The Beloved One (33 page)

Gareth all but grabbed the child from him, making a lame and embarrassed comment about "having to get used to them first," while Charles retreated, stiff-backed, rejected, and confused.

"Uncle," he murmured, softly.

"Yes, and that is how it must remain," Gareth said, with a level look that brooked no dispute.  "I am her father, Charles.  Not you."

"Yes … yes, you are."

His heartbeat was returning to normal, but it was too painful to look at the toddler, this solid and unmistakable evidence of a "mistake" that he had once made, a mistake that his own brother had taken it upon himself to fix.  In time, maybe he would come to regard little Charlotte with affection.  With love.  He certainly hoped so.  But right now … right now, his heart was too raw, his guilt too great.  It had been like holding a stranger's child, not his own flesh and blood.  She might look like him, but the baby was Gareth's, not his.  She would always be Gareth's.

What an utter, unredeemable failure I am.

And now Gareth felt badly about it.  It was obvious in his face.

"I'm sorry, Charles.  I rushed things . . . I wasn't thinking . . ."

"Don't be upset, Gareth," he said quietly.  "This situation … it will be hard on all of us for a while, I think.  There are things that we all … including little Charlotte, there, must get used to.  She does not know me.  And it's obvious that you're the apple of her eye."

Gareth reclaimed his seat, his face troubled.  An awkwardness settled over them.  The temptation to make his excuses and leave the room was overwhelming, but Charles forced himself to stay.  He would not take the coward's way out.  Not this time.  But he could not sit down companionably with his brother, either, not yet and with so much between them, and so he walked a little distance away, keeping his back to Gareth and the child.

"We heard all about what happened to you over there," Gareth said from behind him, his voice guarded, slightly uncertain.  "About the surgery, and your blindness, and the way those two horrible creatures deceived you."  He paused.  "I don't know how you managed it, Charles."

Charles didn't turn around.  "Managed what?"

"Why, to survive such an ordeal.  It would've driven me to drink, if not worse."  He gave a little laugh.  "But not you.  You've got too much strength.  You survived, and here you are, back with us at last.  I wish I had half your courage and resolve."

Charles, uncomfortable with such praise, bent his head and made a pretense of examining his thumbnail.  "From what I understand,
you're
the one who deserves to be admired.  Lucien tells me that you've done quite well for yourself since we last saw each other."

"I'm doing all right."

"Got yourself an estate now, eh?"

"Yes.  Swanthorpe Manor, up in Abingdon.  Do yyou remember it?  It used to belong to our family way back in Grandfather's time, but he lost it over a card game . . .  I won it back, last summer."

"At cards?"

"No, pugilism."

"Pugilism?" said Charles, finally turning around.

Gareth shrugged and looked down, absently toying with the stem of his goblet.  "Yes.  Everyone thought I was so useless, so I determined to make something of myself — not only to support my new family, but to prove something to Lucien."  His finger smoothed the glass.  "I turned to fighting for a living."

"Good God, man!"

"I did quite well in the end, even became a champion."  He looked up, grinning.  "Though Luce nearly had my head."

"I can well imagine."

"Well, I
was
always good with my fists."

"Yes, certainly better than me," said Charles.

"But
you
were better at swords."  He paused.  "You were better at almost everything."

"No.  It only appeared that way."  Charles was quiet for a moment.  "You probably never knew it, but I wouldn't do anything I wasn't good at.  Why do you think I never had any sparring matches with you after you beat me that time?"

"You couldn't bear the thought of losing?"

"No, I couldn't."

Gareth gave a little laugh.  "You're right.  I never knew."

Charles went back to examining his thumbnail.  A few feet away, Gareth gazed down at the child cradled in his arm, kissed her forehead, and tenderly brushed aside a lock of pale blonde hair.  A silence fell between them.  Finally, Gareth blew out his breath.  "I'm sorry about how everything worked out for you," he said.  "Hell, man, if I'd known you really weren't dead . . ."

Charles held up a hand.  "No.  You mustn't blame yourself.  It's my fault.  I made a mess and you were gallant enough to pick up the pieces.  It — it all worked out for the best."

