The Wilder Wedding

“Such a gloomy face!” she admonished, drawing her brows together. “Don’t frown so. It puts lines between your eyes.”

“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” he said, tapping her nose with his finger.

She choked down the food and took a swallow of her tea. “When do we leave?”

“Two hours,” he told her. “We must be at Dover by this evening. I sent to the hotel for your things. They should arrive directly. Will you need a maid?”

“Never had one. Will you need a valet?” she teased.

Sean grinned at the thought of having someone dress him. Now someone—this particular someone—undressing him was a different matter altogether. No time for that now, unfortunately. He handed her a sausage. “Silly widgeon. Finish your breakfast while I draw your bath.”

He left her tucking into the substantial plate of bangers and eggs he had requested from the kitchen downstairs. The announcement of his sudden marriage had prompted instant motherly attention from his landlady and her staff. Until this morning, he had only been the object of curiosity and gossip who hardly rated a wary word of greeting now and then. Now he was “the young bridegroom.”

Falling fully into the role certainly tempted him. There was nothing he’d have liked better than to crawl back into that bed and spend the day with “the young bride.” He couldn’t recall ever having held a more responsive woman in his arms. She made love the way she did everything else, full steam ahead and damn the consequences. The mere thought of her enthusiasm had his body thrumming even now.

He turned on the tap in the huge, claw-foot tub and tested the temperature of the water with the back of his hand.

The timing of this unexpected honeymoon could be worse, he supposed. What if he were embarking on a case involving a life-threatening situation? There had certainly been a wealth of those, not that he minded. Danger proved addictive. He thrived on that sort of job and it was what he did best. For the past few years, Sean admitted, the adventures held far more appeal than the rewards. This coming endeavor, however, only relied on his keen eye for deception and his solid reputation as a reliable courier.

Working for Burton was child’s play, a holiday in fact. This time he only had to verify the authenticity of a painting. If genuine, he would complete the deal for Mr. Burton, director of the National Gallery, bring the picture home, and that would be that. No rush, no danger, large fee. Not that he needed the money particularly, but one never had too much of that commodity.

Laura would be disappointed when he told her about the tame task, he thought with a smile. After his warning of possible danger, she would be geared up for murder and mayhem. Her thirst for adventure would be amusing under different circumstances.

His heart contracted painfully every time he thought of Laura dying. How could he bear to watch that bright little light blink out? The world would seem a dismal place without it now that he knew her. She touched him, threw his senses awry in some way he couldn’t quite fathom; had done so from the moment he had first seen her. Innocence, he supposed. Something he’d had so little experience with in his twenty-eight years. Surprising he even recognized it at all.

This whole affair seemed unreal. The hasty wedding, the lovemaking, and letting her accompany him to Paris were all so uncharacteristically impulsive of him. He could scarcely believe he had allowed any of it. For a man who planned every move he made with the precision of a well-oiled machine, Sean knew he had slipped an important gear somewhere along the line.

In his early life, quick decisions had equaled survival. But later, he had learned to consider the long-term effect—weigh all his options, however briefly—before he acted. For the first time since the wedding, he forced himself to stop and think exactly where all this might lead.

Laura had given him no time to plan or consider or project. Because she had so little time to give. So little time.

Steam from the bath made him sniff. Surely that was what caused his eyes to water this way. He shut off the faucet and brushed a hand over his face. Laura Middlebrook had blown into his life like a whirlwind. She stirred up feelings he thought he had eliminated, and some he hadn’t known existed at all. How did he think he could direct events toward a satisfactory future? Laura would not have one. God, how that thought hurt. It shouldn’t bother him this much. He, of all people, knew there were things worse than death. He’d even told Laura as much. Cruel truth.

But he had never met anyone as alive as Laura. He must be out of his mind to admit such a thing, even to himself, but he could love this woman, was probably half in love with her already. After letting down his guard and risking it that once with Ondine, love only equaled disaster as far as Sean was concerned. It ripped away all the hard-earned control over his life as though it were wet tissue paper. He needed control the way he needed air to breathe. How could he possibly surrender that again?

