Chapter Ten
Harry shook the worst of the water from his hair before he used his key to open the front door. He never expected poor Simpkins to wait up for him past eleven, and at almost two in the morning, his trusty retainer would have been in bed for hours. He had left the lamp burning low in the hallway though, and, as was customary when his master ran out of hours in the day at the Admiralty to do what they expected of him, he had left a fresh candle lying on the side to light his way to bed. Or to the kitchen where another solitary supper of bread, cheese, and cold cuts would be awaiting him.
Sadly, it was a routine which had become all too familiar in the last two years. The more supposedly impossible things he managed to get done, the more convoluted complications the top brass sent his way to test him. All problems that apparently nobody else in His Majesty’s entire navy had the wherewithal to solve, and he resented it. They were relentless. The work, never-ending. Tonight, worn down and worn out and so sick and tired of the constant battles he had to fight on the navy’s behalf, Harry felt as though he were drowning in it all, which was ironic as the rain outside was so torrential, it was a wonder he hadn’t drowned on the miserable, lonely ride home.
That the sudden storm had materialized out of nowhere exactly three minutes after he had set off seemed indicative of his current bad luck, where everything that possibly could go wrong did. The bloody Boadicea, the constant stream of problems sent his way by the Admiralty, Flora’s unexpected trip to Egypt, the unwelcome responsibility of the children. Mad Norbert. His troubling governess and his more troubling and unwelcome reaction to her, and now he could also add the collective merchants of Portsmouth into the mix. The latter had ensured that the lazier Sunday he had promised himself and willed his life away all week for was ruined before it had even started. All things completely out of his control, all conspiring together to take advantage and to put what felt like the weight of the world on his shoulders.
Being soaked to the skin with a good inch of water squishing inside his boots seemed like the least of his worries and a fitting end to one of the worst weeks of his life. To make his utter misery complete, if he couldn’t sort out the Portsmouth problem from his desk in Whitehall fast enough, he had orders to go there with all haste to fix it at the source because, clearly, the Admiralty thought he hadn’t suffered enough.
Not having the energy to eat, or even to shrug out of his sodden coat, he used the lamp to light his candle and squished wearily up the stairs. He let his coat fall in a heap on his bedchamber floor, tossed his soaking waistcoat and ruined cravat on top of it, then sat on his mattress to summon the last of his strength to toe off his boots. While he did so he wondered what, precisely, he was suffering all the Admiralty’s nonsense for when none of it seemed to bring him any joy.
He was in the process of peeling off his cold, damp shirt when the shadows dancing in the dim room were obliterated by a shard of lightning that was immediately followed by clap of thunder which boomed so loud and so close to his house that the window rattled.
A split second later, there was a bloodcurdling scream.
One which made him sprint out of the door and up the stairs to the floor above in a blind panic and start Norbert howling as if his life—or someone else’s—depended on it.
An equally stunned Felix met him head-on as he reached the landing, his faithful hound in tow. “It’s Grace! She’s terrified of thunder!”
As Harry could now hear her crying hysterically, he did not doubt his nephew’s assessment for a moment. “It’s all right, poppet.” He burst into the girls’ bedchamber as another flash of lightning briefly banished the darkness, and his little niece screamed again. The sight of her pale, petrified face as she hugged her knees to her chest tore at his heart and made him want to slay dragons.
“It’s just a storm, sweetheart.” She cowered at the answering thunder, looking so small in the middle of the big bed, so afraid, her hands covering her ears before he could scoop her into his arms. “Shhhhh… I’ve got you. It’s just a storm. It won’t hurt you.”
As more lightning followed, she clung to him, her heart hammering so hard it beat like a drum against his ribs. Trying to help, Norbert pressed his forehead into the small of her back, sandwiching her tight between them while he growled at the next rumble of thunder as if that alone would make it stop.
It did nothing to calm his terrified niece, who was now screaming at the top of her lungs.
Harry carried her toward the landing, reasoning that the dimmed lamplight would be more comforting than the jarring flashes of bright light which were now coming thick and fast as the storm raged directly overheard. The moment he stepped into it, he almost bumped into Miss Rowe.
