pillows, his skin wan, his formidable frame withered. There were dark circles etched beneath his eyes. He looked so weak, so unlike himself.
Nicholas waited for his father’s eyes to flutter open, sitting helplessly beside his bed, at a loss for words. His father motioned to the quill and ink on the bedside table and the papers sitting there.
His father’s voice was weak; it slipped across the small space between them like a waning afternoon shadow. “You and I both know it should be Philip sitting in that chair.”
Nicholas stiffened at the reference to his older brother, his father’s golden boy, who had left years ago and had not been heard from since. Philip was four years his elder, and two brothers could not have been more unalike. Whereas Nicholas was dark like his mother, Philip had his father’s head of golden hair, his father’s angled chin and deep set blue eyes.
His father had lavished Philip with attention since the day he was born, had poured his heart and soul into grooming him to be his protégé. Philip had rewarded him by leaving home without so much as a backward glance, informing his father he didn’t
want
the old man’s business.
Nicholas couldn’t imagine what his father had felt that day,
if
he’d felt anything at all. Caindale never expressed his emotions. He prided himself on his successes in the shipping business, and on his wealth, never on his family, unless it was Philip.
His father gasped for air, struggling to speak.
“But such is life. I don’t know where my son is. I want you to sign that paper.”
Nicholas was incredulous. “You’re dying, and you're worried about
contracts
?”
“There isn’t time. You must sign it and you must promise to honor it. I am giving you...the business, the estates, everything.”
It was the last thing Nicholas expected. His voice was flat, neutral. “What’s the catch, Caindale?” Nicholas had not called him father since he was a little boy.
“Ah, always the cynical one. Well, I suppose I am partly to blame for that. I cannot and will not say I’m sorry for who I am. I am the man I am.”
It was the closest thing Nicholas had ever heard to an apology for his upbringing, the years of neglect he’d spent in Philip’s shadow. Nicholas felt something foreign in his eyes—tears. He cleared his throat and quickly composed himself.
“We are alike in that respect, for I will not apologize for who
I
am. You always wanted me to be Philip. I am not Philip, nor will I ever be." Nicholas ground out the words, his dark jaw clenched.
Nicholas’ father coughed, the spasms shaking his very bones.
“I must see you sign this paper before I die.” He pulled the rope beside the bed, ringing the bell. Geoffry soon appeared.
“Geoffry can bear witness to your signature. It is all I ask. It makes you my official heir, giving you sole rights to everything I own. The business and the estates are in good shape. You will not have to worry about debt. If you manage things wisely, the business will be quite profitable for you.”
Nicholas was torn between petty vengeance and guilt. He knew the business was profitable; he had made certain it would thrive, managing his father’s foreign shipping interests only because there was no one else to do so. He had taken on those affairs at the age of seventeen.
Nicholas had grown up on the river, knew instinctively how to handle a boat since he was a lad. He’d spent time on a variety of vessels, fought the British on the open sea, even been promoted to Lieutenant. He knew how to handle a crew, knew how to wring from them exactly what was needed in a critical moment.
But the fact was he needed his father’s wealth. It rankled. Not that he'd ever show it. He’d learned early not to reveal by his expression any inner thoughts or emotions, though his mouth suggested a capacity for humor. Some had told him he had a gambler’s face, saved from sharpness by its strength.
He’d promised himself long-ago that he’d be a self-made and powerful man, more powerful than his father. He’d done things deliberately, with sweat and suffering. Smashed his fists into other men’s faces, taken their blows on his own and on the hardened, trained muscles of his body. He’d shared stinking forecastles with men of every age and race, brutal men, broken men. He learned navigation on a tramp trader, fast sailing on an opium smuggler; he had learned the various merits of white oak and locust and cedar as apprentice to a builder. He knew which ships would have speed and which would carry the greatest cargo.
Still, no matter what he did, his father never acknowledged any of it. Nicholas knew he would never hear any praise from his father’s lips for his accomplishments, nor did he expect it. Yet Philip, who had once deserted his post as a lieutenant during a battle with a Spanish corvette, still had his father’s admiration.
His brother’s career in the navy and been short and inglorious. He’d come home after his discharge and rifled through a vast amount of Caindale’s money before Caindale put a stop to it. That was probably why Philip had left in such a huff; no one had ever denied Philip anything.
