Slightly Noble Page 9

  “For a hefty profit, I’m sure,” she said, unable to keep the bitter words from her tongue. Despite her husband’s kindness, she did not trust him. How could she? He was little more than a commissioned pirate, and she had not chosen to marry him any more than she had chosen to live with the sisters.

  Men, it seemed, were always making decisions for her, and while Jack might seem kind on the surface, it was obvious from the polished wood and brass fittings of his well-appointed ship that he had not suffered during the war. And it was not even his war because he was not an American. He was an English lord who had married in order to claim the non-entailed property to his father’s estate.

  Was he a man completely lacking in morals? A man like Simon Weston, Viscount Drury?

  His softly spoken reply was a low rumble in his big chest. “I had a crew to support, and they all had families. I fought for the Confederacy, and whatever profits I made, I made off Union ships and the countries that traded with them.”

  He seemed hurt by her accusation, but she could not take back the words, even if she wanted to. And she was not sure she wanted to. She was not sure of anything anymore, least of all, her emotions. One minute, she felt as if she were teetering over a dark chasm that threatened to swallow her whole. Then she would look at her son and feel such love she could hardly contain her joy. But now, she felt like crying.

  Forcing words through a throat tight with emotion, she whispered, “I see.”

  Jack looked at her, his expression neutral, but his words were cold. “No. I do not think you see at all.” And without another word, he turned and left the cabin.

  More confused than ever, Abby sat on the bed and nursed her son. And an hour later, the boatswain, Charlie, delivered a trunk filled with women’s clothes.

  Abby cried as she tried them on.

  Chapter Twelve

  Later that evening, Jack, Mr. Stanley, and Jack’s uncle came to the cabin to eat supper with Abby. William Norton was an older version of Jack—tall and broad with a face weathered by the sun and blond hair yellowed with age. He did not have an eye patch or a peg leg, but he did have a pronounced limp. Otherwise, he looked enough like Jack to be his father.

  Feeling more like her old self after a nap and change of clothes, Abby pasted a smile on her face and sat when Jack pulled out her chair. He was still in the process of introducing his uncle when Mr. Crenshaw, a former master gunner turned cook, served dinner.

  Mr. Crenshaw had lost several fingers in a powder accident and bragged that the captain had given him another job without complaint. “And I couldn’t even cook when I first come aboard.”

  Abby looked at the unappealing fare, doubting his ability to cook now. The tray he placed on the table contained pork, beans, biscuits, and a bottle of dark liquid Abby hoped was not wine.

  Jack caught her eying the bottle. “It’s sauerkraut juice.”

  She started, unnerved by the way he seemed to know what she was thinking. “Is it a sauce for the pork?” The meat looked dry enough to warrant pouring something over it.

  “No. Sailors use it to prevent scurvy at sea. It is cheaper than limes, and it does not rot.”

  “That’s because it already tastes rotten,” Uncle William said, and he and Mr. Stanley laughed. Chuckling with them, Mr. Crenshaw left the cabin.

  Jack shook his head as if they were rowdy children. “Mr. Crenshaw serves it at every meal, but you don’t have to drink it. We have water, tea, and a very good port, if you prefer.”

  “I prefer Madeira, but I will have tea.”

  “Madeira is a woman’s drink,” Uncle William said. “Try the port. Better yet, try my rum. It’ll put hair on your chest.” He reached across the table and snagged a bottle filled with a clear liquid.

  Abby smiled. “I do not think I want hair on my chest, but I will have a taste of your rum.”

  “Are you trying to get my wife drunk, uncle?” Jack raised his brows. “I’m sure she is unused to strong drink.”

  If only he knew the number of times, she and her friends had sneaked extra glasses of champagne when the mothers and chaperons weren’t looking. She accepted the glass. “I promise not to overindulge.”

  The sweet, fiery liquid burned all the way down, warming her from the tip of her nose to the center of her belly. She coughed until she choked, and her hand shook when she placed the glass back on the table. To her embarrassment, the men laughed.

