Sandra Owens Read online

  “No, I’m glad you did. I needed to know and I understand everything better now. That doesn’t mean I’m not mortified to know what everyone saw.”

  He held her gaze for a moment before speaking. “You’re the only one who holds no blame. Leo and his mother were the villains, but every other person in that room is guilty to some extent of abandoning you, especially me.”

  “I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”

  “So be it.” Michael glared at the letter on her lap. “Are you ever going to finish the deuced thing? There is something more we need to talk about, but that won’t be possible if you don’t read it.”

  “All right.” She picked up the pages.

  ****

  Reliving that night, telling her the sordid details, had left him raw and angry. He rubbed his palm over his chest. All these years he had blamed her for the almost unbearable pain in his heart. Seeing that night through new eyes took the shame from her and put it on him.

  He had failed her, but the word didn’t seem right. One failed to show up on time for an appointment, one failed to repay a loan, one failed to wind a clock. To put the woman you loved, that you should have protected at all costs, in the hands of a monster was worlds beyond a failure, it was dastardly, and it was unforgivable.

  Yet, after hearing how she had been humiliated and debased, then thrown out like the garbage, she’d absolved him. I forgive you. There, all better, everyone can go their merry way now. He wasn’t sure he could accept her forgiveness.

  As she read, he studied her profile, marveling at how much healthier she looked with only a few days of adequate food and rest. There was color in her cheeks again, and the dry, cracked lips were now pink and soft. How many times had he kissed that mouth? He should have counted so he would know. He jerked his gaze from her lips to her hair. Even though she still kept it in the tight knot low on her neck, it was now clean and sleek, a shimmering golden-honey. The muslin day dress was an improvement over her black rag but far from the height of fashion. He would have to do something about that.

  Today, she smelled of vanilla.

  As unobtrusively as possible, he pushed his feet against the floor and slid his chair away. How far did he need to go before he couldn’t smell her?

  What would their life have been like had they married? Would they have still been happy eleven years later? He wanted to think so, had once believed nothing could mar their joy, so great was their love for each other. Could they find that again?

  Michael reared up from his chair and moved to sit behind his desk. He leveled his gaze on the letter in her hands, and off her hair, her cheeks, her pink lips. There was nothing more to find, except perhaps a long-lost son. She must be nearing Leo’s claim that Michael might have sired Jamie. He waited for her to make some sound, some exclamation telling him she had reached that part, and was it too much to hope she knew the truth and would tell him? That truth being Jamie belonged to him? Please God.

  She held the last page, her gaze at the bottom of the blasted thing and still not a word. It didn’t seem as if her eyes were moving. Had she come to the end? Why didn’t she say something? Was it possible for one to climb out of one’s skin? If no one ever had, he thought he might be the first to bloody try it. He suddenly realized that one leg was bouncing like an agitated tiger wanting out of his cage. He clamped a hand down on his knee.

  Without one devil of a word, she stood, handed him the letter and turned to leave. Stunned, he stared at the thing. She had nothing to say? She was halfway across the room when he reacted, shooting out of his chair, the pages scattering over his desk.

  “Oh no you don’t,” he roared.

  She cringed and at the fear in her eyes, rational thought ceased. Why was she afraid of him? Hadn’t he proved to her by now he wouldn’t hurt her? Christ Almighty, he wasn’t Leo!

  Later, he would ask himself what possessed him to kiss her. Later, he would remember roaring at her. Christ, had he actually roared at a woman taught to be afraid of men? All of that would come later.

  Now, rationality had abandoned him. He stood over her, glaring at her, wanting answers. The apprehension in her eyes undid him. By damn, he would show her he would never hurt her. His mouth crashed down onto hers, his anger driving him. There was so much to be angry about.

  All of it was in the kiss; his youthful stupidity, her years of being hurt, his role in it, and the missing years of his perhaps son’s life. His fury was so great that he didn’t notice her trying to push him away. Then awareness seeped in. Sweet Jesus, what was wrong with him? He was ravishing the last woman in the world he would want to hurt.

