Chapter Three
Damn it all!
James paced down the hill from his mother’s modest estate toward the road leading into the village. His sister-in-law was driving him to madness. She lurked in every room, around every corner, perpetually throwing herself at him. He was rapidly running out of patience and polite rebuffs. He felt like a caged lion, and his growing obsession with Phoebe Landon did not help matters.
Why couldn’t he wipe the enticing Lady Phoebe from his mind? He’d thought to satisfy his curiosity over her with a kiss, but one kiss had not been enough. Would neverbe enough. Those saccharine lips ignited a fire within him unlike anything he’d experienced before. Her mouth was undoubtedly the sweetest thing he’d ever tasted. It may have been the punch she’d been drinking, but he rather doubted it. He wanted more. More Phoebe. Of course he couldn’t have more Phoebe. Any further contact with her would spell certain disaster.
Instead he’d seek out a whore. And a drink. Not necessarily in that order. He’d take whichever came available first seeing as his mother had poured every ounce of liquor in the house either out the window or down the chamber pots. Damned frustrating.
He passed several houses with smoke curling toward the early morning sky, and followed a bend in the road. The town was close, as was the tavern. He kicked up the pace, looking ahead. “Heaven help me,” he muttered, grinding near to a halt.
Straight ahead, walking down the dusty roadway with a basket looped over her arm was Lady Phoebe. Their gazes connected and a slow smile spread over her lovely face. She actually looked happy to see him!
James lifted a hand in greeting, all thought of whores and liquor dissipating in the light of her smile. By God, she actually glowed. “Good morning, Lady Phoebe. Are you out for an early picnic?” When their paths crossed he reversed his direction and fell into step beside her.
She shook her head, motioning the basket with her free hand. “One of the village women, Mrs. Porter, had a baby last week. I am delivering some Jam and rolls and a new blanket for the child.”
“That is very kind. Is Mrs. Porter a particular friend of yours?”
“No. It is a tradition brought about by my mother for our tenants.”
James nodded, understanding. The late Duchess Corsair had been famed for her kindness and beloved by all who’d known her. “I heard wonderful stories about your mother as a child when we visited this part of the country.”
“Did you ever know her?”
“No. The history between our families prevented it.”
Phoebe nodded. Falling silent. James wondered if she, like so many others, believed he’d murdered her brother years before. After a moment she glanced up. No accusation glimmered in her eyes.
“I’m very sorry about your father, Colonel. I understand the general’s death was unexpected.”
James cleared his throat, surprised by the turn of the conversation. “Thank you,” he said gruffly. Long suppressed anger and guilt flared to life inside him. He endeavored to tamp it back down, but could think of nothing light-hearted or funny to shift the conversation. “Actually, the general was my uncle.”
Phoebe glanced up, genuinely surprised. “Your uncle? But the newspapers always referred to him as your father.”
“He was my step-father,” James explained. “My father, Hector Witherspoon, died when I was three years old. My mother married his brother a year later and one year after that my half-brother Tobias was born.”
Phoebe blinked, considering the family dynamic. Such marriages were extremely uncommon and very much frowned upon by society.
He flashed a wry smile. “It’s all very complicated and dysfunctional.”
“I should think it would be hard to have your uncle marry your mother. Confusing.”
James shrugged unsure what to say. The truth was it wouldn’t have been so difficult if everyone hadn’t wanted to pretend Hector had never existed. The memories James had of him were shadowed and hazy like dreams. James had one wonderful, vivid memory of his father, standing along the river bank holding a silver fish with a big grin on his face. “It was a difficult time for my mother. She replaced her husband and moved forward without a backward glance. I was expected to do the same.”
Phoebe turned those startling pale eyes on him, curiosity flickering in the depths. “All the same, I’m sure you loved your step-father. Unexpected loss is never easy.”
A fact James had grown all too familiar with over the years. Perhaps that is why he preferred whiskey to water, and life in the military to a more domestic existence. At war there was an anticipation of death, less surprise in the matter. One had every expectation that he might play cards with a man one night and dig his grave the next. There were also no wives or mothers about to harp when he chose to stuff his emotions into a bottle.
“I daresay you’re right,” he replied finally. “Though I’m not sure I ever told him. The general was a hard man. Things hadn’t been good between us for some time.” After a moment he cleared his throat. “I say, Siren, how did we fall on this dark subject?”
She cast him a sheepish glance that snatched the breath from his lungs. “That is my fault I’m afraid.”
“Nonsense,” James murmured, trapped in her lovely eyes. Finally she took pity on him and glanced away, granting him freedom from her intoxicating spell. Mentally James shook himself, fixed her with a determined grin. “Is it often your habit to stroll unchaperoned?”
She colored prettily. “My maid usually accompanies me, but her mother isn’t well so she walked with me to town and will join me again when I return home.”
