by The Bargain
He knew that she was truly gone this time; he dismissed all notions of a late-night ride to search her out and bring her back. Even if that were possible, she clearly wished herself rid of him, so much so that, despite the obstacles he'd set forth, she'd found a way to escape. Well, it was what he'd wanted, wasn't it? For days he'd longed for some way to make a decision about her, and tonight she'd saved him the trouble; she'd made it for him.
But then why did he feel so hollow inside?
Heaving a tired sigh, he braced an outstretched arm against the mantel of the fireplace, lowering his chin to his chest as he studied his boots in a contemplative gesture. Then he saw it— a tiny gleam of metal catching the moonbeam that reached the corner of the cold hearth. Bending forward, he retrieved the object, then straightened before transferring it to his open palm. Her wedding ring.
The palm of his hand trembled slightly before it met his fingers to become a clenched fist that squeezed the ornate band so tightly, its sharper edges cut into his skin. Slowly Brett walked to the window and stared into the night, and then the fury began....
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
The Ligurian Seas blue-green waters sparkled in the early-October sunshine, and gentle waves curled and foamed about the random scattering of rocks that laced Livorno's surf. Here and there a gull cried as it floated effortlessly under the blue dome of sky covering northern Italy's coastline, and the only clouds in view were puffy white mounds that formed a friendly backdrop for the little village that rose upward on the hills above the beach.
From the open carriage that stood on the unpaved road well above the water's edge, Ashleigh had a commanding view of the beach, but it was not the beauty of the day or the picturesque coastline that had her attention as she sat, fanning herself, in the sun. For the past half hour or so, as she waited with their driver for Megan and Patrick to return, she'd been fascinated by a group of a dozen children playing in the surf under the watchful eye of a tall, slender woman.
What fascinated her, firstly, was that each of the children, who appeared to range in age from about three to perhaps ten or eleven, was in some way infirm. Several of them limped when they walked, and two or three had even arrived on crutches when she first spied their little band coming along the road, which was a short while after Patrick had taken Megan to the village to ask directions, leaving her here because she was feeling fatigued again and in need of a rest after their trip from the Ashleigh Anne. Now, as she watched the youngsters frolicking happily in the waves, she saw that one small boy had a deformed foot but managed to enter the surf bravely on the arm of a larger boy whose other arm ended at the elbow. Both, she noted, were grinning happily as they jumped a wave together.
And then there was the woman. Wearing a light summer dress she had hiked above her knees, she held by the hands two small twin girls, who walked with no visible infirmity, but smiled at their companion with continually closed eyes, for they were blind. The woman was not young, although she had appeared so at a distance; she carried her straight yet willowy frame with youthful ease and moved agilely among her young charges. But Ashleigh could see prominent streaks of gray in the hair that escaped the straw bonnet she wore, and her voice, as she called to the children in lilting Italian, or laughed with them at their play, had a mature quality to it.
But what struck Ashleigh as the most intriguing thing of all, was a strange, unshakable sense that this woman was familiar to her, and she wondered at this, for there was no one thing in particular that signaled this should be so. It wasn't the woman's features, for they were hardly visible beneath the shadow of the bonnet's brim; it couldn't be her speech, for it was in a tongue Ashleigh couldn't understand. But there was something about the way the woman moved, and her rich, vibrant laughter as it spilled across the sounds of the surf....
Wryly reminding herself that she was probably growing fanciful in the heat, Ashleigh fanned herself more vigorously and forced her thoughts back to her own circumstances. It was slightly more than two months since the evening she'd escaped from the house on King Street in that ridiculously crowded brougham. Two long months in which Patrick's every effort to take them to his home in America had been thwarted by the British sea patrols along England's coastline. Such vigilance against the upstart Americans threatening war had been vastly increased especially since the patrols no longer needed to contend with Bonaparte. Even though Patrick had known the reasons for England's impressment of American seamen, largely responsible for the United States's declaration of war on Britain in 1812, were no longer valid—the end of the European conflict relieved the Royal Navy of their desperate need for men to populate their fighting ships—he nevertheless feared an encounter with the English at sea. The Ashleigh Anne was still an American ship and, as such, would certainly be seized by the Royal Navy, most likely for spying, or possibly for smuggling, by the revenue cutters.