“What’s happened?” Wild-eyed and even wilder-haired, she hadn’t bothered grabbing a shawl or a robe in her haste to get to them. Two small bare feet poked out beneath the hem of her voluminous nightdress, which wasn’t fastened by the ribbons at the neck so hung slightly askew, exposing more of her creamy left shoulder than he was comfortable seeing.
“Grace is afraid of the thunder,” said Felix as he stroked his baby sister’s arm.
“And Marianne?” Miss Rowe’s panicked gaze darted hither and thither. “Is Marianne all right?”
Realizing that he hadn’t seen her at all, Harry twisted to look for the missing child in the bedchamber, and when he saw no sign of her, began to panic too. More lightning illuminated the big, empty bed, showing him nothing but the tangled covers Grace had left behind.
As his youngest niece screeched some more and clawed at his neck, dread settled in his stomach. “I don’t know where she is!”
If she had run off somewhere scared, too, and hurt herself, he’d never forgive himself.
“She’s sleeping, not missing.” Matter-of-fact, Felix stomped back into the bedchamber. “Mama always says that a hundred pipers could march right over Marianne’s belly and they wouldn’t wake her. The only way to wake her up most mornings is to drag her out of bed by her feet.” As both he and Miss Rowe blinked in disbelief that anyone could possibly sleep through this, the boy yanked the blankets back to reveal her. Marianne was indeed curled up, oblivious of the commotion going on around her.
“Well, at least someone is sleeping,” said Miss Rowe as she reached up to stroke the still-crying Grace’s back as Harry carried her out onto the landing again. Once there, she turned to Felix. “I take it that a dedicated man of science such as yourself is not scared of thunder.”
“Of course not. It is simply weather.” Like the wisest of old sages, the boy then added, “Even a thousand years ago, Aristotle knew that thunder is merely the sound of the wind smashing against the rain clouds.”
“Then back to bed with you, young man, and take your dog with you.” To Harry’s complete surprise, she then turned to him. “I’ll take her if you like. You’ve had a long day.”
Harry did like.
Because he had had a long day, was still sopping wet, dead on his feet, and had to be up with the lark again, and frankly, had no idea how to deal with a terrified child in the middle of the night. His stomach was in knots and he was way out of his depth. “If you don’t mind…” He tried to peel his niece from his body, but another rumble of thunder made her grip him tighter.
“Don’t leave me either, Uncle Harry.” At that wretched plea, he knew that he could not abandon the little girl, no matter how much he was out floundering. “Please.”
“I won’t, poppet.”
He glanced at Miss Rowe again and shrugged at the sympathy he saw in her expression. “You go. I’ll stay with her till the storm passes.”
“If you’re sure?”
“There is no point us both being awake.”
“Papa always gives me some warm milk when I’m frightened.” Two small arms wound their way tightly around Harry’s neck, sealing his fate. “If I am really frightened, like I am now, he melts some chocolate into it and lets me sit on his lap while I drink it.” Even scared witless, Grace was still the arch manipulator. “Some chocolate would make me feel like I am safely back at home with them.” And by implication, not here with him, where she apparently didn’t.
Harry had no clue if the miniature Machiavelli burrowed against him had said that on purpose to multiply his guilt, or if she meant it. Either way, the knife twisted further and the substantial weight on his shoulders seemed to double in size.
“Then say good night to Miss Rowe and let’s go get some.”
His niece’s voice was small. “Good night, Miss Rowe. I’m sorry for waking you.”
“No apology is necessary. We all get scared sometimes.” She cupped the girl’s cheek, smiling, sending a waft of the floral soap she favored toward Harry’s nostrils to torment him almost as much as her still-exposed skin. “Good night, Grace. I think you are right—some chocolate in your warm milk would definitely do the trick. It always sends me off to sleep.” She flicked her gaze toward the attic, clearly in two minds about leaving him. “Should I wake Mrs. Rigsby so that she can make it?”
“Only if you are in a hurry to die, Miss Rowe.” Like Marianne, his cook could sleep through cannon fire. “Not even Simpkins is that brave, and he was at Trafalgar.” Because Harry’s woman-starved eyes wanted to drift to her exposed shoulder again while his addled mind wanted to wander down that dangerously rutted road it had no place wandering, he inclined his head instead. “Good night. Sleep tight.”
