Pride in Regency Society: Wicked Captain, Wayward Wife / The Earl's Runaway Bride. Sarah Mallory

      Eve wanted nothing more than to sit quietly and consider her own feelings. The first shock of finding herself face to face with her husband had been followed by a surge of elation, but that had been replaced almost immediately with consternation. Why had he wanted her to believe he was dead? Answers crowded in upon her, none of them satisfactory, most too painful to contemplate, so she resolutely pushed them aside, determined to remain calm and to await Nick’s explanation. Martha’s reaction to the news was much more straightforward. The master was alive, and she was glad of it. Eve wished she could be so easily satisfied. She was relieved when at last Granby came in the room and announced that the landlord was waiting to escort her to her room.

      ‘It is our finest apartment, madam,’ their host told her as he led the way through a winding corridor and up the stairs. ‘It has been said that good Queen Bess herself slept there. I am sure you will find it very comfortable.’ At the end of a dim corridor he threw open the door and stood back for her to enter. ‘There, is it not a handsome apartment?’

      Eve had to agree with him. It was a large, square room with an ornate plaster ceiling and richly carved panelling on every wall. Candles glowed from the wall sconces, illuminating the rich scarlet-and-gold hangings that decorated the huge tester-bed and the matching curtains pulled across the window to blot out the gloomy rain-sodden sky. A large chest of drawers and a sofa covered in wine-red damask occupied the far corner of the room and the only other items of furniture were two chairs and a small gatelegged table set before the stone fireplace, where a merry blaze crackled. The table was already laden with dishes and it was set with two places. Eve’s eyes flew to the landlord. He beamed at her and tapped his nose.

      ‘Mr Granby suggested a collation, so you need have no servants interrupting you. There’s meats, bread, pastries, fruit—everything you could wish.’ He pointed to a little door in the corner of the room. ‘That is a private stair, madam. Leads up to your maid’s room and down to the back hall, so even she can come and go to the kitchen for her dinner without disturbing you.’ He gave her a knowing wink and Eve felt her cheeks grow hot.

      ‘Thank you.’

      With another beaming smile the landlord bowed himself out and shut the door carefully behind him. Martha was already bustling around, inspecting the room.

      ‘Very comfortable, Miss Eve. Everything just as it should be. And very clean, not a speck of dust. Shall I unpack your trunk, ma’am? Seems such a lot of work for just one night.’

      ‘Yes. No. That is, no.’ Eve tried to think of practical matters, but her brain did not want to work.

      ‘Then I’ll lay out your nightgown—’

      ‘No! No, leave it where it is, Martha. Go now. I shall call you if I need you again. Oh, Martha—’ she pulled a small bottle from her dressing case and handed it to the maid. ‘You never did dose your self with Glass’s Magnesia.’

      ‘No, ma’am, I’ll take it now, if you don’t mind. Thank you. That is, if you don’t want it yourself?’

      Eve looked towards the table, where a decanter and two glasses stood in readiness for the coming meal. She felt in need of something more than medicine. ‘No, but you may pour me a glass of wine before you go.’

      Eve watched the maid fill up one glass with blood-red wine before making her way to her own room. The little door closed behind her with a click and Eve was alone. But it was not the peace of the old room that enveloped Eve: it was a brittle, ice-cold fury.

      ‘I will not see him!’ she said aloud. ‘He has treated me abominably. I shall not see him.’

      She walked over to the main door and bolted it. There was a wooden peg on the door to the servants’ stairs and she used it to secure the latch. She gave a long, deep sigh. There, it was done. Slowly she removed her pelisse, folded it neatly and placed it upon her trunk before returning to the table and picking up her glass of wine. The storm had passed and there was a stillness about the room. No noise filtered through to her from below and the air seemed to settle around her, calm and tranquil, in complete contrast to her own nerves, which were stretched tight as a bowstring. Let him knock. Let him hammer on the door, she would not admit him.

      She stood in the middle of the room, facing the door, straining to hear the slightest sound. Clutching at her wineglass, she silently berated herself for her anxiety. No one could surprise her, the room was secure. Or was it? The scrape of wood on wood made her spin around in time to see one of the panels beside the fireplace swing open and Nick Wylder step into the room. He still wore the frieze coat, but instead of the tattered coloured shirt he now wore a fresh white one, fastened with a froth of white lace at his throat, and a black ribbon at the nape of his neck confined his black hair, glossy as a raven’s wing. The baggy sailor’s trousers and worn shoes had been replaced by buckskins and topboots. With the skirts of his coat swinging around him the inconsequential thought came to her that he looked every inch a pirate. Nick gestured towards the panel.

      ‘The stair leads up directly from the alley. You need not be alarmed; I have bolted the door at the foot of the stairs; no one else can come in that way.’

      He stood, feet slightly apart, hands at his sides, watching her. Like a cat, she thought. Alert, wary. Eve’s heart had misssed a beat but now it was thudding painfully against her ribs. She did not know whether she was going to laugh or cry, to be thankful or furious.

      ‘You did not drown,’ she said at last.

      ‘No. Sweetheart, I am so sorry I was not there to help you when Sir Benjamin died.’

      ‘You lied to me.’

      ‘Evelina, I—’

      A red mist descended over Eve, blotting out reason. The wineglass flew from her hand, its contents leaving a dark trail across the floor. Nick side-stepped neatly and the glass sailed past him to smash against the wall.

      ‘How dare you!’

      ‘Sweetheart, listen to me—’ He ducked as she snatched up the second glass and hurled it towards him. ‘Eve, I am sorry. Let me explain—’

       His words were lost as the glass shattered on the panelling and fell in tinkling shards to the floor. With a shriek of rage Eve picked up the carving knife and advanced upon him.

      ‘I hate you, Nick Wylder!’

      As she hurled herself at him he caught her arm, holding the lethal blade away. ‘Eve, I had no choice.’

      Unable to plunge the knife into his heart, Eve brought up her other hand, her fingers curled ready to scratch his eyes out. With an oath Nick caught at her arm, easily overpowering her.

      ‘I know you are angry, my love, but I am not going to let you kill me.’ His fingers tightened on her wrist; her grip loosened and the knife clattered harmlessly to the floor. ‘That’s better.’ He grinned and released her. ‘No wonder my father said never trust the carving to a woman!’

      ‘Are you never serious?’ She gave a sob of frustration and began to beat at his chest with her fists.

      Nick reached out and put his arms about her, pulling her closer. ‘I know,’ he said quietly as she continued to pound him. ‘I know I was a monster for doing this to you.’

      She hammered her fists against his hard, unyielding body until there was no strength left in her arms. Then, as her anger evaporated, it was replaced by tears. She found herself crying; huge, gulping sobs that could not be controlled. She did not resist as Nick pulled her closer, stroking her head and murmuring softly. He continued to hold her while she cried herself out and at last she collapsed against him, taking deep, shuddering breaths. He reached into one of the capacious pockets of the old coat and pulled out a clean handkerchief.

      ‘I thought this might be needed,’ he murmured, pressing it into her hand. ‘I had no idea my wife had such a temper.’

      ‘Nor I,’ mumbled Eve from beneath the handkerchief.

      He touched his lips to her hair. ‘Now will you listen to