Practical Widow to Passionate Mistress (Transformation of the Shelley Sisters 1)

‘I had no commission, not then. But I was in the Rifle Brigade, a private, and that was all that mattered to me, even though I was as wet behind the ears as they come. It wasn’t until we were well out to sea and I’d finished casting my accounts up over the side that it occurred to me that my mother would worry.’ God, but he’d been thoughtless—or perhaps, just a typical boy—but he’d salved his conscience with the thought that he’d written to his godfather and told him what he was doing.

Of course, it did dawn on him after a few weeks that he had landed Sir George Pierce with the unenviable task of dealing with his parents. ‘My godfather got my letter, broke the news.’And, mercifully at the time, kept it from him just how anguished his mother had been. It had not been until she died and her last letter had reached him that he realised what he had done to her peace of mind and her health. It was his first lesson that he could kill at a distance of several hundred miles without needing any weapon, as well as face to face with his finger on the trigger.

‘And when I was eighteen, when he discovered that I hadn’t managed to get killed or flogged, my godfather bought me a commission.’ Stick to the facts. His mind skidded away from the dark, deep hole of his conscience. Away from Giles. ‘Since then I’ve made my own way, spent my money on my own advancement.’

‘I should imagine that merit had something to do with it as well,’ Meg observed. ‘I have asked Johnny to bring us food out here; I didn’t think you would want to be down below, not now.’

She still thought he had been driven out here by the pangs of homesickness, Ross realised as the cabin boy put a tray on the hatch cover and the smell of fried pork wound its way through the air. He slapped some rashers between slices of bread and went back to the rail, leaving Meg to make a more decorous picnic. That way he did not have to talk. Meg’s simple, direct questions had extracted more from him than he had confided in anyone else, ever, but the urge to recount his past history had fled as fast as it had come upon him.

Sailors were beginning to bring baggage up on deck, deploying the nets that would swing it ashore. Ross drew Meg out of the way of the men who came to the sides to lower sail and throw ropes as the harbour wall loomed larger.

‘I hope the signora has a firm hold on young José,’ Meg said, and he realised she was eyeing the narrowing strip of water between the ship and the dock apprehensively. ‘That was so brave of you.’ She gave a little shudder. ‘The tide was ripping out so fast—’

‘I have seen enough death, too much to leave a child to drown,’ Ross said starkly. But the memory still troubled Meg, he could tell. How much courage had it taken to climb down that ladder into the swirling water and hang on to an unconscious stranger for the time it took to get him out? A stab of remorse told him that afterwards he had been unthinking and probably unkind. His own exhaustion, pain and depression were no excuse; if it had been one of his men he would have spok

en to him, shown he understood what guts it had taken, made sure he was all right.

Too late now to go back. ‘What will you do when we land?’ he asked abruptly. ‘Where will you stay?’

‘I will find a decent inn while I find out about stagecoach routes, plan my journey.’

‘It is quite some distance. You have adequate funds?’

‘Oh, yes.’ She held up her reticule. ‘Doctor Ferguson insisted on paying me. It isn’t much, but enough.’ She opened the bag and reached inside. ‘See…’ The blood left her cheeks and she began to rummage. ‘It has gone! The roll of notes!’

‘Are you certain? Did you not notice before?’

‘Yes, I am certain.’ Meg stared at the bag, upended on a barrel, its contents spread out. ‘The coins are heavy, I never noticed the difference. And I have had no cause to open it since I came on board. I have not needed money.’ She pressed her hand to her lips, visibly fighting for composure. ‘I dropped it with all my things when José fell in the water. Someone must have taken the notes then.’

‘Let me.’ Ross reached for his wallet.

‘No. Thank you, but, no. I have no idea when I could pay it back.’

‘For heaven’s sake, Meg! A gift—I probably owe you my life.’

She shook her head and he could see his persistence was upsetting her. ‘I will find some work for a week or so. I will find an employment office, register my name with them. Someone will want practical help, I am certain.’

‘As what?’ Ross turned his back on the dockside and studied Meg properly for the first time that day. She was wearing a gown he had not seen before, one she must have been saving for the occasion. Her hair was neatly braided under her plain straw bonnet and she looked both subdued and compliant, not at all like the managing, competent, arousing woman who had been saving his leg and wrecking his sleep. ‘A governess?’

‘Goodness, no!’ There was the spark of the Meg he was used to. ‘My own education was sadly lacking in everything except sewing, accounts and Bible studies. I speak Spanish and Portuguese—and much of that not repeatable in polite society—and very poor French. I could assist a housekeeper or perhaps be a nurse-companion to an invalid or elderly person.’

Mrs Fogarty, the housekeeper at the Court—he could not think the word home in connection to the place where he had grown up—was a sour-faced, bitter woman. His younger brother, Giles, had been her favourite and she had always disapproved of Ross, for some reason he had never been able to understand. Perhaps it was simply because she didn’t like most boys and he had been a fairly wild example and not an attractive, handsome specimen like his brother. Looking back, Ross could not count the times she had sent tales of his various misdeeds to his father, but she had earned him a goodly number of thrashings. After Giles’s accident her antipathy had changed to outright hostility, and that he could understand.

Her name had still been on the list of staff the lawyers had sent him. She must be in her early sixties now and probably looking forward to seeing him with about as much pleasure as he felt at the prospect of the reunion. It would be like having a dark spirit lurking in the corner, knowing Agnes Fogarty still controlled the household.

‘You do not look like any housekeeper I have ever met,’ he told Meg as the mooring lines were heaved over the side and the ship nudged up to the quayside.

‘No?’ She managed a half-smile and Ross felt something twist inside him.

He did not return the smile. ‘No. You look too young,’ he said flatly. She would be all right, surely? She was practical and hardworking and sensible and she did not want his help. ‘They have let the gangplank down. Come, I will help you find your luggage.’ He limped away before she could reply, or tell him to slow down. At least he would not be fussed over any more, he told himself, crooking a finger to a reliable-looking porter with a barrow as his feet hit solid land.

‘That bag there,’ he said, pointing. ‘You will go with this lady, wait while she makes some visits and then be sure she gets safely to a respectable inn. Do you understand?’ He passed the man a coin as he spoke. ‘Make sure you find her something suitable.’

‘Aye, sir.’ The man tugged his forelock, pitching Ross back years to his childhood with just two words in the soft Cornish burr.

‘Thank you, Major. That is most thoughtful of you.’ Meg spoke formally, as though they had not spent nights together in the same bed, as though she had not flown into his arms for comfort, lifted her lips for his kisses. ‘I trust your leg heals well and you find your way home safely.’ She turned to the porter and then swung back, her face animated with concern. ‘Do take care of that wound. And please—give yourself time to adjust. It will all be well, you will see.’

And then she was gone before he could answer her, walking away over the cobbles, talking as she went with the porter, who was nodding and steering his barrow towards the steep street to the town.