She felt almost reluctant to break that seal, knowing that once she had, she would have severed whatever connection had briefly existed between herself and Maxim from this afternoon.
However tenuous.
Maxim threw Wessex’s letter down unopened onto the bed after entering his bedchamber and began instead to pace the room in the hope his anger would abate to a manageable degree.
He could barely believe Heather had… That she had dared to write to one of his best friends…
She claimed to have done so because she was concerned for him.
What the hell did Heather mean by that?
That she was concerned for him? Or that she was concerned because of Maxim’s volatile and changeable behavior, and how it might possibly affect herself and Ralph?
Dear God, having seen his scars and heard his nightmares, did Heather now fear him? Fear what he might do to her or Ralph?
Admittedly, Maxim had a great deal of anger inside him still, which he occasionally vented at the boxing saloon or during fencing matches, but he had never physically struck out at anyone outside of those controlled environments. He knew without question he would never ever hurt Heather or Ralph.
The thought of Heather ever being afraid of him burned Maxim to his very soul.
Chapter 11
Heather saw little of Maxim over the next two days as he rode about the estate with Briggs, the estate manager, or visited with the tenants. Nor did he join her for dinner on either of those two evenings, instead informing Coombe, and not Heather, that he would be dining with the local doctor and his wife, and the vicar and his wife, respectively, so leaving Heather to dine alone.
This told her that Maxim was obviously so angry with her still for her interference, he was avoiding her company completely.
Part of her was relieved not to have to deal with the tension that now existed between the two of them.
Another part of her missed him.
Missed spending time with him.
Getting to know him again.
Being kissed by him and the two of us making love together.
A lovemaking which had touched Heather as deeply as it ever had.
Wessex’s letter, when Heather did finally break the seal and read it, had been ambiguous to say the least. He offered no answer to her question as to why Maxim was so much harder and unsmiling than the man he had been six years ago. Except to state, as had Maxim, that the lengthy war against Napoleon had changed many men. Heather truly had not mentioned Maxim’s scars nightmares in her letter, and neither had Jericho Black in his reply. Although she felt sure the other man must know of the scars, even if, as Maxim claimed, the other man was not aware of his nightmares.
Obviously, Wessex valued his friendship with Maxim more than he did giving her a full and truthful explanation. And Heather could not fault him for that. Had she not been doing the same herself with her carefully worded letter to the marquis?
Her imagination, however, had come up with several explanations for Maxim’s scars. None of them pleasant.
That perhaps he had been outnumbered in a brawl that had turned brutal.
That he had fallen afoul of the French, although she could not believe such injuries could have been inflicted upon him merely for being an English soldier.
Or, lastly, that Maxim had become one of those people who liked to inflict and receive pain as a means of sexual outlet.
The latter explanation was distasteful to Heather, nor had she seen any evidence of that during their own lovemaking. She did not count the spanking she had received. That was more in the form of love play, and totally arousing for both of them.
No, her letter to Wessex had done nothing to further Heather’s knowledge about Maxim, but had instead succeeded in placing a wall between the two of them, which Maxim had made it clear he considered impenetrable.
“Mama, when will Maxim take me fishing again?” Ralph pouted on the third morning after she had joined him in the nursery for breakfast.
Maxim had ceased eating breakfast in the family dining room too, and Heather could only assume his valet was taking a tray to Maxim’s bedchamber each morning.
Her son’s question showed he missed Maxim too. As far as Heather was aware, Maxim had not visited or spent time with Ralph during the past two days either. And for that, she felt a little guilty. Maxim obviously wished to avoid her, and, by association, Ralph was suffering the same fate.
“He is very busy about the estate, darling, catching up on all that needs to be done.” Heather had done her best to step into James’s shoes these past eighteen months, and their estate manager was one of the best, but she had no doubt there were things they had both missed which Maxim would not.
Ralph sighed. “I thought he liked me.”
“I am sure that he does,” she cajoled.
“Then why hasn’t he spent any time with me for days and days?”
Heather chuckled at his drama. “Two days, darling,” she corrected indulgently. “I will go fishing with you today, if you like?”
Ralph shook his head. “Maxim puts worms on the hook, where you will only put pieces of bread that become soggy and fall off, rather than wriggle enticingly for the fish.”
Her nose wrinkled with distaste. “I suppose I could try baiting with worms—”
“No need,” Maxim announced as he entered the nursery without warning. “I will take you fishing this morning, Ralph, if you wish to go.”
“Maxim!” Ralph jumped up from his chair, without asking to be excused, to run across the room and launch himself at Maxim before being lifted up into the man’s arms.
Heather’s breath caught in her throat, as it always did when she saw Maxim and Ralph together. Their similarity in looks could, she knew, be attributed to having the same father, but Heather knew better. Ralph was most definitely his real father’s son. The same color hair and eyes, even the stubborn tilt of his chin was a childish replica of Maxim’s arrogant jaw.
“With your mother’s permission, of course,” Maxim added with an edge of uncertainty in his voice, the expression in his eyes hidden by heavy lids.
