Knight of Christmas Page 2

“I can see to the disposition of funds. Sir Alastair will also see to any outstanding household accounts. Let him know the particulars.” Brandon turned to leave, then hesitated. “Your first duty will be to oversee the removal of every last vestige of Oakby’s existence.”

  “With pleasure.”

  Brandon Knight disappeared into the hallway, the door banging shut behind him. Sir Alastair cleared his throat awkwardly, returning her attention to him. She clenched her gloved hands to keep them from shaking. What had she agreed to?

  * * *

  Bran walked into the study and slammed the door. He leaned against the desk, trying to catch his breath. She had taken the position. Bran meant to insult her, shame her. Hell’s teeth, he never expected her to accept. Now what would he do? Standing close and gazing at her pale, luminescent skin had hardened his rampant prick once again. No control as far as Angeline was concerned, then and now. Damnation.

  Thank the fates he still wore his long wool coat. Bran should have kicked her to the cobbles as she so richly deserved. Lady Angeline Oakby was no better than the depraved man she had called husband. However, he admired the way she glared at him with her pert chin high in the air. The way she spat out “with pleasure” showed there was no love lost between her and the late earl. A knock sounded at the door.

  Bran straightened and took a sharp breath. “Enter.”

  The valet stepped across the threshold. Not Sampson any longer. Bran wondered what had become of the weasel henchman.

  “Pardon me, sir. My name is Quinn. What room will you be taking? I will see to your trunk.”

  “Where did Lord Oakby sleep?”

  The valet glanced down briefly. “The earl did not stay here often. When he did, he resided in the guestroom facing Hanson Lane.”

  The farthest bedroom from Angeline. Very telling.

  And if he was hardly here, why was a valet on the payroll? And what use would Bran have for a valet? He managed to get through life this far without one. He had been told earlier by Sir Alastair there was no butler or housekeeper, and only a cook, two maids—one being the nurse, and one footman, far less than an earl would employ for his London home. Bran supposed the valet was no doubt employed to care for Oakby in his final days.

  “I will be staying in the master suite,” he replied. The rooms were next to Angeline’s.

  “Very good, sir.”

  After Quinn departed, Bran tore off his coat and waistcoat. He felt constrained, hot, and strangled. He unwound the elegantly knotted cravat and tossed it to the floor. After pouring himself a brandy, he sat behind the desk, took a swallow, savoring the burn. He opened a few drawers. They were empty. It was true then—the man hardly stayed in residence. Looking for any sign of Oakby, he’d lost track of time.

  “Pardon me, sir?”

  Bran looked up. Angeline’s son stood before his desk. He never heard him enter the room. The child had her eyes. They were large, expressive, and a light brown with flecks of emerald green. Giving the boy a closer inspection, it was obvious he had her nose and cheekbones. If the sickly lad managed to make it to adulthood, perhaps he would not be as ugly as his father, as there was enough of his mother in him to spare him from complete hideousness.

  “What do you want, boy? Speak your piece,” he snapped in annoyance.

  The child flinched, but continued to stare at him. He had an inquisitive, unshakeable gaze same as Angeline.

  “Mama tells me this is your house now. I wonder if you could let Father Christmas know I am still living here, and not to forget me. May I hang my stocking on the fireplace on Christmas Eve?”

  Damn and blast it all to hell.

  He’d forgotten about bloody Christmas and how it would factor into his plans, the celebration was merely two weeks away. The lad looked at him expectantly like a starving orphan from a maudlin Dickens story. Before he had a chance to respond to the young earl, Angeline and the nurse burst into the room. Angeline’s veil had been removed; her golden hair was on full display, though tied in a severe knot.

  “Nigel, you were told not to bother Mr. Knight. Come, dearest. Anna will prepare you for bed.” Angeline gently guided her son toward the nurse’s outstretched arms.

  “One moment if you please, Lady Oakby. I desire a word.”

