Knight of Christmas Page 3

  Bran wore a silk dressing gown tied loosely about his slim waist, and he still wore his trousers. An impressive amount of his muscular chest was on display. He had filled out from the youthful male that she remembered. Bran was even more virile if it were possible. His piercing blue eyes scanned her with a heated gaze. Angeline pulled the wool blanket tighter about her.

  “The boy. I want to tell you why he came to see me,” Bran said.

  “Peter, you mean?”

  Bran smiled briefly. “Yes, Peter. The name suits him better. He wanted me to let Father Christmas know that he still lived here and not to forget him.”

  A few tears clustered at the corner of her eyes. “I am afraid Christmas was not celebrated much in this house. I tried in my own way to give him one. My heart was not in it. I have failed as his mother in so many ways.”

  Again a confession spilled out of her. What is it about Bran that made her open her tortured soul? Angeline saw actual empathy in his eyes—perhaps that explained it.

  “Then we shall give him one he will not forget. My childhood Christmases were special, I confess to few fond Christmas memories in these last years as well. See it done, Angeline. You are the housekeeper. Spare no expense.”

  He had completely shocked her. “You’ve changed your tune. Earlier you stated that you could not stand the sight of my son.”

  “I’m not a monster, Angeline. Regardless of what you may think.”

  Bran turned to leave the room, but halted. Taking her hand, he laid her palm against his whiskered cheek and his eyelashes fluttered. Then he gave her such a sweet, tender kiss on her palm, the tears, which had threatened moments ago, spilled down her cheeks.

  Without a word, he released her hand and closed the door. Angeline felt bereft at the loss of his closeness, his compassion, and his caring kiss. She flung herself on her bed and wept as she had not done in many years.

  * * *

  The next morning Bran sat in the study, unsure of what to do next. Return to Canada? There was nothing here in Herne Bay for him. His parents were long dead and buried. He was an only child with no one save two cousins he didn’t give a toss about—then or now.

  What kept him here? His great plans had been shattered. All his preparation, the hate, the years that he’d seethed with vengeance, and for what? He should sell this—what did Angeline call it—house of filth. He shuddered to think what other depravities were practiced within these stone walls.

  A vision of Angeline standing in the doorway last night, her golden hair spilling over her shoulders, entered his mind. Glancing out the window of the study, he watched the early morning sun rise higher in the sky.

  He had taken a position as footman at the Oakby estate hoping to gather damning evidence against the earl. His father had been mired in one of Oakby’s moneymaking schemes that made money for Oakby alone, but hang everyone else.

  George William Knight had been left utterly ruined. At nineteen, Bran had thought to help his impoverished family by spying on the deceitful earl, and obtain evidence to ensure his downfall. The money he would earn would also be welcome. It had seemed like a sound plan. He had been a bloody idiot to think he could succeed at such a hastily thought out plot.

  It had taken close to ten years of hard work, devious planning, and the devil’s own luck to amass his fortune in Canada. His deep desire for revenge had fueled his ambition to astounding heights.

  Bran arrived at his former hometown of Herne Bay, on England’s wind-tossed eastern coast, eight days past in order to follow through on his campaign of retribution. He had been deeply disappointed to find out his plans were stymied by the impending death of Oakby. While that vile reprobate writhed in agony on his death bed, Bran had to alter his plans.

  With a soft knock at the door, Angeline entered carrying a tray. She wore mourning black, her hair hidden under an obscene lace cap. The temptation to rip it from her head, pull out the pins, and run his hands through those wavy honey-gold locks gripped him tight.

  “I brought a light breakfast. Quinn informed me that you had not eaten this morning.”

  She would not meet his gaze, just laid the tray in from of him then took a step in reverse. A pot of tea, fresh fruit, toast, and ham were all neatly arranged on a china plate.

  “Perhaps I do not eat breakfast.” Angeline reached to take the tray away, but Bran grabbed her wrist to still her movement. “It is no matter. I will eat it.” He motioned to the chair in front of the desk. “Sit and talk with me.”

