Sattler, Veronica

by The Bargain

  The second boy, a four-year-old named Carlo, lowered the red harness he'd been thrusting at the wolfhound and smiled apologetically at Maria before lowering his eyes too, but Finn rushed up to Brett and gave him a welcoming bark, his tail wagging furiously.

  Brett patted the dog on the head, then turned to Maria. "So she is here."

  Maria sighed. "She is here," she answered resignedly, then glanced at the two toddlers near the door and spoke gently to them in Italian.

  The small boys raised their eyes and brightened, sending her glad smiles, then walked quietly over to Finn and led him out of the room.

  Brett watched them go, a gentle half smile on his lips as he observed their chubby little legs endeavor to keep up with the wolfhound's gigantic strides, but when he turned back to Maria, his expression was stern. "Just what is your relationship to my wife, contessa?"

  Maria faced him for a moment, then gave him the answer she had prepared. "I am an old friend of her family's. I knew her and Sir Patrick years ago."

  "When you lived in England."

  A pause. "Yes."

  "Then I assume you are privy to the circumstances that brought them here."

  "I am."

  "Then may I also assume you see me as the villain in this situation?" Brett's eyes grew hard with this question.

  Maria met them with a resolute look. "That depends, Your Grace."

  "On...?"

  "On what your intentions are, now that you have located Ashleigh."

  "I see," said Brett, rising from his chair. "And if I refuse to explain them to you?"

  "That could prove t' be very unwise," said a female voice from the doorway.

  "Megan!" Maria exclaimed. "When did you get back?"

  Megan stepped into the drawing room. She wore a leaf-green cloak of soft wool; her glorious hair was tousled and windblown, and her cheeks bore the rosy hue of someone who has been out-of-doors. "Just a few minutes ago, m'lady, but, not t' fash yerself—the colleen's not with us. We left her—" she glanced at Brett "—ah, somewhere in the village. Hello, Yer Grace. I had an idea ye'd turn up... like a bad penny!"

  Brett's face reflected his irritation at the remark. "I see these few months have done nothing to soften your sharp tongue, Miss O'Brien."

  "That would be Lady St. Clare now," said a voice from the doorway as Patrick's huge form filled it. "Megan and I were wed in December."

  Brett watched the big man come to stand beside his wife and then saw the two exchange a look that spoke worlds to each other; their eyes communicated mutual adoration, trust, respect... in short, total love of the sort he had come to believe could never exist between a man and a woman, and he felt a momentary stab of regret at the discovery.

  Schooling his features to reflect none of this, he replied stiffly, "My congratulations to you both. I wish you every happiness."

  Patrick accepted this with a cool nod. "Why have you come, Brett?"

  Brett's reply was tight, even defensive. "I should think that would be fairly obvious. I've come to see Ashleigh."

  "I find it less than obvious that a man should seek out a wife he's thrust aside," said Patrick.

  Brett's control began to slip as he met the grim determination of Megan and Patrick's protectiveness. Hell, it had been difficult enough, coming here to face the question mark Ashleigh represented, without having to undergo an interrogation from these two! He wanted to see his wife, dammit—not undergo a bloody inquisition! Struggling to keep his temper in check, he questioned softly, perhaps too softly, "Are you going to let me see her or not?"

  Megan's green eyes met his with a cool, resolute look. "I think, Yer Grace, that will be up t' the wee colleen t' decide. She's free t' do as she pleases here, ye know." Then, insinuatingly, "She comes and goes wearin' a full set o' clothes these days."

  Maria thought she saw her son wince at this remark and felt her heart go out to him. Not that she blamed Megan and Patrick for their protectiveness; there was considerable justification for it. But she also realized how Brett must be feeling at the moment. He was clearly a proud man, one who didn't find it easy to admit he'd been wrong—at least, she thought he was trying to admit he'd been wrong—but how to know for sure? Well, it was certain they weren't going to uncover his feelings by backing him into a corner like a fox at the mercy of a pack of hounds. Someone had to steer things in a different direction—and quickly!

