Because We Belong: A Because You Are Mine Novel (29 page)

He withdrew James’s handgun and aimed it at Brodsik. Brodsik didn’t have the opportunity to look surprised. Gerard fired point-blank at his head without blinking.

Brodsik’s hulking body hit the floor with a jarring thud. Gerard calmly pulled back the right-hand drawer of James’s desk. The red leather box where James always stored his private firearm was already open.

He gripped the gun tightly in his hand and schooled his face into an expression of blank shock.

* * *

Anne had referred them to the library for a place to do the computerized rendering without interruption. Francesca sat next to the computer artist, a woman named Violet, at a desk, both of them peering at the screen of Violet’s laptop as the man’s face took shape from Francesca’s description. Francesca heard a distant sound like a firecracker going off. The sound itself didn’t alarm her, but the way Lucien leapt up did. He’d been sitting in an armchair and perusing the business section of a French newspaper while Francesca worked with Violet. Now the newspaper lay on the Oriental carpet, forgotten.

“Lucien?” she asked in amazement when she saw his tense expression. A prickle of wariness went down her neck and coursed along her arms when he rapidly strode to the heavy doors and pressed his ear against them, listening.

“Come with me,” he said, turning. “Both of you,” he added, giving Violet a pointed glance. When Francesca stood, but Violet just stared at him in amazement, Lucien added, “
Now
.”

Lucien pointed to a rear exit and nodded at Francesca, obviously expecting her to walk in front of him.

“Lucien, you don’t think that sound was a gunshot, do you?” Francesca asked.

“I’m almost certain it was.”

Her heart squeezed tight. “But . . .
Ian
.”

“Is not going to thank either one of us for running out there if there’s a gunman on the loose. Please, Francesca,” he said less harshly. “Do as I say. There are some policemen stationed at the back door in the kitchens. With their communication equipment, they’ll know from the police at the press conference what happened up here quicker than we can find out ourselves. The security and police will need to secure the area anyway. They’ll have enough on their mind.”

It felt entirely against all that was natural to walk in the opposite direction of where Ian was when a gunshot had just been fired, but Francesca forced herself to do it. The rear door led to a dim corridor. She was starting to learn that many of the great rooms had a family entrance and a staff entrance, the staff entrance with access to the basements, kitchens, and servant’s dining area. Lucien had been right. One officer was racing up a flight of stairs she’d never before used. They weren’t the ones that led from the dining room.

“Get downstairs. Officer Inez is down there with the kitchen staff,” the officer said.

“What’s happened?” Lucien demanded.

“Someone’s been shot. An intruder, we think. Things appear to be secure, but we’re still not sure. Go on down with Inez, please.”

He raced past them. The officer’s terse, vague explanation seemed to leave more questions than answers, mounting Francesca’s anxiety. Nevertheless, she mechanically followed Violet down the stairs, Lucien bringing up the rear, her calm actions belying a mind buzzing with fear.

* * *

Officer Inez had Francesca, Violet, Lucien, and the rest of the staff gathered in the dining room while they waited to hear if the house had been secured from the threat. There was only one entrance to the room, so it was easier for the policeman to guard, she supposed. Francesca was both nervous and thankful when she saw Officer Inez move into the outer corridor to stand guard with his weapon drawn.

She hadn’t brought her cell phone with her into the library, and she’d never regretted a decision more. She sat next to Mrs. Hanson at the oak dining table, her hand in the older woman’s. It was the worst time she’d ever spent, not knowing what was happening above them. Where was Ian? What was he doing? What about Elise, Anne, James, and Gerard? It was unbearable, wondering. She caught Lucien’s stare, noticing how anxious and tense he appeared. He stared and took his cell phone out of his pocket, examining the screen. He exhaled in relief.

“Elise?” Francesca called to him, interpreting his expression.

“Yes,” Lucien replied, tapping out a quick message on the phone. “She’s fine.”

