If Love Were Enough

by Quill, Suzanne

  The doctor was a man and he was in there.

  He kept vigil at her door. Furston brought him a comfortable wing chair and a small table, though how the stooped old man had managed it he never would know. Food, tea, coffee, wine, brandy and other amenities had shown up but he had partaken of little. He sat down once or twice, dozed off once, but other than that, he had been pacing the floor before her door for more than fourteen hours.

  Ever since he had been kicked out of her room.

  Damn the doctor and Mrs. Seeman anyway. This was his son being born, even if he would not, could not, claim him. And, Cilla was in pain. He hated to see her, hear her, suffering such pain.

  Was every birth to be like this?

  Why did women do it? Some of them over and over again?

  He heard her scream again. He strode to the door jiggling the handle but it was still locked.

  “How is she in there?” he demanded as he hammered on the door. “How is Lady Rutherford?”

  “Fine, my lord. She’s doing well.” It was the housekeeper who answered. “It will be soon now,” she assured him through the walnut of the door.

  Not soon enough, he thought.

  Another fifteen minutes passed with intermittent screams from Cilla. If he could hold her. . . .

  Then a slap and a cry.

  The babe was born!

  It seemed like an eternity before the door was unlocked and opened to him.

  “It’s a boy, my lord,” exclaimed Mrs. Seeman. “We have a boy and an heir. You must come in and congratulate her ladyship.”

  The fires of hell could not keep him from Cilla’s side now.

  He strode through the door to the side of the bed in seconds. “My lord, I have a son.” Cilla’s haggard face lit up with joy. She took his hand and brought it to her lips, placing a gentle kiss there. Brandon schooled his concern for her well-being. She was pale, near the color of the bleached bed linens; there were dark circles under her eyes. She looked so tired but she smiled up at him with a look of love that filled his heart.

  “Would you like to hold my son?” Cilla asked him as she smiled up at him, sharing a look that said more about the child being his own but not daring to voice it. “You have taken such good care of me these past weeks. Would you like to be his godfather? I would be so honored if you would say yes.”

  His own eyes were brimming with tears. How else could she acknowledge his paternity in such a tangled situation?

  He took the small, fragile bundle she offered, taking care not to drop it. “The honor would be mine, Lady Rutherford. All mine.”

  Brandon looked down into the sleeping face of his son, the son he would never be able to claim.

  But he vowed, he would get to raise him. He would marry Cilla and stay by her side, raise this son and have as many other children as she could bear to carry.

  If she could tolerate all the pain again.

  Could he even ask her to do it?

  As if reading his thoughts, she said, “It’s fitting you be his godfather until we have a child, a son, of our own, my lord.” He tore his gaze away from the babe to look down on her. “That is,” she continued, “if you still wish to marry me.”

  Brandon bent over to place a gentle kiss on her lips and hand back their son. “You have only to say the word and the banns shall be read. As far as I’m concerned, the sooner the better.”

  “Ahem,” Doctor Adams cleared his throat, “I feel our new mother here should get some much needed and deserved rest, my lord. And, from the looks of you, you need it as much as she does. I would wager you have not slept any more than she has. Off with you.” The doctor turned to Mrs. Seeman. “Take the child to the nursery. He can be brought back later. Have you hired the wet nurse yet?”

  “No,” cried Cilla. “Bring the cradle here, in my room. I plan to nurse the child myself.”

  “My lady,” protested Doctor Adams, “that is most unusual for a lady of your station. I’m sure a wet nurse can be found to suit.”

  “Doctor, I understand what you are saying but I will nurse my own child unless I am physically unable. At this juncture I don’t think that’s an issue as I’m leaking milk already.”

  “As you wish, madam. I will return tomorrow to check on the both of you. Get as much rest as possible.” The doctor moved toward the door. “After I clean up, I’ll show myself out.”

  Mrs. Seeman came to the bed. “My lord, I think it best if you let her sleep now. She’s exhausted as you can see. And you are too. When she wakes, I’ll have someone fetch you.”

  Brandon looked at the housekeeper in doubt.

  “Don’t worry, my lord. I promise someone will be with her every minute.”

  With his fears allayed, Brandon leaned over, kissed her forehead, then his son’s. “I’ll be back when you wake. Sleep well, my love.”

  As he left the room, he heard her tell the housekeeper, “He will sleep with me for now, but bring the cradle for later. You must be spent as well, Ethel. Go rest yourself. Abigail can stay with me.”

  “As you wish, Lady Priscilla.”

  Brandon closed the door behind him and made his way to his rooms.

  Cilla had no idea how long she had been sleeping when she heard the commotion at her chamber door.

  “You shouldn’t go in there now, my lord,” Mrs. Seeman said in her most disapproving, strident voice.

  “I’ll bloody well go wherever I choose, you harridan. And I choose to see this bloody bastard Priscilla is passing off as Robert’s heir.”

  Her door flew open so hard it struck the wall behind it. Damon stalked in, his face fierce as well as haggard. The air around him permeated with the stench of cheap alcohol and stale tobacco. He looked like he had not eaten, slept or bathed in days.

