Slightly Noble Page 7

  “Drury might suspect the truth,” Quentin said.

  “It won’t matter.” He vowed not to let it matter.

  “Then what about your mother’s casket? You cannot leave it on the ship while you await your cousin’s eviction.”

  Ridge Point was his and just as soon as he presented his marriage license and the baby’s birth certificate, Morris would know it, too. “I’m bigger than he is, and one way or another, I will bury my mother in the family plot with or without Morris’ permission.”

  “And while you are burying your mother and waiting for the crown to recognize your marriage and legitimize your claim, are you going to leave your wife aboard the Lion’s Pride?”

  “I don’t have a choice. Uncle William’s house in Seile is in sad disrepair after his many years in America, and you saw for yourself what poor shape Ram’s Head is in.”

  “You could take her with you,” Quentin suggested.

  “No.” Even if he thought Abby were strong enough to stand up to his aunt and cousin, he would not subject her to their abuse. “Neither Morris nor Aunt Margery will leave Ridge Point without a fight. They will question the authenticity of the wedding and the legal paternity of Abby’s son. I will not put her in a position where she is forced to defend herself or me. This is my fight. Not hers.”

  No woman should be made to feel like a whore, especially if she were innocent. And Abby could be as innocent as his mother had been. Until he knew the truth, he would try to withhold judgment.

  “I don’t know.” Quentin rubbed his jaw. “If she is as gently reared as the nun suggested, she most likely will not feel safe aboard a ship full of common sailors.”

  “She will be just fine. Most of the crew went ashore and will not be back.” And the rest worked in rotating shifts while the ship stayed anchored in Seile Harbor. If they harmed a hair on Abby’s head, they would have to answer to their captain. Jack doubted he would have a problem.

  “A ship is no place for a lady. And what about the baby?”

  “What about him? There is plenty of room for Abby and her son.” Captain Whiskers was bigger than the little mite Abby had delivered.

  Quentin chortled. “Babies grow fast, and they go through a lot of laundry. You will need room just for all those dirty napkins and swaddling bands.”

  Dirty baby napkins. Not just wet ones they could hang out to dry, but dirty, smelly ones. His stomach churned.

  “Damn.” Jack turned up his tankard and drained it. In four days, he would move his family aboard the Lion’s Pride, despite the smell of all that dirty laundry.

  Chapter Nine

  “It is a lovely name,” Sister Mary Daphne said, “but his father should have a say in naming him.”

  Abby held her son to her breast, ignoring the furious flutter in her chest. She had not seen her husband in four days, and her son needed a name. Her mind was still fuzzy, but she was not so addle-brained that she could not choose a name for her own child. At least she had not developed childbirth fever, and Mrs. Beckman had already announced her fit enough to travel. But her husband had not returned to fetch her.

  Butterflies flitted in her stomach. She was not sure if she feared her husband or motherhood more. Every time she held her son, she felt a tug at her heart and an ache in her soul. If anything happened to him…

  Her throat tightened. She cleared it and met the nun’s penetrating gaze. “I do not think his father will care one way or the other what I call him.”

  The nun’s brows rose. “Lord Ardmore struck me as the kind of man who would have definite ideas about everything, including the naming of his son.”

  Unfortunately, Abby suspected her husband did not care a farthing about her or her son. Once Lord Ardmore received his inheritance, she feared he would relegate his newly acquired family to some remote country estate.

  With a disapproving sigh, Sister Mary Daphne reached for the baby. She kissed his downy head and placed him in a blanket-lined basket that served as his bed. “Lord Ardmore promised to do his duty by the boy.”

  By duty, he probably meant abandoning his wife and child on some isolated estate while he pursued his own interests. Fury at the nobility’s callous treatment of their social inferiors fired Abby’s blood, fueling her temper. “How noble of him.”

  Sister Mary Daphne turned sharply, her expression hard. “Don’t be ungrateful. Lord Ardmore gave your son a name and made you a viscountess.”