Compassion for him went through her. He, too, had been waiting on pins and needles for news of Elise. She realized fully for the first time that he wouldn’t be standing there at all if he hadn’t given Ian his promise he’d look after her while Ian was at the press conference. If it weren’t for that pledge to his brother, Francesca was certain Lucien would be upstairs despite police orders, searching for his wife.

Question after question churned around inside her, every one like a scraping knife. In the end, it was probably only a minute or two before they got news, but to Francesca it felt like an eternity. She squeezed Mrs. Hanson’s hand extra hard, and Mrs. Hanson squeezed back, when Officer Inez’s cell phone burbled just outside the room.

“Yes?” Inez answered, his deep voice echoing from the corridor just a few feet outside the dining room. Francesca didn’t breathe in the pause that followed. “Yes, Ms. Arno is down here with us, along with Mr. Lenault. They’re fine. Everyone is waiting in the staff dining room. It’s all quiet down here.” Another pause. “Yes. I’ll tell them.”

The balding officer stuck his head into the servant’s dining room. “That was Markov. Mr. Noble wanted him to find out where you two were,” Inez said, glancing from Francesca to Lucien. “And he wanted everyone to know that the family is safe. No one was injured. It’s the intruder who was shot. He’s dead, apparently.”

“Who shot him?” Lucien asked from where he leaned against the sideboard, his casual pose belying a palpable tension in every line of his powerful body.

“It seems he came upon someone in the family when he broke in, and was taken by surprise. They didn’t give me any more details, but Markov said they’d want you to go up there in a moment,” Inez said, looking at Francesca. “They’re still trying to get all the reporters and camera crew off the premises.”

“They want me?” Francesca asked numbly.

“Yeah. They want you to identify the body, see if it’s the same guy who tried to run you off the road yesterday.”

A cold wave ran over her making her shudder. Mrs. Hanson put her arm around her and hugged her tight.

* * *

Francesca sprang up from her chair a while later when she heard Ian’s rough voice in the corridor, identifying himself to Officer Inez. He crossed the threshold of the staff dining room a second later, his face rigid with tension, his eyes blazing when he saw Francesca racing toward him. Her legs felt weak with relief at seeing him alive and well, looking so tall and solid and wonderful to her in his dark suit and an ice-blue tie. Her arms flew around his neck. He held her tight against him, his hands moving over her back, rubbing her almost frantically, as if he wanted to make sure her flesh was real. She, too, needed that reassurance, gripping his shoulders, inhaling his clean, spicy scent deeply, as if she wanted to absorb it and store it for a lifetime.

“Thank God you’re all right,” he said, his breath hitting her neck in warm, pressured puffs of air.

“Thank God
you
are,” she muttered feelingly. She backed up enough to look into his face, needing to see him. His dark brows were slanted as his blue-eyed gaze ran over her face. He seemed just as eager to soak in every detail of her. “When I heard that shot, all I could imagine was you in front of that crowd of people. I kept thinking—”

“
Shhh
, it’s okay. Everything’s going to be fine,” Ian said quietly, brushing back her hair with his hand and palming her skull.

“Ian,” Mrs. Hanson said weakly from just behind Francesca.

“Mrs. Hanson,” Ian broke free sufficiently to give Mrs. Hanson a hug. “We’re all okay,” he assured the older lady. He glanced around at the rest of the gathered staff’s pale, worried faces. “No one from the family or staff has been hurt. The police are evacuating the press and securing the area.”

“Lucien.”

Ian, Francesca, and Mrs. Hanson started and looked around at the sound of Elise’s anxious cry. Officer Inez was obviously not as familiar with Elise’s appearance as he was Ian’s. He was holding her in the corridor, and having more than a little difficulty doing so despite the fact that he had about hundred pounds on Elise.

“It’s all right,” Lucien said sharply, striding out of the room toward her. “That’s my wife!”

Another wave of relief went through her at seeing Lucien lift Elise into his arms. Francesca caught a glimpse of her friend over Lucien’s shoulder, her eyelids closed tight, an intense, grateful expression on her beautiful face. She knew precisely how Elise felt.

