The marquess took a step closer, never looking away from him. “You want to give your daughter your name, before God. Is that correct?” he demanded.
“Y-Yes,” Henry stammered, standing a little straighter now.
“Right,” Winterbourne said with a sharp nod. “Snap to it, then.”
Isabella watched with her heart beating in her throat as Henry swallowed, his hands clenched so tight that the knuckles showed white as he moved to take her hand. He clutched at her, his grasp hurting her fingers.
“Sorry,” he whispered, head bowed as they moved to the door. “I’m s-sorry.”
Isabella raised his hand to her lips and kissed it. “I love you, Henry,” she whispered.
Henry gave her a sideways glance, his expression filled with despair and wonder, and together they went to christen their daughter.
***
Isabella stared down at her baby daughter before leaning down and blowing a raspberry against her stomach. Marie gurgled with laughter, kicking and beaming up at her mother, and Isabella’s breath caught. She’d never known it was possible to feel such love for another human being, but Henry and her daughter had taught her otherwise.
With a rush of sadness, she wondered if her own mother had ever known such overwhelming emotions, and knew she had not. She would have handed Isabella to a nurse maid within minutes of the birth, and her mother would be as little occupied with her as possible. To her surprise, it was not resentment that swelled at the realisation, but pity. Her mother had missed this. The woman had never known the joy of the bond between a mother and her child, and for that, Isabella could only feel sorrow for her. Marine was her world, and she knew Henry felt the same. That her husband could open his heart to a child that wasn’t his only showed what a strong and wonderful man he was. She was blessed.
Once she’d dressed Marie, she took her downstairs, to find Jack slamming about in the kitchen. That he was in a temper was plain, and she hesitated for a moment before walking in, aware that he hadn’t seen she was there.
“Jack?”
He jumped a little and she saw the effort he took to arrange his face into something less furious.
“I didn’t see you there,” he said, coming over to smile at Marie. “And how’s my little princess today?”
“Giggly,” Isabella replied, smiling as Jack offered the baby his little finger. “And you, Jack? How are you?”
A troubled look entered the man’s eye and he avoided her gaze. “Fine and dandy,” he replied, the words light-hearted. Isabella knew him well enough to know his tone was forced.
“And how are you, really?” She narrowed her eyes at him as he sighed. The kettle sang on the stove and he turned away.
“You want tea?”
“Yes, please,” Isabella replied, sitting down at the table and wondering why he was being so evasive. He’d been into town this morning to fetch supplies, she knew that. “Now tell me what has you in such a bad skin this morning.”
Jack shrugged as he poured hot water into the teapot. As he brought it to the table, he cast Isabella a look filled with anxiety and she knew he was thinking about fobbing her off again.
“Jack,” she said, reaching across the table to squeeze his hands. “We’re friends, surely you can tell me if something troubles you.”
“Course, Isabella,” he said, shaking his head as he sat down opposite her. “I … I didn’t want you worrying, too, if there were no need, but …”
“But?” Isabella repeated, a tremor of unease worming its way under her skin.
Jack sat forward, lowering his voice. “There was a deal of gossip this morning,” he said, anger underlying the words. “About you and Henry and … and Viscount Treedle.”
Isabella’s blood chilled under her skin, her heart growing cold. She had put the man from her mind and resolved never to think of him again. Mere gossip was not enough to make Jack look as though he feared something, though.
“What else, Jack?”
Before the man could answer, they jumped as a hammering sound came at the front door.
Jack’s eyes widened with fear. “Reckon that’s him, Isabella,” he said, the words panicked. “I thought perhaps it was all talk, but …”
“But what, Jack?” Isabella cried, leaping to her feet.
She watched, fear growing in her heart as Jack said the horrifying words, “He’s come for Marie.”
Chapter 18
“Wherein … war.”
Jack’s words span in Isabella’s head, making her dizzy and nauseated, but they made no sense.