Despite their recent betrothal, Camilla Norton’s subsequent desertion had not affected him much. Not in the least, except for the small dent to his pride. He would suffer a great deal more than that with Laura’s leaving, unless he took immediate charge of things.

If he continued down this road with her, the outcome could only be total devastation. After Ondine’s untimely death, he’d had fury at her betrayal to sustain him. Even then, the pain of loving her and losing her had almost destroyed him. He had rebuilt the wall inside himself once. He didn’t think he could do it again. This time he would be left with nothing but soul-deep grief. There would be no saving anger to draw on. Nothing.

The only prudent course was evident. He had to back away from her now, to distance himself from what would continue to grow between them if he allowed it. Given his upbringing, Sean knew he was as well versed in sex as any male on the planet. But with Laura, sex was not just sex. It was a mutual giving, a bonding of spirits he had never encountered before in his life, even with Ondine. And Sean realized that the physical union would only strengthen his love for Laura into a veritable necessity he could not live without.

He could never abandon Laura, however. She was his wife now and needed protection and support, certainly more than most wives did. But he must discontinue their intimacy before his need for her grew to unmanageable proportions.

How to do that would take some planning in itself. Denying her anything would be damned difficult, next to impossible, but he knew the alternative would prove worse. Loving her fully, without reservation, and then watching her die would tear the heart right out of his chest. A living death.

“I’m ready,” she said from the doorway.

Sean pushed up from the edge of the tub, hardly daring to look at her, unable not to. She stood gloriously naked but for the sheet loosely draped over one shoulder, the dark satin of her hair wound in a precarious loop on top of her head. The invitation in her smoky eyes set him afire. Acceptance almost fought its way out of him despite his recent and very firm resolution. Stuffing his hands into his pockets, he skirted around her, muttering something inane about seeing to his packing.

It was a narrow escape. The first of many, he predicted.

“No one in the world needs this many clothes,” Sean growled as he hefted a leather-bound trunk off the dock. A huffing porter struggled with the other.

Laura laughed and stepped aside and out of his way. “Of course they don’t. Where’s the fun in buying only what one needs? I’m afraid I did reduce your future inheritance considerably this past week, however.”

Sean shot her a dark look.

She wondered why he resented it so whenever she mentioned her legacy. Pride, perhaps. His mood would lighten once he had loaded the baggage and they settled in for the crossing.

Laura left him to it and went to grasp the forward rail. France was out there. She even imagined she could see it, a faint gray line, probably the point near Calais. Perhaps what she saw were only swells of waves. Excitement skipped through her veins like little fairies. By late tomorrow they would be in Paris, City of Light. How she had dreamed of such places.

“Should be a fair enough crossing,” Sean remarked as he joined her, that hoped-for smile in place. “Are you a good sailor, Laura?”

“Yes!” she answered immediately, thinking of the little sail boat she and Lambdin kept on the pond. “Oh, I can’t wait, Sean! My insides are fluttering like the seabirds.” She pointed up at the dizzying flock of gulls that circled the wharf.

He chuckled. “Be still, widgeon. You’re rocking the boat.”

“Don’t be silly. This thing’s a ship. ‘Twould take a gale to rock it.” She drew in a huge draft of the damp, salty sea breeze and sighed it out. Huge arms surrounded her and she leaned back against his solid chest, covering his hands with hers. “I feel so happy, Sean. So very happy, just at this moment.”

Again he laughed, the rumble vibrating through her back and settling around her heart. “We haven’t even done anything yet,” he reminded her.

She tugged loose and turned to face him. “But we have, Sean. Think of it! In the space of twenty-four hours, I’ve become your wife,” she said, feeling the blush color her cheeks, “and embarked on yet another exciting adventure! Will you show me Paris? Will we have the time?”

“I will make the time,” he declared, brushing his hand down her face to cup her chin. “You shall see everything there is to see. The Tuileries, Bonaparte’s Tomb, the Arch, the Louvre. All of it.”

“What else? What else? Tell me more!” she demanded with an impatient bounce.

