A Match Made in Bed

by Cathy Maxwell

  Again, her inner sense noticed a movement.

  This time, Cassandra did not doubt herself. The movement had come from the massive four-poster.

  She crept closer. Her instincts were not wrong. Someone was under the bed. It could be a dog, but then its behavior was uncharacteristic.

  When she was a few feet away, she dropped to her knees and peered under the bed frame just in time to catch sight of a small bare foot disappearing behind the back of the headboard.

  Could Logan be here? In this room, waiting for his father?

  Cassandra rose up on her knees, ready to call for help, when a black-haired child dressed only in breeches took two bounding steps across the mattress toward her. With a loud war cry, he leaped in the air to attack her.

  Chapter 18

  Cassandra surprised herself with how quickly she could roll out of the way.

  Her foe landed on his feet with the grace of a cat. He raised scrawny arms, his hands in fists. She came up on her knees, holding the book for protection. He was still shorter than she, but he was wildly ferocious. He shouted gibberish for a second and then switched to English. “Where is my father? Where is he?”

  This was Logan. The wolf cub. Her husband’s child.

  Her stepson.

  His face was contorted in rage. He behaved as if he expected to fight for his very life, and he blamed her.

  He moved as if to strike and, with all favorable consideration of Miss Edgeworth’s admonishments on the sensitive nature of the children aside, Cassandra put the book to good use. She thumped him smartly on the head with it.

  She’d not used much force but it made a nice whacking sound.

  Logan blinked, his scowl deepened. He looked like a miniature Soren except with dark eyes and black hair. Still, he had his father’s jaw, and she recognized the shape of the lips. Soren could never have denied his son.

  He opened his mouth, prepared to give a shout, and she said, “Stop this nonsense or I will give you another thump.” In truth, her heart was beating madly. He had given her quite a start.

  Before another move could be made, Soren’s door opened. Arabella was there. “Ah, you found him.” There was no surprise in her voice.

  Logan immediately backed away, moving toward Cassandra.

  His change from brave attack to uncertainty gave her pause.

  She looked up at his grandmother. Arabella’s face was a mask of disdain—whether for Cassandra or Logan or both of them, she did not know.

  Cassandra rose to her feet, wanting to regain her dignity. Footsteps ran down the hall toward them. Elliot appeared in the doorway. He stopped when he saw Arabella and then glanced in the room at Cassandra. It took him a moment to notice Logan. Her terrible attacker had moved even closer to Cassandra, as if hiding himself in her skirts. The wolf cub had become a distrustful child.

  After seeing the look on Arabella’s face, Cassandra didn’t know if she didn’t agree with him.

  “My lady, you found him,” Elliot spoke with genuine relief.

  “Rather, he found me. Send word to my lord that his son is safe.”

  “I will, my lady. We have a signal of two shots with a musket.” He left. There were other voices in the hall. The servants were sharing the information among themselves.

  Arabella took a step back so that all would notice her presence. The questioning voices went silent.

  “Well,” she said, turning back to Cassandra, “that was a nice entertainment. I shall see you at dinner. Do you wish me to close the door?”

  She had no questions for Logan? No concern?

  Two musket shots sounded. Elliot had not wasted time. Their echo reverberated in the air. She prayed Soren wasn’t far.

  “You knew he was here all along,” Cassandra said.

  “Did I?” Such false innocence.

  “You did,” Cassandra answered stoutly. “Did you bring him food? Let him know you cared?” Logan was all legs and arms. He could use a few good meals.

  “Are you questioning me?”

  Cassandra had heard the silky tone before. She’d heard it from the lady patronesses at Almack’s and from the mothers of other debutantes. It was the tone people used when they wanted to let her know she was not good enough.

  Well, they were wrong.

  And she was Logan’s stepmother.

  “I most certainly am questioning you,” Cassandra returned coolly in a tone that would have made any of those patronesses proud. “Did you not see how worried my husband was at learning of his child’s disappearance? How could you have not have said something?”