“He didn’t want her, he cast us out …Why …w-why now?” she stammered, clutching Marie to her chest.
“Because of the talk,” Jack said, his voice angry. “He’s being pilloried for allowing a madman to raise his bastard child.”
Isabella sucked in a breath as the hammering at the door grew louder, alongside shouted demands that they open up. The bastard. Fury filled her veins, chasing away fear, though it lingered in her heart. Viscount Treedle had taken enough from her for one lifetime, he’d not take anything else.
“Jack,” she said, her voice firm. “Take Marie and get out of here. Go down to the woodsman’s hut where you found Henry. One of us will come for you when it’s safe.”
Jack nodded, taking the baby into his arms. “You sure, Isabella, what about you? P’raps you should hide with her.”
Isabella gave him a grim smile and shook her head. “I know how to deal with a snake like Treedle. I’ll be fine, Jack. Don’t you worry. Now go.”
She watched him hurrying towards the back of the building before she turned around. Isabella took a moment to compose herself, smoothing down her skirts and searching out what remained of the cold, disdainful woman her mother had bred her to be.
She stalked to the door and swung it open, glaring with contempt at the man whose fist was raised to knock again.
“Do you wish to smash my door to pieces, sir, or is this your usual display of manners when paying a call on a lady?”
The fellow dropped his fist, taken aback for a moment, and then Viscount Treedle stepped forward.
“A lady?” he queried, his tone insulting. “We were not calling upon a lady, dear Isabella.”
Isabella snorted, wondering at the fool she’d been. A marriage to his man would have destroyed her, how could she have longed for such a thing with such desperation? Now there was madness.
“I see your manners have improved none,” she said, shuddering at the memory of his hands upon her. “You always were a boring fool, and without the first idea about fashion. What in the name of God are you wearing?” she demanded, looking him over with a sneer, knowing this would rile him more than any other comment she could utter.
One of the two men beside him smothered a grin and Isabella knew they held the ridiculous creature in as much contempt as she did.
Treedle blushed with fury, turning as best he could to glare at his companion while the outrageous heights of his collar impeded his movement. Isabella knew he considered himself a pink of the ton, a trendsetter, when he was actually a laughingstock, but so vastly wealthy that no one would do it to his face.
“Stand aside, you vicious bitch,” he snarled. “I’ve come for my daughter.”
Isabella’s heart kicked in her chest, but her face remained impassive. “You have no daughter, my lord. Henry Barbour is my husband and the child’s father. She’s none of yours.”
Treedle laughed, a contemptuous sound that made Isabella burn with shame and fury.
“Everyone knows I had you that night, believe me. I told enough people. Low and behold, you bear a child nine months later. Even your half-wit husband should be able to figure that out.”
Isabella took a moment to turn the sapphire ring she wore on her finger. It had been a birthday gift to her on her sixteenth birthday, and the trick, one she’d learned from her mother. She slapped him, putting the full force of her fury and regret behind the movement. Her palm burned with pai
n and her fingers ached, but she smiled with satisfaction at the blood that ran from the cut on Treedle’s cheek where the ring had struck him. It dripped onto his perfect cravat and collars, and he raised his fist to strike her.
Isabella gasped, but the blow never landed and Treedle was felled to the ground. She sucked in a breath as she saw Henry standing over him, rigid with fury.
“Stand up, damn you,” he said. Isabella opened her mouth in shock, her gentle, loving Henry sounded ready to do murder. Treedle stared up at the huge figure looming over him and scrambled away.
“Get him, you fools,” he commanded the two men beside him.
They moved towards Henry, and Isabella watched in astonishment as Henry knocked one out cold with a blow that snapped his head back, and left the second doubled-up in pain. He advanced on Treedle, who was now on his feet, and hit him again, the blow sending him sprawling, and broke his nose, if the crunching sound was anything to go on.
