by Carrie Brock
Nicole looked from him to Angelica and a guardedness entered her gaze. “What are you doing here?”
“I brought food.”
Nicole blinked in surprise, stood, dusted off her clothes and plucked straw from her tangled hair. “That was thoughtful of you.”
“It is quite late, Nicole. Shall I have a bath drawn for you?”
Glancing at Blake, Nicole hesitated. “I . . . I truly do not wish to leave Hera.”
Blake stroked the horse's neck. “She is well on her way to recovery, Nicole. Tomorrow I shall return and, with Andrew's assistance, remove the sling.”
“But—”
“Have your meal here with Blake.” Angelica went to the stall opening, then glanced back. “In an hour a bath will be waiting for you. Then you should sleep. I have informed the guests neither of you will be joining in the card games tonight.”
Obviously softening, Nicole smiled again. “Thank you.”
“An hour, Nicole. No longer. I will not have you making yourself ill.”
And she was gone. The stable once again declined into silence. Nicole moved to the basket and removed the folded cloth covering the contents.
“Since you are so clever at construction, my lord, perhaps you can find an appropriate dining area.”
Blake retrieved a decrepit crate nearby and stood it on end between them. With a flourish that startled Hera, he dropped the cloth over the surface. Nicole chuckled and proceeded to unpack the basket. Freshly baked bread, two ceramic tureens of soup, and a crock of milk. Simple fare but manna for two starving people. Blake took the soup bowl and spoon offered him. Nicole poured the milk into two mugs.
She took a drink then set her cup aside. A mustache of white rimmed her upper lip and Blake reached out to wipe it away gently with his thumb. An enchanting flush rose in her cheeks as Nicole licked the path he had traced. The action propelled him back to the remains of Winterhaven—reminded him of the sweetness of her mouth and the heat generated by their bodies melded together. He saw the frantic flutter of Nicole's pulse at her neck, wondered what it would feel like beneath his lips . . .
With a sharp intake of breath, he dropped his hand. “I think we work very well together,” he said matter-of-factly to hide his sudden desire.
Nervously, Nicole picked up the spoon next to her bowl. “I am so grateful for all you did today. If not for you, Hera would surely have died.”
“I might have put her out of her misery, but you have a damnable manner of making a man feel he can conquer the world.”
“It bothers you that I believe in you?” She met his gaze steadily.
Blake reached for the bread and broke off a large piece, which he handed to Nicole before taking one for himself. “I have told you before I do not want you to get your hopes up, yet you continue to do just that. What am I to do with you?”
“Admit defeat and stop fighting me so.”
Her whispered words wound an insidious path directly to his heart. What she suggested should have been simple. But he could not let go of the past. She knew nothing of the hatred that drove him. Such an emotion would likely horrify her, and she would turn from him in disgust.
“I will stop fighting you when you leave off trying to change me. I am what I am, Nicole. No more, no less. You have bought into the deal as it is. You cannot say I did not warn you.”
“Very well, hold on to your foolish ideals for the time being. Do not be surprised when you awaken one morning to find that I have actually managed to make you happy.” She tore off a small piece of bread and placed the bite in her mouth with exaggerated care.
He stifled a smile at her obstinance and her deliberate attempt to antagonize him. “I thought the custom was that I would awaken one morning to find myself in Bedlam.”
Her eyes sparkled. “Whatever brings you happiness, my lord.”
. . .
Nicki paused at the foot of the staircase. Light filtered beneath the door to her father's study. With a sigh, she moved toward it and knocked softly. The door creaked open slightly.
“Who's there?”
She peeked into the room. “Nicki, Papa. Can I come in?”
Her father, seated behind his desk, laid his pen down and smiled in welcome. “Of course, girl. I was hoping you'd stop in. How's your Hera?”
Nicki dropped into a chair opposite her father's desk. Her muscles screamed in protest. “She will be fine, thanks to the earl.”
