If Love Were Enough (18 page)

Cilla stepped out the back door into a chill winter’s day. She could see her breath as she exhaled, feel the cold burn in her lungs as she inhaled. Winter was not her favorite season, but having been in the manor for more than four solid days, even this short reprieve was a boon.

She stepped into the frozen garden layered like a wedding cake in white from the tops of the trees to the ground. The gardeners had done an impressive job of shoveling a path so she could take some fresh air and get some exercise. Still, as she walked forward, she could feel and hear the crunch of the snow beneath her half boots. She would not be able to stay out very long without freezing her feet.

Wandering the short distance to the nearest bench, she sat to rest and enjoy the serenity and beauty of the blanketed garden. It always seemed so much quieter when the world was covered by a fresh fall of snow. Was it thus or was it just that no one was out of doors to break the stillness?

As far as her eyes could see past the gardens over the surrounding estate there was nothing but white. The storm had descended upon them with little notification and now they were all, including Brandon, snowed-in until some of the fluffy stuff melted away.

A few lost and lazy white flakes drifted toward the ground.

Brandon. What in the world could she do about him? Why had he shown up? And without notice? How much longer could she play ill and avoid him? How long could she keep up this charade?

God, it was good to see him again. To hear his voice. To touch his hand, even that one time.

But how was she to get rid of him before he betrayed her game?

The crisp crunching of some other set of feet on the snow brought her back from her reverie.

“Cilla, I have waited and looked for you for the last four days. And, when I find you, you are out in this frozen winter wonderland. In your delicate state, what on earth possessed you to be out here in the cold?”

Wasn’t it just like Brandon to be concerned about her welfare in spite of everything.

“You need not worry, my lord. I don’t plan to stay out long but I was desperate for a breath of fresh air. And, it cannot get much fresher than this.” She waved her hand in a manner that took in the entire range of the garden and estate.

She shuffled herself along the bench to make room for him to sit down. It reminded her of another day, a warmer day. Was it just this past summer? It seemed a century ago.

“Would you care to sit, my lord?”

“Brandon. You will not go back to speaking to me as if I have not known you previously, as if I am a total stranger. There’s been too much between us for that.”

She swallowed hard as she thought of how well Brandon had come to know her. The memories were still fresh in her mind and her heart even though she tried to excise them, along with the pain, every day since her return.

He sat down beside her then turned her way.

“As you wish. Brandon. I’m afraid you are to be stuck here a while longer. It must be a grave inconvenience.”

“Nonsense. I have no intentions of leaving until we settle a few things between us no matter how long you try to avoid me. The blizzard was a most convenient and timely occurrence. Now Lord Rutherford cannot kick me out even if he wanted to.”

He picked up one of her gloved hands in his own. He had not taken the time to don more than his great coat. His hands were bare and turning red from the cold.

Cilla did not pull her hand away as she felt the shock of his touch even through the navy blue leather of her glove.

Why did he have to come and remind her of everything she had been so desperate to forget?

In instant response, Priscilla jerked up and placed a hand on her stomach. She wrenched with pain.

“Cilla, are you all right? Should I carry you inside?”

She felt the smile spread across her face as she patted her belly. “No, no. I’m quite all right. He moved that’s all. He’s kicking me and it’s quite a healthy kick. Here, feel for yourself.”

She took his hand and laid it against the navy blue wool covering her expanded girth.

Brandon moved his hand beneath the layer of wool. He could make out the small imprint of a foot as it pushed and heaved against the walls of his haven.

Good God, the child was beating his way out of her.

Priscilla’s hand came beneath the fabric to layer over his. Even through her leather glove he felt the heat of her touch.

His eyes raised to hers. She was smiling, smiling the smile of a Madonna, her eyes filled with heartfelt tears, her cheeks rosy from the cold, her lips the merest lift at the corners.

She wanted this baby. She loved this baby.

This child could not be Lord Rutherford’s. He had seen enough of the marquess’s indulgences, heard enough of his ravings over the last four days to know Cilla would not have had anything to do with him. And, if Rutherford had forced himself upon her she would not have been quite this loving with the results.

The child was not Rutherford’s. . . .

The child was not Robert’s. . . .

He could not imagine her lowering her morals to have relations with any stranger she might have come across on her return trip to this estate.

Could the child be his?

Was it his son trying to kick his way out of Cilla’s belly?

Was it his son who brought that loving, tender smile and tears to the eyes of his mother?

Cilla was carrying his son and she had not made any mention or reference to it at all? Had not responded to his letters? Had not sent word of the impending birth?

“Lady Rutherford.” The housekeeper, Mrs. Seeman, crunched through the snow without a coat but with great purpose. “You’ll catch your death out here in this cold. And what about the babe you carry? Inside with you. You need a cup of tea and a good rest. Come on with you right this very minute,” she admonished.

Brandon’s hand fell away as Cilla rose to obey the caring demands of her housekeeper.

“I had no intention of staying out so long, Mrs. Seeman. But I must tell you, he is kicking again. He will be a strong little boy. I just know he will.”

The housekeeper put her arm around Cilla and led her toward the house. “Of course, he will, my lady. He’ll be strong and handsome, just like his father.”

Over Cilla’s shoulder the housekeeper looked back at him. It was not a hard look, nor a disapproving one. It was just the look of someone who knew what was going on and between whom.

He was going to be a father.

And the housekeeper knew it.

It was after nine o’clock that evening. Brandon had not seen Cilla since their meeting in the garden that morning. The housekeeper had hustled her into the house for tea and, evidently, ensconced her in her rooms for the remainder of the afternoon and evening.

