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  Taken aback, she blinked. Jack was sensitive enough to know she was upset and supportive enough to allow her to make her own decisions, and yet, he still did not understand why she was upset.

  Abby did not know whether to laugh or cry.

  ****

  Jack left the next morning without saying goodbye. After breakfast, Abby fed Will and then paced the confines of the day room, wondering what she would do with herself for the rest of the week. Heavens! She did not even know what she was going to do for the rest of the day.

  Biting back a most unladylike curse, she glanced skyward, catching a glimpse of four crewmen as they passed by the skylight overhead carrying a large box. She took a step back, trying to see through the small opening. Jack walked behind them, his words muffled by the thick glass. He had supposedly left for Ridge Point at dawn. So, why was he still aboard ship? More importantly, what was in the box?

  Fear battled curiosity. Curiosity won. After a quick check on Will, Abby slipped out of the day room and down the corridor toward the narrow steps leading to the upper decks. By the time she reached the spar deck, the seamen were hauling the long box down the gangplank. Jack scrambled after them.

  “Careful!” he shouted.

  Abby crossed to the port side of the ship and looked over the rail as roustabouts loaded the box onto a flatbed wagon. Her heart fluttered in her chest. That was no ordinary box. It was a casket. She had been sleeping aboard ship with a coffin!

  Jack’s American war had been over long enough for the dead to have been buried, and a sailor would have been buried at sea. So, who was in the casket, and why was Jack sneaking it off the ship?

  “What are you doing?” a voice said at her ear. Abby jumped and nearly screamed as she whirled around to find Mr. Stanley at her elbow.

  When the initial shock and momentary fear diminished, she straightened her shoulders and glared. “It is unseemly to sneak up on a lady.”

  “It is unseemly for a lady to spy on her husband,” he replied, making her feel like a naughty child.

  She notched up her chin, trying to recover her dignity. “I was not spying. I heard a ruckus overhead and came topside to investigate. So, can you explain why my husband is off-loading a casket from his ship?”

  Mr. Stanley smiled, but his voice was ripe with sarcasm. “Because there is no cemetery aboard.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” She almost snorted with relieved mirth, despite her irritation. Surely, if her husband and crew were disposing of a man or woman who had died at their hands, Mr. Stanley would not jest.

  He lost his smile, and his eyes hardened. “Then do not jump to ridiculous conclusions. Jack did not murder anyone. His mother died, and he is taking her mortal remains home to Ridge Point for burial. It was her dying wish.”

  Abby flushed at his accurate assessment of her initial thoughts. Then sympathy—and some other emotion she did not wish to examine too closely—quickly covered her embarrassment. Jack was keeping a promise to his mother.

  Lord Drury could not even mention his mother without his lip curling in distaste, and she doted on her son. From what little Jack had said about his mother, she did not sound at all doting. Despite that, he was honoring her last wishes.

  Hope flitted briefly in her chest. She quickly stifled it, least another man disappoint her. Jack was honorable, but he did not trust her any more than she trusted him. Just because he kept a promise to his mother, did not mean he would keep his promise to Abby.

  “It is a shame my husband did not tell me the truth about his mother.” Would trust be forever lacking in her marriage? Or was it something worse that had kept him from confiding in her? Her pulse hitched. “Does he think me so unfeeling that I would not wish to be by his side at a time such as this?”

  Mr. Stanley arched a brow. “You did jump to all the wrong conclusions when you saw the casket.”

  “Only because he did not confide in me.”

  He folded his arms over his chest and tilted his head. “Any more than you have confided in him?”

  Flushing, she lowered her chin. Trust was most assuredly lacking in their marriage.

  Mr. Stanley nodded as if she had spoken her thoughts aloud and took her elbow, guiding her back toward the steps leading to the lower decks. When they entered her cabin, Mr. Hogan was depositing a trunk in the middle of the floor.

  “Here ’tis,” he said before backing out of the room.

  “What is this?” Another confiscated treasure from some unsuspecting union ship? Or a gift from her husband?

