A Scandalous Marriage (10 page)

Just as quickly, Devon regretted the words. He tasted his own tears, and they were bitter. He cradled the child to his chest, rubbing the length of the wee, strong back with the heel of his hand.

Why
? The eternal question.

And in answer, the baby gave a small cough.

Devon turned the boy over. He coughed again, and a heartbeat later, the cough was followed by the angry cry of new life.

Leah heard the sound of her son’s first breath, and her heart leapt in her chest. She began laughing through her tears.

“I knew you would save him,” she told Devon. “I knew it. Here, let me have him. Let me have my baby.”

But Old Edith whisked the child out of Devon’s hands, cleaned him off, and wrapped him in a warm blanket that she had pulled from her bag. Then, with respectful deference, she offered the child to Leah.

Feeling the weight of her baby in her arms was reward enough for all the times Leah had persisted in spite of doubts, all the times she’d been afraid but had continued. “He’s beautiful.”

She didn’t need confirmation from anyone else. She had only to look at his hands, balled into little fists.

What precious fingers with their miniature nails! They were a miracle of creation, and his skin, still wrinkled and rosy red, was softer than goose down.

She had never imagined such joy as that which filled her. She looked up at Devon. “Thank you.”

He grinned in response, more noble and handsome than she’d ever imagined him, even in her dreams.

The months before seemed like the nightmare now. One she prayed to forget. Devon was here. Devon had made it right.

“Yes, we did it,” Old Edith said, reaching up and slapping Devon on the back. “And a game one you were, my lord.”

“I’m only grateful you were here,” he replied, and then surprised the older woman by joyfully grabbing her around the waist and doing a whirling jig. Old Edith laughed, giddy with excitement. The pounding of their feet on the hard dirt floor rivaled the howling of the wind outside the cottage, filling it with exuberance.

“Stop now! Stop!” Old Edith cried. “Or I’ll be dizzy for a month of Sundays. Besides, I had a bit too much of my own rum. My stomach’s still dancing.” She paused beside the bed. Her pushed-in face beamed with pride. “I was afraid,” she admitted. “But God was with us. Put that babe up to your nipple, Leah. It’s nursing he needs. He’s used all his strength and he needs to build it back up.”

The Scotswoman’s earthy language broke through Leah’s haze of happiness. She was suddenly aware that she lay there naked, save for the quilted cover Old Edith had thrown over her once the baby was born, and that Devon had been with her during the most intimate moments of her life.

Devon must have read her mind, because he suddenly went still. He was like that, ever sensitive to the nuances of others. Their eyes met—and everything that had happened between them in the past suddenly reared its ugly head, destroying the moment.

Old Edith sensed the sudden chill. She looked from one to the other and then stepped between them.

“Here now, I’ll take care of her,” she said to Devon. “Why don’t you go into the other room and make yourself comfortable best you can?”

Devon nodded. He started to leave, but Leah suddenly didn’t want him to go, not yet. Not until she’d done something to thank him for being there, for setting their differences aside, and for saving her baby’s life.

“Devon.”

He paused, his hazel green eyes unreadable.

She was suddenly aware of how wild she must look. The neat braid she’d worn earlier was long forgotten, and she had to appear as tired as she felt.

“Name him,” she said softly.

“What?”

She swallowed. “I want you to name the baby.”

His eyes narrowed. His beard, always heavy, shadowed his jaw. His dark hair hung over his brow, and he looked decidedly rakish. This was the Devon she remembered.

“Leah—”

“Please.”

His gaze dropped to the child nursing in her arms. It embarrassed her, and yet she would not deny her son.

A flicker of emotion she did not recognize flashed in Devon’s eyes. If she hadn’t known him better, she would almost have called it longing.

He looked away. “What of the father? Shouldn’t you name it after his family? Or yours?”

The happiness of the moment evaporated. Some of what she felt must have shown on her face. “Never mind,” he said brusquely.

Before she could respond, he left, dropping the curtain between the two rooms.

Leah looked down at her son in her arms and felt the weight of a terrible weariness.

“So. Huxhold is not the father.” Old Edith’s voice reminded Leah that she wasn’t alone.

Sadly, she shook her head.