For a moment, Nicholas thought about refusing his father’s wishes, pride swelling in his chest. He was a self-made man; he hadn’t ever needed
his father’s guidance. Then he looked at the bitter, old man before him, who would die alone.
It was true he wasn’t Philip, but by signing that paper, Nicholas had some control over his future. He could run the business completely on his own terms. And if he didn’t, what would happen to his high-spirited sister, Genevieve?
He reached out, took the quill, and penned his name at the bottom of the document. Geoffry signed his own name and left them alone. Nicholas looked up and met his father’s eyes. There was more said between them in that moment then in any other when they had exchanged words.
“Now leave me to die in peace.”
Nicholas stood, took one last, long glance at his father, bowed his head, and left. Inside he felt like screaming; he felt like crying; he felt angry as hell. But his father wanted none of his pity, his unexpected sorrow, his anger. He had never wanted him as a son. Nicholas had always known it, deep down in a part of his soul he had closed off long ago.
A few hours later, his father died. It was not until after the funeral, after his father was buried in the Branton family crypt that Nicholas looked over the contract. Turned out, his father had the last laugh. Nicholas had been made sole owner of his father’s business and estates, but at a heady price.
Nicholas had almost balled the document up with his fists and thrown it into the fire crackling in the hearth, for his father still controlled him from the grave. He would have to do the one thing he's sworn never to do again. He would have to marry, and quickly, or he would lose everything, everything he
had helped to build up.
If he did not marry, it would all be held in trust for his brother and Nicholas would be banned from the property. His home. Nicholas had no doubt that Caindale’s attorney, Hugh Harcourt, a barrel-shaped man with the temperament of a bull, would see fit to make sure that Nicholas would lose it all if he refused to go through with the marriage. He had no doubt Harcourt would gleefully escort him from his home, the home he had grown up in as a child.
Nicholas stood on the front porch now, his mood angry and vengeful. Through the moss-draped oaks, he caught a glimpse of his betrothed, the urchin’, and stepped up his pace. Had Caindale been mad?
4
The path threaded its way through magnificent, well-tended gardens, the like of which Camille had never seen. Clusters of flowers dotted the walks like miniature rainbows; carved cherubic statues and waterfalls added to the enchantment of the setting.
The graded terrace, walled with orange-red azaleas, gave way to alcoves of tea roses, daffodils, floribundas, and crape myrtle.
Camille became almost dizzy as she moved quickly along intersecting walkways trimmed with boxwoods and lime-green Chinese cane. For a brief moment, she wondered what it would be like to be the lady of the house, to have such wonderful gardens to walk in every day. The zesty fragrance of sweet olive, juniper, and lemon verbena assailed her as she walked the paths, which were shadowed by the arms of great moss-draped oaks that were hundreds of years old.
Eventually, she came to a secluded spot on the bank of the river.
Now what?
she thought. Impossibly, the outbuildings seemed to be even farther away now. Her sense of direction had never been her strongest asset. She stood looking out at the river, trying to get her bearings.
A great lump rose in her throat as she thought of everything that could have been—if only her parents had lived. From what her uncle had told her, they weren’t rich people. But that didn’t matter to Camille. It never had.
She was sure they were kind, kinder than her uncle, and she was sure they
had married for love. She didn’t remember too much about them but once in awhile she had flashbacks, memories from long ago, when she was a little girl.
Camille watched the crimson and gold-flecked sunset. Getting home was a minor inconvenience, she mused, compared to the thought of spending a lifetime with Nicholas Branton.
Ill-bred, coarse-mannered horse’s ass!
She sighed, knowing now that she wouldn’t have to. She would have to find a way to deal with her uncle’s wrath, but even that was preferable to....
“Lose your way, urchin’?” a deep, masculine voice said from behind her. She turned to find Nicholas Branton staring at her, leaning lazily against the wide base of an old oak tree, his muscular arms crossed over his wide chest. His chest was nearly as wide as the tree. He had narrow hips, but there was no mistaking the powerful muscles in his thighs. Dear Lord, his black breeches were so tight they were unseemly. Camille looked away, hoping he hadn’t caught the blush rising to her cheeks.
“Ain’t none of yer business, but yes. I was lookin’ for the stables.”
“Going to steal a horse?”
Camille clenched her teeth. Just because she wasn’t dressed like a wealthy socialite didn’t mean she was a thief. Of course, she
had
been thinking of stealing a horse, but only temporarily….