If Love Were Enough (12 page)

Brandon retired from the dining room as quickly as he could. Asher had wanted him to drink, smoke, and commiserate, but he had other things on his mind.

Cilla was alone in her rooms.

They had been interrupted earlier.

He would not let that happen again should the house burn down around them.

In fact, he suspected the two of them could be the cause of the blaze.

Upon reaching her door, he knocked as he called, “Priscilla, Cilla?” Waiting a number of moments, he knocked again. Hearing nothing on the other side of the door he rattled the handle.

It was locked.

Finally, he heard her answer.

“Who is it?”

“Brandon. Cilla, let me in. We can continue where we left off.”

Silence.

“Cilla, are you there?”

“Yes. Yes, Brandon. I’m here but there has been too much done. I need to rest. I need to think.”

He could hear the weariness in her voice but he wanted to hold her again. Could they not comfort each other and discuss what had happened further?

“Let me in, my love. Give me a few minutes and we can talk about all that has occurred.” He heard her sigh through the walnut of the door. Placing his hand upon the surface Brandon lowered his voice. “Are you all right, Cilla? Do you need anything? Tea? Sherry?”

My arms around you?
Would that not help them both feel better?

“Brandon, I know you offer me comfort.” Her voice was a whisper on the other side of the partition. “I cannot think further about it now. I need rest. Please be patient with me.”

Her voice cracked. Was she crying? Why?

“Tomorrow we will meet and talk further,” she said in a soft murmur.

“Cilla?”

“Please, Brandon. I know you don't understand. I'm not sure I do. Just give me tonight. I need tonight. I will see you tomorrow.”

What else could he do? Forcing the issue would not help matters and was out of character for him. Better to give her some time.

“All right, Cilla,” Brandon said, trying to keep the disappointment out of his voice. “Get some rest. It has been a long and eventful day. Tomorrow we can meet for breakfast and talk. Good night, my love.”

Shoving his hands deep into his trouser pockets, he turned away and shambled back to his rooms.

Cilla dropped her hand from the door and turned away. She could almost swear she felt Brandon’s heat right through the door.

She wiped tears from her cheeks with the back of her hand.

What was she to say to him? How could he understand?

She found her handkerchief in her pocket and plucked at it while she paced the room.

She was so confused.

With little enthusiasm, she undressed, leaving her clothes laying over a chair till morning. She pulled back the counterpane and slid between the smooth, cool sheets.

Part of her wished she were not alone, that she hadn't sent Brandon away.

But her feelings for Brandon were getting beyond her control. No longer was this just an exercise in conceiving a child she could present as Robert’s heir. She wanted Brandon on all levels, physically, emotionally and spiritually, too. She wanted to be part of him and he part of her. She wanted him in her present and her future.

She was falling in love with him.

But love did not seem to be enough.

If love were enough, would she not have had Robert’s child and heir? She had developed a loving relationship with him over their ten years of marriage.

If love were enough, would Thomas and Anne be at such odds, cheating, lying, and hurting one another? Wouldn’t they tell each other how they felt and build a deeper, more caring and lasting marriage.

Brandon needed to go back to his dying father and marry Estella. He needed an heir of his own. A wife of his own. A life that would go on without her.

She had responsibilities to the many people who had cared for Robert and her. She had to protect them from the destruction she had no doubt Damon would cause.

She wrapped her arms around her pillow; snuggled her head against the sateen sheets.

Maybe sleep would help. Maybe it would clear her head, ease her heart, regain her perspective and purpose. After all, she had come back to her childhood home for one reason.

To conceive a son.

What should it matter how she felt about the child’s father. Brandon would never know about him. And, more than likely, he would not care.

She, after all, was just a momentary diversion for him until he returned home to mourn his father’s passing and marry his childhood friend.

As her eyelids became heavy and exhaustion took her, she promised herself, tomorrow she would complete her task. No matter what, she would consummate her relationship with Brandon to beget the child, the boy, she needed to save Robert’s title and lands.