“It is too bad,” the midwife said simply. “Well, now, we can’t be wishing for things that will never happen, so let us take care of what is before us. Let me have another look at that wee lad, and you try and get some sleep.”

Devon stared into the dying flames of the fire.

She wanted him to name her son. The one she’d had with another man.
Jealousy roared through him. Once more, he was the outsider.

Of course, Leah Carrollton was the only woman walking the face of this earth who could tie him in knots and make him feel damn stupid while she did it. If he had any common sense, he’d walk out of this cottage right now, sleep with Gallant out in the open stable if he had to, and leave at first light. Walk all the way to London, if he had to. Anything to be as far away from her as he could.

He kicked a log with his booted toe and watched the burning embers flare and spark.

At that moment, the curtain drew back. Old Edith entered the room, carrying the baby in her arms. The birthing seemed to have sobered her. “Did you boil any water for tea, my lord?”

Devon frowned. He was a viscount. He didn’t boil water, although black as his mood was, he could set a cauldron to boil just by sticking his finger in it. Nor did he play lackey to a village midwife and her pig girl!

The midwife obviously didn’t have any idea what he was thinking, or else she wouldn’t have made herself comfortable in his presence. She grunted as she sat heavily in a cushioned chair before the fire.

“Poor wee thing,” she cooed to the baby. “Not even a nappy for his bum. I will talk to Vicar Wright on the morrow. The women in the village should be able to help out the lass and her bairn.”

Devon stiffened, wishing he could close his ears to the woman’s prattle.

“Would you be so kind, my lord, to pull that drawer out of the cupboard over there and bring it to me?”

“What for?”

“Why, to make a bed for the baby.”

Devon turned in surprise to look at the cupboard. It was a rough-hewn thing made of pine. Hack marks and the scrape of the plane were still visible on it. It even listed slightly. “You can’t put a baby in a drawer.”

“Where else shall we put him?” she asked with interest. “I don’t like for them to sleep with their mothers, especially when it is all so new like this. Poor Leah, she’s worn clean through. I’ll make up a crib out of the drawer and scrap of material and let the baby sleep out here by the fire.”

“Why don’t you just hold it?”

She gifted him with a smile, the expression lopsided in her pushed-in face. “I wouldn’t mind some sleep, too. But never mind, my lord, I’ll fetch that drawer myself. I shouldn’t ask such a high and mighty personage as yourself.”

She was laughing at him. He knew it—her barb struck home. But before he could move, she hobbled over and started pulling out the drawer.

Something was already in it, and it was obviously heavy. “Here,” he said impatiently, stepping forward before the drawer crashed to the floor.

“Oh, don’t mind the drawer, my lord. Hold the baby.”

Before Devon knew what she was about, she thrust the child into his arms. The boy was asleep. He looked very much like a small rodent, Devon thought uncharitably—and then couldn’t help but smile.

Especially when he remembered the feeling of holding the baby in his hands as it drew that first breath.

Old Edith dropped the drawer in front of the hearth. She lined it with a cotton rag. It was a mean bed for a child.

“On the morrow, when the weather lets up a bit, I’ll walk to the church,” she said. “They have a clothes box for the poor. There should be something for such a small bit.” She rubbed the babe’s soft head as she said those words. “Poor wee thing. It will not be easy for him.”

“Life isn’t always easy,” Devon said cautiously.

“I know that,” she answered and pulled a straw-stuffed pallet from behind the cupboard. “The lass’s bed,” she explained. “I’ll sleep here in front of the fire… if you don’t mind.”

“It’s fine.”

“You can put the bairn in the drawer when you are tired of holding him, my lord.”

Devon nodded. She stretched out on the pallet.

“I’m more tired than if I hadn’t slept for a month of Sundays. What is the rhyme? ”Sunday’s child is fair of face.“ The bairn is lucky. Another hour later, he’d have been Monday’s child. The one who has to work hard for his living.”

She crossed her arms and closed her eyes, but if Devon thought she was going to sleep, he was wrong.

