by Julia Keaton
“It doesn’t matter now.”
“But it does. He was cruel to you, wasn’t he? That’s why you never came back while your father was alive. That’s why you decided to move half way around the world from us.”
Bronte covered her face. “I don’t want to talk about this, Mother. Not now. Not ever.”
“They came to your wedding. At least, they tried.”
Bronte lifted her head. “Who came?”
“Nick and Darcy. Your father sent them away. Nick was in a terrible rage. Darcy, too, for that matter … but neither of them was at all suitable, Bronte--penniless younger sons who had no choice except to make a career of the military. Who would’ve thought they would ever amount to anything, let alone make their fortunes? We could not in good conscience settle our only child on a man with nothing, however much they seemed to care for you.”
The urge to cry grew stronger, almost unbearable. “They spoke to father?”
Lady Millford sniffed. “Nick asked for you. Darcy would have, I think. He asked to speak to your father, but I sent him away. Your father was … so …. he was furious that Nick even dared to think he was good enough for you. He was … not civil. He threatened to have him horsewhipped if he came near you again. When Darcy showed up almost on his heels, I didn’t know what your father might do. I told him you loved Isaac and that he was your choice. It seemed to have the desired effect. He left without trying to speak with your father.”
Tears filled Bronte’s eyes and ran down her cheeks. A sob tore its way from her painfully tight chest. She covered her mouth with one hand, knowing if she lost control she might never stop. “You might at least have told me, Mother. You could have given me that. I hated them for abandoning me. My whole life they’d protected me from hurt, from Isaac’s cruel pranks, and then, when I needed them the most, they weren’t there.”
Lady Millford pulled her handkerchief out and dabbed at her eyes. “I know you blame me, but … I thought it was only a little girl’s infatuation with older boys and you would outgrow it. And … well I suspected Isaac had a cruel streak, but so many young boys do and they grow out of it … mostly.”
Bronte uttered a sound that was half wry laugh, half sob. “It is a very good thing that he did, mostly.”
Chapter Nineteen
Bronte was finishing her packing when Lady Millford knocked at her door. She hesitated and finally went to open it.
Lady Millford glanced beyond her at the trunks piled near the foot of the bed and the color left her face. “You’re leaving?”
Bronte looked away. Turning, she left her mother standing in the threshold and returned to pack the last of her things. “Not just yet. I’m … I’m off to visit with some old friends before I leave England.”
“You weren’t even planning to say goodbye?” her mother asked mournfully.
Bronte glanced at her. “It’s not even daylight. I thought you would be asleep.”
“But … you don’t need to leave so early, surely?”
“I didn’t sleep, not much at any rate. But now that I’m done packing, I see no reason not to be on my way.”
Lady Millford’s chin wobbled slightly. “It’s about that silly wager, isn’t it?”
Bronte sent her a sharp look, then looked away again. “Perhaps.”
Lady Millford shook her head. “I cannot believe that they would be so crass as to wager on such a thing, certainly not with you.”
Bronte sent her mother a tight smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “I’m not convinced that they did. I think it was proposed, but not by them. Perhaps they couldn’t refuse the challenge. Perhaps they hated me enough to accept because they blamed me for what father did, but I cannot believe it of them.
“On the other hand, it might only be that I am making excuses for them again because I don’t want to believe it. I have never been able to quite trust my judgment when it came to Nick or Darcy.
“I’m not sure it matters to me either way. The truth is that I have always loved them and I always will. Whatever they might do, I will always forgive them and love them anyway.”
“But ... if it’s not that, why are you leaving?” Lady Millford asked, bewildered.
“Because it’s time. I should stay, I know, and try to quell the scandal for your sake, but you have never seemed to care for society. I can’t think that it will disturb you much if you are to remain at the dower house. And, in any case, it will die down eventually. Scandals tend to run out of steam when the object under discussion is no longer around and I’m quite sure some other delicious scandal will erupt soon enough to divert the ton.”
“You don’t mean to come back to see me before you leave England?”
Bronte moved to her mother and hugged her. “I will make no promises. It depends upon how long I stay with my friends, for I have already sent to make arrangements for passage. If I have time, I will come to see you. If not, I promise to write often.”
“If you are not concerned about the scandal then why must you go back to that uncivilized place?” Lady Millford asked tearfully.
Bronte kissed her cheek. “Because I belong there. I have never felt as if I belonged here … and, I love you, Mother, but it is too painful for me here. There, at least I can find contentment with my life.”
Dawn was only beginning to lift the darkness from the streets when the last of Bronte’s trunks had been stowed and the carriage pulled to the front. Bronte hugged her mother one last time.
