by Cheryl Holt
Had Valois learned what had happened to Bryce? Bryce, himself, wasn’t too clear. He’d been riding down a street, headed for the docks to leave Cairo, but disaster had struck. Was Valois looking for Bryce? Was anyone aware that Bryce was missing? Or would Valois assume he’d perished?
Why search for a dead man?
Mostly he reminisced about Kat Webster. Where was she? How was she? He didn’t spend a single second pondering Princess Morovsky. No, he reflected on the Kat he’d known and loved for such a brief interlude. He reflected on the lonely woman who’d been trying to protect her siblings from her horrid family.
Occasionally during his tormented dreams, he’d fantasize about the wedding they might have had. He pictured them in the cathedral in London, his sister, brothers, and friends applauding as the organ blared.
He pictured them at Radcliffe Castle, with Bryce as earl and Kat his countess. He liked to envision himself traveling the Scottish countryside, meeting the tenants, proving that he was Julian Blair’s son, that he belonged at Radcliffe.
In his mind, it was such an idyllic portrait, and it supplied enormous succor when he was rambling and delirious. Did Kat ever wish she’d made a different choice? Did she ever think of him?
He scoffed. Of course she didn’t ever think of him. Everyone in the world made choices, and she’d made hers. It hadn’t included him.
He snorted with disgust, the tiny move tightening the noose, jerking him to reality. The bidding had just ended on a group of females who appeared to be a trio of sisters. They were urged off the dais, sticks slapping to hurry them away.
Then it was Bryce’s turn.
The noose was tugged away, but not the chains. An auctioneer called out to the crowd, but he spoke in a language Bryce didn’t understand. He wasn’t exactly sure what was being said, but he figured his strong torso and large physique were mentioned.
A slaver circled Bryce, poking at him with a cane as if he was a bear at a baiting. Each jab on his hot, fevered skin was like a lightning bolt striking his temper, and it dawned on him he might not survive until morning.
He grew angrier and angrier, and his fury must have been evident to the spectators. They were whispering, shaking their heads, and fleetingly he wondered—if no one bought him—would he be killed when the auction was over?
He hoped so. He really and truly could not continue. It would be such a blessing to close his eyes and never open them again.
The auctioneer uttered a remark that had people snickering, and the slaver prodded Bryce’s genitals so they must have been discussing another sort of ability. Would they mate him with slave women? Would he be purchased as a stud for someone’s slave stables?
A man stepped forward and entered the bidding, and from his clothes and mannerisms, it was clear he had designs on Bryce that were perverted in nature. Two others, who also looked debauched, started driving up the price.
A woman began to bid, and she seemed determined to acquire him. The cost went up and up, but since Bryce didn’t know the language, he couldn’t guess how much was being offered. He yanked on the chains, straining, trying to break free. The crowd gestured and shouted as if they were at a zoo and the lion about to jump the fence.
The slaver beat him, and several others rushed over to join in. They whipped and yelled, people throwing objects. At some point, he was knocked out, and what transpired after that he couldn’t imagine.
When he awoke, he was on a boat again, but not in the hull with the rats. He was lying on a bed, on a feather mattress with crisp, clean sheets that had a lovely scent he’d never smelled prior. He was floating in a white beam of sunshine, and everything was bright white: the air, the blankets, the walls and rugs and curtains. Out the window, he could see he was on a river, but he had no idea which river it might be. It too was white, as was the foliage on the white banks.
It was very quiet, very peaceful, and he was so content. Was he in Heaven? Had he died? If so, it was safe, calm, and beautiful. He recalled that his body had been wrecked by much brutal battering, but he felt no pain. He felt nothing at all except an abiding happiness.
He glanced over, and his father was sitting in a chair, silently observing Bryce. He was dressed in tan trousers and a flowing white shirt, knee-high black boots, a jaunty red kerchief tied around his throat. He was young, handsome, physically commanding. His black hair was pulled into a ponytail, his blue, blue eyes studying Bryce, missing no detail.
