His Wicked Embrace

by Adrienne Basso

  “It’s a girl!” Isabella cried out in jubilation. The babe gave a tiny wail of indignation that soon grew in strength and volume. “She is tiny, but she appears healthy.”

  “Her vocal cords are certainly in working order,” Damien commented as he craned his neck for a glimpse of the baby.

  With a soft, clean sheet, Isabella tenderly began cleaning the infant’s body. The baby was red and wrinkled, and to Isabella’s eyes utterly beautiful. Tears ran unchecked down her cheeks as the baby squalled loudly with indignation. What a wonderful noise! Then she stopped suddenly in the middle of her ministrations and called to Damien in alarm.

  “Good Lord, she is still attached to her mother!” Isabella exclaimed in fear. She lifted the baby so Damien could see the birth cord from the infant’s stomach trailing down to the bed and ending somewhere under the thin sheet that covered Maggie’s legs. “What should I do?”

  “You need sever the cord, my little midwife,” Damien teased with a grin of relief. Isabella held the squirming infant gingerly while Damien located the knife Fran had left for that very purpose. He brought it to the bed, deftly tied off the cord and returned the baby to an astonished Isabella.

  Impressed, Isabella finished bathing the infant and wrapped her in a dry blanket. Eagerly she approached the bed and laid the precious bundle in the curve of Maggie’s arm. The maid’s eyes instantly filled with tears and she tried to speak, but her numbed throat would not cooperate.

  “I’ll go and summon Fred,” Damien said. Clearly startled, Maggie turned her head at the sound of the earl’s deep voice.

  “Lord Saunders?” Maggie croaked in puzzlement.

  “Is going to get your husband,” Isabella stated in a soothing tone. Isabella walked Damien to the door. “I don’t think she was even aware of your presence during the birth.”

  “ ’Tis no wonder, with all that she suffered,” Damien replied with sympathy. He shuddered slightly with the memory. “She has safely delivered her child and the afterbirth. If no fever develops, I believe she will be fine.”

  “Thank the Lord for that,” Isabella replied, rapidly whispering a small prayer of thanks.

  Fred appeared suddenly on the landing, his eyes alight with hope. “I thought I heard the babe cry,” he began wistfully.

  “So you did, Fred,” Damien exclaimed cheerfully. “Congratulations. You have a daughter.”

  “A daughter,” Fred repeated, clearly awestruck. “And Maggie. How is Maggie, Miss Browning?”

  “Exhausted,” Isabella replied with a smile. “But I know she wants to see you. Go inside.”

  Needing no further encouragement, Fred bolted inside the bedchamber, anxious to see his family. Isabella’s throat tightened. How wonderful to be so loved and share such a special moment of joy with the man you adored.

  “You’re not going to fall to pieces on me now, are you, Isabella?” Damien chided gently. “Not after it is all over.”

  Embarrassed, Isabella averted her face from his contemplative gaze. She knew it was foolish to become embarrassed at this point, but she felt an odd closeness toward Damien. They had shared such an unusual, overwhelming experience. In a very real and strange sense, it was almost as if they had been the ones responsible for bringing this precious new life into the world, not Maggie and Fred.

  “It was such an emotional ordeal,” Isabella whispered in wonder. “So miraculous. So terrifying. I shudder to think how I would have managed without your help, Damien. I knew nothing of the birth cord or the afterbirth. If not for your assistance, the child might not have been safely delivered.”

  “It certainly was a humbling experience,” Damien admitted.

  They descended to the second landing in silence. Fran waited below, her face strained with worry.

  “Maggie has a beautiful daughter,” Isabella told her quietly. Breaking into a wide grin, the maid left quickly to alert the rest of the household.

  “Now that Maggie is safely delivered of her child, Damien, it is time for us to have our discussion.” Isabella turned to-him, her expression frankly curious. “You have promised me an explanation of what you were doing in my room this evening.”

  The earl faced Isabella squarely. “Maggie was in labor and needed your help,” he said with an innocent expression. “I knocked on your bedchamber door, and when you did not answer, I entered your room. I’m sorry if I startled you.”