So for many weeks their little party had waited aboard Patrick's schooner as it remained anchored in one hidden cove or another along the English coast, even then traveling only at night from one clandestine port to the next when threats of discovery forced them to move.
But a little less than a fortnight ago, when Ashleigh's recurring queasiness upon awakening each morning, coupled with her admission, under Megan's gentle questioning, that she'd missed her monthly flux for the second time, made it clear she was pregnant, Patrick had determined they could wait for safe passage to America no longer. After learning of her condition he had at first tried to convince her to return to her husband, but when this proved fruitless, he'd devised a second alternative to that of sailing to his home in Virginia.
"We'll fly a false flag," he'd said. "Dutch or Belgian, I should think, and then make our way carefully south, keeping to the coastline once we've crossed to France. It's risky, but not as dangerous as braving the open sea."
And when Ashleigh and Megan questioned him on their ultimate destination, he'd shown them a letter he'd received from the little seacoast town of Livorno, off the coast of Tuscany—a place the English referred to as the Leghorn—and told them the incredible story of the woman who'd sent it, a woman named Maria, Contessa di Montefiori—the former Mary Westmont and Brett Westmont's mother!
Now, as she sat in the carriage awaiting word as to whether they would, indeed, find a welcome at the contessa's villa, as the letter had said, Ashleigh felt a curious mixture of emotions disturb her calm, though she'd hardly been calm very often these past weeks. Oh, she'd long since ceased weeping as she had in the cabin she shared with Megan aboard the Ashleigh Anne during those first depressing days away from London. In fact, if she concentrated very hard, she could even assume a cheerful mien most days.
But the nights were a different matter. Even after she reached the point where she felt she could cry no more, there was a deep and abiding melancholy that would come to her late at night when everything was still and she would lie in the darkness, listening to the gentle lapping of the waves against the hull of the ship that bore her name. It was during those times that she would fight sleep, knowing it could only bring dreams of a pair of turquoise eyes and visions of warm, enfolding arms that faded and mocked her when she awoke alone in her narrow bunk.
And then there was the mingling joy and pain she'd felt at learning she carried a child—his child! She felt joy just thinking of the tiny life growing inside her, and joy, too, together with a humble sense of participation in sharing in the wonderful, mysterious process of bringing a brand-new human into the world.
But knowing the child would forever be a link between her and the father she'd never see again was a joy steeped in pain. And she knew this would always leave her less than whole in the years to come; a part of her would be forever tied to Brett—the part that was her heart.
The wind changed, and a brisk breeze from the water allowed Ashleigh to put aside her fan. Leaning around the nodding form of the carriage's driver, she peered down the pebbled road in hopes of spying Megan and Patrick returning. Now the
re, she thought, is something else to be joyful about. No one could have been more delightfully surprised than she, to learn of the love that had sprung up between her brother and her closest friend. Megan and Patrick planned to marry soon, and it was the joy she felt in their happiness that had made her determined to bury her own sadness, at least when they were about.
Finding the road ahead still empty, Ashleigh sighed and leaned back on the carriage's seat while her thoughts returned to Brett. He must truly hate me now, she thought sadly. But what choice did I have, other than to leave? His mind was made up on the matter of the divorce, and even if it weren't, there were still the doubts about his ability to be faithful... or care for me, as I have come to care for him....
Uneasily, her thoughts swung to her own feelings for him. She wondered how it was that she'd grown to love Brett Westmont. After all, they had known each other only under the most trying of circumstances, and not for all that long a time. And for a great part of that time he'd made himself known to be arrogant, ill-tempered, unreasonable, and, when angered, fierce and ruthless as well. But he'd also shown himself to be generous beyond measure when others in his position might not have been, and he was honorable, too. Moreover, he wasn't afraid of admitting he'd made a mistake. Despite her and Megan's doubts at the time, he'd truly been willing to make amends when he came to Hampton House and offered her honorable employment and a chance for a better life.
