by Andrea Kane
Until holding back became impossible.
Lunging forward, he surrendered to his climax, swelling to massive proportions before he erupted, shouting Brigitte’s name in conjunction with the pulsing surges of his release.
Please God, Brigitte prayed during that brief, final instant when Eric was truly hers. Let this miracle last. Please.
—
Hers were not the only prayers being offered by a resident of Farrington at that precise moment.
Two halls away, tucked in her bed, Noelle cradled Fuzzy on the pillow beside her. “She’s still in his room, you know,” she advised her plaything with a sage nod. “And Uncle’s not angry, or we’d hear his shouting way down here. We have to pray, Fuzzy.” She squeezed her eyes shut, accomplishing the same for Fuzzy by covering his button eyes with the palm of her hand. “God—I know I do lots of bad things,” she began. “But I promise I’ll stop. I’ll listen and I won’t break stuff, and I’ll never need chest-izing again. Only please”—her lips quivered, and two tears slid down her cheeks—“please don’t take Brigitte away.”
Six
“NOELLE, NOT SO CLOSE TO THE POND,” BRIGITTE INSTRUCTED, simultaneously reaching up to collect another sprig of holly.
“But Fuzzy wants to learn how to sail.” Flat on her stomach, Noelle crept a bit closer to the water’s edge, straddling Fuzzy across the piece of driftwood she intended to serve as his boat. “And he wants to learn now, before it gets too cold and the water freezes.”
“How very ambitious of him.” Abandoning her task, Brigitte approached Noelle with a pointed lift of her brows. “But tell me, can Fuzzy swim? Or, more important, can you?”
Noelle frowned. “No. We can’t.”
“Ah. Well, you’re in good company—neither can I. And, since I suspect that pond is far taller from top to bottom than either you or I—and certainly Fuzzy—I’d prefer not to tempt fate. All right?”
“All right.” Grudgingly, Noelle rose, rubbing her dirty hands on her mantle, thereby transferring stains from the former to the latter. “What are you doing?”
“Gathering holly.”
“Why? You said Uncle won’t let us celebrate Christmas.”
“He won’t.” Brigitte grinned. “I’m hoping he’ll change his mind.” She squinted at her rapidly growing collection, visualizing Farrington’s sitting room alive with the spirit of Christmas: its barren walls decorated with wreaths of holly and mistletoe, its fireplace reawakened and aglow, its floor piled high with gifts. And in the center of it all, she, Eric, and Noelle, standing about a glorious evergreen heralding the season.
On cue, Brigitte’s gaze shifted to the magnificent fir she’d selected for that all-important role, the perfect nucleus of a perfect fantasy.
“Brigitte?” Noelle’s voice interrupted her daydream. “’Cept at his window, I haven’t seen Uncle for more than three weeks—since the day you talked to him. Have you?”
The fantasy shattered into bitter shards of reality.
“No, love.” Brigitte shook her head. “I haven’t. Apparently, your uncle needs more time alone.”
“More time? He’s always alone. He didn’t even come out when your grandfather visited. Though I’m positive he knew the vicar was here—I saw him watch the carriage arrive.”
A slight smile. “Noelle, you spend far too much time spying on your uncle’s window.”
“It’s only too much ’cause he’s there too much. If he weren’t, it wouldn’t matter how often I looked, ’cause he wouldn’t know I was looking.” On the heels of that bit of reasoning, Noelle pursed her lips. “Why don’t you visit him anymore?”
Brigitte sighed. “You and I have discussed this. I didn’t visit him at all—not even the one time I went to his chambers. I merely went to ask if we could celebrate your birthday, and he agreed.”
“I didn’t hear him shouting. Neither did Fuzzy.”
“That’s because he didn’t. I explained the situation, and he gave his consent.”
“Then if you weren’t arguing and you weren’t visiting, why were you in there such a long time?”
Heat suffused Brigitte’s body as she recalled the answer to that question.
Those moments in Eric’s arms had been the most unexpected and exquisite of miracles—excruciating pleasure and equally excruciating anguish. Oh, he’d warned her, been honest with her from the start. Not only about his motives for taking her to bed, but about the aftermath, how it would affect her. He’d been right. They’d dressed and parted like strangers, leaving her emotionally raw, bereft, craving something Eric was unable—unwilling—to give.
