Samantha James (12 page)

Papa’s birthday fete was a rousing success. The gathering was small but intimate, attended by family and neighboring friends. Heather watched her mother slip an arm through her father’s elbow. Laughing, Miles clasped his hand over hers, then bent low and brushed her lips with his.

For an instant, sheer, stark pain clutched Heather’s heart. Such displays were hardly unusual, for her parents had never been shy about letting their feelings be known. But today—today was different.

She envied their closeness. Their ease with each other. She envied the love they shared…

And despised herself in the bargain.

The celebration lasted most of the afternoon on the south lawn. The guests had departed when Victoria made her way to where Heather sat, enjoying the warmth of the sun on her face and the fragrant scent of the breeze.

Victoria dropped a kiss on her cheek and
collapsed into the chair next to her daughter. “Finally, a chance to rest.” Her tone turned anxious. “Did it go well, do you think?”

Heather smiled. “Your parties always turn out smashing, Mama. You always fret for no reason.”

Victoria sighed. “A mother’s lot, it seems.”

Heather’s smile remained in place, but something inside her twisted. Her heart throbbed wistfully, for that was something she would never know….

“At any rate, I’m glad it’s over.” Dressed in a pale blue frock that matched the color of her eyes, Victoria appeared as youthful as ever. She fixed those incredibly blue eyes on her daughter. “It seems like ages since we’ve had the chance to talk,” she said lightly. “Indeed, it seems we’ve hardly seen you of late. It’s not because of that incident with Bea, is it?”

Heather blinked. Oh, but she should have known, for Mama was not one to mince words.

Heather glanced down to where her hands were folded in her lap. “I thought her too forward. Was I wrong, Mama?”

“Heather, I know of no one with a steadier head than you, sweet.” She gave a tinkling laugh. “Why, many was the time when I first married your father that I considered coming to you for advice—and you but a child of eight! Besides, Bea is fanciful and headstrong and must learn she cannot always have her way.”

“I was harsh with her, Mama.”

Victoria’s gaze softened. “So are we all at one time or another, love.”

“But I made her cry. And I cannot remember a time when you or Papa ever made
me
cry.”

“And now I think you are too harsh on yourself. But that’s your nature, I think—you expect much of yourself. At times too much, I fear.” Suddenly she reached out and touched Heather’s cheek. “You look tired, dear.”

Heather avoided her gaze. “I’m fine, Mama. I just didn’t sleep particularly well last night.”

It was an excuse; they were both aware of it. But in that special way she had, Victoria knew when to press and when to leave well enough alone.

But she did reach out and take both of Heather’s hands within hers. “Love, if you ever wish to talk—oh, about anything, anything at all!—you know you can come to me, don’t you?”

Heather went still. Mama knew. Somehow Mama knew there was something between her and Damien…but she couldn’t tell her—she couldn’t tell anyone!

She summoned a wisp of a smile. “I know, Mama.”

Victoria stared at her for several seconds, then lightly steered the conversation elsewhere.

A short time later, when Victoria went inside to check on dinner, Heather rose and made her way to her father. He was leaning on the fence near the pasture, a half-smile on his face as he watched the gray stallion race across the field.

He slanted her a slight smile as she stopped beside him. “He’s as fleet as the wind, isn’t he,” he murmured, then paused. “Wait! That’s what
I’ll call him…Pegasus! What do you think, Heather?”

“I think it a fitting name indeed, Papa.”

The satisfaction in her tone made him laugh. He turned an eye upon his eldest daughter. “So. You’re feeling rather pleased with yourself, are you, poppet?”

Poppet
. It was the pet name he’d called her as far back as she could remember. Heather chuckled. “With good reason, I suspect. But now I’d ask the same of you, Papa. Are you pleased with your gift? Or would you have preferred my prize ram?”

“Ah, but your prize ram would not carry me with such speed,” he stated blithely.

She eyed his tall, imposing form up and down. “My prize ram would not carry you at all!”

It was his turn to chuckle at her teasing. His mirth subsided, and he glanced at her. “I never suspected—nor did I realize you were such an excellent judge of horses. Where did you find him?”

“Actually, Da—” She caught herself just in time. “Mr. Lewis accompanied me to a breeder in Cumberland by the name of Ferguson.”

