A Most Unsuitable Groom

“Madame, I’ll have your answer,” Spencer said, feeling fierce and wishing himself civilized. But then, he’d never been all that civilized.

She tightened her hold on the infant as she glared up at Spencer. “I liked you better when you were nearly senseless. You didn’t talk so much. Yes, I’ll marry you. For William, for what appears to be your very kind and concerned family, I’ll marry you. But attempt to touch me again, Spencer Becket, and I’ll gut you like a deer. Do we understand each other?”

Spencer watched her eyes, those tip-tilted green eyes that had looked so lovingly at William and now stared icily at him. The fire of her hair, the sudden ice of her eyes.

He remembered Jacko’s joking comment and un-ashamedly used it. “I could say the same to you, Mariah, as I was hardly in any position to fight off your advances, was I? Another man might say you took unfair advantage of me.”

“But another man didn’t say that, did he? You did. Another man might not have been fevered and distraught and reaching out to someone, to anyone. And another woman might not have been so frightened, so alone…so foolish as to yearn for someone to hold on to, for someone to tell her that, yes, she was still alive, she could still feel…and that being held, being kissed, being touched, was so natural, so human a need…”

“Sweet Jesus,” Spencer said, rubbing roughly at his aching head. She’d just said exactly what he’d thought last night, put those thoughts into words that sliced at him, humbled him. “I don’t remember, Mariah. I can’t remember. I’m…I’m so, so sorry. Was it so terrible?”

“You? Were you so terrible? Is that what you mean?”

Spencer attempted a smile. “Consider it manly pride, madam. If the thought of me touching you ever again upsets you so, I must imagine that the experience wasn’t exactly a maiden’s dream.”

Mariah didn’t know what to say, where to look. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…that is, I didn’t know what to expect.”

“But, whatever you did expect, it wasn’t what you received?”

“No, I suppose not.” She kissed William’s head. “When you were gone, I was glad. I knew I couldn’t face you, not after what we’d…And then, when I realized what had happened…that I was…Can we please discuss this some other time?”

“When you realized you were carrying my child,” Spencer finished for her. He was pushing her, he knew that. But there was so much he couldn’t remember. How in hell could a man forget bedding this woman? “You must have hated me then.”

“I can’t hate you now. Look at him. Something good, coming out of something so terrible. So many lives lost, and now there’s him.”

Spencer sat on the side of the bed, laid his hand on the small, tightly swaddled infant. “Let’s begin again,” he suggested quietly, then smiled. “No, let’s begin. There’s no again about it, is there? For William?”

Mariah pressed a hand to her mouth to stifle a sob. “I’m so tired. I feel as if I’ve been fighting forever, fighting the entire world. I don’t want to fight with you now, too.” She managed a watery smile. “Besides, Eleanor tells me you’re all bluster and heat and hot passions, but really a very nice man. Of course, she’s your sister so she probably doesn’t really know you all that well.”

“You’re right,” Spencer said, grinning in relief. “I’m actually a blackguard who sold his soul to the devil years ago. We just don’t tell Elly because she likes to think the best of everyone.”

Mariah returned his smile. “You look nothing like her or the man I met downstairs last night. You said you were adopted. And Eleanor?”

Spencer made a small face. This was going to be difficult. There were things he could tell her and much more he could never tell her. Giving birth to his son did not make Mariah Rutledge a Becket.

The baby stirred in her arms and he pressed a finger against William’s opening hand, only to have the child grasp that finger tightly.

“Our son has Spanish blood,” he began slowly, feeling his way. “At least that’s what we believe. I’m told that I spat some fairly choice Spanish at Ainsley the day he found me, took me home with him. Unfortunately, I’ve forgotten most of it.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to,” Spencer told her, smiling even as he sorted facts in his mind, deciding what to reveal, what to conceal. “Ainsley isn’t my father or father to any of us except Cassandra—Callie—whose letter you found. The rest of us? Flotsam and jetsam he picked up along the way when he was living in the islands. Haiti. Have you heard of it?”

Mariah nodded. “I think I could point it out on a map, yes. To the south and east of the American Florida, yes? It must be warm there.”

And then it got hot…too hot to remain there.

“Papa…Ainsley owned sailing ships. Trading ships,” he said, keeping to the story that had been told for so long that he sometimes even believed it.