He had been trying to get Cilla alone for four days. For four days he had not seen her. This morning in the snow-laden garden was the first chance he’d had. The staff were in constant attendance, especially when Rutherford was present.

Enough was enough.

He had to know, particularly after their tête-à-tête, was their affair at Asheville nothing to her? Had he left with feelings of tenderness, maybe even love, and she felt nothing? Did she have tenderness for the child because she always wanted one or because it was his?

Had she come back to Northumberland and ignored all his letters?

He reached her door.

It was not lost on Brandon that her chambers were in another wing of the house. Away from him. Away from Rutherford. He’d had to follow one of the maids surreptitiously just to find out where she was.

He was still not quite sure the maid hadn’t known she was being followed.

Running both hands through his hair, standing straight to his full height, he knocked on her door.

He waited some seconds.

He knocked again.

“Who is it?” came a wary inquiry from the other side.

“Brandon. Cilla, let me in.” He used all of his
ton
training to keep his voice under control. It was too soon to let her know of his fear, doubt or hurt. And especially his love?

“No, my lord. Please leave.” Her voice went from wary to guarded, unsure. The waver in it gave him further cause for concern.

“Cilla, we must talk. Either you open this door,” he jiggled the knob confirming it was locked, “Or I will have to break it down. Have you any doubt I can or will do it?”

Silence.

“Cilla, do you hear me?”

“Yes.”

“Will you let me in?” Brandon left his hand on the knob, waiting.

A barely audible sigh came from the far side of the door.

He heard the lock snick, then the knob turned against the palm of his hand.

Brandon squelched the small surge of triumph that engulfed him.

All was not clear yet.

He walked through the door, then paused to close and lock it behind him.

Cilla had retreated to the hearth.

Keeping his eyes on his wary quarry, Brandon stalked to her in three long strides. He watched her eyes widen as he approached, but he didn’t hesitate.

He swept her into his arms, felt the firm roundness of her belly holding his son against his loins, then pressed his lips hard against hers.

She struggled against him, her hand pushing as hard as she could against his shoulders.

He held her firmly, but tenderly, conscious of the precious package in her belly, but was unrelenting.

While she still struggled he nipped her lower lip. When her mouth opened, his tongue surged in.

He had to know.

He would now discover.

She struggled only moments more, then her hands slid up around his neck, her body molded itself to his as much as she could in her profoundly enlarged state and her tongue tangled and searched for his.

Brandon's passion ignited.

His hands moved over her back down to her buttocks where he cupped and squeezed the firm globes. Her scent filled his head. The taste of her lips beckoned him to have more.

He released her lips. “Cilla.”

She shoved back from him regaining her balance and self-possession. Stunned from the rapid, unexpected response, he was unprepared to protect himself from the slap, full force, she graced against his left cheek.

His hand flew up to his hot, flushed skin.

“What was that for, my lady? Did I take too much? Or not enough?”

“How dare you barge into my home after seven months without even a word of explanation and think you can have me as if nothing has happened, nothing has changed.”

She stalked to the door, struggled with releasing the lock in her fit of temper, then, when it had finally let go, threw the door wide.

“Get out. Get out and go home. Go back to Estella or whomever it is you are promised to. Go away. Leave me alone. I don’t ever want to see you. I don’t want to be touched by you ever, ever again.”

Her eyes were filled with tears, glistening in the candlelight. Her body vibrated from the intensity of her emotions.

Brandon followed her to the door but instead of walking through it, he tugged it from her hand. Silently he closed and locked it again.

“There seems to be some serious misunderstanding here, Cilla.” He did not touch her, did not even reach for her. He stood facing her, gazing into her flushed face and tear-filled eyes. How had he caused her so much pain?

“Now, tell me what did you not comprehend in my notes and letters? When I left Asheville, I left a note on the salver in the foyer explaining my departure and that I would write. Then I wrote every week, sometimes more than once a week.”

He kept his voice low. She was close to fracturing, her body so tense he could feel it just standing near her. He had no intentions of sending her over the edge if he could help it. It would be bad for her and he was sure it would be disastrous for the baby.

“I received no notes, no letters, no communication of any kind. Where did you send them? How did you send them?” She pulled a handkerchief from her rose silk robe and dabbed her eyes as she glared at him in disbelief.

“I had not your direction here in Northumberland. I could not very well just mail it to the shire in general, could I?”

Brandon leaned against the door, crossing his arms over his chest. His cheek still stung from her slap. He fought the urge to rub it. This time he had not suggested the subterfuge. The blow had been full on and unexpected.

“As I said, in my haste to leave, I left the first note in the foyer sure you would find it when you returned from the shopping excursion you took with Anne and the other ladies. I mailed the others to Asheville expecting they would be forwarded to you.”

“Of course,” he continued, “I had expected you to write back, but I never received a missive of any sort. Once things were straightened away at BrookLea, and I might add, they took much longer than I ever expected, I headed for Asheville. Asher told me he had not heard from you in months. Since he was more than occupied with Anne and the new baby . . .”

“New baby? What new baby?”

“Cilla, have you not read the letter I brought you? Have you not made any communications with anyone since you returned to Northumberland?” Brandon didn’t know whether to be surprised or disgusted.

“I wrote and told Thomas I returned home safely. I told him nothing more than that. I received no communications back from him nor my sister-in-law. I have not read the letter. I put it in my pocket when you arrived and then forgot I had it.”

Finally she moved. She gave up her defensive position by the door to walk to the hearth. She looked down into the flames as if the flickering light would reveal answers.