He shook his head. “Isn’t that enough? Oh, all right, then, how’s this? The tallest structure in the known world, three hundred meters. Will that do? There is this tower in the middle of the city, built for the Exposition.”

“Oh, I read of that,” she said excitedly. “It’s costing them millions!”

“In francs, yes,” he agreed. “But I’m afraid it’s too ugly to thrill you much.”

“No, no, I shall love it,” she said, shaking her head. The mist-dampened feather on her hat drooped across one eye.

“Let’s get you inside before you’re completely soaked. I think the wind is picking up.”

In her excitement, Laura hadn’t even noticed they had gotten under way. Obediently she accompanied him to the cabin where they could pass the short trip in comfort.

Half an hour later, she dashed out and back to the rail. Sean held her fast as she leaned over and lost her breakfast and luncheon. When her stomach had collapsed in on itself, she drooped in his arms and rested against him.

“It’s too soon,” she gasped, squeezing her eyes shut against her disappointment. “I thought it would be all right…but I don’t want to…go yet.”

His arms tightened around her, one hand pressing her now-hatless head against his chest and the other holding her whole body snug against his. “You’re not going anywhere!” he snapped furiously. “You hear me? Not anywhere but to France. To see Paris. To dance away the night. To laugh and eat beignets, drink café au lait, the best champagne….”

“Oh, God, don’t speak of food!” She pushed him away and retched again.

He enfolded her more softly this time. “This is only seasickness, Laura. You won’t die of it, I promise, no matter how you feel at the moment.”

Somehow she didn’t quite believe him. From the desperate way he held her and the tone of his voice, he must not quite believe it, either.

For the remainder of the crossing, Laura lay cocooned in a blanket Sean had secured from one of the stewards, expecting to breathe her last at any moment. By the time they reached Calais, she found herself embracing the thought. Anything would be better than the misery she endured.

“I’ll send for a doctor, darling,” Sean whispered against her ear as they disembarked. He carried her in his arms toward one of the waiting carriages for hire.

“First we’ll go to a hotel and get you to bed.”

Laura allowed herself to doze in the carriage. She felt the sick dizziness subside a bit when he deposited her on a cushioned armchair near the innkeeper’s desk. “Sean?” she called when he started to step away from her to register.

“Yes?” he answered immediately, hurrying back to kneel beside her and take her hands in his. “What is it?” The sharp concern on his face made her smile.

“I feel much better. The sickness seems to be fading.” In fact, she felt a bit hungry. “Do you think we could order up some tea? Maybe a few salted biscuits?” Laura watched his wide shoulders droop with what she suspected was relief.

“Anything,” he answered on a protracted sigh. “Whatever you want. Will you be all right here for a moment?”

She nodded and smiled again, putting more energy into it than she really felt. Perhaps she would have a reprieve after all, another day to enjoy. During the few moments it took Sean to arrange for a room, she recovered completely. Nothing of her illness remained save a bit of weakness in her knees when she first stood alone. She insisted, over Sean’s objection, that she could manage the stairs to their rooms on her own two feet.

When the doctor arrived, he caught Laura with her mouth full of savory chicken stew. “Good day to you, Madame Wilder,” he greeted her. The newness of the address thrilled her into a happy grin.

“The mal de mer abates, oui?” He continued, “I am Dr. Louis Grillet, at your service.”

Laura swallowed again and held out her hand. The handsome rascal kissed it! Lingeringly. She shot a glance at Sean. He was frowning ominously at the physician’s gesture. Lord, he looked jealous.

“Enchanté,” she announced sweetly just to further gauge her husband’s reaction. He stepped nearer. If the doctor had not been leaning against her bedside already, Laura thought Sean might have pushed between them.

Something inside her did cartwheels, and it had nothing to do with her formerly unsettled stomach. “You were kind to come so quickly,” she said to Dr. Grillet, “but it looks as though I don’t need you after all. As you can see, I am fine. Appetite restored,” she said pointing toward her half-empty tray of food, “and no lingering effects. I suspect my husband and I may have overreacted.”

“Perhaps a more thorough examination is in order, nonetheless,” Grillet suggested with a sly smile. “If you would wait outside, Monsieur Wilder?”