“Everyone is really all right?” Francesca whispered to Ian shakily, needing confirmation of Officer Inez’s report “Anne? James? Gerard?”

“Yes, we’re all fine,” Ian assured. “None of the press were hurt, either. Only the intruder was shot. Detective Markov has the family waiting in the sitting room,” Ian said, his mouth pressing into a hard line. “He wants you up there. He’d like you to identify the man’s body.”

“Okay,” Francesca said, nodding. “Where . . . where is it . . .
Him
, I mean?” she muttered, flustered. It seemed surreal that she was talking about a dead man . . . a corpse. She’d never seen a dead person in her life.

“In Grandfather’s office.”

She nodded. Ian studied her intently.

“Francesca, I said that the police want you to do it, but . . . it’s not a pretty sight. You’re not obligated. I was able to identify him as the man who tried to run us off the road yesterday.”

“But don’t they want me to confirm if he was the man in Chicago, as well?”

“Yes,” Ian said, a frown shaping his lips. “But you told me yesterday the man in the car was the same man in Chicago. Perhaps the coroner’s photos would be sufficient for identification. I could speak to Markov about it.”

She realized he was trying to protect her and caressed his jaw. “It’ll be okay,” she said softly. “Just . . . come with me?”

“Of course,” he replied, as if there had never been any doubt of that.

Ian opened the dining room door to the Great Hall for her a moment later. Sunlight flooded into her eyes, temporarily blinding her and only adding to the surreal sensation plaguing her. She realized the sun streamed in from the open front door. Police personnel stood around the hall, a couple of them talking intently into their cell phones. Through the open door, she saw several cars parked in the circular driveway and heard the distant squawk and mechanical voices from police radios.

She started to walk toward the door where she thought James’s office was, but Ian halted her with his hold on her hand. He pulled her over to the shadowed edge of the hall.

“Francesca, there’s something you should know first if you do plan to go in there,” he said.

“Yes?”

“Gerard shot him. The intruder came upon Gerard unexpectedly while he was working in Grandfather’s office. The man drew a gun on Gerard. Grandfather keeps a gun in his desk, where Gerard was working. It’s usually not loaded. According to Gerard, he thought to load it when the press conference got started. It seems he was spooked by what happened yesterday, and acted on impulse. Rightfully so, it seems. If he hadn’t thought to load the gun, he’d be the one lying in there dead right now instead of the man. And who knows what would have happened if the intruder ever found you.”

“Oh my God,” Francesca mumbled, icy shivers clawing at her back and shoulders. “Are you sure Gerard is all right?”

“Physically, yes. But he’s in a state of shock. The police are still questioning him.” She saw doubt in his blue eyes as he studied her face. “Are you certain you want to go in there?”

She nodded, inhaling slowly to steady herself. “Yes. I’d like to get this ugliness over with and in the past.”

He didn’t look thrilled about her decision, but he led her to his grandfather’s study nevertheless, staying close by her side.

Chapter Thirteen

E
verybody stayed up late that night, the fading adrenaline in their blood making sleep difficult. Anne seemed especially concerned about Gerard, who was quiet and subdued by the time the police eventually concluded their investigation that evening, leaving two men behind to keep watch at Belford. For the second night in a row, they sat down to dinner without dressing, everyone rehashing the day’s events. Ian was waiting for a call from Markov that might shed light on the intruder’s identity and possible motive.

By the time they gathered in the sitting room after dinner, Anne seemed to be of the opinion that they’d discussed the alarming events of the day sufficiently. Francesca guessed from her worried glances at Gerard and her subtle altering of the topic of conversation that she worried her nephew had experienced quite enough for the time being. Francesca couldn’t have agreed more. The image of that man’s lifeless face covered in a shocking amount of blood kept flashing before her mind’s eye. That was a
real
hole in his head and
real
blood. Her consciousness couldn’t quite grasp it, even yet. She couldn’t begin to imagine what Gerard was experiencing.

