by james
Bridgett searched his familiar face, sensing the maniacal rage hidden behind his twisted smile. A nagging memory rose in her mind, ugly and vicious, pushing the breath from her lungs. Herself, as a child, hiding under her mother’s huge bed, hand pressed to her mouth to stifle her screams as she watched her mother’s brutal murder.
“You want to kill me,” she whispered, “just like you killed her.”
Her father cocked his head, narrowing his gaze. “My, aren’t you the smart one.”
He took a step forward, hands balled into fists at his side.
Bridgett pushed the newly discovered memories from her mind and reached behind her, frantically seeking the doorknob. Her hand fell on the knob and she twisted it, just as he lunged forward.
Her scream ended on a shriek, the impact of his body driving the air from her lungs, and for a moment she froze as his hands wrapped around her neck. His fingers bit into her flesh. She gasped, unable to draw a full breath. Choking, she beat at his chest, staring up into his dark, soulless eyes.
“Bridgett?!”
A pounding on the door followed Marie’s shout. Bridgett fought through the growing blackness and, releasing her grip on her father’s wrists, she reached back. Grabbing the knob, she twisted it, throwing herself forward as the door flew open.
Her father’s cry of rage echoed through the chamber as he lost his balance and stumbled back. He righted himself and turned, fleeing out the door onto the terrace.
Bridgett doubled over, clutching her neck, struggling to draw a complete breath.
“My Lord, Bridgett, what happened? Who was that?” Marie asked, pulling Bridgett into her arms.
“My father,” she managed to choke out past the burning in her throat. “He…he wanted to kill me.”
Christopher pushed past them, striding to the still open door and disappearing onto the terrace. A moment later, he returned. “He’s gone.”
Bridgett pulled from Marie’s arms, suddenly shivering as the shock of what had occurred set in. “He’ll be back.”
Christopher glanced at Marie, then placed a calming hand on Bridgett’s shoulder. “I’ll have a servant fetch some of my things,” he said. “I’ll stay here. You’ll be safe.”
Bridgett nodded, barely able to stand. “I think I’d better . . ..”
Her legs buckled and she slipped toward the floor. Christopher caught her up in his arms, just as the world turned black.
Chapter Eighteen
Vincent coaxed Tempest into a trot and entered the castle courtyard. Low, dark clouds covered the sun, and a brisk wind blew in from the sea. Vincent shivered, his nerves tingling. Bringing Tempest to a halt, he dismounted.
“Milord! You’re home!”
Vincent forced a smile and handed Tempest’s reins over to the stable boy. “Yes. Finally.”
“And a good thing, too,” the boy said. “We had an intruder.”
Vincent didn’t stay to ask questions. Gripped by an unspeakable fear, he took off at a run, heart pounding.
“Bridgett! Marie!” He shouted, pushing through the front door, then skidding to a halt in the entry. His words echoed throughout the silent chamber. “Marie!”
The parlor door opened and Marie stepped out.
“Vincent. You’re home. But what’s the matter? Why
are you shouting?”
Vincent bit back an impatient retort. “Bridgett. Where is she?”
Marie frowned “Come in and sit down, Vincent. We have much to talk about.”
“Dammit, Marie, I don’t want to sit down!” He ran his hands through his hair. “Just tell me where she is.”
“She’s upstairs, sleeping,” Marie said, taking his hand. “She’s fine, Vincent. You’ll not do her any good by rushing upstairs and waking her from her nap. Come along. I will fill you in on what you’ve missed.”
Vincent glanced past Marie into the parlor. Their neighbor, Christopher Saint Claire, stood near the fireplace, watching them intently.
With a muttered oath, Vincent nodded his agreement and followed Marie into the parlor. She quietly closed the door behind them.
“Saint Claire,” Vincent extended his hand in greeting. Christopher stepped forward, accepting the handshake.
“Renault.” He smiled. “Good to see you home at last.”
Christopher released his grip and turned toward Marie. “I’ll leave you two alone to catch up.”