  Abigail, who had been sleeping in a chair before the hearth, darted for the door behind the infuriated man, making good a quick escape.

  Hopefully she was going for help.

  When Damon reached the side of her bed, Mrs. Seeman hustled up behind him, he grabbed the covers from under Cilla’s chin then threw them back.

  Mrs. Seeman shrieked.

  Cilla was just coming awake. She had been exhausted from the child’s delivery and had sunk into a sound sleep. She was swatting ineffectively with one hand at Damon’s hands, fighting for wakefulness, when he tore the sleeping babe from the protective shelter of her other arm.

  She roused then as she shouted, “No, my baby! Don’t hurt my child!”

  Damon handled the boy with so little regard the child woke and started to wail.

  “We’ll just see this bastard is not Robert’s spawn here and now.” With little care for the child’s well-being, Damon stripped the babe’s blanket, untied the string at the bottom of the tiny gown then ripped the cloth from him. As the shreds fell to the floor, Damon continued on his furious quest by pulling off the napkin, ignoring the child’s wails of discomfort and indignation.

  He held up the screaming baby before him.

  “Well, it’s definitely a boy. You just couldn’t make things easier by having a worthless girl could you, Pris? But I’ll still prove the boy’s a bloody bastard.”

  With clumsy hands, he flipped the child over his arm to look at his backside.

  “This can’t be,” Damon said in astonished shock, his jaw agape, as he looked at the child’s behind. “His arse. He can’t have this mark on his arse. He’s not Robert’s child. The birthmark can’t be here!”

  Cilla jumped from her bed, her nightgown covering her to her feet, grabbed the child from Damon’s grasp then reached for the small blanket Damon had tossed aside on the bed. In seconds the child was re-swaddled and she was cradling him against her shoulder, rocking him, rubbing his back and soothing the child’s fears.

  �
�Of course, it’s Robert’s, you fool. I told you from the beginning it was.”

  Regaining some of her own composure she demanded, “What is all this nonsense about a birthmark?”

  Damon looked more haggard than ever as he pulled at his hair, the greasy, black locks now standing out in all directions.

  “It’s a family trait. Only the boys have it. It’s that splotch; I have it on my own arse. It looks to be in the shape of a dolphin. But he can’t have it. Let me see him again.” Damon reached for the child but Cilla turned away as Mrs. Seeman moved between the lady and her antagonist.

  “No!” Cilla said firmly, not realizing the birthmark had such significance and confused as to how the child would even have it. “You’ve seen it. It’s settled. Go away. Leave my rooms. Leave me and Robert in peace.”

  “You named the bloody bastard Robert?” Damon demanded. “You have the gall to name him Robert?”

  “He’s Robert’s son. Robert is gone. I named him for his father.”

  Cilla was spent. She had no idea how much longer she could carry this on. She backed toward the bed then sat down on its edge.

  Mrs. Seeman came to her aid. “Now, my lord, you’ve seen for yourself the birthmark. There should be no more nonsense about the babe being the rightful heir. Her ladyship needs her rest. You just take yourself down to the library and have Furston pour you a nice French brandy to calm your nerves.” She took Damon by an elbow and moved him toward the door.

  Still pulling at his hair, Damon backed toward the door. “This can’t be. I’d swear on my own soul that Robert was as impotent as a doorknob. He can’t be the heir. It’s my right. I’ve waited so long. Put up with all Robert’s condescending lectures, his control of my funds and finances. This just cannot be.”

  As Damon reached the door he swung around and ran through it almost knocking Brandon over, shoving aside Furston, who bounced against the far wall then turned to follow him. Abigail stood peeking around the door jamb, eyes as round as saucers, too frightened to enter the room and the fray.

  Brandon strode to Cilla’s side. “What’s all this?” he demanded. “Cilla, let me help you back into bed. You should still be resting.” As if she weighed nothing, he lifted her and Robert into the bed. He then pulled the covers up over the both of them. He reached for her pillows so she leaned forward and let him fluff them up and rearrange them.

  Mrs. Seeman stood to one side, a look of approval on her face. “His lordship is right, my lady. You need to get some more rest. I’ll just sit right here. . . .”

  “No need.” Brandon interjected. “I’ll stay with her. If Damon returns it will be my pleasure to physically toss the blighter out on his arse. I may even use this second story window.”

  With a nod, the housekeeper turned toward the door. “I’ll just check on you later then. I’ll have dinner sent up when it’s ready.” She shooed Abigail away as she reached the door then turned and closed it quietly behind her.

  “What in bloody hell happened?” Brandon asked when they were alone.

  “Damon wanted to prove Robert was not the heir. But it did not work.” She still didn’t know what to make of it all but she was too exhausted to talk about it now.

  “Well, we’ll talk about it later. Scoot over and let me lay with you in case he returns.”

  Cilla gave him a questioning look.

  “Not to worry, I’ll lay on top of the blankets.”

  Well, he was clothed though he looked as if he had thrown them on in haste.

  “Were you sleeping?” she asked quietly. “Who came to get you?”

  “Furston came with Abigail behind him. And, yes, I was sleeping. I threw on the first things that came to hand and rushed over here. I would have gotten here quicker if Abigail had come straight to me, but I think it would not have occurred to her to do so.”

