Page 14 of The Pirate's Stolen Bride
He should leave her here and send word to Maggie at the Cock and Bull about where to find his friend’s missing ward. By the time anyone arrived to retrieve her, he could be halfway back to France. He scrubbed his face. Rémy had never been this tired in his life. He would sleep now and decide how to handle his stolen spitfire in the morning.
Sloshing water brought him back to the present. Naked, Miss Turner rose from the hip bath and began toweling her body.
His mouth went dry. He’d had ample opportunity to ogle her fine legs, but her gentle curves and slim waist left him reeling.
“The water is still warm if you would like a turn.”
To his consternation, she didn’t sound angry.
“I don’t need one.” He’d bathed this morning while waiting for the effects of the willow bark tincture the innkeeper had brewed for Harriet to take effect. What he needed was rest. He’d spent the past two nights dozing in that uncomfortable rocking chair.
He had no words, in French or English, to describe the sense of panic he’d felt when laying her feverish body in the bed. Miss Turner had barely been awake, moaning with pain. The thought that he might have endangered her life with his rash actions forced him to face facts: he liked her too much to let her die.
“I owe you an apology,” she said without looking at him. She’d donned that awful wrapper and resumed braiding her hair.
“You do?” He couldn’t have been more surprised if she’d gotten down on one knee and proposed marriage to him.
“I know as well as anyone what it is like for your own family to resent your very existence. I shouldn’t have said that.”
“There is no need to apologize, Your Ladyship. I am the source of your troubles.” The truth stung like pouring alcohol on a wound.
“Please stop calling me ‘Your Ladyship.’ I’m not a lady.”
“Your uncle is a duke,” he said flatly.
“But I am not a lady. I was born illegitimate to his youngest sister. No honorifics confer to me because of who my father was, a lowly stable hand. She was only fifteen when she bore me. He was just seventeen. Young and stupid, according to Uncle Monty.” She gave the knotted belt an unnecessary extra tug and began picking apart her unraveling braid, her soft, slender fingers flying through the golden strands. “I was sent away to be raised by a distant relative so that my mother could make a good match.”
“What of your father?”
She snorted. “As if Uncle Monty was going to let his niece be raised by a stable hand.”
“Your parents simply abandoned you?” He couldn’t fathom it. Rémy’s mother had struggled, but as troublesome a boy as he’d been, he couldn’t imagine her abandoning him. The English were harsher than the French. Or perhaps it was only the difference between wealth and penury.
“My mother didn’t have much of a choice. If anyone had discovered that I existed, her prospects would have been ruined and an indelible stain left upon the Montague family name. My father was let go. I heard he made a name for himself in London at one of the racing tracks before he died. I never met him.”
She tied off her braid and sighed. “I knew none of this until I was old enough to start asking questions about my family. My mother reluctantly visited me a few times. She said I was a living reminder of her worst mistake, and requested not to be troubled with news of my life ever again. When I came of age, Uncle Monty stepped in to find me a suitable husband, and here we are.”
“I am the one who owes you an apology, Miss Turner.” Guilt burrowed into his bones. Initially, he’d believed she was highborn, and that her reputation would withstand whatever blow she endured by being stolen away by him. But now he understood that her position was more precarious than he’d previously thought. Marrying Lucarran, notorious devil though he was, might have been her only chance at stability.
He hadn’t just stolen a bride. He’d stolen her future.
Her brow furrowed. “I don’t know why I told you all that. I don’t expect or want your sympathy. I only wanted to explain that I regret saying that you are nothing but a curse. I spoke in anger and I am sorry.”
Rémy wanted to laugh, but there was no telling how his unruly and unpredictable lady would react if he did. He couldn’t articulate how much her apology meant to him, in any language. He therefore forced his expression into an unnaturally thoughtful posse.
“I ruined your life, Miss Turner.” Yawning, he tugged off his boots and collapsed into the bed. She could spend a few hours in the rocking chair if she didn’t want to sleep beside him. “You have every right to hate me.”
“But you also saved it,” he thought he heard her say as darkness claimed him.
CHAPTER EIGHT
CAUGHT IN THE ACT
Harriet paced the small room.
Should she leave?
Should she crawl back into the bed and try to sleep?
