Midnight Pleasures by Eloisa James
He shook his head. “No.”
She looked at her husband’s unyielding expression, handed her muff to the seaman, and then hesitated again. In Patrick’s eyes there was a command, not an entreaty.
“I don’t see why I couldn’t climb down the ladder,” she grumbled as the seaman handed her into Patrick’s waiting embrace. Patrick effortlessly held her small body against his chest as he made his way down the ladder.
“Sorry,” he said. “You’re my Sophie.”
“Excuse me, ma’am,” the sailor in the boat said as Patrick placed her in the skiff. Simone was retching over the side.
Sophie made her way over to her maid. “Shouldn’t the crew be joining us?” she asked Patrick.
“Crew stays with the ship,” Patrick replied. He didn’t add that it was the first time he had deserted the Lark during a storm. “The rowboat will make one more trip and bring Floret over to the shore. He’s threatening never to pick up a soup ladle again if we don’t get him onto solid ground.”
By the time the small boat made its way to the dock, the wind had picked up and icy nibblets of rain were beginning to lash against Sophie’s face. Patrick jumped out of the boat and held out his arms for his wife.
As Patrick turned back to help Simone from the boat, Sophie smiled at the chubby young man who stood waiting for them. He had a round face and blond curls, with a rather impish expression. He was wearing what looked like a monk’s long robe. But he couldn’t be a monk; there were no monks left in the British Isles. Perhaps he just likes the robes, Sophie thought.
“How do you do?”
The man peered at her. “I do well, I do well,” he said, after a pause. He had the rolling syllables of a Welshman born and bred.
Patrick came up behind Sophie and shook his hand. “I am Patrick Foakes, and this is my wife, Lady Sophie.”
“Mine is John Hankford,” said the Welshman, “just plain Mister John Hankford.”
Hankford had a sweet look about him, Sophie thought, rather like a talkative cherub. Except that he seemed disinclined to say anything further.
“We are very grateful for your hospitality, Mr. Hankford,” she said.
Hankford peeked rather nervously around the gentlefolk before him and saw that the rowboat had disappeared into the hanging gray sea spray. Then he pulled a long, rusty rifle from under his robes and leveled it at Patrick.
Sophie jumped but said nothing. Simone gave a faint scream. Patrick remained utterly silent, merely taking a quick glance at the rifle.
The Welshman erupted into speech. “There’s no need to worry, no need to worry. I don’t mean to scare the ladies, no indeed, no indeed. The fact of the matter is … well, the fact of the matter is that I’ve got to ‘ave your promise of silence before I take you up the stairs to the house. Because there’s something there that you might not like, or perhaps you will, I don’t know, but you’re all Lunnonfolk, I reckon, and so you’ll ‘ave to promise not to let out the secret.”
Sophie looked up at Patrick questioningly. He was staring at Hankford, a small frown between his brows.
“Are you injuring anyone, or holding anyone against his will?”
“Oh no, oh no,” the Welshman exclaimed, speech fairly rolling out of his mouth. “Quite to the contrary, as a matter of fact, quite to the contrary. We’re healing people; it’s just a matter of who we’re healing. But I canna go any further, or rather you canna go any further, until I have your word of honor that you won’t let out the secret to anyone in Lunnon.”
Patrick glanced down at Sophie.
She met his eyes and then smiled. There weren’t many gentlemen who would ask their wives’ opinion at such a moment, even silently.
“I think we should accompany Mr. Hankford,” she said to Patrick, ignoring Simone’s moan.
Already Patrick had found that Sophie had an inexhaustible store of questions on any subject. He should have known that she would dash straight into danger if given the chance.
Patrick turned a steady eye on the Welshman, who visibly flinched. Whatever Hankford is up to, Patrick thought, he is not dangerous.
He nodded brusquely. “Right. As long as you are not injuring anyone, you have my word that we will not inform the London authorities of your activities.”
Without a word, John Hankford turned about and started up the long, straggling stairs to the ancient monastery.
