Andrea Kane (32 page)

He nodded absently. “We were all concerned about you last night, and when you weren’t present at luncheon—”

“I am fine, Cyril,” she reiterated, wishing desperately that Braden had not destroyed her dressing gown. “But as you can see, I am not prepared to entertain guests.”

The pointed remark seemed to snap him out of his reverie. “Oh … of course. Forgive me, Kassandra. I didn’t expect that you would be awake yet.” He dropped his eyes politely. “I trust you are suffering no ill effects from last night. Now, if you will excuse me …” He shut the door quietly behind him.

Kassie had no time to ponder Cyril’s strange behavior, for an instant later Margaret burst back into the room carrying five elegant garments over her capable arm.

“Here you are, love,” she said cheerfully, lifting a pale green silk gown for Kassie’s inspection. “This is the one you’ll be wanting to wear. Now let’s hurry and get you ready for His Grace.”

Kassie grinned at Margaret’s enthusiasm, dutifully slipping into the lovely gown. But her grin faded as she remembered her earlier thought, and she lifted her chin a determined notch. This evening, regardless of any possible interruptions, she would speak to Braden of his encounter with her father.

She wasted no time, beginning along with Cook’s mouthwatering oyster soup.

“What did my father say?”

Braden came up with a start. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t known what was on Kassie’s mind. In fact, he had anticipated her question, for he had been brooding over the situation himself. But as usual, her forthrightness managed to catch him off guard. He recovered himself quickly, leaning back and studying Kassie’s beautiful, earnest face. She was flawlessly lovely, and yet so pale, so drawn, the delicate bones in her cheeks so damned prominent. Braden frowned.

“What did he say, Braden?” Kassie had no intention of allowing her question to go unanswered.

Braden gave her a measured look. “Actually, he said very little.”

Kassie placed her spoon emphatically upon the table. “Please, Braden, don’t dodge my meaning in order to protect me,” she said with quiet dignity. “He is
my
father, and I need to know. Was he or was he not the person I sensed watching me this morning?”

Braden reached over and took her hand. “I honestly do not know, sweetheart. He, of course, denied that he was here. But his word is hardly reliable.”

Kassie lowered her eyes, then raised them to meet Braden’s, bleakness clouding their aqua brilliance. “Was he sober?”

Much as it pained him, Braden owed her his honesty. “No. He was barely coherent.”

A look of remembered pain flashed across Kassie’s face, but she merely nodded. “I see.”

Braden brought her fingers to his lips. “I won’t let him hurt you.”

Kassie swallowed. “Do you believe he would?”

“He has in the past. Under certain circumstances, yes, I believe he would again.”

Kassie didn’t flinch. “You’re probably right,” she whispered. She regarded Braden from beneath thick, damp lashes. “Did you strike him?”

Braden wished he had killed him. “Yes. But not nearly as hard nor as often as he struck you.” Taking a deep breath, he plunged onward, trying to ignore Kassie’s agonized expression. “The man is an animal, Kassie. An animal, a drunk, and a liar. He not only denied coming to Sherburgh since you’ve been here, but he denied all knowledge of your nightmares.”

Kassie’s fingers grew cold in his. “You confronted him with my dreams?” she gasped.

“Of course I did. And according to him, you’ve never mentioned them at all.”

“If he was drunk—” she began.

But Braden interrupted her with a disgusted shake of his head. “No. I won’t accept that excuse any longer. And neither should you. He was lying, Kassie,
lying
.”

“But why?” Her voice was barely audible, her face white.

Braden’s heart ached for her, but he had to go on. “Did it ever occur to you that your nightmare returns every time you must deal with your father? Couldn’t there be some connection between the two?”

“
No!
” She was on her feet, trembling violently, her eyes wide with terror. “Please … no,” she whispered, her voice, her gaze far away. Braden caught her just before she crumpled to the floor in a dead faint.

“I’m really all right, Braden. Honestly.” Kassie gave him a weak smile from where she lay upon the sofa.

He sat down beside her, pressing the cool compress to her forehead. “I’m relieved to hear that, sweetheart.” His casual tone reflected none of the worry or guilt that he was feeling. “However, you’ll just have to humor me until I feel more convinced.”

