Holy Scoundrel (5 page)

Bridget shrugged and sidled closer. She liked MyLacey. She talked softly and smelled of the flowers that grew in the water meadow, alive and sweet, same as Mama used to smell.

Bridget liked that scent better than the brittle petals NannyMac put in Mama’s trunk and shut away in that fusty old attic.

That smell made her sad and cross.

Bridget leaned against MyLacey’s soft body and shut her eyes to inhale the scent that almost made it seem as if . . . “Mama,” she said.

Mac emitted a strangled sob.

Lacey’s heart skipped and needle pricks attacked her suddenly weak limbs.

The color left Gabriel’s face as if he were jolted to his marrow, aging before their eyes, yet she did not mistake the slight movement of his head, a warning for her not to react.

Even Ivy appeared shaken.

Afraid to do the wrong thing, yet more afraid of failing Bridget by not heeding her unspoken need, Lacey took the child on her lap.

That small, dark head settled against her breast, fitting and feeling perfect.

“Are you hungry, Bridget?” Lacey asked, brushing the hair from the child’s big appraising eyes, checking the rush of emotion that she did not think Bridget would appreciate.

“Cricket,” Bridget corrected, and Gabriel looked up startled and . . . young again.

“Cricket, then. What would you like for breakfast?”

“Boxty, please, with butter and sugar.”

“My favorite. Your mama and I used to . . . ” Lacey hesitated, looked at Gabriel, then Mac, but both were waiting for her to continue, as was Bridget. “Your mama and I liked Boxty best with strawberry jam.”

Cricket sat up looking for Mac.

The old woman placed her hands on her ample hips and shook her head, shivering its silver tufts. “I suppose you’ll be wanting the strawberry jam, now, lovey?”

Bridget nodded, her big eyes eager. “Yes, please.” Lacey looked forward to the day she might glimpse even the hint of a smile in those eyes.

To her secret delight, Bridget refused to leave her lap, even when her breakfast was placed on the table. Lacey pulled the plate in front of them, noting the quick, disapproving lilt of Gabriel’s brow, but she didn’t care. Her arms had ached to hold a child since her own babe had died, and she wasn’t relinquishing the incredible warmth and joy of it for anyone, except Bridget herself.

Lacey kissed the top of her little head, ignoring Gabriel’s steely regard. She saw right away that lack of appetite had nothing to do with Bridget’s small size. She also saw that the child had perfected the art of ignoring her stepfather. In that, Bridget reminded Lacey of herself as a girl, trying to master Gabriel like Ivy did his puppets. Lacey wondered if Bridget’s tormented stepfather realized she was doing it.

“I take your enthusiasm to mean that you like Boxty with strawberry jam?” Lacey asked, and Bridget lowered her fork and swung around to nod. Then she squeaked and turned back in time for them to see Ivy’s pup back away from the table, a fork falling from her mouth to clink at her paws.

Tweenie chewed the forkful of Boxty she’d stolen from Bridget and licked her puppy chops. Then she stood straight up on her tiny hind legs to beg for more.

Bridget gasped and slid off Lacey’s lap to receive a tongue-licking face-wash, and Lacey got down on the floor as well to show her Tweenie’s tricks, Ivy prompting from the table.

Like an outsider watching the domestic scene, jealousy reared up green and ugly in Gabe’s hard-beating heart, so strong, he could barely stand himself for feeling it. After months of ignoring him, Bridget took one look at Lacey, spoke to her, called her mama, of all things, and sat in her lap.

While Gabe was duly ashamed of himself for being jealous, he couldn’t seem to shake it. For the first time in months, Bridget was acting almost like a normal four-year-old, without his help. Since Clara’s death, he’d been sitting up nights watching her sleep, praying for the ability to pull her from her dark, dismal shell, for anything, anyone, that might—

Dear God, coul
d
Lace
y
be the answer to his prayers?