  Mr. Stanley smiled. “It was among some items taken from a Union ship we overtook as we left port headed for England. Jack…Uh, Lord Ardmore wanted you to have it.”

  She stepped forward and unlatched the leather straps with nervous fingers. Inside the trunk were bolts of fabric, several volumes of poetry, and two small jewelry cases. Her heart leapt as she envisioned twinkling gems and the intricate curves of artistically twisted metal. She loved jewelry, not for its value, but for its beauty and the care put into its creation. It did not matter if it was Egyptian lapis lazuli amulets from the Ptolemaic period or hair jewelry, given as sentimental keepsakes when someone died.

  Her hand shook as she lifted one of the cases and raised the lid. Gold brooches and jeweled lockets decorated with delicate enamel work and serpentine designs winked at her from velvet cushions. Seed pearls and floral motifs dated most of the pieces to before America’s Civil War when gold was not so scarce—a time before the Queen’s beloved Prince Albert’s death. Nowadays, jewelry designs were darker and more somber, but Abby preferred older, brighter pieces.

  She palmed an amethyst locket. “It is beautiful.”

  Mr. Stanley smiled. “Your husband is most generous.”

  He had not purchased the gift for her, but the gesture touched her heart nonetheless. “Yes. He is.”

  Mr. Stanley lifted a pearl ring from a velvet-lined box. “The Confederacy would have removed the stones and melted the pieces down for the metal.”

  The ravages of war broke her heart. Nothing was safe. Not people. Not property. Not even art. “Why would anyone destroy something that had taken such care to create?”

  He shrugged. “There was a war going on, and the Confederacy needed bullets more than they needed baubles and beads. Jack, uh, Lord Ardmore had turned several such cases over to the Confederate Navy, but toward the end of the war, he knew their cause was hopeless. So, he kept this stash of jewels for the wife he hoped to have one day.”

  Jack had not chosen them for her, but for some nameless, faceless wife he had not yet met—a wife he had thought to choose freely. He had not selected the pieces from a jeweler. He had confiscated them from a Union ship by cannon fire.

  A moment of ingratitude hardened her heart before guilt twisted her gut. The jewelry was a gift. Just because Jack had not hand-selected the pieces and given them to her personally did not make him any less generous. And she did love jewelry. She missed working with her father at Halsey’s on Patton Street. She missed creating fabulous designs for her own pleasure and seeing those designs on the necks of her society friends. Invariably, the moment was usually ruined when her “friend” would then brag about how much her father had paid Abby’s father for a brooch or pendant, reminding her that his business thrived on the taste and generosity of a capricious society.

  Would her husband prove just as fickle? Would he treat her any differently if he knew she had practiced a trade? She lowered her chin, trying to hide her fears. “I shall thank his lordship for his gift when he returns.”

  ****

  Things did not go smoothly at Ridge Point. The solicitors each conceded points, which enraged Jack. Ridge Point was his, but Mr. Lambert agreed to let the Flicks remain in residence until Jack’s marriage and the birth of his heir could be authenticated.

  “I have met all conditions of my father’s will,” Jack groused.

  “It is a formality to be sure,” Mr. Lambert replied, “but you and your wife did m
arry rather quickly, and Mr. Flick is not convinced there is a wife, much less a child.”

  “And I will not take Mr. Stanley’s word for it. He can sign all the papers he likes. It means nothing. He is no more a peer than I am,” Morris said with a sneer.

  Jack surged to his feet and nearly came across the desk at his cousin. It was his office and his desk, damn it! “Quentin Stanley is an honorable man, and you know it!”

  “Jack!” Uncle William rose to his feet and gripped his arm above the elbow. Mr. Lambert came to his feet and took the other arm. The two men pulled him back. Had they not, he would have knocked Morris’ teeth from his head.

  Trembling with rage, he shook them off. Both men released him. Neither stepped away or returned to their seats. Morris turned chalk white.

  “So you say,” he said in a high-pitched whine. “But for all I know, you are not even my cousin so it does not make any difference if you are married or not. You could be an impostor.”