Heather felt extremely self-conscious of her appearance under the intensity of that narrowed gaze. Not that she had any real reason to be. As usual, her hair had been perfectly styled this morning by her maid, and her green day dress was as fashionable as any she wore for the Season in London.
Maxim looked as tall and handsome as he always did. His dark blond hair was fashionably styled, his clothes tailored to his wide shoulders, narrowed waist, and long, muscular legs.
Long, muscular legs that had been wrapped naked about Heather’s own equally naked ones only days ago.
She felt her cheeks warm. “Of course Ralph may accompany you fishing.” She was rewarded by a squeal of pleasure from her son.
“Perhaps you would like to come with us?” Maxim murmured.
“Thank you, but no. If you are to occupy Ralph this morning, then I have some errands of my own to run.”
Maxim wondered if those errands included delivering the illegal goods which he had discovered, as he rode about the estate these past two days, had once been stored in Wheal Anne. There had been evidence of the tramping of men and carts and oxen outside the derelict building.
He accepted that finding this evidence of smuggling did not clear Heather of being guilty of treason, but it at least gave him the hope she was only involved in smuggling rather than betraying the English Crown. Whatever differences now existed between the two of them, he did not relish the thought of Heather being hung by the neck until she was dead.
Far from it.
The argument aside, the pleasure of their lovemaking had remained with him these past two days, even though he had made a point of avoiding being in Heather’s company.
Wessex’s letter, after all the anticipation of what it might contain, had actually consisted of only four words.
Tell her the truth.
Tell Heather of his capture by th
e French and those long months of torture for the information he refused to give them?
Maxim would be lying to himself if he did not admit to having thought about it.
And then dismissed it.
Heather could not help but think even less of him than she already did if she were to learn that truth.
Maxim should not have been so careless as to have allowed himself to be captured in the first place.
Nor was he proud of those months he had been incarcerated in a French prison.
He had failed miserably in his mission and let down the Crown as well as his friends.
One day he might forgive himself, but until he did, he could not expect anyone else to do so.
Least of all Heather.
But this avoiding Heather had to stop, Maxim had decided this morning as his valet shaved him. For the moment, they were living in the same house and could not continue to simply ignore the other’s existence. What he had overheard of Ralph’s conversation as he approached the nursery confirmed that.
“Maxim…”
He blinked and refocused on Heather as he realized what she had actually said to him. “Are you happy for Ralph and me to go out alone, or would you prefer we take his nursemaid with us?”
Her brows rose. “I am sure Jane is no more eager to put worms on a hook than I am.”
Still Maxim hesitated. “If you are sure?”
Heather was very sure, had no idea why Maxim should think otherwise. “I have no doubt Jane would prefer to accompany me into town while I do some shopping rather than touching worms and slimy fish.” Ralph was growing so rapidly, he was in need of several new shirts, but like most men, he hated shopping. Unless it was for toys, which today it was not. “Unless you wish for company?” She did not really need to go herself and could send Jane to do the shopping for her.
Maxim’s jaw tightened. “No.”
Heather’s lashes lowered to hide the hurt she felt at his rejection. But what had she expected? His intention of going fishing obviously meant Ralph was still in Maxim’s favor, where she was not. “Then I hope the two of you enjoy yourselves,” she dismissed with a brightness she did not feel. “Take a jacket with you, Ralph. The wind is cold today.”
“Yes, Mama.” His tone was long-suffering.
So much so that it even brought a smile to Maxim’s stern lips. “I will ensure he takes and wears a jacket,” he told Heather ruefully.
“There is no need for you to hurry back.” Heather was loath to end this conversation, the first the two of them had had since Maxim had stormed from the dining room three evenings ago. “It is Saturday, so Ralph has nothing else of importance to do today or tomorrow.”
“I believe we will be back in time for luncheon,” Maxim assured her. “Will you be joining us?”
Heather gave him a searching glance, trying to ascertain from Maxim’s expression whether or not he wished her to join him and Ralph for lunch. The evenness of his tone gave no indication either way.
Ralph had made it very clear earlier that Maxim was important to him, and Maxim’s offer to once again take the little boy fishing, showed Ralph was important to him too. Heather did not wish to intrude upon a friendship that was so newly formed.
She gave a shake of her head. “I believe Jane and I might call upon the vicar’s wife after shopping. I owe her a visit. But thank you for asking.”
Why was Heather being so fucking polite, Maxim questioned impatiently, when politeness was the last thing the two of them felt toward each other—
Ralph.
Heather would not wish to reveal any discord between the two of them in front of her son. Any more than Maxim did. At the same time, he heartily disliked this stilted politeness between Heather and himself, when it was so reminiscent of the same cold politeness Heather had shown him five years ago when he arrived here to find her married to his father, and again when he first arrived here a week ago.
Maxim had believed the two of them had long since passed that stage several days ago. No, they had most definitely progressed beyond stilted politeness.
