Starlight & Promises

by Cat Lindler

  “Let me do that,” Gilly said, entering the room with Samantha’s shoes and hat. She moved behind Samantha, pulled the bodice edges together, and fastened them with effort.

  “I shall never again fit into my clothing,” Samantha lamented. “I require an entirely new wardrobe.”

  “Nay, m’lady, I can still let out these gowns a bit more. An’ after ye give birth, ye’ll be back to yer slim self in no time.”

  “You have more faith than I. I have no doubt I shall forever be a mouse in an elephant’s body.”

  Gilly knelt and slipped stockings up Samantha’s legs, followed by lacy garters that tied at the thigh. She eased on the half boots, with which she struggled a bit, Samantha’s feet having swollen with fluid. Stepping back, the maid tugged Samantha to her feet. Samantha winced at the tight leather shoes. Slowly, she made her way to the window and gazed out. Christian came into view for a moment as he entered the barn. She released a melancholy sigh.

  “What should I do, Gilly? He acts as though I’m a boarder and not a very welcome one.”

  Gilly’s lips tightened, and she shook out her skirts. “He does love ye. He’s just full o’ male pride. As soon as he sees his babe, he’ll come round an’ feel guilty fer distrustin’ ye. Just ye wait an’ see.”

  Tears slipped from the corners of Samantha’s eyes. “By then he will have allowed his chance to slip away. If he cannot trust my word, our love, what hope is there for us?”

  “Now, now,” Gilly soothed.

  Samantha interrupted the maid before she could mouth more platitudes. “See if the carriage is ready. I have no desire to keep Dr. Finney waiting.”

  Gilly bobbed her head, her own anger and frustration at Christian’s cruel behavior toward his wife simmering on her features, and left.

  After agonizing for months over the impasse between her and Christian, Samantha saw only one clear course. Her husband may have loved her once. ‘Twas now obvious he no longer felt that way.

  She returned to her dressing table and withdrew money from a drawer, funds she had hoarded for passage to England should she ever need them. Now it seemed she did. Stuffing the American dollars into her reticule, she told herself she had come to her senses at last. She had lost patience with Christian and had no inclination to endure his conduct any longer. What was the point? After seeing her doctor and visiting with Aunt Delia, she would purchase the tickets. She and her babe would leave. Christian assumed she had no choice but to remain with him. He was mistaken. She would do what was best for her and her child. Languishing in Massachusetts, unloved and unwanted, was best for no one.

  Moisture coursed down her cheek. She brushed it away. A one-sided love was a poor reason to cling to Christian. If he no longer wanted her, no longer loved her, had indeed he ever truly loved her, she could not suffer his apathy. Her conscience tugged a bit at the thought of taking his son or daughter from him. But then, he had declined even to acknowledge it. So what would he be losing? Slipping away quietly would be best. In truth, Christian would likely rejoice at her departure.

  Gilly stomped down the stairs and threw open the front door. She remained on the porch with her hands on her hips and hailed Cullen. “‘Tis about time,” she huffed when Cullen pulled the pair of chestnuts up in front of the steps. “The missus is ready ta leave.”

  Christian emerged from the stables and propped a shoulder against the wood frame, arms crossed over his chest. Gilly blew out a breath and turned to call Samantha. Her mistress stood behind her, gaze fastened on her husband, who stared back. Though his hat shadowed his face, his posture spoke volumes. Gilly took Samantha’s arm, guided her down the steps, and helped her climb into the carriage.

  Christian returned to the dimness of the barn and inhaled the dusty scents of hay and oats. His chest ached, as always seemed to be the case when he caught a glimpse of Samantha. She looked so ethereal in her pregnancy. He struggled to draw breath and longed to hold her against him, to absorb a little of the glow emanating from her. So why didn’t he?

  He entered the stall with Triton, picked up a brush, and curried the horse in short, savage strokes. His anger had long since abated. Now bewilderment swirled inside him like a whirlwind. Overwhelming love for Samantha squeezed his heart as though it were caught in a bear trap. But with his hasty jumping to conclusions, his unwarranted suspicion, he had badly muddled the state of affairs.