  “Even if you did not already know the truth, cousin, the Earl of Willoughby vouched for me as did the Earl of Gilchrest. Gilchrest knows me personally, as does Uncle William, who is your uncle as well.” Jack’s nails bit into his palms, and the muscles in his thighs trembled. Fury threatened to consume him.

  “Calm down,” Mr. Lambert said. “These things take time to sort out, but at least you shall have the opportunity to bury your mother on Ridge Point land.”

  Margery Flick had not attended the proceedings, but she had convinced her son to grant Jack permission to bury his mother in the family plot, despite Morris’ insistence that Jack bury her next to her husband. But Bartholomew Jackson Talbot Norton, fourth Viscount of Ardmore, was buried at Ram’s Head, next to his predecessors and their spouses. Jack refused to bury her anywhere near the bastard.

  Uncle William clapped him on the shoulder and sighed. “It is the least my sister could do for our brother’s widow. The very least.”

  ****

  The funeral itself was brief, a service attended by Jack, Uncle William, and a few elderly Ridge Point staff and tenants who remembered Lady Ardmore from the days before marriage and disillusionment turned her bitter. Jack stood by the grave, head bowed, heart lodged in his throat.

  His mother had never been the affectionate sort, but she had loved him in her own way. Despite her banishment, she had never blamed Jack—at least not to his face. But he had often wondered if she wished he had never been born. Had he been a daughter or had he not looked so much like his uncle, both their lives would have been easier. It was one reason he wanted a real marriage with Abby. He did not want his wife to question if her life would have been better if her son had not been born. And he never wanted Will to question his mother’s love. He would not wish such doubts on his worst enemy, much less a child who carried his name.

  “She was such a vivacious girl,” Mrs. Hogsley said as Jack walked away from the cemetery, leaving Uncle William behind, his chin lowered as if in prayer. Mrs. Hogsley had hung back after the other mourners departed, as if waiting for a private word with Jack. “He must be heartbroken to have lost her again.”

  “Who?” Jack looked down at the plump little woman.

  “Mr. Norton,” she said with a frown. “First he lost her to his brother and now to death. It must break his heart. But they were together in America, were they not?”

  Jack’s heart slammed against his ribs, stealing his breath. The old woman was senile. She did not know of which she spoke. “Do not let your tongue get the better of you, old woman. I would not wish those old rumors to resurface now. William Norton was never more than a dutiful brother-in-law to my mother.”

  Mrs. Hogsley snorted. “Pishaw! Your mother and I were friends from the time we could put together a sentence. Mr. Norton loved her, but his brother, the viscount, decided he wanted her, and he made it a competition. The younger Mr. Norton did not stand a chance because your grandfather wanted her to marry a title, and your mother was always the dutiful daughter. She loved your uncle, but she was faithful to your father. She was too much the lady not to be.”

  But was she always faithful?

  It was a question that plagued him and not one he could ask his uncle. Uncle William had never claimed to be more than Jack’s uncle, despite being more of a father than the former viscount had ever been. Still, doubts lingered. Uncle William had followed them to America, and he had relocated his shipping business to remain near them. And when he retired after the Crimean War in 1856, he had stayed behind in South Carolina while Jack took over as captain of the Lion’s Pride. William Norton had not returned to sea until Jack nearly lost his life fleeing the Union blockades in 1863.

  Had he become more than a friend to Lady Ardmore during those seven years? Or had he always been more than just Darcy Norton’s friend?

  Would the truth set him free? Or was it something he would rather not know?

  Chapter Fifteen

  A week later, Jack stood in the doorway, watching as Abby nursed her son. Contentment settled over him. This was what he wanted—a home and family. No more roaming the seas searching for a place to belong. No more wandering. Even if he could not make a life for them at Ridge Point, he wanted this.

  He took a step forward, and a board creaked beneath his feet. Abby looked up, eyes wide with surprise before a brief flash of fear made him feel like a voyeur aboard his own ship.

  “I didn’t mean to startle you.” He tripped over his tongue and his big feet as he stepped into the cramped cabin.

