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  Had Lord Captain not interfered in her life, she would have been content living in a boarding house with her child, pretending to be a widow until enough time had passed for her to return to London and her father.

  She frowned and looked at her husband. “You are a peer.”

  He ground his teeth. “I am. Now tell me. Do you have another name besides Abigail Halsey?”

  A smile played at the corner of her lips as she thought to bait the lion. “Norton.”

  “Amusing. But it would be nice to know something about my wife besides…” His voice trailed off, and a slight flush stained his cheeks.

  “Besides?” Her heart pounded. Did he know who had fathered her child? Did he indeed know Lord Drury? She looked down at her son, sleeping so peacefully in her arms. Her throat constricted with love. Her son had a name and a father. Nothing else should matter.

  “Is Abigail Halsey your real name?”

  “Yes,” she said with a sigh. “Sister Mary Daphne told the truth. My surname is Halsey, and I was never married.”

  “And I suppose Lord Drury is your baby’s father?”

  Acid churned in her stomach. “If you already know, then why ask?”

  “Confirmation.”

  “Then you have it.”

  “And he was betrothed at the time you conceived?”

  “Yes.” She would not beg his understanding or try to explain when he had already judged her. She could not even tell her father what had happened. That day had been the most degrading, humiliating moment of her life. How could she possibly share something so dark and personal with a stranger who would never understand? A stranger who was probably no different than Lord Drury?

  She looked at the handsome captain, surprised at how much it hurt to see such condemnation in his eyes. Grinding her back teeth, she patted her son’s back, pretending it did not matter. Her son made mewling sounds and turned his face toward her chest as if even the tiniest bit of light hurt his eyes. Or perhaps he was hungry and searched for nourishment his tiny fist could not provide.

  She glared up at her imposing husband. “And what do you wish me to call you? Lord Captain? Or Captain Arrogant?”

  He leaned forward, his big hands cupped between his knees, a smile teasing the corners of his wide mouth. “Jack will do. Now, may I ask who your father is?”

  Her husband may have given her his name, but she was not ready to trust him. He had married her to gain property. What else might he do for money? Extort it from her father? There was no marriage contract, so her father did not have to give him anything. But he would. If her father knew she was married, he would do the right thing and give her husband his portion, and she could not allow it. Until she knew what sort of man her husband was, she would not let him gain easy access to her father’s hard-earned money.

  Jack Norton may be a peer, but that did not mean he was solvent or even worthy of his title. His father had obviously had reservations. And Lord Drury was most assuredly not worthy of the title he bore. He had dallied with her despite his betrothal to a woman whose dowry would secure his financial future. And had she not left the Sisters of Mercy with Sister Mary Daphne, Lord Ruston would have married her for money and the coveted heir, and he most likely would have bled her father’s accounts dry.

  Oh, why had she ever thought a titled man would wish to marry her for herself?

  She leaned back against the pillows, closing her eyes. “My father is no one you might know.”

  “Then I assume you are at least as gently reared as the nun claimed.”

  She raised her lids, meeting his gaze. “Afraid you have saddled yourself with a loose woman, Captain?”

  Until he proved himself as dangerous as the lion he resembled, she would not cower beneath his gaze or allow him to intimidate her. She had learned her lesson well with Lord Drury. He had been able to smell fear like a hound scenting a blooded fox. And he had used it against her. The captain was probably no different.

  He sighed but showed no other sign of annoyance. “I just want to be sure you can handle the duties of a viscountess.”

  Papa’s words returned to haunt her again. She had gotten her titled husband, and it was most definitely not what she needed.

  “I do not want to be a viscountess,” she whispered. Her throat cramped and her eyes burned. She blinked, trying not to cry, but tears spilled over her lashes in a hot flood she could not stem.

  Chapter Eight

  Jack couldn’t handle a woman’s tears. He sprang to his feet. The sudden movement startled the baby, making him cry, too. Abby made tear-choked hiccuping sounds in the back of her throat and patted his bottom in an attempt to comfort him.