  Triton shifted and crowded him against the stall boards. Christian pushed against the horse’s flank.

  A thousand times he had cursed himself. Never having experienced jealousy, he had fallen hard to the emotion, allowed it to rip him apart. He had also permitted his mother’s betrayal to dictate his life and destroy his marriage. Was this, then, to be the rest of his life? Was he resigned to going through it alone? Was permanent estrangement from Samantha to be his fate?

  Setting aside the brush, he measured out grain, pouring it into a wooden bucket and placing it in the manger.

  A thousand times he had burned with the urge to fall on his knees before Samantha and beg her forgiveness. Her words aboard ship the night of their last argument rang true. Samantha was not his mother; she bore no resemblance to Lady Jane. And he was not his father. For all his father’s humanitarian qualities, he had been a weak man. Lady Jane didn’t destroy his father; the man granted Lady Jane license to destroy him. So why did he allow the image of Samantha standing beside Steven at the altar to intrude, like a demon sitting on his shoulder, and goad him? Christian now recognized the demon’s true face—pride—and racked his brain over how he could repair their relationship.

  This was madness. Samantha’s baby was his, not Steven’s. He knew it, had accepted it long ago. He suspected he had known it all along. He had feared that if he gave himself permission to love, he would lose his mind and soul, as his father had. In truth, all he had lost was his heart.

  Dumping an armful of hay into the rope sling above the manger, he scooped up the water bucket, carrying it to the pump to fill it, and returned it to the stall.

  Now he had dug himself in so deeply he no longer knew how to claw his way out. He was terrified he had killed the love Samantha once had for him. He twisted his lips into a poor facsimile of a smile. Undoubtedly he had, and he could place no blame on her for withdrawing her affections.

  He had to confront her, apologize, admit he was wrong, and let her know he loved her. What if she spurned him, as she had every right to do? Tore his heart from his chest and shredded his declaration of love? What would he do then? He’d never considered himself a coward; nonetheless, his hesitation to face her rejection had kept him from taking that first step. His tangled thoughts seemed to tell him that if he refused to deal with the situation, it didn’t exist or, at any rate, could not get any worse.

  “Fuck!”

  The horse turned his head and stamped a foot.

  “Sorry, old boy.” He patted the animal’s hide and set the bucket on the stall floor. “I suppose I’m not fit company.” Triton snorted.

  Christian left the stable and walked over to the barn housing his basketball court. Kicking off his boots, he closed and locked the door, picked up a ball, and savagely dribbled his way across the floor. He always concentrated better with a basketball in his hands, as though the world became clearer when reduced to no more than a ball, a basket, and a polished wooden floor. He charged across the court, dribbled, and shot, struggling to devise a solution to the impasse he had created.

  When he had first met Samantha, wide-eyed and innocent, scratching up his court with her boots, his gut cautioned him to send her away before she hooked his heart with those golden eyes. Considering himself impervious to her charms, he scoffed at the warning and fell in love, ass over teakettle, with a bloody English lady. Visions of a frozen angel saving Cullen’s life, an enchanting pixie snatching stars from a desert night sky, and a sultry siren writhing on his bed in a cloud of silken butterscotch hair compressed his chest so tightly he could scarcely breathe.

  An
hour later, blowing and dripping with sweat, his defenses collapsed about his feet. He had allowed the acrimony to fester for too long. Pride be damned; his fears had ruled him long enough. He would tell Samantha he believed her, tell her he loved her more than life itself. If she tossed his love back into his face, he would let her go, if that was what she desired. Slamming the basketball against the wall, he made a dash for the house and pulled off his damp clothes. After washing and dressing, he saddled Triton and spurted off in pursuit of Samantha’s carriage.

  Cullen dozed on the driver’s seat while he waited for Samantha in front of Dr. Finney’s office on a Boston side street. She had visited the doctor weekly for the past month, and Jasper generally drove her into town. Today, with Jasper feeling poorly, Cullen took over the duty, which he enjoyed. Spending more time with Samantha, he had developed sympathy for her situation and estrangement from Christian. In regard to Steven Landry and the baby, well, the more he came to know Samantha, the more difficulty he had accepting she would betray Christian in that way. Gradually he had come around to her side.