  Isabella pursed her lips. “When I awoke you were ... kissing me.”

  “Did you find it repulsive?”

  “Of course not, but—”

  “Father! Father! Have you heard the news? Fran just told us Maggie has a new baby.”

  Ian interrupted their conversation with a loud shout of excitement.

  “It’s a girl,” Catherine added with breathless delight. The two children raced up the stairs to meet the earl and Isabella. “We haven’t seen the baby yet, but we heard her crying. It sounded just like a kitten, didn’t it, Ian?”

  Ian nodded enthusiastically. “Fran said she would let us see Maggie and the new baby after they rested. Will you come with us, Father?”

  “What in the world are you two doing up?” the earl asked in astonishment, ignoring his son’s question.

  “It’s already past nine o’clock,” Ian explained patiently. “We’ve been up for ages. Mrs. Amberly is still in her bed, snoring ever so loudly, so Jenkins gave us our breakfast. We had cake.”

  “Cake? For breakfast?” Isabella coughed slightly to mask her giggle. “It sounds as though you have had a most exciting morning.”

  “Indeed,” the earl muttered. He glanced over at Isabella and smiled warmly. “I definitely need a strong cup of coffee. Children, I think you should accompany me down to the kitchen. I’m sure I can locate something more substantial than cake for us to eat.”

  “An excellent suggestion, sir,” Isabella piped up, including herself in the invitation. “I find that I am suddenly famished.”

  The earl managed to disappear as soon as breakfast was finished. Mrs. Amberly arose from her bed in time to cook an uninspired lunch for the excited household. The housekeeper’s surly temperament, along with her aching tooth, did not improve as the day progressed. Isabella was vastly relieved when Mrs. Amberly took Jenkins’s advice and retired to her room directly after luncheon.

  “I don’t believe Mrs. Amberly is up to cooking dinner this evening,” Jenkins confided to Isabella as they sat alone together in the kitchen, sharing a cup of tea. The earl was still out attending to estate matters, despite the constant rain, and the children were upstairs with Maggie and her baby. “I hope the maids and I will be able to provide something adequate for dinner.”

  “Of course, if all else fails, we can always have cake for dinner, Mr. Jenkins.” The corners of Isabella’s mouth curled up in a teasing smile.

  “Don’t be so quick to dismiss the notion of cake,” Jenkins retorted with good humor. “Maggie is the only one of the four maids who possesses any culinary skills, and she is in no condition to do any cooking. Fran’s idea of preparing a meal involves boiling everything until the last ounce of flavor and texture is gone, and Molly can only cook eggs and fry bread. If memory serves me correctly, Penny doesn’t even know how to light the stove.”

  “In that case, I should like to offer my services,” Isabella volunteered.

  “You can cook, Miss Browning?”

  “I am far from a French chef, but I’ll wager I can produce something more flavorful than a boiled dinner.” Leaning towards the valet, she wryly added, “I dare say, I might even be able to improve on the swill Mrs. Amberly usually serves us.”

  “That hardly takes talent, Miss Browning.”

  “True, Mr. Jenkins.” Isabella laughed. “I will rummage through the pantry and see what supplies are available. I suppose we can send someone to one of the nearby tenant farms if there isn’t any fresh meat or vegetables.”

  “Let me know what is needed,” Jenkins said. “I will see to it.”

  Isabe
lla began prowling around the kitchen to see what fresh food was on hand, feeling enthusiastic over the challenge of cooking a meal for the entire household. Pleased with the variety and quality of food she discovered, Isabella planned a dinner menu based on the recipes she could remember.

  “After you have finished your tea, Mr. Jenkins, would you please go find Ian and Catherine? I suspect they will be on the third floor, pestering Maggie and the baby. There will be no time for lessons this afternoon, but I’ll find something to keep the children busy. Maggie and the baby need their rest.”

  Isabella mixed a stiff ginger cookie dough, and when the children joined her in the kitchen, she taught them how to roll and cut out cookies. They were intrigued with the entire process and spent several joyful hours at the task, although they ate more dough than they rolled.