  The baby turned his head toward her chest, pushing his tiny face against the rough brown fabric covering her breasts. Jack blinked and in his mind, he saw Abby nursing her son, her face aglow with love and tenderness, a smile teasing the corners of her mouth as she looked up at her husband.

  His pulse stuttered, his heart unexpectedly yearning for the image to become reality. Yearning to be a real family. A sudden desire as powerful as a siren’s song. And likely, just as dangerous.

  Heart pounding as if the Union navy was after him, he got the hell out of there as quickly as he could. He all but slammed the door closed behind him before taking a deep breath that did nothing to calm his racing heart.

  Longing for a real marriage with a woman who had just given birth to another man’s son made as much sense as trying to swim with an anchor around his neck. It wasn’t worth the effort. His parents’ marriage wasn’t a love match either, but Jack vaguely remembered them being happy together before Aunt Margery’s husband died and she and Morris moved to Ridge Point. Soon after, she started accusing her younger brother, William, of being Jack’s real father. Once she planted the seeds of suspicion, Jack’s father nurtured them. And not long after that, he sent both his wife and son away.

  The hurt no longer showed, but it was no stranger to Jack. The pain was as much a part of him as the birthmark on his shoulder. But he hoped he had learned from his father’s mistakes. No matter what sort of marriage he and Abby had, he would not send her or her son away as his father had done. Still, the situation was too similar not to take heed. He may not abandon his wife and child, but he could one day grow to resent the fact that Abby’s son carried not a drop of Norton blood.

  Could that resentment turn to hatred? He could not take the chance. He was his father’s son. It would behoove him to remember that before he got emotionally involved with Abby or her child.

  With a sigh, he stepped away from the bedroom door as the nun and vicar came out of the tiny kitchen.

  “Is something amiss?” Reverend Harrison asked.

  Jack shook his head. “On the contrary. I have a son and heir. There is much to be thankful for, so Mr. Stanley and I are off to celebrate my nuptials at the nearest tavern. I shall return for my wife and son day after tomorrow.”

  “Do you know where the nearest tavern is?” the vicar asked at the same time the nun said, “Your family will not be ready to travel so soon.”

  Jack looked from one to the other, his heart rate slowly returning to normal. He stepped away from the door and straightened his too-tight frock coat. “I have been in this godforsaken parish three months now. I know where all the taverns are within a twenty-mile radius.”

  “The Sheep’s Head is just two miles south,” the vicar replied with a disapproving frown. “You need to celebrate in Sheep’s Crossing.”

  “I need to get back to Seile, but that will have to wait, I suppose.” He turned to the nun. “Two days. That is all I can spare. The midwife said if she does not develop child bed fever by then, she will be well enough to travel.”

  “No. That is still too soon.” The nun’s eyes were as cold as granite.

  Jack gave her the same stern look that evoked obedience in his crew. “It cannot be helped. If my wife is still without fever in forty-eight hours, we will be on our way.” He turned to leave, e
xpecting her to obey with the same alacrity as his crew.

  She rushed up behind him and touched his forearm as he was opening the front door. He looked down and met her eyes, which were now soft and pleading. “Can you not wait a week? You said yourself you have been in Sheep’s Crossing for three months. What is one more week? Her body needs time to heal.”

  “I am sorry.” He would not let this tiny slip of a woman shame him into doing things her way. She was not his mother.

  The nun dropped her arm, her face sad. “Very well. There is a tonic I can give her to speed the healing process, but if you put her in a rumbling coach too soon after she has taken it, it could make her sick. Are you prepared for the consequences?”

  Good Lord, no! He had trouble dealing with seasick sailors, but he was not about to admit it. He had built a foundation of obedience around discipline and his ability to lead. If the nun knew his weakness, she could use it against him. He could not allow it. He needed to bury his mother, and he needed to bury her at Ridge Point. It was his now, and he intended to claim it as soon as possible.

  “I will give you four days. Give her the tonic if that is what she needs to travel, but we leave at the end of the week.”