  “You are right, of course.” She did not need the viscount’s money and no longer cared about titles, but she was grateful for his name. Despite her father’s ability to support her, he could not have bought her respectability if her ruse to pose as a widow had failed. And if she had given her child to strangers, she would never have known if they loved her child or had simply taken money from her father and left him to die.

  Of course, Papa would not be pleased that she had married a stranger instead of Lord Ruston, but the marriage had taken place, almost without her knowledge. And at least Lord Ardmore was somewhat young and handsome.

  Abby met Sister Mary Daphne’s gaze and sighed. “Do you still have the letter I wrote my father?”

  The nun patted her pocket. “I had planned to deliver it from Shrivenham, but your circumstances have changed.”

  They had indeed, but she could not tell her father the truth. He would insist on meeting Lord Ardmore, and she could not allow that to happen until she was sure she could trust her husband not to take advantage of her father’s generous nature.

  Perhaps if she told her father she was safely wed and begged his indulgence while she adjusted to married life, he would not grieve too greatly if she did not specify her location. Not that she knew as of yet where her new husband was taking her, but she could not allow Lord Ardmore to meet her father until she knew something of Ardmore’s character. She had to protect her father and her son.

  Lord Ardmore had gone to great lengths to obtain Ridge Point. What else might he do to secure the prosperity of his viscountcy? If he proved dishonorable or if matters became too unbearable, she could return to London and tell her father her husband had died. She deemed it unlikely that Lord Captain would search for her if they did not part on the best of terms, and she would not be the first wife to return to her parents’ hearth after making a mistake in marriage.

  Having a plan for escape, should she need it, made her feel marginally better. She forced a smile. “I would like to discard that letter and write another, please.”

  The sister sighed. “Very well.”

  ****

  Abby awoke again two hours later, her breasts heavy and aching, a sure sign her son would soon be hungry. Again.

  She smiled contentedly and stretched her arms overhead just as the door creaked open and a tall dark form filled the empty space. Light from the room beyond cast the man’s face in shadows, but his broad shoulders left no doubt of his identity. Then Lord Ardmore entered the room and peered into the basket at her sleeping son.

  “The boy is well?” he asked without looking up.

  Abby ignored the nervous flutter in her chest and spoke as calmly as she could. “The boy has a name.”

  Ardmore turned, his face as hard as granite, his eyes just as cold. “Did it not occur to you to wait until I was present to name him?”

  He stepped closer to her bed, his dark eyes blazing with heat. She refused to cower despite the fearful quiver in her belly. She could withstand the blow from a man’s fist. She had done it before. She could do it again. But she would not surrender to a man’s will ever again.

  “It has been four days. I had no idea if or when you were coming back, and my son needed a name.” She notched up her chin, praying it did not quiver.

  His eyes narrowed. “If I do not like it, I will change it.”

  Abby stubbornly held his gaze, but her eyes drifted errantly downward, taking in his strong shoulders and wide chest. Fear, and some other emotion she could not name, sent heat to her cheeks. She swallowed thickly and raise
d her chin, meeting his gaze once more.

  His eyes sparkled, and a mischievous grin played at the corners of his mouth, as if he knew just how appealing he was. Then the smile slipped from his chiseled face. “What did you name him?”

  “William Henry.” The name came out in a whispered squeak.

  Ardmore’s eyes widened a fraction. Then he drew himself up and spoke in a low rumble that sent gooseflesh down Abby’s arms. “Why that name? What made you choose it?”

  There was something soft and appealing about the way he asked that made the warmth in her cheeks spread to her chest. Ignoring the softening of her heart, she concentrated on the question at hand. She had always liked the name William, and Henry was her father’s name. Yet, she could not admit that to her husband, even if she did have a sudden desire to tell him everything, and be done with it.

  “I like both names and thought they fit well together.”