  “The boy appears unscathed. Any worry on my part would have been misplaced.” She walked away.

  “Well—” Cassandra started, flummoxed by the woman’s cavalier attitude. She turned to Logan, and discovered him gone. She whirled around the room and then heard the door to the hallway quietly shut on her side of the suite. She ran through Soren’s door out into the hall, but the wolf cub had once again vanished.

  How could he have moved so quickly? Then again, Arabella was not there, either. It was as if Pentreath had swallowed them whole.

  She held up the book. The title mocked her. “Who is receiving the education, Miss Edgeworth?” she muttered.

  At that moment, she heard the dogs barking and Soren’s voice. He had returned. She quickly dropped the book in her room and went to meet her husband to tell him the story of finding Logan.

  The house was big. It took her several minutes to make her way downstairs and out into the great hall. The front door was open and Elliot was standing there. She hurried to the door. Soren was dismounting a good-sized chestnut. He was hatless and his hair windblown. He’d not been gone that long but it seemed as if he’d been put through an eternity. One of the men riding with him took the reins of his horse.

  He looked to Elliot. “He’s been found—?”

  Before he could say another word, a blur raced past Cassandra and out the door, straight for Soren. Logan was still barefoot; however, he’d made an attempt to dress by putting on a shirt and jacket. He leaped at his father with the same athleticism he’d used to attack her, except this time, he wanted his father’s arms.

  Soren caught him. He hugged him as if he’d never let him go. Logan’s skinny arms and legs were just as tightly holding his father. His dark head buried itself in the crook of Soren’s neck.

  Cassandra was touched by the unconstrained show of affection.

  Her father had never welcomed her in that way. There had been a time, long ago, when she’d wanted to run to him, so thankful he had returned from wherever he was. She’d not liked being left behind with the servants . . . and none of them had referred to her as a wild thing.

  Soren spoke to Logan softly in that language the boy had used upstairs. Cassandra assumed it was his native tongue.

  The words buoyed the child, who lifted his head. He’d been crying. He was a proud lad and she could only imagine what it took to break him. She empathized with him all the more.

  Soren saw her and smiled, the expression both relieved and proud. He carried his son to her, stopping to ask Elliot, “Where did you find him?”

  “Your lady found him, my lord.”

  “Truly?” Soren moved on to Cassandra. “You found him?”

  She smiled, conscious that they had a growing audience. As word spread, hunters from wherever they had been came racing up. Some were on horseback. Some ran. Servants poked their head out from doorways, interested in what was going on. Even Mrs. Branwell stood to one side.

  The one person who wasn’t there was Arabella.

  She could feel Logan’s watchful gaze upon her. The set of his mouth was far too solemn for such a young boy, and she thought about how she’d felt when her mother had died.

  The world had not been her friend.

  “Is there someplace more private for introductions?” Cassandra suggested.

  “Ah, yes, quite right,” Soren agreed, finally noticing how much attention surrounded them.
He told Elliot, “Have Cook prepare a tray. We will be in the library.”

  A library? Cassandra practically danced as he led her down the hall to a good-sized wood-paneled room. Windows as big as doorways overlooked at back portico with a balustrade, and graceful stairs led down into the garden.

  But there wasn’t a book. Just as it had been at Mayfield, there were bookshelves, but no books. Her heart fell.

  Ledgers were stacked on a huge desk in the middle of the room. This was obviously where Soren managed the daily affairs of Pentreath. There were also several groupings of old but comfortable-looking chairs. They would be excellent places to enjoy a cozy read, if there had been a book to enjoy.

  He carried Logan over to a table and chairs located close to the desk. “My lady,” he said, using his free hand to pull out a chair for Cassandra. “A gentleman always sees to the niceties, Logan,” he instructed his son. He could have used both hands. Logan was not about to let go.

  She sat. Soren took the chair next to her and stretched out his legs. At last, Logan released his grip but kept his head against his father’s chest as if listening to his heart.

  “Where was he?” Soren asked quietly.

  “In your bedroom. He’d been there the whole time.”

  “Ah, waiting for me, eh?”

  Logan didn’t answer. He viewed Cassandra gravely.

  “When did you send the letter to your mother announcing our marriage?” Cassandra asked.

  “I had it sent out the afternoon we agreed to marry.”

  “And he has been missing for three days?” she said.

  “Which would have been around when the letter arrived.” Soren looked to his son. “Is that what it was?”

  Logan didn’t answer. Instead, he turned from Cassandra and grew very interested in the knot in Soren’s neck cloth. A maid appeared with a tray of sandwiches, whisky for Soren, and cold spring water for Cassandra and Logan.

  “Beg pardon, my lady, but shall I fetch some sherry?”

  “No, this is fine,” Cassandra said. She set about serving the sandwiches as the maid poured the water.

  “I’ll take a water as well,” Soren said. Cassandra had noticed that he only imbibed in spirits on occasion. She still had much to learn about this man that she married.

  The maid left. Cassandra set the plates out. Soren sat up but Logan did not make a move. He’d hooked his skinny bare legs around his father’s thigh as if he was on a horse.

  “Where are your stockings, Logan?” Soren asked.

  Large dark eyes glanced up to him, but he did not answer.

  “I thought we talked,” Soren continued. “Proper young men wear shoes here. They wear shoes in Canada as well.”

  “I don’t like those shoes.” Logan spoke clearly.

  “You are not used to them. If you wear them, they will fit your feet.”

  “They are stiff.”

  “They are new.”

  Soren glanced at Cassandra as if asking if she was taking this all in. He then said the words she sensed both she and Logan were dreading. “My son, I want you to meet your new—”

  Whether he was going to say “stepmother” or “mother,” Cassandra knew neither would be acceptable.

  Logan’s determined little chin lifted. He spoke in his native tongue.

  Soren’s expression was carefully neutral. “In English, my son.”

  Logan was not afraid to comply. “I had only one mother.”

  “And I imagine she was a very good one,” Cassandra agreed with him.

  The child drew his brows together in suspicion but he gave one curt nod. Logan was not one to waste words.

  “So, if it is all right with you,” she said, “perhaps you should consider me a friend.”

  “A friend?” Soren made a face. “What is he going to call you? Friend?”

  She thought of the child who had clung to her skirts. “If he chooses. I like the name Friend.” She pushed his plate and sandwich toward him. “I’m not certain I like the flavor of the cheese on this sandwich. Please let me know what you think, Logan.” He had to be hungry. Whatever he could purloin from around the foodstuffs in the house would not be enough for a growing child’s appetite.

  Still he sat.

  “Does my offer of being your friend sound good to you, Logan?” she asked, wanting him to respond to her.

  He looked to Soren. “Is she your friend?”

  “She is my wife,” Soren answered gently.

  “My mother was your wife.”

  “Yes, and your mother has left us.” Soren’s tone was infinitely patient, the way a father’s should be.

  “Is she the wealthy woman?” Logan asked.

  Cassandra doubted anyone had said as much to him. Well, perhaps Arabella. But he was a clever youngster. He probably heard everything that happened in the house.

  “Your friend is my wife,” Soren answered in a firm tone.

  The look on Logan’s face let her know it would be some time before he considered her a friend.

  She took bite of her sandwich. “I hope I have an appetite for dinner.” She tried to sound cheery in the silence between father and son.

  “Cassandra, I believe Logan and I need a moment.”

  She didn’t question the request but swiftly rose. Soren and his son came to their feet out of respect. Logan stood on his own, but his hand slipped into his father’s. The child was a strange mix of fierce independence and needy insecurity, an insecurity she understood too well.

