With an unhappy sigh, Henriette relented. “She has gone to Paris for the winter. She said she did not want to be all alone at the chateau this year.”
“Why not?” Damien frowned. This was indeed a drastic change in Marcelle’s behavior. The last time she had refused to be alone at de Villette was right after Edward had died. Was she mistakenly grieving for her son?
“I don’t know.” Henriette sounded petulant. “Maybe it had something to do with the chit who played such a cruel trick on her last year.”
“Chit?” Damien gazed at his former mistress curiously.
“A girl came to the chateau while I was there, claiming to be your wife. I knew at once she was lying, and I tried to convince the countess as well. Lady Cross was eager to believe the chit’s clever story about your wedding her, though. She took the little liar under her wing for a time, until she learned her lesson the hard way.”
Damien’s hands moved to urgently grip her upper shoulders. “What girl, Henriette? What did she look like?”
“You’re hurting me,” she whined, and when his grip slackened, she rubbed her shoulder and muttered, “She called herself Avril.”
Henriette used the French word, but Damien knew at once whom she meant. His blue eyes softened, and he murmured hopefully, “April. My wife was here?”
At the longing in his voice the other woman felt a stab of bitter jealousy. So, he had wed the chit after all.
Henriette quickly changed her tactics, babbling, “I finally realized she was really your wife, Damien, but by then it was too late. She fled, without so much as a merci for all Lady Cross had done for her. And your poor maman was so devastated she moved into an apartment in Paris. She could not bear the thought of such betrayal.”
Damien suspected there was more to the tale, but he merely nodded. Why had April come to France? He thought she had gone back to the gypsies after learning of his own betrayal. He had tried to find her in the band camped outside Constantinople, and though Jingo had insisted he knew nothing of April’s whereabouts, Damien could tell the gypsy king was lying. He assumed they were helping April hide from him. Now he had to wonder, and he gazed thoughtfully down at Henriette, not missing the gleam of cold satisfaction in her eyes.
“Where did April go? Do you know?”
“Non. Marcelle tried to find her for several weeks, and then gave up. It is just as well, Damien. The girl only came here to take advantage of your good name.”
He brushed her aside as he turned to leave. “I will find her, Henriette,” he vowed softly. “If it takes a hundred years, I will find her again.”
THE COUNTESS MOVED TO extinguish the oil lamp on the desk where Damien had finally fallen into an exhausted sleep while writing another letter. She glanced down at the half-finished parchment pinned under his elbow.
… and if you should hear word of a young woman fitting such description, or of any lady calling herself April or Lady Cross, please contact me immediately at the following address …
Marcelle smiled sadly, patting her son gently on the head. His soft snores echoed in the den. She knew how many months he spent writing letters, following up on any leads about April. She herself had felt the same desperation when she had found the girl had taken her stallion and gone. But April had executed her flight with incredible skill, because generous bribes and greased palms had failed to produce any word of her whereabouts.
Marcelle had been hurt at first, but then she listened to her heart instead and understood April had felt it necessary to leave. She suspected the reason had something to do with Henriette Dupre, because the other woman did not seem surprised when Damien’s wife suddenly vanished.
And now, too late, Marcelle learned April was truly the love of Damien’s life. She felt a mother’s sympathy and a sense of helplessness that she could not magically restore her son’s wife to his side.
Damien had convinced her to move back into the chateau in case April should return there. But Marcelle’s womanly intuition sensed April was long gone, possibly never to return here. She had not shared the feeling with Damien, not wishing to dash his small hopes But it was spring again, and over a year had passed since April had been at Chateau de Villette.
With a soft sigh, Marcelle moved to look at the portrait of the previous earl hanging above the fireplace. Edward Cross appeared to be gazing sternly down upon his son, and she raised a finger to waggle it up at him.
“This is one time when you shall not have your way, Edouard,” she scolded the frowning visage. “I always said Damien should marry for love, and so he has. I only wish you were here to find the girl now for your son.”
“Maman?” Damien’s head rose with a jolt, and he gazed blearily at the woman across the room. “Is somebody here?”
“Non. Why don’t you go up to bed. You fell asleep with the lamp on, which is dangerous.”
Damien rose, his shoulders seeming to sag with a hidden weight. He blundered past Marcelle unseeing, as if he could not bear the pain of reality. She felt something prompt her then, and she called out softly after him, “Why don’t you take a little trip? Visit Mistgrove. It has always been your favorite place.”
“I haven’t the heart for it anymore, Maman,” Damien muttered as he headed up the stairs.
Marcelle glanced up at the portrait again. Was it her imagination, or did Edward actually seem to be smirking down at her?
“Bah!” she said forcefully as she departed the den after her son. “You’ll see, old man. Love always triumphs in the end.”
DAMIEN REINED IN THE prancing dark bay just above the last rise over the sea. Already he could taste the salty tang in the air, and his skin tingled with anticipation. Home. His mother was right, after all. Mistgrove was just the thing to restore his spirits.
He prompted the restless steed beneath him and they galloped down the last stretch of road, sending dark clods churning up behind. Damien felt his coattails flying in the brisk spring breeze and grinned. The English weather was as ungodly as ever, already starting to drizzle as he approached the mansion, but he felt a contentment he hadn’t experienced in months.