  Stepping forward, Maria placed a gentle hand on Brett's arm, forestalling his response to Megan's remark. "Pardon me, Your Grace," she said, "but I believe I have a suggestion that might be of some help." She glanced at the ornate gold clock on the mantel. "It is growing late, and I promised some of the children I'd hear their lessons. It seems we can accomplish little more at this time—that is, not until we have consulted Ashleigh herself on the matter of when—and if—she wishes to meet with you. Why don't you allow us time to talk with her and then come back—shall we say tomorrow? For luncheon? You will have your answer then." She looked questioningly at her son, then at Megan and Patrick.

  Patrick sighed, then sought Brett's eyes. "I can agree to that if, Brett, you'll answer just one question."

  Brett nodded for him to continue.

  "Did you divorce her?"

  "No," said Brett, "nor, if I can help it, do I intend to."

  * * * * *

  Brett sat at a table that was laden with an abundance of perfectly prepared delicacies and smiled at the woman across from him. He was deciding he'd never met a more gracious, charming woman in his life. He discounted those he'd pursued with a sexual liaison in mind, for Maria di Montefiori was definitely in a separate category. She was a delight—this witty, graceful and serene Italian noblewoman, a pleasure to be with in a host of ways that were totally divorced from the usual male-female game of chase, charm and conquer.

  In the brief hour they'd spent dining at her table they'd discoursed on a variety of topics—art, music, even politics—and he'd found her highly intelligent, cultured and well-read—in short, able to converse on almost any subject. And when the talk had turned to what was clearly the center of her life—the children she'd taken into her home—he saw yet more admirable qualities, and a nurturing quality rarely seen in women of the upper classes, women who usually left child rearing to those they'd hired to do it.

  Before he'd been with her even an hour, he'd come to appreciate how very rare she was. Special. In this short while she'd put him completely at ease—no small feat considering the circumstances under which he'd arrived. Even now, when he should be champing at the bit, to be done with the meal so that she might lead him to Ashleigh—for she'd greeted him with the news that his wife was amenable to a meeting—he found himself so intrigued and relaxed by her company, that it left him quite willing to defer to Maria's lead in timing the meeting, which was to follow their luncheon.

  "So the result of that particular pageant," Maria was saying, "was that the pig is not content to let a day go by without being given a rose to clamp between her teeth and drop at your wife's feet the moment they meet in the garden or wherever!"

  Brett laughed heartily as she finished her anecdote, one of several she'd amused him with in the hour. "A delightful story, Contessa, and not the last you'll have to tell about that pig, I'll warrant! The animal's a living conversation piece!"

  Maria smiled, warmed by the cheerful good humor she saw in her son's eyes. It had been her intent, of course, to bring him to such an easy state while they dined. She'd been worried by the way things had gone yesterday, distressed to find Brett so sharply on the defensive. It had been impossible to get to know him under such circumstances, to gauge what he was really like, and to help him, as well as dear Ashleigh. And that was what Maria wanted above all else—to bring these two together.

  But this afternoon, how different he was! Here, in this relaxed young man, she caught glimpses of the sunny, happy child he'd once been. Here at last was the living proof that her hopes for him over the years had not been futile. Brett Westmon
t, at his best, was a charming, warm, sensitive man who, at the same time, exhibited keen intelligence and a sense of the ability to guide his own life in a positive, meaningful direction. No shallow, spoiled scion of the aristocracy, he! Oh, no, her son had depth of character that was carved out of qualities that represented the best the human race had to offer. She was proud of him. And she ached to tell him so.

  Yet she put aside her own inclinations—at least for the moment. Warm and wonderful he might be, but her son was also still living under a heavy burden. And she knew the key to unlocking the chains that kept it there lay largely in the person of his wife. If Brett could be brought to come to terms with Ashleigh—or, more to the point, Ashleigh's love—then perhaps Maria would be free to unlock the past where mother and son were concerned. At least that was how she saw it. She hoped she was right.

