The Officer's Temptation

The Officer's Temptation: Chapter Fifteen

Promises

The smell of the sea was thick on the breeze as sailors hustled down the docks, hauling casks and trunks and crates down the gangplank to the schooner flying English colors. Near the ship, a gull swooped, flapping its wings until its white feathers were lost against the clouds that dotted the sky. It was a fine day, the weather promising smooth seas. Marlowe hoped that the voyage would be calm as he approached the tall man in dark clothes who stood facing the harbour, back straight, hands stuffed into the pockets of his coat.

Nicholas turned. Under his dark brows, his gray eyes churned with emotion, but his expression was otherwise blank. "Thank you for meeting me," he said. His voice was careful, even.

"How could I not see you off?" Marlowe joined him facing the water, clasping his hands against the wood of a railing. It was so chipped and faded from the hot sun and salty air that a bit of brittle wood broke off under his hand. "How is she?"

Nicholas did not turn to him, only watched the harbour. He had removed his hat to push away stray strands of his long hair and dark tendrils curled around his ears. "In truth, I cannot be sure." His eyes flicked to Marlowe's for a moment, sharp and quick as a saber. "I had the servants lock away the laudanum."

Marlowe took a steadying breath, the salt air filling his lungs. "Was that truly necessary?"

"She was not herself," Nicholas said. The sun glinted off the buttons of his coat, precise and orderly little things. "I do not know what she is truly capable of, and I could not risk it... But now, I think she is a bit recovered. Stronger. Despite what she may seem, she has always been fragile underneath that determined exterior."

"I know. That is... I guessed." Marlowe swallowed the lump that rose in his throat. "Nicholas, you must know that I never meant for things to be this way."

Nicholas scoffed. "You never meant for it to be this way? Of course you wouldn't have." His voice was hot and laced with bitterness, though he did not raise it. "It was only your nature running its course. And hers and mine, the lot of us powerless puppets against the brutal destruction of our instincts. I wish that things had been different, but this is where we find ourselves." He drummed his fingers tidily against the railing and frowned out at the waves. The planes of his face were harsh and stark against the afternoon light. "You made your choice, Hughes. You must learn to live with it as must I."

"Why didn't you kill me, then?" Marlowe's throat felt raw and scratched with emotion. He wished that he had something to drink, preferably something strong.

"I was furious," Nicholas said. His shoulders sagged and he looked older for a moment than his thirty-odd years. "But now I only want to return home. Start fresh."

"Do you believe you will be able to?"

Nicholas sighed and turned to face him. "To start again? I hardly know. I suspect that in time I will learn to forgive her. I knew her nature when I married her--the highs and the lows. I only did not suspect that the lows would be quite so devastating."

Silence hung between them for a moment, Marlowe not quite knowing what to say. He heard the sailors laughing, someone barking orders in Italian from the dock, the call of the gulls.

"I'm taking her to Scotland," Nicholas finally said. "She has a sister near Aberdeen."

"I hope you are both able to find some peace there."

Nicholas leaned forward, pressing on his elbows against the railing. "There is something about Scotland that suits her. It is a wild country, and heartbreakingly beautiful." He smiled softly to himself, looking somewhere between wistful and forlorn. "Did I ever tell you that is where we met? I had gone on business and I met her at some laird's soirée. She absolutely lit up the room--charming, beautiful, clever! She could have danced with anyone that night, but she chose me... That must mean something, don't you think?" He closed his eyes, black lashes lying still against his hollow cheeks. "I want to return to those days."

In the harbour, the gray water undulated slowly, the ocean currents stirring it in gentle, unfathomable patterns against the shore. Marlowe cleared his throat. "Shall I write? Or would you prefer to keep your privacy?"

Nicholas's eyes flicked against him, flat and cold once more. "I see so much when I look at you. Memories. Betrayal. And it is the oddest sensation, but I have this incredible desire to end your suffering by telling you that I forgive you, that we can return to being brothers. But I don't Hughes, not yet. Perhaps not ever."

Marlowe's chest felt tight but he nodded as he straightened his back. "I understand. I will do as you wish. I will wait, and if you are ever inclined to think of me without grief, then pray write. You shall ever be dear to me, though I do not have the audacity to label myself as a friend any longer."

They stood in silence. Sunlight glinted off the ripples in the water. "She wants to see you."