Damien drew the bay stallion down to a ringing trot across the cobblestones of the drive. The mansion was dark, but he noted with consternation that the staff had failed to shutter the windows properly when they had left.
He dismounted and started to hitch his mount to the iron post. Then a shrill bugle came from nearby and his own stallion responded to the blood-curdling squeal with one of his own.
“Bloody hell!” Damien cursed, trying to control the fractious bay. His horse laid back its ears and skittered on the cobbles, wildly trying to free itself in order to answer the challenge that echoed across the misty yard.
Finally, he managed to herd the animal into a nearby stall, bolting it securely. The bay immediately thrust out its head and bugled again, nostrils flaring as it caught the scent of a rival stallion.
Now Damien was able to turn and see the black horse galloping out in the pasture, neck arched proudly, mane and tail flying. He watched Prince Adar pause and paw the wet ground, steam rushing from his distended nostrils, a knowing glint in his wild, dark eyes.
He felt a rush of euphoria. “I know just how you feel, boy,” he said, and turned toward the house. A light upstairs had just flicked on. April was here. Somehow it made perfect sense, and the months of painful separation and sleepless nights were instantly forgotten.
Damien ran towards the mansion, conscious of being watched from a window above. He mounted the steps with mixed emotions, a sense of foreboding and excitement combining to set him on razor-edge. He hesitated slightly before he entered the mansion. What had prompted April to run away from the chateau and come here?
He was surprised when he stepped into the hall. The downstairs furniture was still covered with protective sheets, and obviously unused. He glanced up the staircase, toward the single light burning up there. She had taken only a small corner for herself, like an animal in hiding.
> Damien ascended the staircase. He was only halfway up when the slight figure came barreling down toward him.
April froze on the landing, her green eyes huge in the dim light. She was dressed in a forest-green velvet riding habit, her blonde hair tumbled loose about her shoulders. Her posture was defensive, as if by virtue of living here in isolation she had again retreated to the wild.
“April.” Damien spoke her name softly, like a caress, and saw her shiver with emotion. “Why did you run away from Chateau de Villette, little girl?”
For a moment April could not find words. She could not believe Damien was here, after so long, after she had given up daring to hope or dream. She had hidden herself here, totally absorbing her mind and body and secret longings in creating a safe haven. She had not intended to stay at Mistgrove longer than a month, but she had become a part of it. Damien threatened to take that away from her now.
Her eyes flashed at him like a cornered cat’s. “I thought I could forget you, and the lies you told,” she whispered. “But when I went to France, I found I couldn’t. Everywhere I turned, there were reminders. Sleeping in your bed, seeing your mother each day, talking to your mistress —”
Damien started to protest, but she shook her head fiercely at him.
“Listen to me. I came here only because I had no choice. I tried to go back to the Lowara, but Tzigane had died and I was no longer welcome. I will never be able to forget or forgive myself that she died alone.”
Damien’s face reflected sorrow to match her own, and April was thrown off-guard. She did not want to accept the fact that he could care about anyone except himself, and yet his eyes met hers with understanding reflected in the dark blue depths.
April swallowed hard and forced anger into her voice as she finished. “Because my people no longer held their arms open to me, I had nowhere to go, but I remembered what you told me about France. And I thought, why should I suffer anymore? I will take the money Tzigane left me, and make a new life for myself in a new land.”
She raised her chin proudly, as if daring him to dispute her decision. To her surprise, Damien only nodded. Her voice dropped to a whisper again. “For over a year I have succeeded in forgetting. I live here alone, bothered by nobody. And now you shatter my world around me like glass.”
“No,” Damien corrected her gently. “I will take nothing else from you, little girl. I’ve damned myself a thousand times for hurting you like I did. For using you to try to end a war that would have finished on its own, sooner or later. Desperate men do desperate things, and I had to do something, try to find an end to the madness.” His eyes darkened in memory of the horrors he had witnessed, and he shook his head to force the images away. “To that end, I used you. I never intended for it to happen.”
“You must have planned it all,” April said.
“No. Not the part about falling in love with you.”
She stared at him, feeling the deep words melt into her soul. How she wanted to believe. But she was afraid, so afraid.
Damien continued in a husky voice, “I’ve told you before that I love you. Nothing has changed since then.”
April fought her rising emotions, trying not to let Damien lull her into believing him again. She had opened her heart and soul to him once, and the resulting pain was more than she could bear. Did she dare trust again?
She whispered, “And now, Damien? What happens now?”
“I hoped you would ask that,” he said, coming a step up on the stairs and looking intensely at her. “I want you to stay here as my wife. We both have a right to be here, April. This is my home, yes, but it is yours too now, if you so choose. Is it possible for us to begin again?”
“I don’t know,” she answered him honestly.
Damien nodded with resignation. “Will you listen to my reasons for what I did?”
April moistened her lips a little nervously. It would be unfair of her to refuse him that much. She agreed, asking only, “How did you find me at all?”
“Sheer chance. Marcelle suggested I come here for a respite. I don’t think she suspects you are here, either.”