  She backed away a few more steps, and out of his reach. “I’m busy. I should go.”

  “And I am your employer, and I’m telling you to stay. Sit.” Bran treated her as one would a pet hound. He poured tea into the china cup as he took a bite of toast.

  She frowned but sat, her hands tightly clasped in her lap. Angeline looked about the room and everywhere but at him. “Since you are my employer, I require a written contract on the terms we agreed to last night. The money and the education for my son.”

  He cocked an eyebrow at her, admiring her forthrightness. He was going to contact Sir Alastair about this very subject anyway. “It can be arranged. Leave it with me.”

  “Thank you.”

  He sipped his tea, watching her over the rim of his cup. She looked weary, had she even slept last night? Setting his cup aside, he cut the ham and popped a piece in his mouth. “After I was unceremoniously removed from your life, what happened next?” he asked in between bites.

  Finally she met his gaze, her eyes cold and determined. “I’ve already told you. I will not discuss this further.”

  “Why didn’t you return to your parents? The marriage could’ve been annulled seeing Oakby was a sodomite. It is against the law, though I believe it a dim-witted one. Why should it be the government’s business what consenting adults get up to? Regardless, you could’ve brought charges against him, and the wretch would have seen two years or more hard labor in prison. Or perhaps not, seeing he was a peer of the realm. At any rate, you could have used the information to extricate yourself from this situation. Blackmail can be an effective tool. Why in hell did you stay with him?” Bran’s voice raised a few notches in anger. He couldn’t hide the annoyance. He had to know.

  “How unfortunate it isn’t the eighteen twenties. I could have seen him hanged for buggery,” she snapped.

  Bran took another gulp of the tea. “Yes, too bloody bad. Again I ask why, Angeline?”

  “What question do you want answered first? Yes, I had limited access to a legal divorce, but as the law states, I would have to prove in court that Oakby was cruel and an adulterer,” she retorted. “Against an earl? I had no hope of winning. Nor could I shame my son by revealing all this sordidness in public. Because of it, Oakby would have been rewarded custody of my son, another dim-witted law. I could not allow that.” She rubbed her temple, “My parents and I were estranged. We still are. I want nothing to do with them. I will crawl in the gutter before I would go to them for help.”

  “Passionately spoken. Actually, the law changed with regard to custody of children for the mother in eighteen seventy-eight.”

  “I am aware of that,” she snapped in frustration. “But I would have to prove in court I had an unblemished character. Oakby would have seen to it the doings here at the town house would have been made public, including my ‘willing’ participation. He was that spiteful. As I said, I had to protect my son at all costs.”

  “But it is not the only reason you stayed, is it, Angeline? Why would you want to give up being a countess?”

  Her jaw clenched, her hands formed into fists in her lap. Bran did not like provoking her in this fashion, but it was the only way to get her to react, to feel, and to respond.

  “Countess in name only. There were no balls or entertainments of any kind. No socializing at all. Yes, being Lady Angeline was such an inducement.” Her sarcasm was glorious to observe. “Or perhaps I enjoyed watching Oakby and Crossley and th
eir group of friends. They made me observe their sexual games on occasion. Some nights I was commanded to join in, and—”

  Bran shot out of his chair, rattling the tray placed precariously on the edge of the desk. He grabbed her arms, bringing her to her feet. He leaned in until they were eye to eye, his teeth clenched. “Stop trying to shock me. You know I was witness to much of this. I don’t need to be reminded.”

  Angeline glared up at him, anger twisting her beautiful features. “You were only exposed to their sexual excesses for a couple of weeks. Try ten long years. You swan back to Herne Bay, rich and distinguished, looking every inch the gentleman. You are like Heathcliff from Wuthering Heights who is out for revenge anyway you can get it—no matter whom it hurts.”

  Bran leaned in farther until his lips were a hairsbreadth from her ear. “Perhaps it is I who was hurt most of all.”

  “I doubt it,” she scoffed. “You were not the only one involved in this chaos.”