“In that case, my lady,” he swept an arm down the road, “might I escort you to your destination?”
She smiled. “That would be lovely, Colonel.”
They continued on, chatting amiably as the little town came alive. Several people waved and called out greetings to Lady Phoebe. She smiled and waved, asking after their families or their health. She knew everyone by name, and they flocked to her and her genuine kindness. If anyone took note of her escort they tactfully declined comment. No doubt the tongues would wag later about the disreputable Colonel Witherspoon and the virtuous Lady Phoebe strolling through the village together.
“Ho there, Colonel!”
James turned to find an old man tottering forward, leaning heavily on a cane. He wore a faded plaid vest and a tweed cap with tufts of white hair sticking out behind his ears. James strode forward to meet the man. “How can I be of service, sir?”
The old man’s gaze swept James’s red tunic. “A Royal Dragoon?”
“Yes, sir.”
The man nodded approvingly. “Going back to give old Boney hell are you?”
“I am.” Very soon in fact. Now that the general’s funeral was over, he was awaiting official orders.
The old man’s faded eyes twinkled. He extended a hand. “Good luck to you, son, and all of His Majesty’s soldiers.”
James shook the man’s hand and nodded his thanks. He turned back to find Phoebe watching him, a slight smile on her perfect lips.
“You’re not at all like the stories I’ve heard,” she said.
“Which stories, Siren? Am I not a war hero and a wolf in your eyes any longer?”
She flushed beneath his teasing. “I was referring to the other stories.”
“Ah, yes.” He feigned gravity. “You doubt my prowess as a lover.”
She laughed heartily. “I say, Colonel, is it a curse to be so glib?”
“At times, yes.” He winked, wishing to avoid the topic of his more serious transgressions. “Call me James, please. Or Jamie if you wish.”
“James,” the word rolled slowly off her tongue as she tested it. Weighed it. He suppressed a groan. His name from her lips was the keenest torture, an innocent seduction he’d not anticipated from a gesture so simple. After a moment she cocked her head. “The other day you told me to call you Jamie. Which name do you prefer?”
“Either,” he replied. “As a boy everyone called me, Jamie. After I went away to school, James became more prevalent. I answer to either.”
She seemed to consider the answer. “Very well. And you must call me—”
“Siren.” He stopped walking and faced her, growing serious. Her eyes locked with his, the hue too bright to be gray but too pale to be considered blue, and he braced against the sensation of falling right into them. How could a man gaze at a woman that beautiful and not be humbled in some measure. Unable to resist, James captured one of her silken blond locks between his fingers. Pure luxury. “For that is exactly what you are.”
* * *
Later that afternoon, Phoebe sat at the desk in the library with five books on Greek mythology stacked before her. She stared intently at an illustration of sirens perched on island boulders. The enchanting females beckoned sailors forth so that their ships might wreck upon the shallow rocks. Deceivingly beautiful creatures. Depicted as idyllic naked women, the sirens cast coquettish eyes toward a sailing ship in the distance with naught but long hair and vines to conceal their nudity. Phoebe caressed the tantalizing lines of the drawing, and her fingers itched to paint such a scene. No wonder James had pinned her with this pet name. The first time he’d seen her she’d been walking half naked down the beach!
James, however, hardly seemed like a gullible sailor with stars in his eyes. He was an intelligent man. Funny too, but she sensed he used humor as a shield. A means to shy away from more serious topics of conversation.
She didn’t know what to make of the suspicion that he’d killed her brother all those years ago. Fifteen to date.
The Landons and Witherspoons had been feuding for decades. Years before, Phoebe’s grandfather, Peter Landon, stumbled across an ancient Egyptian Amulet known as the Heart of the Nile while traveling abroad. Another man, Joseph Witherspoon, a good friend of Peter’s attempted to claim ownership of the piece. A great falling out had ensued and the families had been at war ever since. Phoebe had little memory of the ancient pendent, it went missing the night of Patrick’s murder. Shortly thereafter the Witherspoon’s—a prominent military family—had moved to London, leaving any knowledge of them to be gleaned from newspapers and gossip columns.
“Phoebe! Phoebe!” The excited call exploded through the library, yanking Phoebe from her rapt study of sirens.
“Sarah?” Phoebe stood, moving from behind a book shelf to find her friend positively quivering with excitement. “What is it? What’s happened?”
“Nicholas proposed!” She rushed forward, holding her left hand out.
“Lieutenant Collins?” Phoebe grabbed her friends hand, and gazed down at the engagement ring. A small red jewel winked in the sunlight from the windows.
“Soon to be Captain Collins. He received news of the promotion today and spoke with my father immediately.”
Phoebe’s heart swelled with happiness. “Sarah, that is wonderful! When will the wedding be?”