“You dare come here and raise a hand to my wife?” Henry shouted, as Treedle screamed for the man who was not unconscious to come to his aid, to no avail. He clutched at his nose, staring at Henry in terror as her husband reached down and pulled the man to his feet by his lapels.
“You think I’m mad, do you?” Henry demanded, shaking the man like a rag doll. “Well, unless you get out of here now and never come back, I’ll show you how true that is.”
Treedle whimpered, blood dripping from his nose in a steady stream.
Henry lifted the man so that their faces were level, the viscount’s toes no longer touching the ground. “Who does the child belong to?” he said, the words growled rather than spoken.
“Y-you,” Treedle replied, shaking and weeping. “The girl’s yours, all yours.”
“And don’t you forget it.” Henry dropped him in the dirt, the desire to do further harm blazing in his eyes. “Now get off my property, before I decide you’ll not leave at all.”
Isabella watched, torn between astonishment and amusement as Treedle left his companions bleeding on the ground and ran. The one still conscious was a little more heroic and roused his sleeping friend before they, too, ran for cover.
Henry stood like a sentinel, rigid with fury, long after the men were out of sight.
“Henry?” Isabella moved towards him, her steps slow, her voice calm, sensing his distress. As she faced him, she saw the anger had leached away, replaced by terror that shone in his eyes as he trembled.
“They’ll take you away from me,” he said, the words anguished as Isabella ran to him, throwing her arms around his waist.
“No, Henry. No one can do that. Never. I won’t let them.”
Henry shook his head, his distress growing now. “He will,” he said, the certainty in his voice breaking her heart. “He’ll make them lock me up. They’ll say I’m mad and they’ll lock me up. I’ll never see you … or Marie … They’ll take me away.”
“Henry! Henry, no,” Isabella cried as he shook with fear.
“Don’t let them,” he pleaded, clutching at her and holding her tight. “Don’t let them take me away.”
“Never. Never, my love,” Isabella promised, even as terror built in her own heart. Viscount Treedle was a powerful man, and a vindictive one. He’d not dare face Henry again himself, but he’d delight in seeing him locked up. Henry’s words seemed less like paranoia and more like inevitability, the truth of them filling her heart with ice. She held him tight, kissing him and murmuring reassurances. “No one will take you from me, Henry Barbour,” she said, her voice full of fury. “You and Marie are mine, and anyone who thinks to take what’s mine … I’ll make them regret the day they were born.”
***
The more Isabella thought on Henry’s words, the more she knew he was right. She didn’t believe the viscount would press to take Marie from her again. That he’d only done so because of the pressure of gossip was obvious enough. He had no interest in her child further than removing an embarrassment. Removing Henry from the child would suit his purposes just as well, and had the added incentive of wreaking vengeance on both her and her husband.
The fury with which Henry had defended them both shocked and touched her. Such fury was long since gone, though, as she dragged him through the woods, down to the river, in search of Jack and Marie. He had retreated into himself and silence, numb with misery and terror, and Isabella wanted to rip Treedle’s heart from his chest with her bare hands for causing it.
“Jack!” Isabella called as they grew closer, and felt a surge of relief as his dark head appeared, the baby still cradled in his arms.
He hurried towards them, his eyes taking in Henry’s hunched figure with concern.
“What happened?” he demanded as Marie cried, her wails tugging at Isabella’s womb, her breasts prickling with the desire to feed her child. She took the baby from Jack, shaking her head, implying they could not talk yet.
“Henry saved us,” she said, smiling at her husband who would not now meet her eyes. “But now he’s worn out and he needs peace,” she said, looking instead to Jack, who took in the blood on Henry’s shirt and fists and understood her meaning. “I think perhaps you should stay here for a while where it’s quiet,” she said, addressing this to Henry, who didn’t respond.
“Come along, now, lad,” Jack said, his voice coaxing. “Me and your missus have got things to settle, and that little princess is hungry again, if I know anything. So, you settle yourself down here until you feel more the thing, eh? We’ll come and fetch you for dinner.”
