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  “And a beautiful wife, well worth the cost of two horses, a wagon wheel, and a sizable contribution to Sister Mary Daphne’s charity to help unwed mothers so they do not have to give up their children to baby farmers.”

  Baby farms were a growing industry for unwed mothers unwilling or unable to care for their children. Desperate mothers made monthly payments for the care of infant children until someone adopted the child or the mother was able to care for the child herself. Often, an unwed mother paid a large lump sum, and more often than not, the infant died of neglect or was murdered outright. Whether the child died from neglect or actual murder hardly mattered. Baby farmers made more money when the infants did not eat up the profits.

  Abby shook just thinking about it. Thank God, Papa had sent her to The Sisters of Mercy. Even if she had not met Sister Mary Daphne, the Anglican nuns would have found a proper home for her child; she was sure of it. But once Papa tried marrying her off to Lord Ruston, she had no choice but to take matters into her own hands. Even if Jack had not come along, she and her baby would have been safe with Sister Mary Daphne. The generous nun had provided a safe alternative to baby farms to several mothers and their infants.

  Abby’s heart lodged in her throat. “You are most generous with your compliments and your money, my lord.”

  “Jack,” he said in a husky voice as he took her hand, sending a shaft of heat from her palm to her heart. She jerked her hand away but continued to stare into his dark eyes. They looked hungry enough to devour her.

  She shivered and dropped her chin. Mr. Crenshaw had left two plates on the table, each filled with scrambled eggs and bacon. A hard lump of bread, supposedly a biscuit, sat in a puddle of grease.

  “Jack,” she mumbled and picked up her fork.

  Her husband smiled and wolfed down his food as if he were starving. Abby picked at hers, hoping the biscuit would not float back up on a river of grease once she swallowed.

  “A seamstress will come aboard today to measure you for new clothes,” he said suddenly.

  Abby swallowed a rubbery bite of eggs and looked up. “But the cost…”

  “Is not prohibitive. You need decent clothing, and your son needs something besides napkins and swaddling clothes to wear, especially since he has so few.”

  Her heart twisted. He still refused to call Will by name, but at least he was providing for her son’s needs. “Mr. Crenshaw was good enough to pick up the dirty cloths and bring me clean ones last night.” Good, but not happy. Last night, he had looked positively ill. “I could do the laundry myself.”

  “You are still too weak from childbirth. You need rest.”

  Abby was no stranger to hard work. Jewel crafting was not easy, and before her father became a successful jeweler, her mother had taken in laundry to help with expenses. “I think I can manage. When I was little, I helped Mum with the laundry. I still remember having red, chapped hands from the constant immersion in scalding, lye-soaped water.”

  “Who did the laundry when you were older?” Jack leaned closer, the hopeful expression in his eyes tugging at her conscience. Still, she did not trust him enough to reveal her father’s identity.

  “My mother died when I was seven, and my father had the laundry sent out until he could afford servants.” That much was true. Until her brief stay at the convent, it had been years since she had performed any manual labor that did not involve pounding precious metals into artistic designs or twisting gold filament or silver wires around semi-precious stones.

  Jack frowned. “I take it your father is a merchant or physician. A lawyer, perhaps? He must be financially solvent and socially accepted among the peerage.”

  He was still digging, trying to find out about her family. Was it idle curiosity? A true interest in her identity? Or was he trying to discover if he had married a penniless commoner?

  Her husband might have spent his adult life as a privateer, but he was the son of a viscount and now a viscount himself. And apparently, he did not need money as she originally suspected. Despite his apparent wealth from privateering, Jack had gone to extraordinary lengths to gain back the property his father denied him so he could make the viscountcy respectable. Would such a man want a tradesman’s daughter for a wife, even a rich tradesman’s daughter? Such a marriage would be a social disaster.

  Lord Drury had made that point abundantly clear when he was rutting over her like a pig. And Lord Drury had never known that Abby herself was a craftswoman. How much worse would it be when Jack learned her secret?

  If he learns.