  “Why did you stay, Angeline?” He sounded exasperated, but he didn’t give a toss.

  She pushed him away and cried, “Damn you, I was pregnant!”

  Bran frowned. But Peter was barely eight. What occurred between them, the brief—affair— took place ten years ago. A tight knot of apprehension formed in his gut.

  “I prayed for you to come and rescue me. My ‘knight,’ how ironic is your name.” Angeline dashed a lone tear from her cheek. “But you did not. I was all but locked in my room for three weeks. Oakby wanted me out of his sight, and wanted to see if your ‘potent seed’ took hold. Well, it had.”

  Bran’s insides roiled. “What are you saying?” he rasped.

  “I gave birth to your son close to eight months after you departed. I named him Braden. Oakby disliked my choice of name since it was similar to yours, but he allowed it to stand. He had his heir, which is all he cared about.”

  He had a son.

  My. God.

  Bran’s world tilted completely off its axis. How many more shocking statements had she tucked away? His emotions ran the gambit from anger to horror to incredulousness.

  “Where is my son?” he demanded.

  Angeline burst into tears. This was the first real emotion other than anger he had seen from her.

  “He died,” she wailed piteously. “He was all I had of you. Braden was such a handsome child, so robust. Then he caught the measles—and died. He was ten months old!”

  If Angeline had shot an arrow straight into his chest, piercing his heart, it could not have hurt worse. He had a son who—died. Bran stumbled and reached out for the desk as the shock turned his limbs to jelly. His hands shook, and he couldn’t form words in reply. Finally a loud animal moan tore from his chest. Angeline wept harder. His tears joined hers.

  His son was—dead.

  “Oakby realized a black-haired, blue-eyed, handsome son could not be passed off as his. He abandoned the idea of getting me pregnant through a third party. He realized he had to do the deed himself.” She continued, the words tumbling out, her voice shaky with emotion.

  “I don’t want to hear anymore, Angeline. Not one word—not now.”

  Bran turned and walked slowly out of the room, down the hall, and out the front entrance. His pace quickened until he was at a full run. He had to get out of the house. Away from the wretched tragedy of it all. Away from—her. His boots pounded the cobbles as he tore through the streets. His breath puffed out in an icy fog. He had no coat, hat, or gloves and he didn’t care.

  A chill had settled in his bones, and it was not only from the nasty weather.

  Bran never should have returned.

  Never.

  Chapter 4

  Angeline slumped into the chair in the study. The tears dried on her flushed cheeks. Years ago she had grieved for Braden, until she could cry no more. She had been devastated when he died, and, to be truthful, a part of her had died with her son. Oakby had not attended the burial. He’d been off with Crossley on one of their adventures, she had imagined.

  However, by confessing this secret, a weight was lifted off her shoulders. Angeline had no intention of telling Bran anything about his son, but he wouldn’t leave it alone, and, on some level, she supposed she wanted Bran to know she had given birth to his son. She wanted him to know that the two weeks they’d spent in each other’s arms, the affection, desire, and maybe the love that they’d shared—had resulted in a beautiful child.

  She wished now that she had spared him this truth. Bran had taken the revelation hard. She understood from the first moment they’d met ten years past that he felt things profoundly. His cold Heathcliff countenance was only on the surface. Inside he was still a man of deep passion and caring. He hadn’t changed all that much, in least in that regard. The look of anguish on his face and his gut-wrenching moan—she would remember his agony until the day she died.

  “Mama?”

  Oh, the fates were cruel. Braden, born hale and hearty—died. Peter had been sickly from birth, yet he had survived his infancy. Gazing at her son, she realized that she loved him as much as Braden, or perhaps even more, for the dear boy had the wretched bastard Oakby for a father. She held out her arms and her son ran to her, hugging her close.

  “I love you, Mama.”

  “Dearest, I love you, too.” She had spoken with him earlier in the morning, suggesting he take the name Peter. Her son had agreed.

