Authors: Danelle Harmon

Tags: #Romance, #Historical, #Fiction

The Beloved One (42 page)

BOOK: The Beloved One

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Upstairs, Charles was running headlong down the corridor toward the closed door of Amy's room. Nerissa stood just outside, arms folded, barring his way. She saw his panicked face, his wild eyes, as from behind the door, the baby's wailing intensified. "Really, Charles. Are you all right?"

"Never mind me, are
they
all right?!"

His sister smiled with infuriating sweetness. "Why don't you go in and see for yourself?"

He lunged for the door.

Nerissa grabbed the handle, laughing. "Ah! Sedately, brother dear!"

He willed himself to calm down, his hands, his body, his very nerves, shaking. His throat felt dry and he feared his knees were going to give out and he had to take several gulping breaths to get himself under control.

Nerissa, smiling, opened the door.

And there was Amy, propped up on pillows, her face pale, wan, exhausted — radiant. Juliet stood beside the bed, sponging her brow and grinning as the midwife wrapped the tiny, squalling bundle in a blanket and placed it on Amy's chest. The old woman raised her head as she saw the lord of Lynmouth standing there, looking as though the gods had just struck him to stone with a bolt of lightning.

"Congratulations, m'lord. You 'ave a little girl."

Charles stood frozen, afraid to come any closer. Amy turned her head on the pillow and smiled at him, her eyes suddenly misty beneath their fan of thick black lashes. For a long moment the two gazed at each other; then Charles moved forward, toward the bed, toward the crying child. He never noticed that Juliet and the midwife stole from the room.

"Amy," he breathed, staring down at the tiny, wailing bundle that their love had made. "Oh, Amy . . ."

"Want to hold her?"

Charles paled, unable to forget when Gareth had asked him much the same thing before placing Charlotte in his arms. He remembered the terrible awkwardness of that moment, the crushing love he'd thought to feel for the toddler but hadn't, the mixed hurt and relief when Charlotte had suddenly started crying and reached for Gareth. Now, he stood frozen and uncertain, desperately wanting to hold the baby, desperately afraid to for fear that it would be a repeat of the last time he'd held his own flesh-and-blood. Especially as this one was a red-faced, black-haired, puckered bundle of screaming misery.

"Go ahead," Amy prompted. "She won't bite."

Swallowing hard, Charles reached down.

Put his hands around his tiny daughter.

And gingerly picking her up, cradled her tiny body to his chest.

Instantly, the baby stopped crying — and Charles felt as though the mallet of the gods had just smote him across the heart. A wall of emotion nearly cracked his chest and closed his throat, and for a moment he could do nothing but gulp back the huge lump there as he cupped the baby's head in his palm and stared reverently down at her. With a shaking hand, he touched one curled, tiny fist. Smoothed the downy-soft hair. Kissed the red and wrinkled brow and then, moisture sparkling on his own gold lashes, he looked over at Amy, whose eyes were dark with love as she watched the two of them together.

"I think she's going to be Papa's little girl," she said softly.

"Oh, Amy," he blurted, in a raw, hoarse voice. "Oh, dearest, the world itself is not big enough to hold all the love I have for you . . . for this little girl. Thank you for making me the happiest man in England — not just once this year, but twice." Still cradling his daughter, he got down on his knees before the bed, took Amy's arm, and, kissing her palm, pressed it to his cheek to stop the sudden flood of emotion.

A droll
ahem
came from the doorway.

"My, my, have you ever seen such a nauseatingly tender, sickeningly domestic, scene?" drawled a voice that was, despite the words, ripe with amusement. Turning, Charles saw Lucien, with Gareth, Nerissa, and Juliet standing beside him. "Congratulations. And what will our newest de Montforte be named, eh?"

"Mary," said Charles, getting to his feet. "After both our mothers."

"Mary Elizabeth," Amy added, gazing at her husband and daughter.

"A girl, then," murmured Lucien.

