by Sarah Morgan
She’d been standing here, not far from this very window, when word had come that Charles had been killed.
She’d just begun to undress, to change from her wedding gown into her going away outfit.
Sam exhaled in a short, hard painful puff. Her fingers curled into her palms. Twice a bride, she thought, and still a virgin. But to lose Charles, the way she had…
Sam reached out to touch the windowpane. The glass was chilly, slick, a stark contrast to the lush plum velvet curtain panel, the velvet curtain the same fabric draping the bed.
God how she hated this room. And loved this room. It was Charles’s bedroom, the room they were to share when they returned from their honeymoon trip to Bath.
Swallowing hard, around the thick lump filling her throat, Sam pressed her fingertips against the glass and then let her hand fall away.
Without a last look around, Sam left the bedroom, closed the door and was hurrying toward the staircase when she remembered the candle she’d left in the hall.
Sam was just returning for it when she saw Cristiano on the stairs. “Having a look around?” he asked.
She nodded, praying he didn’t see the sheen of tears in her eyes. Her past was private. She didn’t discuss it with anyone and she refused to give Cristiano another reason to mock her. “I’m done, though. I’ve seen enough.”
“You haven’t been to the third floor yet.”
She was desperate now to get out, to escape the Rookery and its press of bittersweet memories. “I know what’s up there. I used to live up there. All the children slept upstairs.”
“Is it just one big room?”
“Yes, filled with dozens of beds, dozens of children who grew up without their mothers and fathers.”
Back in the cottage, Sam put the kettle on the fire Cristiano had laid again this afternoon in the old cast iron stove. She stood at the kitchen window as she waited for the water to boil and watched the dense white flurries coming down. It was so quiet, so beautiful, she thought. The snow was thick and still and it covered everything in every direction.
Footsteps sounded behind, slow measured steps on the wooden floor. Sam immediately tensed, jittery all over again. Her stomach flipped. Her breasts felt tight. Goose bumps covered her skin.
She hated his effect on her.
Hated that she was so aware of him.
She didn’t know why he did this to her.
She glanced over her shoulder. His arms were piled high with firewood for the stove. She had to concede he’d been quite dedicated when it came to keeping the fire burning, the wood bins filled, and the cottage warm. “Thank you.”
He nodded.
“Would you like a cup of tea?” she asked, trying to cover her awkwardness.
“No. Thank you.”
She turned back to the window. The snow wasn’t letting up. It just continued to fall, adding to the white mounds blanketing the walls and ground outside, making the late afternoon unnaturally bright.
“It just keeps coming down,” she said, all pins and needles as Cristiano arranged the wood in the bin by the stove. Her hands tightened on the edge of the farmhouse sink. Be strong, she told herself. Be confident.
“We don’t get many storms like this,” she continued, feeling a perverse need to fill the silence. She’d never been much of a talker, usually preferred to let her young charges chatter, but right now she felt like a high-strung child herself. “But when we do get a storm, all of England shuts down. We don’t know what to do with the snow. No one’s prepared, you see.”
It hadn’t snowed like this in Cheshire in years or she would have heard about it. And this was a true storm, the snow coming down in thick silent flurries and the snow stuck, forming dense white drifts on top of the barren window box, the bench in the garden, along the old stone wall. The whirling snow nearly obscured the great oak trees standing guard beyond the garden wall, the trees just dark hulking shadows in silent fields. It just kept falling.
He was rising, moving toward her, and he had such a leisurely way of walking, as if he had all the time in the world and there was something about his easy confidence that unnerved her even more. She’d never felt that confident about anything in life. She’d always been fearful, always afraid.
He stood next to her at the window over the sink to see what she saw. He wasn’t even looking at her but she could feel him, his heat, his energy, his strength. He was so big and imposing, that it was almost as if he’d covered her world with his.
Nothing was the same since she’d met him.
Nothing about her felt the same, either.
