by Brenda Joyce
Stephen stared at him, eyes wide.
“It is the past.”
Stephen turned and looked at his mother. “Why haven’t I met Sir Rex before?” he demanded.
Julia hesitated. “He spends a great deal of time on his estate in Cornwall. You are too young to attend the affairs of the ton.” She shrugged. “But I am glad this day has finally come.” And she sent Rex a smile.
Stephen turned back to Rex. “Clarewood has estates everywhere, but not a single one in Cornwall. I have never been to the south. What is it like?”
Rex inhaled. This was an opportunity and he meant to seize it. “Stark, desolate—and very majestic.”
Stephen’s eyes widened. “I am going to read about Cornwall,” he said flatly.
Rex didn’t hesitate. “The most beautiful time of the year is July when the heather and gorse bloom. Your mother can bring you for a visit, if you wish. We can hack the moors. There are many hedges for jumping.”
Stephen suddenly smiled, and a small boy’s enthusiasm flickered on his face and in his blue eyes. “You ride astride?”
“Yes,” Rex said softly.
Stephen turned to Julia. Rex knew he was trying to be calm, but he heard the tremor of excitement in his tone. “Mother? I would like to go. I have been to France and Holland, Germany, Portugal and Spain, Scotland and even Ireland, but I have not been to Cornwall!”
Julia briefly glanced at Rex. “I am sure it can be arranged.”
“SIR REX IS IN the family room, Lady Harrington,” the de Warenne butler said.
Blanche trembled. She had to somehow face Sir Rex, but after what he had seen, she was ready to turn tail and flee. Her cheeks burned with embarrassment already, yet she lifted her chin. Breathing shallowly, dreading the look in his eyes when he saw her, she followed the servant through the foyer and into the hall.
She heard small children giggling and speaking in childish tones. The door to the green salon was open, and as the butler paused there, Blanche could see inside. Her heart slammed.
Sir Rex sat on the couch, two small boys by his leg, one fair, one dark, playing with toy soldiers and horses on the floor. A pretty honey-haired girl of eight or nine sat by him, so absorbed in the thick book she was reading, she did not look up. Another boy, a year or so younger, sat on Sir Rex’s other side, and he was the golden image of his father, Devlin O’Neill. He was saying something to Sir Rex and his uncle was listening so carefully that it made Blanche’s heart break. He was going to be a wonderful father. She saw from his expression that he adored being among his nieces and nephews.
“Is it true?” The golden boy was asking eagerly.
“Yes.” Sir Rex said to the younger boys on the floor, “Rogan and Chaz! If you fight over the toys, I am taking them away from you. They are to be shared. You are cousins, not rivals.”
The blond boy thumped his fists on the floor, irate. The dark boy grinned triumphantly at him. Blanche decided the first boy was Eleanor’s son, Rogan, the dark one, Chaz, Tyrell’s. The golden boy sitting next to Sir Rex said, “Then can’t you stay with us this time, at Askeaton?”
Sir Rex tousled the boy’s shoulder-length hair. “I will make a point of it, Jack. You are right. I haven’t spent enough time at your father’s.”
Jack beamed, delighted. He so clearly adored his uncle.
Blanche trembled, now noticing two women sitting by the fire. Amanda and Lizzie were rising to their feet, obviously surprised by her presence but smiling warmly, too. Cliff’s wife had matured into a very elegant young lady, Blanche realized with a pang. Recalling their love story made her want to weep for what she would never have.
The terrace doors opened and Cliff de Warenne strode inside, spurs jangling, holding two boys, each by the elbow. He was flushed with annoyance, while the boys were flushed from their mischievous behavior and trying to appear chagrined. “They have been targeting our neighbors with their slingshots,” Cliff announced. “Alexi actually struck Lady Barrow in an unmentionable place. That is, they were also trespassing on Barrow’s grounds. Ned was about to fire a shot at her daughter.”
“It was an accident,” Alexi began.
“It was Alexi’s idea,” Ned said grimly.