Before Kassie could reply, Charles strode into the drawing room, his riding clothes dusty from a day’s work, his face tight with worry. “Perkins tells me that Kassandra fainted.”

Braden nodded, rising to face his friend. “She did.”

Charles’s gaze went right past Braden to where Kassie was struggling to a sitting position. “Being out all night was too much for you. I should have realized that. You looked so peaked—”

“I’m fine, Charles. Really.” Kassie sat up, taking the cloth from her forehead. “Braden and I were just discussing my father, and I got a bit upset.”

Charles looked at Braden as if he had lost his mind. “After all that Kassandra has endured, what would prompt you to discuss Grey now?” It was not a question, but an accusation.

Kassie answered for him. “Braden seems to feel that seeing my father triggers the recurrence of my nightmares—that there is some connection between the two.” Her voice shook, and she swallowed quickly to keep back the fresh surge of hysteria that threatened to erupt. “Maybe he’s right,” she said in a barely audible whisper, closing her eyes.

Charles’s expression hardened instantly, and he took Braden’s arm, leading him to the far corner of the room. “You’ve pushed her enough, Braden,” he said quietly for Braden’s ears alone. “To continue would be cruel.”

Braden saw the steel in Charles’s gaze, heard the warning in his tone. And it stunned him. “I am trying to help my wife,” he countered firmly.

“You are treading where you have no knowledge.”

“No one knows Kassie better than I,” Braden shot back, his eyes ablaze.

“I agree” was the solemn reply. “Therefore you, of all people, should see that she has reached her absolute limit, that she simply cannot take any more.”

Charles’s words struck home. Braden reeled with their impact, with their truth. Slowly he nodded, instinct telling him that he could not combat this enemy alone. “You are quite right, Charles,” he conceded. “Kassie is deteriorating, and I don’t seem to be able to do a thing to stop it.” He paused. “Perhaps it is time that I sent for someone who can.”

Some of the anger left Charles’s face. “Who?”

“Dr. Howell. He can give Kassie a thorough examination and make some sense out of this madness.” For a moment some of the anguish Braden was feeling registered on his face. “I cannot bear to see her like this any more than you can, Charles. Maybe Alfred can rid her of the pain that torments her.” A muscle flexed in his jaw. “Because no one can convince me that Grey is not somehow involved.”

“Would the two of you kindly stop discussing me as if I weren’t present?” Kassie demanded from the sofa. “If I am the subject of your heated conversation, then please permit me to take part in it as well.”

Braden walked back to her side. “I am going to send for Dr. Howell. I want him to examine you.”

Kassie’s eyes widened. “Do you believe that I am ill?”

“I want to rule it out.” He caressed her pale cheek. “You are too thin, you rarely sleep, and you just fainted. I would feel better if a doctor examined you.”

“As would I.” Perkins’s bold announcement came from the doorway, where he stood with a fresh cloth in his hands. All stunned eyes on him, he scurried across the room and tenderly laid the wet compress on Kassie’s head. “There you are, Your Grace,” he crooned, ignoring the room’s other occupants. “That should help.” He removed the used cloth from her hands and smiled encouragingly. “Dr. Howell is the gentleman who tended to your injuries upon your arrival at Sherburgh some months back. He is a fine physician who has cared for His Grace for many years. I have already sent for him.” He stood stiffly, efficiently, and turned his gaze to Braden. “Will there be anything else, Your Grace?”

Wrestling with the instinct to remind Perkins who worked for whom, Braden decided to forgive the butler his impertinence, knowing that it was caused by his worry for Kassie. “No, Perkins,” he said dryly. “You seem to have taken care of everything quite well.”

Perkins nodded. “Yes, Your Grace. I shall let you know the moment the doctor arrives.”

Kassie watched the butler go, then glanced anxiously at Braden, attempting to judge the intensity of his reaction. “Please don’t be angry with him, Braden. He has the highest regard for you. It’s just that he and I have become rather fond of each other.”

Braden quirked a brow in his wife’s direction. “What you’re saying is that he
respects
me, but he
likes
you.”

