If Love Were Enough (20 page)

But it was
his
child,
his
son, she was carrying.

Why should he let the child be someone else’s heir when he was near desperate for his own?

Left here, the boy would be a marquess. At birth. With many estates, not just one. Would that not give the child even more than he could ever hope to give him?

Even if he doubled or tripled the value of his current fortunes during his own lifetime, it would pale in comparison to the worth of the Rutherford wealth and abundance.

But would he have to give up Cilla, the boy’s mother, too?

That was too much to ask by half. It had taken so long to find her. How could he now go on and face life without her, no less find another to bear his children?

His eyes refocused on her face, on the tears streaming down her cheeks.

This was not easy for her, either. Cilla did love him. She might prefer to marry and live with him at BrookLea but her sense of duty and honor precluded her putting her own desires and needs first.

Would not he want his own wife to do such for him?

Of course, he would.

Was there no compromise, no middle ground where they might both have their needs met?

His hand came back up to caress her cheek.

“We must figure out a way, Cilla, to resolve this impasse. I refuse to live my life without you. I refuse to have no part in my son’s life.”

There was a knock on the door.

Cilla ran for her silk robe, threw it on and cinched the sash. “Come," she answered.

Her maid entered with a tray laden with food. There was two of everything.

So went the appearance of propriety. The entire household must be aware of where he had spent the night.

The maid had the good sense to turn her head away after looking at him. The rising blush on her cheeks testified to the fact she had taken a good look at his bared chest beneath his unbuttoned waistcoat and jacket.

He must look quite the sight to her.

The maid set the tray down on the table between the two upholstered chairs before the fire.

“Thank you, Abigail,” Cilla said. The lass gave a pert curtsy then made a rapid escape through the dressing room door.

Brandon went to add more wood to the fire. “I fear we’ll be all the gossip below stairs this morning. What if Rutherford gets wind of our tryst?”

“I have not now, nor ever will, take my orders or be concerned by Damon and his foul desires.” Cilla sat in one of the chairs arranging her robe demurely about her. When she was quite settled, she looked up. “Will you eat or are you still bent on running off in a mad dash even before the snow melts?”

“I will not be running off without you, my love,” Brandon said as he sat down across from her, still considering their options. “Though I have no clue as to how the two of us will rectify this situation."

He smiled. “By the way, you will have to give up my shirt if I am not to be further embarrassed by the maids looking at my chest.”

Finally, a smile eased her lips and a small sparkle returned to her eyes. “I think not, my lord. I find it quite comfortable. I’m thinking of wearing it to bed each night or at least as my wrapper when in my rooms.”

“Then I will have to sneak off to my rooms to fetch another.”

“You must anyhow. We cannot go downstairs in such a disheveled state. There might be gossip but there is such a thing as discretion.”

“We can go no place until we resolve this matter, Cilla. We both need to know how to handle the circumstances around Rutherford.”

“Now that, my lord,” Cilla said, as she poured steaming coffee into the second cup, “may be our truest difficulty.”

They had gotten through yesterday avoiding Damon. They had dined alone for luncheon and dinner in Cilla’s rooms. During the afternoon they had taken a short stroll in the garden, the sun bright upon them but the air still so crisp and cold their breath streamed out before them, the snow crunchy beneath their feet.

They had returned to her rooms last night where they had talked and made love as if nothing were the matter.

But the gray clouds hovering over the estate today paled in comparison to the one that still hovered over the two of them. No, the three of them, as the fate of their child was also in the balance.

Now, standing once again at the window, leaning against the frame with his arms folded over his chest, Brandon looked out over the newest blanket of white. It was just a few inches but the fresh-laid covering gave him yet another reason to remain.

As if he needed another reason.

He had decided.

Looking over to the warm bundle asleep in her bed, her face flushed and serene with their recent lovemaking, the room scented with it, he knew he had decided.

How could he ask Cilla to do something he would not do himself?

He would protect his father’s estates, now his, with his last breath.

And so would she. How loyal she was. How faithful and true even after her husband’s passing.

He loved her.

And, she loved him.

Her loyalty, honesty, and faithfulness could be his if he would let her protect Robert’s land, his people, with their son.

If not, he would leave alone, have to find some other, lesser woman to bear his son and heir.

So he would do it. But he would not leave her to do it alone. He would stay. He would marry her to insure the second son would be rightfully his.

And, he would figure out a way he could be master of his own lands while living with her. Would traveling back to BrookLea every four or six weeks be sufficient to do justice to his own responsibilities? It was at least three days there and three days back, plus the time needed to handle the necessary matters. It would leave her alone with Rutherford for more than a week.

Would Rutherford leave once the babe was born and all accepted it as Robert’s last gift despite the miracle it would appear?

Would Rutherford fight her over it or go peacefully?

No, Brandon could not see Rutherford giving up such riches without a fight. He would have to protect her from the rapacious bastard indefinitely.

He expected violence would not be beyond Rutherford’s options if his right to all of Robert’s wealth were challenged.

He heard movement and looked back to see Cilla struggling to sit up.

