Storm Redemption

by Magda Alexander

  The smooth running of the castle testifies to Edward’s superb management skills as well. I’d hoped to entice Elizabeth with the supervision of all the properties we own, but her interests lie in corporate law. Since I prefer a family member to oversee our holdings, I asked Edward to take on the role of steward. Not only does he manage the castle and the surrounding property, but I’ve put him in charge of all the Storm landholdings as well. A position he’s eminently suited for. Truly, he should have inherited the title. He loves the castle and the other properties much more than I do. I only care about one thing, my wife and my son. And, truth to tell, Storm Industries, which I rebuilt from the ground up after my mother almost bankrupted it.

  “Where is Lord Edward?”

  “Upstairs, your lordship. In his studio.”

  “Studio?”

  He clears his throat. “The nursery, m’lord.”

  Everything in me clenches. Christ. He built a studio in the nursery? My torture chamber, the place where my sadistic mother and tutor shackled and beat me for the slightest infraction.

  “Very well.”

  “I’ll place your things in the Ruby Room.”

  The Ruby Room where the Earls of Winterleagh from time immemorial have laid their heads, including my father. I bite my tongue to keep from asking about the Emerald Room, the bedroom which was set on fire with Elizabeth and Andrew inside. So many horrible memories of this place. I can’t quit it quickly enough. But, I’ll need to spend the night. The things I need to discuss with Edward will take several hours.

  “Should I announce you, Sir?”

  “No, thank you, Travers. I’ll announce myself.”

  Dragging my steps, I climb the stairs to the east tower where the nursery lies. I take a deep breath to fortify myself for the sight. But when I arrive, I’m pleasantly surprised. The dark, dingy curtains have been torn down. In their place, light shines in through the windows into what indeed has been transformed into an artist’s studio. At one end, Edward stands with a palette in hand staring at a canvas on an easel on which he’s painting a beautiful woman obviously of Mexican descent, her dusky skin similar in tone to that of Dr. Wilkinson.

  “Edward.”

  “Gabe!” He drops the palette on a table close to him and hugs me. “What are you doing here?”

  “Thought I’d drop by and see how you’re doing.”

  “I’m fine. Elizabeth and Andrew?” He glances around me. “Did they come as well?”

  “No. She had an appointment with the decorators. You remember the dining nook in the penthouse?”

  “Vaguely.”

  “Well, she’s redecorating it. She’s quite gung ho on the project. Speaking about redecorating, what have you done with the place?”

  “You like it? It was always so dreary. I had all the old furniture carted off.”

  “And burned?” That’s what I would have done.

  “No.” He smiles and shakes his head. “I donated it to a local charity. Thought you wouldn’t mind.”

  “You’re right. I wouldn’t. Hope they put it to good use.”

  I approach the canvas and take a closer look at the woman in the canvas. Dark hair flowing down to her waist. Eyes the color of chocolate and a Mona Lisa smile, almost as if she’s . . . A strange premonition skitters through my senses. Edward’s reluctance to discuss his past. Did he fall in love with this woman? “Who is she?”

  “Her name was Luisa. Luisa Reyes. She was my wife.”

  A bottle of Patron Tequila sits on the table right along the tubes of paint. The slight aroma of alcohol hangs in the air. Something must have happened to her. Something that’s tearing him apart. “What do you mean was?”

  He grabs the bottle and stumbles toward the couch, a world of sadness in his eyes.

  I drop next to him and, as gently as I can, I say, “Tell me about her.”

  He takes a swig from the bottle, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “She was young. Eighteen when I first met her. And innocent of the ways of the world. She wanted to learn English and so I taught her along with other students. She was bright, so bright, picked up on the language quite readily. One day she missed her ride, a storm brewed and I didn’t want her walking home all alone, so I accompanied her. Along the way, I fell in love.” His unfocused gaze lands on me, asking surcease from his pain. “She was so full of life, Gabe. And I . . . I was lonely, homesick. She brought happiness into my dreary existence. I shouldn’t have done what I did.” His shoulders slump, and he takes another swig of the booze.