  ****

  An hour later, Jack and Quentin sat at a booth in a dark corner of the Sheep’s Head Tavern. Quentin was on his second tankard of the thick dark liquid the Brits called barley wine. Jack drank more slowly. The potent brew tasted of caramel, malt, and bitter hops with a hint of sweetness Jack couldn’t stomach. He grimaced as he swallowed. He preferred American ales. They had a lighter body and no damn fruity flavor.

  “So, after you bury your mother, are you going to make Ridge Point your home?” Quentin asked.

  Jack stared into his pewter mug, wishing he knew the answer. He wanted to bury his mother at Ridge Point and sail home to America, but the South was a defeated nation, and the house in Charleston was gone. Mortar fire had destroyed it while his mother lay dying from consumption in an overcrowded wing of what passed as an infirmary.

  His heart twisted. His mother had never made it home to her beloved England, but at least she had lived long enough to learn her bastard of a husband had died first. “It’s the most logical answer to my problems. Ram’s Head is barely inhabitable, and I can’t live on my ship forever.”

  Quentin’s smile was sympathetic. “Well, I am glad you are staying. I had not planned to return to America, and I would have missed you.”

  Jack had known it was just a matter of time before Quentin returned to England to find another wife and settle down. “Will you return home?”

  Quentin shook his head and took another long drought of ale before replying. “I will visit my family, but I have no wish to settle at Willoughby. I am but the earl’s fifth son so there is nothing there for me.”

  “No title. No property,” Jack said with disgust. It didn’t seem fair. Every man should leave his son something. Even his bastard of a father had left him a damn title, though if not for British law, he would not have inherited a farthing.

  Jack thought of Abby’s son, now his. If he had sons of his own, he would leave them everything but Ram’s Head and the title. But he would make damn sure Ram’s Head was worth inheriting, even if he had to stay in England to do it. He would not leave any child who carried his name a bankrupt title.

  Quentin held up his empty tankard, signaling the barmaid. “Don’t cry for me, Captain Jack. Thanks to our adventures aboard the Lion’s Pride, I have amassed a tidy sum.”

  “And what do you intend to do with it?”

  His smile was shrewd, his dark eyes calculating. “I thought I would take over the Lion’s Pride as her captain.”

  Not bloody likely! Just because Jack had gained a damn title, did not mean he would give up his ship. “Not that I don’t think you are qualified, but I am captain of the Lion’s Pride.” And he intended to stay captain. Lord Captain. He almost smiled.

  “Really?” Quentin raised his brows. “And who is going to run Ram’s Head and Ridge Point and oversee repairs to the estates if you are sailing the seven seas? Are you going to allow Ram’s Head to crumble to the ground? Are you going to ignore it the way your father did?”

  Damn Quentin and his logical reasoning. “So, what are you going to do if I sell you my ship? You cannot settle down and sail the ‘seven seas.’”

  The barmaid returned with Quentin’s ale. He thanked her and took a swallow. Then he looked at Jack and shrugged. “Who said anything about settling down? I tried that once. It did not suit.”

  Jack pretended not to notice the tension around Quentin’s mouth or the sheen of moisture in his eyes. His friend still missed the wife who died giving birth to their stillborn son.

  When Jack first met him while visiting the Earl of Gilchrest, Quentin had been deep in his cups and up to his elbows in gaming debts to Gilchrest, who had purchased Quentin’s other debts. It was Gilchrest who suggested Jack take Quentin on as his new quartermaster. According to the earl, Quentin could procure icebergs in the desert.

  Jack had never needed icebergs, but Quentin had never let him down either. Even during the height of the War Between the States, Jack’s crew had never gone without, but that did not mean he owed Quentin his ship. “I am not selling the Lion’s Pride.”

  “I do not have to buy her to captain her. I could lease her, refit her, and run a luxury gambling ship along the Ouse and inlet waterways. I could make a good living and maintain property in Seile without settling down.”

