The Bridegroom (38 page)

Her heart began to hammer. She tasted copper in her throat. Their fear was contagious, she realized. But if her family was determined to pretend this was an ordinary social call, she was willing to indulge in this one last fiction.

“Have you heard the good tidings?” she said brightly. “Carlisle and I are expecting a child.”

She saw her news had created horror, rather than joy, and realized she must have even less time to live than she had imagined.

“That is wonderful news,” Becky choked out.

“Meg will have someone to play with,” Kitt said with a watery smile.

Her father said nothing, simply turned away.

A sudden lump grew in Reggie’s throat.
Oh, Clay. I do not want to leave you. Not now
.

At least she had been able to help Clay make peace with her father. She glanced up in time to see Mick reach out to touch Becky’s shoulder and witness her rejection of his offer of comfort. Neither had spoken a word directly to the other since they had entered the room.

Perhaps her accident could provide the necessary impetus for another reconciliation.

“Why haven’t you forgiven Mick?” Reggie asked her sister.

Becky looked flustered. “This is not the time—”

“This is a perfect time to discuss forgiveness,” Reggie said, daring any of them to contradict her. “If Clay can forgive Papa, surely you can forgive Mick.”

“How can I ever trust him again?” Becky asked.

“Perhaps you never will trust him in the same way again,” Reggie replied. “But when you love someone, you give them a second chance.”

“And sometimes a third chance and a fourth,” Kitt interjected, exchanging a glance with Reggie’s father.

“Apologize to Becky, Mick,” Reggie ordered. “And mean it.”

Reggie watched as Mick took Becky’s hand in his, then tipped her chin up, so she was looking at him.

“I’m sorry for hurting you, Becky. Please give me another chance to make you happy.”

Reggie nodded. “Very prettily done. Your turn, Becky.”

Becky’s chin had taken on an uncharacteristically mulish tilt. “How do I know he will not hurt me again?”

“You don’t,” Reggie said flatly. “The truth is, he probably will. And you will hurt him,” she said from her vast store of marital experience. “But if you both try very hard, the good times will surely outweigh the bad.”

Reggie forgot she was hurt and tried to move her wounded arm, then cried out as she felt the pain in her dislocated shoulder and sprained wrist.

Her father was immediately at her side. “Are you all right? Shall I call back the doctor?”

Reggie made a face and then groaned, because she had broken open one of the cuts near her mouth. That made her father even more anxious, and she hurried to say, “Please, Papa, don’t worry so. I’m fine, really.”

The distressed look in Becky’s eyes gave her pause, but she was determined to finish what she had started. “Well, Becky? Do you have anything to say?”

Her sister turned to Mick and said, “If you still want me, I accept your offer of marriage.”

Reggie watched as Mick twined his fingers with Becky’s and replied, “I love you, Becky. I always have, and I always will.”

“Now that we have that settled,” Reggie said, “when is the wedding?”

Her sister’s eyes goggled. “We cannot set a date now.”

“Why not?” Reggie asked.

“Because …”

Of course no one was inclined to mention that it was indecent to be talking about weddings when she might be dying, so Reggie said, “How about right after the harvest? Everyone will be in the mood for a celebration then.”

She watched her parents exchange looks, saw Mick and Becky shift uncomfortably. “It will be perfect. You will have time enough to become friends again before the wedding, now that you are speaking to each other again.”

Becky managed a smile. “You are incorrigible.”

“I know,” Reggie said with a lopsided smile. “And impossible and hopeless. And right now, very tired. As much as I am enjoying your company, I need sleep,” she said, settling back against the pillows.

Becky impulsively hugged her, jostling her injured shoulder, but Reggie bit back her cry of pain, put her good arm around her twin, and pressed her cheek hard against Becky’s. “I love you,” she whispered fiercely. “Be a good wife to Mick.”

Mick ruffled her hair and said, “Sleep tight. Don’t let the bedbugs bite.” And then he met her gaze and added, “Don’t worry about Becky. I will keep her safe.”

Kitt kissed Reggie’s cheek. “Rest. Take good care of that baby.”

Her father pressed a tender kiss against her forehead and said, “Good night, Reggie. I will see you in the morning.”

Reggie felt the tears welling in her eyes and turned away so her father would not see them. She was no watering pot, even if she was dying, even if, for her, there might be no morning.

Reggie imagined the farewells her family must be saying to Clay. It was most likely a very stilted meeting, considering how recently all had been forgiven. But she knew her father and stepmother would not leave Clay to mourn alone once she was gone. And Becky would urge Mick to help Carlisle with the farm. And Pegg would be there to keep his spirits up.

Reggie lay staring at the ceiling for a very long time, waiting for sleep or death—whichever came first—to overtake her. The odd thing was, now that she had given in to the fatigue that had plagued her since the accident, she was suddenly wide awake. She wondered where Clay was. And why he had not returned.

Reggie decided to go hunting for her husband.

She was infinitely careful getting out of bed and adjusted the sling so her dislocated shoulder and sprained wrist would not get jolted as she eased her way down the stairs. She was able to slide her feet into slippers, but maneuvering into a robe was beyond her capabilities.

She found her quarry in the drawing room.

“What are you doing out of bed?” Carlisle rose abruptly from his chair as he spoke, crossed to her, and slid a supportive arm around her waist. “Are you all right?”

She gave him a rueful grin. “After all my complaining that I needed to sleep, I found I could not.”

Clay eased back down into the wing chair, settling Reggie in his lap. She leaned her head against his shoulder and let her legs hang over the arm of the chair. They sat for a long time without speaking, silently loving one another.

At last she said, “Am I dying, Clay?”

She heard the sharp intake of air before he said, “What makes you ask a silly thing like that?”