Something about the jarring events of the day seemed to melt away her reserve about the family knowing she and Ian were involved again. All afternoon and evening, he’d been by her side, her hand in his or his arm around her. It’d seemed entirely natural to Francesca, so much so that she didn’t even think about it until that evening at around eleven when Ian’s phone began to ring. She’d been sitting in the circle of his arm on one of the couches in the sitting room, her cheek resting on his chest, lulled by the comfort of his steady heartbeat and the warmth of the fire. He dug into his pocket and checked his phone.

“I’m going to take this,” he said gruffly, kissing her on the temple before he stood. Everyone’s gaze seemed to follow him out of the room as he stepped out into the Great Hall to take the call. A strained silence ensued while they waited for him to return, only broken by Anne asking if anyone wanted anything else to drink.

“That was Markov,” Ian said, stating what they all had suspected. “They’ve discovered the identity of the man,” he said, his gaze on Gerard. “His name is Anton Brodsik. He has a record with the Chicago area police that goes back almost thirty years—assault, minor drug convictions, robbery. He’s suspected of having mob connections. He had a passport on him with a fake name.”

“Is there any clue as to his motive?” Gerard asked, sitting forward in his chair.

“Not anything concrete. But for the past ten years or so, Brodsik has been associated in his crimes a lot with a man named Shell Stern. They were both arrested in a high-profile case three years ago—an attempted kidnapping of a sixteen-year-old boy in Winnetka, Illinois.” Ian glanced at Francesca. “The police didn’t have enough evidence to prosecute, though. No one was ever convicted for the crime. The boy was Sheridan Henes’s son.”

“Henes? The oil company heir?” James asked.

Ian nodded. “The FBI couldn’t convincingly link the two to the case, but there was a strong suspicion against Stern and Brodsik. So they have been connected to kidnapping in the past. And they did try to take Francesca,” Ian said, his eyes gleaming in the firelight as he looked at Francesca.

An involuntary shiver went through her. Anne inhaled raggedly.

“What of this other man, Stern?” James asked worriedly.

“They’ve found him. He’s dead, too,” Ian said.

“What?” Elise and Anne exclaimed at once.

Ian nodded. “Actually, the police recovered Stern’s body from a creek several days ago. He’d been shot. His body had gone unclaimed, and they hadn’t been able to identify him until now. Once Markov had Brodsik’s passport, he was able to follow his trail into the country. Stern and he were on the same plane, both using aliases of course. After that, they were able to identify Brodsik’s true name from fingerprints from the international crime files. They were able to identify Stern given Brodsik and Stern’s history together.”

“Who killed Stern?” Gerard asked.

“Markov suspects Brodsik did away with him. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s seen partners squabble over plans . . . or become unwilling to share when the ultimate prize grows closer. But they’re still trying to confirm that with their investigation. As to why Brodsik might have murdered his own partner, I have no idea. I imagine they’ll know more once they can determine where the two men were staying and trace their movements since they arrived late on Christmas Eve.”

“They came to England on Christmas Eve?” Lucien asked.

“Yes,” Ian said grimly. “The same day as Francesca.”

“And no one else accompanied them?” Gerard asked.

“No. Just Stern and Brodsik,” Ian replied.

“So that’s it, isn’t it?” Francesca asked. She swallowed thickly. Her mouth had gone very dry. “Both men are dead. The threat is done.”

“It would seem so,” James said slowly.

Ian frowned. “I wish I could be so convinced,” he said before he sat and pulled Francesca back into his arms.

* * *

Neither of them attempted to disguise to the others that they were going up to bed together that night, leaving the sitting room hand in hand after saying their good-nights. Francesca was still feeling especially shaky and Ian seemed to sense it, holding her against him when they went to bed, neither of them speaking, just breathing each other’s scent, prizing each other’s presence. She awoke at dawn to the sensation of his lips firm and warm on her throat and breast, his hunger unshielded . . . raw. Their lovemaking was fierce and sweet, both of them desperate to jump into the bright blaze of passion and life, wild to escape the lingering menace of death and the shadows that always seemed to encroach on their happiness.