Gareth's finger was moving agitatedly over the base of the glass now.  "You're not angry, then?  You don't resent what I've done?"

"No.  I have no reason to resent you."

"If it's any consolation, she missed you terribly when she first came here . . ."

A shadow fell over Charles's face.  "I am sorry to hear that."  He went to the window and looked out at the brightening downs, so green beneath their mantle of frost.  Very quietly, he murmured, "It seems that there is no end to the number of people I have hurt, is there?"

"You would never have hurt anyone intentionally, Charles.  Least of all those who love you."

Charles took a deep breath, steeled himself, and looked at his brother.  "And did
she
love me?"

Please, please.  Tell me that she did not.

Gareth's blue eyes, heavily lashed and tilted down at the outer corners in a sleepy, romantic look that mirrored Charles's, lifted to regard him.  "She was young, Charles," he said quietly.  "It was a long time ago."

"Yes.  A long time ago."

And then, hesitatingly:  "Did you love
her
?"

Charles looked back out over the downs, and it was a long moment before he answered.  "I thought I did.  Once.  But it is possible for affection to masquerade as love, especially when loneliness and naivité are there to help it along."  He paused.  "I . . . I do feel a need to speak with her, though.  To close the book on that chapter of my life."  He turned and looked at his brother.  "What are your feelings on that, Gareth?"

Gareth shrugged and looked down, veiling his expression with his long lashes.  "You know I've always felt, well, second best in those awful comparisons everyone always made between the two of us.  I'd be lying if I said I wasn't just a little bit . . . well, anxious about it.  But you do what you have to do, Charles."

"What I once felt for her is in the past, Gareth.  I'm sorry if my behavior last night might have indicated otherwise.  I saw that she was with child, and drew the wrong conclusions.  I hope you can forgive me."

Gareth grinned.  "Hell, if the shoe was on the other foot, and I'd come to the same conclusion, I probably would've taken your head off.  There's no need to apologize."

Another awkward, uncomfortable silence.  And then Charles sighed and pulled out the chair opposite Gareth.  He propped his elbows on the table, rested his forehead in the heels of his hands, and, pushing his fingers up through his hair, stared down at the table.

Gareth resumed sipping his apple juice.

"I see you've brought a friend back from America with you," he said, after some time.

"Yes.  Amy.  She's been my polestar, and my salvation."

"She's striking.  Quite exotic, if I do say so myself."

"Yes, she is."

Another pause.  And then, Gareth asked impulsively, "Do you love her?"

Charles dragged his head up and regarded his brother with what was almost a smile.  "Yes."  He looked beyond Gareth's shoulder, out the window and over the downs, his gaze fixed on some distant point that only he could see.  "And this time, it is for real, I think."

"You ought to marry her."

"I can't."

"Why not?"

"I am not ready to be anyone's husband."  As Gareth started to protest, Charles murmured, "She deserves more than a washed out shell of a man whose courage and confidence are in tatters, who can't offer her much of anything, who is less than perfect."

"What a load of bollocks."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I said, what a load of bollocks.  Really, Charles, you haven't changed a damn bit, have you?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Look at you, striving to be perfect, just as you ever were.  Won't do anything unless you can do it to your own ridiculous standards of excellence.  Well, let me tell you something.  Being a husband means learning as you go along; you don't go into it already knowing everything there is to know, and can't expect to.  You make mistakes, and you learn by them."

"I dislike making mistakes."

"So what are you going to do, live your life in a cage for fear of making any?"

Charles tightened his jaw.  He knew his brother was right, but it was hard to hear a lecture from a younger sibling, and the one
he'd
always had to lecture, at that.

"Don't look so perturbed," Gareth said lightly.  "And for God's sake, stop taking life so damned seriously, would you?"  He drained his glass and stood up.  "Now come on.  It's early, and we have the whole morning to catch up on things.  I want to hear all about America and how you met Amy.  I want to tell you about the flying contraption that Andrew's working on.  And I want to talk to you about Swanthorpe, because there are some problems I need your advice on."

"Need
my
advice on?"