  Inspired by the variety of food she found, Isabella settled on a rather ambitious menu. Vegetable soup to start, followed by fillets of fish poached in white wine, roast beef with fried potatoes, and fresh greens. For dessert there was a luscious honey-wine pear tart that had been a specialty of Isabella’s childhood cook, to be served along with Catherine and Ian’s unusually shaped ginger cookies.

  The kitchen soon filled with mouthwatering aromas. Fran and Molly drifted in to investigate, and Isabella immediately set them to work chopping vegetables while she delicately worked the pastry for the tart.

  Though it entailed a great deal of hard work, Isabella enjoyed her day in the kitchen. Working in compatible ease with the children and the maids, she experienced the warm sense of family that had long since been missing from her life. And she gleefully anticipated Damien’s pleasure at her culinary efforts. Deep in her heart, Isabella admitted that the need to prove herself worthy in Damien’s eyes was strong, even in such a menial task as cooking.

  The excitement mounted as the dinner hour approached. After ascertaining that all was under control, Isabella slipped away for a quick bath to remove the smells of the kitchen from her skin. Freshly bathed and dressed, she waited for the earl to return, hoping he wouldn’t be too late to appreciate the sumptuous meal.

  When the clock struck the hour, Isabella realized she could wait no longer for the earl to arrive. Reluctantly, she served the children their soup before going in search of Jenkins. She encountered the valet in the foyer, a open bottle of brandy in his hands.

  “I have already begun the meal,” Isabella reported with dismay. “Will the earl be returning home soon, Mr. Jenkins?”

  “The earl is at home, Miss Browning,” the valet replied with guarded eyes. “He is in his bedchamber.”

  “Go tell him that dinner is ready,” Isabella insisted, not bothering to hide her delight. “I shall expect him in the dining room in five minuets.”

  “I don’t belive the earl will be joining the family for dinner this evening,” Jenkins replied with regret in his eyes.

  Isabella was instantly suspicious. “Why not? Is something wrong?”

  “I am not certain.” The valet hesitated for a moment. “The earl was in a fine mood when he returned late this afternoon, but after reading today’s post he became livid. He has ensconced himself in his bedchamber with a bottle of brandy and only emerged long enough to demand a second bottle.”

  Jenkins’s voice dropped to a mere whisper. “I must confess, Miss Browning. I am worried.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  “I’ll go to him,” Isabella decided. She glanced ruefully down at the brandy bottle in Jenkins’s hands, hesitated, then finally pulled the bottle into her arms.

  She strode purposefully through the hallway and up the staircase, pausing a moment before the closed doors of the earl’s bedchamber. She raised her hand to knock, but changed her mind and instead turned the latch. Shoulders squared, Isabella marched in the room, intentionally closing the door with a loud bang.

  “Where is Jenkins?”

  Isabella halted abruptly at the sound of Damien’s deep voice. With slightly less confidence, she approached the earl. He was sprawled in a leather wing chair, his muddy boots carelessly propped on the low mahogany table before him. His discarded riding coat lay on the floor near the roaring fire, and his fine linen shirt was undone halfway down his chest.

  Despite his languid pose, he looked powerful and dangerous, like a wild beast ready to attack its unsuspecting prey. Isabella’s heart thudded erratically as she stared at him, mesmerized by the raw, masculine emotions she sensed within him.

  Face expressionless, his steely gray eyes impenetrable, Damien repeated his question. “Where is Jenkins?”

  With difficulty, Isabella dragged her eyes away from his bronzed, muscular chest.

  “Mr. Jenkins is in the dining room with the rest of the household eating his dinner.” She gave him an exasperated glare. “Which is where you belong. I spent the better part of the day preparing supper. I hope you will at least do me the courtesy of eating some of it.”

  Damien turned his head and gave Isabella an irritated stare. He mockingly lifted the half-finished glass of brandy toward her in a light salute before bringing it to his lips. Downing the contents in two swallows, he flung out his arm and presented Isabella the empty goblet.

  “Would you be so kind as to replenish my glass before you leave?”

  Isabella’s eyes narrowed. “You drink too much,” she ventured boldly.

  “And you meddle too often, so I suppose that makes us a well-matched pair.”