“Ferguson? Outstanding! His horses are coveted from here to Paris.” He cocked a brow at her. “I do hope he gave you a fair price.”

“He did indeed. I learned to bargain from a master, remember?” They chatted on for several minutes, but soon Heather fell silent.

Miles reached out to touch the faint lines etched between finely arched black brows. “What’s on your mind, poppet?” he asked softly.

Heather took a deep breath. Her gaze was unerringly direct. “Papa, what did my father look like?”

Shock rendered Miles immobile. Somehow he managed to quell it. Before he could respond, she went on.

“Was he a tall man with black hair?”

Miles gave her an odd look. “Yes. Yes, he was, pet.”

“You’re quite certain?”

The merest hesitation. “Quite.”

She didn’t seem to notice, thank heaven. “Yes. Yes, of course you would be.” She spoke as if to herself. “After all, you knew him well….”

“Your mother was petite like you, Heather, only with chestnut hair. But you have her eyes.” He held his breath. This, at least, he knew to be true….

She let out a long, pent-up breath. “I’m sorry, Papa. I didn’t mean to snap at you.”

“No harm done.” His tone was light. “But why that particular question, poppet? It’s been quite some time—years, I believe—since you’ve asked after your parents.”

She gave a tiny, rueful shake of her head. “It’s just that I suddenly recalled the memory of a tall, black-haired man, and I had the most bizarre certainty that he must have been my father. It’s rather odd, don’t you think?”

Miles disguised his uneasiness with a smile. “I really couldn’t say, sweet. But certainly it’s nothing to worry about.”

“Yes. Yes, of course you’re right.”

Later that night, Victoria sat before the dress
ing table in their bedchamber, pulling a brush through wavy, blond curls, her expression preoccupied. Finally she laid the brush aside and glanced at Miles. Clad in a rich burgundy dressing gown, he stood at the window, gazing out into the night.

“Heather looked tired today, don’t you think?”

So immersed in thought was he that she had to repeat her question.

“I’m afraid I didn’t notice.” He turned back to the window.

Victoria frowned. Heather wasn’t the only one acting strangely today. His posture was rigid and tense. For a man who’d been riding the cusp of happiness throughout the day, his sudden quiet tonight concerned her grievously. Rising, she crossed to him and laid gentle fingertips on his shoulder.

“What’s wrong, Miles?” she asked softly.

His voice was low and strained. “She asked about her father, Victoria. She asked what he looked like.”

Victoria’s lips parted. “No. Oh, no. Oh, Miles, what did you say?”

He turned to her. “Christ, I—I didn’t know what to say. She’s made no mention of them for years…Before I could answer, she asked if he was a tall, black-haired man.”

“Was he?”

His features were drawn. “I told her he was, but I—I don’t know for certain, Victoria. It was dark and raining the night of the accident. He
was already dead. I was trying to save Heather and her mother.” He paused.

“But as I stood there with Heather today, the strangest thing happened. I began to wonder…what if the man with Justine was not her husband? What if he was not Heather’s father?” He pressed taut fingers to his forehead, then sought her gaze. “Victoria, it’s all I’ve been able to think of since! What if he was not her father?”

A tiny frown lined Victoria’s brow. “Miles, you have no reason to believe he was
not
her father.”

“Not then. Don’t you see, not then!”

“They were traveling together, weren’t they? The three of them?”

“Yes. I assumed he was her father. And Justine asked after him. ‘How is Bernard?’ she asked over and over. ‘Tell me he is well,’ she pleaded again and again.” Miles began to pace. “He had come with her, and I was so certain he was her husband.”

“Miles, I would have been just as convinced,” Victoria pointed out.

“But what if I was wrong? I made no inquiries, Victoria—at first because I believed they were a family; later because I didn’t want to know. I didn’t want anyone to know! I wanted nothing to jeopardize my chances of being granted wardship of Heather—the less known about her parents, the better, or so I thought.”

He stopped in the middle of their room. In all her days, Victoria had never seen him so agitated.

The veins stood out in his neck. “God, but I pray she remembers no more! I shudder to think of it, for not once did Justine ask about Heather—if I had not told her, she’d never have known whether the child lived or died!”

