Page 39 of Against the Wind

“Aye, since the Conquest the land around Pentridge has been known for its coal and iron veins. Though farming is still much a part of the village life, many of the men have taken up the job of colliers or miners.”

Perhaps the village of Pentridge had much to teach her. With somewhat more optimism than before, Kit looked forward to their arrival. She thanked the coachman just as Martin, finished with his tasks, came to help her into the carriage. John mounted one of the horses and tipped his hat to her in greeting.

The day proved long and the ride bumpy. Still, she found the passing hills and cloudless blue sky beautiful. The late spring sun lit the green valleys dotted with small farms and sheep. The country road was such a contrast to the congested and dirty streets of London that to Kit her surroundings appeared something out of a dream.

She turned to watch Martin stare out the window at the lands bordering the narrow road they traveled. His hand held hers, so perhaps now was a good time.

“Can you tell me something about your family?”

Martin took a deep breath and turned to face her. “Must I? Speaking of one’s beginnings can be so tedious.” But he offered that rakish grin which implied he was not truly averse to sharing with her.

“Are you flirting with me, husband?” she whispered.

“Yes, and I’d like to do more.” Pulling her into his arms he said, “I’d rather kiss you.”

He did, gently at first and then more forcefully, entwining his tongue with hers. She was swept into the feel of his masculine body wrapped around her. It seemed she had little resistance to his charm. “Kitten,” he murmured, trailing kisses down her throat. “I want you.”

Her body responded to him as it always did. Tempted to let him have her right there in the carriage, she nonetheless resisted, wanting to know him in more ways than just this.

“Martin,” she said in a breathless whisper, “can we just talk for a moment? It’s part of the reason I wanted to slow our…coming together.”

He sighed and released her, but he kept her hand and pressed a kiss to her knuckles. “Besides,” she continued, “how am I ever to know you if you do not enlighten me?”

He quirked a smile and let their joined hands fall to his side. “Just living with me would tell you much, Kitten.” He peered at her out of the corner of his eye and let out a breath. “Ah, well, I can see you’re determined.”

“I am.”

“Let me see. You met my brother Nick. Jean Nicholas.”

“The sea captain.”

“Always and forever. Only one year older than me, he takes after our father more than the rest of us. Quite the adventurer. He’s named after our grandfather, the French pirate Jean Donet.”

“A pirate! He reminded me of such when I met him.”

“I doubt it not. There have been times in the past when he appeared the pirate to me as well. He certainly lived like one for a while. Our grandfather was the younger son of a French count. Nick has stayed on the right side of things, but privateering, even in the Crown’s name, can be a fearsome endeavor.”

“I daresay it is. And…you have other brothers?”

“Yes, two younger, the twins Robbie and Nash. They are the jokers of the family, and they compete for everything. Both are good sailors.”

“And so were you?”

“Perhaps at one time,” he admitted.

“Why did you leave the sea?”

Martin stared out the window at the passing countryside. “It was a long time ago.” He turned back and added, “I had just become captain of my first vessel. I enjoyed command but, unlike Nick, I preferred our business on land to the sea, a fact my father considered unacceptable and tried to ignore. Ever the rebel, I thought to have my own way and, after one rather strident disagreement, I left for…other pursuits.” He stared into the distance again, and she sensed a sadness when he spoke of that time. “It caused quite the rift in the family. It was Mother who held us together.”

“Is your father still angry with you?”

“Not any longer. I have since seen the wisdom in what he wanted. He believed I could only understand the business if I was first responsible for the lives of our men. He was right, of course, but it took me several years to admit it—to myself and to him.” Martin crossed his arms and smiled. “Now it’s my turn. Tell me something of you and your family.”

Except for Anne, who was ever on her mind, Kit hadn’t thought about her family overmuch since she lost them; it was a sadness she’d locked away. “My mother and sister were two of a kind, both gentle souls accepting of a woman’s place. They stayed about the home, engaged in the usual activities allocated to our sex, like embroidery and music. My father loved and understood them. While I believe he loved me, he didn’t understand me. Not really. I was always the cause of his worry. I pursued my art with a passion, even as a child, refusing to confine myself to the usual watercolors. My sketching took me far afield. It was not uncommon for me to lose track of time while pursuing some unusual face.”

“You really are passionate about your art, aren’t you?”

“I was.” She hesitated. “I suppose I still am.” She glanced at him. “Do you mind it so much?”

“I do not mind it at all.”

Kit was relieved to see his grin. Most men were amused by how seriously she took her art, and her family had been concerned by her unladylike behavior. But Martin did not mind at all. The thought gave her great peace.

Changing the subject she said, “My mother’s strength was her love for her family. She was not strong physically. It was the same for Anne.” Kit had tried to be her father’s strength after her mother died but, as with Anne, she had toiled in vain. Her eyes threatened to overflow with tears as she recalled the last time she saw her parents; their deaths had left an emptiness in her life that only Anne filled, and Anne only until her demise. Oddly, however, Kit felt slightly less bereft considering them. Was it because of Martin?

“You miss them, I’m sure,” her husband said, giving her a sympathetic look.

“Very much.” Then, after a short consideration, she decided to ask the next question that burned inside her. “Mary told me you’d been married before. That your wife died.”

“Yes.” Martin looked out the carriage window. “It happened many years ago in France.”

“Am I anything like her?” Kit felt her cheeks warm at the intimacy of the question. She had wondered about the woman who once held Martin’s heart. Though she had not wanted a love that could leave her despairing of life if it were lost, Kit had no desire to compete with a ghost. Elise had been French, and perhaps young. Kit was sure now he’d loved her. A younger Martin would have most certainly married for love.

“No, you are nothing like her. And, it was a long time ago, Kitten.” Drawing her into his arms, he kissed her. She forgot to ask the next question.