Such beautiful children, Blanche thought, and only half the cousins were present. Cliff faltered, espying Blanche in the doorway. She continued to stand hesitantly behind the butler, trying to find some composure. His son fell silent, as did his cousin, both boys aware they were now off the hook due to the presence of a guest.
Blanche somehow smiled at Captain de Warenne, Lizzie and Amanda. Then, trembling, she turned her gaze on Sir Rex. He was standing and staring at her as if she were a ghost.
“Sir Rex, Lady Harrington has called,” the servant said.
“Thank you,” Sir Rex said, his gaze unwavering upon her.
Blanche tried to breathe. She couldn’t look away from his dark, searching gaze, her cheeks burning as her sense of shame and humiliation escalated. Surely he thought her a loon now, too. But to her surprise, she saw only kindness and concern in his eyes. Where was the scorn she had been so certain she would receive?
The salon felt off-kilter, the floor seemed to tilt, and she was so afraid everything would spin and she would be whirled away into the past in front of everyone in the room.
Sir Rex hurried to her, taking her arm as if to steady her—as if he knew her balance was precious and fragile, at best. “Lady Harrington,” he said softly, their gazes locking. “This is a pleasant surprise. Come inside and sit down.”
Blanche could not understand why he wasn’t looking at her as if she had the plague. She could not imagine why he touched her without recoiling. She managed to smile as the women hurried over. “Amanda, I am so pleased to see you again,” Blanche said, meaning it in spite of her distraction.
The slender blond woman hugged her hard and earnestly. “I had hoped we would see one another,” she exclaimed. She glanced at her husband, sending him a message Blanche did not even wish to try to decipher. “Cliff, why don’t you take Alexi and Ned upstairs? Maybe a few hours spent separately in their rooms will make them realize they cannot terrorize the poor Barrows. I will help Lizzie with the rest of the children as it is time for the boys’ naps, and Ariella, it is time for your French lesson.”
Ariella slid to her feet, holding her book, looking bemused. “I already had my French lesson,” she said.
“You are having another one,” Cliff said swiftly, “and Jack is joining you.”
The golden-haired boy who had been seated with Sir Rex looked shocked. He began to protest. Blanche felt as if she were in a whirlwind, for as Lizzie hugged her and whispered, “Thank God you have come,” the salon emptied, every adult and child vanishing, until she was impossibly alone with Sir Rex.
Blanche somehow looked up into his hazel eyes again. He still held her arm and his gaze was so direct and searching she had the urge to move into his arms and weep against his chest for everything and everyone, her father, her mother, their love, her broken heart, their child and herself.
“Come sit down,” he said softly, guiding her to the sofa.
“Thank you,” Blanche whispered, sitting. She watched him rapidly cross to the door and close it, turning back to her. Her heart flipped over hard. He was so handsome; she had forgotten just how attractive he was. But it was more than that. She was adrift in the Cornish sea, and he was a towering rock, that solid place she could cling to, an anchor to keep her safe.
He limped over to her and sat down. “How are you today?”
Blanche flushed and looked away. “Well enough.”
He shocked her by touching her under the chin and lifting her face so she had to meet his gaze. And his touch did the unthinkable—her heart raced and her skin hummed with pleasure, reminding her of the passion they had shared. His gaze flickered and he dropped his hand. “Do not dissemble with me.”
She tensed, avoiding his gaze again. Did he wish for some kind of intimate confession o
f madness? “I am fine…today, Sir Rex.”
“You seem distressed.”
She stared at her lap. “I want to thank you for your kindness yesterday.”
“Don’t.”
She jerked, her gaze flying helplessly to his.
“Kindness had nothing to do with anything. You are ill. I care,” he said bluntly.
She cringed. “I wish you had never seen that!”
He took both of her hands, stunning her. “I want to help you, Blanche.”
She inhaled in disbelief. “How can you think to help me when I jilted you?”
“Because it is what I wish to do. Besides, I understand more, now.”
She tore her hands free, flaming. He understood that she was a madwoman. But at least he would not condescend to revulsion and scorn.