He’d had plenty of time to think as he accompanied Briggs about the estate, visiting tenants and being shown the harvest and new planting, before then dining out with some of the local gentry. The conclusion he had come to was that he owed Heather an apology. Another one. Jericho’s short reply to Maxim indicated Heather had told the truth, and she had not broken Maxim’s confidence by revealing the existence of his nightmares to the marquis.
Knowing he had to make an apology and actually doing it were two different things, however. Not because Maxim was too proud to do so; pride had little to do with it. He simply had no wish to become involved in a conversation where Heather admitted to being frightened of him. Better by far to leave things as they were between them than risk hearing that was the case.
Although, surely her willingness to allow Ralph to spend the morning with him, unaccompanied, cast doubt upon that fear? She loved Ralph with the single-mindedness of a mother, and would never do anything to put her son at risk.
Some of the tension eased from Maxim’s shoulders. “I trust you will enjoy your morning as much as Ralph and I intend to.”
“I am sure I shall,” she returned coolly.
And that, Maxim accepted heavily, seemed to be the extent of their politeness to each other.
This was almost worse than that paralyzing pain he had experienced upon learning Heather was his father’s wife. Then, she had belonged to another man, was the mother of his child, and Maxim had no choice but to accept it as fact. Now, Heather was no longer married but a widow, and their lovemaking two days ago showed the desire and pleasure they had once shared was still as strong.
Maybe he should just do as Wessex suggested in his letter and tell Heather—
No!
Maxim could not bear to see the disappointment, possibly disgust or even pity, Heather would feel at learning of his failed mission and the torture that followed.
Heather felt refreshed, her mood relaxed, by the time she and Jane returned from their jaunt out in the carriage. The shopping had been successful, as had their visit with the vicar’s wife, where they had partaken of sandwiches and cake with their afternoon tea before taking their leave to return to Treganon House.
It was therefore a little disconcerting to find no Coombe waiting to admit them into the house. Instead, a puzzled Jane was the one to step forward and open the front door before the two of them walked into what appeared to be a scene of chaos.
A young maid was running up the stairs rather than walking, several towels clutched in her hands as she passed the harassed-looking housekeeper coming down the stairs and was briskly told to hurry along by that gray-haired lady.
Another maid appeared from the back of the house carrying a bowl and what appeared to be a jug of hot water, both quickly taken from her by the housekeeper, who then turned and hurried back up the stairs.
Coombe stood in the entrance hall issuing instructions to one of the footmen.
Not a single one of them even seemed aware that the mistress of the house and her maid had just arrived home.
“Coombe?” A frown creased Heather’s brow when her quietly voiced query received no response. “Coombe!” She spoke in a louder tone, her heart giving a lurch as the butler turned and she saw the worry on his face. “Tell me what has happened?” Because something most assuredly had to have caused this uproar in the usually calm household.
The butler quickly finished giving instructions to the footman, that young gentleman hurrying down the hallway toward the kitchen. The older man then crossed the entrance hall in half a dozen long strides to reach Heather’s side. “There has been accident, my lady.”
Her disquiet deepened. “What sort of accident?”
“His lordship—”
“Maxim is injured?” she prompted sharply, her heart pounding loudly.
Coombe winced. “His young lordship—”
“Ralph?” Heather’s heart
seemed to have stopped beating altogether. “Where is he?” she demanded. “Where is my son?”
“He is in his bedchamber, my lady. His lordship is with him,” the butler assured her. Heather thrust her bonnet and parasol into her maid’s hands before quickly ascending the staircase. “The doctor will be here shortly,” Coombe called out in reassurance.
Heather heard no more of what was said as she reached the top of the stairs and ran down the hallway toward the nursery.
Ralph!
Dear God, if anything had happened to her son…
Chapter 12
The scene that met her eyes when she burst into the nursery did nothing to quell her anxiety.
Ralph lay upon the bed, his eyes closed and his face deathly pale, apart from the bloodstained towel being pressed against his temple by a haggard and gray-faced Maxim.
Several blood-soaked towels had been already discarded onto the floor, and the housekeeper was busy picking them up.
“What happened?” Heather demanded as she moved round to the other side of the bed. Tears stung her eyes as she stared down at Ralph, her hand moving instinctively to gently touch the top of her son’s disheveled head, far away from the towel being pressed against his temple.
“He fell and hit his head on a rock,” Maxim supplied economically.
Fear clutched at Heather’s chest as she saw that Maxim’s superfine was also covered in blood, as was the top of his shirt, where he had obviously carried Ralph at some stage. “Has he been unconscious ever since?” She had heard of cases where people had never woken up after receiving a head injury.
As if to reassure her, Ralph’s lashes fluttered and then his lids rose before he looked up at her with pained gray eyes. “Mama,” he acknowledged softly before his lids closed again.
Maxim drew in a ragged breath. “I only took my eyes off him for a second or two—”
“One does not even need to take one’s eyes off small children for accidents to happen,” Heather answered him distractedly, a sense of calm replacing her earlier panic. Falling into hysteria would not help Ralph. “Have you cleaned the cut?”
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