But he was wrong that the ache would result in regret. It hadn’t. Anguish or not, Brigitte wouldn’t erase their lovemaking for anything on earth. She was Eric’s wife now, and even if he chose to denounce it, they were bound in a beautiful and irrevocable way that was hers to cherish for the rest of her days.
Lonely days, if Eric had his way.
“Brigitte?” Noelle was tugging at her skirt. “Can’t you remember what you and Uncle talked about?”
Brigitte’s flush deepened. “We didn’t talk about much, Noelle. Other than celebrating your birthday, which he conceded to—and Christmas, which he did not.”
“Why do you think you can change his mind about Christmas?”
“Because I’m a fool,” Brigitte answered, gazing wistfully down at the lush greenery in her hands.
“No you’re not!” Noelle’s defense was fast and furious. “You’re just up-to-mist … ick,” she added. “Up-to-mistick. I always forget the ‘ick’ ’cause I can’t understand how such a yucky word got to be part of a good one.”
Brigitte grinned. “I see your point. And, yes, I am optimistic. However, I’m also playing with fire. Your uncle will doubtless become livid when he learns of my plans.”
“You’re not afraid of Uncle, are you, Brigitte?”
“No, Noelle, I’m not.”
“What are you afraid of?”
“H-m-m?” Brigitte blinked at the sudden change in subject.
“You must be afraid of something. Like Fuzzy and I are afraid there might be big monsters under my bed. We check every night to make sure it’s safe. What are you afraid of?”
“Heights,” Brigitte confessed.
“Heights?” Noelle’s eyes widened in surprise. “You mean like high up places?”
“Um-hum.”
“Wow.” Noelle sounded incredulous. “Didn’t you ever climb trees before you got grown-up?”
“Only short ones.” Brigitte caressed Noelle’s smudged cheek. “Come. Help me gather a few more sprigs of holly. Unfortunately, it’s clustered in this area—far too close to your uncle’s chambers to grant me peace of mind. Let’s be done and on our way before he catches a glimpse of us.” She returned to her task.
Glancing at the manor, Noelle was on the verge of telling Brigitte that it was too late, that, judging from the angle of the window curtain in her uncle’s chambers, they’d already been discovered, when a brilliant idea struck her.
“‘Only short ones’ …” she repeated, chewing her lip. “How short?”
“What?” Brigitte was tugging at another bough.
“You said you only climbed short trees. How short?”
“Very short.”
Noelle pressed her face into Fuzzy’s fur. “Now’s our chance,” she whispered.
So saying, she inched away until she came up against the thick bark of the oak tree that loomed beside the pond. Tilting back her head, she gauged her distance, then flung Fuzzy up as high as she could.
He landed—and caught on the lowest branch.
In a flash, she shimmied up the tree, snatched Fuzzy, and—just to be on the safe side—climbed several limbs higher. After counting to ten, she called, “Brigitte!”
Brigitte spun about, her gaze darting everywhere at once. “Noelle, where are you?”
“Up here.”
Following the sound, Brigitte tipped her head back un
til she spied her charge. “What are you doing up there?”
“Fuzzy got stuck. I climbed up to get him.”
“Well, you can climb right back down.”
“I can’t. I … My dress is caught on the branch, and I can’t pull it free.”
“Noelle …”
“I know you’re afraid,” Noelle interrupted in a soothing tone. “So why don’t you get Uncle?” She pointed helpfully toward the manor. “Just throw a stone at his window. He’ll hear it. He’s probably standing near there anyway.”
Brigitte gaped. “Why you little imp. You planned this.”
A grin. “Get Uncle, Brigitte. He’ll help you.”
“I’ll do no such thing. You come down here this instant.”
“No.” Shaking her head, Noelle inched farther out over the water. “The branch gets real thin out here,” she announced. “You’d better not take any chances. You’d better fetch Uncle so he can—”
Noelle’s sentence ended on a broken scream as, with a loud crack, the branch gave way, toppling both its occupants directly into the center of the pond.
“Brigitte!” Noelle shrieked, flailing about in genuine terror.
Her dark head vanished beneath the surface.