Kassie nodded eagerly, relieved at Braden’s unruffled response. “Exactly.” Then, struck by the unflattering implication of her answer, she bit her lip. “What I meant was—”

Braden felt a rush of tenderness flood through him. His Kassie was loving and honest and good, and he only wished that the rest of the world were as sane as she. He pulled her off the sofa and into his arms, burying his face in her hair. “I know what you meant, sweetheart,” he murmured, meeting Charles’s sober gaze over Kassie’s bright head. “We will conquer this thing, Kassie,” he whispered fervently to Charles, to himself. “I promise you we will.”

“Tell me more about Kassandra’s dreams.” Alfred Howell sipped thoughtfully on his brandy, watching Braden pace the length of the study.

Braden stopped short. “What did Kassie tell you?”

Dr. Howell shrugged. “Very little, actually. She was silent through most of my examination, speaking only when I asked her a direct question. She seemed very nervous.”

“That should come as no shock to you, Alfred,” Braden replied bitterly. “You recall the condition she was in when she first came here, as well as the reason for that condition. This examination—
any
examination—is very difficult for her.”

The stout, elderly man shuddered with distaste, raking his fingers through his thick white hair. He recalled only too well the extent and the cause of the duchess’s injuries when he had first tended to her. His disgust and rage had intensified by the moment as he bandaged her bruised ribs and cleansed the numerous cuts and scrapes that marred her perfect beauty. What manner of human being could have inflicted wounds such as these on his own daughter? Howell had wondered, sickened by the thought. He remembered feeling grateful that Grey’s damage had been stopped before it was too late.

Apparently he had been wrong.

Howell’s long silence unnerved Braden. “You’re quite sure that she’s well—that there is no physical cause for her to faint?” he demanded.

The doctor sighed. “I’ve assured you again and again that your wife is not ill, Braden. There is no medical reason for her depleted state.”

“No
medical
reason,” Braden repeated.

“That’s what I said.”

“Kassie believes that she is insane.” Braden watched Alfred’s expression carefully.

The doctor inclined his head slightly. “In my experience, those people who fear that they are insane rarely are. It is those who manifest bizarre behavior and
insist
that they are quite well who are the more likely candidates for insanity.”

Braden drained his own glass, staring intently, silently, at the oriental rug. Finally he seemed to arrive at some decision, lifting his head purposefully to meet Dr. Howell’s curious gaze. “Alfred, we’ve known each other for quite some time,” he began, weighing his words.

“Since you were a boy,” the doctor agreed, waiting.

Braden nodded. “You know that I am by nature a realist, not given to fanciful thought or intangible explanation. However, I truly believe that Kassie’s depleted state is the direct result of her recurring nightmares. And that the nightmares are the direct result of some horrible event that her mind cannot forget but, at the same time, refuses to remember.”

Dr. Howell received Braden’s words without visible reaction, finishing his brandy and then placing the empty glass carefully upon the edge of Braden’s desk. “Kassandra’s problem is not her inability to remember, but her inability to recall,” he corrected at last. “Remembrance is the spontaneous retention of past experiences. Recollection is the active search to recover these past experiences. Therein her problem lies.”

Having been prepared for Alfred’s skepticism, Braden started. “Did you originate that philosophy?”

The doctor smiled. “Hardly. The credit for that goes to Aristotle, over two thousand years ago. But I do subscribe to it wholeheartedly.”

“Then you believe that my explanation is possible?”

“Not only possible, Braden, but probable.” He leaned forward in his chair, his own words giving credence to Braden’s. “From what you have implied, I would venture to guess that someone or something in Kassandra’s past left such a profound impression on her memory that it resurfaces as disjointed images in her dreams. The images themselves, though I am most anxious to hear of them, might not be accurate, but their persistence tells me that they are significant. And they are indeed depleting her energy and her strength. So, in answer to your question, is your wife in good health … yes and no. I believe in treating a patient’s whole self—not only the physical being, but the soul as well.”

“Then will you consider staying on at Sherburgh to help Kassie?” Braden wasted no words, feeling the first rays of hope emerge inside him.

Alfred formed a steeple with his fingers, resting his chin thoughtfully atop it. “This is most unorthodox. You know that, Braden.”

“I know.”

The doctor regarded Braden silently for a moment, then nodded. “Very well. Let me speak to Kassandra again, alone. Then, if she is agreeable, I’ll stay.”

Braden leaned forward, extending his hand to the older man. “Thank you, Alfred,” he said with solemn gratitude. “I am forever in your debt.”