Captain's Bride by Kat Martin Page B

the time she finally did leave, her driver, old Mose, was
nervously wringing his bony hands.
    “Your daddy don’ like you comin’ home late, Miss
Glory. He gonna have my hide.”
    “Oh, horsefeathers,” Glory said, paying the old man
no heed. “If we hurry, we’ll be home well before dark.” But they
weren’t. Halfway home the carriage hit a rut and one of the wheels
broke off the axle. Mose was taking forever to fix it. His gnarled
old hands were not as nimble as they used to be, and Glory hadn’t
the vaguest idea what to do to help him. She just sat quietly in
the seat, waiting patiently for him to finish, and wondering how
she was going to calm her father’s raging temper.
    “Damn that girl,” Julian Summerfield raved. “She
damned well knows better than to stay out this late!”
    “She probably just let the time slip by,” Nicholas
soothed. They sat in the upstairs drawing room, sipping bourbon and
branch water and smoking thin cigars, Julian’s concern becoming
more and more apparent.
    “What that girl needs is a husband,” Julian stormed.
“And the sooner the better!”
    “Listen, Julian, I’m sure she’s all right, but just
to be on the safe side, why don’t I go make sure?”
    “I’ll go with you,” Julian volunteered, leaping to
his feet. He took several hurried steps, then suddenly stopped
short, one hand going to the small of his back. “Damned if I
haven’t pulled a muscle,” he said, but couldn’t meet Nicholas’s
gaze. “Darned sacroiliac.”
    Nicholas almost smiled. “I know the road to Buckland
Oaks. She’s probably not far. I’ll escort her the rest of the way
home.”
    “Thank you, Nicholas. This damn back of mine picks
the darnedest times to act up.”
    Nicholas just nodded. Crushing out his cigar, he
headed for the door, setting his glass down on the piecrust table
near the fireplace on the way out. Since the night air was still
chilly, he stopped by his bedchamber to draw on his black wool
cloak. Then he strode downstairs.
    One of the stable boys saddled Hannibal for him, and
Nicholas swung up into the saddle. He’d begun to worry about the
girl himself, though he wasn’t certain why he should. She was
probably just indulging herself. She was willful and spoiled. A
woman like that wouldn’t be the least concerned for the worry she
caused others. Julian should have taken the girl in hand years ago;
now it was too late. Too late for a father, but not for a husband.
In that Julian was correct.
    Setting Hannibal at a mile-eating pace down the road
to Buckland Oaks, Nicholas thought of his somewhat limited
experience with the institution of marriage. His mother had been a
beautiful French Creole woman. She’d been the darling of every
party, the belle of every ball. Everywhere she went men fell at her
feet. Alexander Blackwell, Nicholas’s father, had been no
exception. He’d loved his wife, Collette, with a limitless passion;
unfortunately Collette did not love him. At least not in the same
way. Collette Dubois Blackwell wasn’t capable of that kind of
love.
    After Nicholas was bom, Collette had lain with every
dandy in New Orleans. His father had known of her infidelities, but
had chosen to ignore them, hoping he could somehow regain her
love.
    When Nicholas was seven years old, his mother ran
away to France with a wealthy merchant with never a thought for
Nicholas or his father. A few years later, Nicholas was told she
had died of some sort of plague. How he had missed her. How he had
yearned for her love—just as his father had.
    As always, thoughts of his beautiful, hedonistic
mother darkened Nicholas’s mood. Gloria Summerfield, with her soft
laughter and flirtatious ways, would probably turn out just the
same. Just like all the other women Nicholas had known. For the
hundredth time that day, Nicholas vowed not to get involved with
the girl. Tomorrow he’d be leaving Summerfield Manor, returning to
his ship and the way of life to which he belonged. Nicholas