“I will miss you dreadfully,” Lady Millford said tearfully.
“You need not, you know. You are always welcome to come to America to live with me if you grow tired of annoying cousin Wilford and decide to give up the dower house.”
Lady Millford sniffed, giving her daughter a reproachful look. “I do not stay only to annoy cousin Wilford. Your father left me a life interest in the dower house and it comforts me to live near my old home, even if that wretched woman is mistress there now. In any event, you know very well that my constitution is far too delicate to withstand a trip to the Americas.”
Bronte chuckled. “I do not believe I got my determination from father. You could do it if you would only make up your mind to do so.”
She left her mother glaring at her indignantly. When the servants had helped her into the carriage, she handed him two notes. “Please see to it that these are delivered for me straight away.”
The servant bowed. “Certainly, my lady. Should the man wait for a reply?”
Bronte shook her head and settled back against the carriage seat.
* * * *
Nick was in the act of tying his cravat when the pounding came on the front door. His valet sent him a startled glance. “That will be Darcy. Tell him to come up.”
There was a commotion in the foyer and then the sound of booted feet pounding up the stairs.
“Never mind,” Nick said dryly.
Darcy burst into the room as if he’d been pitched in, slamming the door back against the wall.
Nick turned to appraise him, lifting his dark brows. “I despair that you will ever learn the proper way to enter a room.”
Darcy raked a hand through his already disheveled hair. “Don’t start, Nick. Did you get a note?”
Nick frowned, waving his valet away. When the man had closed the door behind him, Nick moved to the cellaret and poured each of them a drink. “I did.”
“Well?”
Nick’s gaze flickered over Darcy’s face. “I will certainly go.”
Darcy frowned. “You don’t think she did this just to throw us off, do you?”
Nick shrugged, settling in a chair. “No. But then, it doesn’t matter, does it? I’m reasonably certain we have covered every eventuality. The ship is ready, is it not?”
Darcy relaxed fractionally, downed his drink in one gulp, and flung himself at a chair.
Nick winced as the delicate chair groaned beneath the bigger man’s weight.
“Yes. It has been for weeks. Assuming we can still round up the crew
,” he said morosely.
“And the coachman and all the footmen bribed. I saw to it personally.”
Darcy frowned. “It almost seems too easy. I don’t mind telling you it makes me very uneasy, especially after the stunt that damned fool Moreland pulled.”
“It was hardly that,” Nick said dryly.
“I still don’t like it.”
“You are laboring under the illusion that I do?”
Darcy scrubbed his hands over his face. “I’m dead on my feet. Didn’t get a wink of sleep last night.”
“You can sleep on the way.”
“I’d feel better if we knew with absolute certainty that Bronte hadn’t hired a carriage to take her.”
“We’ll stop by and check before we leave town,” Nick said soothingly. “You can dash off a note to your captain and instruct him to round up his crew and then we will be certain that we have everything covered and may relax.”
“You don’t think Lady Millford will be suspicious that we’re leaving town on Bronte’s heels?”
Nick shrugged. “Perhaps, but then again, I don’t particularly care.”
* * * *
Bronte could not recall ever being quite so nervous, even on her wedding night. Night had already begun to set in by the time she had arrived at the hunting box. The windows were dark, unwelcoming, and her stomach had tied itself into a little tighter knot. Regardless, she’d felt a little relief, too, knowing that she’d arrived first. It would give her time alone to come to terms with what she’d planned.
When the servants had unloaded her small trunk, set the tiny cabin to rights and built a fire, she had sent them away again to stay at the inn on the outskirts of town. If they didn’t come, she would be stranded for nigh a week, unless she grew so tired of her own company that she walked to town, but she didn’t want to think about that now. It only made her more anxious.
She had not been able to eat more than a morsel of the food she’d brought, and wondered a little wryly if she had overestimated her appeal as the minutes and hours ticked past.
They might not come tonight.
They might not come at all.
Banishing the thought, she set about preparing a bath with the water the servants had hauled from the well and set on the hearth to warm. The warmth of the water and the rose scented oils she’d stirred into it soothed her. She was half drowsing when she heard the sound of a carriage arriving.
She stiffened, fighting the urge to leap from the tub and dash for the bedroom she’d chosen. Already, it seemed, her careful plans were unraveling, for she’d chosen a most seductive gown to wear, had intended to comb her hair until it gleamed and leave it loose down her back.
Instead, she was probably pruned from lying so long in the water and her hair piled haphazardly atop her head.
It couldn’t be helped. She heard the scrape of booted feet on the porch before her mind had even had time to run down the list of things undone.
She sat up as the door opened.
Nick stood on the threshold. He halted, filling most of the doorway. “Set the trunks there,” he said to someone behind him.