“Oh, my God.” Brigitte kicked off her shoes and flung the holly to the ground, racing forward and splashing into the pond without thought or strategy.
She struggled her way to the spot where Noelle had now resurfaced and was thrashing about in an attempt to save herself. Frantically, Brigitte grabbed for her—once, twice—but each time Noelle’s battling limbs evaded her.
Panic took over. Relinquishing all attempts at retaining her footing, Brigitte lunged at the child, grabbing hold of Noelle’s waist and catapulting them both headlong into the center of the icy pond.
Frigid water slapped Brigitte in the face, stinging her eyes and nose. She strove to regain her balance, but Noelle’s wrestling limbs and her own sodden layers of clothing were too ponderous to overcome. Blindly, she fought for their lives, her arms and legs growing weak after what seemed like an eternity of effort. Finally, with her last bit of strength, she thrust Noelle upward, praying it was far enough for the child to break the surface and breathe. Her own lungs were bursting for air and a dark roaring pounded through her skull as she kicked at her gown and cloak, her feet searching desperately for the muddy bottom.
Abruptly, Noelle was yanked from Brigitte’s grasp. A split second later, a powerful arm anchored beneath her legs, hauling her up and out of the water.
Air, frosty or not, was the greatest of gifts, and Brigitte sucked in one huge breath, then another—dissolving into harsh spasms of coughing.
“Slowly,” Eric commanded. “Breathe slowly. Don’t try to speak.”
“Noe … Noelle …” Brigitte rasped.
“I told you not to speak.” He deposited her on the bank, Noelle coughing and wriggling beside her. “She’s fine. As are you. Reckless and stupid, but fine.”
With that, he turned and waded back into the pond, emerging at the exact instant that Noelle choked out, “Fuzzy!”
Brigitte propped herself on her elbows in time to see Eric toss the saturated plaything at his niece. “Here. He’s in better condition than you are.”
Staring at her uncle with eyes the size of saucers, Noelle snatched her toy, then succumbed to wracking coughs.
Kneeling, Eric leaned Noelle forward, rubbing her back and forcing the water from her chest. “Don’t be frightened. You swallowed almost half that pond. You’re merely returning it.”
Hugging herself to still her shivering, Brigitte wondered if she’d died and gone to heaven. Not only had Eric saved their lives—and Fuzzy’s, for that matter—he was tending to Noelle, carefully ensuring that her breathing returned to normal and, miracle of miracles, teasing her.
If this were heaven, Brigitte decided, it was every bit as wonderful as her grandfather had always claimed.
In the wake of that assessment, she dissolved into another fit of choking.
Eric’s head snapped around. “Are you all right?” he demanded, frowning as Brigitte’s coughs were replaced by uncontrollable shudders.
Mutely, she nodded.
“Dammit, Brigitte.” He released Noelle, tearing off his own saturated coat and wrapping it around his wife, fierce emotion glittering in his eyes.
Instantly, Noelle burst into tears. “Don’t chest-ize Brigitte. It wasn’t her fault; it was mine.”
“I know very well whose fault it was.” Eric scooped first Noelle, then Brigitte, into his arms. “I’ve got to get you both inside before you freeze to death.” His dark stare swept over his wife, then flickered to the grass behind her. “Since I can only manage two hoydens and one bedraggled cat at a time, I fear the holly will have to wait.”
So saying, he strode off toward the manor.
With a contented smile, Brigitte gazed over Eric’s shoulder, watching until the rapidly retreating boughs of holly had disappeared from view.
Miracles, she mused, might be gifts from heaven.
But they happened right here on earth.
—
“Noelle, drink that entire cup of warm milk and climb into bed.”
Leaning against Noelle’s bedchamber wall, Brigitte massaged her own pounding temples.
Noelle gave her a worried look. “Your cheeks are real red, Brigitte. I think you’re a whole lot sicker than me.”
“I’ll be fine,” Brigitte assured her. “As soon as I have you tucked in, I’ll go to bed. By morning, I’ll be myself again.”
Dubious, Noelle complied, swallowing her milk then scrambling between the sheets, Fuzzy beside her. “Uncle was a hero, wasn’t he, Brigitte?”
