"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 recreate 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.
Rising, he paced aimlessly about the room, facing the incomprehensible truth.
He could lock himself away, seal his door to the world for the duration of time. But he couldn't seal his heart from this selfless, beautiful angel who was his wife.
Brigitte.
For more than a month now he'd evaded her, scrutinized her, wanted her. Initially, the battle was arduous. Since the day he'd taken her to bed, it was futile.
How ironic. His worry had been for Brigitte—that it would be she who'd be unable to cope with the aftermath of their passion. Instead, what had happened? She'd accepted his conditions, resumed life as it had been before that unforgettable afternoon in his arms. While he, on the other hand, spent every waking moment, every sleepless night, yearning for her. And not only in bed. He yearned for her laughter, her spirit, the fiercely protective way she stood up for Noelle.
Noelle.
For the first time, Eric found himself able to contemplate his niece without anguish, separating her from the events surrounding her birth. That in itself was a miracle.
So was the change in Noelle.
With utter disbelief, he'd watched as Brigitte transformed her from an uncontrollable, rebellious child into an exuberant, loving little girl, giving her a home, a future.
A mother.
Swearing softly, Eric averted his head, his jaw clenched in self-deprecating recall. If anyone was to blame for the past, it was he. That's why he'd done what he had to, taken the only route he could.
Banished Noelle from the desolation that was his life. After what he'd endured with Liza, he'd been dead inside, incapable of giving or feeling—especially to the newborn babe his sister refused to acknowledge.
Refused to acknowledge? Hell, she'd wanted to erase Noelle's birth, as if it were some unwanted gift that need only be returned to be forgotten.
Eric squeezed his eyes shut, asking himself for the thousandth time what he'd done wrong. What had happened to the precious Liza he'd raised since infancy, showered with love, lavished with attention? Dear God, what had he created? A selfish woman with no sense of honor or commitment, neither to her brother, nor to her own child?
Whatever his mistakes, he couldn't allow Noelle to be subjected to them—or to him, for that matter. She deserved more than a black-hearted uncle who had nothing inside him but emptiness and self-hatred.
And now she'd have more—thanks to Brigitte.
A muted whimper from the bed brought Eric's head around, and he frowned when he saw his wife thrashing about, the bedcovers a tangled mass at her waist. Crossing the room, he resettled her, tucking the blankets beneath her chin.
"Noelle," she cried out, fighting the weight of the covers. "Must reach her… She'll drown…"
"Noelle is safe, Brigitte," Eric murmured, wondering whom he was comforting—his wife or himself. "And so are you."
"Eric?" As if from a great distance, she whispered his name.
"I'm right here. Nothing is going to harm you, or Noelle. Now sleep."
She quieted at once, her beautiful features relaxing into a deep, trusting slumber.
How in the name of heaven could she trust him? Or love him.
The memory of Brigitte's admission made Eric's chest tighten.
Do you know how long I've loved you? Forever. Can you guess how many nights I've pictured your coming to me? Hundreds. But no dream could recreate the sensations I discovered in your arms.
It had to be the fever talking. After all, "forever" was impossible; they'd known each other less than two months. Thus, the remainder of her vows must have been equally groundless.
Not those describing their passion.
Those, Eric reflected with a hot rush of memory, he himself could attest to. Never in his wildest imaginings, much less experiences, had he encountered such excruciating pleasure, a wild, incomparable storming of the senses that preoccupied his thoughts to the point of obsession.
And evidently, they preoccupied Brigitte's thoughts as well.
But lust, as he himself had apprised her, did not signify love. So whatever Brigitte was feeling—or thought she was feeling—couldn't be love.
Could it?
With a weary sigh, Eric dragged a tufted chair to the foot of the bed. Then, he dropped into it, tossed a blanket over himself, and closed his eyes.
His last thought before drifting off was that he'd have to conjure up some halfhearted punishment for his precocious tempest of a niece. Nothing too severe. In truth, the little troublemaker had done her job well…
"Brigitte!"
The shriek pierced through Eric like a knife.
Scrambling to his feet, he shook his head, trying to orient himself. Where was he? Who had screamed?
"Brigitte … don't leave me!"
Noelle.
Memory jarred into place.
Swiftly, Eric glanced at the bed, assuring himself that Brigitte was deeply asleep, oblivious to the world and everyone in it. Then, he dashed from her room and down the hall to Noelle's, flinging open the door to find the child sitting up in bed, crying as if her heart would break.
"Noelle—what's wrong?"