“Can you tell me what is happening?” he asked quietly, after a pause.
Blanche closed her eyes. She was close to confiding everything, she thought, because she so desperately needed his strength. Instead, she looked up. “I have come here today for a reason.”
His brow furrowed. “I cannot fathom what that reason might be.”
She couldn’t smile. “I believe I am with child.”
He stiffened, surprise crossing his face, but he was not shocked.
Blanche wet her lips but couldn’t speak now. When she left Harmon House, it would be the beginning of the end for her as a mother. It hurt more than everything else she had previously experienced.
“I had wondered. I must ask.” His tone was harsh. “Do you know if the child is mine?”
She started. And then she realized he thought she had had an affair, or affairs, with other men. “There has been no one else.”
He breathed harshly, his gaze fierce, and he nodded. “I am glad.”
She could not begin to understand what he meant. And then he took her hands again. “We have a great deal to discuss. And you must see a doctor, Blanche.”
She fought for courage and found it. “I am going to my estate in Kent. I will have the babe there. And then—” she swallowed and felt tears sliding down her face “—I should like you to take our child and raise her or him.”
His eyes widened. He was stunned.
Blanche could not look away. “Obviously,” she whispered desperately, “I cannot mother this child. But you will be a wonderful father. Our child needs you, Sir Rex.”
His stare remained huge. “No.”
“What?”
“I am not forsaking you, the mother of my child. I would never do such a thing. I will take care of you and our child. There is no other choice, no other decision to make,” he exclaimed passionately.
Blanche was stunned. Didn’t he comprehend the truth? “You saw,” she said, her voice low, “what happened the other day. You know…what I am. I can’t burden you…it isn’t right. But I thank you. Just promise me, you will give our child every benefit you can.”
His chest rose and fell. “We will find a cure for what ails you. I will marry you, and our child will have both a mother and a father,” he said forcefully.
Blanche was in shock. She could not speak.
“And please, do not try to argue with me!”
She began to comprehend what he had said, what he meant, what he intended. “You want to marry me?” she asked in disbelief.
“Yes, I do, immediately. In fact, considering your condition, we should elope within the week.” His gaze was hard and fierce, holding hers.
Blanche reeled, but not because she was on the verge of a fit. “I am mad. How can you seek a mad wife, and worse, a mad mother for your child?”
He grasped her shoulders. “You are not insane. I will never believe that. I will help you through this period of illness. Blanche, that is my oath to you.”
She shook her head. “And if this period never ends? You will rue the day you insisted on marriage—you will rue this day!”
“I cannot forsake you. I will not forsake you. No matter what,” he said grimly. His grasp on her shoulders eased fractionally. “What kind of man forsakes the mother of his child?”
And relief began. She should not be relieved; she should protest. Sir Rex deserved more! But Blanche could not restrain herself. Relief overwhelmed her, for she had been so terribly alone for so long. She moved closer to Sir Rex, and he cupped the back of her head, pressing her face to his chest. Blanche sobbed softly against the hard wall of his body, and as his arms closed around her, she wondered if there might be some hope for just a little happiness now.
He stroked her head, her hair. “I wish to discuss your illness.”
She shook her head.
“Please.”
Blanche had stopped crying. She remained in Sir Rex’s embrace, her cheek to his fine cotton shirt, aware of the slow but strong beat of his heart. She wished such a moment might last forever. She slowly sat up and met his unflinching, concerned gaze.
He was a tower of strength. She needed him, now. And if she dared to agree to become his wife, then he needed to know the entire truth, as painful as a revelation would be.
And he clearly sensed her capitulation, because he smiled a little at her and laid his finger against her cheek, stroking it there. The caress caused a flurry of excitement to fill her, when she had no right to such feelings, not now. “I want to marry you, ill or not,” he said softly. “Have you not heard the phrase, through sickness and in health?”
“Of course I have.” She smiled and was stunned by the feeling a genuine smile engendered. And she did begin to thrill. “You are the most honorable man I have ever met.”