  Brandon pulled the blanket up to her chin. He went over to the fire, added another log, then stoked it to renew its heat. When he returned to the bed, he toed off his boots revealing bare feet, obviously there had been no time for socks, then laid down on the bed next to her.

  Robert had gone back to sleep in her arms so she rolled away from Brandon to curl around her sleeping son. When she felt Brandon’s heat and strength against her back, his arm coming around her waist, she sighed and drifted off to sleep in the safety of his embrace.

  Her last thought had to do with the birthmark. Did Brandon have one she had never noticed? She could not remember ever seeing him naked from behind.

  Chapter 30

  Serenity fell over the estate after Damon stole a horse from the estate stables and left after his tirade against Cilla and the new baby and heir, Robert. The groom, Tad, said the now deposed marquess was cursing like a sailor and making plans for London. Since it was Wildfire he had taken and no one had any desire to ride him anyhow, Cilla chose not to pursue the matter. Besides, no one was sorry to see the dissipated, self-absorbed, demon-seed go.

  Cilla sent an urgent dispatch to the family solicitor in town explaining everything that had happened and that Damon should go on receiving his allowance as before. There would be no increases and he was not to have his excesses covered by estate funds. The allowance was more than generous. If Damon could not live within such means, especially considering he did nothing to earn them, he could pay the price of being held accountable for his own debts, be they honorable or not.

  Weeks went by in peace.

  With the threat of being accosted by Damon removed, Cilla moved back into her marchioness bedroom.

  Every night Brandon slept with her there, the child in a cradle steps from their side.

  The banns were read.

  Brandon and Cilla had a quiet wedding in the formal parlor of the manor house. Mrs. Seeman and Furston served as witnesses and the remaining staff helped to celebrate the joyous occasion.

  Cilla did not know what mischief Damon was up to but spent little time worrying about him. Instead, she spent her days with her new son and husband.

  Almost daily, she and Brandon would spend mornings in the library working on estate business. Cilla met with her overseer and handled correspondence.

  Brandon set up his messengers as he had planned. His sister, Marie, was serving as his surrogate, meeting with his overseer, reviewing his missives and insuring all actions were taken as he desired and directed. She was more than happy to do so since Brandon had given her leave to invite Estella to live with her. Marie was elated, as was Estella, with the new arrangement.

  Lord knew what their staff thought, but they, too, would have to adjust.

  As spring approached and the weather warmed, Cilla started taking a walk with Robert each day along the North Sea beach. Some days Brandon would join them. Others he would continue working in the library.

  It was a particularly fine day. Robert, already five months old, and Cilla were out enjoying the weather and the breeze off the sea. Brandon was finishing up the current missive to his overseer when he heard hooves clattering out in the stable yard.

  Not expecting visitors, Brandon went to the window to take in who had arrived.

  Damon was leaning down from his rambunctious horse, Wildfire. The steed pulled hard at the reins while Damon held him in a cruel grasp, the bit cutting into the horse’s mouth. Words were being exchanged and Brandon saw the young groom, Tad, wave his hand toward the beach after Damon had smacked him hard across the face.

  Panic and fear seized him as he knew who Damon was after.

  In seconds, Brandon ran through the library door and down the hall. Mrs. Seeman drew back as he flew past her.

  “My lord, what’s the matter?” she turned to follow after him.

  “Damon’s back and he’s looking for Cilla at the beach,” Brandon threw back over his shoulder as he jerked the side garden door open and escaped th
rough it high-tailing it toward the shore. Mrs. Seeman now hurrying after him with her skirts hiked up around her knees.

  Damon had just pulled up his horse so hard the pained animal reared up on his hind legs.

  Cilla was staring up at the wild-eyed beast in horror. She stepped back, protecting Robert by clutching him close and wrapping her arms around him.

  Damon flung himself to the ground and stalked toward her.

  Brandon was now running toward Cilla as fast as his legs could carry him. He ignored the pain in his side and the screams and shrieks coming from behind him.

  A lower voice had joined Mrs. Seeman’s. Furston must be running hard to catch up. God help them if the aged butler’s heart failed in his haste.

  Brandon, getting closer now but still too far away to do any good, heard Damon as he screamed at Cilla, waving his arms with what looked like a pistol in one of his hands. His violent words drifted back to him on the easy spring breeze as Damon strode over to her and grabbed her by the arm with his free hand.

  “I’ve had enough, you selfish whore. That pittance for an allowance is nothing. I want it all. You deserve nothing for having this bastard child and fobbing it off as Robert’s heir.”

  Cilla wrapped her arms tighter around the child and made to pull away.

  Damon’s grip would not let her go. He was shaking her hard as she cradled the infant, pressing his small head against her chest.

  Cilla was screaming, tugging against Damon’s violence, “Let me go. You deserve nothing. You have earned, done nothing. You were lucky Robert gave you anything all those years. All you gave him was hate, greed, jealousy and worse. No wonder he was desperate to have a son. He didn’t want you to inherit.”

  Brandon was running hard, pushing himself, fighting for breath. He had to get to Cilla. He had to save her. Save the baby.