Her emotions were all over the place. Her fears had never been stronger. She was on the edge of tears constantly but even then, she couldn’t let go and cry, not really. Yet it would be such a relief to give in to the tears, such a relief to just let go of all the hurt she kept locked tightly inside of her.
But her feelings were too deep, the losses in the past too stunning, that even now, she teetered between pain and nothingness. It was as if she’d shut down somehow, somewhere, given up. Given up hope. Given up life. Given up anything that didn’t have to do with Gabby.
“It was hard for you visiting the Rookery,” Cristiano said now.
His observation was as unexpected as it was accurate. “Yes.”
“How old were you when you were brought here?”
“Six.” Just a year older than Gabby. Sam bit into her lip, fought the wave of dark emotion, the fierce undertow of grief. She couldn’t think, couldn’t let herself be overwhelmed. Stay numb, she told herself, stay in control. Maybe if she hadn’t lost her parents and Charles both she’d be a different person today, but she had lost them, and she couldn’t change the past. She was who she was. She was what she was.
A woman who worked for others.
A woman who only lived for others.
“It doesn’t look like a bad place.”
“It wasn’t,” she whispered, hearing the catch in her voice, hating that she sounded so fragile, as if she could be easily broken. But she wasn’t fragile. She’d been toughened, by time and loss. She wasn’t going to break and she’d get through this. One way or another. She’d manage. She always did. That was the beauty of it. Pain didn’t destroy you. It just made you stronger.
But it hurt like hell until you got to the other side.
She felt Cristiano’s gaze rest on her. “How long has it been closed up?” he asked.
“Years,” she answered softly, the white porcelain sink smooth beneath her fingers. “At least eight.”
He wasn’t even pretending to look outside anymore. He was looking at her, only at her, and the weight of his inspection made her shiver. “How long have you been widowed?”
Sam sucked in air, flinching at the pain. Talking about the Rookery was hard. Talking about Charles—impossible. Her fingers flexed convulsively against the sink’s edge. “Eight,” she said, looking anywhere but at him. Eight long endless years.
To cover her anguish, Sam turned toward the cupboard, reached for a cup and saucer. Her hand shook as she set them on the counter.
She could still feel the weight of his gaze, knew he was watching her, sensed he was remembering what Mrs. Bishop had said this morning about Sam being married and widowed in the same day, and she turned suddenly, faced him defiantly, daring him to speak about something so personal and private it still devastated her eight years later.
Her gaze clashed with his but there was no pity in his eyes, nothing in his eyes, just intense focus.
He continued to look at her with that same long, hard inspection and air bottled in her lungs. Holding her breath, she looked back at him and had never felt so vulnerable, as though she were full of holes and hurts.
Holes and hurts and broken hearts.
If only she could cry, she thought. If only she could let some of this pain out. But it was impossible. The pain was buried too deep, the loss too significant.
Inexplicably emotion flickered in Cristiano’s hazel eyes. His ha
rd jaw gentled a fraction. “You have lost a great deal in your life, haven’t you?”
His sudden tenderness was too much. Sam felt a wall of ice inside her crack and fall, and behind that wall Sam glimpsed a child crying.
She didn’t think she’d made a sound but Cristiano cupped her cheek, then gently sliding his hand down, over her jaw, toward her chin and across the front of her throat. “Hush,” he said. “Things always work out.”
Tears flooded Sam’s eyes and reaching up, she caught his hand in her own and held it tightly. “You’re not helping,” she choked, even as her fingers curled into his. She didn’t understand it. She hated his power, feared his strength, and yet somehow she craved that power and strength, too.
His head dropped and she felt his breath against her face. For a split second she thought he was going to kiss her and then the kettle whistled and he abruptly pulled back.
Sam felt his hand fall away. She took a step in the opposite direction even as she felt a shiver race through her, awareness, tension, desire.
“Your water’s boiling,” he said.
She turned, searched for a towel or hot pad, something to grab the kettle’s handle with and when she turned around again, Cristiano was gone.
