The Very Daring Duchess Part 28

"Compa.s.sion and bravery-ah, che miracolo!" continued Francesca. "Everyone in Naples and Palermo knows that of you, My Lord Captain Edward Ramsden, and soon everyone in England will cheer you for it as well. But that is not what I wish to know from you, my darling husband, not if you are to have any peace."

"You mean to torture me that much until I spill my secrets?" he asked, trying miserably to make a jest of it. But this was the first time she'd called him her husband-her darling husband at that-and how could he make a jest of something as significant as that?

"No peace from me, Edward, no," she said gently, linking her hand into the crook of his arm, "for I do not intend to stop looking after you. But if you wish peace for yourself, asleep and awake, then you must speak of this fearful dream."

Still looking down at the deck, he shook his head. "No, la.s.s. Confession's not my way."

"You wouldn't be confessing anything," she said, leaning closer to him so that the end of one long braid tickled his knee. "You'd be telling a story to your wife, no more, and I vow by all that is holy that I shall never repeat your words to another."

He'd thought her a temptation before, and did still, yet what she was offering now was more alluring than any apple from Eve. Confessing might not be his way, but confiding wasn't, either, and hadn't been since he'd been a friendless boy, unable to trust others with his secrets. The chance to unburden himself now would be an almost unimaginable luxury, especially to his wife.

His wife. As a husband, he'd believed he must be the one to offer solace and protection, to comfort her, and now it seemed she was doing the same for him. That was what a husband did, wasn't it? He'd no experience of his own with marriage, and having been so long in the navy, he hadn't even had any examples to observe. Were such confidences commonplace for other husbands? Could his bond with Francesca weigh more in this case than his honor and courage as an officer?

Had the admiral himself made such confidences to Lady Hamilton, a lovely and willing replacement for his own wife so far away in England? Had he whispered to her his disappointments after they'd returned from Egypt, his fears, the concerns he couldn't share with his officers without seeming weak or incompetent? Was that the real reason why he'd chosen to linger so long in Naples, for the sake of a gentle female ear to balance the male horrors of war?

"If you can give this dream of yours words, Edward," she said softly, "if you can share your fear with me, then you'll rob this nightmare of its power over you."

He groaned with frustration. He longed to tell her, to be able to part with enough of his past to do as she said. Yet as much as he ached to begin, he'd no real notion of how to give enough shape and words to the nightmare to be able to tell it to her.

And somehow she knew this of him, too, his wise and logical wife in her yellow stockings and golden hoops.

"Was the Centaur ever in danger from the L'Orient's fire?" she asked. "Is that why you were trying so hard to save her and your crew?"

"Yes," he gasped, relief mingling with the shameful horror of the dream itself. "No! We were close, aye, closer than any other s.h.i.+p save Hallowell's Swiftsure, but we swung round with our bows to the L'Orient to bear the explosion that way, and we'd closed our ports to keep the heat from our powder, too. There was not one flaw to what was done, none."

"But not in your dream?"

He groaned again. "Then I do nothing right, Francesca, not one d.a.m.ned thing. I am careless and selfish, the worst kind of captain looking only to add to my own glory. I let my crew become ravening, undisciplined beasts, worse than any Frenchmen, and when the L'Orient comes straight for us, all I think of is cowardly ways to save only myself from the death I deserve."

"I see no shame in that, Edward," she said softly. "What greater fear could there be than death?"

"But a captain must not think that way! He must be willing to make whatever sacrifice is necessary for the good of the s.h.i.+p and his crew! He must always think first of his duty, Francesca, never of himself!"

"And I say, caro mio, that beneath his fine English uniform, your captain is but a man," she said firmly, "with every right to fear for his own pain and destruction. If a man truly has no fear of death, then where is the glory, the courage, in facing it? How can even an English navy captain cherish the rare blessings he has in life without fearing their loss?"

"Why should I deserve any blessings at all if I must behave with so little honor?" he demanded, his anguish genuine. "Over and over I make the same wrongful choices, and over and over I must-I must-suffer the consequences!"

"But only in this nightmare, my husband," she insisted. "You do not trust the success the world wishes to lavish upon you, or feel worthy of what you have achieved, and so you punish yourself again and again in this nightmare. But why, Edward-why, why?"

Why, she asked, when the answer was so blindingly obvious he could either have laughed, or wept. As long as he could remember, from his father to his brothers to every other member of his wretched family, he'd never been judged deserving of anything of real merit. Even now, when the rest of the world praised him as a hero, in his nightmare he was again that small, terrified, worthless boy cut off by his family and sent to sea, the one destined always to make the wrong choice and bring dishonor to his name.

"You are no coward, Edward," she said fervently, her fingers tight around his arm as she willed him to believe it. "And I will never let anyone say otherwise of you. Not my brave English lion! No, no, my darling Edward: you are the best, the bravest, and the most honorable gentleman I have ever known, awake or asleep."