“I'll have to extend my gratitude.”
She noted the slight hardening in the tone of his speech. “He could not have done this, Papa. I even believed . . . but only for a moment. Once I was thinking more clearly I realized he is not capable of such cruelty.”
After setting aside the leather-bound journal open before him, her father raised his tired gaze to Nicki. “Whoever is responsible, the result is the same. It's left for me to go to those who were promised the horses. We'll not have our income for the year. My reputation will be tarnished, perhaps irreparably. It's bound to hurt future business.”
“There must be something we can do, Papa!”
“Do you want to sell some of our breeding stock? Diana, Aphrodite, Zeus?”
Nicki dropped her gaze. She could not bear to part with any of them. They had become a part of the family. Sadly, she shook her head.
“Just as I thought, so I must go at once. Best not to delay. Bad news has a way of spreading like the plague.”
“But—you will wait until after the wedding?”
“The wedding.” Her father dropped his head into his hands in an unfamiliar gesture of defeat. “Have I done wrong by you, Nick? Dylan was once a good boy, but hate has a way of eating away at the soul. I won't hand you over to a monster. You deserve someone who'll love you.”
Nicki got to her feet and went to stand behind her father. She had never known him to be uncertain. “Part of growing up is living with one's mistakes, is that not so, Papa?”
“You're my daughter—my responsibility. Angelica reminded me of a mistake made years ago by—well, by another's parents. I see myself doing the same.”
She hugged him tightly from behind, resting her chin on his thick, silver streaked black hair. “This is not your mistake, Papa. It was I who went to the earl believing he was Teddy. It was my foolishness that landed me in this mess. You followed the only course open to you. If anyone is responsible for my predicament, it is I. And Blake. I admit it. And I also admit that I have grown extremely fond of him and I look forward to being his wife.”
Her father's shoulders tensed. “Ah, Nick, guard your heart well. Dylan has become as unpredictable as the winds. I don't want you destroyed by his bitterness.”
“It is that bitterness I wish to banish, Papa. I can do it, I know I can.”
He took one of her hands and drew her around to enfold her in a fierce hug. “Nicki girl, things happened—people were hurt. It has nothing to do with you, but you may be the one to pay in the end.”
She looked down, searching his face. “Tell me, Papa. Tell me what is between you!”
“It's not my place.” He averted his gaze. “If Dylan wants you to know, then he can be the one to tell you.”
“Is it so horrible then?”
“At the time, it was. Now—reflecting back—many lives were damaged beyond repair over a misunderstanding. I regret that. I can't change it, though. No one can.”
Nicki's throat tightened. “Blake's life was one of those damaged?”
“His most of all.”
“Then it is only right that it be your daughter who makes things right.”
Her father reached up to touch her face gently with calloused fingers. “I know you want to, daughter, but sometimes . . . sometimes the healing can only come from inside. A person's got to want to be helped. Don't hurt yourself tryin’ to save him.”
“In my heart, it feels as if his pain is mine.” A single tear trickled down her cheek and her father wiped it away, just as he had when she was a child. Her voice trembl
ed. “If I cannot save him, I cannot save myself. Does that make any sense?”
A sadness transformed his face, and he nodded. “It does, girl. If you love him, it makes perfect sense.”
Nicki drew back, laughed, and wiped at her tears. “Then I must love him. Who would have thought?”
“You've a generous heart, daughter. I hope he appreciates the grand gift that's been given him.”
Nicki moved across the carpet, automatically stepping around the familiar obstacles. At the door she paused to look back. “Someday he will—when he is ready.”
“I must go to the buyers, but I'll return in time for your wedding. I promise.”
She nodded. “You had better. I will not be wed unless it is your hand that gives me away. I love you, Papa.”
At her words, her father sat a little straighter. “Away with you, tender-hearted girl.” His voice was gruff but Nicki could have sworn she saw tears in his eyes.