  Angeline closed the door after the departing nurse, but her hand stayed on the handle as if contemplating an escape. She slowly turned toward him. The weariness and fatigue on her face was startling. Damn his protective instinct, Bran was out of his chair and next to her in an instant. Taking her elbow, he led her to the wing chair in front of the desk. Even this slight touch had his insides flaming as brightly as a bonfire on a secluded beach.

  Without a word he poured her a drink and held it out to her. She shook her head.

  “You need a libation,” he insisted.

  Angeline took the glass. With a light touch, her fingers lingered in contact with Bran’s hand for a couple of seconds. The flame from the contact shot up his arm and headed to points south. He watched her intently as she took a deep swallow.

  Bran sat behind his desk. He knew he was not dressed properly to receive her. His coat and waistcoat were tossed carelessly on the sofa; his shirt lay open at the throat.

  To hell with it. She’d seen me wearing less.

  “You are to keep the boy out of my sight in future.”

  His voice sounded a little rougher than he intended. His anger and frustration bubbled to the surface, he could not control it. The child did not seem to be a bad sort, he acted polite enough, but at this moment, poking and prodding at Angeline overrode any lingering positive thoughts of the young earl.

  Her cheeks flushed an attractive shade of crimson. “I had no idea he would seek you out. He is barely eight years of age.”

  “Then the brat is not mine.”

  Bran cringed inwardly. He’d not meant to verbalize his private thoughts. He’d assumed the boy was not his from the beginning. Besides being small and sickly, Nigel too closely resembled Oakby.

  “Obviously not. What would you care if he was? You abandoned me to this disgusting hellhole of decadence,” she retorted.

  This was the Angeline he had known, outspoken with a flash of temper and passion. But as quickly as the emotions appeared—they were gone. Her eyes were lifeless once again. Her words, however, had stoked his ire.

  “Abandon you? I was beaten and thrown into a carriage, taken to the docks, and tossed on a ship headed for Canada. I was informed it was at your behest. My use as a stud stallion was at an end. ‘Your services are no longer required or needed by Lady Oakby.’ By the time I’d regained consciousness, the ship was far out into the North Atlantic.”

  Ten years ago, at age nineteen, he had been very much a green lad. He’d had no experience in the carnal aspects except for a quick tup with a milkmaid from a nearby farm, not even sure he penetrated her he’d been so eager. Bran’s mind drifted to the night he was brought into Oakby’s bedchamber.

  Oakby’s lurid gaze studied Bran’s form, as did Crossley’s. The revulsion and trepidation Bran felt was mixed with a stark fear.

  “The youth is handsome enough. Tall and well built. It is evident even under the livery. Tony? What do you think?” Oakby remarked languidly.

  Crossley strode over and cupped Bran’s bollocks, squeezing and fondling. Bran raised his hands to punch Crossley when the cold metal of a pistol barrel pressed at his temple.

  “You’ll stand still, lad, and take it,” Sampson said firmly, jamming the pistol tighter against his head.

  Crossley gave Bran a sickening, corrupt smirk. “Nigel. He has quite the tackle. He will be perfect for our needs.”

  Angeline’s indignant voice brought his thoughts back to the present. “I never sent you away. I was told that you departed because you couldn’t bear to be with me, that you hated the sight of me and were completely disgusted by my desire.”

  The blasted woman is either truly shocked or an a
ctress worthy of Drury Lane.

  Bran’s world tilted. Her words, however, carried the fervor of truth. Hate had been his close companion all these years. He had made a friend of it, and grew to like it. His hate had given him comfort. It was always there. It fed him and kept him strong. Truthfully, how far apart were love and hate anyway? It didn’t bear thinking about. However, that hate was pulling back its insidious, hydra-like tentacles from his heart. In slow increments, perhaps, but still.

  “After what we had shared, you believed those words?” Bran stated, his tone incredulous. “Even after I told you that I loved you? You had so little faith in me and my love for you?”

  Angeline stood and rushed for the door, but he was there first, blocking her way.

  “Let me pass,” she whispered desperately.

  “Answer me, Angeline.”