Vincent raised a brow, studying his neighbor’s expression, sensing an undercurrent of emotion he could not name. Taking in his sister’s warm smile and the slight blush that graced her cheeks, he bristled. What was going on here?
Marie took Christopher’s hand, walking him to the door. She paused in the entry. “You’ll be back?”
Christopher nodded, placing a hand on Marie’s cheek. “Perhaps tomorrow. You two have a lot to discuss.”
Vincent couldn’t miss Marie’s crestfallen expression, and he gritted his teeth. Damn if his sister hadn’t fallen for the young pup. Once again, he cursed his delay in returning home.
“I’m happy you’re home, Vincent,” Marie said, once they were alone. “We’ve missed you.”
“You’ll forgive me if I ask you to skip the niceties and tell me about Bridgett?” Vincent fought to keep his tone level. “The stable boy told me you had an intruder. I take it Bridgett’s father made an appearance.”
Marie gasped. “How did you know?”
“Never mind that,” Vincent said, his frustration at Marie’s delay in filling him in growing with each passing moment, “tell me what happened.”
As Marie described the events that had taken place the previous evening, Vincent’s anger grew until he could no longer contain it. He lashed out, swiping a tall, antique vase from a nearby table. The priceless piece toppled to the floor, shattering into tiny, glistening shards.
“Vincent!”
He closed his eyes and drew in a ragged breath, drawn back from the brink of a disastrous rage by Marie’s voice.
“I’m sorry. I’ll go to her now.”
He turned, but Marie stopped him with a hand on his arm.
“Vincent, there’s more you must know.”
“He didn’t… She’s not…” Imagining the worst, Vincent couldn’t bring himself to voice his thoughts.
“No,” Marie said, vehemently, then softer, “No, I told you she’s fine. Please, Vincent, won’t you sit down for a moment?”
“Marie, my patience wears thin,” he warned her. “Tell me. Now.”
“She’s expecting.”
It took him a moment to grasp her meaning, and when he did, he wished he’d taken her advice and sat down. His knees turned to jelly, and a sick feeling rose in the pit of his stomach. She’d been raped, and now she had to suffer the humiliation of carrying her attacker’s child. Vincent lowered his head into his hands. He’d failed her. On so many levels, so many times. How could she ever forgive him?
“Vincent?”
He dropped his hands, meeting Marie’s curious gaze.
“I’ll help her through this, Marie, I promise. Perhaps we can find a family who will raise the child as their own.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Marie fairly shouted. “You’ll do no such thing!”
Taken aback by her anger, Vincent wrinkled his brow in confusion. “Surely you don’t think she’ll want to raise the child. Not after . . .not a child conceived in violence.”
Marie stared at him, then smiled. “Unless I miss my guess, this child wasn’t conceived in anything but love.”
Vincent narrowed his eyes. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying it’s yours, you ninny!” Marie chuckled, tapping him playfully on his arm.
“Mine? Bridgett carries my child? But how?”
“Oh, I’d say in the most usual way, brother dear.”
“Are you certain? I mean, how can you know? What about…?”
Marie shook her head. “Bridgett shared the details of that night with me, Vincent
. She managed to deter her attackers from…consummating their heinous intentions.”
Vincent shook his head, awash with relief and dazed by the revelation. “A father. I’m going to be a father.”
“The only question that remains, in my mind, is when do you plan on making an honest woman of her?”
Her words were like a splash of cold water. Marriage. Of course, that was next logical step. He loved her, she carried his child. But she deserved better than marriage to someone who couldn’t let go of the past, who was haunted by memories too sick to endure. Just look at what she’d been forced to bear since he’d entered her life.
He turned away, shuttering his emotions behind a carefully erected air of nonchalance. “There will be no wedding, Marie,” he said. “I’ll not drag her into my hell.”
“A hell of your own making, I’d say, and it’s high time you put the past where it belongs. In the past.”
Vincent dismissed her with a wave of his hand. “I’m not marrying her. And I’ll thank you to mind your own business.”
He left her, sputtering heatedly under her breath.
