Never Marry a Stranger Page 11

  And then some part of her brain remembered the night’s incomplete mission. “Good night, Matthew.”

  He chuckled. “Good night, Emily.”

  She came to a stop in the middle of the shadowy dressing room, confused and uncertain. She’d wanted him to call her back, to take her as a husband took a wife. Why hadn’t he? Short of throwing herself at him, how much more obvious could she be?

  But the condolence letter still had to be dealt with. Quickly, she pulled it from her wardrobe and hurried into her bedroom, wishing she could lock the door. Perched on the edge of her bed, she read it quickly. It was a formal letter from the wife of his commanding officer, expressing her sorrow that Matthew’s wife had finally succumbed to a lingering illness.

  Lingering illness?

  Had Matthew nursed her in her last days, watching the woman he loved wasting away with her suffering? She didn’t want to think about that poor woman, not when she was replacing her. She couldn’t afford to feel sympathy or guilt. Life had taught her that.

  At the hearth, she set the letter afire, dropped it fluttering onto the coal grate and watched it burn, forcing herself to feel nothing but determination. She no longer had to worry about Matthew’s first wife—but there was yet Stanwood to confront.

  Chapter 10

  Matthew prowled his new bedchamber, unable to sleep. He ached with sexual frustration, and even found himself in the dressing room, standing at her door—his door—ready to claim his “marital rights.” He froze with his hand on the doorknob, swayed by overpowering desire that he’d been unable to satisfy.

  And then he heard the muffled sound of Emily crying out. He opened the door and strode inside.

  The draperies were open to the moonlight, illuminating Emily, who tossed upon her bed—his bed—her head rolling back and forth on the pillow, the sheets and her nightgown tangled about her bare legs.

  He moved cautiously to the bed and saw that her eyes were shut, great tears streaming from beneath her lashes.

  “Papa,” she whispered, her head lolling away as if she were searching for him in her dreams. “Papa!”

  He didn’t know if he should wake her. He thought about what it must have been like to watch her entire family die, to think she was about to die with them, only to be rescued. But rescued into what situation? Where did a young woman go when everyone had died?

  He’d always had his family to return to, even when he wanted to be on the other side of the world from them. But what would he be like without them, if tragedy had struck? He’d said those words to Susanna, but now he applied them to himself.

  Still Emily cried in her sleep. He touched her shoulder and said her name.

  She gasped and arched back. He looked at the nightgown tightened across her breasts, glanced at her long pale legs glistening in the moonlight.

  “Papa!”

  Her voice was almost a scream now, and he didn’t want to draw any attention to their bedroom. He put his hand across her mouth. “Emily!” he said more urgently.

  Her tossing turned to thrashing and she grew even more upset. He leaned down to put his arms around her, anything to quiet her. She suddenly clung to him, arms around his waist, face pressed into his chest.

  “Emily?” he said, quieter now.

  When she didn’t release him, didn’t answer, he found himself climbing on top of the counterpane next to her. She wrapped her arms even tighter, pillowing her head against his shoulder. His skin dampened with her tears, but at least she was shedding no more of them. Her expression had eased, her body seemed to wilt into exhaustion.

  Matthew was left staring up at the dark canopy, thinking of her willowy body pressed along his side, legs bare, breasts unbound beneath her nightgown. There was only her sheer garment between their upper bodies, for he was wearing trousers. It was almost too much for a too-long celibate man. He told himself he would only lie here for a few minutes, until she was calm.

  And somehow he fell asleep.

  Emily slowly awoke as if from the depths of a deep, summer pool. She felt…content, refreshed, and so deliciously warm. Something intruded at the edge of her happiness—and she realized that the warmth surrounding her was a man’s body.

  She opened her eyes and found herself staring across the bare, sculpted chest of Matthew Leland. Somehow, without even trying, she’d lured him to her bed. She raised her gaze and saw his profile, calm and peaceful in sleep, dark eyelashes fanned across his cheeks.

  When had he come to her? And why hadn’t he woken her?

  She took stock of their position and realized that her knee rode over his clothed thighs. She was pressed along the left side of his body, her cheek against his smoothly fleshed shoulder, just above the scars across his ribs. His left arm was about her shoulders.

  She slowly raised herself up on her elbow and found him watching her. She froze as his gaze drifted almost lazily down her face. Only then did she realize that her nightgown had slid off her right shoulder, leaving it, along with the top curve of her breast, bare.

  Heat centered hotly between her thighs, right where she was pressed against his leg. She wanted to rub against him shamelessly. Instead, she reached to touch the side of his face.

  “Matthew?”

  His gaze had dropped to her breasts, even more exposed as she leaned over him.

  He closed his eyes for a moment, before asking in a voice husky with sleep, “Is this how we awoke every morning?”

  She nodded. “I don’t remember you coming to be with me last night.”

  She felt his hand cup her shoulder.

  “I was in the dressing room and heard you cry out.”

  The nightmares, she thought, sitting up and drawing the nightgown back over her shoulder. His hand came to rest on her lower back.