  Breathing hard, he started to pull back, but then her hands stopped bracing against his chest and slid up his neck and into the back of his hair.

  “Michael,” she whispered.

  His name, spoken on a soft sigh, took him back years to the time she was his, when there was still reverence in her voice when she said Michael in just that way. He stopped thinking again. His mouth lowered to hers, gently this time, a mere brushing of lips over lips. Dear God, he had missed her. Her lashes lowered to her cheeks, and he marveled at how right it felt to be holding her in his arms, how familiar, yet not.

  He deepened the kiss, slid his hands down her back to rest over the upper curve of her bottom. She nestled into his body, her belly pressed against his hardening cock. He wanted her, wanted her with the desperation of a drowning man seeking air.

  His tongue pressed against the seam of her mouth, seeking entrance. Did she still taste of honey and spice? He had to know.

  Her eyes flew open, searched his, looking for what, he didn’t know. Then she was gone, slipping out of his arms like a wily otter, gone before he could stop her. He stood in the middle of his study, panting hard from desire, and still no answers.

  Was Jamie his son? Did she know?

  Did she still taste of honey and spice?

  He hung his head, the added guilt heavy. God forgive him, he had almost assaulted her!

  But then, she kissed you back.

  He returned to his desk and fell heavily onto the chair and stared at the letter, the pages scattered across his desk. How had it all come to this?

  Chapter Nine

  Diana turned the key in the door of her chamber, then slid down the wood and buried her face against her knees. Too much. It was just too much at once. Michael’s revelations of what happened, finally understanding how Leo tricked everyone.

  And then the kiss. She touched her mouth.

  He had kissed her and she had liked it. Not at the beginning. There had been so much anger in his eyes, and it had frightened her. But he wasn’t Leo. He wouldn’t hurt her. With the warmth of his hands on her back, with the gentle brush of his lips on hers, came want. So many years alone, so many lived in fear without a kind touch.

  She had kissed him back.

  His tongue touching her lips had brought her to her senses and she had fled. And, she had done so with the knowledge that Michael was Jamie’s father. She should have told him. Or, should she?

  She stood and went to the bed, grabbed the counterpane and took it with her to the window seat. Was it only last night and this morning she had sworn to be happy? She wrapped the cover around her. The cold she had tried to banish had returned in force. Would Leo ever leave her in peace?

  Learning the details of that night was a mixed blessing. She wasn’t to blame, not for any of it. Yet, the humiliation of what Leo had done, what everyone saw, she wasn’t sure she could ever put that out of her mind.

  Would Michael want to know he was Jamie’s father? He hadn’t said anything about that part of Leo’s letter. What had he thought when he read it? And if she did tell him, what would it mean for her and Jamie? What if Michael wanted Jamie?

  She had almost told him, but then she would have to talk about life with her husband, explain that Leo had never touched her during their marriage. He had tried once her first week at Brantley Hall. She squeezed her eyes closed agains
t the memory of his coming into her chamber.

  He had been in his cups, swaggering around her room, bragging how he had cuckolded his cousin. “My finest moment,” he’d boasted. “Thinks because he’s an earl, he’s better than me, but I showed him.”

  She had huddled in her bed, holding the covers tight around her, warily watching him circle, moving in, coming closer. Then the thing she feared most happened. He toppled over, falling on her so hard she had bruises the next day. He stripped away the covers, pushed her nightrail up to her waist and tried to enter her.

  Only because she had lain with Michael that one time did she understand Leo was too soft to manage the act. She had remained still, afraid to move so much as a finger while her new husband made his clumsy attempt. He had called her a cold bitch and said it wasn’t surprising he couldn’t do it with Michael’s whore.

  It was the first time he beat her. He never tried to bed her again, and for that, she had thanked God every night in her prayers. When she realized she was going to have a baby, she’d believed Leo had raped her that night in Michael’s home. She often wondered which one of them was Jamie’s father. Now she knew.