* * * * *
Bridgett stirred in her sleep. A rush of warmth suffused her limbs, bringing sudden awareness. He’s here. She sat up swiftly, fully awake. He stood near the window, his back to the room, and she took a moment to simply study him. He wore his hair pulled back, tied in a black silk ribbon, and judging by his coat and boots, he’d only just arrived. Her heart filled with happiness as she drank in his presence, her nerves vibrating, her fingers itching to touch him. Suddenly, she wanted to see his face, needed to hear his voice. She cleared her throat. “Milord. It’s good to have you home.”
He turned from the window, sweeping her with his gaze. “Bridgett, you’re awake.”
She started to rise, but he raised a hand. “No, please, lie back.”
He came to her, sitting gingerly on the edge of the bed. Taking her hand, he rubbed it gently. “How are you feeling?”
Bridgett’s face grew warm and she ducked her head. He knew. Drat, Marie! She’d hoped to tell him herself, when the time was right, when they’d settled some things between them. She lifted her head, studying his expression for some clue to his feelings. Finding nothing more than his usual, slightly aloof gaze, she licked her lips. “I’m fine. Just a little sore.”
“Marie told me everything. I’m sorry, cara mia.” He squeezed her hand.
Bridgett looked in his eyes, hope filling her heart. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here to protect you,” he went on, “but I’m going to make up for that.”
She remained silent, waiting for him to finish. Judging by his intense mood, he obviously had more to say.
“There’s a solicitor in London who will be interested in knowing your whereabouts,” he said, then went on to explain about her mother’s family and her inheritance. Bridgett listened, too stunned to respond. As his words sank in, she grappled to come to terms with her newfound status. An heiress. Oh, not wealthy, not by any means, but twenty thousand pounds wasn’t anything to sneeze at.
“My grandparents were merchants? That explains so much,” she told him. “My mother’s refined nature, her obvious education.”
Bridgett stared off into space. She had money of her own. Money meant freedom, status, the ability to live on one’s own terms. Acceptance into certain areas of society that had heretofore been closed to her. She became so preoccupied, she barely heard his next words, but something about his tone, a subtle change, caught her attention.
“I know I can’t force you to stay,” he began.
Bridgett raised a brow, intrigued by such a statement coming from her Count.
He had the good graces to smile sheepishly. “I know now that I can’t force you to stay. But I’m asking you to.”
Bridgett’s heart soared at his words. She grinned, opening her mouth to tell him how much she loved him, how she’d longed for him these past few months, but before she had a chance to speak he went on.
“For the baby. I’d like to help you, be with you when you bring my child into the world. You’ll be safe here, now, I promise.”
For the baby. Of course. Bridgett pulled her hand from his and sank back against the pillows, eyes filling with tears. She turned her head, unwilling to let him see her pain.
“You’re tired,” he said, and stood up. “You should get some rest. I’ll see you at dinner.”
Bridgett nodded. “Yes. At dinner.”
As the door closed softly behind him, Bridgett curled on her side, punching a pillow in a fit of fury. Once again, she’d played the fool, allowing herself to believe he’d grown to care for her. She’d even imagined he would accept her, now that she’d come into some money, now that her pedigree consisted of something more than a farmer’s daughter. She should have known better, she thought, flipping onto her back to study the ceiling. A mere merchant could not compare to the title of a Count. Vincent would never ask for her hand in marriage, and how could she blame him? They came from two different worlds, and she wouldn’t suit. Society would expect him to marry a true lady, not some mere peasant.
Bridgett tried to hold on to her anger, but it seeped away, replaced by a sense of fatalistic acceptance. Her Count had gallantly offered to help with the child; she could expect nothing more. Would ask for nothing more. Somehow, she would make it be enough.
Three weeks later, Bridgett paced the front parlor, scowling at the carpet beneath her feet. She couldn’t stand it. Not another minute. The Count’s polite detachment was wearing on her nerves, making her skittish and angry. He treated her like a porcelain doll, ever solicitous, attentive to her needs, but from a distance. He hadn’t touched her, hadn’t come closer than a few feet, since the day he’d returned home.