“There you are,” his father said. “I was hoping you’d rouse before I had to go.”
“Am I dead?”
“No, it’s not time yet. Not for many, many years.”
“Where am I?” Bryce asked. “How did I get here?”
His father didn’t answer, and he seemed to be fading away, his form not as distinct as it had been.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t be with you when you were a boy,” his father said, “but I always watched over you as best I could.”
“I know.”
“I’ll keep watching over you. Don’t ever be afraid.”
His shape was becoming fainter by the second, and Bryce panicked. “Don’t leave.”
“I have to. I can’t stay.”
“Take me with you,” Bryce begged, wanting to be with his father forever, to walk off with him into the serene white light.
“You can’t come.” His father’s smile was kind, reassuring. “You still have an important task to complete.”
“What is it? What must I do?”
“Tell your mother I’m waiting for her on the other side. I’ll be the first one to greet her when she arrives.”
Then he vanished, and Bryce drifted off. As he revived, his mother was there, tending him. She was leaned over him, swabbing his face with a cool cloth.
“Mother?” he gasped.
“Yes, Bryce.”
“Father was here.”
“I know.”
“Where have you been?”
“In Australia, you silly boy.”
“Are you alive? Am I? Are we in Heaven?”
“No.”
“Father is waiting for you there.”
“I know,” she said again.
“Am I dying?” he asked. “Do you think I will?”
“Not if I can help it. Rest now. Don’t talk. Just rest.”
He smelled her perfume, the delicious scent of roses filling the air as he drifted off yet again. He suffered in fevered dreams, seeing deceased relatives and friends, seeing strange and frightening sights. Often he was hovering outside his body, trying to join his father in the light, but something kept pulling him back.
Kat…
The name slithered by.
When he opened his eyes, his head was pounding, his throat parched. He moved his arm the slightest inch, and he groaned with pain, agony shooting through his whole torso down to the smallest pore.
So…he wasn’t in Heaven anymore. He wasn’t hovering between Heaven and Earth. He was alive and injured and ill. But…he sensed he was better than he had been, that he’d turned a corner or had stumbled out of a very dark forest.
He was in a different bed, the white light gone, the white décor replaced with very typical Cairo cottons and silks. He glanced over, yearning with all his heart for his father to still be there, but instead Valois was sitting in the chair.
“Hello, my friend.” Valois’s crisp French accent was a welcome sound.
“Where am I?” Bryce inquired.
“In my villa. Where would you suppose?”
“How did that happen?”
“My men and I rescued you, with some fine assistance from Mr. Hubbard.”
Bryce scowled, struggling in a weary fog to recollect what had occurred. “I was sold as a slave.”
“Yes.” Valois grinned. “I own you now. You cost me an exorbitant price too, but I’m happy to sign papers setting you free. You won’t have to work as my houseboy.”
Chase suddenly appeared, and he took Bryce’s hand in his own.
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“You scared the devil out of us,” Chase said.
“Why?”
“Because we thought you’d passed away a half-dozen times.”
“I always told you I’m too tough to die.”
“Well, you didn’t have to stroll out to the edge of mortality and prove it to me.”
Chase eased away, and Bryce gazed over at Valois again.
“Am I better? Will I survive?”
“My Moorish healer tells me your infections are mending and your fever vanquished. But you will be weak and tired for a very long while.”
Bryce frowned, a memory creeping in. “I have to do something important.”
Valois laughed. “Not for a bit, I’m afraid. You’ll be too frail for anything but rest and recuperation.”
Bryce was quiet, the short burst of conversation exhausting him. He dozed, and when he roused again, Chase was gone, but Valois was still there, seated in his chair, watching over Bryce like a devoted nanny.
“I saw my father,” Bryce said.
“When?”
“When I was ill.”
“Then you were close to death’s door indeed.”