Sophie’s eyes gleamed. “What on earth do you suppose he’s doing up there?”
Patrick looked at the happy curiosity in her eyes and inwardly groaned. His wife was definitely addicted to French romances. Hell, she probably thought they were heading into a haunted monastery or some such nonsense.
“I expect he’s smuggling.” His tone was dismissive as he turned to Simone. The girl was shivering, clearly about to have hysterics and refuse to climb the cliffs. “It’s the monastery or the Lark,” he said to the girl, not unkindly.
Simone looked uncertainly at the dark greenish storm clouds above them.
“The gun he’s brandishing about is a little-used antique,” Patrick pointed out. “And Hankford does not look handy with firearms.”
Suddenly Simone realized that Sophie had started to climb the steps and was already a distance above them. “Don’t you let the mistress go into that den of thieves by herself, sir!”
Before Patrick could open his mouth, she brushed indignantly past him and started after Sophie.
Patrick sighed and took after her. When the little group reached the top of the stairs, a great oak door stood open before them. Patrick stepped in. The room didn’t seem to be the lair of a group of thieves. In fact, it was as empty as a tomb, and about as furnished. The pudgy Welshman had shucked off his monk’s robe and was standing by the great stone fire-place.
Patrick strode over to him, irritation riding in his tone. “Well? Aren’t you going to reveal your dark secret?”
John Hankford looked at him, a trifle uncertain. Foakes appeared to be a little black-hearted, he did. “There’s nothing bad about the place. Nothing a’tall. This is naught but a ‘ospital,” John said.
Patrick sneered. “Now why would we have to promise not to tell about a hospital!”
But in a flash of an eye, he knew. “God forbid, we’ve found our way into a nest of Bony sympathizers!”
John glared at him defensively. “We’re not for them French, we’re not. But we’re not for you English, neither. All we’ve been doing is mending a few of the boys who got torn up in their wars, and fled the place.”
“Deserters.” Patrick’s entire body was stiff and still. “How did they get here?”
“They were left in a hospital with a drunken surgeon, and they were dying like flies. So the youngest of ‘em put as many as he could in a boat and pushed off. They’re naught but poor foot soldiers. Two of ‘em are just fourteen years old. The French was letting ‘em die.”
“How terrible!” Sophie exclaimed. “And how good of you to take care of them.” She smiled warmly at John Hankford.
“They’re deserters, Sophie.” Patrick’s voice was strained. Perhaps the men were deserters—and perhaps they were able-bodied French soldiers pretending to be injured.
Sophie shrugged. “They are boys who are hurt. Who would possibly care that Mr. Hankford is taking care of their wounds?”
Off the top of his head, Patrick could think of a half-dozen gentlemen who would be remarkably interested in the existence of a Welsh group of Bonaparte sympathizers—and first in line would be Lord Breksby. In fact, this was precisely the kind of situation that had worried the English government enough that they had ordered fortifications built on the Welsh coast. But what was the good of fortifications if a group of crazy Welshmen simply invited French troops to land?
“You know, Sophie dearest,” Patrick drawled with just a hint of condescension, “England did declare war on Napoleon last May.”
“Well, of course we did,” Sophie said, looking up at him with an adorable little frown betwe
An ironic grin touched Patrick’s lips. His wife was a constant surprise to him.
But Sophie had already turned back to John. “Would you be so kind as to allow us to visit your hospital facilities? I have no knowledge of nursing,” she added hastily, “but I do speak French.”
John’s eyes brightened. “You do? That’s grand, missus. Mind you, I can make out a bit of French, and so can the parson, and so can my mother. And the boy who got them over here—his name’s Henry—he speaks some English, but even so we haven’t figured out what some of the lads are saying. No indeed.”
Patrick snorted. The parson? A parson was involved in this unpatriotic mess. Still, if Hankford and his mother were tending a lot of French soldiers without speaking the language, likely they weren’t true sympathizers with Bonaparte.
Sophie placed her hand on Mr. Hankford’s arm as he turned toward a side door. “I would be very pleased to speak to your patients,” she said.
