Chapter 3
Nana woke him the next morning as she tiptoed about the kitchen, putting water on to boil and bringing in eggs from the henhouse. “Don’t feel you have to rise yet, my lord,” she said quickly, but he was already up from his makeshift bed and bundling it out of the way.
He discovered he’d grown soft in his months away from the army.
Once he’d thought nothing of sleeping on the floor wrapped in his cloak, then rising to do battle.
Now he was stiff and poorly rested, and he longed for a warm bath and clothes he hadn’t slept in.
The sooner he returned to his profession the better.
“Can I beg a little hot water so I can shave?” he asked, and the old lady happily provided it.
He worked before a small, cracked mirror on the kitchen wall, giving thanks that his beard was not particularly heavy or coarse, for he was unused to this task. Jerome always did it, even when Cyn was with the army.
Jerome was the only indulgence Cyn had allowed Rothgar to provide when he joined his regiment.
In six years of soldiering Cyn had made his own way.
He’d won his promotions rather than buying them.
Rothgar had seriously proposed buying him a regiment, but Cyn had refused, and proved to himself and his brother that he could stand alone.
Until now.
He grimaced at himself in the mirror, still disgusted that the lung-fever had won.
He remembered the struggle to keep going, feeling sicker and sicker by the day, but denying it. After that, the memories grew hazy: the rough care of his men; the rough-and-ready military hospital in Halifax; a hellhole on the ship where he’d decided he’d rather be dead . . .
And then suddenly, dream-like, he’d been at Rothgar Abbey in the care of his family—Rothgar, Brand, Bryght, and, most concerned of all, his twin sister, Elfled. Weak, and wondering if he were going to die, he’d taken comfort in his home and family, in tastes, sounds, and faces from his childhood.
As he’d recovered, however, he’d chafed at his siblings’ cossetting. Lord, he didn’t know what they considered good health, but it seemed to be a state too perfect for a mere mortal to achieve. There’d been talk of him selling out and taking up another profession.
Not bloody likely.
His hand tightened and he nicked his chin.
He bit back a curse and grabbed a handkerchief to dab at the blood.
He finished the job without further mishap, however, and hoped that augured well for the whole adventure.
When he turned, pressing the cloth to the bloody spot, he found Charles had come into the kitchen.
He caught her looking at him. She colored, looked down, then boldly looked up again.
“Hand shaky this morning?” she mocked.
“My valet always shaves me. I don’t suppose you have this problem yet. Be grateful. It’s the deuce of a bore. I sometimes long for the days of beards.”
With wicked intent, he tossed the blood-spotted cloth aside and went to his trunk to take out a clean shirt. With his back to the girl, he casually stripped off his old one.
He stretched, turning slightly to watch her out of the corner of his eye.
Her color was betraying her again, and she knew it.
She concentrated on cutting slices from a cottage loaf.
Either she wasn’t very good at it, or her mind wasn’t entirely on the task, for the slices were coming out as scraps and wedges.
He discovered he could observe her in the mirror and made a pretense—still bare from the waist up—of studying the small nick on his chin.
He saw her glance up cautiously, then look at him through her lashes.
He stretched again, knowing this had gone beyond teasing.
He was showing off like a peacock spreading its tail.
Now she was frankly looking. He could bring out the big guns.
He had a scar across his chest which it seemed no woman could ignore.
It came from a minor wound, a long shallow saber cut, but it looked dramatic.
With Nana in the room, however, this was not the moment to try its effectiveness on his damsel.
He pulled on his clean shirt and turned. Charles was intent on buttering the slices she had cut.
“Good of you to help your womenfolk,” Cyn said approvingly as he fastened fresh ruffles at his wrists. “Many young men would think it beneath them.”
Her busy hands faltered, but then resumed the work. “Many young men are asses.”
Her hands, he realized, were just angular enough to pass as those of a youth, but only just. She was wise to wear gloves when adventuring.
“How true.” He looked for some reaction to him and saw none. He shook his head. She was the most guarded young woman he’d ever met. “I’ll just use the necessary.”
By the time he returned Verity was in the kitchen too, with her babe in her arms. Nana was frying eggs and bacon at the stove. He suspected Charles would normally be helping the old lady. She certainly didn’t look too happy with a passive role. Being a lazy male took a certain amount of practice.