  “My, that is potent,” she said, her voice raspy from the burning liquid. One taste was enough, especially since her son would soon be hungry again.

  Mr. Stanley smiled. “A bit stronger than the champagne served in society, is it not?”

  Abby stiffened. What did Mr. Stanley know of society? Whom did he know? Her husband did not seem to know Lord Drury personally, but perhaps Mr. Stanley did.

  Meeting his eyes, she held his gaze, trying to ascertain if she had ever made Mr. Stanley’s acquaintance. “Yes. It is.”

  Was Mr. Stanley using his charm to gain information for his captain? Or perhaps he already knew who she was. Her pulse quickened.

  Mr. Stanley’s smile widened. “Are you acquainted with Mrs. Robert Stanley or Lady Chelsea? Melissa is my brother, Robert’s wife, and Agnes Chelsea is married to my eldest brother, Viscount Chelsea. My father is the Earl of Willoughby. Chelsea is his heir.”

  Abby had met them all, including the Countess of Willoughby before her death last year, but she could admit nothing without giving away her identity.

  She dropped her chin, avoiding his gaze. “I am not a peer.”

  Jack leaned forward, his knees bumping hers beneath the table, sending a shaft of heat up her leg to roost in the center of her belly.

  Fear? Or something much more dangerous? She shivered and eased her leg away from his.

  “The nun said you were gently reared,” he said, his eyes intent upon her face.

  She sighed. “So, it is back to that, is it?”

  Jack did not seem to need money, given what he had told her about his ship, but she preferred to decide how much to tell him about her father’s identity and fortune later, when she was more sure of his character. For some nobles, there did not seem to be enough money in the world to support their debauchery.

  Beside her, Mr. Stanley stiffened. Jack’s uncle poured another glass of rum, ignoring the tension in the room, and a muscle jumped in Jack’s jaw. “I have told you much about myself. Can you at least return the favor?”

  She swallowed, wishing she had not set the rum aside when she needed fortification. “Given the circumstances under which we met, can you blame me?”

  “I would just like to know who your father is,” he said with a sigh. Then the tension seemed to leave his body, and he no longer looked like a ferocious lion ready to attack. Abby said nothing, but her face heated beneath his steady gaze.

  “Is he still alive?” he asked.

  Guilt twisted her insides. “Yes.”

  “Then don’t you think I should meet him? You owe me that much, Abby.” His words were soft, almost pleading.

  Was he sincere? Or was he manipulating her the way Lord Drury often would?

  “Perhaps this is a conversation the two of you should continue in private,” Mr. Stanley suggested, and to her surprise, Jack agreed and dug into his meal.

  The silence that followed was rather awkward, but then Jack’s uncle entertained them with tales of the sea to smooth over the tension. One minute, he had Abby in stitches, and the next she was on the edge of her seat.

  Mr. Crenshaw returned a short time later with a dessert that tasted much better than the bland fare he had served for dinner, and afterward, the men smoked cigars while Abbey excused herself and went into the bedroom to nurse Will. She returned to the day room a half-hour later. Her husband was alone at the table.

  She swallowed her fear and stepped forward. “Your guests have left.” She could not bring herself to call them “our” guests. It sounded too…intimate.

  He rose to his feet
rather clumsily and smiled a bit awkwardly, apparently, as nervous in her company as she was in his.

  “Yes.” He looked around the room as if he were the stranger rather than she. “Is there anything you need?”

  “No.”

  He made his way to the door and opened it. “Good night, then.”

  He stepped into the hall and a huge, black tomcat poked his head between his ankles.

  Abby gasped. “Dear Lord, what is that?”

  The animal’s purr sounded a bit like a roar as it rubbed against Jack’s boots. Smiling, Jack bent over and scooped the huge beast up in his arms. “This is Captain Whiskers.”

  The cat nuzzled Jack’s cheek, purring even louder. The moment Jack set him down, he ran for the bedroom door and stuck a paw underneath as if to open it and go inside.