“Here, my love, let me help you.” He went to her, putting his arms around her, his hands sliding against the silken warmth of her skin.

The feel of her, the scent of her, aroused him again.

He took a deep breath and curbed his desire. She was more than eight months along, closer to nine. Too much excitement, he expected, could not be good for her or the baby.

“Come.” He grabbed her rose silk wrapper from the foot of the bed. “I have stoked the fire. Come sit and we’ll talk.”

After resettling Cilla in the chair in front of the warmth from the hearth, Brandon began, “I have come to my decision, Cilla.” Her face, her eyes, flew up to his, her anxiety paling her skin, tightening her lips. “Now, hear me out before you speak. I think you will be pleased in the end.”

She nodded to him as she folded her feet underneath her, smoothing the silk of her robe over them for warmth. Then she grasped the pendant at her throat and worried it along its chain.

He noticed her action. “My love, you must tell me of this pendant you always wear. It must have some special meaning. But I digress. We’ll come back to that later.”

“Cilla,” he sat in the chair next to hers, took one of her hands in his. “I know you mean to do the best and what is right for your people. It’s what I would do as well. But I refuse to live my life without you, without fathering my son.” Cilla made to protest but he held up his hand to stop her. “Let me finish before you comment or complain. I also need an heir, a son, and I have no desire to have anyone else bear that child but you.” He took a deep breath before continuing. “What I suggest we do is this. You will have this child. It will be a boy, I have no doubt. He will be Robert’s heir.” Her face relaxed, she leaned back against the chair. “We shall then marry.” She leaned forward again, distressed once more. He shook his head. “Not to worry. Once the child is born there is no reason why you may not remarry.”

“But I cannot leave to go home with you.”

“I do not expect you to. We may visit BrookLea and often once our son is older, but I will remain here with you and our children. Rutherford Park is the greater estate and has more holdings. Many gentlemen of the
ton
run their many estates from afar. I see no reason why I cannot do the same from here. I will hire a pair of messengers. When one is at BrookLea, one will be here and they will meet half-way to exchange instructions. I am most sure we will be able to take care of
all
of our holdings for
all
of our sons and daughters.” He rose from his chair then went down on one knee before her. Taking her hand in his, looking into her jade green eyes, he asked, “Lady Priscilla Rutherford, my heart, my love, would you do me the great honor of becoming my wife?”

Cilla’s eyes filled with tears. She had never cried so much, so often in her life. It must be the pregnancy. Never before had she been such a watering pot. “Oh, Brandon, you have made me the happiest woman in the world. Yes, yes, yes. I will marry you. After the baby arrives and we have read the banns, I will be gloriously happy to marry you.” She threw her arms around his neck and fell into his arms with such force Brandon had to ease the both of them down to the floor.

“Now, tell me of this pendant,” Brandon said, separating after many hugs and kisses. “Though small, I would guess both the ruby and the pearl are near perfect and the setting is like none I’ve ever seen before. How did you come by it? What does it signify?”

Cilla made a move to rise but her strength was not up to the task. Brandon helped her to her feet then waited in front of the hearth as she went to the stand next to the bed and opened the drawer. After pulling a small volume from its depths, she returned to him and held it out.

The book, covered in the finest deep red leather, tooled and inlaid with gold leaf, was soft and worn from use. On its cover it said
Order of the Crimson Lotus
in an almost Oriental script.

“It’s Robert’s,” she said reverently. “He gave me the pendant and the book when we first married. He had traveled to the East when he was young. He said this book brought him and Amanda, his first wife, many pleasures and he hoped it would do the same for us. The pendant is the symbol of the commitment between a man and a woman.”

Brandon opened the volume and perused its pages. It was filled with engravings and writings. All were explicit and concerned only one topic. . . .

Sexual intercourse and pleasure between a man and a woman.

Now he understood everything. How Cilla could be so innocent yet so knowledgeable when making love. Why she was so surprised about his reactions to her ministrations since Robert was not able to respond. What it meant to her when they made love and satisfied each other.

The book had been her guide, her teacher, her unfulfilled goal and desire.

He pulled her into his arms. “Oh, Cilla, my love, how frustrated both you and Robert must have been for all these years. How sorry I am for your loss. How lucky I am that you are now mine.”

He kissed her deeply without restraint, sealing their promises as they demonstrated their love.

They were still in each other’s arms kissing when there came a knock and Mrs. Seeman entered.

“I beg your pardon, my lady, my lord.” She turned to go.

“No, stay Mrs. Seeman. It’s the greatest thing. Lord Brookfield and I are to be married.”

Surprise flew to the housekeeper’s face. “But my lady, the baby.”

“You need not worry. It will be after the baby is born. I shall have Robert’s heir and then I will marry Lord Brookfield.” She smoothed her wrapper over her enlarged belly. “Now you must not tell, Mrs. Seeman. It will cause quite the stir so we will just wait until after the baby is born and that little matter is straightened out. Then we will make the announcement and have the banns read.” Brandon was behind her, his strength and warmth there to protect her, support her.