She eased the door closed and collapsed back against the wood. Where had she found all those courageous words? Had she become such a skilled liar, then?
Why would no one tell her what had happened all those years ago to drive Blake to ruin her father?
Her heart felt as though it was being steadily crushed. For all her confident words in Blake's defense, how could she be sure he had not struck out at her father yet again? Had she not been the one to blithely tell him the horses were their only source of income? No one else wanted to hurt her father. No one but Blake. Still, she could not bear to think ill of him after he had worked so hard to save Hera. There has to be another answer. But what? Everywhere she turned doors slammed against her—secrets refused to be shared.
She clenched her fists, then winced in pain. Blake had removed most of the slivers and rinsed away the dirt, but she needed some of Em's salve and clean dressings for the wounds to heal quickly. Nicki pushed away from the door and moved to the staircase. She had to have answers, but at this moment she was too tired. Tomorrow. She would go to Blake tomorrow and demand answers.
. . .
Blake entered his quiet house with a sense of relief. He had remained away as long as possible and the ploy had worked. The guests had retired for the night.
As he tossed his jacket and gloves on the chair inside the door. He pictured Chester blanching at the sight of his condition. He smiled.
A good stiff drink. That was what he wanted right now.
He entered the library and shut the door carefully. A single oil lantern on the desk remained lit. Aided by the soft glow, Blake made his way to the sideboard where a decanter of brandy stood surrounded by crystal glasses. He poured himself a healthy drink.
“What kept you, Blake? Nicki is extremely captivating, but you do have guests.”
“Sophia.” Blake stiffened. “You need not have waited up for me.”
His aunt moved from the shadows near the dying fire. Her dressing gown of magenta velvet wafted about her ankles as she approached.
“Angelica sent a message that you were detained with an ill horse. You surprise me. I did not realize you had become a horse doctor while in America.”
“No, but I do have a farm where I raise Arabians. I knew enough to be of some help.”
“Of course. You would do anything to keep sadness from entering those lovely green eyes.”
“If you speak of Nicole, you are correct. She adores those horses of hers. Four had died already.”
Sophia took Blake's glass as her own and watched as he poured himself another. “This actually worked out for the best. I wanted to talk with you alone.”
Blake held up his glass in a silent toast. “I am flattered.”
“Ah, Blake, as pleasurable as it is to verbally spar with you, I am much too tired.” She crossed to the settee, sat down and tucked her feet beneath the folds of her robes. “Please, sit down. I'll get a crick in my neck looking up at you.”
After seating himself in an armchair opposite her, he stretched his booted feet out in front of him and crossed them at the ankles. He regarded Sophia curiously. “Pray, go on.”
“I'm sure you must have been informed by your father's solicitor that I assisted him in tidying the affairs of the estate. It was I who went through Barrett's personal effects. Most of his clothing I donated to the poor.” She took a drink, wincing only slightly. “But I came across a box containing some letters and other mementos. I thought you should have them.”
Blake's muscles tightened into stone. “Why should I want letters that were in my father's possession?”
Sophia's pale eyes, so like his own, regarded him for a long moment and Blake had the uncomfortable feeling she saw more than he cared to reveal. “Because the letters are about you.”
“I heard more than enough from him when he was alive. I do not care to hear more now that he is gone.”
“That is your choice. I've done my duty in bringing them to you.” She rose and pointed a graceful finger toward the desk. “You might find them enlightening.”
“Thank you, Sophia." Blake took a drink of his brandy. Though the liquor burned through him, it could not banish the cold.
She turned at the door, still holding the glass. “Barrett was a hard man, Blake. No one knew that better than I. But he did love you. You shouldn't doubt that.”
When no reply was offered, she left the room and closed the door softly behind her. Blake downed the remainder of the brandy in one swift gulp.
His father loved him? Barrett had seemed incapable of the emotion. All Blake remembered of his father was the subtle pressure to be better than everyone else, to be smarter, quicker, stronger, wealthier—only to see in his father's eyes that he failed in every respect.