  Fear chilled Abby’s blood. “Keep him out of there! He will smell the milk on Will’s lips and steal his breath!” She ran to the door, waving her hands and making “shooing” sounds. The cat looked at her as if she were a bothersome fly and then proceeded to rattle the door with his fat paw.

  Jack brushed past her and scooped the creature up as if protecting him from her. “Nonsense. The worst Captain Whiskers would do is get cat hair on the boy.”

  “And you think that is acceptable!” she screeched, hearing the shrillness in her voice. Will could choke on cat hair, and Jack did not seem to care. He thought more of his bloody cat.

  It was just another sad sign her marriage was doomed to fail.

  ****

  Jack sighed, holding the heavy cat to his chest. It purred with contentment and rubbed its nose under his chin. Jack turned his head away from the prickly hairs.

  “Captain Whiskers will sleep in the quartermaster’s berth.” He spoke in a calm voice, hoping to appease his excitable wife. He did not believe the old wives’ tale about cats stealing the breath of babies, but Abby obviously did, and he did not want to upset her any more than she already was.

  Hysterical women were much more irksome than weepy ones.

  Her eyes narrowed. “And where will you sleep?”

  “With the damn cat!” Why was she angry? He was being courteous, despite her overprotectiveness. If he did not watch her, she would raise the boy to be a damned pantywaist.

  “Good. Because neither of you are sleeping in this room.” She boldly blocked the door, but her voice shook and her body trembled. His heart sank. Abby was afraid of him.

  He leaned forward, arm outstretched to reassure her, but Captain Whiskers jumped from his grasp and ran off in search of a mouse or some dark hole in which to hide.

  Abby’s eyes widened. She stepped back to stand in front of the door to his sleeping quarters as if she thought he would strike her. Or as if she thought to protect her son.

  “I am still bleeding,” she stammered, her body visibly trembling. “But if you must assert your husbandly rights—”

  “Don’t be a fool.” He wanted to take her in his arms, comfort her, and make her forget the man who had put such terror in her eyes. But his wife saw him as the enemy. Gaining her trust would be like navigating a ship through the shoals in the midst of a hurricane. “I am not in the habit of taking a woman against her will, and I’ll not make an exception because you are my wife.”

  Her cheeks flushed, and she relaxed her defensive stance, but the fear never left her eyes. “Perhaps later, when we are better acquainted…”

  “Only if, and when you are ready.” He stepped away from her, hoping he could keep his word. He found her protectiveness and strength unaccountably appealing. As for her beauty…

  He normally chose a partner based on womanly curves and a pretty face. The too large dress he had pulled from a trunk below deck earlier that evening concealed Abby’s figure. As for her Caribbean blue eyes, they were a tad too large for her face, but she had porcelain skin and a mouth made for kissing. And her thick, ash-blonde hair called to a man, daring him to bury his face in it. She had piled the wavy locks atop her head in some artful style he assumed was all the rage in London, but he wanted to take it down and run his fingers through it.

  He cleared his throat. “I promise not to touch you unless you wish it.” But God how he wanted to touch her hair…and her breasts…and…

  She nodded, eyes glistening as if she were about to cry.

  “Thank you,” she said in a shy and quiet voice. Then she turned and went into the bedroom, closing the door softly behind her.

  Pulse thrumming, Jack stood for a moment in the day room, trying to get his raging lust under control. He knew nothing about his wife, and yet, he suddenly found himself drawn to her.

  Before he stormed into her life, she had been prepared to raise her child alone. Albeit, she had planned to lie about her marital state, but what woman wouldn’t lie to protect her character? Yet Abby seemed more concerned for her child’s reputation than her own, which endeared her to him even more.

  If only his mother had been so determined…

  He remembered standing at the bow of the ship bound for America, tears in his eyes as his father turned away without returning his son’s pitiful wave. Jack had been eleven at the time, but not so young he did not realize his father was sending him away or that the hurtful names Aunt Margery called him had something to do with it. He had turned to his mother for comfort, but she would not look him in the eye.