John looked at her doubtfully. “I’m a bit worried as how I shouldn’t let you in the nursing side, ma’am, begging your pardon. Because what if your gentleman takes it in his head to tell the great men in London, and then my boys have their heads cut off?”
“I gave my word, man.” Patrick leveled a glare at the impertinent Welshman.
“That’s as may be,” John replied obscurely. But he seemed to have given in, for he opened the side door and held it as Patrick and Sophie walked through, Simone trailing behind.
They turned at an archway leading to a large room. Patrick pushed through the blanket hanging in the doorway and stopped at Sophie’s shoulder. The room was lined with cots, and flung down on each one was a wounded man. Some had bandages wound around their heads and some had bandages around their legs; several seemed to be missing limbs. Most of the men didn’t look over at the door when they entered. A plump woman did glance up, then went back to changing the bandage on a soldier’s chest.
Patrick looked down at Sophie. Her face was utterly bloodless. He put a comforting arm around her shoulder.
“Oh God, Patrick, they are just boys, do you see?”
“They look younger because they are wounded,” he said gently.
“No.” Sophie drew in a shuddering breath. “That one can’t be older than fourteen.” Patrick looked where she was pointing. He’d seen head wounds like that in India, and he didn’t think much of the boy’s chance for survival.
Suddenly a small lad popped up in front of them. His arms were crossed over his chest, and he was wearing the remains of a ragged French uniform.
“Why are you here?” he demanded. His English was accented but clear—and his gray eyes were fierce. The boy was, in fact, more dangerous-looking than John Hankford had been, rifle and all. He slanted his eyes over to Hankford. “Why did you let them in?”
John cleared his throat apologetically. “Their clipper blew into the harbor and so they will stay the night here, Henry. I had to tell them.”
Patrick looked at the Welshman in amusement, giving up the last remnants of his suspicion that Hankford was part of a Napoleonic plot. Clearly, this French guttersnipe had him over a barrel.
Sophie curtsied. “You must be the man who was brave enough to save your companions,” she said, her soft voice full of admiration.
Henry looked at the beautiful lady before him assessingly. “I only put them in a boat,” he said. “They were lying about dying, with flies all over them. I couldn’t … I couldn’t get them all in the boat, either.”
Patrick looked about the room. “You saved ten men,” he said.
Henry looked up at the tall Englishman.
And then Patrick bowed. “You are to be congratulated, Henry. You did a very brave thing.”
For the first time since they had entered the room, Henry looked a bit confused. “My name is Henri,” he said. Suddenly he swept a miniature, but exact, court bow.
Patrick’s eyebrow raised and he involuntarily looked at his wife. There was more here than met the eye. Henri was no common French lad, that was certain.
“How old are you, Henri?” Patrick asked.
“I’m almost thirteen.”
“Hell,” Patrick exclaimed in disgust, “a twelve-year-old foot soldier?”
“No, I was … I don’t know the word in English,” Henri said. “I carried about the flag. I was going to be a soldier, just as soon as I turned fourteen.”
Sophie swallowed and her grip on Patrick’s arm tightened.
Henri, who was clearly ripe for a case of puppy love, looked rather shyly at Sophie. “Would you like to meet them?” He gestured toward the beds.
Sophie replied in French, and that broke the last of Henri’s resistance. He beamed, and led her about the room, whispering the name of each of the injured boys.
Patrick watched Henri for a moment. The lad must have been three or four when the French began guillotining their nobility—and he hadn’t learned that bow from a peasant.
“How did you end up in this monastery?” Patrick asked Hankford.
Hankford looked about the room, rather pitifully. “Mum here and I are members of the Family of Love. Have you heard of it?”
Patrick nodded. Who hadn’t heard of the Family of Love? They were a Dutch religious group that had been variously accused of adultery and nudism, ever since the days of Queen Elizabeth. He looked at the plump nurse, who had finished changing the bandage and was now straightening the covers on a different cot. She certainly didn’t look like the adulterous type.