Surely the Deity would not play such a jest as this on one of his faithful servants. Then again, a few weeks ago, he’d panicked after a day of Bridget’s dark, brooding silences and offered God a bargain. He’d promised to build a school for the crofters’ children—in other words, he’d promised the impossible—if Bridget could only be happy again.

While he was more than grateful for Cricket’s animation this morning, he’d wanted, selfishly, to be the one to breathe life into her once more
.
He’
d
wanted to be his daughter’s hero. How foolish was that?

Bridget had sometimes seemed as if she’d given up on the world that disappointed her. He’d been worried sick about that, so worried, his own needs became dust in the face of hers. If Lacey was important to Bridget, then Lace was welcome here. Welcome her
e
foreve
r
popped into Gabe’s mind and he shot from his chair to escape it.

Everyone looked at him, even Bridget for an instant.

With little choice but to make an exit, Gabe bent on his haunches to place a kiss on his daughter’s head. “Have a nice day, Cricket.” He rose. “Ivy, you want to come with me on parish visits later and meet your audience?”

“I’d like that; we can talk about when and where to have the first puppet show.”

“See you at the stable around eleven, then. MacKenzie, I’ll be back at teatime. Lace, walk me outside, will you?”

Lacey’s brows furrowed, but she rose graciously. When Bridget hesitated to relinquish her hand, she assured his daughter she’d be right back.

That, more than anything, disturbed Gabe as Lacey walked beside him through the house and out the door.

On the front walk, she turned to him. “Gabriel, I assure you, I had no opportunity to say anything to make her—”

“I am aware of that. Besides, I saw your face.”

“And I saw yours.”

Gabe ignored the concern in her gaze and shrugged. “She’s . . . fragile, our Bridget. I think, Lace, that she needs you.” Gabe took a deep, shuddering breath. “I don’t know your intent as far as staying, but I’d—” He cleared his throat. “I’d appreciate it if you did stay for a while if you could. Bridget’s better already, and frankly, I’d do anything, anything, to see her happy again.”

“Even keep me around?” She turned away quickly and made for the house, but he’d caught the flash of pain in her expression.

“I didn’t say that,” he called, but she shut the door on his words. He’d thought it, but he hadn’t said it.

Gabe fisted his hands and marched off, but he stopped short of going through the kissing gate and dropped to the garden bench, instead. “Blast him for a fool!”

Only one other individual had ever provoked him as much as Lacey—Nicholas Daventry, the accursed father of Lacey’s child. After nearly five years, just remembering made Gabe want to howl with rage and strike something, or someone, preferably Nick himself.

He smacked the granite bench with both hands and welcomed the sting.

Yes, he had good reason to despise Lacey’s association with Daventry, but none at all to despise her love for Clara’s daughter.

Nevertheless, this jealousy tasted the same—vile. He’d best shake it, else he’d wallow in it, and end up as bitter as the malady itself. He would not act the hind end of a horse every time Lacey did something like show Cricket a pup.

He raised his head. Botheration! He’d meant to show her the lamb. The opportunity to do so, coupled with the chance to make up to Lacey, cheered Gabe somewhat as he returned to the house. But back in the kitchen, he found Lace feeding the lamb, Bridget in her lap.

A trickle of blood marred Bridget’s tiny foot, the injury piercing him. “Bridget, your feet are bare! MacKenzie, put her slippers on before she hurts herself again! Blasted slate tiles.”

Quick as a poacher with a fat rabbit, Mac whisked Bridget upstairs.

Lace rose and shook out her skirts with more vehemence than necessary
.
As if MacKenzie would allow even one dust mote to settle in her domain.

Invisible grime dispatched, Lace regarded the stairs pensively, until they heard a door close upstairs, then she rounded on him. “You shouldn’t have snapped at them like that.”

“I don’t snap!” Gabriel snapped, and winced.

“Lord, it’s grand being together again.” Ivy grinned and raised his teacup. “To old ghosts, and new.”