“And you all lived on the island. Haiti.”

“No, not on Haiti itself. We, um, we had our own island. There are several to choose from in the area.”

Why, the man sounded positively embarrassed. Or leery of telling her about his youth. Which was it? “Oh, my. That does sound important. And wonderfully warm weather for all of the year. No snow, no ice freezing over the rivers every winter so that you are virtually isolated from the world. How could you bear to leave?”

“The girls were beginning to grow up, so he decided it was time to return to England. And here we are.”

“And who are we?”

Spencer felt on firmer ground here. “I told you that Callie is Ainsley’s own child. Her mother died shortly after she was born. Callie’s—good God, she’s about sixteen now. You’ll meet her soon enough, I’m sure—it’s difficult to keep Callie away from anything she wants. And then there’s Morgan. This is her bedchamber, hers and her husband’s, when they visit here from Ethan’s estate. Morgan’s the Countess of Aylesford now and the mother of twins I’ve yet to see, now that the earl is making himself useful at the War Office and a nuisance in Parliament—but that’s another story.”

“One I hope to hear,” Mariah said, committing the names to memory. “And the young man from last night? Rian, was it?”

He nodded. “You’ll have to excuse him. He isn’t usually so silly. Ainsley gathered up Rian and Fanny from the rubble of a church that had taken cannon fire.” He smiled wanly. “Another long story, I’m afraid.”

“Fanny and Rian,” Mariah repeated. “Are they brother and sister?”

“No, not by blood.” The baby stirred slightly, made a small sound, and Spencer’s heart lurched in his chest. “Is he all right?”

“I think so. He may be getting hungry, poor little scrap. You should probably call someone. And that’s all? You, Rian, Callie, Morgan and Eleanor, who has already told me that she lives here with her husband, Jack…”

“And Fanny,” he added helpfully. “Then there’s Chance, the oldest of us all. He has his own estate north of London and is married, with two children of his own. And Courtland. God, let’s not forget Court. He still lives here and probably always will. You’ll recognize him by the perpetual scowl on his bearded face. The world sits heavily on Court’s shoulders, you understand.”

Mariah lifted William’s hand to her mouth, kissed it. “Why?”

“Why?” Spencer repeated, inwardly wincing. Damn his tongue for running too hard. Explaining his family without exposing his family was difficult in the best of times. “No reason. Court just likes to see himself as being in charge of all of us. Elly, too, come to think of it. But they’re not. Ainsley is the head of the family, very much so.”

“Such a large family. I had only my father,” Mariah said. “It must be wonderful, having so many brothers and sisters.”

Spencer smiled. “Many would think so, I suppose.”

“But you don’t?”

“That’s not—of course I do. But I’m a younger son and sometimes I feel as if I’m standing at the end of a long queue, awaiting my turn to—never mind.”

“No,” Mariah said, truly interested. “Waiting your turn for what, Spencer?”

My turn to live. The words were in his mind, but he didn’t say them, ashamed of his desire, his need, to be his own man, unburdened by the shadow of Ainsley’s past and the dangers that past still held for them all. Because he’d always believed there was a life away from Romney Marsh and, now that he’d seen it, he felt more confined than ever. Because to say the words out loud would brand him as an ungrateful bastard.

Mariah felt the sudden tension in the room and raced to fill the silence. “So Ainsley was once in the shipping trade, you said. What do you all do here? Farm? Herd sheep? What do people do in Romney Marsh?”

Free trade. Ride hell for leather across the Marsh after midnight as the mist rises all round, outrunning the militia as the casks of brandy and tea are moved inland. Race ahead of the wind on the Respite upon occasion, just for the thrill of it, playing cat and mouse with a French frigate patrolling the Channel. Cool their heels two weeks out of every four and stare at the choppy sea, aching to see what lies beyond the water.

Spencer bit back a smile. “We keep ourselves busy,” he said, standing up once more. “I’ll go find Odette.”

“They’ve already bound my breasts,” Mariah heard herself say, and then lowered her head, her cheeks hot. “They won’t even let me try. But if it’s best for William, I suppose I understand.”

“I’m…I’m sorry,” Spencer said, sure that Mariah was upset. “You haven’t had an easy time of things. I’m sure your woman is only thinking of your own health, as should you. I don’t remember most of my voyage home. Was yours an easy crossing?”