  She raised her chin. “I am a commoner, but as you have guessed, my father was accepted in certain social circles. Accepted, but not always welcomed.”

  “Well, you will be welcomed now, Abby. You are a viscountess.” His voice softened, but his eyes shone with disappointment. Was it because he had hoped she would confide in him? Or because she had confessed her humble origins?

  Pride stiffened her spine. “I am more than just a viscountess. I am a wife and mother, and if I am to be a good wife, at some point, I must act like a wife.” This meant running a household, not living on a ship. She did not want to argue or have him ask more questions about her past, but she could not bear living aboard ship indefinitely.

  He started, his expression surprised. Then a slow smile spread over his face, and his eyes burned as if he had a fever. He leaned over the table, his face mere inches from hers. “A real wife sleeps in her husband’s bed.”

  Abby’s breath hitched. Her pulse jumped. Oh dear! He had taken her meaning all wrong. Heat rushed to her cheeks, and her flesh tingled. “What I meant…That is, I should be running your household.”

  “We live on a ship.” He leaned back in his chair. He still smiled, but it was now more humorous than…amorous?

  She shivered, unable to suppress a brief surge of longing. What would it be like to kiss that hard mouth? To feel his lips pressed against hers?

  Dear Lord! What is wrong with me?

  After the abuse she had suffered at Lord Drury’s hands, she need no longer wonder about such things. Yet her skin flushed and her breasts ached.

  It must be childbirth fever. Something was putting mad thoughts in her head, and she refused to admit, even to herself, that Jack was responsible for the low-spreading warmth.

  His brow wrinkled with concern. “Are you feeling well?”

  “Tired,” she mumbled, staring down at the unappetizing plate before her. “Just very tired.”

  “Then you have no business running a household just yet, even if it is aboard ship.” He smiled briefly and then nodded as if settling an argument. “You also need a lady’s maid. Even if you were not a member of the peerage, I am sure you are unused to doing without one.”

  Jack was still looking for answers to the mystery that was his wife, but Abby was not inclined to give him more clues. With the single exception of her secret passion for fashioning jewelry, she had been completely honest with Lord Drury, and she had ended up pregnant and in an Anglican convent. Still, Jack’s offer was too kind not to grant him some explanation.

  “I did have a maid. Her name was Barbara Kersey.” Miss Kersey had started out as Abby’s nanny and later became her maid. She was sophisticated and taught Abby how to talk and behave like a lady. She had made it clear from the beginning how important it was for Abby to keep up appearances. She was pragmatic, perceptive, and very persuasive. Unfortunately, she persuaded Abby to set her cap for Lord Drury.

  “And what about your father? Does he live in London? Cambridge? Where did you grow up, Abby? Why can’t you tell me?”

  She lowered her chin in shame, too afraid to trust him with the truth. She no longer feared he wanted her father’s money. She feared his rejection. Would a man cast out by his own father want a wife shunned by society? And if he knew she possessed a tradesman’s skill, how much worse would it be? She could not risk it. If Jack discarded her, she would be too ashamed to admit the truth to her father.

  “I cannot sa
y more. My father has been hurt enough.”

  His voice hardened. “Meaning?”

  She raised her chin and met his angry eyes. “Meaning that having an unwed daughter in my situation wounded him deeply. I cannot bring myself to confess I married a stranger when he thought I was going to Shrivenham to live as a widow. He probably thinks me fickle and thoughtless enough.”

  “So, you are going to cut off all contact with him? Does he even know you are not going to Shrivenham?” He was angry and with good reason. Her caution made her appear the fool. “He must be worried. Doesn’t that bother you?”

  “I sent a letter by Sister Mary Daphne telling him I had married. But I do not want him knowing to whom I am wed until we have worked this out between us.” Even if Jack accepted her, she was afraid he could never be a father to her son. And if he could not love Will as his own, she would go home to her father, despite the embarrassment.

  “What is there to work out? We are wed. That is the sum of it.”

