Samantha James (13 page)

“Are they close together?”

Bridget hesitated. “Sometimes.” She clutched at Heather’s hand. Her chest rose and fell in quick, shallow breaths. “I—I’m so afraid! Miss Heather, I—I don’t think I felt the babe move since last eve. And now the pains come, but no babe.”

“It may be that you don’t feel anything because of the pains. And I know it’s little comfort, but first births sometimes take quite some time.” Heather spoke softly. Soothingly.

Even as Heather slipped her hands beneath the
blanket onto the mound of her belly, another contraction began, drawing and tightening beneath her fingers.

“There, now. It’s over. Breathe long and deep, Bridget.”

Bridget’s smile was but a grimace, but it was a smile nonetheless. “I…it’s not so bad now that you’re here.”

Her fingers gentle, she examined Bridget more fully. Withdrawing her hands, she slanted Bridget a glance of wordless reassurance. Turning her head, she saw Robert at the foot of the bed. From the corner of her eye she saw Damien in the other room. Giving Robert a sign, she motioned him to the doorway.

“How is she, Miss Heather, she and the little one? Is she all right?”

Heather’s tone was hushed. “I think so. The babe is in the proper position, but she said she hasn’t felt him move since yesterday.”

“I know. Is that bad?”

Heather hesitated. “It may be,” she admitted. “I don’t want to alarm Bridget, but I must tell you true, Robert. I was with the midwife once during a similar birth”—she hesitated—“Robert, it’s possible the babe may already be lost.”

Robert swallowed bravely. “I know you’ll do what you can, Miss Heather. But I”—his voice cracked—“I don’t know what I’d do if I lost Bridget.”

Heather squeezed his arm. “I think she’ll be fine, Robert. But if the worst comes to pass, it’s then that she’ll need your love and strength.” A
silent message passed between them. His eyes were suspiciously moist, but he nodded.

“Good. Now I need your help, Robert. Can you fetch me a basin of cool water and a cloth? Later I’ll need hot water, so can you put a kettle on to boil?”

He nodded and dashed away, anxious to be of assistance.

Heather soon returned to the bedside, basin in hand. Wringing the water from the linen cloth, she wiped Bridget’s pale brow.

“Try to rest when you can,” she urged. “Save your strength for later.”

Time crept by slowly. The hours passed.

Bridget’s belly heaved and knotted. She writhed and twisted on the bed. As she labored to bring her child into the world, her pains fast and furious, Heather’s hopes plummeted. The signs were not good, but she let none of her concerns show to this poor, frightened woman.

At last it was time. Bridget’s strident screams had given way to feeble moans. She lay with her knees drawn up, panting and weak.

Heather was at the foot of the bed. “One more time, Bridget,” she encouraged. “You’re almost there. One more time and it will all be over….”

With a massive effort, Bridget raised up on her elbows. Her face contorted as she struggled to push the child from its berth within her body. She groaned, a long, low sound of agony.

A small, wet body slid into the clean white cloth in Heather’s hands. Her cry of joy curdled in her throat.

She stared into the miniature, wrinkled face,
its paper-thin eyelids screwed shut. The babe made not a sound. Nor did it move.

She blinked, praying her eyes deceived her. Willing the infant in her hands to live….

She prayed in vain.

An unseen hand clamped tight around her heart. Heather silently screamed her outrage. The babe was a girl. So very small, but perfectly, beautifully formed.

The cord was coiled tight around the tiny neck.

Bridget peered up at her. “Miss Heather,” she said weakly. “My babe…a boy or girl?”

Struggling against the burning threat of tears, Heather covered the child’s face with the end of the cloth. Her voice was raw. “A girl.”

“A girl! And is she well?”

Heather raised her head. Bridget looked up at her and gave a stricken cry. “No. No!”

Laying aside the babe, Heather moved to her side and held her close. “Bridget,” she whispered, touching her shoulder. “I’m so sorry…I know it’s hard. But there can be others—”

Bridget clung to her. “There’ll be no others,” she choked out. “In all these years, there’ve been no others.”

The door burst open and Robert appeared. His eyes sought Heather’s.

She shook her head. She rose as Robert charged forward. Grasping her cane, she left the room, closing her ears to the sound of Bridget sobbing her heart out against her husband’s shoulders.

Despair wrenched at her. She felt sick. Sick at heart. Sick to the depths of her soul. Her steps
carried her blindly forward. She flung open the door and rushed out into the blackness of the night.

“Heather!”

But she was beyond seeing. Beyond hearing, heedless of the call of her name, the figure that appeared from the shadows.

