Lord of Shadowhawk
Page 20
“We’re very happy,” she added wistfully, forcing herself to sip the honeyed tea.
“Except for these morning bouts of sickness, you are. Five days in a row. Perhaps we should let Tray call Dr. Birch out to examine you.”
Alyssa grimaced. “The nausea goes away at noon, Sorche. The rest of the day I feel fine!”
Sorche gave her an odd, probing look. Alyssa was so pale! “Tell me, lamb, are there any other signs?”
“Signs?”
“Yes, you know…headaches or some such? Think now.”
“Just—my breasts. They feel swollen and tender to touch.”
Sorche compressed her thin lips, taking a stab at the stitchery in her hands. “And you’ve been feeling emotionally up and down of late?”
“Why, yes. How did you know?” She set the cup down on her lap, hope in her voice. “Oh, Sorche, do you know what it is? Is there an herb you have in the kitchen that will cure me of this awful sickness?”
Grimly, Sorche put down her needle and thread, looking directly at Alyssa. “I need you to answer one question for me.”
Alyssa tilted her head, perplexed. “You know you can ask me anything.”
“Did you lie with Tray before you got married?” Sorche asked bluntly.
Blushing a fiery red, Alyssa held the old woman’s gaze. “Y-yes. Once. About six weeks ago. Up at one of the huts when we were lambing.”
Sorche’s eyes narrowed. “Not before that? Think, girl. Did you lie with him about three months ago?”
“Why—no! That would have been three weeks after I had arrived here. I couldn’t possibly…Sorche, what are you looking like that for? I know it was wrong to lie with Tray, but—”
“That’s not it, lamb,” she whispered in an aching tone. “I really do think we should get Dr. Birch out here. I’ve a feeling you’re pregnant, and it’s not with Tray’s child, either.”
Alyssa’s eyes widened. “What?”
“You’ve got all the signs,” Sorche pointed out, her eyebrows drawing into a scowl. “And it takes three months for signs of a pregnancy to show up that way. Three months,” she repeated heavily, “and that’s about the time you were raped aboard that ship.”
Alyssa’s cup and saucer clattered to the carpet. “My God, no! No!” Alyssa stared down at the fragmented china cup and saucer, barely noticing as Sorche came over and began guiding her back toward the bedchamber.
“I’m going to fetch Tray to get the doctor.”
“Sorche, don’t tell him!” Alyssa gripped the woman’s arm, her face suddenly contorted with fear. “Don’t tell Tray anything, please…not until after Dr. Birch examines me.”
“Lamb, you might as well prepare yourself. Tray will have to know the truth eventually. Come, come. Back to bed with you.”
It wasn’t ten minutes after Sorche left her that Tray burst into their bedchamber. His face was ravaged as he shut the door behind him and walked over to the bed. Alyssa raised her head, her heart constricting. “Tray—”
He held out his hand. “I’ve sent a servant to get the doctor,” he rasped. He walked across the room, staring out the window. “Is it true?” he asked finally.
Miserably, Alyssa fought back the tears. “I don’t know.”
His mouth thinned, and his tone became little more than a growl. “If you’re pregnant with Vaughn’s child—” His voice broke and his shoulders tensed.
“I can’t be! I don’t feel that, Tray!” she cried softly. “I do feel different, but I—I know it’s not Vaughn’s! Don’t ask me how I know that,” she begged. “I only feel it here, in my heart. Please…don’t torture yourself. Wait until Dr. Birch gets here.”
Tray felt his stomach twist into a hard knot. Vaughn, the filthy bastard, would have the last laugh. And if it was Vaughn’s child? How would Alyssa feel about carrying it? Would she try to miscarry it, or worse, kill herself because of the shame? He rubbed his face. Everything he ever loved became tainted. And he loved Alyssa more than anyone in his entire life. What would it do to her? Would she hate him because it was his half brother’s child whom she carried? Could she safely deliver a baby? Oh God, what if she died in birth because the baby was too large to pass from her small body? He looked longingly at Alyssa. She sat up in bed, a modest pink flannel nightgown on, looking more like a child than a woman carrying a baby in her body. What would Birch say? God, he’d go out of his mind until he found out.