At least one of them would.
Even if some miracle occurred and Grace settled quickly, the sultry, seductive image of all that untamed, wild red hair and an askew nightdress was going to be a bloody difficult one to shift. At least until he finally got around to sowing some oats elsewhere.
Georgie returned to her bedchamber, stared mournfully at the inviting, toasty bed awaiting her, and sighed.
It didn’t matter that Captain Kincaid was still nine-tenths dislikable; she couldn’t leave him to it.
She wouldn’t leave her worst enemy to a screaming child in the middle of the night and be able to sleep tight, let alone one who was thoroughly soaked from the raging storm himself.
But trust him to suit being soaked when anyone else would resemble a drowned rat. Yet Captain Kincaid had managed to be somehow more handsome damp and disheveled. He also smelled divine slicked in rain, the moisture on his skin fresh and earthy. The thin linen shirt he was wearing was so wet it was practically translucent as it stuck, in the most intriguing manner, to the muscles in his arms and back.
Obviously, she had tried not to notice those things and had failed miserably.
She blamed Lottie and Portia for making her see him like an attractive man. There was no denying that his body was as perfect beneath his sodden clothes as his handsome face was poking above them. If she were shallow like Portia and Lottie, Georgie had to concede that it was the sort of body to make a woman go all aquiver.
She sighed again, annoyed with herself for that flagrantly dishonest excuse, as parts of her were, if not completely, all aquiver. The rest were dangerously close. Her pulse, which had ratcheted to a gallop thanks to the sudden screaming that had wrenched her from the deepest depths of sleep, was still cantering thanks to the sight of the captain’s splendid, water-sluiced torso.
Who knew that wetness rendered a man more attractive?
Or that a wet, half-dressed, and disheveled Captain Kincaid was somehow two-thirds more handsome than an impeccably attired and dry one?
Worse, to her utter shame, Georgie was not only hovering on the cusp of all aquiver, she was also irrationally—and uncharitably—annoyed that the frightened little girl in his arms had prevented her from properly ogling his perfect chest too. Mortified that her racing mind was suddenly filled with questions about it. The most burning of which was whether that chest was as smooth, rugged, and bare as one of the marble statues of the ancient gods in the British Museum, or if it was dusted with hair? She didn’t particularly have a preference—she just wanted to know.
Desperately.
Which all pointed to her being as shallow as Portia and Lottie, and perhaps more so, because they had no reason to dislike him, and she disliked him intensely.
Although less so since yesterday.
It was difficult to loathe and despise a man who took children for ice cream and laughed alongside them while they ate it.
Now she had tonight’s conflicting evidence to add to that. Though his room was downstairs, he must have dropped everything and sprinted to get to Grace before Georgie, whose room was on the same floor, scant feet away. Yet he had still beaten her to it.
He was also clearly wet, cold, and dog-tired—and yet he had acquiesced to his niece’s pleas without a moment’s complaint or reluctance. Then charitably sent Georgie back to bed when she sincerely doubted that there were many men, and mere uncles to boot, who would eschew a night of slumber for a child. Especially when their governess, who he was paying handsomely to look after those children for him, stood before him ready, willing, and expecting to step into the breach.
The colonel wouldn’t have behaved like the captain just had in a million years. He would have had no sympathy for a child’s tears. In fact, he would have responded to them with explosive outrage that his rest had been disturbed, no matter what the cause of the distress. Exactly as he had done whenever she had been upset while her mother was alive—when her dear mama had borne the brunt of his anger. Quietly and without complaint but still without bending to that tyrant’s will wherever her daughter’s well-being or happiness was concerned.
Which, of course, never ended well for poor Mama.
Not that her mother had ever complained about her dire lot in life nor ever mentioned his cruelty. To her, the sacrifices she had made were worth it because it kept a roof over Georgie’s head and food in her belly. Georgie had been her mother’s everything and had told her so every single day. Oh, how she missed that!