“If a special license can be arranged we are hoping to have a small ceremony before he returns to the continent.” Sarah sobered slightly. “I’d follow him to war, but Nicholas won’t hear of it. Neither will my mother for that matter. She said if I don’t promise to stay in England she won’t agree to a wedding until he returns from the war.” She shook her head with a laugh. “In any case, tonight there will be a small dinner party for friends and family to officially announce our engagement. You must come, Phoebe.”
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” Phoebe hugged Sarah joyously.
Sarah drew back, flicking her gaze nervously away for a moment. “I must warn you, Phoebe, Colonel Witherspoon will be in attendance. He is Nicholas’s commanding officer.”
Phoebe’s pulse quickened, but not for the reasons Sarah might suspect.
“I had the pleasure of meeting the Colonel before the ball last night,” Sarah continued in a rush. “He is perfectly amiable, and Nicholas does naught but sing his praises from the battlefield.” Sarah glanced back to Phoebe, dark eyes growing serious. “Will you still be able to attend?”
“Of course, Sarah!” Phoebe quickly assured. For a moment she debated telling Sarah of her budding friendship with James, but quickly decided against it. “I understand he rode in the exhibition yesterday. I’d like to ask him where he came by that fine horse. Edward has been talking about acquiring some new stock.”
Sarah fixed her with a perplexed look, but declined further comment, and quickly turned the conversation back to her upcoming nuptials.
That evening Phoebe took special care with her appearance, donning a pale blue ensemble crafted for her London season. She told herself it was for Sarah’s benefit, but in truth her mind danced with prospects of James. Edward had been detained with estate business and bade her wish Sarah well for him. Probably for the best if he didn’t attend, he was considerably less open-minded about the Witherspoons than Phoebe.
Phoebe drew a slow breath, giving herself one last perusal in the mirror, nerves bandied about in her belly. Rumors about James Witherspoon abounded from drunken scandal to his heroism on the battlefield. Which was the real man? The scoundrel or the wolf. And had either of them killed her brother?
* * *
“Getting yourself leg shackled before we ship to Belgium, Collins? Pity. I had high hopes for you.”
Nick Collins laughed heartily, handing James a crystal sniffer with a finger of brandy in it. “Not every man has your talent or penchant for bedding a different woman every night. I believe the word you’re looking for is congratulations, sir. Sarah is a fine girl.”
James raised the sniffer in salute to his friend. “Pretty too.”
Nick grinned, swiveling to gaze tenderly at his fiancé. “That she is. I am a lucky man indeed.”
A glib remark came easily to James’s lips, but he held it back. Nick looked damnably happy tonight as did Miss Sarah Hardy. He watched as the couples eyes connected across the room, and a wheedle of emotion suspiciously akin to jealousy rolled through his gut. True companionship sparkled between them, and without cognizance James shifted his attention to Phoebe.
His throat dried.
Gauzy fabric lay softly across her shoulders, gliding down her slender frame in whispers of silk and lace. The modest bodice left an enticing hint of the flesh beneath, like a secret, begging men to peel back the layers and discover what pleasures lay beneath.
Phoebe’s haunting gray-violet eyes flicked to him as though she’d sensed his perusal, and lightning hot desire shot through him. Oh, but it was more than desire. He longed for her… her smile… her laugh...
Alarm flushed his veins in an icy deluge. He needed to escape. To tumble some willing wench and forget he’d ever laid eyes on Phoebe Landon, much less tasted her voluptuous lips.
James cleared his throat. “I wish you all the best, Collins.” He clapped Nick’s shoulder and backed away, swirling the brandy. “I think I’ll call it a night a bit early.”
“Thank you for coming, Sir. Before you go, I wanted to ask…”
“Anything.”
“Would you stand up at my wedding?”
Shocked, James had no ready response. He couldn’t fathom why Nick would want him to stand up at his wedding. His name was hardly synonymous with marriage and fidelity. Finally he flashed a self-deprecating smile. “Letting me in the church would likely be a bad omen, Captain. Lightning is sure to strike me into perdition for daring to step foot inside.”
Nick just smiled, mildly amused, but his eyes were friendly and serious. “You haven’t answered my question, Colonel.”
James raked a hand through his hair, glancing briefly about the room. “Hell,” he muttered, looking back to Collins. “You’re certain?”
“I wouldn’t ask otherwise.”
James extended a hand. “In that case, it would be my pleasure, Nick.”
James shook his friend’s hand and strode away, fully intent upon taking his leave. His errant gaze drifted once again to Phoebe. She split away from the group surrounding Sarah and glided surreptitiously toward a door leading from the modest yet elegant assembly room. At the last moment her head swiveled, her eyes lighting on his. Invitation glittered in the depths. A second later, Phoebe disappeared in a whisper of silk and lace.
James stared at the door. “I’m a bloody fool,” he mumbled, draining the contents of the brandy glass. How could he ignore such an invitation?