  "I suppose you've had a busy time of it," Brett was saying. "Not only do you live with all these children, now you find yourself hostess to a menagerie as well."

  "It has not been dull." Maria smiled.

  There it was again! For the third or fourth time since he'd met her, Brett was seized with the feeling that he'd met this woman before... known her... in some distant time, perhaps, in the past. It was especially apparent when she smiled, as she had just now, or when she gestured in that particular way she had... those graceful hands seeming to smooth the very air through which they moved....

  "No," said Brett, "I don't suppose it has been dull." Suddenly he grew thoughtful, his expression sober. "It... it's been good to hear that Ashleigh's stay with you has been a pleasant one. That is, your stories seem to suggest as much." He paused, as if uncertain whether to continue. "She... has been happy here, then?"

  Seeing the hint of pain and confusion in his eyes—as if he hoped for his wife's happiness and at the same time dreaded to hear it came because she was free of him—Maria was convinced there was a chance for him. If he could show concern for his wife's happiness even while being aware it could cost him his own, then Brett had the capacity to love her. It was a start.

  "Why don't you endeavor to find that out for yourself?" she asked softly as she indicated that luncheon was finished. "I think it's time."

  As they began to leave the dining chamber, Maria paused and looked up at him. "There is one thing I must tell you, Your Grace, before we go to your wife."

  "Of course," he smiled, "but only if you promise to call me Brett from now on."

  Maria's answering smile was radiant. How she had longed to address him by the name she herself had chosen! It had been her maternal great-grandfather's name, and she'd succeeded in giving it to her son with great difficulty; Edward and his father had fought her on it, even though the old man it commemorated had been an adored favorite of hers as a tiny girl, and she'd vowed, when he died, to name her firstborn after him.

  "Brett," she said warmly, "as I was saying, there is one thing you should be prepared for. Ashleigh is... changed... in at least one very important way—a way that will be apparent to you the moment you see her."

  "Oh?" he questioned, then added with some concern, "She isn't ill, is she? Or—"

  "Oh, no. It's nothing to be alarmed about. It's..." Maria examined his face carefully. "It's something I think you should discover for yourself. But, Brett?"

  "Yes?"

  "I... would like you to give me your word, as a gentleman, that you will be kind to her. She has been through a great deal, and—"

  "Madam, what do you take me for? Some kind of blackguard?" he questioned, showing the first trace of annoyance since yesterday. "She is my wife, and I would not be here if I thought I couldn't approach her as a gentleman."

  Again, Maria searched his face. "Yes..." she said, nodding, "I think you mean that. But, Brett, if I may, I'd like to suggest you go even a step further...."

  "Meaning?"

  "Meaning that if your hope on this visit is to reconcile with your wife—and I think it is—I believe you will stand a better chance of doing so if you proceed slowly and carefully with her... almost as if you were courting her, as if you were not yet wed. I've come to know Ashleigh quite well in these past months, and I must tell you, she is a gentle creature, more often given to running and hiding than facing a battle she's afraid she cannot win." Maria hid a smile at his grim nod. "Yet I've also found your wife has a certain... quiet strength, Brett. A wellspring of inner fortitude few suspect because it is hidden under that delicate exterior. Seek out that strength, if you can. By traveling a softer path, you may find it."

  Brett looked into the unusual hazel eyes and knew they mirrored a kind of hidden strength as well... and wisdom. He was briefly taken aback. When, if ever, had he encountered wisdom in a woman? It was a sobering thought.

  "Very well, contessa." He grinned. "Ah, may I call you, Maria?"

  "You may," she smiled.

  "Well, Maria, I find myself liking the sound of your advice, and I intend to take it. God knows, it's better than anything I've been able to come up with. I only hope I can see it through."

  "You may surprise yourself, Brett," she said softly; then, placing her hand on his arm, she added, "Very well, sir, let us find your wife."