Marlowe blinked. "Is that... do you... is that wise?"

Nicholas's gaze remained impassive as they watched the schooner's flag snap in the breeze. "I do not know. But it is her wish. And I shall not deny her the opportunity to well and truly put this matter to an end. If you consent to speak with her, then do so. It's your decision, though she did pull a gun on you, to be fair. If you do not wish to speak with her, I shall inform her."

"You pulled a gun on me as well."

Nicholas's lip curved into the hint of a bitter smile. "I suppose I did. Life is so odd, is it not?" He pushed himself away from the rail and turned, pointing towards the street. "She's over there, if you would like to say goodbye." His eyes hardened. "I will watch, but I will stay here so that you may speak freely."

"Nicholas, I hope you know that you are too good for her. And for me."

Nicholas's gray eyes only looked out towards the horizon. He straightened, standing tall and proud, once more the placid gentleman. Marlowe sighed and crossed the street.

Arabella was waiting under the shade of an awning, swinging her closed parasol from hand to hand. She looked wan. Her eyes were too bright, but the madness he had seen in her before was gone. Now she only looked sad and weary with the shadows caressing the curve of her cheek, lingering in the corners of her eyes. She was beautiful, of course. Tragically so.

"Hello, Arabella." He paused a few feet away from her, tense and wary.

She made no move to get closer to him, only dipped her head in greeting. "Lieutenant."

They stared at each other for a moment. Her green eyes, made greener by the pale jade of her dress, looked rimmed with red. Her eyes flicked across the street, to where Nicholas still stood, back to them, arms crossed in front. Arabella's fingers, encased in delicate lace gloves, clutched more tightly around the handle of her parasol. "Do you think that he will recover from what we've done?"

"I don't know. He's always been prone to melancholy, always been sensitive. And we have wounded him deeply." Marlowe sighed. "But he has always had a quiet strength and a grace to his character that few others possess. I think that he will recover, eventually. Though he may never forgive us."

She smiled sadly. "He's more likely to forgive you than I. You are... were his friend. But I made a vow to him. And I broke it." Her voice wavered slightly as they watched Nicholas.

Marlowe felt a surge of emotion rise in him. "Win him back. Reassure him. He loves you yet, I know he does. He can be happy with you, if you let him."

She nodded, but her eyes were glassy with tears. "I thought that I loved you, you know." Her voice was as soft as snow. Beautiful and clear and cold. "But I have realized something."

"It wasn't love."

"No." Her lashes fluttered as she blinked rapidly to stop her tears from falling. "I do not think that I understood how to love. When I met Nicholas... Well, my father was a very stern man. Stern, and unkind. I lived in fear of him for much of my life. Only thought of how to please him, how to avoid his dark moods. But no matter how charming I was, how soft and quiet, how well I did riding or at my studies, there was no appeasing him. He married me off to a man twice my age without a second thought when I was only sixteen. Did you know that? That I had been married before? I thought at first that I was lucky. To have escaped my father's house."

Her green eyes glazed over. "But I was wrong. Believe me when I tell you that the only tears I shed when he died a few years later were of joy. And naively, I thought that I was finally free. But of course, my father forced me back to his house, took control of my finances, and told me that he would have me sent off away if I made a fuss.

"When I met Nicholas, I had to have him. He was so kind, so gentle. He was my savior. He was my knight. And he charmed my father easily." She smiled ruefully. "Although I suppose his wealth was particularly convincing.

"Our honeymoon was bliss, and then he left me to go to London. I told him that I would accompany him, but you know Nicholas, he always prefers the country and said that it was better for me if I stayed. He told me it would be best to learn how to become the lady of the estate. So I did. And I burned with rage. I felt abandoned. And he knew--he saw it in my letters. I was cold, bitter. And so he came home. But it was too late." Arabella's eyes locked on to Marlowe's. "I'd already met you and you were so different from him."

Marlowe's shoulders sagged. "I wish I were half the man he is."

Arabella's eyes narrowed. "Then become one!" she said, snappishly. For a moment she glared at him, but then her features softened, easing back into an expression of mild dismay. "I know that I shall endeavor to tame whatever it is inside of me that drives me to such extremes. I don't wish to hurt him, Marlowe. I truly don't! I just wish to learn how to be simple and kind and grateful for what I have instead of constantly throwing it aside.... Throwing him aside."