She held his gaze as she listened to the thump of several trunks. In a few moments, she heard the sound of the carriage departing and Nick stepped inside. Darcy followed him, closing the door.
“I hadn’t expected you to arrive so early,” she managed to say finally, and was pleased that her voice hardly quavered at all. Girding herself, she rose from the tub and reached for the cloth she’d left warming to dry herself with.
When she’d nerved herself to glance at Nick and Darcy again, she saw that they were still standing near the door, as if frozen in place. A sliver of confidence wafted through her. “I’ll only be a moment. There’s a basket of food on the table if you’re hungry.”
She was shaking by the time she reached the room and closed the door behind her, but very little of it was due to the chill of damp skin. After several moments of panicked indecision, she decided to revert to her original plan. It would give her time to steady her nerves and give them time to settle and have a bite to eat.
She heard the splash of water as she moved to the small fireplace the room boasted and pulled the pins from her hair. She bit her lip, wondering which of them would be reeking of rose oil.
Shaking her head, she combed her fingers through her hair, loosening it to allow it to dry. When it had ceased to drip, she moved to the bed and donned the gown she’d chosen. There was no mirror in the room, but she didn’t need one. She’d examined the gown carefully before she decided on it. The fabric was fine and sheer, revealing far more than it concealed, she knew.
Unhurriedly, she moved to a bench near the fire and began to comb her hair. When she’d delayed as long as she dared, she rose and moved to the door, took a deep, sustaining breath and opened it.
Nick was standing by a window, staring out at the night. His hair was still damp, and hung loosely about his shoulders. He was wearing nothing more than his breeches and shirt which, she saw when he turned, was loose to the waist.
Darcy, in a similar state of half dress, his damp hair already beginning to curl, was sprawled on the couch, idly shuffling the deck of cards in his hands.
She moved across the room to warm her hands at the fire. When she turned, she saw she had their full attention.
Nick dragged his gaze up her length with an effort. “Why?” he asked a little hoarsely.
Bronte lifted her brows questioningly.
“Why did you summon us here?” Darcy asked.
Bronte smiled. “It seems to me that you’ve figured it out.”
“Nevertheless, I’d like to hear it,” Nick said.
She shrugged. “I can hardly be expected to judge which of you is England’s greatest lover when I have not had the opportunity to discover it for myself.”
Nick paled. “I feared as much.”
Darcy flushed. “It wasn’t like that, darlin’,” he said quickly. “I swear on my mother’s soul it wasn’t!”
Bronte bit her lip, trying not to smile. “Your mother is still living, is she not?”
Darcy grinned sheepishly. “Yes, but … just the same.”
Since her backside had grown uncomfortably warm, Bronte turned to warm her hands once more. “What was it like?” she asked, staring into the fire.
“Moreland proposed a wager on it, but neither of us ever accepted, never even considered it. It was just that … well we didn’t know you’d come back until he mentioned it, so we went straight away to see you.”
“And that was all there was to it?”
“Not entirely.”
Bronte turned to look at Nick when he spoke.
“He seemed to be laboring under the impression that you would not be at all receptive to either of us. I wanted to know why. I’d still like to know.”
“It was because of Isaac, wasn’t it?” Darcy put in. “I swear to you, we tried our best to save him, Bronte. We were damned near killed ourselves, but he was dead by the time we got to him.”
Bronte felt the blood leave her face. “You tried--you were hurt?”
“I caught a bullet in the shoulder. Nick was hit twice. I had to haul him out of there.”
“Shut up, Darcy!”
Bronte stared at them in horror, realizing finally that that was why she hadn’t seen them after Isaac was killed. That was why they hadn’t even come home for the funeral. They’d both been battling for their own lives.
Swallowing her fear and horror with an effort, Bronte crossed the room toward Nick, stopping when she was barely a foot away from him. “Where?” she whispered.
He shook his head fractionally. “It doesn’t matter. It was a long time ago. I survived.”
“It does matter. It matters to me.”
“I’ll show you mine,” Darcy volunteered.
Bronte turned to smile at him. “Yes, you will … in a little bit.”
“This is insane, Bronte,” Nick said tightly.
She lifted her brows. “Why? You two have shared before. Even I remember that.”
“This is different.”
She moved a little closer, lifting her hand to trace a rounded scar on his chest almost hidden beneath the dark hair that covered it. “Why?”
He jerked at her touch, sucking in a sharp breath. “Because … I love you,” he said harshly.
Darcy got up from the couch and left the main room abruptly, climbing the stairs to the second floor. A pang smote Bronte, but she could only deal with one thing at the time. She would soothe his hurt, she promised herself, later.