At the mention of his mother her eyes softened slightly. “Is the countess well?”
“Yes, but as anxious as I for word about you. She grew fond of you in the short time you were at the chateau.”
“Others were not so kind as she.”
Damien nodded grimly. “I’m sorry Henriette Dupre hurt you. I knew her a long time ago, and believe it or not, it was over long before you came here. There is nothing between us now, nor will there ever be again.” He paused, sensing her anger receding, and then forged on. “We have a lot to discuss, little one, if only you are willing.”
He started to move up the stairs and April quickly raised a hand in protest. “Not the bedroom.”
Damien assumed she felt uncomfortable about being in any intimate quarters with him again. He nodded shortly, and waited for her to join him downstairs. They were halfway out the door when a thin, high wail wafted from upstairs.
April froze in indecision, looking quickly to Damien to see if he noticed.
He mused, “Cats?”
She nodded jerkily. But one step more and the cry was unmistakably hungry — and human.
“What the devil?” Damien exclaimed, heading back up the stairs before April could stop him. He burst into the west wing bedchamber, where he saw a crackling fire in the grate and a bassinet beside the canopied bed.
“It’s a baby,” he said accusingly, whirling around to face April with shock on his handsome face. “Where in the world —”
“The servant girl who helps me out just gave birth,” April said quickly, moving to intercept him. “Ssh, you’ll just upset the baby more.”
“It’s already fit to be tied,” he complained, as the wails grew progressively louder and insistent. Damien stepped around April and peered down into the bassinet. He chuckled down at the beet-red, miniature human face screwing up for another lusty howl. The baby was no newborn, judging by size, but several months old. It already had a full head of curly black curls.
“I declare, that’s got to be the ugliest infant I’ve ever seen,” he exclaimed, and the baby’s howls rose in volume as if understanding his remark.
“She is not.” April reached into the bassinet and snatched up the child. The little girl quieted to hiccoughs as April cradled her on one shoulder and paced back and forth. “She’s quite pretty when she isn’t all red in the face. There there, love, it’s all right.” She patted the baby’s back and glared at Damien as if daring him to make fun of the infant again.
He threw up his hands in exasperation. “Where’s the mother? Can’t she look after her own child properly? We need to talk.”
“She’s gone to town for some things,” April muttered evasively. “We’ll just have to make do.” But as if on cue, the baby wailed again, louder than ever.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake —” Damien said with exasperation, but when he glanced at April again he saw a dark shadow spreading across her velvet bodice. He walked over and incredulously touched the milk-soaked material, and looking closer at her face, saw the tears glistening on her cheeks.
“I take it back,” he said in a low voice. “She’s the most beautiful baby I’ve ever seen.”
Tenderly, he led April to the bed and unbuttoned her bodice so she could feed their child. Embarrassed, she would have looked away, but he turned her chin and placed a warm kiss upon her lips as the baby happily settled in place and nursed.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” he rasped thickly.
“I didn’t know,” she murmured, her gaze downcast. “I found out after I arrived in France. Henriette convinced me nobody would believe it was your child. She also threatened to expose me to your mother if I stayed. In my eyes, I had little choice but to leave.”
The baby made a snuffling noise and Damien wonderingly extended a finger to stroke the downy hair on her head. “She looks like Marcelle, doesn’t she? What did yo
u name her?”
April smiled, tears making her eyes bright green as she gazed at him. “Mistelle. In honor of your mother and this wonderful place.”
“You like it here?” Damien was amazed. Every other woman he had brought to Mistgrove had ceaselessly complained about the cold, the damp, the isolation.
“It is the only real home I’ve known,” she said softly, “and this is the one place I knew Misty and I would be safe.”
“You were all alone?” Damien mentally berated himself for not thinking of Mistgrove sooner, but she placed a hand consolingly upon his clenched fist.
“No. There’s a young girl named Maggie who moved out from town to stay with me. She is sworn to secrecy, and she thinks my plight is terribly romantic.” April smiled a little wistfully as she spoke.
“Well, so it is.” Damien dropped a quick kiss on the sleeping baby’s head, and waited while April placed Misty back in her little bed and buttoned her bodice up again. Then he took his wife by the hand and drew her over to the window. “Let’s give your Maggie a happy ending if she’s out there watching us.”
April shivered as Damien drew her into his arms. She wanted so desperately to forgive him, and to gladly step into the new role awaiting her. But she was still afraid.
“Damien,” she whispered, “Henriette knows. Others will find out I’m not who I say I am. And they might hold that against Mistelle, too. “
“Then we’ll never leave England again. Nobody knows you here. I won’t let you go again, April. I can’t.” Damien spoke fiercely as his mouth moved to claim hers. He pulled her slender body against his own, his hands moving to trace her curves in the velvet riding habit.
April’s soft moan echoed Damien’s. Her head whirled wildly, feeling the familiar warmth and longing stealing over her languid body. Now she understood what Tzigane had tried to tell her about the love between soul-mates, the ceaseless circle of fate which would bring them together time and time again, no matter the obstacles.
Gypsy Jewel Page 27