  Isabella muttered indignantly under her breath. She moved toward him slowly, her eyes pinned to his handsome face. She reluctantly filled his glass, then set the bottle down, just a hairsbreadth beyond Damien’s reach. Making a wide berth of the earl, Isabella paused before the fire, warming her hands over the flames.

  The tension increased with the growing silence. Isabella was so acutely aware of Damien that she could feel her skin prickle. She cleared her throat.

  “What is wrong, Damien?” she finally asked.

  Pain flashed briefly in the earl’s eyes, but her back was toward him and she did not see it. He felt a great need to confide this latest disaster that had befallen him to Isabella, but it was difficult for him to share the burden. Isolation and loneliness had been a part of Damien’s life for so long that he’d become accustomed to the emptiness that governed his life. It was an almost impossible habit to break.

  “Nothing is wrong, Isabella.” A muscle knotted his jaw. “I only wish to be left in peace.”

  Isabella pivoted slowly, determined to face the underlying bitterness in his voice, and noticed for the first time the sheet of parchment Damien clutched tightly in his left hand.

  “What is that?”

  Damien gave her a crooked smile. “Are you referring to this document, per chance?” The earl held the offending piece of paper aloft, as though it possessed a noxious odor. “This, my dear Isabella, is a letter from my illustrious and disgustingly rich brother-in-law, Lord Poole.”

  Isabella did not miss the importance of the name. “What has Lord Poole done now?”

  Damien took another fortifying sip of brandy before answering. “It appears that Poole has somehow managed to purchase all the remaining mortgages held against Whatley Grange. He has written this charming letter informing me of this fact and has given me fair warning that he intends to call in all debts in sixty days’ time.”

  “Sixty days! Good heavens, Damien, what will you do?”

  “I suppose I shall attempt to borrow the funds I need from a bank or even a moneylender, although I have nothing of sufficient value to place as collateral. Beyond that, I have not as yet formulated a practical solution. It seems I have as much a chance of holding on to Whatley Grange as I do of finding Lady Anne’s treasure.”

  The earl’s sarcastic tone betrayed none of his emotions, but Isabella knew his pain and frustration must run deep. Her heart constricted in alarm. Damien had devoted many years of his life to working hard to make The Grange solvent. It must be maddening to know he was so close to losing what
he had worked so tirelessly to preserve.

  Isabella sank slowly to her knees beside his chair. Her slender hand reached out and gently caressed his forearm, offering silent comfort, seeking in some small way to ease his torment.

  “I am so sorry, Damien.”

  At the sound of her voice, the earl dropped his eyes to the delicate fingers softly stroking his arm. Her hand looked small and feminine against the stark whiteness of his shirt. Hers was a gentle touch, a comforting touch. A touch of understanding and kinship. Her tenderness wrenched at his chest, yet his male pride demanded a token resistance and he shifted in the chair, attempting to evade her.

  Isabella felt his withdrawal and hooked her fingers firmly around his wrist, refusing to break the physical bond. Their wills clashed, but Damien soon relented and gradually relaxed, allowing her soft touch to sooth his bruised spirit.

  The earl set his glass of brandy on the floor and closed his eyes. Leaning his dark head back against the chair, he let his mind wander aimlessly as Isabella’s hand continued to lightly caress him. The unique way she touched him made him feel oddly cherished. It gave him a sense of strength that made him feel it was possible to triumph over any adversity. Even the despicable Lord Poole.

  Isabella could feel the tension slowly leaving the earl’s body. The building tension within her also eased. How she hated to see him suffer! Nearly overcome with emotion for him, Isabella moved her cheek softly against the back of his hand.

  Damien eyes flew open. He twisted his head to glance down at her just as she turned his palm up and pressed a featherlight kiss on the inside of his wrist.

  Tentatively, the earl reached across with his free arm. His hand hovered for several seconds before he succumbed to temptation and placed his hand upon her head. His fingers delved softly into Isabella’s tight chignon, scattering her hair pins and releasing her hair from its strict confines.

  “You are a wonder, Isabella,” he whispered softly. When she turned her head up to reply, Damien swiftly leaned down and captured her lips.