“The fact that my entire family came to visit me, including my father—who was never welcome in our home before tonight—suggests I must be hurt more seriously than I was led to believe. Will you tell me what is wrong with me?”

“You may still be bleeding inside,” he said quietly.

“Can nothing be done?”

“The local surgeon is in Glasgow. Dr. Wren seemed to think that if you are bleeding, the surgeon cannot possibly get back in time to save you.”

“And if I am not?”

“Then you will live to be an old woman, presuming you stay off ladders,” Clay said. “In any case, the doctor says we will know for sure by morning, one way or the other.”

“Is there no way to know sooner?”

“I suppose I can check the bruises on your back from time to time during the night and see if they are growing larger,” Clay said.

“Will you do it now?”

“Reggie, I—”

“Please, Clay.”

He nodded his acquiescence.

Reggie reached up and untied her gown but let Clay lower it from her shoulders. She could not move freely enough to turn around and see the damage. “How does it look?”

“Horrible,” he muttered.

She felt his fingertips graze her back, making her shiver, and stifled a groan as her dislocated shoulder protested the movement.

“I wish I had seen these bruises earlier this afternoon,” he said. “So I would know whether they have grown.”

“Perhaps you will be able to judge better when you check again in an hour or two,” Reggie said.

“Right now, I think the best place for you is bed.”

She felt him kiss Miss Tolemeister’s welts before he replaced her nightgown and retied it at her throat.

“May I stay with you tonight?” she asked.

“Wouldn’t you be more comfortable in your own bed?”

“I would rather spend tonight with you.”

“All right,” he agreed at last.

But she was suddenly tired again, and she did not think she could get up the stairs by herself. “Will you carry me?”

“I am bound to hurt you.”

“Please, Clay.”

He picked her up as gently as he could, but there was no way it could be done without causing some pain. When they got upstairs, he laid her down on his bed long
enough to go around and pull down the covers on the opposite side, then carried her around, set her down, and tucked her feet under the quilt.

“Where are you going?” Reggie asked, when he started to leave the room.

“I’m only closing the door.” When Carlisle returned, he lay next to her on top of the covers, fully dressed.

“Could you hold me in your arms?”

She saw the struggle on his face, and knew he was worried he might accidentally hold her too tight and hurt her. Finally, he said. “All right. Come here.”

They both edged toward the center of the bed, and Carlisle eased his arm around her and pulled her close.

She tugged on his chin, angling his face down so that she could kiss his lips. “Good night, Clay. I love you.”

“Good night, Reggie.”

She waited a heartbeat before he said, “I love you, too.”

Reggie closed her eyes and let sleep claim her. She had never been so happy. Or so unbearably sad.

Reggie thought she could see a light. A very bright light. So bright she needed to squint to keep it out.

“Wake up, sleepyhead.”

Reggie opened her eyes to find bright sunlight streaming through the window. “I’m still alive,” she marveled.

“That seems to be the case,” Clay agreed with a grin. “How do you feel?”

“My shoulder aches, my wrist hurts—actually, I ache all over. Otherwise, I feel fine.” Reggie smiled back at him. “In fact, I feel wonderful.”

She was lying in her husband’s embrace. Carlisle’s
hair was flattened on one side and standing straight up on the other. His face was shadowed with a dark beard, his eyes were shadowed with purple half moons, but those were the only shadows in the room.

Bright sunlight filled the space from corner to corner, spilling over the two of them and bringing with it hope and joy … and the promise of love.

Clay could hear the sound of children’s laughter. He looked up from behind the mahogany secretaire where he was reviewing the latest profits from the harvest and saw his wife sitting on a stone bench amidst a profusion of pink roses, their two-year-old daughter, Nicole, giggling on her lap. Their five-year-old twin sons, Daniel and Donald, raced in a circle around the bench, being chased by a small terrier that yapped at their heels.

Clay smiled, closed the books before him, and rose to join them. A knock on the library door interrupted his escape.

“The marquess and his wife have arrived to play tag and drink beer,” Simms announced.

Clay no longer needed Reggie to translate for the deaf butler that
Mick and Becky had arrived to talk for a while and were glad to be here
.

“Thank you, Simms,” Clay said with a grin. “Send them out to join us in the garden, please.”

Clay walked out the French doors and down the steps into the rose garden. He met Reggie’s eyes and felt his heart begin to race. Even after all these years, he only had to look at her to want her. When the boys saw him, they came running, and he reached down to pick up each one as they leaped into his arms and grasped him around the neck.

He pretended to stagger as though they were too heavy, and they gripped him with their legs and clung desperately to his neck.

“Careful, Papa!” Donald cried. “You’re falling!”

“He’s only joking,” Daniel told his brother. “Papa’s as strong as an ox.”

Clay pawed his feet like an ox and made grunting, oxlike sounds just to hear his sons giggle.

“It’s Julia and Jeanine!” Donald said, struggling to be set down. A moment later his sons were greeting Mick and Becky’s five-year-old daughters.

Lily crossed to the bench, sat down beside Reggie, and said, “Can I hold Nicole?”

Reggie relinquished their daughter and crossed to join Clay as he moved to greet their company. Mick and Becky were walking toward them along the gravel path, arm in arm.

“Well, are you ready to play tag and drink beer?” Clay asked, just avoiding the two sets of twins as they raced past.

Mick laughed. “You should fire that butler.”

“Not a chance,” Clay replied. “I’ve finally learned how to translate what he’s saying.”

“Well, why not play tag and drink beer?” Reggie asked. “It sounds like a lot of fun to me.”

“My wife has a point,” Clay said.

“We’ll have to go with
the talk
and
being glad to be here
,” Mick said, “since Becky is in a delicate condition.”