“I didn’t think the Family was still in operation,” Patrick observed carefully. No point in getting Hankford riled up, at least not until after dinner.
“Oh yes, oh yes, they are, at least in Wales,” Hankford said dispiritedly. “My grandfather became a member way back in 1731. He bought this monastery, thinking as he’d get a proper ‘family’ established here. But when he married my grandmother, she didn’t cotton to the Family of Love, and so she threw all the members out. But later my mother became a member, and so did I. Well, my grandfather’s dead now, but we’re still part of the Family. We couldn’t turn those French boys away when the boat washed up here.”
Patrick was starting to piece together the story. “Henri put the lads in a boat and it came ashore here.”
“Yup. They washed clear around the promontory and then came into the cove. As I said, we couldn’t turn them away, because they’d just be shot by the government. And the Family of Love doesn’t think much of government executions.”
As well they might not, Patrick thought to himself. Quite a few members of the so-called Family had been executed by the British government over the last hundred years. Still, he could dismiss the danger of Napoleon spearheading an invasion through this particular monastery.
Dinner was served in the monastery kitchen, at a long, scrubbed table. Having been rescued from the boat, Floret was hunched condescendingly at one end of the table, seated across from Simone. Sophie slid onto the bench, followed by Henri, who appeared to have transformed into her shadow. He hadn’t left her side since they met.
“Isn’t this splendid?”
Patrick looked at his wife measuringly. If only London society could see its reigning beauty now! Sophie’s hair was topsy-turvy, since she had pulled off her bonnet and tossed it somewhere. Her eyes were shining with excitement at the idea of sitting down to supper with her own servants in a thirteenth-century monastery.
“Yes,” he answered, trampling down a sensation of warmth that threatened to make him dizzy. He deliberately put on the airs of a callous aristocrat. “Oh yes, this is an inimitable pleasure.”
Sophie wrinkled her nose at him. “You are funning, sir,” she said. “I can think of nowhere I would rather be than taking supper with Master Henri here.”
Her husband, on the other hand, could think of many things he would rather be doing. But they were all too heady for t
Chapter 16
The next morning Sophie woke early and crept out of bed. Patrick lay in a tangle of faintly musty sheets, only the tip of one ear showing in his mop of black curls. For a moment Sophie paused, curling her bare toes against the cool stone floor. Then she quietly pulled on the gown she’d worn yesterday and struggled to fasten the back without Simone’s help. She slipped on her pelisse and her half-boots and crept out of the room.
As soon as she left, Patrick turned over and stared rather grimly at the cobwebby planks some twelve feet over his head. Something was happening that was beyond his personal experience. Seduce her no matter how expertly, his little wife had never succumbed. While he wasn’t quite the libertine she presumed, it was true that his previous lovers had invariably vowed eternal love by this point in the relationship.
Patrick frowned. What an arrogant popinjay he was! He had simply assumed that Sophie would forget all about Braddon, the man she was supposed to marry. The worst of it was that he had never wanted all those protestations of love so freely given by other women, but now … things were different.
Patrick groaned out loud. He needed to hear those words from Sophie. Oh God, trapped in the parson’s mousetrap. The words took on new meaning. He wasn’t trapped by the archaic words of the marriage ceremony. No, he was trapped by his own distracting, ignominious need for his wife.
A glimmer of a smile appeared on Patrick’s lips. After all, Sophie was his wife. If he was caught, so was she. So what if she didn’t murmur sweet words? Maybe she didn’t feel them. Perhaps those other women had simply told him what they thought he wanted.
Then a memory of Sophie, gasping as she frantically arched against his body, spilled into Patrick’s mind. In fact, Sophie did tell him what she felt, if not in words. So what if those feelings didn’t include frantic protestations of empty love? So much the better. They had an honest relationship. No empty bibble-babble between them.
Slowly Patrick sat up. A grim determination was growing in his heart. Somehow, some way, he was going to wrench those words from Sophie’s lips. Because even if they were just empty embellishments, he wanted to hear them from her. No, he needed to hear them. Because …