  When Samantha appeared in the doorway, Cullen jumped down to help her negotiate the steps. With her huge belly, she found walking a chore. It being his first experience with a breeding woman, he handled her as carefully as a china vase. She waddled toward the carriage door, looking like a goose fattened for Christmas dinner, and he fought back a smile.

  “All’s well?” He clasped her elbow and hoisted her into the carriage.

  She caught her breath and smiled. “Indeed, Cullen. We should welcome an addition to the family soon. And about time. I feel as clumsy as a tortoise with three legs.” She dropped onto the padded seat with a heavily expelled breath.

  Chuckling, he climbed onto the driver’s seat, took up the reins, and released the brake. He clucked to the horses and snapped the lines on their backs. The pair took off in a sedate trot as though they understood the precious burden entrusted to them.

  A half-mile drive lay between the house where Delia resided and the doctor’s office. The road wended through residential streets and a warehouse district along the docks. As Cullen drove through the narrow passageways between the towering buildings, he kept up his guard. Itinerant sailors and other unsavory characters hung out around the alehouses squatting amongst the respectable businesses like pickpockets in a crowd of gentry. With the radiant sun imparting a sparkling quality to the air, Cullen relaxed his vigilance.

  A produce wagon appeared, overturned ahead, its owner ambling about and retrieving cabbages and squash from the cobbled street. Cullen slowed and halted the horses. He resigned himself to waiting until the wagon moved, but at the corpulent grocer’s unhurried pace, Cullen vented a soft curse.

  “I’ll be right back,” he called down to Samantha. “If’n I don’t ‘elp this bloke, we’ll be ‘ere fer ‘ours.” After setting the brake, he tied off the reins and climbed down from his perch.

  Samantha leaned her head out the window and released a sigh at the mess in the roadway. Easing back against the seat, she closed her eyes. When the carriage door opened after only a handful of minutes, she smiled. Cullen seemed to have quickly sorted out the grocer’s dilemma.

  Rough fingers clamped over her lips. Her eyes flew open, and her heart ceased to beat. A hand seized her wrist and hauled her upward with force. She fell out of the carriage door into strong arms.

  Though his breath gushed out in a hiss against her cheek when her bulk toppled into him, he quickly recuperated. With an arm wrapped beneath her breasts and his hand pressed against her mouth, he dragged her away from the carriage and into an alley between two warehouses.

  Samantha struggled to free herself, but her abductor seemed possessed of an unholy strength. After shoving her through an opened doorway, he kicked the door shut, engaged the lock, and released her.

  She stumbled to her knees, bruising them on the dusty wooden floor, and her size prevented her from climbing immediately to her feet. Samantha panted with the exertion. A sudden, sharp pain, stabbing low in her belly, followed. She grunted and looked up. “Steven!” she sputtered. “What are you doing here?”

  “Shut up, bitch!” He extracted a length of rope from his jacket pocket and bent over her.

  She twisted away, ending up on her back, straining to roll over and get to her feet but managed only to writhe about like a turtle stranded on its back.

  Steven grabbed her arms and jerked her up onto her knees. Pulling her hands behind her back, he looped the rope around her wrists.

  A pounding came on the door behind them. Cullen shouted her name from the other side. Samantha jerked her head toward the sound. “Cullen! Get h—”

  Steven whipped out a handkerchief and tied it over her mouth. She sank down on her side, gasping from her struggles and the lack of air. When Steven moved out of view into the shadows along the wall, a chill swept over her skin.

  Cullen kicked at the door, rattling it on its hinges. Finally the lock gave way, and the boy stormed into the gloomy space. He sprinted to her side and knelt.

  Steven came up behind him.

  Samantha screamed behind the gag, tried to signal Cullen with her eyes, but her bound hands held his attention.

  Steven drew a gun and brought the butt down on the back of Cullen’s skull.

  When Cullen collapsed, a deadening fog swept through Samantha’s brain. Her belly convulsed and squeezed her womb in a long, throbbing contraction that made her fight for breath. Her chest compressed at a sudden realization. The pain came, not from her fright but from the babe. She battled an agonizing wave, and tears sprang from her eyes. She strived to relax her muscles until the contraction passed.