  She gazed up at him, heartbreak in her eyes. “You made love to me during a two-week period, with a figurative pistol pointed at your head. We were young and foolish. What we experienced was lust at its purest form. I found out later that Oakby and Crossley watched us through peepholes. He derived great joy informing me of their voyeuristic acts, describing what we had done to the minute detail.” She exhaled shakily. “What we had was not love. But if it was, then Oakby killed it. I’m incapable of feeling anything at all now.”

  Her bitter words were a challenge, a gauntlet thrown at his feet. He took it. Bran cupped her face and kissed her tenderly, but thoroughly. Bran invaded the hot, silken warmth he’d never forgotten all these ten long years. He had tried to erase her memory in the beds of numerous women. How many had he been with in hope of removing Angeline from his heart and soul?

  None of them came close to her light and inner beauty. For the briefest of moments her lips responded, her body warmed and relaxed. His cold, shackled heart flooded with joy. But, as if remembering the emotional torture that lay in her past, she quickly became cold steel. Angeline tore away from him and pushed at his chest. His blood roiled through his veins, the yearning painful beyond measure.

  Angeline’s eyes glazed with indifference. “Perhaps you wish for me to suck your cock.”

  Bran staggered under the crassness of her emotionless statement. He’d heard those exact words from a strumpet on Lower Water Street in Halifax, Nova Scotia. What the hell had they done to her? Before he could react, she grabbed him tightly. If he was hard before, now his erection had the consistency of oak.

  “Isn’t this what all men want? Oakby certainly told me as much. He taught me everything I know. He not only demonstrated how, but one night I—”

  “Stop it,” he yelled, pulling her hands away. He grabbed her shoulders. “Stop this now.”

  “Yours was the first, remember?” she whispered.

  Bran closed his eyes briefly. Yes, he remembered—all too vividly. When Angeline had been brought into the room that night so long ago, her youthful beauty had been breathtaking to observe. To worship and adore her was not a hardship. Angeline had been forced to her knees. The innocent bride had been told to take him into her mouth or he would be killed. With those words, the valet cocked the pistol back fully, and pressed the gaping barrel into Bran’s temple.

  She had been scared to death, had no idea what to do. The confused emotions playing out on her face spoke to that truth. Bran had watched her innocence die. To be truthful, a part of his died that night as well. Sampson had forced Angeline’s head in place. Bran shuddered as he remembered her tongue swirling over his length. It had nearly brought him to his knees. He’d been part of some sick, dissolute game, and would remain so for two weeks.

  Bran’s tortured thoughts returned to the present. Obviously Oakby and Crossley’s games continued after he was whisked away and tossed on a ship. For the first time since he had returned, he experienced a flicker of sympathy for Angeline.

  “You would not participate in or observe such acts willingly. What did Oakby hold over your head?”

  Angeline stiffened. “My son. Do not ask me anymore. I will not talk of this—”

  “You’re wrong, Angeline. You will tell me everything.” He held her arms tighter and she flinched. Bran was beyond caring.

  She wriggled out of his grip. “I will leave in the morning, take Nigel, and be gone from this house of filth. I don’t care if I have to beg on the streets, I will not stay here another night.” Her last sentence ended on a cry of despair that made his heart hitch with further empathy.

  Bran exhaled. He wanted to tear down this place of debauched memories brick by brick.

  “Stay as agreed. I will increase the amount to two hundred pounds for the twelve months, and I will pay for your son’s education, all the way to university. Does he have a second name?”

  She seemed stunned by his swift change in topic. “His middle name is Peter.”

  “Peter—a good name,” Bran said softly. “Never again call him after that monster. Get a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow you can start removing everything that reeks of Oakby, down to the sticks of furniture, the carpets, and draperies. Do as you wish. Let us make it three hundred pounds and be done with this.”

  Shaking her head in defeat, Angeline deflated in an exhausted whoosh. “All I seem to do is barter my child. Very well, Mr. Knight. Three hundred pounds and my son’s education. We have a deal. Good evening.”

  Angeline turned and left the room. The enticing scent of chamomile lingered in her wake. Sweet Jesus, he’d never forgotten her scent, never forgot her.