  The fear faded from her eyes, and she managed to smile. “For a swashbuckling pirate, you are not very graceful.”

  “I’m a privateer. Lord Privateer to you, ma’am.” He wanted to see that smile again. He wanted it to reach her eyes and her heart. He wasn’t disappointed.

  She laughed, and those lovely eyes crinkled at the corners. Damn if he didn’t find her the most irresistible female to ever grace his bedroom. But resist her he would. He had given his word.

  “I thought you wanted me to call you Jack?” Mischief danced in her eyes, and heat rushed to his groin.

  He cleared his throat and shuffled his feet, hoping she would not notice the evidence of his rising desire. “I can think of other things you could call me.”

  A mischievous twinkle danced in her Caribbean blue eyes. She raised her chin in a haughty fashion. “So can I, but a lady should never say such words aloud.”

  His laugh was both genuine and unexpected. It startled the baby and Abby. She looked down at her nursing son as if having just remembered he was nursing at her partially exposed breast.

  His gut tightened. So did his trousers. The smile slipped from his face, and her cheeks flushed crimson. She raised her chin, and their gazes locked. His heart pounded. His palms grew damp, betraying a nervousness he had not felt since he was a schoolboy.

  The laugh lines around her eyes faded, and her expression cooled. Without a word, she turned her back to him and adjusted her gown, hiding the curve of her lush breast from his gaze before tucking her son against her chest. Then she rose to her feet, cast him a frosty glare, and crossed the room. Jack’s heart cramped as the temperature seemed to drop at least ten degrees.

  Damn his traitorous body. He had scared her. And just when they were starting to make progress. He watched, eyes transfixed on the lush curve of her bottom as she leaned over to put the baby in the basket. Damn. His son was sleeping in a basket. What the hell was wrong with him? He was a randy, thoughtless fool.

  “The boy needs a cradle.”

  “What boy?” She turned to face him, her eyes earnest and sincere despite the stupidity of her question.

  “Your son of course.” What was the matter with her? Had he waited too long to recognize his oversight? Was she one of those women who expected a man to read her mind and then pouted if he misinterpreted whatever subtle hint she stingily decided to give?

  She stepped around him. “Keep your voice down. Will needs his sleep.”

  Why did she emphasize
the boy’s name? Did she not think he remembered it? He followed her into the day room, closing the door softly behind him.

  “Did you take care of whatever business you had with your cousin?” The chill had left her eyes, but there was no longer any hint of warmth in them either.

  Jack wanted to feel that glow again, but speaking of his cousin would only fire his blood with anger. He did not want to talk about Flick, his inheritance, or his mother’s burial. “I have done all I can. My solicitor will handle the rest.”

  Abby nodded, her eyes sad instead of angry, as if he had somehow hurt her immeasurably. She turned her back to him, and his heart twisted. They could not go on like this. Not if he wanted to establish a more cordial relationship with her. They needed to spend time alone together without Uncle William, Quentin, Mr. Crenshaw, or the baby anywhere near. They needed time together without distractions. And she needed time ashore with her feet on terra firma.

  He touched her shoulder. She stiffened, visibly forced herself to relax, and turned, meeting his gaze with a wary expression. His stomach lurched as if the ship had just dropped over a cresting wave.

  When had seeing Abby smile become so important? “Would you object to Uncle William watching the baby for a few hours?”

  Her eyes sparked at the mention of her son, but then she simply sighed and raised one delicate shoulder in a half-shrug. “I do not suppose so. Why?” she added, sounding suspicious.

  Jack ignored the pang of hurt her mistrust caused and smiled. “Then put on your finest new dress. I am taking you ashore.”

  ****

  Abby’s heart drummed in her ears when she stepped from the cabin in a pale blue poplin walking dress trimmed in dark blue velvet that Mrs. Gabb had delivered earlier in the week. She rubbed her palms over her skirts and hesitantly raised her chin.

  Jack smiled as his appreciative gaze washed over her, warming her skin. “You look lovely.”