“They often killed people of all types for the thrill or for minor slights, without actual monetary gain, even babies.”
Despite herself, Claire’s eyes grew ever wider through her sister’s telling. The fire snapped and hissed, adding a foreboding layer of mystique to the terrifying tale.
She reread the words in the advertisement once more.
“I still say he could be murderer looking for his next victim,” Faye said matter-of-factly as she rolled onto her side and stared into the fire until she fell into a deep, snoring slumber.
Claire proceeded to re-read the advertisement. “‘The ideal prospect will be the woman who is skilled in mathematics…’” she whispered. Well, perhaps it wasn’t so very horrifying, after all. A husband who sought a bride capable in mathematics? Claire exhaled softly.
A business arrangement.
Not a marriage.
As Claire pondered that advertisement, an idea was born.
Chapter 4
Some of Caleb’s earliest, fondest memories had involved the biting-cold winters of New England.
More specifically, the snow.
He’d adored the crisp air, so sharp it had the power to suck a person’s air from their lungs and infuse it with a deeper, cleaner breath. He’d welcomed the quiet of it. The way it had swirled before his face, a whorl of white, and had left the landscape transformed.
His love of those thrilling Connecticut storms had been so deep and so great that when he’d been impressed by the British, during the hardest, longest days of his imprisonment below decks, it hadn’t been the memory of his then-betrothed that had gotten him through. Rather, in those cramped quarters, trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey and burning up from the heat of a southern summer, he had called on the memories of the New England winter to get him through.
Tightly bound as he’d been, with the blood flow to his hands cut off, he’d gone half mad with the need to rub the sting away when sweat had slid down his brow and burned his eyes.
Memories of snow had kept him sane.
He’d squeezed his eyes shut to keep out any more of the sweat and, in his mind, had gone off to the land he’d loved—and left.
As such, when he’d finally gotten free and then found his way to—of all places—England, he’d sworn the only thing he would miss were those cleansing, peaceful winter storms.
Until now.
Until, on his journey to North Yorkshire, he’d collided with a damned blizzard.
Jumping down from his carriage, Caleb took his bags from, Timlin, his driver. He shouted up a word of thanks, and then hefting his army sack onto his shoulder, Caleb started for the Rotted Rooster. As he trudged onward through the elements, he kept his head low to keep snow from striking his face and blinding him.
He gave his head a frustrated shake.
The whole of goddamned England was a contrary, fickle kingdom determined to make an American miserable whenever and wherever it could.
Be it land or sea, or in Caleb’s native Americas, or in the king’s homeland, he was destined to be stymied by this kingdom.
The temperate, always wet, bloody place had chosen this damned time to give the countryside snow.
It was probably fate’s damned way of telling him to turn his ass around and avoid the ridiculous arrangement Wade had gotten him around to accepting.
After all, there couldn’t be a worse thing than for Caleb to one day leave this country with an English wife.
Though, in fairness, he wouldn’t really be leaving with her.
Not really.
That wasn’t the plan.
At all.
At this damned rate, however, he wasn’t going to be leaving himself.
Caleb rubbed his gloved hands together in a bid to get some warmth into the half-frozen digits.
Wind battered at him, slamming into his face with a force that made it a physical effort for even Caleb to stride forward. He held his cap down to keep it in place. While he made the walk to his temporary lodgings, he gritted his teeth.
“‘It doesn’t snow in England,’ they said. ‘You’ll find yourself only rain, even in the winter,’ they said,” he muttered, his breath stirring a cloud of white. And to think he’d actually been missing a good old-fashioned American winter storm.
If it weren’t for bad luck, he’d not have any damned luck at all.
Caleb reached the front of the inn, and adjusting the bag on his arm, he let himself in.
The noise of the inn spilled out into the quiet courtyard, a din of laughter made more jubilant from drink and the heavy ring of revelry and discourse. In short, a welcome change from the staid, stiff, and miserably proper company he was forced to keep while he was in London.
Except, he wasn’t going to have to suffer through that shite. Not anymore. That was, after all, the whole reason for this journey… and impending marriage.
Caleb shoved the door shut hard behind him.
A graying man came forward to meet him.
“I need a room,” Caleb cut him off before the man could speak. “A table and some food.”
The man stopped short, as people of all stations in London invariably did at Caleb’s bluntness. As quick to take offense at everything as they were to frown instead of smile, they were a miserable lot.
Given all that, he found himself in like company.
“O’ course, sir.”
“Not a sir,” he said bluntly.
A short while later, after he’d accepted a key from the older innkeeper and set himself up in the temporary rooms, Caleb collected his art bag and returned to the taproom. He wound his way through the place, which was brimming with bodies, and found the last open table in the crowded establishment.
Caleb availed himself of one of the open chairs. Then, doffing his hat, Caleb set it down on the table and dropped his bag down next to it.
Wade was going to kill him.
He’d insisted Caleb set out two weeks before he had.
But there’d been the latest piece he’d been creating, and well, time invariably got away from him, as it always did when he was painting.
He grimaced. Not that he was creating anything good.
He’d not done that in years and rather feared he never would.
The only chance he had of salvaging the remnants of the artist he’d once been rested in finalizing this arrangement so that he no longer had to run around Europe, putting mediocre work on display just so he could secure an income.
Digging out the letter inside, he scanned the contents.
Caleb,
You no doubt are finally on your way and are undoubtedly late.
That was what came from having as an assistant the same man who’d been tied up with him in a tight cell aboard a ship. The man knew him enough to predict everything he’d do… and would not do.
I’m also wagering you didn’t bother to look through the file I sent about the wife I’ve selected for you.
No, Caleb hadn’t. Because as long as Wade had done his job and found someone to fit the criteria they’d discussed, there’d been no need.
She’s the one. She fits all the necessary requirements. Skilled in mathematics. Fluent in French and Latin. (This one wasn’t a requirement, but it was an impressive skill worth mentioning.) Experienced in running an estate. Age: Twenty-three.
Oh, and to your point per the back-and-forth exchanges regarding the matter of romance and love—or, more importantly, the importance of keeping this entirely business-minded in nature—she is singularly disinterested in any romantic entanglements.