  She was ecstatic it was Michael and not Leo. Now, she could stop watching for her husband’s cruel tendencies to appear in her son. Should she tell Michael? Whatever her decision, it would be the one best for her son.

  What of Jamie? He had been cheated out of an earldom. The boy who should have been Michael’s heir was instead a baron with a small, run-down estate and no money in his coffers. And there was nothing to be done about it. No one could ever know except her and perhaps Michael. The mere idea of Jamie’s loss because of Leo, and to a lesser extent Michael, enraged her. If she had known this when her husband was still alive, she might have rethought her stance on violence and run a sword though him.

  A scratching on her door interrupted the thoughts churning in her mind. “My lady?”

  “Come in, Fanny.”

  “My lady, his lordship wishes to know if you will join him for luncheon.”

  Diana shook her head. “No, give him my apology, but I would prefer a tray be sent up.” She didn’t want to have to dodge his questions. Before she saw him, she needed to decide whether to tell him the truth.

  “Yes, my lady,” Fannie said and left.

  ****

  Michael received Diana’s regrets from her maid. He wasn’t surprised. What did he expect? He briefly considered going up and attempting to talk to her, but wasn’t sure what to say.

  His gaze fell on the boy sitting next to him at the table. He might be uncertain what to say to her, but Michael knew what he wanted to ask. Was Jamie his son? What if she wasn’t sure? The idea that he might never know was difficult to accept. The surprise was how badly he wanted it to be true.

  “Does it hurt?”

  “Does what hurt, Jamie?”

  “Your chest. You keep rubbing it like it is sore.”

  It was sore, but not in the way Jamie thought. Michael reached over and tousled the lad’s hair. “No, I’m fine, truly. How about you, how are you today?”

  “I am hungry, and I am worried.”

  “And why is that?

  Jamie turned midnight blue eyes his way. “Well, I am hungry because my stomach feels empty. I don’t know why. I have more food now than I used to, so I shouldn’t want even more, should I?”

  Michael rubbed his chest again. God help him, he would not cry in front of this child. He swallowed hard and attempted to steady his voice. “Quite the opposite, actually.” He poked a finger on Jamie’s stomach. “This belly has a lot of making up to do.”

  Jamie laughed. “That tickled.”

  “I shall remember that at our next wrestling match. Now, why are you worried?”

  “Because I found a book in my room that I think is in Latin, and I couldn’t read it. When I look at the words it doesn’t seem possible to learn such a thing.”

  “I see. Well, I have already concluded you are smarter than I at your age, and I learned it, though it was a difficult thing to do. I have no fear you will also succeed.”

  Jamie looked at him in amazement. “I don’t think I’m smarter than you.”

  “Not now, you aren’t. But you are when compared to me when I was your age.”

  “Then if you learned Latin, I can, too?”

  “Without a doubt.”

  Jamie beamed.

  Michael fell a little more in love with the boy who might be his son.

  ****

  Michael glared at the connecting door to Diana’s chamber. First, she hadn’t appeared for luncheon and then had absented herself from dinner, again asking for a tray to be sent up. The only people she had allowed into her chamber had been Jamie and Fanny.

  Jamie had spent most of the afternoon with her, and to his chagrin, at dinner Michael found himself quizzing the lad on his mother’s frame of mind. Jamie reported she had a headache and that they had taken a nap. Michael had clamped down on the urge to ask further questions.

  Hansen, his valet, arrived with the tutor shortly after dinner and Jamie had taken an instant liking to Mr. Denton. The boy had spent the evening with Mr. Denton, helping him to convert one of the bedrooms into a schoolroom.

  Michael spent the evening alone. He had tried to catch up on some of the work Johnston had left with him but couldn’t concentrate. He tried to read. He took an evening walk. He considered helping out with the schoolroom conversion, but thought it best to give Jamie and Mr. Denton time to get acquainted. He had a brandy and tried reading again. Unable to find anything entertaining, he ordered Hansen to attend him even though it was ten at night. After a bath, which he was sure the servants appreciated having to prepare so late, a haircut, a shave, and even a nail trim, he dismissed his valet.