He shrugged. “Tell me.”
“I have been recalling the day of the riot.”
He started.
She wet her lips. “If I talk about it, I may have a fit.”
He cupped her cheek. “And I will be here to hold you.”
Blanche had never felt so much trust for anyone. “It is more than memories. I have been reliving the past, so much so that I feel I am in the past, in that riot. And when that happens, I have no connection to the present.”
His gaze widened. “Go on.”
“The mob was violent. They carried knives, pikes and pitchforks.” She tensed, recalling the men as they swarmed the Harrington coach, recalling her fear and her mother’s pinched, white face. Her temples throbbed; she feared a spiraling descent into the past now. She whispered, “They accosted our carriage, cut the horse loose, beat it to death. They dragged Mama out—and then me.” Sir Rex grasped her hand. “Mama screamed and screamed, but I couldn’t see her—they murdered her.” The aching intensified, but not in her temples, in her chest. She looked into Sir Rex’s steady gaze. He was anguished, but he did not move away. Blanche realized she was clinging to his hand as if it were a lifeline. It felt as if it had become one.
“Her screams were screams of terror—and pain. They stabbed her to death, Sir Rex. With knives and pitchforks.”
“My God.”
“And the screams stopped.” Blanche stared at their locked hands through blurred vision. Knives were going through her heart now. “I escaped the monster that held me and crawled through the mob to her. I will never forget how she looked.” She had been a bloody mangled mess. Blanche looked up, waiting for the room to tilt and spin.
Instead, she found herself in Sir Rex’s powerful embrace. He whispered, “I understand,” which confused her, because he couldn’t possibly understand. She closed her eyes, breathing in his scent, relishing his muscular strength, fighting the dizziness, the bloody images. A knife stabbed through her temples and Blanche felt the room spinning at last. She tensed, awaiting her mother’s screams.
“Don’t leave me.”
Blanche jerked, eyes opening, looking up. Sir Rex’s dark gaze held hers and he smiled grimly at her. “I have to tell you something.”
The knives slid out of her skull. The memory of Mama’s mangled body receded, but it did not vanish. What could he possibly say? she wondered.
H
e smiled again, caressing her face. “When I came back from the war, I would awake in the middle of the night—or the day—and I would be clawing bloody dirt, lying on a hard plain in the burning Spanish sun. Men were screaming in pain, sabers were ringing and cannons boomed. I could smell the gunpowder, charred flesh, blood, death.”
Blanche sat up straighter. “What?”
“And then suddenly I’d realize I was in my bed, or on the sofa. I was in Harmon House—or Bodenick—not Spain.”
Blanche was astonished.
“It was so real,” he said thickly. “A few times, I would be having a conversation, with my brothers, or with a servant—and everyone would vanish. I’d be back on that battlefield, lying there wounded, my leg blasted apart, hearing the men, the battle, smelling it, feverish and thirsty. And then I’d be standing in a salon again, realizing I wasn’t still in the war and that I was having a terrible memory, but one as real as a dream.”
Blanche began to tremble wildly. “What happened? Do you still have these dreamlike memories?”
“No. They lasted six months, maybe a year. Day by day, they occurred less frequently, until it was once a week, once a month, and then not at all.”
Blanche cried out. “What are you trying to say?”
“Blanche, I am not the only one. Many soldiers have suffered with ‘fits,’ if you will, after the war. I have friends who had the same fits I had. I know other soldiers who never were afflicted, but we all know some of us suffered so badly in the war, we brought those memories home with us. The war was violent and traumatic. That riot was as violent and as traumatic as any battle. I now believe your illness is the same condition I suffered and that other soldiers have suffered, as well.”
Blanche whispered, still stunned, “But my fits are worse—and more frequent.”
Rex stared at her. “The first time this happened to me, I was shocked and afraid. And these ‘fits’ started occurring frequently. But then, as my life returned back to normal, they tapered off. Bess said this all began at Land’s End. That is very recently, considering the riot was over twenty years ago.” He touched her face again reassuringly.