"A girl." Charles came forward, holding a fold of the blanket back so that everyone could see his daughter. He was beaming with excitement. Bursting with pride. "Isn't she just beautiful? Have you ever seen anything so precious? Look at her little fingers! Look at that head of black hair! Look how perfect, how sweet, how
exquisite
she is —"

Lucien shook his head, secretly amused that something so tiny could reduce not only a de Montforte, but an army major, to
this
. With a heavy sigh, he raised a brow and looked at the Wild One. "It would seem, my dear Gareth, that I owe you ten pounds after all," he murmured, with a rueful smile that could not disguise his delight in having yet another niece to spoil. "Though how you knew it would be a girl is beyond me."

A sudden gust of wind lashed the window, peppering it with rain. "
That's
how I knew," said Gareth, handing Gabriel to Juliet and picking up a squirming Charlotte. "With a storm on the make, how could we have expected anything
but
a female!"

Laughter rang around the room at his wry observation. Congratulations and well-wishes were said, and Mary Elizabeth de Montforte was passed around so that all could see her. After inspecting his new niece, Lucien, feeling more than a little smug for his part in getting yet another brother safely married off, moved to the door.

"I say, Luce, where are you going?" Charles asked.

Lucien smiled. "Well,
someone's
got to tell Andrew," he said. And then, bowing to the ladies, he left the happy throng behind him and made his way downstairs.

Outside, the wind was picking up. Donning his coat and pulling his sleeves straight, Lucien paused at a window, already streaked with rain. The sky was growing dark, spreading its dire gray gloom across a lawn that had been, just an hour before, bright with sun. And there, strolling beneath a row of ancient chestnuts, was Andrew. Aside from a paleness that lent him an almost otherworldly quality, he appeared to be quite normal. But Lucien knew differently.

There was nothing "normal" about the Defiant One at all.

And now, as a flock of starlings was buffeted across the brooding gray sky, Lucien saw his brother, a notebook in his hand, pause to stare up at them. The wind tore at his hair and made the branches above his head bounce and claw at the roiling clouds. Andrew jotted something down, then moved on, writing as he went. A second later a branch as thick around as Lucien's thigh crashed down where he had been, missing him by inches.

Andrew, head still bent as he wrote, merely kept on walking.

Nothing normal about the Defiant One at all.

For a long moment, Lucien stood there, watching that slim, preoccupied figure moving across the lawn. Then, he took off his coat, went to Charles's desk, and pulled out another sheet of vellum.

It was time to face reality.

Time to seek help.

Time to write the letter he'd been putting off for far too long.

He dipped his pen in the ink and began to write.

Dr. Salcombe,

Your name was given to me by an acquaintance who informs me that you have vast experience in the field of strange and startling phenomena. Nine months ago, my youngest brother Andrew survived a fire that badly injured his lungs and caused his family, in the ensuing months, to fear that his every breath would be his last. Though my brother is no longer in need of medical attention and to the naked eye seems to be quite recovered, it is obvious that the cocktail of burning chemicals he inhaled that day has left him permanently changed in a way that I can only describe as . . . strange.

If you would be so kind as to come to Blackheath Castle near the Berkshire village of Ravenscombe at your earliest convenience to observe my brother without his being aware of your interest, I am sure you will find the challenge both scientifically — and financially — rewarding.

Blackheath

Lucien folded and sealed the letter.

And then, picking up his coat once more, he went outside into the gathering storm.

###

-- the end --

Keep reading for an extra-special sneak peek of
THE DEFIANT ONE

the 3rd book in the De Montforte Brothers Series!

About the Author:

Multi-award winning and critically acclaimed author Danelle Harmon is the author of ten books, previously published in print and distributed in many languages worldwide. Though a Massachusetts native, she has lived in England and is married to an Englishman; she and her husband make their home in New England with their daughter Emma and numerous animals including four dogs, an Egyptian Arabian horse, and numerous pet chickens. Danelle welcomes email from her readers and can be reached at [email protected] or through any of the means listed below: