Promise Me Tonight (29 page)

She gave him a searching look, and James suddenly felt as if her warm brown eyes could penetrate his flesh and see to his very core.

“Ye’ve a guid heart, milord,” she told him softly. “Yer wife is a lucky woman.”

James chuckled as he collected the packages and paid the woman several times more than the price she had given him. “I doubt she would agree with you, but thank you. As for my heart . . .” He sobered, then said quietly, “I’m working on it.”

Chapter 18

I fear I have inherited our mother’s tendency to cry at the slightest provocation. Whether I am happy or sad, angry or glad, the tears stand at the ready. I suppose it could be worse. I might have ended up with her Shakespearean obsession instead!

From the correspondence of Isabella, Lady Dunston,

age twenty

Letter to her brother, Henry Weston, on the sender’s alarming

propensity to burst into tears at the drop of a bonnet—

September 1798

J
ames got an early start the next morning, despite Rory’s insistence that the horses were still tired and needed to be fed more apples, and Haile Castle was in sight before noon. It was an imposing mass of gray stone spread across the grassy hillside; its twin towers, rising five stories high, were separated by a long, three-story hall. Even more intimidating were the gun ports and pistol loops decorating the exterior, but James consoled himself with the knowledge that if Isabella was indeed going to shoot him, she’d want the satisfaction of berating and insulting him first. Oddly reassuring, that.

Social protocol dictated it was far too early to be calling, but James figured it was a man’s right to call on his wife at whatever damned hour he chose. Although his wedding day was a bit of a blur, he was quite certain something to that extent had been mentioned in the marriage service.

Davies dropped him off at the front entrance to the castle before proceeding to the stables. Squaring his shoulders, James marched up to the door; however, with a huge bouquet of flowers in each hand and packages tucked under each arm, he realized he had no way of knocking. After a moment’s hesitation, James lifted his booted foot and gave one of the massive, ancient doors a hard, satisfying kick. He was getting ready for another when the door swung open to reveal a man as solid and massive as the portals he guarded.

The butler eyed James up and down for a long moment; he must have passed muster, for the man bowed. His lips twitched as he rose and said, “You kicked, my lord?”

Impertinent bastard, James thought. “I have come to see Lady Dunston,” he stated, and moved to enter.

The butler blocked him and folded his arms across his chest in a menacing manner. “Lady Dunston is not at home.”

James frowned. “What time do you expect her to return?”

“From where?”

From where?
“From wherever she has gone, of course.” Obviously the man had not been blessed with brains proportional to his brawn.

“She hasn’t gone anywhere.”

The conversation was so ridiculous, James began to wonder if he wasn’t still asleep at the George, tucked under the blankets, trapped in a bizarre dream. He would have pinched himself, but as his hands were occupied, he had no choice but to continue with the farce.

He took a deep, calming breath. “If Lady Dunston has not gone anywhere, how is it possible that she is not at home?”

The butler looked thoughtful, but James could have sworn he saw a satanic glint in the man’s eyes as he responded, “Perhaps I should have said the lady in question is not receiving visitors at present.”

James seriously considered dropping everything in his arms and lunging for the man’s throat. It was tempting, so very tempting . . . but his shoulder was sore from jouncing around in the carriage. And in any case, he doubted he could even fit his hands around the behemoth’s thick neck. So he took several more of those deep, calming breaths, enough for the red haze to clear from his vision. Isabella was there. He was moments away from seeing her. Or was he?

“Is Lady Sheldon also not receiving visitors?” he inquired.

“Lady Sheldon is not at home right now.”

James gritted his teeth. “If that is your obtuse way of saying—”

The butler had the audacity to grin. “No, Lady Sheldon is truly not at home. She is out for the morning.”

James heaved an inward sigh of relief. At least that would be one less person trying to shoot him. On that happy thought, James drew himself up and, imitating his grandfather at his most imperious, demanded to be shown into the castle.

To his surprise, the butler stepped back and allowed James to pass by him into the cavernous entryway.

As he closed the heavy doors, the butler said, “If you will give me your name, I will inquire if Lady Dunston wishes to receive you.”

“She’ll see me,” James stated with far more confidence than he actually felt. “I’m her husband.”

As the butler gaped, James thrust Lady Sheldon’s bouquet at the man. “Have those put in water for your mistress,” he ordered, “but first tell me where my wife can be found.”

“Of course, my lord, but you must be weary from your travels. May I get you—”

“My wife? Yes, but you needn’t bring her to me; only tell me her present location.”

The butler sighed, unhappily resigned. “She is probably in the nursery.”

“With her cousin?”

“No, my lord. Lady Sheldon took Lady Charlotte with her.”

“When they return, see Lady Charlotte gets this.” James shoved the parcel containing the doll into the butler’s free hand. “Where is the nursery?”

“Shall I show you the way, my lord?”

James shook his head. “Just tell me how to get there.” He didn’t want the butler announcing him and ruining the element of surprise.

As he climbed the winding stairs to the top of the south tower, James wondered what his wife was doing alone in the nursery. When he reached the open threshold, though, it became apparent that she was not, in fact, alone. Her back was to him, but he could see the downy fuzz of an infant’s head settled into the curve of her neck.

“Hello, Izzie.” His voice felt thick in his throat. She didn’t respond, but he knew she had heard him from the way her body stiffened. She gently laid the baby down in its cradle, and then turned to face him. Her face was deathly white, her mouth a thin white line—not, he supposed, the greeting he had hoped for, but it was the one he had expected. In any case, she was the most beautiful sight he had ever seen.

“I didn’t realize that Lady Sheldon had remarried,” he said conversationally, nodding his head at the cradle.

Isabella’s eyes widened in disbelief.

Hmmm. Perhaps “I love you” or “I was a fool to leave you” might have been a better choice.

“She didn’t.”

Maybe he should have just swept her off her feet and kissed her. He wondered if it was too late to implement that plan.

“She didn’t what?” James asked distractedly.

“She didn’t remarry,” Isabella said, a hint of impatience in her tone.

“Whose baby is it, then?”

Isabella looked at him as if he were fit for Bedlam. “Yours!” she exclaimed. “I mean, mine.” Then, in a softer voice, she added, “Ours.”

The addition was, in his opinion, rather unnecessary. Just because he had fallen out of her good graces didn’t mean he was a complete idiot. And then he realized what she was saying, and—

“Oh Jesus Christ,” he whispered to himself, dropping the package so as to brace a hand against the wall for support. He sank down to the floor, and then, when the room had stopped spinning, he looked up, dazed.

Isabella moved to stand in front of the cradle, her stance reminding him of the way female animals fought viciously to protect their young; only the bared fangs were missing.

“You’re alive!” he blurted out.

She eyed him oddly. “James, are you all right? You don’t look very well.”

Was he all right?

Was he all right?

Once he recovered from the shock, he would be bloody marvelous! He held up his shaking hands and found he was still clutching the flowers in his fingers.

“These are for you,” he said, holding out the bouquet. She made no move to take it, so he laid it on the floor alongside the parcel with the baby’s blanket. “The present was to be for you as well, but now you’ll have to share it with h—” Bloody hell, he didn’t know the sex of his own child. “With the baby.”

She looked supremely uninterested in his offerings, but she did give him the answer he sought. “You are fortunate; the demise of the earldom still remains within your grasp.”

A girl. He, or rather,
they
had a girl. He was a father. It hadn’t been a premonition, or even if it had, it didn’t matter, because both Isabella and their child were alive. They were
alive
. He rose to his feet and walked over to the cradle. His heart rose up in his throat at the sight of her and, watching her little stomach rise and fall, he sent up a prayer, thanking God for every breath that passed through her tiny body. “May I . . . May I hold her?”

Isabella bit her lip, but she picked the baby up and gently placed her in James’s arms. He looked down at his daughter as he cradled her warm, sweet weight in his arms.

Just like that, James Sheffield fell in love again.

“What did you name her?”

“Bride,” she murmured lovingly, her gaze straying to the tiny object of her affection. “Lady Bride Kathleen Sheffield.”

“After my sister and my mother?” he asked, his throat tightening.

“I was extremely exhausted and feeling sentimental,” she snapped. “You were naturally on my mind, but it seemed unfair to burden a child with some of the names I was calling you.”

He ignored her jabs. His mind turned to his baby sister who had died before she had taken a single breath or felt the caress of sunshine on her face. He had always imagined her at various stages of her life, wondering what sort of child she would have been, and although he had never really known her, he had grieved for the life she should have lived. Now it felt as though she had a second chance. The burden of loss he had carried with him for so long eased. It wasn’t gone completely—he knew it never would be—but it was lighter.

“Thank you,” he rasped out, his eyes burning with unshed tears, completely overcome as he was by the gesture. Apparently it was the right thing to say, since it took the wind right out of her sails.

“Why are you here?” she asked wearily, holding out her hands for Bride.

Reluctantly, James gave the baby back, but he couldn’t stop looking at her, couldn’t tear his gaze away as Isabella laid her back down in the cradle. “Why am I here?” he repeated automatically, memorizing his daughter’s face: the golden crescents of her lashes and brows, the button nose, the pink bow of her mouth. . . .

Then Isabella’s words penetrated his thick skull, and James jerked his head up to regard his wife. The question was so ridiculous that a choked laugh escaped him. She wanted to know why he was there? There were so many words and phrases that rose up in his mind, but all he said was, “You’re my wife.”

“Nice of you to remember,” she muttered.

James’s expression darkened and the muscles around his mouth grew taut. This was not exactly the reunion he had been imagining. Then again, he would be more than happy to impress on her just how much his wife she was. A lusty gleam lit his eye. “I remember perfectly. I think you are the one who needs reminding,” he said, reaching for her. “Come here, wife.”

She backed away from him. “No! Don’t touch me!”

The vehemence of her reaction surprised James. “You liked my touching you well enough before,” he muttered sulkily.

“Yes,
before.
Before you left, before I had Bride, and before I realized that you don’t need me—won’t ever need me—as I thought, as I hoped you did.” She drew in a shaky breath and exhaled, battling for composure. “But that was before. And now, I don’t need you, either.
We
don’t need you. We were fine—I mean, we
are
fine, but you can’t be here. We’ve learned how to live without you. No. No, no, no. Just go away. Please. Go away.”

James made a move to grab her, and Isabella threw up her arms, warding him off. He ignored her and quickly gathered her in his arms, holding her tightly against his chest. He rubbed a large hand up and down her back as she collapsed against him, all the fight suddenly gone out of her. “What’s all this about, sweetheart?” he murmured.

Isabella felt tears gathering in her eyes. She was so tired. Her body had healed from the birth, but she still hadn’t regained all of her energy. That was why she was crying—because she was exhausted. It wasn’t because of this impossible man who held her so sweetly in his arms, as if she belonged there. And it certainly wasn’t because she felt she belonged there.

She drew in a shuddering breath. And it had nothing to do with her simply having missed his smell—that subtle mixture of outdoors, horses, warm male flesh, and something that was uniquely James. Having a baby made a woman emotional, Izzie told herself, and that was why she was prone to all these ridiculous feelings and longings.