And he could be gentle and kind. Spontaneously, Ashleigh's lips curled into a wistful smile as she recalled the day he'd come upon her in the meadow and the happy hours they'd shared with the animals there. He'd been a different person then, full of laughter and the capacity to enjoy life without the rancor and bitterness she knew lurked beneath that suave surface.
Also, Patrick had told her things about him that verified other characteristics she'd sensed but hadn't actually observed outright. During the week before the wedding, her brother had spoken of the time they'd been youths together, telling her of Brett's limitless capacity for hard work, of his incisive intelligence and ability to think quickly and act upon it when the situation called for it, and of his unflinching attention to duty. And he was fiercely loyal to those he deemed worthy of such loyalty, frequently going out of his way to support his friends, even if their station in life was far beneath his. There was the time he'd cut short a potentially profitable trading voyage to appear before the bench to testify on behalf of a former second mate who'd been accused of murder, Brett bearing witness to the fact that the man had been with him in another port when the deed was done. And the time he'd visited the widow of one of his sailors who'd died at sea and, learning the woman was destitute, had set up a lifetime trust for the support of her and her three children.
Yes, despite his faults, Brett was all of these things—generous, honorable, kind, diligent, loyal—and in his arms she had found a heaven she hadn't dreamed—
Abruptly, Ashleigh cut her summation short as she felt tears threaten her eyes. No, she told herself firmly. You're not going to cry again—you're not! It can't help you, and it won't help the child.... There, focus on that. It's the child who's important now... you must think of the child....
Finding some measure of peace with these thoughts, she turned her eyes again toward the beach and noticed the tall woman was collecting her charges, helping them dry their well-browned little bodies with some toweling she'd brought along, and urging them cheerily up the path to the road. A few moments later their small band was marching happily in the direction from which they'd come while the woman led them in a brisk, melodic little song.
As they passed, not too far from where the carriage stood, the woman waved at Ashleigh and gave her a warm, sunny smile, while continuing her song. Several of the children followed suit, and Ashleigh smiled happily as she waved back at them.
When they had gone, she found herself humming to herself the gay little tune they'd sung, and she suddenly realized she hadn't felt this lighthearted in weeks. Then, a short time later, when Megan and Patrick returned to tell her they'd spoken with the contessa's steward—for the lady was out for the afternoon—and Maria had left word she was anxious, after receiving the note they'd sent ahead, to welcome them to her home, Ashleigh began to truly relax for the first time since she'd left London, or perhaps even before that. Italy, with its blue skies and sunny coastline, even this late in the year, might not prove such a bad place in which to spend some time... time in which to set her life aright and gain a foothold in the future, whatever that might bring.
* * * * *
Ashleigh's first impression of the cool white stucco Villa Montefiori was that it seemed to exist chiefly as a backdrop for a profusion of flowers. There were colorful blossoms everywhere she looked—along the drive of crushed, sun-bleached seashells, in a riot of color among the terraced gardens, dripping lavishly over low stone walls, nestled against the open verandas attached to the lower levels of the house. Her eye was filled with a palette of lush florals, and the air was heavy with their scent. The house itself was a testament to airiness and simplicity despite its large size. In addition to the open verandas, there were galleries—or loggia, as she later learned to call them—on the second level, roofed with flat, bracketed eaves and partly enclosed. The asymmetrical arrangement of numerous large, rounded windows and doorways seemed designed to let in the maximum of sunlight and air. Flat-roofed, except for a soaring, off-center tower, the structure appeared to nestle snugly into the hillside on which it was built, and the overall effect was one of inviting coziness, light, grace and charm.