Outside Cristiano returned to chopping wood. He’d been pouring his anger and aggression into splitting logs before he entered the cottage. He should have never stopped splitting logs. Shouldn’t have carried an armful into the kitchen, not when Sam was there, not when she looked so completely and utterly alone.
He wished he hadn’t seen that…that he could go back and erase her expression from his memory, the one he saw as she stood at the sink staring out the window. She’d looked so lost.
Goddamn it. She reminded him of Gabriela.
He lifted the ax, swung it high overhead and let it slam down. The impact of metal against wood shuddered through him, rippling from his arms to his shoulders and through his torso.
She wasn’t alone, he told himself, yanking the blade out and turning the log, repositioning it for another swing. She was young. She was an adult. She had friends. She didn’t need Gabriela. Gabriela was her job, not her life.
But, maledizione! The look in her eyes. The grief.
He swung the ax over his head again, a huge powerful arc before he brought it down, crashing into the wood. He felt a jolt through his shoulders even as the wood split and cracked. She wasn’t his responsibility, he told himself, tossing the split pieces into a pile at his feet as he grabbed another large log and placed it on the chopping block. She’s not my problem.
But later, as Cristiano waded through the dense snowdrifts back to the cottage, arms loaded high with freshly cut firewood, he knew she was his problem.
He’d destroyed her world, taken what little security she had away from her. At first she’d simply been a tool to get what he really wanted. But he couldn’t very well leave her alone in the world—no money, no protection, no stability. If he was going to provide for Gabriela, the least he could do was provide for the one person who’d given Gabby love and affection.
Whether he liked it or not, Samantha was his responsibility, too.
He dumped the logs by the hearth in the main room, and returned outside to get one last load so they’d have enough wood for the night.
But wading back through the snow, he grit his teeth at the shooting pain in his right leg. His legs had been aching all day. At first this morning he’d thought it was the lack of sleep, but now knew it was the change of weather. Whenever there was a pressure change, his legs became hypersensitive—both skin and muscle full of stabbing pain, but he never complained, never told anyone that he hurt. He knew the dangers of his profession when he started out. He could blame no one but himself.
He swore as he hit an unanticipated patch of black ice beneath the snow. His right leg caved, nearly giving out.
Cristiano stopped, took a breath, steadied himself blocking out the searing pain. He made sure he’d found his footing before continuing on again. His rehab had covered numerous situations but walking on slick surfaces hadn’t been one. But then, Monaco and the Côte d’Azur were famous for sun, not ice, so learning to cope with ice and snow had not been a priority.
Loaded down with more firewood, he turned, started back to the house and then was forced to slow, even rest, as he hit the same damn patch of ice. He had no traction in his shoes, and before his accident, ice wouldn’t have been a problem, but his legs weren’t the same. Nothing about his legs was the same.
The doctors had said he should always use a cane, that his weaker right leg needed the support but Cristiano was damned if he’d advertise his weakness to others. He’d never let another man know he wasn’t as strong. His business was so competitive, so cutthroat, that one had to be tough—always. Not just physically, but mentally. So instead of leaning on a cane to support his weight, Cristiano had learned to compensate by walking more slowly, more deliberately. And usually it worked.
Usually.
Cristiano glowered as his right foot slipped again. Damn.
But he wasn’t going to drop the wood. And he wasn’t going to quit. And he wasn’t going to focus on the hot sharp lancing pain that streaked through his legs now.
He’d just dumped the last load of wood by the hearth when his phone rang. Knocking bits of bark and moss off his hands, he took the call.
It was Mrs. Bishop. She’d called to say that they’d tried to drive Gabby back but the car had slid off the road, spinning out into the field. No one was hurt but there was no way to get Gabby back, at least not with their car. As Mrs. Bishop talked, Cristiano went to the front door to check his rented Mercedes. Snow was piled a good foot high on the hood. Looking past the Mercedes he saw the entire lane was covered, no sign of road or field, fence or wall. Everything was just white, powdered white.