  “What did you do?”

  “I seduced her. She fell for my British charm, truly she was fascinated by all English things. She dreamed of coming to England. I allowed her to think I would bring her back with me.”

  “But you didn’t intend to.”

  “No. And then one day she told me she was pregnant with our child. She was ashamed. Her father would disown her once he found out. So I did the honorable thing left to me.”

  “You married her.”

  “Yes. At least I could do that much for her. She was happy, dreaming of a future which would never happen. For a while we were happy. So happy. She chattered a dime a dozen and she could vanish my dark moods with a kiss and a smile. Somehow in the two room house we lived in, she managed to create a nursery for our child. And then one day she went to market, like she did every day, to buy a chicken to cook for me that night.” His breath hitches. “God.”

  “What happened, Edward?”

  “She was caught in a wrong place, wrong time kind of a thing. Gunned down in the middle of the plaza. She was eight months pregnant. She died and so did our child.” He breaks down into sobs as tears stream down his cheeks.

  I wrap my arms around him and hold him tight to me. “Oh, Edward. I’m so sorry.” How has he lived through that pain? If the same thing happened to Elizabeth and Andrew— No, I can’t think like that. That’s not going to happen.

  Once he gets his grief under control, he says, “I buried them by the river, at her favorite spot where the flowers bloom and erected a cross to make sure no one ever forgot who they were—Luisa Reyes Storm and Richard Storm. She was a big fan of Richard the Lionheart.”

  “It was a boy, your child?”

  “Yes. You should have seen him, Gabe. He was tiny, but beautifully formed. He lived long enough to die in my arms.”

  I hug him even tighter to me. “Oh, my brother. My dear, dear brother.”

  Another paroxysm of grief sweeps over him, and for several minutes he succumbs to it. Not knowing what to do other than hold him, I do just that. Finally after a few minutes, he emerges from his sorrow.

  “I would have brought her and our son back with me. If they’d lived.”

  “And we would have welcomed them.”

  For the first time, I glance around the room. Other paintings lean against the walls. Of the beautiful Luisa and their son. In one, they’re laughing by a river. In another, she’s reading to him. He’s creating images of a family that will never be.

  He rises, covers the canvas on the easel with a cloth. That’s when it hits me. Nothing has changed. This room is still haunted by ghosts of the past. Is it any wonder I hate the place?

  He strolls to the window where the light shines through and gazes outward. A healthy sign. But he will need to be coaxed into healthier endeavors. Maybe I’ll ask him to visit our other properties and report back to me.

  “I know why you’re here. Because of what mother said.”

  I nod. “You’re right. Why didn’t you call and tell me? I had to hear it from Samuel.”

  “I didn’t call you because she’s lying. The entire time she was talking she kept glancing at the camera in the corner of the room. She knew exactly where it was. Knew it would get back to you. Since you refuse to come, she did the next best thing, she asked me to tea so she could terrorize you with her pack of lies. Once again, she used me to get to you. And I’m so very tired of being stuck in the middle.”

  Al
l these years I never once wondered what it must have been like for him, playing favorite son when he hates every ounce of her being. I never put myself in his place until now. “I’m so sorry you are caught in this situation. I won’t ask it of you again.”

  “I’d gladly do it, Gabe, if I thought it would help, but it won’t. She’s evil and only seeks to hurt you. Can’t you see that?”

  “Yes, I do. But problem is, little brother, I can’t take the chance. I have to protect Elizabeth and Andrew. Now, let us go down stairs and have ourselves a nice luncheon. I expect they’ve killed the fatted calf now that both prodigal sons are home.”

  His smile fills the room. It’s a sad one. But a smile nonetheless.

  That afternoon we spend going over the castle books, taking a stroll around the estate. He knows the name of everyone around, and everyone smiles when they see him. Just as I suspected, he makes a great steward.

  At the end of the day, we’re watching the telly, a spy caper which holds little interest for me, but he’s fascinated by it. Once it’s done, he flips through channels looking for something else to watch. I’m thinking about begging off for the night and seeking my bed when he comes across a gossip show.