Instinctively, her fingers went to her mother’s locket where it rested on her collarbone, and she tried to will all those bad memories away. Despite the horrid life she had with a husband nobody could love, her mother had been all sunshine and light regardless of the unpalatable choices widowhood and then poverty had forced her to make. She had always been so much more than Georgie’s protector and her champion. Mama had, first and foremost, been her friend, and it was all those happy memories that deserved to be celebrated, not tarnished because of that vile man, now that she was gone.
Except tonight, the thunderstorm lashing the house and little Grace’s fear reminded her too much of the only occasion when she had forgotten to cry quietly into her pillow in the terrifying first days after her mother had died. That night, the colonel had threatened to beat Georgie within an inch of her life if she didn’t stop sniffling, not cuddled her close and offered to melt chocolate into her milk like the captain just had. And with nothing but love and concern swirling in his eyes for the frightened little girl left in his charge.
Clearly, she was going to have to reevaluate her original fraction and lower his disagreeableness to seven-tenths based on tonight’s noble and heroic performance alone. Six and a half if she factored in Gunther’s yesterday too.
Drat him.
With a more irritated sigh, she grabbed her robe, and in so doing, caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror.
Her uncooperative hair had, of course, escaped the tight plait she had entrapped it in at bedtime and was a riotous, orange mess shooting from her scalp. If that wasn’t bad enough, she’d clearly been having one of her infamous unrestrained fidgeting dreams before she was rudely awoken, because her nightgown was undone and was twisted in a manner that, frankly, wasn’t decent. Scandalized by her own reflection, she yanked the dangling sleeve back onto her shoulder and huffed as she tied the neck ribbons tight.
Good heavens above! What a shocking state to have been seen in.
Especially by such a perfect physical specimen as him!
As soon as her robe was on and the belt knotted tight, she slid her feet into her slippers and then twisted her horrid hair into a knot which she secured with at least twenty pins in case it had any notion of showing her up in front of him again. One final glance in the mirror reassured her that her disappointing reflection was at least proper before she ventured downstairs.
Everywhere was dark except for the soft glow emanating from the kitchen, and the only sounds beyond the elements still raging outside were the deep, reassuring tones of the captain’s voice.
“… the Vikings believed the thunder was caused by the wheels of Thor’s mighty chariot hitting the mountaintops, and the lightning was the sparks from his hammer.”
That he was also telling his niece a story to alleviate her fears did peculiar things to Georgie’s heart. Because that was how things should be. How a real man—a surrogate father—should treat a child.
“Is Thor a carpenter, Uncle Harry?”
“Absolutely not. He was the Viking god of war.” He chuckled as a saucepan clattered against the range. “He wasn’t out in his chariot fixing things, poppet, as he was more about destruction than repair. Thor had quite the temper on him, apparently, and liked to take his bad moods out on everyone else. Hence all the noise up above us.”
Georgie hovered outside the door and was in two minds as to whether she should interrupt such a private and tender family moment at all when she heard him rummaging to no avail. “There is no rhyme or reason to this pantry, Grace. The flour is next to the butter and the jam is next to the tea. There are random spices all over the place and Lord only knows where Mrs. Rigsby hides the chocolate—but it’s not near the coffee, which is where I would put it. Nor the tea because tea is a drink that so obviously needs to reside beside the eggs. Her logic is baffling.”
“Not everything needs to be alphabetical.” Georgie couldn’t help but smile as she sailed in, and then almost choked on her own tongue as he emerged from the pantry with his niece hugging his leg and a wry smile on his face. Not that she noticed the curve of his mouth straightaway. Or little Grace clutching him as if her life depended upon it. Her eyes were too busy noticing the unmistakable shadow of dark hair beneath the soggy front of his shirt. Hair that dusted his pectoral muscles in the most intriguing way, then arrowed down his abdomen—although she couldn’t be certain of that as the thin, damp linen was too loose around his middle and refused to cling there while she investigated.
“Why don’t I put you out of your misery and take over?” Off-kilter, Georgie gestured to a chair well away from the stove so that she wouldn’t have to look at him all damp and disconcerting while she prepared the chocolate. Especially as her nipples had decided to pucker in sympathy with his when hers weren’t even wet or cold, so had absolutely no excuse for misbehaving so outrageously. Thank goodness for the heavy robe tightly knotted, else they’d have publicly disgraced her worse than her horrid hair and askew nightgown already had. “You sit down with Grace.”