"Yes, regarding the sort of things I just don't have a head for, you know, things like how to sort out disputes between staff, and what to do about the poachers that have been nicking my pheasants, that sort of thing.  I'm no leader of men, like you!" 

"Well, I —"

"And just to get our blood going first, what do you say to a horse race, just like old times?  First one down to Ravenscombe and back wins!"

Charles shook his head, but he was already getting to his feet.  "Really, Gareth,
you
haven't changed a damn bit, either."

"Not in any of the ways that matter.  Now come on, let's go.  If we're quick we'll be back by sunrise!"

Chapter 24

Amy stretched, yawned, and opening her eyes, found herself in the most beautiful bedroom she had ever seen.

She sat straight up in bed. 
How did I get here?

And then she remembered.  A night of heated passion.  Falling asleep in Charles's arms.  And later, much later, the sensation of being picked up and carried somewhere . . .

Here.

She gazed about, her eyes wide with wonder.  Sunshine streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, making the room so blindingly bright that she had to squint against it.  There was so much gilt in here — what with the ornately worked frame of the mirror, the paintings, the elegantly-turned legs of the furniture — that the room itself seemed to glow.  Amy reached out and touched the powder-blue hangings of the bed, the gold tassels that trimmed them, the silky-soft fabric of a sheet, then let her gaze travel up the nearest wall, rising some fifteen feet up to that ornately plastered ceiling.

What a fairytale place!  And what a fairytale man who had brought her here!  She shivered with delight as she relived the feel of his arms around her, his hot kisses, his ardent lovemaking. 
Oh, Charles . . .  How I love you!
  Eager to see him, desperate not to waste a single moment of her new life in England, she jumped out of bed clad in nothing but her shift, her bare feet sinking into a plush rug that probably cost more than Sylvanus's house.  Humming, she did an excited little pirouette on the ball of her toe.  Then, suddenly realizing how foolish she was acting, she giggled and, wrapping her arms around herself, scampered to the window, where she climbed up onto the window seat and looked out.

There, far off in the distance and racing over the downs toward the castle, were two horses.  One was a dark red, the other a tall liver chestnut.  They were too far away for her to see the faces of those who rode them, but she would know Contender — and his rider's bright gold hair — anywhere.

She smiled, feeling suddenly happy.  Oh, what memories they had made last night!  She hurriedly brushed her hair and washed her face, reveling in the luxurious, lavender-scented soap at the washstand.  Dressing quickly, she was just putting on her short-jacket when there was a soft knock at the door.

"Come in!" she said breathlessly, hoping it was Charles.

The door opened and a young woman of about Amy's age poked her head in.  Amy instantly recognized her, though the two of them had not yet been formally introduced.  "Good morning, Miss Leighton.  I'm Nerissa — Charles's sister."  She pushed the door fully open, revealing another woman standing just behind her.  "And this is my sister-in-law, Juliet.  May we come in and visit for a few moments?"

Amy, flustered and caught by surprise, dipped in an immediate curtsey.  "Yes, yes of course," she said, but all the while her mind was racing.  Had they found out that she and Charles had spent most of the night making love out in the stable?  Had Nerissa come here to reprimand her, to tell her to stay away from her brother and leave him to his equals?  And oh, how mortifying to meet Juliet now, the woman who may or not be her rival, when she was totally unprepared for such an encounter!

But Nerissa did not look angry; if anything, she looked a bit amused by Amy's sudden discomfiture.  "I trust you slept well?"

As pale a blond as Charles, she was dressed in a shimmering gown of white, silver and gold, and with the room's bright light surrounding her, she looked like some beautiful earthbound angel.

"I did, my lady."

"Please — just Nerissa."  She smiled.  "I hate formality, don't you, Juliet?"

"Can't stand it," said the other woman, her familiar New England accent as out of place in this magical castle as Amy herself felt.  Gareth's wife had moss-green eyes and lovely dark hair drawn loosely, but becomingly, back from her exquisite face.  Neither her coiffure nor her clothes were as fancy as Nerissa's; she had an air of no-nonsense about her, of Yankee simplicity that Amy instantly recognized and responded to.  She smiled a little shyly, wondering if Juliet was discreetly studying her as she was discreetly studying Juliet.