Whatever she felt for Brandon and the loss of him, would just have to be the price she paid for her son.

Priscilla threw herself on the back of her horse. No sooner was she seated than she rode off as if the fires of hell were after her.

And were they not?

She’d had a fitful night’s sleep filled with dreams of passion and Brandon, but upon awakening, the questions and the doubts returned. Could she go through with this charade now that her feelings for Brandon were growing so strong? Could she lie to him when she was learning so much, caring so much, about him? He was not the irresponsible rake she had expected, had counted on.

She dared not stay in her room. She had no doubt Brandon would find her as soon as he could, either there or at breakfast.

What would she say to him then?

How could she excuse her behavior? What honest reason could she give him for shutting him out last night, especially after their lovemaking in the afternoon before Anne, once again, intruded into their serenity? How could she explain to him how she was trying to honor her marital vows and responsibilities when she planned to take his seed for her own purposes?

What were those vows worth since Robert was dead?

Was she avoiding the intimacy he offered? Or was she afraid of the other feelings that were intensifying?

Her heart ached.

If she gave herself over to him, could she stand it when he left to return to his father and his betrothed, or she was forced to go back to Northumberland and face what awaited her there with or without the child?

Was it better to have loved and lost than never to have risked mind, body, and even soul?

Wind rushed through her hair as her white mare, Shaharazade, raced over hills she had ridden almost daily as a child and young adult. Rather than guide her horse, she let the mare run free, jealous she could not grasp such freedom, such exhilaration for her own.

All too soon, the horse tired herself out and headed back toward the stables for a good brushing and food.

Priscilla was no farther along in her ruminations. She slid from the saddle, handing the reins to the groom. Without a look back, she headed for the rear entry to the manse.

How long she could avoid her fate she had no idea.

Brandon rang for his valet, Simpson, and got dressed. The skeptical looks he’d received from beneath his valet’s bushy gray eyebrows told him there was much discussion and apprehension from the recent events at the manor. Of course, the man knew his place and would be the last to voice his concerns. But it was enough to make Brandon wonder how all of this was playing out in the minds of those around him.

He guessed the other guests were caught up in their own pleasures, but the staff was another story. Still . . .

With his toilette complete and his person dressed and presentable, he made his way to Priscilla’s rooms. Knocking, however, did no good as no one answered the door. When he tried the handle it turned easily in his hand opening to an empty room which verified his quarry had already fled.

He made for the dining room. On his way he met a number of maids cleaning and polishing. It must be earlier in the day than he had thought. He asked each about Lady Rutherford but each denied having seen her.

The table and the sideboard were empty of occupants with the exception of the attending butler and footman when he entered the dining room. He ate and left to continue his search.

Knowing she was not in the house, Brandon decided to take the shortest course to the stables. Just maybe she had gone riding again and he could catch her when she returned.

He was in the back hallway heading toward the door when it opened.

He had only moments to take in her beautiful, flushed face. Upon seeing him seconds later, it drained of all color. The riding habit she wore gave proof she had, indeed, been riding. Before she had blanched she had looked much the better for it. Rather as she had the afternoon before in the throes of her passion, before Anne’s latest drama had disrupted their intimacy.

“My lady.” Brandon gave her his lowest most respectful bow.

“My lord. I have just returned from riding the countryside on Shaharazade.” She was studiously pulling her riding gloves off long graceful fingers, her eyes averted, making no move to draw nearer.

It took all of his concentration to keep his mind from developing that thought into a sexual encounter. “I have not been out, but understand it’s a fine day for a ride. Are you too tired for a walk in the garden, Lady Rutherford?” That would be the safest, most neutral place to talk with her at this moment. His room or hers would hold too much unvoiced innuendo and intimacy.

He could almost see the relief flash across her face. “Yes, my lord, it’s a lovely day. A walk in the garden would be most genial.”

He walked toward her, his arm raised in invitation. He stifled a sigh of relief when she placed her ungloved hand upon his sleeve. He ushered her through the still open door, then shut it behind them.