  “You, the son of an earl, wish to run a business?” Jack smiled, knowing Quentin attached no social stigma to tradesmen the way others in society did. But it was still an amusing thought.

  “It’s as good a plan as any,” Quentin said with a casual shrug.

  And apparently, one he had been considering for some time. But what would Jack do without his ship? He had captained her for twelve years, loving her and the sea more than any mistress he had ever had. And he damn sure loved her more than his recently acquired wife, whose questionable reputation he was now duty-bound to protect.

  “I cannot let you have the Lion’s Pride just yet. I’m going to need her a bit longer.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I cannot take my new viscountess to Ram’s Head. The place is falling down, and my cousin, Morris Flick, has already laid claim to Ridge Point. The Union Army could not get him out of there.”

  “Ridge Point is yours. You have a wife and a legal heir.”

  Jack did not feel much like a husband or a peer. He did not even feel much like an Englishman. “But Morris and his mother will contest the marriage and the boy’s legitimacy.”

  “You are legally wed, and your wife has given birth to a son before your thirty-fifth birthday. Your claim to the title is secure, Jack.”

  “But I would like to at least try to protect Abby,” he said, knowing the terrible names his Aunt Margery would call her and her son.

  “There will always be talk about the boy’s paternity, but it has no bearing on the legalities of your inheritance. She is your viscountess, and the boy is your heir. Legally, that is all that matters.”

  Quentin’s casual tone did not fool Jack. He was fishing, and Jack was not about to bait his hook for him. If Quentin wanted to know how Jack felt about his wife and son, he would just have to ask. Not that Jack had an answer. He was not sure himself how he felt. He only knew he had to protect his wife from scandal.

  As highly as the English prized a woman’s reputation, once she was married and had produced the requisite heir and spare, it would be acceptable for her to take a lover—so long as she was discreet. But Jack would not be cuckolded. And he would not allow misplaced jealousy to twist his heart up with hatred the way it had his father. He would not allow Abby to take a lover. Even if she had already taken several.

  Had Drury been Abby’s lover? He did not know. But if Drury had forced himself on her, would she not have said so? And what of the viscount’s character? Betrothed or not,
if Lord Drury was an honorable man, he would not have left a lady enceinte without offering marriage.

  Unless Drury was not honorable. Or Abby was no lady.

  Even if she was a commoner, she seemed too educated to be a domestic. So perhaps her father was a merchant or shopkeeper who made enough to educate his daughter but not enough for her to enter society.

  So how did she meet Drury?

  “No man wants his wife’s reputation to suffer,” he said at last. “I intend to tell Morris that I met Abby on our last trip to London. The timing is close enough that the boy could be mine.”

  Speculation shone in Quentin’s eyes. “Her reputation will still suffer.”

  “Not if I can help it.” He would protect his wife from scandal the way his father had never protected his mother.

  “I am sure you have a strategy to protect the child and your wife.” Quentin signaled the barmaid for yet another tankard of ale. He apparently liked the rot better than Jack did. He waited for the barmaid to step away before he added, “Due to the timing of the birth, however, there will always be talk.”

  Jack shrugged. “As long as people believe the boy could be mine; that is the best I can do.” He did not want Abby’s son to grow up thinking he was a bastard. Legally, he was not.

  “Even if your aunt and Mr. Flick believe the babe is yours, someone might still recognize her as Drury’s consort.”

  Just thinking of the woman he had married as another man’s consort curdled his stomach. Abby was his. He would not share her.

  Tension knotted his shoulders. He was just as possessive and controlling as his father. He did not love Abby, but he did not want anyone taking what he considered his.

  He forced his fingers open and calmly reached for his mug, raising it to his mouth and taking a swallow. He would not feed the beast inside. He would not let pride, ego, and resentment destroy him the way it had destroyed his father. He would find contentment in his life with Abby. Even if it killed him. “Once I have established myself as Viscount Ardmore, no one will question the boy’s paternity, even if they suspect the child isn’t mine.”