“I’ll be in my study. When Birch gets done with you, tell him I want to see him,” he said tiredly, leaving.
* * *
Tray’s insides were clenched as Dr. Birch knocked and entered his study. The doctor’s face was grave as he came and sat down.
“She is pregnant, my lord.”
“There’s no doubt?” he asked in a weary voice.
“No doubt.”
Tray hid his face between his hands, drawing in a great, ragged breath. “She told you everything?”
“Yes, she did. I’ve examined her, my lord. And quite frankly, I don’t know whether she’s three months or a month and a half along. In all honesty, it could be your child or Vaughn’s.” He watched as the lord raised his head, hope flickering in his red-rimmed eyes. “It takes a woman nine months to birth. If the baby is born in December of this year, it will be Vaughn’s. But if it’s born in February of next year, it will be your child. Anyway, in a few more months, I’ll have a better idea of how far along she really is. At first, it’s difficult to tell, my lord.”
“But Sorche said women don’t begin their sickness until the third month.”
Birch shrugged, giving him a kindly smile. “Some women start it from the moment they conceive, my lord. Others in the first month or second. It’s true, most women get the sickness in the third through sixth month.”
Hope entwined with fear. “Then—then Aly could be pregnant with my child?”
“It’s very possible. Remember, I was the one who treated her after the rape.” He shook his head. “She’s healed quickly from that, I must admit. But I find it difficult to believe she could have conceived under those circumstances. It’s possible, but improbable.”
Tray clenched his teeth, worry shadowing his eyes. “If it is my baby she carries, will she have trouble delivering it?”
Birch recalled all too readily Shelby’s death in childbirth. “I know what you’re thinking, my lord. And I can’t easily answer that question for you.”
“God, she’s build exactly like Shelby,” he uttered in a low groan.
“Not really. Lady Alyssa is far more active than Shelby was.” A slight smile crossed Birch’s mouth. “According to your wife, she’s been riding horses like a man since she was old enough to walk. Society may frown upon that, but what it has done is widen her hip area, made her more flexible, if you will. I think she may have a long labor, but knowing her spunk and spirit, I’d say she’ll deliver a healthy baby.”
A slight glimmer of hope flared in Tray’s eyes. “And you say in two months you’ll know when Aly will birth?”
Birch got to his feet. “I should know, my lord. For right now, I’d try to comfort her. She’s very fearful that the baby might be Vaughn’s. We’ll all have to wait, I’m afraid.”
* * *
Tray found Alyssa standing at the french doors in their bedchamber after he had bid the doctor farewell. Her profile was silhouetted against the crystal, her hands laid flat against the doors. He walked quietly to her side, words useless as she slowly turned her head, her eyes fraught with fear and confusion. Her face was so pale, making her jade eyes look like deep pools of grief as he studied her in the uncomfortable silence.
“Dr. Birch spoke to you?” she asked in a low, tortured tone.
“Yes.” Tray held her gaze. If only he could know what she was thinking and feeling. “Aly, I—”
She turned away, staring out the window. “I won’t stop you from annulling our marriage, Tray. I don’t blame you.” She hung her head, fighting back tears. “I—I can barely stand t
he idea that it might be Vaughn’s baby and not yours….” Her fingers dug into the wood of the door frame. “I won’t blame you for whatever you must do.”
He gripped her shoulders, turning her toward him. “What are you talking about? What annulment?”
Bravely, she met his dark, anguished eyes. “How can you accept my carrying a child that might not be yours? A child conceived out of anger and hatred?”
His fingers tightened on her flesh. “Now listen to me,” he said hoarsely, “whatever happens, it does not lessen my love for you, Aly. I want no annulment! I love you.”
Her eyes became luminous. “You mean that, Tray? After I’ve shamed you? I’m the daughter of a felon. And now I may be carrying Vaughn’s child and not yours! How can you still love me?” She choked back a sob, watching his features soften. “By the laws of our church, I won’t try to miscarry the child. That would be murder.”