A small smile. “Yes, love, he was.” With an enormous effort, Brigitte propelled herself into an upright position, crossing the room to kiss Noelle good night. “I shudder to think what would have happened had Lord Farrington not chosen that precise minute to glance out his window.”
“He didn’t choose that precise minute to glance out his window,” Noelle refuted matter-of-factly. “He’d been watching us for nearly an hour. That’s why I climbed the tree when I did—I was counting on his help. But you’d already guessed that part.” She chewed her lip. “The next part was a surprise to me, too. I didn’t ’xpect to fall in the pond. That was real scary. Uncle must have run awfully fast to get from his chambers to the door and across the grounds to the pond in so short a time.”
“It didn’t seem short to me,” Brigitte replied, feeling the room sway. “It seemed an eternity.”
“He didn’t chest-ize me for what I did. He didn’t even chest-ize you about gathering holly.” Noelle screwed up her face thoughtfully. “Where’s Uncle now?”
“I don’t know, Noelle. Back in his chambers, I suppose. Although—should he emerge—I wouldn’t suggest alerting him to the fact that you plotted his heroic appearance. I don’t think he’d take kindly to it.”
“No. He wouldn’t,” a deep-timbred voice affirmed. “So rest assured, Noelle, you’ll be duly chastised for your antics—tomorrow.”
Brigitte jumped, staring incredulously at the doorway as if seeking confirmation of the impossible.
Hovering just inside the room, Eric assessed his niece with an expression Brigitte’s feverish brain classified as none other than tenderness.
“For tonight, all conversation will cease,” he commanded. “Go to sleep.”
“But, Uncle, Brigitte is sick,” Noelle protested.
Eric’s attention shifted to Brigitte, who continued to gape at him as she tried to absorb the reality of his presence.
“My niece is right. You are ill,” he pronounced.
“I must be.” She blinked. “Not only ill, but delirious. I could swear you’re standing in Noelle’s room.”
Eric didn’t smile. “You have a fever. A high one, I suspect. You belong in bed.”
“Obviously I do.” Brigitte pivoted, wobbling a bit as she headed toward her room. �
��Very well. I’m on my way, my lord. I’m sure by daybreak I’ll awaken and realize this was all an up-to-mist-ick dream …”
In a dizzying surge, the floor rushed up to greet her.
Seven
“DON’T.” BRIGITTE TOSSED HER HEAD, FENDING OFF THE CHILLY compress that persisted in finding her face.
“Lie still and stop fighting me, dammit.” A firm hand gripped her chin, and that dreadful cloth resumed its path.
“Too cold,” she murmured.
“I know it’s cold.” His grip gentled. “But you’re burning up. It’s the only way to bring down your fever.”
With immense effort, Brigitte cracked open her eyes. “Eric?”
“H-m-m?” He applied the cloth to her nape.
“Am I in bed?”
“Yes.”
“In my quarters?”
“Of course.”
“And you’re tending to me?”
“I’m the only other adult at Farrington.”
Her eyes slid shut. “I am in heaven. How wonderful. At last I can savor this dream. I’ve awaited it forever.”
“Stop it,” he ordered vehemently. “You’re not in heaven. You’re at Farrington. And you are not going to die.”
The fervor of his tone only minimally penetrated Brigitte’s semiconscious state. She turned her lips against his forearm, burrowing into the warmth of his skin. “Do you know how long I’ve loved you?” she murmured. “Forever. Can you guess how many nights I’ve pictured your coming to me?” A breath of a sigh. “Dozens. Hundreds. But the fantasy was never this real. Certainly not before. Not even after. No dream could re-create the sensations I discovered in your arms.” Hazy mists clouded her mind. “Do you remember that afternoon, Eric? The afternoon we were together? I do. Every extraordinary detail. Nothing … ever … felt … so … wonderful.”
Reclaimed by her feverish slumber, Brigitte missed the tormented look on her husband’s face as he caressed her fiery cheek. “Yes, Brigitte,” he replied in a rough, ragged voice. “I remember. And, no, nothing ever felt so wonderful.”
He fell silent, watching the rise and fall of her breasts as she slept, unable to deny the wrenching emotions her confessions had evoked—emotions he’d thought himself incapable of feeling.