“And my mother…” Bryce stopped, pondered. “Was she here? Was she nursing me?”
“No, but I have frequently smelled her perfume as I visited your sickroom.”
“I’ll live? You’re sure?”
“Very sure.”
Bryce slept and didn’t awaken again for days.
CHAPTER TWENTY
“It’s like something out of a fairytale.”
Evangeline sighed. She was on her horse outside Radcliffe Castle. It was a castle, a real castle with turrets and ivy and battlements.
Michael and Matthew were with her, mounted too, flanking her, letting her take the lead as they rode through the gates.
She’d tried to remain in England, to have the twins handle the situation. But once she heard about Susan Blair giving them a copy of her Last Will and Testament, it had been impossible to continue twiddling her thumbs in London.
Lady Susan was Evangeline’s aunt, and to Evangeline’s astonishment, Susan was bequeathing all her jewels to Evangeline. They were family pieces that should have ultimately belonged to Evangeline’s mother if she’d ever become countess.
Evangeline was extremely shocked by the gesture. The twins said their Aunt Susan was dying, that she was remorseful for her part in what had been done to Evangeline’s parents.
The twins were dubious about human nature, skeptical about human motives, so they weren’t the optimists Evangeline had grown up to be. They insisted Susan was a devout Catholic and terrified of being condemned to Hell. They saw her change of heart as a cheap and convenient ploy to worm her way through the Pearly Gates, and they were disgusted by it.
Evangeline didn’t care why Susan had finally declared her misdeeds. She was just glad it had transpired before the woman had taken her secrets to the grave.
“Shall we go in?” she asked her brothers.
“Absolutely,” they said in unison, and Michael added, “They’re expecting you. I don’t know that you’re welcome, but they were informed you’d be here.”
“Will we shout out parents’ names?” she inquired.
“We already have,” Matthew said, “but you can too if it makes you feel better.”
She kicked her horse into a trot and entered the yard. As she reined in, she didn’t shout the names but whispered, “My parents were Anne and Julian Blair. I have come to reclaim what was stolen from them.”
It was a juvenile announcement, but she grinned, delighted to have uttered it.
The twins were correct that she’d been expected. People rushed out to get a look at her, and they gawked as if she was visiting royalty. They nervously studied her, but she had a knack for putting others at ease.
She’d always been able to, and she’d learned lately that it was a trait inherited from her mother, who’d been dynamic and charismatic.
She smiled as if she was royalty, as if she was a princess arriving, and the crowd smiled in return, waved, curtsied, and doffed their caps. Boys dashed from the stable, tussling to tend her horse, to help her dismount. But her brothers dismounted first, and they assisted her.
They’d been in Scotland for over a month, telling everyone the tragic tale of Anne and Julian Blair. The locals had accepted the truth, and Susan Blair had publically confessed. Only George Blair was holding out, refusing to admit his sins and crimes, but Evangeline wasn’t surprised.
He’d wanted to be Earl of Radcliffe so badly that he’d likely committed murder so it would happen. A man that obsessed would never willingly relinquish what he’d pilfered. It would have to be pried from his greedy, cloying grasp.
Evangeline swept into the castle, and the servants were lined up on both sides of the hall. The butler and housekeeper introduced themselves, pointing out the other high level servants. Then the twins escorted her to the end where a woman waited. She was about Evangeline’s age, pretty and kind-looking.
“Greetings, Lady Run,” she said to Evangeline.
“Hello.” Evangeline smiled her most charming smile.
“I’m Katherine Blair. I believe we’re distant cousins.”
“Lovely,” Evangeline responded. “I’m always thrilled to stumble upon another member of my family.”
“Your Uncle George won’t meet with you, but your Aunt Susan has asked that I bring you to her at once.”
“I’m so glad she’s agreed to see me.”
“She was very gratified that you decided to make the trip.”