Coming to her knees, Noelle didn't question his presence, just reached out for him, her small body wracked with sobs. "Uncle … I had a bad dream…" She broke off to catch her breath. "About Brigitte. She was so sick when you put her in bed. And Mama died of a fever. Mrs. Lawley said so. I dreamed I tried to wake Brigitte up, and I couldn't … and she never woke up … and…"
"Do you promise?"
"I promise." Eric could feel the tension ease from Noelle's shoulders.
"Did she wake up at all?"
"Um-hum. In fact, she just had a bad dream, too."
"She did?" Noelle raised her tear-streaked face, the terror of her nightmare temporarily held at bay. "But she's a grown-up."
"Grown-ups have bad dreams, too, Noelle." Eric stroked her hair, paternal instinct reawakening from its lengthy slumber. "Nightmares are just fears that lie in wait for our other thoughts to rest. Then, when the path is clear, they dash out and wreak havoc in our minds. And, since everyone has fears, everyone has nightmares."
Noelle digested that information with a loud, shuddering sniff. "If Brigitte is right and grown-ups have to obey rules, and you're right and grown-ups have fears and nightmares, what's the difference between being an adult and being a child—'cept the fact that children are shorter?"
An ironic smile touched Eric's lips. "Not much," he confessed. "Except that children don't try to hide their feelings behind stupid walls of self-delusion and self-protection."
"Brigitte doesn't hide her feelings. You just don't look hard enough to see them. Actually, you're not real good at seeing your own feelings either." Noelle plucked the handkerchief from her uncle's pocket. "May I use this?"
"Feel free." Eric frowned. "What do you mean? What don't I see?"
"How much you like Brigitte." Shrugging, Noelle blew her nose with an unladylike honk. "Or how much she likes you."
Eric shook his head in amazement. "Are you certain you're only going to be four?"
"That's what you told me. You said I was born on Christmas Day, 1856."
"You were." He tipped up her chin. "You were tiny and beautiful. You were also loud. You began wailing and kicking the instant you were born."
A grin. "Really?"
"Really."
"Uncle, how did Mama die?"
Meeting Noelle's gaze, Eric replied, "A fever, just as Mrs. Lawley said. But it wasn't like Brigitte's fever. It was much worse. She had influenza, it was a very cold winter, and I wasn't there to take care of her."
"Wasn't she at Farrington?"
"No, Noelle, she wasn't."
A thoughtful silence. "Mama ran away, didn't she?"
Eric tensed. "Who told you that?"
"The Willetts. They didn't actually tell me. I just overheard them during one of their arguments. I covered my ears, 'cause I didn't want to hear the rest." A resigned sigh. "But I guess I always knew the truth. Even Mama didn't want me."
An emotional knife pierced Eric's heart. "It wasn't a question of…" He broke off, desperately seeking the right words to say. "It wasn't that simple, Noelle. Your mother was beautiful and spirited, just like you. But she was very young when you were born—very young and very confused. She couldn't cope; she wasn't strong enough." Staunchly, he sustained the myth that would keep Liza's name as untarnished for Noelle as it was for Farrington's one-time servants, for the villagers, for everyone who believed him an ogre. "The fault was mine, Noelle. I was cruel to her. Angry and cruel. My rage frightened her and, eventually, drove her away."
"Brigitte's not frightened of you."
A corner of Eric's mouth lifted. "No, it appears she isn't."
"Neither am I." Noelle climbed into his lap. "Do you know what I think? I think Brigitte's right. I think you loved Mama a whole lot. I think you just pretend Mama's running away was your fault 'cause you want people to hate you. That way they'll leave you alone and you won't have to remember and your tummy won't hurt. You're doing that adult stuff you were talking about—shelf-illusion and protection. But you know what, Uncle? I don't believe you. You're not cruel." To Eric's amazement, Noelle wrapped her arms about his neck and hugged him. "You're a hero," she whispered. "You saved my life." Groping behind her she grabbed hold of a clump of damp fur, shoving it unceremoniously in Eric's face. "Fuzzy's, too. We love you."
Were those actually tears he felt burning behind his eyes?
"Thank you, Noelle." That shattered voice bore no resemblance to his own. "I didn't think I needed that, but it turns out I do. Very much."
"I'm glad." Noelle dried her cheeks, the look she gave him one of profound wisdom. "Maybe, if you add Brigitte's love to mine and Fuzzy's, you won't be so angry anymore. Maybe that bad shelf-illusion will go away. And then maybe you can be happy." With that, Noelle gave a huge yawn. "I think I can go back to sleep now." She wriggled between the sheets, sighing contentedly—until she felt Eric's weight lift from the bed. "Are you returning to your chambers?" A flash of fear darted across her face.
"No. I'm using a lumpy chair in Brigitte's room as my bed. That way, I can keep an eye on her and also be nearby if you need me. Is that more to your liking?"