He groaned, whispering her name, pulling her against him. Alyssa melted against his hard body and he held her in a crushing embrace, his face buried in her long, silken hair. “No matter what the outcome, Aly, I love you,” he said thickly. “And if you do carry Vaughn’s child and not mine, I do not blame you for that, either. You were taken by force, beloved.” He kissed her hair and then gently cradled her face in his large hand as he lifted her chin upward. His gray eyes were curiously bright as he gazed down upon her. “You’re my life, Aly,” he whispered brokenly. “We’ll weather this together. Whatever you do, don’t shut me out. Together we can give each other strength.”
She nodded, unable to speak for a long moment. “Oh, Tray, what if it is Vaughn’s child? Could I find it within my heart to love the baby? I feel as if God is punishing me. What have I done so wrong that I must carry Vaughn’s baby and not yours?”
“Hush, little one, it will be all right,” he soothed, caressing her hair with a trembling hand. “Dr. Birch will be able to tell us in two months or so if it is ours or Vaughn’s. And then your fears may be put to rest.”
Miserably, Alyssa leaned her head on his chest, her voice broken. “I hate him, Tray. I hate Vaughn for all he’s done to me and now to you. Sorche told me how much he teased and made fun of you while you were growing up. He’s got a black heart! He spreads nothing but pain and suffering wherever he goes.”
Tray kissed her cheek tenderly, cradling her protectively in his arms. “God would never punish you, Aly. You’ve done nothing wrong except help fight for the freedom that Ireland deserves.”
She sniffed, angrily swallowing the tears she refused to let fall. “If I didn’t know better, I would say God is an Englishman!”
Tray chuckled and gave her a squeeze. “I doubt that He is, beloved. It just seems like it, sometimes. Now, do you feel up to some tea with me in the drawing room?”
An incredible sense of warmth spread through her as she looked up into Tray’s face. He loved her, unequivocally and without reservation. “Yes, I’d like that.”
Chapter Fifteen
Vaughn lounged lazily on the settee, having changed from his hacking clothes into a well-tailored set of dark blue trousers, a matching coat and a pale blue silk shirt. He took a sip of rich red sherry before finally bringing himself to open his father’s most recent letter from Briarwood. Harold had last written to advise him to keep away from Shadowhawk, after Tray had warned their father that he risked losing his younger son. Taking a deep breath, Vaughn quickly read the first lines.
His eyes narrowed. Alyssa Kyle pregnant? He felt a cold blade go through him as he glanced at the letter’s date—a mere ten days after Tray’s wedding. She was carrying his child! His hand tightened around the slender stem of the goblet, his mouth thinning as he pondered the ramifications, the ways that she might use the child against him. He wanted no half-Irish brat going around claiming him as his father. Harold would be humiliated if he ever talked to one of his compatriots who had been aboard that ship when he raped the Kyle girl. Then, the truth would be known.
Small beads of sweat dotted his furrowed brow. Yes, Alyssa could easily use the brat to dishonor him in the eyes of his family. She had reason enough to come after him. Not to mention what Tray might do…. God’s blood! He had totally discounted Tray. Sweat glistened on his tense face as his mind raced. His half brother would come hunting him in earnest. He had no wish to meet Tray in a fight to the death. Did Tray believe that he had been the one to rape her? Tray must have or he wouldn’t have sent that letter to Harold.
Vaughn abruptly stood, strode with urgency through the halls of his well-appointed London house and escaped to the well-manicured garden in back. He had to think! Think! Alyssa would bear the brat in December. That was five months away. He halted at a hedge, staring blackly into space. Was Tray going to annul the marriage? There had been no word on that. The idiot would be stupid enough to stay married to her, Vaughn thought savagely.
Alyssa would have to meet her death. Slowly, a plan evolved in Vaughn’s mind, and a smile began to blossom at the corners of his mouth. Yes, why not? Why not, indeed? Alyssa always rode horses, according to Stablemaster Thomas. Why not ambush her on Shadowhawk property? He would ride to Liverpool, hire some men and then patiently wait until the proper moment. They could have sport with her before they slashed her throat, just as Paige’s throat had been slit by those Irish brigands. A just and fitting revenge, Vaughn thought, congratulating himself. He would be rid of Alyssa and the evidence she carried in her body, and he would be free of any retribution that she might have tried through blackmail in the future. Suddenly, the sunny day turned brighter and more beautiful as Vaughn slowly turned and walked back to the house, a smile lingering on his mouth.