Victoria went to him. She slipped her arms around his waist. “Miles, calm yourself.” She gazed up at him. “The man with Justine was her husband—Heather’s father. It has to be.”

His arms came around her slowly. He rested his chin on her head. “You’re probably right. But Heather’s questions trouble me. Victoria, if she should find out the truth…that I never laid eyes upon them before that night…she would be devastated. And I could never tell her what a vile woman her mother really was. As she lay dying, she cursed her—cursed her daughter for living! Victoria, if you’d heard her…”

The anguish in his tone tore at her. She sensed in him a fear she’d never seen before.

Seeing him like this was like a knife in her heart. Victoria’s throat grew achingly tight. She rubbed her cheek against the satin of his dressing gown. “I know, love,” she whispered. “I know.”

His arms tightened around her. She could feel the desperation in his hold.

“All these years, I’ve told myself I did the right thing. But now—”

“Miles, do not agonize so! You did what was right! You loved her, and you sought to protect her in the only way there was! Why, Heather might have gone to an orphan house if you hadn’t. And you know those poor children receive no care, and especially a child like her. She
would have been left in a corner with no one to tend her—no one to care!” Tears started in her eyes. “I cannot bear to think that Heather might have grown up so cruelly!”

“I know, sweet. I know. I cannot bear it, either.” He pressed her cheek against his chest. Now it was he who comforted her.

They remained there, wrapped in each other’s arms. But there was no ease for his mind, no respite for the restless nagging at his heart.

For the chilling suspicion encumbered his mind as never before…what if he had made a terrible mistake?

What if the man killed in the accident with Justine was not Heather’s father? If he was not…

Miles’s skin prickled eerily. A chill seemed to touch his very bones.

…then who was?

Heather left Lyndermere far behind, lost behind a tall stand of green-leafed maple trees. Small, gloved hands were loose on the reins. She paid no heed as the cart bounced and jostled down the road. The trip back to Lockhaven was one her pony had made a hundred times before, and she gave him his head; he knew the way as well as she.

Before she knew it, she was back at Lockhaven. Daniel, one of the stableboys, ducked out from the stable. “Good evening, mum,” he greeted. “I trust you had a pleasant day?” He reached out to take the pony’s bridle.

“I did indeed,” Heather began. All at once
there was a thunder of hoofbeats. They both looked up to see Damien bearing toward them.

One look at the urgency on his features and Heather knew something was very wrong.

She half rose from the seat. Dread curled her insides. “What?” she cried. “What is it?”

He barreled from the saddle. “I just met Robert MacTavish on the road. He went to fetch the midwife for Bridget, but she’s gone to visit her daughter in Somerset and not due back until tomorrow. She needs you, Heather.”

Heather’s breath caught. “She’s in labor?”

He nodded.

She gave a sharp cry. “But it’s too early—she’s not due for another month.”

Hands on her waist, Damien had already plucked her from the seat.

“We have to hurry,” he said tersely. “Robert says she’s in a bad way.” He glanced at Zeus. “Can you ride with me? It’ll be quicker.”

Heather nodded.

A moment later she was up in the saddle in front of him.

The position was shockingly intimate. Her good leg was braced against the entire length of his thigh—she could feel the iron-thewed hardness even through the thickness of her skirts. He hugged her hips with his own. Her bottom was nestled against the notch between his legs—yet another place that was brazenly hard….

His arms locked fast around her. “All right?”

“Yes.”

His breath rushed past her ear. “Your knee—”

“I’m fine. Please, Damien. Hurry.”

It was a wild ride, yet by the time they alighted at the MacTavish cottage she remembered little of it. Robert, a thin, wiry man, met them at the door. His dark eyes were frantic. His fair hair stood on end, as if he’d thrust his fingers through it repeatedly.

“Miss Heather,” he said fervently. “Praise God you could come. Bridget’s been asking for you.”

Heather entered the bedroom, where Bridget lay on the bed against the far wall. Her hair lay over her shoulders, lank and damp with sweat. A light blanket was drawn up over the mound of her belly. Her eyes were huge and filled with terror.

“Hello, Bridget,” she murmured. She sat on the edge of the bed and took Bridget’s hand. “When did your pains start?”

“My water broke at dawn.” Her voice was thin. “The pains started not long after.”