  He wanted revenge and justice. For what, his humiliation? His broken heart? Perhaps the best retribution on Oakby would be to undo the damage done. To the both of them.

  But especially to Angeline. She was broken. Of that, he had no doubt.

  It seemed a monumental task doomed to failure.

  Chapter 3

  Angeline beat a hasty retreat to her rooms—her private sanctuary—closed the door, and locked it. She frantically pulled at the layers of constricting black silk. God, to think she would be expected to wear black for two years. She removed the pins from her hair, and her tresses spilled to the middle of her back. Grabbing her woolen nightgown, she pulled it over her shivering body. The fire had been lit, so she hurried to her chair and warmed her toes. Pulling her favorite blanket around her, she at last felt safe in her protective cocoon.

  Nigel had never set foot in her rooms, so they were not stained with his ghostly—and ghastly—presence. She closed her eyes, shutting out the tumultuous events of the day. A persistent throb pounded across her temple. She’d not had a proper night’s sleep in a week. Not for years, really.

  In her mind’s eye, she could see the shrunken bag of bones Oakby had become before he died. He had somehow held on and clung to life. His lingering had tempted her to take his pillow and hold it over his face until he breathed no more. A horrible thought, but showed how low her spirits had sunk to consider murder.

  Oakby was delirious at the end, but he managed a moment or two of lucidity, enough to slip in the knife and twist.

  “No gentleman will have you. I have ruined you good and proper in more ways than one,” he had cackled, choking on his own spittle. “Unless they require a cock-licking wench. Then you will suit, no doubt.”

  She shivered again with revulsion at the recollection. Oakby was dead; he could hurt her no longer. And the sooner she placed these horrid memories behind her, the better. But how to achieve it?

  Her eyes opened and focused on the flames crackling in the hearth. Why did Brandon Knight pick now to reappear? How many times had she prayed for him to rescue her from her depraved prison? But he never came. Now she knew why. He’d been shanghaied to Canada all these years. They were both lied to by the great deceivers, Oakby and Crossley.

  Bran had spoken the truth. How could she believe he left because she had sickened him? It was obvious they were extremely young, inexperienced, and in an impossible situation. They had both believed the older, titled men. How naïve of them. H
ow utterly stupid.

  Her fingers traced across her lips. They still throbbed from Bran’s passionate kiss. For a glorious instant, she allowed herself to feel. The brief emotions were no doubt the twitching of a corpse. She was dead inside. During these past years, she had learned to bury her emotions and lock them away.

  She would not allow Bran to breach the stone walls she’d erected around what was left of her heart. He had returned too late. Whatever they’d shared, lust, passion, and perhaps even love, was now gone—on her part at least.

  A door slammed, heavy boots paced the wood floor. Dear heaven, Bran could not be staying in the adjoining chambers, was he? She scrambled to her feet and tiptoed to the door. Thank God it was locked. She pressed her ear against it. Bran’s deep, masculine tones could be heard conversing with Quinn, the valet.

  Oh, this was not going to work. Her cheeks flushed as she recalled what she’d confessed to him. What made her say those words and clutch that private part of him? She had acted as if she were in a trance, which she supposed she was. Oakby’s prediction became truth. She was ruined. No proper gentleman would want her. She was shameless, wanton, and entirely without feeling or a moral compass. Or perhaps she just wanted to touch Bran for her own pleasure.

  No, it couldn’t be that. She was an empty, emotionless shell. If she could gather Nigel—or rather Peter—and escape into the night, she would, but she did not have a farthing to her name. Not even jewels to barter as Oakby had sold them long ago.

  A soft knock at the door made her gasp. Angeline slapped her hand over her mouth.

  “Open this door, Angeline. I wish to speak with you.”

  Bran. She did not answer nor stir.

  “I know you are in there. I see the light under the door, and I heard you move about.”

  Turning the key in the lock, she opened the door a crack. Bran’s enticing scent, an alluring mix of shaving soap and expensive lemon-scented cologne, invaded her senses. He pushed the door all the way open, then leaned against the doorframe.