Instead, she started talking. “You should have seen Leah the day Adam Pitney hired her at the Limton fair. He’s apprenticed to the miller, you know. His mother plans on him marrying the miller’s daughter, but I don’t know if it will come to naught. Adam is better at caring for living things than grinding seeds into flour. He was always bringing me birds with broken wings or a fox pup that had been orphaned. A good heart that boy has.”

Devon wasn’t certain he wanted to hear a list of Adam Pitney’s virtues.

“He brought Leah directly to me,” Old Edith continued. “She was half starved, her belly already overlarge, but her face was clean and she had pride.”

Yes, Leah would always have her pride.

The midwife smiled sleepily. “I fed her and told Adam to bring her here. We both knew his mother had extra room even if the Widow Pitney hasn’t heard one word the Lord says about charity throughout all her years of churchgoing. I reasoned it would be good for Adam to have the girl close to him. He never had a taste for the miller’s daughter. That was all in his mother’s head. For her part, Leah worked hard… even though we all could see she wasn’t accustomed to it.” She sighed contentedly.

Devon waited for her to continue her story, interested in spite of himself. It wasn’t until she started snoring that he realized she had nodded off.

He sat in the chair, the baby still tucked in his arm. He could put the baby down in the drawer… but he didn’t want to. Instead, he studied the child, watching it breathe, marveling at its sweet perfection.

Already the baby was changing. His color was better and his features more relaxed. Then, to Devon’s wonder, the baby opened his eyes and yawned.

It was such a charming gesture. It made Devon want to laugh. But the child closed his eyes, seemingly content to be held close.

For the first time in a long while, Devon experienced a sense of peace. He ran his fingers gently back and forth along the child’s arm.

Words stirred in his memory. Leah’s words.
I will never forgive you. I will hate you as long as I live.

With the words came memories of the dueling field, of Julian spewing hate, of Julian bleeding. Devon had promised Leah that no harm would come to her brother, but in the end he hadn’t been able to keep that promise. Julian had lived, but he was crippled.

The memory shivered through Devon. He’d left London the day of the duel and had not returned since.

He cradled the baby closer. The unnamed child slept, trusting him to make everything right—just as Leah had once trusted him to do the same.

Leah woke. For several minutes, she lay still in the dark, completely disoriented. She believed herself safely in her bed in London, but she’d had the strangest dream. She’d dreamed she’d been pregnant and life had been unbearable, but then she’d had her baby and had experienced a moment of pure joy.

Old Edith’s light snoring brought her back to reality. She had not been dreaming. She propped herself up on one arm, her hair falling back in a tangled mess. The air carried the smells she associated with the cottage, the lingering scents of baked bread and the sweet, pungent peat used to start fires.

Leah listened. Other than the snoring, it was quiet. Even the rain had stopped. The fire in the hearth cast shadows against the curtain separating the two rooms.

Was Devon still here?

He’d appeared out of nowhere, a demon prince conjured from her dreams and her deepest regrets to save her son.

Her baby. She sensed immediately her son was not in the room with her. She would have felt his presence.

She searched the bed, looking for him. Where was her son? Her body ached in places she hadn’t known existed. Old Edith had helped her put on her petticoat and chemise after the baby was born.

Leah combed her hair with her fingers and loosely braided it so it would be out of the way. Feeling her way in the dark, she reached up for the peg by the door where Old Edith had hung her wool dress.

She had to stand to retrieve it. The world spun giddily for a moment and her legs were shaky, but she had to find her baby. She needed to see him, to hold him. To assure herself he was all right.

Not bothering to lace the back of her dress, she took her first tentative steps. It felt funny to have her body back, to look down and see her toes on the cold floor.

She pulled back the curtain and heaved a sigh of relief at the sight of the drawer in front of the fire. Old Edith had told her that a drawer was fine enough for a baby. They’d had this conversation only a few days ago. It had come when Leah had been feeling particularly guilty. She feared for her son’s future. He would never know his station in life or have access to the most basic privileges.

Old Edith had laughed. “Love is what a baby needs,” she’d replied with firm Scottish conviction.

And a drawer, she had added. Babies could safely sleep in a drawer.

Each step stiff, Leah moved closer to that drawer. Old Edith slept on Leah’s pallet. She’d placed it far enough away from the fire so that she was still warm but the glowing light wouldn’t disturb her sleep.