  And that too, terrified her. In marriage, a woman had no rights. Her husband could legally force his way into her bed or discipline her any way he deemed fit to correct what he saw as unacceptable behavior. A husband gained control of his wife’s money and property the moment he wed her, and he was free to spend that wealth any way he chose, even if he chose to spend it on mistresses, prostitutes, gambling, and drink. If Jack wanted, he could cast her and her son aside the way his father had done his wife and child, and he would still retain the rights to his precious estate.

  Her pulse pounded as she dared meet his gaze. “What if you decide our marriage is a mistake?”

  Jack leaned across the table and took her hands again, his hold tight but gentle. “I am not my father, Abby. I will provide for you and your son. You can depend on me. I swear it.”

  His eyes held hers with the promise of everything she had ever wanted: security, stability, wealth. But that was no longer enough. She wanted mutual respect and honesty. Could she expect to find those things with a stranger? Could she expect to find those things when she held so tightly to her own secrets?

  “I want to believe you are sincere, but I need to be sure. Give me time?”

  He sighed and released her hands, leaving Abby cold and bereft. Then he rose to his feet, staring down at her with such disappointment she wanted to hide her head in shame.

  “If I wanted to find your father, I could hire an inquiry agent,” he said, sounding annoyed. “I know his last name, and I assume he must live near London, but I would rather you trust me with the truth. Until that time comes, I will give you the time you need.”

  Emotion closed her throat. Time could not heal all wounds. Lord Drury had seen to that. He had betrayed her and taken her innocence. Would she ever trust again? Would there ever come a time when she did not feel unclean?

  She swallowed bile and forced a smile. “Thank you.”

  With a curt nod, Jack strode toward the door, leaving Abby miserable and alone.

  Bowing her head, she pushed herself away from the table and entered the bedroom. Without waiting for her son to awaken, she bent over his basket and lifted him to her breast, finding solace in his warm little body.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The seamstress came aboard just after the noon meal. Jack showed her into the day room and introduced her as Norah Gabb. The intense, middle-aged woman took charge the moment he left the cabin.

  “Gawd, you must have lost at least two stone after having that baby.” She whipped out a measuring tape and wrapped it around Abby’s waist.

  “I…” Abby flushed and looked down. Her waist was still thicker than before giving birth, but the clothes Jack had given her were all much too large, and Mrs. Gabb had no way of knowing they were not her clothes.

  Norah pinched the excess fabric at Abby’s waist and shook her head. “And you’re not even wearing a corset!”

  “I do not have a maid and—”

  “A viscountess without a maid!” Mrs. Gabb clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “Well, we will just have to remedy that now, will we not? My younger sister, Gladys, is very dependable, and she can start tomorrow.”

  For the next hour, Abby stood while Mrs. Gabb measured and pinned and chatted about the best milliners and cobblers in Seile. By the time she left, Abby felt as drained as if she had spent a day shopping with her friends in London. Once she fed Will and put him down for his nap, she felt restless and in need of fresh air.

  She pulled the bedroom door shut to make sure the cat did not sneak into the room and then went topside to stare out over the docks. The unpolluted waters of the Ouse lapped gently at the ship’s hull as gulls glided beneath a pale blue sky dotted with white fluffy clouds. Abby closed her eyes, breathing in the salty breeze and listening to the sawing of rope against wood as boats of various sizes rocked with the gentle current.

  Seile was nothing like London with its noxious odors and crowded port. Seile was clean and peaceful. Sailors went about their daily chores without all the ruckus and noise, and they did not shout obscenities or whistle at the lonely woman standing on the deck of a privateer ship.

  “Enjoying the view?” a deep voice asked.

  Abby jumped, turning so quickly she lost her footing. Jack caught her arm, steadying her. “Careful.”

  As gently as possible, she disengaged herself from his grasp. He frowned, not looking very happy with her apparent aversion to his touch. But he could never know how it affected her. It was quite disconcerting, the warmth she felt whenever he was near, as if she could depend on him. Trust him.