Katherine guided Evangeline to a winding staircase. They climbed quickly and quietly, with Evangeline trying to take in the details. There would be time later for a slower viewing, but the walls were covered with ancient tapestries, paintings of ancestors, and even a few sets of armor discreetly tucked into corners.
They walked down a hall and stopped at a closed door.
“She’s failing rapidly,” Katherine murmured, “and she tires easily.”
“I understand. Will she be awake, do you suppose?”
“Yes, she’s actually having one of her better days. She’s excited that you wanted to speak with her.”
They entered, tiptoeing, and the twins stayed outside, two stern, stoic sentries guarding her, keeping her uncle away while Evangeline talked to her aunt.
The room was dark, the windows shuttered, a candle burning on the table. Katherine led her over to the bed.
“Susan,” Katherine said, “Lady Run is here.” When she received no reply, she added, “It’s Anne’s daughter. She’s finally arrived.”
There was still no answer, and for a fraught moment, Evangeline worried the poor woman had died, but no, the blankets rose with her staggered breathing.
There were chairs by the bed, evidence of a lengthy vigil, and Katherine gestured to them. They sat, comfortable in each other’s company, and eventually Susan opened her eyes. She was skin and bone, most of her hair having fallen out. She’d once been affianced to Evangeline’s father, had once been a beauty, but there was no hint of beauty now.
“Katherine, how long was I asleep?”
“Not long.”
Susan noticed Evangeline, and she gasped. “I’m sorry, Anne. I’m so sorry. Will you lift the curse? Will you let me pass away in peace?”
Katherine reached over and patted Susan’s hand. “You’re confused, Susan. This isn’t Anne Blair. Anne is deceased, remember? This is her daughter, Evangeline Drake, Lady Run.”
Susan’s vision was cloudy, focused on Evangeline but peering right through her. “I was young and foolish, vain and proud. My father-in-law harmed you and your children, and I was silent during your entire ordeal. I shouldn’t have been silent! It was wrong of me.”
“Susan,” Katherine tried again. “This isn’t Anne. It’s her daughter.”
Evangeline pulled her chair nearer. “Aunt Susan, I’m Evangeline. I am your niece.”
Susan scow
led, assessed Evangeline. “You’re not…Anne? Are you sure?”
“I’m very sure.”
“You look just like her. There’s not a shred of difference.”
“I’ll take that as a great compliment.”
“She cursed me in London after her trial. She said none of my dreams would come true, and none of them have.”
Evangeline had no idea how to respond so she mumbled, “That’s too bad.”
“I planned to speak with her in Heaven, but I couldn’t find her.”
The comment made no sense, and Katherine whispered to Evangeline, “She floats in and out. She talks to people who aren’t really there.”
“I saw Julian—off in the distance,” Susan claimed. “I tried to catch him, to apologize, but he was moving too fast. Anne wasn’t with him. Is she still alive? Is she still here on Earth? George always insisted she was dead.”
“I don’t know if she’s alive, Aunt Susan,” Evangeline said. “I’m hoping she is. I’m searching for her.”
“If you see her, tell her she has to lift the curse. Please tell her!”
“I will.”
“Tell her I’m sorry and that I’ve confessed my sins.”
“I will,” Evangeline said again.
Susan seemed to deflate, and she relaxed. She was quiet, staring at nothing, observing sights Evangeline couldn’t imagine. Ultimately she turned and studied Evangeline very meticulously.
“I thought you were named after your mother. I thought your name was Anne too.”
“It was, but it was changed when I was little.”
“Were you all right when you were growing up? Were you warm? Did you have enough to eat? Were people kind to you?”
“People were very kind.” For the most part it was true. “I’m married now, Aunt, to a marvelous man.”
“Who is it?”
“Aaron Drake, of the Sidwell Drakes. His father is Lord Sidwell, and my husband is Viscount Run. Are you acquainted with them?”
“No, but you married very high.”
“Yes, I did.”
“You deserved to marry high.”