Mrs. Seeman smiled. “I am most happy for the both of you and I’ll not tell a soul. For now, though, I must know if you are planning to come down for luncheon. Cook has made quite the spread in the dining room. She felt you have not been eating much and need to feed that babe you’re carrying.” She paused as she schooled her features into a reproving smile. “And, I agree with her.”

“We will dress and be down in a trice. You may go, but remember to keep our secret.”

“As you wish, my lady.”

After the housekeeper left, Cilla turned into Brandon’s arms. “We must keep this from Damon. Lord knows what he will make of it when he finds out.”

The next two weeks sailed past without event. Cilla and Brandon avoided Rutherford as much as possible. Since the bastard was self-absorbed it was not too difficult.

Rutherford spent a great deal of time out of the manor, which left Cilla still in control of the business of running all of the estates. Brandon had no doubt that was Rutherford’s intention, as Cilla had indicated he knew nothing of running Rutherford Park no less those lands at farther distance. She spent a few hours every day with the overseer reviewing estate business and correspondence from the other holdings of the Marquess of Rutherford.

Brandon paid attention to everything she was doing. After taking the reins of his father’s holding, he realized he did not know as much about the running of his inheritance as he thought he did. With Cilla having managed the Rutherford realm for the last few years, he was learning a great deal. Not the least of which was how very intelligent and competent his soon-to-be-wife was. There was no doubt in his mind Cilla could have had the child, passed him off as the heir, and run the holdings for however many years it took before the child was ready to take on the task himself.

Of course, providing Rutherford did not kill her and the child to retain the holdings.

“This will have to stop,” Cilla said, breaking into his thoughts.

“What, my love?” Brandon came over to the desk near the windows in the library.

“Damon’s spending. He’s taking it out faster than we can ever replace it. At this time of year there is almost no income. It’s too early yet to shear the sheep and sell the wool and we’ll have to be buying seeds and refurbishing equipment needed for the spring planting.

“At this rate,” she continued on, “we’ll not have the funds for the seed nor the equipment maintenance. Even the wealthiest estates have a balancing act at this crucial time of year.”

Seeing the distress in her face, the furrowed brow, the solemn frown, Brandon took both her hands in his.

“Take a break for a moment, Cilla. You’ve been working at this for over three hours. You can’t fix anything this very minute and a moment away may renew your perspective.”

She rose as he tugged on her hands and followed him to the large window overlooking the knot garden. “All right. But I will have to figure out some way to restrict his spending, or come up with more funds for the spring sowing.”

“Granted,” Brandon said, “and I have no doubt you will.” He wrapped an arm around her then tilted her face up to his in the cool, late winter light from the window. “Maybe I can distract you for a moment or two. That should help refresh your viewpoint.”

He pressed his lips against hers and, when she responded by sliding her arms around his neck, he deepened the kiss. Sliding his tongue deep inside her hot, moist, and welcoming mouth, he tangled his tongue with hers.

The slam of the library door made them rein in their ardor and snap their embrace. “Well,” Rutherford said, as he stalked across the Persian carpet. He jerked Cilla from Brandon’s arms and sneered down into her face. “Will you fuck anyone but me?” His raised hand slapped her face so hard Cilla crumpled to the floor as Rutherford let go of her arm.

Brandon grabbed Rutherford and swung him around to look him in the face. Before the wastrel could demand an explanation, Brandon’s fist met with Rutherford’s jaw with such force Rutherford was sent reeling across the room. Though he tried to grasp chairs and tables to stop himself, Rutherford fell on his back, arms and legs flailing, as his head banged against the uncovered wood floor near the hearth.

Brandon’s eyes narrowed as he stood over Rutherford. “Don’t you ever, ever, touch Lady Priscilla again. If you should dare to do so, I’ll not restrain my anger and you’ll be laying there dead.”

Rutherford’s hand flew up to rub his sore jaw as he glared at Brandon. Sniveling he said, “You have no right. This is my estate and I order you to leave.”

Ignoring the blighter, Brandon bent over Cilla, giving her a hand and an arm to help her up.

“Oh, my God,” she gasped, as soon as she was standing upright. Her face pale, she had a vice grip on his arm as she bent over both arms wrapped around her belly.

“Brandon, please, get me up to my chamber. Get Mrs. Seeman and have them send for the doctor.”

“Cilla, Cilla, what is it?”“ Brandon asked, close to a state of panic now from the look on her face, the agony written there.

“The baby. The baby. He’s coming,” she gasped, doubling over once again while biting her lips as though to refrain from crying.

As Brandon swept her into his arms, he glared at Rutherford, still laying on the floor dazed, rubbing his jaw, a trickle of blood seeping from his nose. “If anything happens to Lady Rutherford or this child because of your senseless, malignant violence, Lord Rutherford, you are a dead man.”

Brandon threw open the door, took the stairs two and three at a time with Cilla cradled in his arms, all the while yelling back over his shoulder to Furston who stood in the hall stupefied, “Get Mrs. Seeman and send a groom for the bloody doctor. The baby is coming. Now!”