  The announcer, one of those eternally chirpy types, smiles broadly for the camera. “Tonight at La Reve we came across Elizabeth Storm, also known as Lady Winterleagh, enjoying a cozy dinner with Sebastian Payne, the Marquis of Ravensworth. As we reported last week, the Countess’s marriage to Gabriel Storm seems to be on the rocks, separate beds and all that. Could it be she has a new man in her sights?”

  They flash a photo of Elizabeth and Sebastian leaning against each other, close enough to kiss. It’s a punch to the gut that picture. What a fool I’ve been. I thought the work drew her to Payne Industries when all the time it’s been him.

  “It’s not what it appears, Gabe,” Edward says, a concerned look on his face.

  “How the bloody hell would you know?” I snap.

  “Elizabeth wouldn’t stray on you.”

  “Wouldn’t she? She said she was meeting with the decorators. She never mentioned going to dinner with him.” I spit out the last word.

  “Maybe it came up at the last minute. Give her a chance to explain.”

  “Not bloody likely.” Once I get back to London, everything will change.

  Chapter 23

  ______________

  Elizabeth

  “GOOD EVENING, GABRIEL. Did you have a nice visit with Edward?” It’s Sunday evening. I’ve been pacing around the penthouse worried sick about the pictures that popped up on that horrible entertainment show last night. My only hope is that he was too busy at Winterleagh to have seen them.

  But as soon as he walks in, I know how wishful thinking that is.

  His half hooded gaze lands on me, and all I get is a single, “Yes.” Lips slashed into a white line. Skin tight across his face. I’ve never seen him like this. Angry, yes, even hurt, but now he looks tortured, tormented. Clearly, he’s seen the photos.

  “It’s not what you think.”

  “How do you know what I’m thinking?” He grits out through clenched teeth.

  “That I went out with Sebastian. It wasn’t like that. It was a business dinner.”

  “Like the meal your first day on the job was just a business lunch?”

  “It was.” How can he not believe that? I’d had lunch not only with Sebastian, but the director of legal as well. Gabriel was there. He saw us.

  “Whatever you say, Elizabeth.” He scrubs his face. “When will dinner be served?”

  “Half an hour.” I clench my hands to keep them from reaching for him. “Gabriel, we need to talk.”

  “No. We don’t. Now excuse me. I need a shower.” He disappears down the hallway toward his bedroom, the one we no longer share.

  Should I go after him and force a discussion or wait until after dinner when he might be in a better frame of mind? Better do it now. If I wait, he’ll just get angrier.

  Something crashes in the distance. Not knowing where the sound came from, I rush into Andrew’s nursery, but he’s fast asleep. Everything’s right as it should be.

  “M’lord!” Parker’s voice.

  What happened to Gabriel? What did he do? I run to the dressing room and find it in shambles—the round table overturned, the vase in shards, ruined flowers spilled over the cream carpet. And the gorgeous heirloom mirror, the one he inherited from his great grandmother, shattered.

  “What happened?” I ask.

  He doesn’t answer. Just stands there, shoulders slumped, his left hand broken and bruised. And his life’s blood dripping red on the Aubusson rug.

  I gasp. What did he do to himself? What prompted this wreckage?

  “Go away, Elizabeth.” His voice is that of an old man.

  At the other end of the room, his valet’s gaze takes in the damage done to the room, and his face twists with emotion. No wonder. His place of worship has suffered a mortal wound. But the dressing room is not important, the man standing in the center of the devastation is.

  “Parker, could you please bring me the first aid kit? It’s in Andrew’s room.”

  “Yes, madam.”

  “Milady, not madam.” Gabriel spits out. “She’s the Countess of Winterleagh.”

  “My apologies, m’lady.”

  “Oh, for Pete’s sake. It doesn’t matter what he calls me. Just go. Please.” I add as an afterthought.

  “Yes, m’lady.”

  After Parker hurries out, I step gingerly around the shards, take Gabriel’s good arm and lead him to the bathroom where I grab a cloth and dab at the cuts on his hand. They’re not deep, thank God, except for one nasty one which must have been the point of first contact. Most of the blood streams from that gash.