  Angeline knew Peter held in his soul none of his father’s wickedness. The child had an intelligent, kind, and gentle disposition, a curiosity about all things, and a humanity his father never knew. She understood too, this was why Oakby despised his own son. It was to Oakby’s determent that he never came to know his son. He wanted a child because it was expected—to pass on the title and lineage. For no other reason. Well, besides using a wife and son as cover for his secret life. Thinking about it, would Oakby have exposed all in court if she tried to obtain a divorce?

  “Shall we go to town and buy candles and wreaths for Christmas?” she smiled, brushing a lock of hair from his forehead.

  Peter’s eyes sparkled as he nodded. “I want to buy Mr. Knight a gift, Mama. Would he like a book?”

  “I think he would like that very much.”

  * * *

  Two hours passed before Bran returned. He was utterly exhausted, his clothes drenched from his excursion. Besides being chilled to the bone he felt miserable and sick at heart. Worn to near delirium, he hired a hackney coach to return him to the town house. Quinn dutifully assisted him to his rooms, and immediately ordered a hot bath. He had a couple of brandies, but inside the frost and ice were still firmly in place.

  Bran soaked in the tub, the steam rising above him like a London fog. He didn’t care the water turned his skin a deep shade of red for he felt nothing. He was numbed by the cold, and his soul numbed by the news of the death of his son. He lay back with his arms dangling over the sides, a glass of brandy tilted precariously in one hand as the amber liquid slowly dripped to the wood floor. During the time he had pursued his wealth and dreamed of revenge, his son had been born and died all in the space of ten short months.

  All of it was futile. Useless.

  The connecting door opened and Angeline entered.

  “Get out,” he said dully. Bran’s head lolled to the left away from her; he stared into nothingness.

  “No, I will not.”

  Angeline placed a small stool next to the tub and sat on it. Picking up the flannel, she dipped the cloth in the water. Taking the sandalwood soap, she rubbed until lather formed. She removed the glass of brandy from his hand, and placed it on the table next to the tub, then in circular motions washed his arm. He allowed her, for Bran was too weary to chase her off. Besides, it felt good. Soothing.

  “I am truly sorry, Bran. I should not have blurted out about Braden the way I did. I know it’s a shock.”

  “Shock does not even begin to describe it,” he murmured.

  Her touch heated h
is skin in ways the hot water had not. He cursed his body’s response as he hardened. Christ, he was an animal.

  Angeline dipped the cloth into the water again. “After Braden was born, I could not leave even if I wanted to. I wanted your son to have all the advantages of being an earl’s heir. Mercifully I was left alone throughout my pregnancy and after Braden was born. Oakby, I assumed, was with Crossley,” she sighed. “Or he stayed at the Oakby estate, alone. I didn’t care one way or the other.”

  Angeline continued, “When Braden died, I was bereft. Oakby cared nothing for him. He was greatly annoyed that he would have to start over. It was then he informed me he would get me with child himself. I was barely given time to grieve.”

  “Don’t tell me anymore. Jesus, have we not been through enough, then and now?” he said, the weariness clear in his voice.

  Bran’s heart ached like the very devil. Not only for the son he would never know, but for what Angeline had to endure alone. He couldn’t process anymore sorrow. Not tonight.

  “You’re the one who insisted I tell you all that happened,” she replied softly.

  “I am aware. You’re right. I do want you to tell me, but not this moment. Give me that, at least.”

  Her hand continued its sizzling descent downward. He grasped her wrist. Angeline must have seen his erection. How could she miss it?

  “Enough. Just—enough. Go to your room, I beg you. But first take off that damnable cap. I forbid you to wear the thing. Burn it.”

  The corner of Angeline’s mouth quirked slightly. She dropped the cloth, and it hit the water with a splash. She rose and tore off the cap, marched to the fireplace, and tossed it in.

  Angeline closed the door behind her.

  God, he was in agony. His heart and his cock throbbed in pain for different reasons. The scent of chamomile lingered in the humid air. He inhaled and sank deeper into the tub. He closed his eyes tightly and drifted into mist and memory, recalling the first time he had noticed her evocative scent.