  He tore his gaze from the offending door. Still restless, he paced the confines of his room, barefoot, with a glass of brandy dangling from his fingertips. The velvet of his dressing gown seemed strangely sensual tonight, the soft rub of it against his skin as he walked making him want. What, he wasn’t sure.

  If he were in London, he would call on Serena. Yet, the idea didn’t quiet appeal. Perhaps he would dress in formal attire and attend some ball or other, find someone new to dance with. He would find a pretty miss with…what color would her eyes be? Green. As they waltzed, he would smile into brown eyes the color of dark chocolate—the devil, they were green, not brown.

  He scowled at the connecting door. The brown-eyed woman hiding herself away was disrupting his fantasy. He drank the last sip of brandy and tried to return to the dance floor with his green-eyed lady, closing his eyes and dancing the steps of the waltz. The woman he tried to conjure refused to cooperate on eye color.

  It was one in the morning. He should go to bed. After cleaning his teeth, Michael walked around the room and blew out the candles. He leaned down to extinguish the last one near his bed when he heard a scream from Diana’s room.

  His heart racing, he picked up the lighted candle and entered her chamber. She thrashed about and held her hands above her face in a protective gesture. Her nightdress was tangled around her thighs, exposing her legs. Michael held up the candle and saw the many scars obviously made by a knife. Rage, unadulterated burning rage flamed his blood to a heat that threatened to consume him. Taking deep breaths, he willed his murderous fury away. This wasn’t the time for it. She needed him. When she screamed again, he set the candle on the bedside table and scooped her up.

  Her fire still burned, so he took her to the chair in front of it and sat. She sobbed and tried to push away from him.

  “I won’t do it again,” she whimpered.

  “Hush, love,” he murmured. He pulled her nightdress over her legs, covering the hideous scars and then caressed her head and face. Picking up the long tail of her braided hair, he draped it over her shoulder. She moaned, and he leaned close to her ear. “Hush, you are safe.”

  He rocked her gently. He had one hand resting on her belly and she slid both
her hands under his. By teaching her to hold his hand, had he made her feel protected? He applied a gentle pressure, hoping even in sleep she sensed he was keeping her safe.

  “Shhhh. Rest now. I won’t leave you.”

  “Michael?” Jamie approached, tears falling down his cheeks.

  “Everything is all right, Jamie. She had a bad dream, but it is over now.”

  Jamie wiped away his tears. “I know. Sometimes she has them. If Father was away, I would get in bed with her and then they go away.”

  How much more history could he bear to hear from these two? “Then sit down next to me and touch your mother. She will know you are here.” Michael wished he could hug Jamie, but didn’t want to let go of Diana. “Do you ever have bad dreams, son?”

  Son. The word resonated around the room, and Jamie gave him a strange look before answering. “I don’t think so. I don’t remember having any.”

  That was something good for a change. “I am happy to hear it. Would you do me the favor of poking the fire? Let’s see if we can get your mother warm.”

  “Michael?”

  “Hmm?”

  “I liked it when you called me son. I wish you were my father.”

  Between the two of them, he was going to bawl like a newborn babe. “I would have been proud to call you son. Now, see to the fire.”

  Jamie poked at the logs, bringing the flames back to life. Sitting again, he leaned his head on Michael’s leg. Diana finally fell into a peaceful sleep with her face pressed against his chest and her hands snugly resting under his.

  His family, finally where they belonged.

  Why did he keep thinking these things? Diana and Jamie were a part of his life now, but they couldn’t stay with him indefinitely. He needed to start thinking of finding someplace where they could live.

  But not yet. They still needed his care. He and Jamie sat in silence and watched the red and orange flames for a while. Michael tried to identify what he felt at this moment and finally decided it was contentment. It was a dangerous feeling. It made him think of possibilities. He leaned his head back on the chair and closed his eyes. It was impossible. There was no future for him and Diana.