Henry still didn’t respond, staring at the ground, though his fists remained clenched.
“Henry,” Isabella said, stepping closer to him. She touched his face, turning his gaze towards her. “Do you trust me?”
Henry’s eyes slid to hers, dark and afraid and troubled, but he nodded.
“Then believe in me,” she said, reaching up to press a kiss to his mouth. “Jack and I love you, and we won’t let anyone take you from us.”
He nodded again, and they watched as he walked to the little hut, ducking under the low opening and into the dark within.
Isabella cast Jack a pleading look and they hurried back to the house.
“He beat the viscount until he was bloody, Jack,” she said, her voice desperate now. “He knocked one man unconscious and flattened the other with one blow apiece.”
Jack gaped at her as they strode through the undergrowth. “Bugger me,” he said, shaking his head. “I thought I ought to have warned you after I’d gone, but it was too late. Only time I ever saw Henry raise his fists was when a fellow shouted at his father. He was only a lad, barely sixteen, but he was already big and strong. It was quite a sight.”
Isabella snorted. “I think Treedle would agree with you,” she said, her tone dry. “Henry broke his nose, and he’s such a preening fop, he will want Henry’s blood for it.”
“You reckon he’ll try to get him locked up?”
Isabella felt fear prickle down her back and nodded, unable to speak her agreement out loud as her throat grew tight.
“Over my dead body,” Jack growled, full of fury at the idea.
Isabella reached out a hand to him and squeezed the calloused palm he placed in hers.
“Together, Jack,” she said, her voice firm. “No one will take Henry away.”
“What are we gonna do, then?” he demanded, surprising her by looking to her for advice.
Isabella took a breath, determination a burn in her blood. “I will feed Marie, and then you will take her to her godparents’ for safety and explain that we need help, at once. Tell them what happened, Jack,” she said, turning to him. “Belle knows Treedle is the father. Tell them I’m begging them, and I’ll be forever in their debt,” she added, her voice breaking. “Tell them whatever you need to. Just make them send help.”
Jack nodded, his face grim. “Oh, I’ll bring help, don’t you worry. But what about you?”
Isabella cursed as her dress snagged on a bramble and snatch
ed the material from the thorns, heedless of the tear it made. “I have one last thing I need you to do for me before you go,” she said, breathless now as the grand house came into sight at last.
“Oh?” Jack stopped for a moment and braced his hands on his knees to catch his breath. “What’s that, then?” he demanded.
Isabella turned back to him, taking his arm with her free hand and dragging him on as Marie fretted again. “I need you to teach me to fire a gun.”
Chapter 19
“Wherein our heroine takes a stand.”
Isabella watched for a moment until the carriage bearing her daughter was out of sight. Jack would lock the gates at the entrance to Henry’s land as he left. It would buy them some time. She imagined it would take a while for Treedle to gather the men he needed to come back for Henry. How long it would take Belle to persuade her husband to send help, she didn’t know, so every moment counted. There had been understanding in the marquess’ eyes for Henry during the christening, though. Perhaps he would not need much persuasion. She sent a silent prayer to the heavens, praying it was true, praying her family would be safe, that they could live in peace. Perhaps she didn’t deserve such a life after her behaviour over the past years, but Henry did, Marie did. God could not punish them for her sins.
Her heart thudded now as fear insinuated itself beneath her skin, a living thing that made her tremble.
“Head up, Isabella,” she murmured, trying to steady her breathing. “This is for Henry, for your daughter. You can do this.”
She hurried into her bedroom, gathering the bag of powder and shot that Jack had given her after a brief demonstration of how not to blow up a gun in her face. They’d loaded two pair of duelling pistols, along with two rifles. That gave her six shots before she needed to reload. Isabella reached for the powder flask with shaking hands and then paused. She had cast aside the orange gown that Henry loved over a chair. It had lain there since Henry had stripped it from her with something close to desperation the last time she’d sat for his painting. She smiled.
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