Francesca’s eyes blinked open heavily as she had the incendiary thought as she lay in Ian’s arms after they made love. Why were her thoughts so morbid and depressing? It took her a moment to understand her dark mood.

And so that really is the reason you came back. The only reason. Because you believed I was in danger.

I came back because I was worried about you, yes.

Fear gripped at her heart and throat. Once Ian was convinced that the threat against her had passed, would he leave again? She wanted to beg him for reassurance that he wouldn’t depart again on his search, but pride stilled her voice. So did helplessness, as she recalled all too well that she didn’t have the power to bring him peace when it came to his past. If he insisted upon putting himself back on that path, he’d have to travel alone.

* * *

They gathered in the hall later that morning to say good-bye to Lucien and Elise, waiting for Peter to come around with the car. Elise and Lucien’s departure only seemed to amplify Ian’s black mood, signifying the culmination of something he didn’t want to end. When he recognized his thoughts, he determinedly asked Lucien for a word before he left. He drew him into the alcove behind the stairs.

“Do you still plan to meet me at Aurore?” Ian asked his brother in a hushed tone.

Lucien’s stoic expression barely stirred. “You still plan to go? Even after everything with Francesca?”

Ian realized Lucien was being delicate. He wasn’t just referring to Brodsik and Stern’s intent to harm or kidnap Francesca. He was talking about the fact that Francesca and he were clearly lovers again.

“Yes. I have to go back. I have to know as much about Trevor Gaines as I can.”

Lucien didn’t reply for a moment. Finally, he exhaled. “Yes. All right. I’m not sure it’s for the best where you’re concerned, but I won’t leave you alone to deal with this. And it’s not as if I’m not curious as well. Just contact me when you’re ready, and I’ll come.”

Lucien started to depart.

“Wait. There’s one other thing. It’s about your mother,” Ian said when Lucien paused. Lucien’s eyes closed briefly.

“What is it?” Ian asked, noticing Lucien’s reaction.

Lucien opened his eyes with a resigned air. “It’s nothing. I was just waiting for you to ask ever since you arrived at Belford Hall. I was shocked when you didn’t ask me straightaway.”

Ian’s pulse began to throb at his throat, although he remained outwardly calm. “I felt guilty about asking. I know you’ve just recently met Fatima,” he said, referring to Lucien’s mother. “I realize how discovering she’s alive and forming a relationship must be very sacred for you.”

Lucien met his stare. “You want to speak with her, don’t you? Ask her about your mother? About Trevor Gaines?”

“Yes,” Ian said honestly. “I do. I won’t without your permission, though. You wouldn’t have spoken to my mother about her past—about a vulnerable time in her life—without my permission, and I wouldn’t speak to your mother without your agreement.”

Lucien looked away. “What you have to understand,” he said quietly. “Is that my mother’s religion is highly prohibitive at the concept of a woman taking a lover outside of marriage, let alone having a child out of wedlock. Her family is a rarity for continuing to accept her even when she told them the truth about me. It wasn’t an easy thing for her to open up and talk about my origins. Her shame is palpable. It’s very difficult to witness her guilt.”

Ian’s heart paused in his chest. “You mean you’ve already spoken with her?” he rasped. “About Trevor Gaines? About my mother?”

Lucien looked at him with the gray eyes he’d inherited from Trevor Gaines, yet the degree of compassion he saw in his gaze was nothing that Gaines could have ever begun to pass on to his child.

“Yes,” Lucien said.

“What did she say? Did Gaines force her into being with him?”