  A pleased smile touched his lips, and his eyes sparkled with satisfaction. “My uncle, a man more like a father than my own, is named William, and my mother’s father was Henry.” His smile widened, reaching his warm, brown eyes. “And as horrible a name as I think it is, I too, am Henry, so you could not have chosen a better name.”

  Her heart fluttered with delight. She had unknowingly named her son after her husband. Was it a possible sign from God that she had not made a mistake marrying Lord Captain? She could not help smiling in return. “Jack Henry?”

  “Not exactly.” He chuckled. “My full name is Jackson Henry Bartholomew Norton.”

  An unexpected feeling of contentment filled her. “A big name for a big man. Were you also a big baby?”

  His eyes twinkled. “So I was told.”

  “And does everyone call you Jack?”

  The light faded from his eyes, and the warmth in her chest rose to heat her cheeks. Her thoughtless words had no doubt proved to her husband she was nothing more than a common trollop with no knowledge of the nobility. Her husband was a viscount and heir. He would have been called Master Jackson or by one of his father’s lesser titles if he had one. No one other than his mother or perhaps a younger brother would have called him Jack. The name was obviously one he had chosen to use aboard his ship. Perhaps because he engaged in illegal activities and did not want to besmirch his family name.

  “I prefer Jack,” her husband said, his voice as harsh as his expression. “Even as a child, I was Master Jack. My father is the only one who ever called me Jackson, and he disowned me.”

  He looked ferocious, but a trace of vulnerability shone in his eyes and tugged at her heart. She wanted to take back the question and see him smile again. He seemed less threatening when he smiled. He seemed more like a man with whom she could make a life.

  “I am sorry,” she whispered.

  He leaned forward, drilling her with those intense, lion’s eyes. “Enough about me. It is high time you told me something about yourself for a change. Who is your father, and why did he not protect you from Lord Drury?”

  A chill settled over her. His cheerful banter and warm smiles had been a ruse to draw her out so she would divulge information. There had been nothing vulnerable in his expression. No pain in his eyes. He was no different from the rest of the peerage, using his charm to gain her trust so he could get what he wanted.

  “Lord Drury is a viscount.” Let him figure out the rest. It should not be hard. He was a viscount himself. He understood the value of money and power. After all, had he not married her to gain access to a larger portion of his father’s?

  “And?” His eyes narrowed dangerously, as if he thought to intimidate her with his ferocious scowl.

  But she had faced a more fearsome foe than her lion of a husband and survived. At least the lion had not raised his fists. Yet. “And my father is not a peer.”

  He spiked his fingers through his thick golden hair, exposing lighter skin at the hairline. Proof he spent time on a ship? Perhaps his estate was not even in Britain. There seemed to be a blending of several countries and dialects in his speech patterns. And just because his father was from England did not mean his mother was or that her family estate was on British soil. His estate could be anywhere in Europe, and he might never even set foot in London, which would greatly diminish the odds of her crossing Lord Drury’s path again. “You have an odd accent.”

  His fingers stilled. He lowered his arm, his fingers curling into fists at his sides. “I am an American.”

  “But your parents…”

  “Were not.” He turned as if to leave but then stopped. “We will be leaving for Seile within the hour. Make sure the boy is ready to travel.”

  “The boy’s name is Will,” she shouted after he left the room. Then she tensed, waiting for him to storm back inside and shout at her, but the only sound to come from the other side of the closed door was a deep, masculine chuckle.

  Chapter Ten

  “Drink it,” Sister Mary Daphne said as Abby forced down the hot, spicy tea. It had a sharp, slightly bitter peppermint taste that numbed her tongue as it passed over her lips.

  “There now.” The nun took the cup from her trembling hand. “That should help you get your strength back.”

  Abby smacked her lips together. Her whole mouth felt tingly and warm, the sensation spreading down her throat and into her chest. The tea helped her sleep, but it made her sick. And this dose seemed stronger than the last. “It burns just a bit going down. Is it supposed to?”

  “It hardly matters. You have had a chill since the birth, and the midwife was worried about the birthing fever.”