Footsteps pounded behind her, shrinking the distance between them. Her steps quickened awkwardly. She forged ahead, running as best she was able, paying no mind to the damp earth beneath her slippers, the brambles that caught the hem of her gown.

“Heather, don’t!”

Damien’s heart lodged in his throat when she stumbled, lurching forward onto her hands and knees. He dropped down beside her. Strong hands clamped onto the narrow bridge of her shoulders.

“Heather, in God’s name!”

Her arms crept around her chest, a pose of utter bleakness. It stabbed at his chest like a blade. Her head was bowed low, but her hair had come loose. It spilled like a raven’s wing around her form, shielding her like a shimmering, midnight waterfall. She quivered in his hands like a leaf in a storm.

With one hand he brushed the tangled cloud of hair from the delicate line of her jaw so he could see her. Dampness glistened on the pale curve of her cheeks. She was crying, he realized numbly, though she made not a sound.

He inhaled harshly. Stunned, he stared at her, his heart twisting. “Heather,” he said hoarsely.

Her lashes fluttered. Her lips trembled. Slowly she raised the narrow oval of her face to his, her eyes huge and wounded. Bending his head low, he waited for her to speak.

“They were going to name her for me,” she said faintly. “They were going to call her Heather….”

Her voice wooden, she told him how the babe had been born dead, the cord coiled tight around its neck.

Then she spoke no more.

Instead she lay huddled against his chest, limp and listless, all the way back to Lockhaven. Her desolation tore at his insides. His arms engulfed her, his embrace protective—and possessive. A storm of grief blustered inside her, but she refused to release it. He wished she would sob out loud, vent her rage at fate’s injustice…anything but this damnable, endless silence.

In the stableyard at Lockhaven, Zeus nickered softly. A sleepy stableboy appeared, yawning hugely. But his eyes nearly popped out of his head at the sight of his mistress in Damien’s arms.

Damien tossed him the reins. “There’s five shillings in it for you if you rub him down now and give him an extra handful of oats.”

The boy snapped to attention. “That I will, sir.”

Damien slid from the saddle, his burden still cradled against him. Long strides quickly carried him to the house. A loud bang on the brass knocker brought Marcus scrambling to the door, wearing a voluminous dressing gown, barefooted and spindle-legged.

His reaction was the same as the stableboy’s. “Mr. Lewis!”

Damien moved swiftly past him. “Good night, Marcus,” he said calmly. He didn’t miss a stride down the long hallway and all the way up the curving staircase. He didn’t pause until he reached the landing.

His breath stirred the baby-fine hairs at her temple. “Your room,” he said succinctly. “Where?”

“To the left. The double doors at the end.” She gave a tiny sigh and turned her face into the warm crease of his neck.

He set her on her feet, then went in search of a candle. Yellow light flared as he lit one atop a cherrywood writing desk. A cursory glance revealed pale blue satin hanging from the canopied bed. Matching draperies were at the windows. The furnishings were much like the woman herself—understated, yet tasteful and feminine. There was a watercolor framed on the far wall—a field of wheat billowing in the wind beneath fair summer skies. Another of her efforts, he suspected.

Frowning, his eyes returned to her. Her lovely
features were distant and bleak. She had yet to move.

He crossed to her. “Heather.”

It was as if she didn’t even hear. As if she’d retreated to a place where no one could reach her.

Concerned, he reached out and gave her a little shake. “Heather, stop this!”

Dazed, she looked at him.

“Listen to me. What happened is not your fault.”

Her eyes were two endless pools of pain. “You’re wrong,” she whispered. “It is my fault. Bridget’s babe died because of me. If the midwife—”

“But she wasn’t. Besides, it would have made no difference.”

She shook her head, over and over. “No. No, you’re wrong—”

“I was there, remember? No, not in that room. But I was there, and I know what happened. I know
you
, Heather. You did what you could. You did
all
you could.”

Her cry was jagged. “But it wasn’t enough. Don’t you see, it wasn’t enough! I should have been able to save her babe—her daughter!”

Damien understood her helplessness, the injustice. “I know how you feel. I know it’s not fair, but sometimes life is not fair! I felt that way when my father died, when I was just a boy. And my mother, too. I felt that way when my brother, Giles, was m”—he caught himself just in time—“when I found out he was dead. I was less
than a week out to sea, on my way home, when it happened, Heather. When I arrived in Yorkshire, he was gone. I kept thinking, if only I’d left earlier, he might still be alive. I know it’s hard—for everyone. For Bridget and Robert. But they must accept it and go on. If they’re lucky, perhaps there will soon be another.”