The steward met them at the double-arched doors that faced a large, flower-surrounded courtyard; he quickly ascertained from Patrick when he might be expecting the arrival of their baggage from the ship, and led them inside. The cool marble-floored entry hall was richly decorated in the Italian Renaissance style, from its ornate blue and gilt ceiling to its beautifully muraled walls. Several doorways led off either side of it, and they were shown through the first on their right.
"Signore Santa Clara," the staid, white-haired steward announced, "e Signorina Santa Clara, e Signorina O'Briani."
A warm, throaty chuckle emanated from across the large drawing room as a tall, slender, and beautifully gowned woman stepped toward them. "Enrico and I must really work on his English one of these days," she said, laughing, then held out her arms in welcome. "Patrick, my dear, how wonderful!"
Patrick rushed forward and without so much as a second's hesitation, swept the immaculately groomed woman into a smothering bear hug. "Maria!" he shouted. "My God, but you're a sight to make these sore eyes smile!"
Ashleigh and Megan exchanged horrified glances at this obvious breach of protocol on Patrick's part; after all, the woman was a contessa! But Maria's response of delighted laughter—muffled as it was by the smothering embrace— quickly wiped the alarm from their faces.
"But, here, let me look at you," said Maria, at last freed from the hug and holding Patrick at arm's length. "Merciful Heavens! You've grown even bigger than you were!" she laughed.
"And you've changed not a bit—" Patrick grinned "—except, perhaps, you've grown more beautiful than I remember."
"Adulatore!" the contessa chastised playfully. She lightly touched gracefully slender, beringed fingers to a wing of silver hair that swept away from her temple. "Here alone is a change to remind us of how much time has passed in this woman's life."
"Still, I'm not the flatterer you called me," returned Patrick as he turned and led her toward where Ashleigh and Megan waited. "Some women simply age well, improving with it, like a fine wine. But come, I want you to meet my ladies before I'm accused of lacking manners as well as honesty." He winked down at his hostess as he said this.
But, as they drew nearer, the contessa paused as her turquoise-flecked hazel eyes found Ashleigh's. She was silent for a long moment, then smiled and said softly, "Ashleigh, my dear, welcome. I would know you by those wonderful eyes, if nothing else. Had I been close enough to s
ee them out there this afternoon, I'd have recognized you then, you know."
Ashleigh's lips parted silently with belated recognition. The woman on the beach! The contessa was the woman with those children on the beach this afternoon! Why, she'd scarcely have believed the transformation! In place of the barefoot, casually dressed country woman was this elegantly coiffured and begowned lady looking every inch the noblewoman she was.
Blushing with her astonishment, Ashleigh made a brief curtsy, murmuring, "How kind of you to welcome us into your home, contessa. Thank you."
"Nonsense, my dear," said Maria. "It is I who should be thanking you for coming at last, to visit your old friend after all these years. And please don't be embarrassed because you failed to place me. I've more than once been taken for one of the peasant women when I've gone on an outing with my children."
"Your children?" questioned Ashleigh.
"In a way, yes," said Maria, her voice grown a shade more serious, "but more about that later. For now, I wish to meet this stunning redhead my steward called Signorina O'Briani. Judging by your breathtaking coloring, my dear," she said, looking up at Megan, "I'll wager the name's really O'Brien, is it not?"
Megan grinned and nodded while Patrick completed the introductions. At Ashleigh's request, he'd made no mention in his brief note to their hostess of her marriage or relationship to Brett, agreeing that the proper time for imparting that information must be carefully thought out and done only in person; therefore she was for now, as the steward's announcement had indicated, merely Ashleigh Sinclair. He did at this time, however, include the information that Megan was his fiancée, and when she heard this, Maria reached up to give the young Irishwoman a delighted hug.
"Oh, what wonderful news!" she cried. "I cannot wait to hear all the details." Then she turned again to Ashleigh, her expression more serious. "And the specifics of your situation, too, cara. I realize Patrick's note had to be brief, but if you think I shall last much longer wondering what has been happening in your life all these years, think again!