"I wish that for you, Arabella. I truly do."

Her green eyes pierced his. "Do you love her?"

Marlowe blinked. "Katherine?"

"Who else?"

Marlowe felt his heart beat a little bit faster. Warmth rising in his throat, up his cheeks. Was he blushing? Surely he was not blushing! "I... Yes," he coughed. "Yes, I believe I do." He searched Arabella's face and was relieved to see nothing more than open surprise in her expression. "She is intelligent, and talented, and kind. And she's so witty and surprising! I've never met anyone like her before. I only wish that I were a good enough man to deserve her, that I--"

Arabella held up a hand. "For heaven's sake, Marlowe. I only asked if you loved her. Please spare me the nauseating details." She frowned and wrinkled her nose. "And stop selling yourself so short. You are perhaps becoming the type of man who might deserve a woman like her. One day. If you work at it." Arabella pursed her lips. "Though I can't say that I see her appeal." She looked moodily off towards Nicholas. "I hope that you'll be happy."

"I hope that you will be, as well. And, Arabella... I should tell you that I am sorry. I did not mean to hurt you. Or him. I should have stopped you before things got so far."

Arabella nodded, her mouth pressed into a stern line. "There is plenty of blame to share."

Marlowe took in the curves of her face, her soft cheeks, rounded lips, high brow. He felt a rush of sadness, not knowing if or when he would ever see her again. The time that he had spent with Arabella, though it had been nothing but a tiny portion of his life, a few months, had changed him. Despite her erratic behavior, the pure and unrelenting chaos she had caused in his life, she had helped to shake him from his grief over the past. And she, albeit unintentionally, had shown him the worst in himself, taught him the kind of man that he did not ever want to be again. He would not miss her, not exactly, but he would mourn her in a way. "Be good to Nicholas. Take care of him."

She studied him seriously. "I will," she said.

He could only pray that she would.

#

By the time Marlowe returned to the family lodgings, it was late afternoon and the house was in an advanced state of chaos. Servants were scuttling through the halls, carrying items to and fro. There somehow seemed to be new trunks, all half-packed in the study, the parlour was completely upended, and everyone's nerves seemed frayed if the household staff's expressions were any gauge.

In the midst of all the chaos, he found Kate, perched on the edge of a floral chair in the sitting room, a book open on her lap though her leg was bouncing animatedly. Her attention was clearly on her mother, who was holding up two teacups from unmatching sets and wearing a look of absolute panic.

"What do you think about the rose pattern, dear? It is fashionable, but is it really more appropriate for Paris?"

Kate swiped a lock of loose hair behind her ear and slumped exasperatedly. "How should I know, Maman? I have not yet stepped foot in Paris." Her strained voice seemed to indicate that this was not the first time that she had been consulted on the merits of various china patterns.

"The French are so elegant," Mrs. Jennings moaned. "I should hate to have a tea service that is unfashionable...." Her eyes flicked like spinning marbles between the two cups. "Maybe we should take the lattice pattern? It is simpler, but perhaps more in vogue..."

Kate flipped her book shut and groaned. "Or just buy a new set when we arrive if you are so concerned about French style!"

Marlowe hid the affectionate smile that was pulling at the corners of his lips. Why was Kate's consternation so bafflingly endearing? He cleared his throat and stepped through the door, no longer content to simply watch their charming scene of domestic drama. "Good afternoon Mrs. Jennings, Miss Jennings." The corners of Kate's eyes seemed to soften when she saw him and he felt a corresponding surge of warmth course through his body along with a nervous patter in his heart.

"Oh, Lieutenant!" Mrs. Jennings seemed so startled that she almost dropped the teacups. Marlowe rushed to her side, gently prying them from her clammy hands and setting them lightly on the end table.

"Mar--Lieutenant!" Kate had sprung to her feet, nearly tripping on her pale yellow gown. "Would you care for a walk? It's so stuffy in here."

He gave her a devilish grin. "Are you sure you aren't needed here? I would hate to deprive your mother of her helper."

Kate scowled and grabbed his arm. "You don't mind, do you, Maman?" She batted her lashes in a transparent attempt at daughterly manipulation.