  “You were very upset,” he continued from behind her. “Your pillow must be wet with your tears.”

  Oh God, she thought, rigid with dismay. What had she done, what had she said?

  As if in answer to her unspoken questions, he said, “You called for your father, and would not be comforted until your arms were about me.”

  If she’d betrayed her lies, he would not be here with her, treating her with such compassion. She forced herself to breathe normally. She hadn’t given anything away.

  “I wish I could remember if you had these nightmares when we were together,” he said.

  “Only at first,” she said, choosing her lie carefully. “But you made me feel so safe, that at last my fears faded.”

  “Fears of what?”

  She couldn’t look at him. “Fears of being alone, of being helpless.”

  He sat up and his arm came around her back again, his hand riding low on her hip. “And then you thought I’d died. Did the nightmares resurface?”

  She nodded. “But your family banished them again.”

  “Then why have them now that I’ve returned?”

  She’d made a mistake—his return should have been joyous for a grateful wife.

  “It’s my amnesia, isn’t it?” he said softly, leaning down until his face brushed the side of her head. “I have made you feel lost again. Your husband, but not your husband.”

  “Oh, no, don’t think that!” she said, turning her head toward him.

  Their faces were too close. She felt his hand tighten on her hip.

  “So what did I do when you had nightmares at the beginning of our marriage?” he asked.

  She looked down, only to find herself staring at his nude chest. She had never imagined being unable to think when he was near. “You held me, just like you did last night. How did you know to do that? Did you remember something about our marriage?”

  He slid his legs over the edge of the bed, then rose. As he turned away from the sunny windows, she saw his back starkly, the burn scars that faded away before reaching the center of his back—and a white line low on his right side, where the bayonet must have pierced his flesh. He was lucky to have survived.

  She deliberately
avoided her dressing gown, not wanting to cover herself from him.

  “No, I haven’t remembered anything new about our marriage,” he said at last, smiling. “Surely it is natural to hold someone in comfort.” Walking toward the dressing room door, he called back, “What are your plans for the day?”

  “I am not sure yet. If you have need of me, of course I will be available.” That was a very open invitation.

  “I am going to be busy with correspondence and some business matters today,” he said.

  She nodded with disappointment.

  Matthew spent the early morning writing letters to his cousins, after asking a stable boy to alert him if Emily requested a horse. When he’d last looked in on her, she was in the drawing room with Susanna and Rebecca, each of them sewing.

  Unobserved, he’d watched Susanna yank out stitches, saw the patient way Emily worked with her. But he didn’t disturb them. He was waiting to see what Emily would do with her day.

  After several hours spent with his father, going over new investments, he’d gone looking for Emily, only to see Susanna walking aimlessly through the conservatory, ripping the occasional leaf into shreds. She looked so glum, so sad.

  And then he knew that Emily was right. He could not take away all of Susanna’s favorite pastimes, even if only temporarily.

  He approached her, and her demeanor brightened.

  “Good morning, little sister.”

  “Almost time for luncheon,” she said. “I thought it would never get here.”

  “The day is slow for you?”

  Her hesitation was a good answer.

  Smiling, he said, “I thought of a way for you to combine something you love into your busy new social schedule.”

  “And what is that?” she asked warily.

  “We’ll have a picnic tomorrow and invite a mix of young ladies and gentlemen.”

  “Well, I love a good picnic but—”

  “We’ll set up easels at the castle ruins, so you can give them all art lessons.”

  Her mouth opened, and for a moment nothing came out. “Give lessons?”

  “They’ll all see how talented you are, how generous with your time, how patient—”

  “Mathew!” she said, rolling her eyes.

  “And you’ll be able to paint,” he finished softly.

  Her eyes glistened as she took his arm. “You are sweet to me. How glad I am to have you home with us.”

  “Then let’s discuss who to invite, so we can send the invitations this afternoon. I want to take advantage of the beautiful weather.”

  As they strolled back into the library to begin making their lists, Matthew casually asked, “Have you seen Emily lately?”

  Susanna looked at him over her spectacles. “I have not seen her in several hours. Last I knew, she was heading into Comberton. She didn’t tell you?”

  He gave a tight smile. “No, she didn’t.” And the stable boy hadn’t, either.

  “I would have thought she wanted to show you…” Her words faded away.

  “Show me what?”

  “It’s her place to tell you, not mine,” Susanna said, smiling even as she raised both hands.

  He hesitated, caught between two compulsions: one to help his sister, the other to see what Emily was up to in the village.

  “You should go,” Susanna said, laughing at him. “I can see how curious you are.”

  “But the invitations…”

  “I will write them and have them delivered. Our lawn will be filled with people tomorrow. And I’ll find Mama, who will be so happy to help me plan the picnic.”

  Matthew grinned and kissed her cheek. “Then I’ll go find my wife.” He walked away, saying over his shoulder, “Tell Mother I won’t make luncheon today.”

  Chapter 11

  When Matthew reached the stable, he questioned the boy, only to discover that Emily hadn’t requested a horse or a carriage.