  Steven loomed over her, legs braced apart, eyes as hard as diamond chips while he regarded her with a pitiless expression. Snagging Cullen’s collar, he dragged the boy away to a far corner. When Steven returned, he squatted on his heels and removed her gag. Cupping his hands beneath her arms, he slid her along the floor and propped her into a sitting position against a wall. Resting a shoulder against the boards, he smiled coldly.

  “Well, now, Samantha, here we are, my runaway bride and I. Did you truly believe you could leave me at the altar without even a backward glance?”

  “Why, Steven? Why are you here?” Through the dull roaring of blood in her ears, she swallowed thickly and tensed at another contraction gathering. Breathing through her mouth, she rode out the long, dark, rolling waves. When they ebbed, leaving her breathless, she looked up at him. “What do you want from me?”

  “What do I want?” He laughed harshly. “I daresay I want my wife.”

  Every instinct cautioned her to keep her wits about her, to remain calm and still, though the thought of her baby coming now in this dirty warehouse was a river of icy water washing over her. Nevertheless, she was unable to still her mouth. “You know full well I’m not your wife. Christian is my husband. We wed in Hobart. Why are you doing this?”

  He spun away from the wall and paced in front of her in short, heavy strides that thudded on the wood louder than the beating of her frantic heart. When he brought himself up short, he jabbed a finger at her. “You owe me! Your family owes me! I intend to collect the debt.”

  She shook her head, making every effort to follow the thread of his words. An insane light glittered in his eyes, warning her to hold her tongue.

  “The Colchesters owe me!” he continued, spittle flying from his lips. “Your dear uncle Richard ruined my life, my career. He made me a laughingstock in society and caused my father to disown me.”

  “How, Steven?” she asked as softly as her nerves and the coming baby would allow. She sensed his preoccupation with the past and encouraged his tortured mind to release the memories it seemed he longed to air, though how it would help her, she did not know. Nonetheless, every moment she could gain was precious. “How did Uncle Richard ruin your life?”

  Swinging his head in her direction, he cut the air with the blade of his hand. “You care nothing for me or
the pain your family visited upon me.”

  A film of sweat broke out on her forehead with the crouching pain. She had to force her tone to remain even. “I do care for you. I would have wed you had my husband not come back from the dead. I was legally obligated to go with him. It had naught to do with how I felt about you.” Soon Delia would miss her, and surely someone would come looking for her. She had to keep him talking. “I beg you, tell me why you hate my uncle so dreadfully. Perhaps I can help.”

  He tilted his head and looked at her. The madness faded from his eyes, but now they looked far away, as though he were peering into the past. Lifting his chin, he gazed up at the dust motes dancing in thin streamers of light, released a breath through his teeth, and leaned back against the wall beside her.

  “Richard and I were the best of friends,” he said, his recitation strangely wooden, as if repeated by rote. “Our love of nature compelled us to spend countless hours combing the meadows and woods on our fathers’ adjoining estates.” He lowered his gaze to rest on her. “You never knew I was Steven Burnett, Richard’s neighbor, did you?”

  She shook her head, though she recalled Aunt Delia mentioning the Marquis of Lansdowne and some scandal broth. “Please go on.”

  He inhaled a breath, and his eyes glazed over again. “Our devotion to science grew with time, and a mentorship beneath the aegis of Charles Darwin spurred us on to Oxford and serious scientific research.”

  “Then you didn’t attend Oxford on scholarship, nor did you study commerce,” she interjected, unsurprised by his lies.

  A chuckle rumbled from his chest. His mouth lifted in a cynical smile. “Hardly. After all, my father was a marquis. I held title as a viscount. As our careers began, Richard catalogued flora and studied its fossil remains, reconstructing climate change progression and plant evolution. I gained a reputation for my discoveries along the pathways of human evolution.” His voice grew softer, a wistful expression coming over his face. “We were a jolly good team. Together we painted a picture of time in flux. In those golden days, Richard and I were like brothers. We stuck so closely to each other’s sides, one could not have separated us with a shoehorn.”