  She excused herself, and lacking anywhere else to go after leaving the library, she took a turn on the back portico. The days were growing warmer. The flower beds desperately needed tending. It didn’t look as if anyone had paid attention to them for years. Here was a project she could take on. Soren encouraged her to find a passion. Many a lady enjoyed gardening, although she didn’t believe she would.

  From this vantage point, she could hear voices from the library. Logan had turned very talkative. As she reentered the house and passed the library door, she caught sight of Soren and his son. Logan sat in his own chair, stuffing sandwiches in his mouth as if he hadn’t eaten in months while chatting happily. Soren seemed to be hanging on his son’s every word. As she watched, he lightly touched the back of his son’s head as if offering a benediction.

  It was the gentlest gesture Cassandra had ever seen a man perform—

  “He dotes on the child.” Arabella’s disapproving voice startled her. Cassandra had been so caught up in her thoughts, she had not heard her approach. The older woman stood in the doorway of an adjacent room.

  Cassandra walked over to her mother-in-law, not wanting Arabella’s words to carry into the library. “They have not seen each other for some time.”

  “I have little patience with coddling,” Arabella said. She looked Cassandra up and down, obviously unimpressed. “You know why he went after you, don’t you? He wanted your money. And your land. It is the only way a York would ever marry a Holwell.” Her gaze went past Cassandra to the library. “His father married me for my money and my life has been miserable ever since.”

  For the briefest of seconds, her directness unnerved Cassandra. Arabella was going to be unpleasantly surprised when she learned how little money Soren’s marriage had brought to Pentreath. Or, and this was a new thought, that Cassandra wasn’t truly a Holwell and therefore, wouldn’t inherit Lantern Fields. Who knew who she was? And in this moment, for the first time, she found herself glad of it.

  Never again would she have to feel an invisible wall around her because of her father and his prejudices. Soren had been right, there was a measure of freedom in the acceptance of this new truth.

  However, Cassandra decided it was not her place to enlighten Arabella.

  In a moment’s clarity, she realized she did not want to be aloof or distrusting like either Arabella or Helen. These were women who had nothing but their place in Society to give them authority.

  She wanted more. And Soren had been right, she would
n’t have been happy resting on a title. Even when she’d dreamed of being a duchess, it was because then she could pursue her enjoyment of poetry and ideas . . . and Soren’s suggestion of her writing came to her mind. What avid reader such as herself had not imagined writing a book?

  It still didn’t seem the most appealing thing she could do with her time and energy—but she now, with the acquaintance of Arabella, understood why Soren urged her to discover what she was passionate about.

  “I shall see you at dinner,” Cassandra said, excusing herself and wanting to put distance between herself and this woman, who was one of many she’d met who had no life.

  She went up to her room. She had no difficulty finding it.

  Cassandra pulled the valise from her wardrobe, removed the false bottom, and took out the garnets. The stones were bloodred and the gold around them heavy. She seldom wore them. The pearls had been her favorite, and she was discovering the one pearl was enough for her.

  Now she considered her true motive for keeping them hidden from Soren. Yes, her mother’s memory was involved, but so was her fear to trust, to act in good faith.

  She went to search out her husband.

  Chapter 19

  It had been a long day. Watching his son eat as if he hadn’t had food in days, Soren struggled to keep his anger in check.

  Toby, the head of Logan’s search party, had mentioned that life had not been good for the child over the month Soren had been gone. With a few quiet questions, Soren had learned that the nurse he’d hired, a grandmotherly Mrs. Williams with family in the area, had refused to lock Logan in his room on a daily basis and had been let go.

  “Who asked her to lock him up?” Soren had asked.

  He knew the answer even before Toby said, “Lady Dewsberry. She feels the boy is in need of discipline.”

  “Has my son misbehaved?”

  He saw that Toby did not wish to answer that question. “Go on,” Soren prodded. “Your loyalty means you give me the truth.”