“I think not,” Sean growled menacingly. “If she says she is fine, then she is fine.” He handed the doctor several bills, neatly folded. “For your trouble. Good night.”

The curt dismissal prompted a Gallic shrug from Grillet and an inner squeal of delight from Laura. She hugged her arms over her chest to calm her heart. Her husband acted like a smitten lover. She didn’t even mind if he was pretending. The very fact that he troubled himself to assume such a role told her that he cared.

“You were wonderful!” she said once the doctor had gone.

“More like ridiculous,” he declared, sinking onto the bed and pinching the bridge of his nose with his fingers.

Laura started to reassure him, but when she leaned forward away from the pillows, her head spun dangerously. He noticed when she swayed to one side and righted her with his hands on her shoulders. “Lie back. And don’t worry, it’s just the effect of the laudanum. I promise that’s all it is.”

“Laudanum!” She bolted upright and nearly screeched the word.

“I had the cook add a bit to your tea. It will calm your stomach and allow you to rest well tonight.”

“I will not be drugged! Not ever!” Laura fumed. “How dare you lace my tea without so much as a by-your-leave? Don’t you understand? I want awareness, Sean. Every single moment, I want to know exactly—”

“Oh, Laura,” he said, shifting nearer and sliding his arms around her loosely. “Never again, I promise you. Damn it all, I should have known better. I didn’t think.”

“Will you hold me?” she asked, burying her nose in the soft wool of his jacket and pulling him closer. “I was afraid today,” she whispered the words, barely hearing them herself. “I hate being afraid!”

“I know,” he answered. She thought she heard a slight catch in his voice. “Everything will be all right,” he added. “You’ll see.”

“You won’t leave when I sleep, will you?” Laura hated herself for clinging, but the night ahead frightened her witless. What if she simply drifted off into nothingness and stayed there forever?

“I won’t leave you,” he promised fervently. His lips pressed against her temple and hovered there as he spoke. “I vow I won’t leave you, Laura. Not even for a minute.”

With a sigh of relief, she let the reality of his strong embrace bear her into a world of dreams where nothing else dared touch her.

Chapter Four

Sean knew he could have left Laura last night and she would never have known the difference. He could have seen to their bags, which were no doubt stacked in some corner belowstairs awaiting his instructions. He could have ordered a late meal for himself so that his stomach wouldn’t be growling now like a bear just out of hibernation. But a promise was a promise.

“Where is it?” she mumbled, squinting up at him.

“What?”

“The cat.”

“What cat?”

“The one that slept in my mouth,” she muttered. “I know I have fur on my tongue.”

Sean laughed softly and pulled his arm from beneath her neck. He propped on his elbow and raked the length of her body with his gaze. “If there is a cat, it’s probably lost in the wrinkles of your skirts. We’re both a mess. I should have undressed us.”

He wouldn’t discuss with her why he hadn’t done that. He could not have borne holding her with nothing between them. The pain of their closeness, even fully dressed as they were, had nearly killed him. The powerful urge to give comfort with, as well as to, his body would have wrecked his resolve if he hadn’t left the fabric barriers exactly as they were.

Laura shifted and rubbed her eyes with her fists as a child might do on waking. He brushed the loosened strands of her hair back from her forehead and kissed her brow. “How do you feel?”

She laughed softly and shook her head. “Fuzzy. Could we have some breakfast?”

“Certainly!” he said, rolling off the bed and trying to straighten his clothes. “Right away.” Then he stopped what he was doing and braced one hand on her shoulder. “Will you be all right while I go and order?”

“Of course. Go ahead. I’m quite recovered.” She marched to the washstand and began splashing her face in the water. He watched her for a time to see how steady she was. Then, satisfied she told the truth, Sean left her to her ablutions while he arranged their passage on the train bound for Paris.

A little while later, they sat in the dining room of the hotel drinking the café au lait he had promised her.

Sean thought she looked a bit washed-out. He hoped that was only the result of the medicine he had ordered last night and her earlier bout with the nausea on the ship.

“So, tell me about our business in Paris,” she demanded with a bright smile.