“I think the rose garden should do,” Priscilla said in a quiet voice. “The path to the right will take us there. With the warmth of the day the scents should be heavenly.”

Wanting to win back her friendship and trust, he said, “Roses it will be. The aromas will be wonderful after being cooped up in the manse all morning.”

They walked in silence. Upon reaching the roses, they meandered down the different paths and over a small bridge. The stream below gurgled its way down to the nearby river.

The other side held a huge, old oak tree and offered a shaded bench. Brandon took her hand and pulled her beneath the branches into the dappled shade. Taking a moment to see if anyone was watching them, he settled her on the bench then followed suit beside her. Priscilla’s face was turned away from him.

“Cilla, we must talk about last night.”

She still did not face him, only lowered her head as if regretful. Her hand went to her pendant once again and she worried it along its chain. “I’m so sorry, Brandon. I was too exhausted and confused to continue what we had started earlier. Thomas and Anne’s relationship and my own with Robert make me question what a woman and a man should mean to each other.”

“I think you had the best of intentions, Cilla.” Now her face turned toward him. “I regret you would not let me comfort you. Talk to you. Try to understand what you were thinking, feeling. I’m sorry.”

“You are not at fault, Brandon.”

He raised her face by lifting her chin with his forefinger. “Cilla, I want you. You know that. But I am willing to wait until you are ready, or at least stay as long as I can until my father calls for me to go home.”

“But I have little to offer. I have been a failure as a woman and a wife. Why would you want to even bother? I cannot even offer you the experience Anne has had to be a tolerable mistress.”

“You are much too hard on yourself, Cilla. How can you take fault when your husband was old and sick and thus impotent. Did he ever accuse you of lacking?”

She looked up at him, her eyes wide, stunned at his question. “No. Never. He was always kind to me. I did all that he asked, anything he asked.”

“Then you have more experience than many. And, even if you had none at all, it would not matter as whatever happens between us will be ours alone.”

Brandon took in a deep breath as he stared past their shelter into the garden. The scent of blossoming roses filled the air around them. The sky was a pure spring blue with just a scattering of soft-looking, fluffy clouds floating by beyond the leafy limbs sheltering them from the sun.

He took another breath, deep and full, girding his loins before he asked the next question. With thumb and forefinger he tipped her face back to his so he could look into the depths of her eyes.

“Cilla, have you never looked at a man and wanted him, wanted to make love to and with him?”

Her answer came out in a whisper he might not have heard if she had not been facing him. “No. Never. Never . . . until you.”

As her answer filled his entire being with hope, he lowered his lips to hers. This time he did not brush her lips. He pressed his firmly against hers, slid his arms around her to pull her lithe body against him. He exalted in the feeling of her breasts pressing against his chest, her mouth trembling against his.

With delicacy learned from his prior years as a rake, he teased her lips open then captured her mouth to stroke her tongue with his own.

He felt the tremor that coursed through them both, but could not tell whether he had responded to her or she to him.

When he felt her arms lift to encircle his neck and heard the small gasp, he deepened their kisses, marshaling his need in his tenuous grasp.

“I want you, Cilla,” he confessed, his lips still close to hers, their eyes locked. “I want you like I have never wanted any other woman. And, there is not a woman here, Anne or any of the others, who can sate this need I have deep inside of me. It has to be you. Only you.”

He lifted a hand to stroke her cheek with the backs of his fingers.

“Let me be the one, Cilla. Let me be the one to be first to make love to you, with you. I promise you will not regret it. And, I will cherish the memory the rest of my life.” He knew he was holding his breath, waiting for the answer that would either devastate or elate him.

“Yes, Brandon," she said, her voice still a sigh. "It was meant to be you. I cannot hold out any longer. I want you to want me, to need me, to take me.”

He kissed her again, a long sensuous retreat into intimacy. The he rose from the bench, his hand extended, his gaze intent on her.

With the slightest of nods, she placed her hand in his, rose from the bench and followed him in silence toward the house.