“That’s very kind of you.” Acting more awkward than she had ever seen him, he picked the little girl up. Whether that was to offer the scared child some comfort or to protect his modesty from her suddenly hungry gaze, she had no clue, but was grateful for it all the same. “And probably just as well, as I’d have only burned the milk anyway and then incurred Mrs. Rigsby’s wrath. Despite this being my kitchen, I am not allowed in here upon threat of death.”
“Good for Mrs. Rigsby! Perhaps I should do the same to keep you out of my classroom?” A glib, impertinent comment which slipped out before Georgie thought better of it. She blamed the see-through shirt.
Amusement laced his tone. “Are you threatening mutiny, Miss Rowe?”
“There is only so much daily scrutiny and complete lack of faith in my abilities that I can take.” Aware that she would likely rub him the wrong way again if she continued challenging him, Georgie had some stern words with her inner St. Joan while she fetched the jug of milk and supplies from the pantry. “But I shall make you trust me. On that I am resolute. I am tenacious when I put my mind to something, Captain. Relentless even, and I shall prove to you that I am an excellent governess—mark my words.”
“I do not doubt that for a second, Miss Rowe.” Although, rather tellingly, despite her calling him out on it, he made no attempt to inform her that he either trusted her or that his inspections would soon stop. Instead, as more thunder rumbled, he settled himself on the chair with Grace on his lap and carried on telling his frightened niece all the ancient theories of its causes in an ironic but soothing voice while she made the drinks.
Even with her back to him as she stirred the pot, something about his tone as he waxed lyrical sent unwelcome tingles down Georgie’s spine. She could not ascertain whether that was the ever-deepening velvety whisper that melted his normally clipped consonants in the most sinful way, or the gentle cadence of his phrasing. Or perhaps it was the strange intimacy of the kitchen. Or the strange intimacy of being almost alone with a man. Whichever it was, it played havoc with her nerve endings. Nerves which were still not fully over the new, and scandalous, knowledge that the front of his upper torso draped in damp linen was as impressive as the back of it was.
Keeping her eyeballs on the milk pan when they were determined to wander back did nothing to make her relax either. Nor did measured and even breathing, or reciting the entire alphabet both forward and backward in her mind. By the time the wretched milk began to steam, she was wound tighter than a spring and was so aware of his presence and the strange thrum of her body that it took every ounce of strength she possessed to pour the chocolate into cups without sloshing it everywhere.
“Here we—” She spun around, clutching two steaming mugs, only to be met with the thoroughly disarming sight of the captain cradling a sleeping child as if she were the most precious thing in the world. Smiling at Georgie as if they were in this together—like a family. Coping with the trials and tribulations of parenthood together.
Simultaneously, the pull of intense longing made both her heart and her womb ache for all they had long ago resigned themselves to never having. Yet while that felt alien and frightening—it also felt right. Inconceivably right. Yet so wrong that the sheer folly of that mad, errant, out-of-the-blue, futile fantasy was staggering.
But appealing.
Oh, so appealing…
Appealing enough that her body was seriously urging Georgie to use her nonexistent wiles on him exactly as Lottie had so outrageously suggested. Yesterday it had been inconceivable, but tonight…
Thankfully, he put a finger to his lips to shush her, so she was spared spewing out the garbled nonsense which hovered on hers. Then he pointed to the window, smiling, and she almost sighed aloud at the intoxicating sight.
“The storm has passed.”
Georgie had been so preoccupied with a barrage of odd emotions and the strange sensations going on within that she hadn’t noticed, but nodded as if she had and managed to choke out, “This chocolate is wasted, then.” She hoped her breathiness passed as a convincing whisper in deference to the sleeping Grace rather than from the odd flutterings going on in her throat and her loins.