He recalled the countless times he had come to his father, proud of some achievement, only to be rebuked because he had not succeeded in another endeavor. The constant striving toward perfection, knowing he could never reach it. That was the extent of the regard he had from Barrett Dylan. Love? If that was love, Blake could have well done without.
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. The empty glass dangled from his hand. What was in the letters? Apparently something Sophia found important enough to save them for Blake. He rubbed his eyes wearily.
In America, he had worked hard to become a success. Even that achievement went unnoticed by Barrett Dylan. The man had chosen the ultimate abandonment by dying before Blake could prove his merit—prove he was worth loving.
“You always got the last laugh, sir. Looks like you got it again.”
The inflection of the words—that defiant, hopeful tone only confrontations with his father could bring about—filled Blake's ears. The sound suffocated him, humiliated him. He should have stopped caring long ago. He was weak. A weak fool who wanted his father's approval and would never stop trying to earn it.
He thought of Nicole's admiration. Hurt welled up inside him, threatening to overcome him. Why had he never been able to glean the same pride from his father? What was the matter with him that his own father could not love him?
The glow from the lamp on the desk shone across the ornately carved surface of the wooden chest and reminded Blake it once held a place of honor on his father's dressing table next to a small oval painting of his mother.
The box had always been locked. As a child Blake had believed that if he could look inside he would find some clue to the person his mother had been. Barrett certainly never spoke of her.
And now the box was his. The mysteries it contained were his to discover.
Never having considered himself a coward, Blake could not fathom why the thought of looking inside the chest induced a cold sweat. He had told Sophia he did not wish to hear anything more from his father. That was a lie. He wanted to learn that Sophia spoke the truth, that Barrett Dylan had loved him. But if the contents of the box were just another reaffirmation of all his old fears, what then?
He stood and moved swiftly to the desk. The chest had seemed so much larger when he was a child, as though it
contained all the magic and wonder of the world. Now he saw only a strongbox not quite two feet wide, a foot deep and a half a foot tall. The carved animals that adorned its surface held no grisly power. He touched the worn grooves near the lock as his father must have done thousands of times during his life.
With a wry smile, he traced the splintered wood around the tarnished lock. So Sophia had not found a key.
Blake lifted the lid slightly. The scent of roses wafted into the air. He slammed the top closed, ashamed at the trembling of his hands.
That smell. Memories of Phoenix Dylan were vague—impressions formed from birth to his fifth birthday. Though he could not remember her features, he would never forget the way she smelled. Not the pungent scent of hothouse roses—no, her perfume was the soft, elusive extract of wild English roses.
He closed his eyes tightly. That last night she had come to his room. In the dimness she had seemed like an angel—her skin glowed white, her eyes shone. She had held him tightly and pressed his face into her neck. He had felt safe then, secure in her love. When she left him, the fresh, sweet fragrance lingered to lull him back to sleep.
It did not last. It did not return. And Barrett Dylan refused to offer any explanation.
Blake gripped the edge of the desk fiercely, willing the pain away. She had left behind an emptiness that could never be filled. She could have taught him how to love and to be loved, but instead she had disappeared from his life.
Blake wondered if his father had felt the same tortured loneliness and if he had been unable to offer comfort to his son because he could not bear her loss himself.
The vision came to Blake of Nicole's soft mouth parted in a smile, her hair shining like moonlight. If he lost her, would he react as Barrett had? The answer pricked his conscience, forced him to face a possibility he had never thought to imagine.
Blake knew with sudden clarity that the box held all that Barrett had left of his wife, Phoenix. Perhaps he had tried to protect Blake from the pain of her loss. He thought of his own avowal not to love anyone and realized the similarities were too close to the mark for comfort. If the father had expected perfection from the son, had not the son expected the same perfection from the father? And had they both not failed miserably?