Later that day, on a jaunt of Lacey’s choice, Bridget pulled her up short. “I don’t like the attic. It smells fusty.”

Lacey urged her along. “You mean musty?”

“That, too.” Bridget plopped down with a heavy sigh to sit in the middle of the stairs. “My legs hurt.”

Lacey smiled and tugged her up. “You make me think of two little girls I once knew, me and your mother.”

“Did you grumble a lot?”

“Only when we didn’t want to do something we didn’t like.”

“I don’t like the attic. I don’t want to go there.”

Lacey grinned. “I know, but we’re going anyway. Did I forget to tell you that complaining doesn’t work?”

“Oh.” Bridget gave a long-suffering sigh. “Why do we gotta go there?”

“Why do w
e
hav
e
to go there?”

“That’s wha
tI
want to know!”

“I want to look through your mother’s things. I don’t have anything to remember her by.
”
And I want you to understand that she and I are two “different” people
.
“I didn’t see much of your mama’s downstairs.”

“I have her special book.” Bridget pulled Lacey in the opposite direction. “C’mon, it’s in my room. You can have that.”

“Not so fast, my little beguiler. We’ll go to the attic now and later I’ll read your mama’s book to you. How’s that?”

“It’s no
t
tha
t
kind of book.” Bridget started dragging her feet, catching the toes of her shoes on the steps, in turn, and slowing them down.

Lacey swallowed her laughter. For all Bridget’s dawdling tactics, Lace hadn’t had this much fun in an age. “Your papa and I used to play here when we were young.”

“I never saw my Papa. What did he look like?”

That stopped Lacey. “I meant your stepfather. What do you call him?”

Bridget shrugged.

No wonder Gabe was hurt; Bridget barely looked at him, and she musn’t address him directly, either, Lacey thought as they continued their climb in silence.

The cozy attic appeared nothing so much as a jaunty jumble of junk. Lit by windows round and tall, it spoke of bygone days and forgotten secrets. Judging by Bridget’s face, it must simply seem to her a gloomy place.

“Did you ever look out over the village from here? I vow you can see all the way to Scotland.” Lace stood her on an old trunk to look out the large round window. “See those turrets over there. That’s Ashcroft Towers, where your mama and I grew up. Did you know that?”

Bridget nodded, not the least impressed.

“Oh, and there’s your stepfather’s carriage tottering down Parson’s Hill; guess they never replaced those missing cobbles.” Inspired, Lace turned Bridget to face her. “Why don’t you call him PapaGabe. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind. He loves you, you know.”

“I know.” Bridget began to undo Lacey’s buttons. “He calls me Cricket.”

“That’s how you know he loves you?”

She nodded and touched Lacey’s hair.

“Not by his hugs and kisses or his keeping your blankets tucked to your chin so you stay warm at night?”

Bridget shrugged again and began to finger-comb Lacey’s hair with great concentration, until she ended up pulling her chignon off-side. When a hank broke free and covered half of Lacey’s face, Bridget’s eyes actually twinkled with mischief, reminding Lacey so much of the happy, carefree little girl who must be hiding inside, that emotion welled up in her and she pulled Bridget close. Then she planted smacking kisses on Bridget’s cheeks, forehead, and nose, and lifted her off the trunk to twirl her in circles. “I love you, I love you, I love you!” Lace shouted.

Bridget’s sob made her stop. Small arms came hard around her and that small, perfect face pressed into her neck.

Lacey wasn’t certain if going in circles had frightened her or if emotion had overwhelmed her. Either way, she wasn’t letting her go. Lowering the two of them to a trunk, she began to sing.

“Oh dear, what can the matter be?

Dear, dear, what can the matter be?

Oh dear, what can the matter be?

Papa’s so long at the fair.

He promised he’d bring thee a basket of posies,

A garland of lilies, a garland of roses,

A little straw hat, to show the blue ribbons

That tie up thy bonny brown hair.”

Bridget listened and watched transfixed, until Lacey finished and kissed her nose again.