“It’s not wasted. We can take it back up to bed with us.” Although he hadn’t meant it at all how her ears decided to hear it, that sentence set Georgie’s imagination alight. Images of him lying on her bed, half dressed in a translucent, damp shirt, looking all rumpled and sinful and smiling in her tangled sheets as they welcomed the morning together skittered through her mind. Then whizzed down all her nerve endings, reawakening her shameless nipples again before they fizzed in the most unnerving way between her legs.
Good heavens above! What was all that about?
“Y-yes.” Marvelous! Now she genuinely was so all aquiver she was actually stuttering. Her and him? A pompous military man like the colonel? Ridiculous. Ridiculous. Inconceivable. And yet… “What a good idea.”
“One that will hopefully settle us both back to sleep.” He tossed that over his sublimely perfect left shoulder as he left the kitchen, oblivious that his whisper drizzled over her skin like warm honey and rendered her so ripe for the picking that she barely knew herself at all. “Not that I’ve actually been to sleep yet—but I live in constant hope.”
“Y-yes.” Gracious, but she was pathetic! Shallow, stuttering, and positively swooning, and all thanks to a damp shirt and a deep voice. “Sleep would be good.” Not that she held out much hope that even the steaming chocolate would be enough to soothe her currently addled, racing thoughts or smooth her outrageously improper nipples into submission. Both were wasted on him.
Surely?
But the idea had already lodged itself deep in her psyche like a weed that wanted to grow, and Georgie had no choice but to follow him up the staircase with the chocolate. No choice but to notice the way the muscles in his arms and back flexed beneath the clinging linen as he carried his precious cargo. No choice but to drink in the sight of his firm backside and thighs encased in tight buckskin as his long legs climbed the stairs. No respite from the affectionate new feelings that assaulted her. Made her question and made her want.
In sheer hell, she watched him gently tuck the sleeping child into bed, and then, when Georgie assumed that he could not possibly fluster her any more than he had already, his fingers brushed hers as she handed him a mug.
Brushed, then lingered, and she felt it everywhere.
From the tips of those tingling fingers to her toes. From her suddenly eager lips to more outrageous places.
In her heart and in her soul, and that felt right too.
“I’m sorry but… might have to go away for a few days.” Was his fingertip intentionally caressing hers? “Portsmouth… navy business.”
Georgie nodded, too aware of his touch to form any words fast enough. “Y-your family will be well looked after in your absence. You can trust me.”
He nodded too as he stared deep into her eyes, his own as wary and indecisive as she suspected hers were, and that was all it took to make her body want with more ferocity than it had ever wanted anything before. And her heart swell with…
He suddenly snatched both the cup and his fingers away in one abrupt but fluid motion, blinking as he stared, making her wonder if that simple touch had as profound an effect on his person as it had on hers.
Which, of course, was likely the most ridiculous notion she had ever had!
“Thank you for your assistance tonight, Miss Rowe.” Without the shield of the child to hide behind, he was immediately back to being all stiff and awkward again. He could barely meet her eyes. Could barely hold himself still. Could barely contain his obvious desire to be well rid of her. Which all rather suggested that her touch repelled him far more than it attracted, and that made her feel both stupid and inadequate to have reacted so differently. “And thank you for the chocolate.” He inclined his head as if they were two distant acquaintances passing on the street rather than two half-dressed people alone on his landing who had just behaved like a married couple. “Good night.”
“Good night, Captain.”
She bobbed a stiff curtsy and turned, forcing her feet not to bolt to her bedchamber as they wanted while still moving toward it at pace.
She did not want to turn around and yet could sense him watching her, because the heat of his gaze seemed to burn through her nightdress as it followed her. In case she was imagining it, she turned, and their eyes locked.
Only briefly because he curtly inclined his head again before he spun away. But still… that intense look had felt poignant. Significant.
Seductive.
Thoroughly confused and totally overwhelmed, Georgie leaned her back against the door the second she closed it. She hugged her own mug to her rapidly beating, totally befuddled heart while clutching her mother’s locket for strength as she listened to his retreating footsteps return down the stairs to his own bed.
Wondering how on earth it was possible that the stiff, authoritarian, annoyingly perfect but pompous military stickler whom she loved to hate had somehow managed to go from being nine-tenths disagreeable to at least three-quarters agreeable in the space of just one day.