  Two days later, Uncle William’s ship, the Lion’s Pride, had pulled alongside the Andover. Like Barbary pirates, Uncle William and his crew boarded her with swords drawn and removed Jack and his mother so he could transport them to their new home in Charleston himself. He even moved his home port to South Carolina. And the day Jack turned sixteen, he joined his uncle’s crew.

  Seven years later, Imperial Russia attacked the port at Sinope, drawing the crew of the Lion’s Pride into battle. Critically injured, Uncle William retired, and Jack took over as the ship’s captain. He and the crew aided the British Navy for the remainder of the Crimean War before returning to America.

  Now, Jack was a viscount and landowner with a title, wife, and son but no income. At the moment, he did not need money. But he still had a ship to maintain, and he now had an estate. And Ram’s Head was in desperate need of repairs. Then there was Ridge Point. Once he took possession of that estate, he would have three households to run—if one considered a ship a household. What the hell was he going to do?

  He knew one thing for sure. He would never make the same mistake his father had. He would never send his wife and son away.

  No matter what she did to anger him.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Abby had just lain down after nursing Will when a knock sounded at the door to the day cabin. She climbed out of bed and slipped into a peignoir. Like the dress and night shift Jack had given her, the loose fitting garment was much too large. So, she belted it at the waist and stepped into the day cabin. Before she reached the door, however, her husband strolled in with Mr. Crenshaw who followed behind with a breakfast tray.

  “Morning, Lady Ardmore.” Mr. Crenshaw set the tray on the table.

  She pulled the sash tighter and nodded, hoping her heavy, milk-laden breasts were adequately covered. Since giving birth, they were twice the size of her hand and tended to leak.

  “Mr. Crenshaw,” she said, feeling her cheeks warm.

  Avoiding eye contact, he nodded to his captain and left.

  Jack gazed at her, his eyes raking her from head to toe, his lip curling with distaste. “Does nothing I gave you fit?”

  Irritation prickled Abby’s skin, and a flush spread down her neck to her chest. “I apologize if my size does not suit your tastes.”

  “I did not mean—”

  “To insult me?”

  He smiled despite his flushed skin. “I only meant to say that you are much smaller than I would have expected after having just given birth.”

  Had he just given her a compliment? She lowered her gaze to hide her confusion. What was wrong with her? Since givi
ng birth, she had been a mass of nerves and conflicting emotions. And she did not understand her husband at all. Despite her boldness, he did not seem angry. Lord Drury’s sharp tongue would have cut her to the quick.

  Had she actually married a man who would allow his wife to voice her opinions? If so, then he would get an earful.

  Notching up her chin, she met his gaze. “Well, if you had not left my trunk on top of the coach when you ‘rescued’ me, I could be wearing my own clothes instead of a borrowed wardrobe.”

  If possible, he flushed deeper, looking like a very tall, very blond tomato. “I sent a man around to repair the coach and return it to Sister Mary Daphne’s brother, but the horses and luggage were gone. I am sorry. I gave the nun money to reimburse her and her brother for their loss, and I plan to replace your wardrobe straight away.”

  His thoughtfulness caught her off guard. A trembling smile touched her lips. Lord Ardmore might be a broke viscount, but he was apparently a very successful privateer. And he was much more generous than most gentleman of her acquaintance, save for Papa. He was generous to a fault.

  All the more reason to tread carefully where her husband was concerned. Jack may seem unselfish, but lords were notorious for running through their wealth to support their vast estates. If he knew her father had money, he could prove as greedy and selfish as Lord Ansley.

  The sniveling Baron Ansley had done all in his power to win Abby’s hand so he might gain access to her father’s bank account. Fortunately for Abby, Lord Ansley was a physically unappealing man with a prickly disposition.

  If only Lord Drury had been less charming and attractive.

  “That was very generous of you.” She watched the subtle changes in her husband’s hard face. His expression softened and his cheeks flushed, as if unused to such compliments.

  “Yes, well, it is not as if I did not profit myself,” he said gruffly, taking her arm and guiding her to the table. He pulled out her chair and then took his seat across from her.

  Abby picked up her napkin and spread it over her lap as she carefully considered his words. “I assume you are referring to Will, your heir.”