“I can try to drive down there,” he said. “My rental car doesn’t have four-wheel drive, but it might be okay.”
“It might be okay,” Mrs. Bishop answered anxiously, “but it might not be. Gilbert, my son-in-law, is already shaken up. Maybe it’s best if Gabby just stayed here tonight, and then tomorrow we can see if one of the farmers will help us tow Gilbert’s car out of the field and maybe plow the road.”
Cristiano caught sight of Samantha from the corner of his eye. She must have heard the phone ring and she’d been following the conversation. “What’s wrong?” she whispered. “Is Gabby all right?”
He nodded before finishing the call. “Then keep her there tonight, Mrs. Bishop, no reason to take any more risks. Tell your son-in-law I’ll pay for his car to be towed, and do give us a call in the morning once everyone’s up.”
Hanging up, he turned to face Sam who hovered in the background. “The roads aren’t drivable. Mrs. Bishop’s son-in-law tried to bring Gabby home but lost control and ended up in a field or a ditch—I’m not sure which.”
“Is Gabby okay?”
“Yes, but she is going to stay at the Bishops’ tonight.”
Sam nodded and blushed all at the same time. She’d counted on Gabby returning. But Gabby wouldn’t be back tonight. Instead it would just be her and Cristiano.
Alone.
In a small cottage.
Far from neighbors.
With no electricity and no music, television or diversion.
What in God’s name were they going to do for the next twelve hours?
CHAPTER SEVEN
DINNER was a simple toasted cheese sandwich served with bowls of tinned tomato soup. Not a glamorous meal but it met the need for warm food and drink.
They ate in front of the fire in the sitting room because it was the warmest spot in the cottage. Once finished, Sam stood to carry their plates and bowls to the kitchen, but as she reached for Cristiano’s dishes, his eyes met hers, his gaze boring into her, the hazel-green depths warm and flecked with gold. “Leave the dishes,” he said. “I’ll do them later.”
“That’s okay. I don’t mind.”
; “I do. Leave them.”
Nervously Sam stacked the dishes in the sink before running her hands down the front of her dark gray slacks, her palms damp.
The cottage was so small. There was nowhere to go. And the bedrooms, even if she wanted to hide in there, were too cold.
But the idea of returning to Cristiano, to sitting with him near the fire filled her with dread.
He made her so jumpy. Just being near him her heart raced, her pulse pounded. She felt hot and cold at the same time, jittery, scared, uneasy.
Why was she so afraid of him?
Why did everything in her scream for her to run? Was it survival instinct? Common sense?
Glancing out the window yet again, Sam felt discouraged by the snow still falling. “We’re stuck,” she said, returning to the sitting room.
Cristiano made a rough sound. “You’ll survive.”
Sam grimaced, sat down in one of the armchairs near the fire. “I know. Unfortunately so will you.”
Cristiano surprised her by laughing, a rough deep sound that was as masculine as it was seductive. “You’re really not comfortable with me, are you?”
“No!”
“Finally,” he mocked, leaning back in his chair. “We get a little honesty.”
“I haven’t been dishonest.”
He made a soft, rough sound in the back of his throat. “No. I understand. You’re English, and you’ve cultivated through years of practice and self-denial this wonderful British stiff upper lip to keep others from knowing what you want, or need.”
“That’s not true. The only thing I want or need is Gabby, and I’ve been quite open about my feelings with regards to her.”
He studied her in the red and gold firelight, his lashes lowered, his mouth firm. For a moment there was just the crackle and pop of the fire and the acrid smell of smoke. “Someday you’ll marry again,” he said surprisingly gentle. “You’ll have children, and a family, of your own.”
If he’d hoped to soothe her, his words had the opposite effect. Her throat, chest and stomach hurt as if she’d just chewed and swallowed glass. “I won’t,” she answered. “I’ll never marry again. And I don’t want children of my own.”