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  The late February sunshine warmed the bricks of the veranda where Ashleigh stood, surrounded by a dozen children. They were playing a game of tag, but not the ordinary version of that game. The little twins, Allegra and Alissa, who were blind, had come to her several days ago with downcast faces: they had been sad not to be able to join in a game some of the others were playing, a game barred to them because they could not see. That was when Ashleigh had gotten the idea to devise a series of new twists to a variety of children's games with the idea of making them viable for children whose handicaps might otherwise prevent them from participating.

  On that first day she'd called the whole group of children to her and suggested they all pretend to be blind—like Allegra and Alissa—by tying blindfolds over their eyes and then proceeding to "hide and go seek." It had worked beautifully. Oh, at first there had been a few bumps and bruises, but soon all the youngsters, the twins included, were giggling and laughing as they moved around the garden, using their senses of touch and hearing to locate the one who had hidden.

  Encouraged by their enthusiasm, Ashleigh had gone on to design a race where all who joined in had to bind up one leg and use crutches, like the ones who really did need them. Soon the children themselves were thinking up new versions of old sports, each with the idea of making the activity accessible to those who'd had to sit it out in the past. Ashleigh was thrilled, for she began to see how these experiments imparted a new sense of tolerance and compassion among the youngsters. They were now eager to view the world through the eyes of those who were different. They were learning a valuable lesson.

  Ashleigh laughed as she saw Francesca, who was deaf, signal to Antonio that his "baby" was slipping. The "baby" was a bulky pillow, additionally weighted with some large stones, that was tied about each child's middle, for today was "Il giorno della duchessa piccola," or "the little duchess's day": everyone pretended to be heavily pregnant—like Ashleigh.

  A girlish giggle erupted behind her and, turning, Ashleigh saw Alessandra point to Antonio, who was trying furiously to adjust his overly large pillow while running from Aldo. "Poor Antonio," said the girl, "I think he has given himself twins!"

  Ashleigh laughed as she returned her gaze to the seven-year-old, and then froze. There, in the arched doorway behind Antonio, stood Maria, and at her side was Brett.

  As Maria called to the children, promising them some lemonade if they came with her, Ashleigh kept her gaze focused on her husband. Tall and erect in the sunlight, he was the essence of male beauty in all the ways she'd fought to forget, and which had haunted her nightly in her dreams. He wore a formal coat of deep blue, its expert cut emphasizing the breadth of his shoulders. Against it, the white of his stock was dazzling in the sunlight and played dramatic counterpoint to his hand
some, chiseled face, which was deeply tanned. Dove-gray breeches hugged his long, muscular thighs before they met high boots of shiny black, and there was an aura of power in his stance that did not pass Ashleigh by.

  Children rushed past her in the sunlight, calling out their goodbyes, but Ashleigh remained, unmoving, where she stood. Just seeing him again brought back a flood of memories, and she was helpless to fend them off... memories of Brett bending over her hand in his drawing room, saying, "You're lovelier each time I see you," of Brett towering over her in a small Norman church, speaking holy vows, of Brett telling her on their wedding night, "Oh sweet, merciful God, I cannot think for wanting you!" and, again, of Brett, saying, "Just stay with me... be with me...."

  Oh, she loved him so much! She had never stopped loving him, but now that he had come, that love became a searing ache that threatened to shut out all else but the fact that he was here, and he was real, and maybe, just maybe...

  Brett, too, was unable to move as his head spun with the implications of what he saw. She was with child! And not too far from her time by the looks of her. Stunned, he heard Maria's voice coming as if from a great distance.

  "Your heir will be born in the spring, Brett. Late April or the beginning of May, my physician thinks, although Ashleigh appears as if she may deliver sooner. It is because she is so tiny. Well, I shall leave you now. I wish you well."

  Nodding as he felt the touch of her hand leave his arm, Brett could only stare at his wife, unable to speak.

  A child. She was carrying a child... his child—no... their child!

  His eyes traveled over her small form, still fragile looking despite the burden she carried, and he was aware of how heart-stoppingly, achingly lovely she was. Like a Madonna, he thought as his eyes devoured the contours of her face, a delicate, fragile Madonna.