* * *
“No you don’t, you’re riding with me.” Tray leaned down, placing an arm around Alyssa, easily drawing her up in front of him on the saddle. Rasheed stood still, neck magnificently arched, while Tray made her comfortable across his lap.
Alyssa laughed, throwing her arms around Tray’s neck. “You, sir, are a highwayman.”
Stablemaster Thomas smiled and made a quick bow. “Enjoy your ride,” he called.
“I practically have to abduct my own wife,” Tray muttered, moving Rasheed into a gentle walk, “she’s so busy with the manor.”
Alyssa closed her eyes, content to be held in his arms. The sun was bright, and a light breeze occasionally caught strands of her unbound hair. She wore a simple pink cotton dress that brought out the heightened color of her cheeks and lips. “I see you in bed each night, my lord. And do I not pay total attention to you then?”
Tray leaned down, brushing his mouth against her welcoming lips. She tasted of tartness and honey. “That you do,” he agreed. “You’ve been drinking the lemon water,” he added, kissing her once more.
She hugged him fiercely, her eyes sparkling. “Dr. Birch says no alcohol, and you monitor every scrap of food that goes in my mouth. I’ve been reduced to drinking hot tea and cool lemon water.”
He grinned. “And you’re growing more beautiful by the day because of it, my lady.”
Alyssa rested her head against Tray’s broad shoulder while her hand skimmed his wonderfully virile chest. “I think Dr. Birch is right, Tray. The baby I carry is yours, not Vaughn’s.”
His gray eyes darkened. That thought had haunted them for nearly two months now. Next week, when Dr. Birch came out to examine Alyssa, their questions finally would be put to rest. One way or another. “I hope you’re right, little one.”
“Sorche has been a midwife, Tray. And she pointed out that although my breasts are tender and I’m nauseated, my clothes still fit me, and there isn’t a woman who doesn’t complain of her waist growing at three months.” She patted her tummy. “And look at me! I haven’t gained an inch! There is no roundness to my stomach, no weight gain. Do I look as if I’m five months along?” she demanded.
Tray shook his head, feeling some of his fear melting beneath her teasing. “No, you don’t look pregnant. But your breasts are slightly fuller.”
He grinned, dodging her lips, tiny shivers of pleasure racing through him. “Wench,” he accused, pulling her away. “Keep that up and I’ll ride to that grove of beech in the distance and take you.”
Alyssa’s eyes sparkled. “Tray?”
“Hmm?”
“If this is our baby,” she began in a softened voice, “what name would you choose?”
He frowned. “Welsh or Irish?”
She laughed, hugging him. “I love you so much! You always think of me, don’t you?”
He met her smiling emerald eyes. The wind blew a lock of his black hair onto his forehead and she reached up, taming it back into place. “You’re always first in my heart, little one. Now, as for names, I can think of two Welsh ones. I’ll let you think of two Irish ones.”
Alyssa settled contentedly back into his arms, closing her eyes. “All right. If it’s a boy, our boy, what name would you like for him?”
“Griffith. It means fierce chief in Welsh.”
“Griffith.” Alyssa tested the word and looked up at Tray. “Could we call him Griff? Then I could pronounce it properly.”
He laughed. “Griff is a good name, too.”
“And if our baby is a girl?” she prodded him lightly.
“Meredith. In Welsh that means guardian from the sea. And she would be raised by the sea.”
“Meredith sounds so…staunch. What if we shortened it to Merry? I’d like that—Merry sounds so happy. Like bright sunshine.”
Tray agreed, praying inwardly that the baby Alyssa carried was theirs. “Yes,” he murmured, “I’d like Merry better than Meredith.”
Alyssa sat up, her hands on his broad shoulders. “Oh, Tray, I just know this is our baby. I feel it here, in my heart.”
Tray’s face became tender as he regarded his young wife. “I feel it’s our baby, too, Aly. And in another week, we’ll know.”