  Could she still die, leaving her son alone with a man who was not his father and may or may not care for him? Her heart fluttered, and bile rose into her throat. Had she only dreamed Ardmore told her when he was returning?

  “We are leaving today. Are we not?” Her thoughts were still so fuzzy but whether she felt up to traveling or not, she could not stay in the vicar’s bed forever. She did not have the means to repay him for his continued hospitality.

  “I think it is still too soon for you to travel,” the nun said with a huff. “Mrs. Beckman disagrees, but I think she has an ulterior motive. She wants us out of her uncle’s house.”

  Guilt warmed Abby’s cheeks. “I am sure having us here is an imposition.”

  The nun harrumphed again, but before she could say more, Lord Ardmore and the vicar entered the room.

  “You appear well, and your son is healthy,” the reverend said, his eyes looking everywhere but at the woman in his bed.

  Abby smiled, trying to keep the bile from sliding up the back of her throat. She did not feel well, but she no longer wanted to impose on the kindly gentleman. “Thank you. I am feeling much better.”

  “Nonsense!” Sister Mary Daphne snapped. “It is still too soon. It has not been a week yet.”

  “I am sorry, but I must get to Seile,” Lord Ardmore replied. “And my family is coming with me.”

  Sister Mary Daphne made a disparaging sound in the back of her throat. “She just took the tonic. Traveling this soon could make her sick.”

  Abby was already sick. Her head ached and her stomach churned.

  “We cannot keep them here, sister,” the vicar said in a soft yet firm voice. “The man means to take his wife and son to their new home, and we must assist them in their departure.”

  She had most definitely overstayed her welcome, but the thought of traveling any further than to the washstand across the room made her head spin.

  “I am not an ogre,” Lord Ardmore grumbled. “But it is time we were on our way.”

  Abby tried to read his expression, but she was tired, and her lids suddenly felt too heavy to lift. But lift them she did. She had to stay focused. Her son needed her.

  “If you insist on leaving, you must agree to mix the tonic and give it to her every morning.” Sister Mary Daphne pressed a small drawstring bag into the viscount’s big hand. “Drop the tiniest pinch of the peppermint powder into boiling water and make
a tea. Give it to her only after the baby has nursed. Understand?”

  “Yes.” Lord Captain shoved the pouch into his pocket. “Now get the child while I help my wife to the carriage.”

  He leaned over her, his lip curling with distaste.

  Abby squirmed under his censorious gaze. Did she really look so terribly bad? She tried smoothing her sleep-matted hair, but her arms felt like lead weights. Her hand dropped uselessly to her side, slapping the tick mattress with a hollow plop.

  Lord Ardmore shook his head and without warning, scooped her into his arms. “My wife is still wearing a monk’s robe.”

  “It is the garb of a postulant, not a monk.” Indignation tinged Sister Mary Daphne’s words. “Had you not whisked us away without our luggage—”

  “Yes, yes. I know.” Lord Arrogant’s stern voice halted the nun’s protest. “Now grab the boy.”

  Will! Abby’s mind screamed. But no words emerged.

  She groaned, closing her eyes, too tired to fight, argue, or even cling to the mountain holding her in his arms. It would do no good to cling. Eventually, her husband would abandon her, just as everyone else in her life had—everyone except Papa.

  But he sent me to a convent.

  To protect my reputation.

  What if he does not want me back?

  Oh, God, she was so confused, and the medicinal tea was not helping. She felt hot and flushed and oh so tired. She dropped her head against her husband’s shoulder, and the world faded to black.

  ****

  A shiver snaked down Jack’s spine. Abby’s face was pale. Her cheeks flushed. Had she developed childbed fever? He lowered his head, resting his cheek against hers. Her skin felt cold and clammy.

  He straightened, glancing over his shoulder as he carried her from the room. “She doesn’t look well.”

  The nun followed, carrying the basket containing Abby’s tiny son. “She should be in bed and not traipsing across England. I warned you about moving her too soon.”