“No. There won’t.”

He gestured vaguely. “You can’t know that, Heather. They’re still young and—”

“And they’ve already waited years for this babe!” Her anguish rose in her like a kettle about to boil.

Her eyes were suddenly blazing. “Don’t look at me like that! Don’t you understand? Bridget’s chance is gone. She’ll never hold her baby. She’ll never feel her warm and soft and alive against her breast…never! Her arms are empty…they’ll always be empty. Just like mine. Just like mine…” Her voice broke.

And so did she.

Tears ran in rivers down her face. Her shoulders shook as the dam inside her burst.

Damien wrapped his arms around her. Her words made no sense to him, but he couldn’t stand to see her like this. His hand swept up and down her spine.

Yet still she fought him, her eyes wild. She raised her hands between them and tried to push herself away. “Don’t!” she cried. “Don’t pity me!”

“I don’t.”

“You do! You pity me! I felt it that first day at
the dairy. I could feel you staring at me because I—I limped. I felt your—your pity!”

“Perhaps then, Heather. But not now.” He captured the point of her chin between his thumb and forefinger and forced her face up to his. “You’re the most independent, capable woman I’ve ever known. Indeed, you’re the most exceptional woman I’ve ever known. And quite probably the most beautiful—”

“Now I know you’re lying! I’m not beautiful…I…I’m…” Her eyes squeezed shut. Her voice shook. Tears leaked from beneath her closed lids. “I’m…deformed. If it were not for Mama and Papa, I—I would be hidden away where no one would have to look at me. I’m…deformed,” she said again, such raw pain in the word that he felt pierced to the quick.

His jaw clamped tight. “No.” He spoke the word like a condemnation.

“Yes,” she whispered. “
Yes
.”

She turned her face aside. A dry, jagged sob escaped, a sound pulled from deep in her breast, then another. Her spine seemed to wilt. She would have collapsed if he hadn’t caught her.

He bent and carried her to the overstuffed chair near the fireplace. He held her while she purged herself of her grief. She cried for Bridget. She cried for the baby.

She cried for herself.

All the while he cradled her near, smoothing her hair, murmuring against her temple.

Bridget’s arms are empty…they’ll always be empty. Just like mine. Just like mine…

His heart squeezed.

You pity me! I felt it that first day at the dairy. I could feel you staring at me because I—I limped
.

Suddenly he understood—God, but he wished he didn’t! This beautiful, young creature who had spent her life apart—pushed away from society because she was different—was certain she was doomed to a life of lonely solitude.

What would happen to her when he was gone? He shouldn’t allow himself to care…

He couldn’t stop himself, either.

He had no intention of leaving her tonight. Whether she approved or not, he resolved to stay. She was simply too vulnerable to be alone tonight.

In time her weeping ceased. She lay against him, warm and pliant. After a moment, she stirred restlessly. A hand came out to twitch at her skirt.

A grim smile touched his lips. No doubt she wouldn’t thank him tomorrow, but he wasn’t going to allow either of them to sleep fully clothed. Sitting up, he rose and gently set her on her feet beside the bed.

Her eyes were open, her expression faintly confused. “What are you doing?”

His hands were already on the back of her gown. “Putting you to bed.” With a detached efficiency he was far from feeling, he pushed the gown from her shoulders. It slipped to the floor. She stepped obligingly from the puddle of folds.

She regarded him with a mixture of wariness and bemused expectation. Her arms came up to
cross over her breasts, and Damien nearly groaned. The movement merely made those sweetly rounded mounds swell ripe and full and inviting above the lace edge of her chemise. A shaft of longing cut through him. It was swiftly buried.

He stepped to the bed and swept the covers aside, then turned and waited, one dark brow aslant.

She remained unmoving. Instead her littlest finger came out to catch his. Her eyes grazed his.

“Are you leaving?” The words were but a breath of sound.

His pulse seemed to stop. He bent and kissed her lips, checking his hunger but not his intent. “I won’t leave you alone tonight, Heather.”

Her tremulous smile made his heart catch.

He could feel her eyes on him as he stripped down to his breeches, chafing at the restriction as he slid into bed beside her. He’d have liked nothing better than to hold her tight with nothing between them, but he didn’t want to frighten her again.

She burrowed into his arms as if she would slip into his very skin. Nestling against the sleek skin of his shoulder, she let out a long, uneven sigh, the mist of her breath cool against his naked flesh. Damien’s heart contracted. He could have screamed aloud, for somehow…somehow her pain had become his own. He shouldn’t have let it happen. He should never have allowed himself to grow close to her. Now it was too late.