A broad smile. "Much more." Noelle nestled into the pillows. "Uncle?"
"H-m-m?"
"Will you come to my birthday party?"
Silence.
"I won't chest-ize you if you can't," she continued sleepily. "But it would be a whole lot easier for you if you could. That way, I won't have to fall out of trees to get to see you and you won't have to rescue me from drowning in ponds."
A chuckle rumbled in Eric's chest. "I see your logic, little schemer. I'll consider the invitation."
"Good night, Uncle."
"Good night, Noelle."
"Uncle?"
"Yes, Noelle."
"What's my punishment going to be?"
"Swimming lessons. For you, Brigitte, and Fuzzy. Given by the most grueling of instructors. Me."
Eight
A NOISE OF SOME KIND PERMEATED Brigitte's consciousness. Frowning, she opened her eyes, wondering if Noelle had called her. It was obviously late at night, judging from the darkness of her room and the depth of her slumber.
Anxious to check on Noelle, Brigitte sat up … and just as quickly sank back into the bed. Why in the name of heaven was she so weak?
Memory flooded back in a rush. She'd been ill—very ill—for how long, she hadn't a clue. The last thing she remembered was collapsing in Noelle's chambers.
No. She remembered Eric, sitting at her bedside, bathing her face, forcing sips of water down her throat.
Or had she dreamed all that?
Gingerly, she tried rising again, this time slowly, swinging her legs over the side of the bed and coming cautiously to her feet. She groped at her nightstand until she found the lamp, turning it up so she could see.
Her room was empty, the grandfather clock by the wardrobe telling her it was nearly two A.M. Shivering, she glanced down at her thin linen nightdress and automatically reached for her robe, only to discover it wasn't in its customary position at the foot of her bed.
Her gaze fell on the tufted chair, its indented cushions and rumpled blanket a clear sign that someone had been using it as a cot.
Eric.
With a tender smile, Brigitte ran her fingers over the chair's elaborate wooden trim. So it hadn't been a dream. Eric had been with her, tending to her while she'd been sick, actually sleeping in her room lest she need him.
Joy swelled inside her.
The noise slashed the silence again.
Brigitte's head came up, her smile vanishing as she focused on the harsh, abrasive sound. Noelle?
All else forgotten, Brigitte dashed down the hall and flung open the door to Noelle's room.
She halted at the threshold.
The room was dark, quiet, the even sound of Noelle's breathing telling Brigitte she was fast asleep.
Relieved, Brigitte shut the door, leaning against it to regain her strength—and to analyze her persistent feeling that something was amiss. With a will of its own, her gaze traveled across the hall to the room she'd been forbidden to enter—the room she'd known from the outset had been Liza's.
The door was ajar, a shaft of light escaping through it, along wit
h an echo of the rasping sound that had awakened her.
Reservations cast aside, Brigitte crossed the hall and slipped into the room, somehow knowing she was taking another irrevocable step, this one more pivotal than those she'd taken the day she'd agreed to marry Eric and the afternoon she'd shared his bed.
The room was in shambles.
Broken furniture, shattered glass, splintered paintings—shrouded in four years of dust—covered the carpet in a blanket of debris. In the center of it all stood Eric, head bent, shoulders heaving with long-repressed emotion.
"Eric." Brigitte said his name softly, coming up behind him and wrapping her arms about his waist.
He went rigid. "What are you doing here?" he demanded, his voice raw, harsh with pain.
"I love you." She lay her cheek against his shirt. "I want to be here with you. And I won't leave, no matter how hard you fight me."
His muscles went limp, and he turned, crushing her against his chest, "I have no more strength to fight. But Brigitte"—he swallowed—"look around you. For God's sake, see what I've done, what I am. Run from me while you can."
"I don't want to run. And I can see perfectly well what you've done. I can also see why. Perhaps you managed to deceive your staff, the villagers, even yourself. But you can't deceive me. As for who you are, you're the one who's blind to that truth, not I." She tilted back her head, meeting his tortured gaze. "Stop destroying yourself. None of what happened was your fault. Eric—" She lay her hand against his jaw. "Liza wasn't worth it."
Shock supplanted anguish. "You don't know what you're saying."
"I most certainly do." Brigitte stood her ground. "My fever is gone, my head perfectly clear. As for my assessment of Liza, I know a great deal more than you think I do, possibly more than anyone else does. You see, my lord, I had the unique opportunity to see the cruelty your sister kept so carefully concealed behind her engaging veneer. I knew her priorities, her coldness, even the extent to which she'd go to ensure her goals were realized."
A vein throbbed at Eric's temple. "How?" was all he managed.
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