Mrs. Jennings seemed to look at anything besides Marlowe and Kate, fiddling with the rose pattern cup that Marlowe had just removed from her nervous fingers. "Of course not, dear. Why don't you take a quick turn with the Lieutenant in the courtyard? I'll finish up here." She picked up the teacup. Squinted at it, and then set it back down again before looking to be passionately absorbed by the inlay on the side table.

Marlowe clenched his fist, feeling a little tremor pass through him. Mrs. Jennings's nervous energy was infectious, but he took a calming breath as Kate yanked on his arm towards the garden door. With a little half-smile, he inclined his head to Mrs. Jennings on the way out, who gave him a secretive look that was half-grimace, half-beaming smile before going back to fiddling with her tea services.

Kate had not seemed to notice her mother's anxiety. Her eyes flicked over him as they slowly passed the bougainvillea, whose lush pink flowers sat becomingly alongside glossy green leaves. "How was it?"

"It was...odd," he said thoughtfully. "Nicholas is taking her to Scotland. He thinks that it would settle her to be near family for a time. And they did seem...better in some ways. Maybe they will continue to improve there."

"I hope so. I can't find it in me to wish them any ill will. Especially poor Nicholas." Kate let her fingers brush the leaves of a grapevine as they passed through the terrace. "She left a letter to me, by the by."

Marlowe was surprised. "What did she say?"

"It was an apology. She is a conflicted woman. It pains me to say it, but I pity her."

"Then let us not speak of them any longer," said Marlowe. They had reached the fountain. The afternoon sun sparked in its moving waters. "Tell me, how are you?"

"I'd hoped to go further than the courtyard," Kate said, dropping his arm. "It's a madhouse in there. And I've been basically packed for the past two days! So everyone is just asking me for help. Mother has been hovering while Father has been puffing away at his pipe night and day. I think that this whole tour has made them so much worse at traveling." She dipped a finger thoughtfully in the water, making little ripples.

"Our stay here was so long. They simply became too comfortable, darling. It will be easier from here forwards as the stopovers will not be so long."

Kate looked up with a grin that went straight through his heart. "Did you call me your darling?"

"I believe I called you darling, not my darling. And that is just simple fact. You are a darling girl," he teased.

She blinked innocently at him. "So I've heard from many gentlemen. They've also called me beautiful, gracious, charming, lovely, vivacious... Shall I go on?" She held up her wet fingers, flicking droplets saucily towards him.

He narrowed his eyes as he brushed the drops from his coat. "And just which gentlemen told you that?"

She batted her lashes. "I couldn't possibly be so indiscreet as to say. Except of course, to whichever gentleman was to call me his darling."

"I may know of one such besotted fool who'd say such things to you. But he would also add a few more adjectives as well." He realized that he was closer to her than he'd meant to be, closer than propriety strictly allowed.

"And what would those be?"

"Mmmm perhaps he would call you a minx, a temptress, a saucy little chit." He stole her hand in his and gave it three little kisses, one for each moniker.

She lifted an eyebrow skeptically. "Those aren't adjectives, darling, those are nouns."

"I was just testing you."

He loved the way the light hit her eyes, illuminating them to a lighter blue as she smiled broadly. "Of course you were."

"And am I?"

"Are you what?"

"Your darling?" His eyes danced over her face, which was tilted so perfectly up towards his. It would be so easy to kiss her. If only he didn't suspect that there were eyes watching from the house.

"Should you like to be?"

"I very much would." His heart beat a little faster and his tongue felt heavy in his mouth. Something about Kate seemed to slow down time, to make his mind feel fuzzy and warm.

"Then I shall allow it, my darling," she said.

He could not look away from her lips, so sweet and full. Without meaning to, he found his hand pressed against the curve of her cheek, knuckles brushing the line of her jaw. "I wish to speak with you about something." He realized that his voice had dropped low in his chest as the heat of her skin caught up in his blood. He tried to quash the feeling of lightheadedness that was rising in him as he thought of kissing her delicate throat, right here in the garden.

Her words were barely more than a whisper. "What is it?"

A foolish grin covered his face. "I love you," he blurted. Damn. He had meant to phrase it more elegantly, to compare her smile to the sun and her skin to the moon and her hair to flowers or some such very romantic thing. But he hadn't remembered, so he only took her trembling hand in both of his. "I love you, Miss Katherine Jennings."