"Not to the Lord of the Admiralty, I am not."

And never was to my father, never could be, from the day I was born.

"And I say you are!" she cried, her conviction vibrating between them. "This First Lord will not turn you out in disgrace, the way you dread. Instead he'll heap honors upon you, and medals and ribbons and promotions and a new s.h.i.+p and oh, everything, everything good and fine that you deserve, else-else he shall answer to me, Edward, to me!"

He bowed his head, resting his hand over hers. He wanted desperately to believe her, as desperately as she seemed to be to defend him. He'd never had a champion, nor ever expected to, particularly one in petticoats, and most particularly one that was also his wife. Was this, then, one more thing he'd have to learn about marriage?

He had a sudden, irresistible image of her challenging his three older brothers, George, Frederick, and St. John at once, in a taunting wave of Italian, her little chin high and her hands defiantly akimbo on her hips as she sauntered in a circle around them.

And another image, less dramatic but more possible, of her at his side as he entered the inhospitable doors of the Admiralty Offices in Whitehall, and faced whatever there would be to face. She would be there, ready to share his fate, and even silent she would give him the strength he'd need.

She would do that for him. He didn't doubt it for a moment. So how could he possibly do any less for her now?

"I shall try my best, Francesca," he said, lifting her hand to his lips. "For you, I always will."

"What more could any woman ask, eh?" She smiled crookedly, a glisten that might have been tears in her eyes. "Now come, to sleep. Morning will come soon enough."

But though she tried to pull free, he wasn't yet ready for sleep. "What of you, la.s.s? What are your fears?"

"Mine?" she asked with surprise, then shrugged, trying to dismiss his question. "Oh, mine are little fears, not nearly so n.o.ble as yours. I do not like caves or other places under the earth, and I don't like serpents or spiders. Don't you recall yesterday how you said nothing could frighten me?"

He wasn't going to be put off by that, not now. "I've been honest with you, Francesca. Be honest with me."

By the smoky little lantern, her eyes seemed enormous and dark, and in them he could see how she was wrestling with herself even now. From the deck above came the sound of the bell that marked the end of the watch, footsteps and sleepy voices, amazing proof that life continued regardless of what happened here in this cabin. Nervously she smiled again, ducking her chin in the way that always betrayed her anxiety, and with both hands tucked her braids back behind her ears.

"Honesty, honesty," she mused uneasily, hugging herself. "Very well, caro mio. You deserve as much, even from a miserable, dissembling creature like me. I fear that I shall die, too, the same as you and every other mortal. But it is not the pain or suffering that scares me so much as fearing I will die before I've done everything I wished. What if I die too soon, and squander the talent I've been given? What if I die before I paint the most perfect painting I can, the one I was born to paint?"

She gulped, and shrugged again. "Papa recognized the gift I have from the beginning, and it grieved him so that he'd died before I'd seen my best work. Promessa maestasa mia-my master-gift, he called it. He made me swear that I'd never stop painting, for it was his dream as much as my own. Oh, I know how shallow and selfish that must sound to you, who have done so much more worthy things, but to me-"

"Nay, la.s.s, not foolish," he said gently, "not foolish at all.

She looked down at her knees. "That is my oldest fear, but there is another, newer one that torments me even more."

"The French?" he guessed. "Napoleon's troops in Naples?"

"Oh, no," she said wistfully, and finally looked at him. "It's you, Edward. After every wonderful thing you have done for me, caro mio, I am so very, very afraid that I will hurt you, that against all my wishes I will bring you pain or suffering that you do not deserve."

"You fear that?" he asked in disbelief. "For me? Oh, Francesca, don't."

He slipped his arm around her waist and pulled her closer inside their little coverlet-tent. He took her hand and pressed it against his side, over his ribs.

"Do you feel how sizable I am, la.s.s?" he said. He could feel the warmth of her fingers through his s.h.i.+rt, and he forced himself not to remember how those same fingers felt on his skin. "Though I've had my share of sc.r.a.pes and scars, I'm still a large man, not easily wounded, and it will take much more than you to leave any lasting damage."

Warily she angled her gaze up at him, unconvinced. "This is not what I meant, Edward."

"Then it must do, whether it's what you intended or not." He turned her chin toward him and kissed her possessively, wanting to mark her as his own.

"Oh, Edward," she murmured warily when he finally released her. Her lips were full and red and wet from his, her dark eyes heavy-lidded and languid. "If we begin this-"

"Not until London," he said, "though it may kill me to keep to such a fool's promise. But because it's you, la.s.s, and I mean to have you with me for the rest of my life, I can wait. I can wait."

He pulled her hand into the light, tipping it to show the engraved design of dolphins and anchors on her ring. "Here it is, marked on my ring so you will not forget. If you are adrift, then let me be your anchor. Your anchor, and your husband."

And your love....