  She’d walked into the village? What secret was she keeping, one that his entire family wanted her to reveal to him? It must be innocent enough if everyone knew—but then, it could mask something else.

  He reached the village swiftly on horseback. Comberton had grown where two streams met, in the midst of gentle hills. There were thatched cottages along the lane and several small shops on the main street near the village green.

  As he passed the grocer’s, there was a flurry of movement from behind the window, and the door opened as he passed.

  “Captain Leland! Captain Leland!”

  He sighed at the delay, but smiled as he turned around. “Yes?”

  A woman wearing a too small bonnet, and an immense shawl over her girth, waved even as she grinned. “Captain Leland, I had heard of your return, and hardly thought to believe it—but here you are!”

  The name suddenly came to him. “Mrs. Winston, how good to see you.”

  She twittered with laughter like a pleasant bird. “And of course it is marvelous to see you! To think, your poor family was rewarded with your happy return.”

  “It was good fortune for all of us. I only regret that they had to suffer thinking me dead.” Matthew thought he might have danced several times with Mrs. Winston’s daughter, but for the life of him—

  She touched his arm and tilted her chin with pride. “My Matilda is happily married now.”

  “I am glad to hear it, and not surprised, of course.” The woman’s talkativeness might be of help. “Mrs. Winston, do you know my wife?”

  She blinked at him in bewilderment, then chuckled as if she thought him silly. “Why, of course I do, Captain. Who doesn’t? Such a sweet-natured young woman. I must confess, when I heard you’d married so unexpectedly I didn’t know what to think. But once I met the poor dear, even in the midst of her mourning, I could see why you fell in love with her.”

  Emily had easily fooled so many people, an impressive feat.

  “I imagine your reunion with your family—and your wife!—has been wonderful,” she continued.

  “It has, Mrs. Winston. I have so missed my Emily that I feel I just cannot be apart from her. I know she came into the village today. Have you seen her?”

  “Well, no, but she’s usually at the inn, of course.”

  He grinned with satisfaction and curiosity. “Of course.” He touched the brim of his hat. “Thank you, Mrs. Winston.”

  “Do take us up on the dinner invitation we sent, Captain,” she called as he walked away. “My family would enjoy seeing you.”

  He passed the village green, where farmers and craftsmen had set up stalls for Market Day. The inn was nearby, situated at the crossroads, a small, two-story building in classic Tudor black trim on white plastered walls. A sign above the door advertised the inn, as well as the popular taproom within.

  Could Emily be regularly meeting with someone? But surely she wouldn’t do so in a public place.

  He ducked under the low doorway into the entry hall, where the innkeeper was helping several people at the counter. He looked in the first open door and saw the taproom, where several tables were full of villagers eating the midday meal. His own stomach growled, but he ignored it.

  A door across the hall suddenly burst open and at least a dozen children of varying ages ran past him, laughing and talking loudly.

  To his surprise, Emily then appeared in the doorway, smiling and waving. He stepped back into the taproom before she noticed him, then peeked into the hall again as she withdrew back into the private room, leaving the door open. Her expression stayed in his mind, the softness in her gaze, the simple pleasure curving her mouth.

  Curious, not knowing what to think, Matthew crossed the hall, leaned near the doorway as if he belonged there, and peered inside. There were several tables and chairs scattered about, and he realized he was looking at a private dining parlor, usually reserved for upper class guests.

  And then he saw Emily sitting across the table from a strange man.

  He stepped back before they could see him. He leaned against the wa
ll, crossing his arms over his chest in a bored pose, as if waiting for someone.

  To his relief, they spoke loud enough for him to hear.

  Emily said, “But Mr. Smythe, I have had no word when the man will arrive from London. It was good of you to take my place these past days, but I assure you I can continue as before.”

  “But Mrs. Leland, what about your husband?”

  Matthew had clenched his jaw in jealousy when he was distracted by a shout from across the entry hall.

  “Captain Leland!”

  Matthew turned and saw the innkeeper and his guests staring at him, and several people from the taproom were following the man who’d called his name.

  “It really is you!” the young man said, practically bounding across the hall to shake his hand.

  Matthew recognized him as one of the younger brothers of Albert Evans, who had recently been courting Emily.

  And then Emily appeared at his shoulder. “Hello, Mr. Evans!” she said quickly, loudly.

  Matthew realized she thought he couldn’t remember the man’s name. For the next several minutes, he accepted the well wishes of half a dozen men and women, all of whom Emily casually spoke with before Matthew had to. As she deliberately repeated each of their names, he found himself amused by her concern for his memory.

  At last the crowd dispersed and Emily took his arm to lead him back into the dining parlor.

  “Captain, why didn’t you tell me you were coming into the village today?”

  She spoke brightly, glancing at the other man, who’d risen to his feet. He was several inches taller and much thinner than Matthew, and he bobbed his head repeatedly, wearing a rather silly grin.

  Matthew looked down at Emily and said softly, “Why didn’t you tell me you were coming into the village today?”

  “I thought you didn’t want to be disturbed.” She smiled, then turned toward the other man. “Captain Leland, may I present Mr. Smythe?”