Cyn strolled over to admire the baby. He had some experience after his visit to his older sister, Hilda, and her new pride and joy. He realized with surprise that this babe was almost as young. “He must be only a couple of months old.”
“Nine weeks,” Verity said, running a protective hand over the babe’s soft blond fuzz.
“A bit young for traveling.”
The hand faltered. “It was necessary.”
Cyn found he couldn’t badger gentle Verity.
Instead, he badgered Charles by going to assist Nana, handing her the warm plates and then carrying them, filled, over to the table.
After a moment, Charles came to help. She filled the teapot from the boiling kettle, and found pots of marmalade and jam, and a jug of milk set on the cool windowsill.
Her actions had the ease of familiarity, but he didn’t mention it.
As soon as everyone was eating, Cyn spoke. “Well? Are you ready to tell me your story?”
After a moment of silent communication with her sister, Charles said, “We’ll tell you what you need to know.” She fixed him with a stony look. “I suppose you think Verity’s child was conceived on the wrong side of the blanket.”
It was the obvious explanation. “He isn’t?”
“No. He’s fully legitimate, born two years after a Hanover Square wedding, the true son of his father.”
Cyn didn’t rise to the challenging tone. “That must be a great comfort to everyone.”
“His father is dead.”
Cyn surveyed Verity, who wore no mourning and was anxious to reach her betrothed. He raised his brows.
“Lud,” said Verity, “I don’t know why you two find it so difficult to tell a straight story.
” She faced Cyn. “My husband died nearly two months ago. My brother-in-law is my child’s guardian.
When he arrived to take responsibility for us, I realized I do not trust him, and so I am seeking the man who will protect us both. ”
A number of questions leaped to mind. Cyn asked the most puzzling one. “You described this protector as your betrothed. How can you have a betrothed husband so soon after your widowing?”
Verity’s color rose. “Nathanial and I were pledged to each other, though my father did not sanction it. There has been no impropriety, but our pledge still holds.”
Charles broke in. “So you see, it is merely a matter of transporting Verity and William safely to Maidenhead.”
Cyn doubted that. “And the matter of the guardianship?”
“Once Verity and Nathaniel are married, they will petition to have Nathaniel made the child’s guardian.”
Cyn sensed a great deal more to this than he was being told. “And what if the court decides that this precipitous flight and marriage shows that both Verity and Nathaniel are unsuited to the care of an infant?”
Verity paled and held her child closer. “They wouldn’t!”
“They could. I’m pointing out that it might be wiser to return home and send word to your Nathaniel to come and help you in a more conventional manner.”
The sisters glanced at each other; Cyn could feel the anxiety flowing through the room. It was Charles who spoke. “Verity wouldn’t be allowed to marry Nathaniel, and she thinks Henry V—” She broke off, then continued, “She thinks her husband’s brother will kill the child.”
Cyn saw from Verity’s eyes that Charles spoke the truth. “Why?”
“Because then he will inherit everything.”
Cyn let the silence settle as he considered. Greed could be a powerful force, and he supposed it must be galling to an ambitious man to have one small and recent life stand between him and everything.
On the other hand, he gathered some women were a little strange after having given birth.
He addressed Verity. “How did your husband die?”
She looked down. “His heart gave out.”
“What was his name?”
“Don’t answer that!” broke in Charles. She turned on Cyn. “What right have you to cross-examine her? We’ve told you the essentials. Help us or not as you choose.”
Cyn made his decision without difficulty.
“Of course I’ll help you.” He hardly expected it to be much of a task.
It must be little over a hundred miles. An easy three-day journey.
“I guarantee to deliver you all safe to Maidenhead. I would like to know, however, what pursuit we should expect. Is Guardian Henry even now scouring the roads?”
“Yes.”
“But hasn’t thought to look here?”
Charles glared at his audible disbelief. “He came three days ago. We convinced him we knew nothing because it was true. Verity had to make her way here on foot. She arrived after he’d left.”
Cyn looked at the young mother with new respect.
Seeing her soft gentleness he would never have imagined her capable of such a grueling journey, babe in arms, in November.
He began to doubt his complacency. Verity, at least, clearly believed the danger was real.
He saw now the touch of desperation with which she held her baby close.
“Does he know about Maidenhead?” he asked.
Charles answered. “We don’t think so.”