  Fear niggled at her gut, warning her of what could happen if she came to rely on Jack the way she longed to. Men tended to take the least bit of cooperation as submission. It had happened before, but she would not lower her guard again.

  Ignoring the gnawing unease, she spoke in the same dismissive tone she had heard her friends use with servants. “Seile is beautiful—what I have seen of it.”

  Jack sighed, as if the weight of the world rested on his very broad shoulders. “It has been a long time since I was in Seile, and much has changed. I know you would like to go ashore, but until I am sure it is the same safe harbor I remember from my childhood, I cannot allow it.”

  Was Jack trying to protect her? Or was she nothing more than a prisoner?

  Not knowing if she could trust him was torture on her peace of mind. Surely, a viscount was not so solicitous of his wife, especially a wife he did not want.

  Suspicion hung over her like a dark cloud. “So, am I to live aboard this ship indefinitely?”

  “This is just temporary until the crown recognizes our marriage and accepts your son as my heir.”

  “Then what? Do you ship me off to America while you take your place in society?” Was that not what his father had done? Rid himself of a wife and child he no longer needed? She meant nothing to her husband, and Will was simply a means to an end.

  He sighed again, this time raking his too-long hair from his broad brow as if she truly tried his patience. Good. The sooner he reached his limit, the sooner she would learn what to expect in the future.

  “I went to Ram’s Head, the seat of my viscountcy, for the reading of my father’s will, and the place was all but falling down. It will take more money than I wish to spend to make it a fit place to raise a family, and my cousin has laid claim to Ridge Point. So, my ship is the only home I have to offer you at the moment.”

  Was he being honest? Or was he weaving lies and manipulating her as Lord Drury had done? “Ridge Point is yours. It became yours the moment Will was born.”

  “I am aware of that.” He turned to stare out over the harbor as if unable to meet her gaze. Or as if, he was ashamed of his reasons for marrying her. “My cousin, as of yet, is not, but I intend to remedy that situation soon. In the morning, I am going to Ridge Point. Aunt Margery and Cousin Morris will not leave until forced by the crown. They will contest the will, contest our marriage, and challenge the legitimacy of your s
on.”

  “With good reason.” Abby lowered her head, and her cheeks flushed with shame. Will had almost been born a bastard.

  Jack spun around so quickly it startled her. Then he gripped her shoulders and forced her to look into his intense brown eyes. “The boy is not a bastard. Our marriage was legal, and he is my heir.”

  But not his son.

  “Of course.” Emotion tightened her throat. No matter that British law said Jack was Will’s father, Jack would always know the truth. And so would she.

  “Remember that.” He turned back toward the ship’s rail and stared across the water. “Uncle William is going with me. Lady Margery is his sister. Perhaps he can persuade her and Morris to do the right thing. But you will not be alone. I’m leaving Mr. Stanley here. He will sleep aboard ship until my return and make sure you are safe. And I will tell Captain Whiskers to stay out of your room.”

  He smiled, but Abby’s heart sank. How long would he be gone? How long before she set foot on dry land again? Although the ship remained docked, she still felt the rolling beneath her feet. “I need to set foot on dry land and stretch my legs. I am still a bit weak, and this constant rocking does not help.”

  Jack turned toward her once more, true concern shining in his dark eyes. “Are you still taking the tonic the nun gave you?”

  “It made me sick, and I cannot stomach the taste.” Or the way it made her pulse pound and her skin flush.

  “But it made you sick because of the rocking of the coach.”

  “And this boat’s rocking will not have the same effect?” Just thinking of that foul-tasting tonic and the way it had numbed her limbs made her queasy.

  “It is a ship. Not a boat,” Jack said with an impatient huff. “And what of your son? He needs you to be strong.”

  Your son. Not our son. Jack had yet to address the child by name, and that angered her almost as much as it saddened her. “Our son will be just fine, thank you!”

  She turned to leave, but Jack placed a hand on her shoulder and stopped her. “I’m sorry if I sound unsympathetic, but I am concerned. Nevertheless, if the tonic makes you sick, do not take it.”