“Our business?” he asked with a quirk of his brow.

“You don’t think for a moment I’m going to let you prevent me playing investigator! Now, tell.” She threw him a saucy wink over the edge of her cup.

Sean fought the urge to embellish his current case, to offer her some trumped-up derring-do to take her mind off her other problem. No, he wouldn’t lie. After all his insistence on honesty, she deserved better than that. Still he found himself tempted.

“My—our—employer is Mr. Frederick Burton, director of the National Gallery. He has set me the task of examining a painting offered for sale by a Monsieur Charles Beaumont. If the provenance proves legitimate and it is what he says it is, I—we—are to purchase it with the funds provided and take it safely home.”

“And?”

“That’s it,” he declared, noting her frown of disappointment.

“I thought it would be something more—”

“Dangerous? Yes, I knew you expected that. But it needn’t be so dull. If you like drawing, then you must be interested in art. This Monsieur Beaumont may have a fine collection as yet unseen by the public. He’s claiming a Rembrandt, at any rate. Won’t you find that interesting?”

She looked distracted. “How will you know if this picture is the real thing and not fake?”

Sean allowed his pride to show. He didn’t often do that, but he wanted her approval. Enough to boast a bit. “I know Rembrandt. I’ll wager I could tell you how many hairs in each brush he used in every known painting he produced. No one knows him as I do. I’ve already discovered two forgeries formerly attributed to him. That’s how I landed this case.” He grinned at her astonishment.

“You said you never studied painting.”

“Art history,” he admitted wryly. “Rembrandt was always my favorite. I’ve read everything ever written about him and his work. Later, as I traveled, examining his paintings and his technique in museums became something of a hobby. More like an obsession, really. I’ve seen them all. At least those not in private, inaccessible collections such as Beaumont’s.”

“So you will simply look at this painting, decide if it’s real, and buy accordingly?” she asked.

“Of course not. I’ll check the provenance and establish how it changed hands through the years, as well as examining the brush strokes, colors, composition and so forth. Burton and I did that together with a fourteenth-century Duccio a few years past in Florence, though I’m not really well versed on Italian painters. I’ve acquired lesser pieces for him since then. This is the most important thing he has trusted me with alone.”

Her eyes looked a trifle glazed as she said, “I’m fascinated!”

Sean laughed aloud and shook his head. “You are not, you little liar! You’re bored to tears. Come on, you wanted sordid disguises, flying bullets, mad dashes through the back streets. Admit it.”

“Childish, aren’t I?” She laughed, too, and blushed. Sean was delighted to see color in her cheeks, whatever the cause.

“Wonderfully so,” he said, standing and offering his arm. “Now let’s go to Paris, shall we, Mrs. Wilder? On my word, I promise you won’t be bored there.”

They arrived at the Hotel Lenoir very late that evening. Both were travel weary, but Sean noticed nothing faint about Laura. She seemed to have bounced back readily enough from her ills of the day before. While that relieved his mind somewhat, he couldn’t feel completely at ease.

There would come a time—probably quite soon—when she would not rally. Something vital shrank inside him every time he let himself think of that.

He tried to picture it, though, so that he could accept it when the worst happened. Laura still and white, beautiful in her final repose. Himself, stoic without and crushed within. It was no use. He could not make himself imagine. There was no preparing for such a thing anyway. Almost as heartbreaking as facing the actuality would be the pretending beforehand, the smiling and making of ordinary conversation, living as though there would always be a tomorrow for Laura. That much he must do for her, no matter how difficult or painful.

Facing the most deadly, knife-wielding bully in Whitechapel had not prompted such dread as he felt now.

Sean knew now that he hadn’t fully understood what he faced until Laura had fallen sick on the ferry. Death was no stranger to him, of all people. Sean could not begin to count the bodies he had viewed over the years, in the bowels of London, on battlefields, during days with the Yard and afterward. But thinking of Laura lifeless? His mind rebelled.

How could he go on this way, wondering if every breath Laura drew might be her last? And if it was this miserable for him, what the devil must it be like for Laura? Surely she marked the apprehension in his eyes every time he looked at her.