  When his valet returns with the medical supplies, I take them from him. “Thank you, Parker. If you could please see to it that the dressing room’s cleaned up.”

  “Already being attended to, m’lady.” The third milady’s bit of an overkill, but I don’t dare protest, not after Gabriel insisted on the form of address.

  The sound of footsteps trudging into the dressing room reach me. While a vacuum cleaner roars, I meticulously clean Gabriel’s wounds, disinfect them and apply bandages, a butterfly one on the big gash, smaller ones on the other cuts. During the entire process he doesn’t say a word, but leans back against the marble counter, staring over my shoulder into the distance.

  Finally, satisfied I’ve done the best I could, I wrap his hand in gauze, knot it tight so it won’t slip off.

  “Thank you,” he says in that same tired, old voice.

  Despair sweeps over me. I hitch a breath trying to keep the tears at bay. “How did this happen, Gabriel?”

  Stone-faced he stares at me. “Pretty self explanatory, isn’t it? I kicked over the table, punched the mirror.”

  “Why?”

  Glancing down at his bandaged hand, he hitches a shoulder, like the answer doesn’t matter to him. “Who knows?”

  That wayward curl of his falls across his brow. I reach to brush it back, like I’ve done so many times, but he jerks away from me. Like my touch offends him.

  I clench my hands to keep them from straying in his direction again. “You could have seriously hurt yourself.”

  He sneers. “Don’t worry. I led with my left hand.”

  The hand his mother ordered his tutor to break. “Hasn’t it been hurt enough?” No longer able to hold back my tears, I bow my head to hide them from him.

  Curling a finger underneath my chin, he raises my head. Frowning, he sweeps his thumb across my wet cheeks, and glares at the moisture as though it’s repellent to him. “What do you care, Elizabeth?” Blue ice frosts those beautiful eyes of his.

  The rumble of the vacuum cleaner stops. I hope to God there’s no one left in that dressing room listening to this conversation, because it’s about to turn ugly.

  “Of course I care. How can you say that?”

 
“I don’t believe you. Now excuse me, I need to shower before dinner. You might want to use the time to move the rest of your things to Brianna’s place.”

  A cold frisson trickles down my spine. “Why should I do that?”

  “I want you to move out. You can stay in her apartment while you look for a permanent place to live.”

  “You’re kicking me out?”

  “No. I am not. You left when you chose Ravensworth over me.” His lip curls. His gaze telegraphs cold, unfeeling arrogance. “And I’d just as soon not put my cock where some other man’s has been.”

  Hot, red anger flares within me. I hit him, right in the stomach. “You son of a bitch. I’m not going to let you do this to me, to us.”

  Where a lesser man would be doubled over from the pain, he barely registers the punch. He glares at me but doesn’t say a word.

  “What is it going to take for you to believe I’m not sleeping with Sebastian?”

  “Nothing. There’s nothing you can do or say.” His anger dissipates like air from a balloon. “Now go. Please.”

  “No. I don’t care if you’re hurting, I don’t care if you’re mad at me. You’re not tossing me away like so much refuse.”

  “I’m not tossing you away, Elizabeth. You chose your path. Go.”

  I scream, long and loudly. Feet pound the dressing room carpet. Seconds later, Jonathan, Jorge, Marisol, Parker rush in, every last one of them brandishing a weapon of some sort—a revolver, a carving knife, a rolling pin, a shoe stretcher.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Are you hurt, Mrs. Storm?”

  “Ay, Dios mio.”

  “M’lord?”

  I know what they see. Gabriel and I frozen in a tableau. A foot or so apart, facing each other like two combatants. The sight of them shocks me into silence.

  While I labor to breathe, Gabriel calmly studies the small army at the bathroom’s entrance, like this happens every day of the week. “Mrs. Storm is fine. She saw a spider and screamed.” He offers with not even a hint of the lie.

  Doubt any one of them believes him, but they’re not about to call him a liar. Not to his face.