“You’re going to wear a hole in the carpet,” Marie said brightly, “come sit here with me a moment, and tell me what’s bothering you.”
Bridgett frowned, biting her tongue to keep from saying something hurtful. “I’m fine. Nothing’s bothering me.”
“Oh, yes. You’re fine. And my brother is fine, too, holed up in his office for days on end, barely eating, never smiling, except when he’s looking at you and your back is turned.”
Bridgett stopped, mid-stride. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, it’s obvious he cares for you, and you care for him. What I don’t understand is why the two of you don’t do something about it.”
Hands on her hips, Bridgett scoffed. “And what would you have me do, pray tell? Seduce him?”
Marie placed her sewing in her basket and looked up, grinning. Her eyes sparkled mischievously. “That’s an excellent idea, love! Why didn’t I think of that?”
“Oh, yes, a wonderful plan. Look at me,” Bridgett said, indicating her expanding waistline with a wave of her hand, “does this look seductive to you?”
Marie made a great show of considering the question, tilting her head and studying her intently. “I think you’re beautiful,” she replied, “and I’m quite certain Vincent does, as well. Your complexion is creamy, and when you’re in high dudgeon, like now, your cheeks take on a most appealing glow.”
Bridgett shook her head at such ridiculous sentiments, but couldn’t stifle a giggle. “You’re insane.”
“No, but you’re going to be if you don’t do something to tear down that wall he’s built between you.”
Bridgett sobered. “And you think seducing him will do that? I’ll remind you he’s had a wall between us since we met.”
“But things are different, now. He’s different. I can feel it, even if he’s not admitting it.”
“How do you mean?” Bridgett asked, careful not to read too much into Marie’s words.
“I can’t put my finger on it, exactly, but I’ve never known Vincent to hesitate when it comes to taking what he wants. The fact that he’s managed to keep his distance from you is strange, in itself.”
“I’m pregnant with his child,” Bridgett said, “perhaps that is what deters him.
Which brings us back to your plan. I don’t think seducing him is the answer, Marie. We’ll still have issues between us. I can’t fool myself into believing we have a future together.”
“You will have a future together,” Marie insisted, standing and extending her hand. “But the way of it remains to be seen. Come along.”
Bridgett hesitated. “Where are we going?”
Marie grasped her hand, tugging her toward the door. “To my room. I’ve a surprise for you.”
* * * * *
Bridgett studied her reflection with a critical eye, ignoring Marie’s grinning countenance, visible over her shoulder in the mirror. “I look like an elephant.”
“Hardly. You look…voluptuous. Ripe, I daresay.”
Bridgett raised a brow. “Ripe? How lovely.”
Her gaze dropped to her protruding middle, barely hidden by the thin folds of her gossamer gown. She spun from the mirror. “I can’t do this.”
“Yes, you can,” Marie insisted. “There comes a time when a woman must reach for happiness. With both hands.”
Plucking at the folds of her gown, Bridgett shook her head. “But what if it doesn’t work.”
Or worse. What if it worked, and she managed to seduce him, only to have him continue to treat her the same way, day after day? Could she stand being the object of his lust, but never the recipient of his love?
“It’s going to work. Trust me.”
Bridgett sighed. “Famous last words.”
She glanced back at the mirror. “The gown is truly beautiful. Thank you so much.”
“You’re welcome,” Marie said, flashing a grin. “Even pregnant women deserve to look and feel attractive. No sense in dressing in sackcloth for the next five months.”
“I don’t feel attractive,” Bridgett said. “I feel…large.”
Marie laughed. “If you feel large now, just wait. Now, quit stalling. Go to his room. If he’s not there, make yourself comfortable in that sinfully enormous bed of his and wait for him.”
Bridgett’s cheeks grew hot. “Marie, you’re incorrigible.”
“I know, darling. I love you, too.” Marie placed a hand on the small of Bridgett’s back, pushing her toward the door. “Now go.”
