Page 55 of Against the Wind

Chapter 19

“The baron left you what?” Martin exclaimed, eyeing his wife. He’d only been half listening, still angry at the events of the day, still trying to decide what to do with her.

“Twenty thousand pounds, Martin. It seems the baron did not forget me in his plans for what would happen at his death as I’d always assumed.”

“Twenty thousand pounds is a lot of coin, Kit. You’re a wealthy woman in your own right.” A sudden fear reached deep in his mind. Would she ask for the funds and use them to leave him? They had argued and he’d been most cross—justifiably, he reminded himself. Letting his words reflect his thoughts he said, “You don’t need my money now, do you, Kit?” He wondered if she needed him any longer. “Would you have married me if you had known about the money?”

Her pause told him the answer was not an easy one. “Does it matter now, Martin? We are married, and…I would not change that. You are my husband in truth and I am content for you to remain so. I want you, Martin, not for your money but for what you’ve come to mean to me. I meant it when I said I love you.”

Martin felt the tension he’d experienced fall away like a castoff cloak. He had feared her answer would be far different than the one she’d uttered. “Good, for I would not change it either, Kit. That you have the means to be independent and still want to be my wife says much. You see,” he added, turning to face her, “I do not desire to live without you, Kitten. I love you.”

“You love me?”

She seemed so surprised, Martin almost laughed. Could his intelligent vixen really be so unobservant? “Silly goose. Have you not seen it when I look at you? Felt it when we make love? Why do you think I am so protective of you, so cross when you disobey me and wander into danger?” Pulling her into his arms he said, “You are my wife for always, Kitten. So please take more care with your person in future. I do not want you harmed. I live in fear that something might happen to you. That I might not be able to protect you.”

While she considered his words, he leaned down and kissed her, enjoying once again the softness of her body as she melted into him. She could not know how real his fear was. Though his nightmares had not returned since their marriage, he still harbored a vague disquiet about the future. If Oliver or his cohorts ever discovered his game, they might take revenge on her as well as him. She could not know how badly he wanted to end their time in the Midlands.

Kit returned her husband’s kiss, allowing the familiar feel of him to comfort her. He loved her! The death of her parents and that of her sister had shattered Kit’s life. Only a man like Martin, whose life had once been torn apart, could understand, could help her heal. From that first night at Willow House he’d been helping her do just that, putting her life back together.

When he broke the kiss, she leaned back in his arms and looked into his face. Did his reminder to take care evidence his continuing anger at her sneaking into that barn? She supposed he had a right to be upset. But she had been angry as well. He’d never told her he was one of the Prince Regent’s knights.

“Why did you never tell me you are Sir Martin?” she asked.

“Oh, that. It was Prinny’s idea and I’ve never made overmuch of it. I am still the man I was before. I only become the baronet when I must. My plan, when this is over, is to return to my family’s business where I am merely a merchant.”

“Will you tell me for what great act of bravery you were knighted?”

“One day soon, but not now. Suffice it to say it was not for any act of valor in battle. There were many who deserved the honor and I do not count myself among them. The Prince Regent was being overgenerous.”

Kit was frustrated that he would not tell her of the heroic task that led to his knighthood. Surely he must be proud of it…but she also believed he was a humble man.

“If you won’t share that with me, can you at least tell me why we are here in Pentridge and living as Mr. and Mrs. Donet? We’ve nothing to hide, surely.”

“There is nothing you need worry about, Kit. I’ve done nothing wrong,” he assured her. “The name Donet is perfectly respectable. It is the family name of my French mother.” Then he grinned and said rather sheepishly, “Though I told you my grandfather was a pirate, he is an honorable sort and bears the title comte de Saintonge. He lives on the Isle of Guernsey now though he has vineyards in France. Perhaps one day I shall introduce you to him. As for my purposes here in the Midlands, the French surname suits. You must continue to trust me a little while longer.”

It was like pounding her head against a stone wall. For reasons only he knew, he would tell her nothing.

“I’m not happy with that, Martin. I don’t like living as someone I’m not.”

“Trust me, Kitten. All will come right in the end.”

“So you say.”

“Come in, gentlemen.”

Martin and John stepped through the narrow door leading into the office of George Goodwin, manager of the Butterley Ironworks in Ripley. The man wiped the iron dust from his hands on a cloth and offered them a welcoming shake. His office was in a small hexagonal brick building that also served as the gatehouse, nestled among the surrounding factory structures. In his fifties, Goodwin had face stubble the same gray color as the hair on his head, evidence he didn’t always bother to shave.

As he entered the office, Martin focused his attention on the pictures of furnaces and some of the factory’s recent products nailed to a board on one wall. One structure displayed was Vauxhall Bridge, parts of the iron edifice obviously made at Butterley drawn in detail. Other projects, graphically displayed on large sheets, were scattered about Goodwin’s desk, some smudged with oil and iron dust.

The man gave Martin a skeptical look and his bushy gray brows drew together. “Why are you here, Mr. Donet?”

Martin and John took the chairs Goodwin offered on the other side of his desk, and Martin settled back knowing the next few minutes would tell him if he’d have an ally or an enemy. He had been told the man could be trusted, but he needed an assurance that would allow him to share things about himself he did not want generally known, at least not yet. “What I am about to tell you is confidential, Mr. Goodwin. Do I have your word it will remain so?”

The manager paused, doubt in his eyes, but then Goodwin seemed to make a decision and sat down behind his desk. “You have my word. Now, what is it that is so private and pressing?”

“I will be most direct, sir. There are some men in Derbyshire who are planning an uprising, a rebellion against the government.”

Martin saw in Goodwin’s eyes the recognition he expected. “I’m aware there are some who would like to see changes in the way the country is run, even some of my own workers. Are you referring to such?”