Why couldn’t blue blood and all that money have a little brawn and muscle? She supposed wishing for a wealthy man with a fine stature and a handsome face was rather like asking for the moon on a silver platter.
John Cabot was a good five inches shorter than she, and he was already losing his hair. But he had money, all that lovely money.
She turned and looked back at the outline of her home, which was backed by the stars and a blue-black sky. The light from the lanterns waved gently from the soft summer sea breeze, making the house look as if it were alive and breathing.
She stood there for only a second, then she turned back, determined to see this through. Long ago she had decided that the Cabot millions were worth a marriage that might not be the kind in fairy tales, not that she believed that drivel. They were just stories that made people think like fools.
Georgina Bayard was no fool.
She knew what she had to do. She knew a few sweet comments, a long and lingering look, a kiss, and John’s wonderfully fat and golden pockets would be hers.
And so would his bald head.
She chewed on her lower lip. Everything would be fine. Everything would. She had already resigned herself to spending a lifetime looking down at her husband, of ignoring his thinning hair and shiny scalp.
So what if he was short and squat and a little dull? For the sake of her home, her name, and her pride, she could live with him for the rest of her life.
And on her wedding night, when the moon was full like tonight, and the stars were almost too bright, so bright you felt as if you could really reach out and touch them, she would look into John Cabot’s eyes and say goodbye forever to those last few feelings of innocence and desire that were still lingering deep inside her heart.
Yes, she would. It was all planned out in her mind. On her wedding night, she would just close her eyes and think of redecorating.
So in less time than it took to blink, Georgina’s feet moved forward, one step, then another, a survivor heading toward her goal.
As she drew closer she could make out John’s silhouette outlined in the yellow glow of the hanging lantern above the gazebo. She took one more step, then stopped and looked down at her dress.
It was midnight blue and she had chosen the silk because it matched her blue eyes, made them look bluer, and her hair even shinier and blacker. Just in case, she pinched her cheeks, then she looked down, gripped the neckline of her gown, and wiggled until her cleavage spilled over and was way overexposed.
No reason to leave everything to chance. She would make her own luck. So she plastered a smile on her face, raised her chin, and tightened her hands into fists, then took one last deep breath.
A second later someone grabbed her from behind.
Chapter Twelve
Stolen sweets are the best.
—Colley Cibber
The clock struck, but Calum didn’t notice the hour. With the last gong, he removed his spectacles and pinched the bridge of his nose. He realized, with the same sudden awareness he had when waking from a deep sleep, that he had been lost in his work again. He leaned back in his chair and stretched with a low groan from his stiff muscles.
He did this sometimes, lost himself in his work, times like now when he knew that the last ship from Scotland this year was due to dock sometime within the next two weeks. Experience had taught him that the ship could arrive as early as tomorrow.
He took a deep tired breath and rubbed his burning eyes, then scored his fingers through his dark hair and rested his head in his hands for a moment. He needed to be ready. Everything on that ship was his responsibility. He put on his glasses.
He looked around him and realized it was dark outside. The clock above the fireplace read a little after two in the morning. Seven hours he’d been working without a break. When he was immersed in his work, like he was tonight, Calum just lost time.
But time was one of the few things he didn’t try to control. To a man who made his life orderly, who lived by routine, and who needed consistency like he did, time was a friend. It gave him a framework in which to work, helped him discover new levels of efficiency, and select methods that made the vastness and demands of his job controllable.
Calum developed systems for everything. He always put his clothes on in a certain order: pants, shirt, belt, socks, shoes, and he laid them out across his bedchamber so he could dress while walking to the dry sink. It saved time.
His bed was huge, but he only slept on one side and laid pillows down the middle so he wouldn’t disturb the other side in his sleep. That way he could get up, and only have to tuck in the sheet with the perfect pleated corners on the one side. It took only half the time and allowed him the extra minutes he needed for tasks like shaving. His dark beard was so thick he needed to shave his face twice: each morning and again in the evening.
He understood that sometimes he might get a tad carried away with his desire for a certain regimented routine, but he accepted that about himself. His methods were what made him successful. The same meticulous sense of order that Eachann teased him about, in truth, allowed Calum to focus, and focus intently.
Being organized gave him the freedom to concentrate completely on a task, which in turn allowed him to eke thirty hours from a twenty-four-hour day—to have more time, and time was the basis by which he planned his day, his night, of how he had learned to organize himself and his life. He had been doing it with such efficiency for so long that his routine was as much a part of him as the blood bond he shared with Eachann.
He took a deep breath and stood up, stretching again. His brother hadn’t returned.
Calum moved to the window and looked out at the bay. All he saw was a thick white mist that made it look as if the world ended outside his window.