For both of them.

His spirit bleak, he held her, his embrace loosely comforting, sifting his fingers through the silken tangle of her hair.

His descent into the haven of slumber was mercifully swift.

Heather was exhausted, drained and numb. Sleep was a healing sanctuary where the absence of pain was blessedly welcome. But deep in the murky void where reality fell away, the darkness was fraught with shadows. The refuge she sought was simply not to be….

She’d been sent to bed without dinner. She curled up in the dark, trying to forget her hunger. But sharp pains stabbed in her belly, for she’d had precious little to eat that day. She’d been alone most of the day…. She was always alone, it seemed
.

A tiny whimper escaped. Though she knew better, she was unable to stifle it….

From the corner came a vicious snarl. “Stop that whining!”

She froze, not daring to move, scarcely daring to breathe. She’d angered him again. She stuffed a fist into her mouth to stop the half-sob that caught in her throat, but it was too late
.

He leaped from the corner and came to stand just above her. He towered over her, huge and menacing, his features dark and indistinct
.

“
God, what I wouldn’t give to be rid of you!
”

Her heart beat so fast she could hardly breathe. Fear clogged her veins as she stared up at him. “Pl-please,” she stammered
.

She should never have looked at him. She should never have made a sound
.

“
Shut up, brat!” He whirled and snatched something from across the room, returning to stand above her
.

For one single frozen moment, their eyes collided. He raised his left hand to his chin…there was something odd about that hand—if only she could see it….

He smiled, his eyes gleaming. It was a smile she struggled to return, but it was so very hard, for she was so frightened…. In a blur of movement, his arm swept high above his head….

Blinding pain sheared through her
.

She cowered, huddling into a tight little ball. The world fell away as pain ripped through her again. A shrill, high-pitched scream shattered the air, but she was only half aware of it. Distantly she heard it again and again….

Strong hands curled around her shoulders. “Heather!” She lurched upright with a stricken cry, struggling to be free of the pain—of the nameless, horrible man that haunted her dreams. She had to get away…

“Heather, it’s all right. Open your eyes, sweet. Open your eyes!”

She knew that voice. She clung to it, and to him, letting it guide her through the void to wakefulness.

Her lashes flickered open. Damien was next to her, his features etched with grim concern. His hands cupped her bare arms. Candlelight wavered at the bedside. She inhaled deeply, a stinging rush of air.

Damien surveyed her closely. The sheer terror in her eyes speared his heart, but gradually it began to ease. What devils occupied her dreams, he wondered, that she would scream so—screams that chilled him to the bone?

He watched as reality crept into her eyes little by little. Her fingers clenched and unclenched. When he pulled her close, Heather sagged against him, for within the binding circle of his embrace, he offered her a harbor of shelter and safety.

At length he drew back slightly so he could see her face. With the pad of his thumb, he brushed damp strands of ebony silk from the downy softness of her cheek.

“Better now?” His tone was very quiet.

“Y-yes.” Her tone was faint, her voice still shaky.

He lay back down, bringing her with him. She lay cuddled against his side, one small hand curled atop the middle of his chest, her fingertips teased by the crisp dark mat of hair that grew so thickly upon it.

“Tell me about this dream,” he said suddenly.

Tension immediately invaded her body. He expected a long, empty silence, and she didn’t disappoint him.

“Tell me,” he murmured.

“Must I?” The question was muffled. She buried her face against the bronzed column of his neck.

His hand had been tracing an idle pattern upon her nape. Shaping his fingers against her scalp, he gave a gentle tug that had the desired
effect of bringing her eyes to his—albeit reluctantly.

“No,” he said dryly. “But since I’ve been cast in the role of rescuer once again, I would very much like to know.”

When she said nothing, he persisted, his gaze unerringly direct. “It’s not the first time you’ve had this dream, is it?”

Heather’s eyes skipped away, then returned. She sighed. If she refused to answer, he would accuse her of running away. Besides, what did it matter that he knew?

“No,” she admitted, her tone very low. “I’ve had it since I was a child, though sometimes not for many years.”

“Is it always the same?”

She hesitated. “Not always the same, but…similar.”

“How does it start?”

She considered. “I’m just a child,” she began at last. “It’s always dark, and I—I’m lying on a hard pallet in the corner. I—I always have the feeling I’ve been very bad. Sometimes I’m cold. Sometimes I’m hungry.”