“No,” Lucien replied starkly. “My mother is under the impression that everything Gaines did in regard to moving Helen and her to France was for her—Fatima. She was duped into believing he loved her while they were still in Britain. She’d caught his eye while he’d been visiting Helen, and then he
accidentally
ran into her while she was marketing in the town. He wooed her carefully. My mother was charmed by him—a handsome, accomplished, wealthy man. Their love affair was carried out clandestinely and lasted several months before he disappeared from her life.”

Ian absorbed all of this, picturing the scene of seduction in the tiny town in Essex, Gaines wooing both women at once, the mad gentlewoman and her servant. But not just wooing. Gathering information about them of an intimate nature, their likes and dislikes, gauging their vulnerabilities, ascertaining their cycles. By now, Ian understood that Gaines’s fascination with mechanical things, especially clockworks, bizarrely paralleled this obsession he had with women’s reproductive cycles. He must have realized early on that the cycles of women who lived together often synchronized. Ian had a sick feeling it excited him, being in the know of such feminine intimacies, using that knowledge for his perverse aims.

“Did Fatima realize that Gaines was seeing my mother during the same time period?”

“No. As a matter of fact, Fatima had the distinct impression that Helen didn’t care for Gaines. She assumed it was because of her increasing illness. Helen could be very withdrawn at times.” Lucien’s stare turned fierce. “And I don’t
want
my mother to know until I have the chance to tell her. At this point, my mother is under the impression she was taken advantage of by a philanderer. If anyone has to reveal to her that Gaines was much, much worse than that, it will be me.”

“Fine,” Ian said distractedly, fixated as he was on what Lucien had said earlier. “But what did your mother say about my mother? Lucien?” he prompted roughly. Lucien still hesitated, but then seemed to come to a decision when he met Ian’s gaze.

“My mother said that when they went to France, your mother decompensated considerably,” he said quietly. “Helen used to be functional enough that my mother could leave her alone for an hour or two at a time. Your mother could see to her own basic needs, and she didn’t pose a threat to herself. One morning, my mother returned from a shopping errand in the town where you grew up in France, only to find Helen missing. She searched, growing increasingly frantic. She eventually found your mother in the backyard in what sounds like a near-catatonic state, curled up in a ball, unresponsive. Helen was unable to speak, walk, or recognize familiar faces. My mother called the local doctor and the police. They undertook an investigation. It was determined Helen had recently had sexual intercourse, and there were some bruises on her body. But they were hesitant to call what had occurred rape. Helen was unable to testify as to what had happened, and she’d been occasionally witnessed in . . . erratic behavior by the townspeople since arriving. She might have gotten the bruises from falls, or even taken part in consensual rough sex—”

“How is a psychotic woman able to give informed consent?” Ian interrupted furiously.

“I’m just telling you the police’s thinking,” Lucien said, his gray eyes making Ian clamp his mouth shut. “No charge was ever officially made.”

“She was raped,” Ian grated out.

“My mother agrees,” Lucien said regretfully. “Unlike the police officials, she was familiar with the cycles of Helen’s schizophrenia. She’d never seen your mother decompensate to the level she fell to during that time period. It was clear to my mother she’d experienced a severe trauma. Helen didn’t speak for nearly a month after the incident. My mother thought for sure when she discovered Helen was pregnant that she wouldn’t be able to carry the child to term, she was so debilitated. All signs point to the conclusion that when Helen denied Gaines, he eventually resorted to rape. It’s not as if there isn’t clear-cut proof that he was familiar with those tactics,” Lucien said bitterly.

Ian’s grandmother laughed in the distance, the sound echoing off the walls of the Great Hall. It took Ian a few seconds to even recognize the familiar sound for what it was.

“And your mother gave birth nine months later,” Lucien finished heavily.

“I can see why you wouldn’t want your mother seeing me,” Ian stated after a pause. He and Trevor Gaines looked appallingly alike, after all. If it weren’t for the difference of their eyes, they might have been twins. Lucien’s mother obviously remained ignorant of the fact that her seducer and Helen’s rapist were one and the same man. If she were to meet Helen’s son, however, the truth would be slammed home by the simple, blatant evidence of Ian’s face.