Knight of Christmas Page 6

  Chapter 7

  Angeline stood in the hallway outside Oakby’s little-used bedroom. She had not set foot inside since the undertaker had measured him for his coffin, and saw to the removal of his remains. Taking a deep breath, she turned the handle and entered. The staff had aired out the room, stripped the bed, and had taken away the mattress and bedding to be burned. The odor of lingering death still hung in the air.

  She supposed Quinn could have seen to this duty, but since Peter was off with Bran this morning, she needed something to fill her time. After all, she was instructed to remove all vestiges of Oakby.

  Angeline was surprised at the fact that she had handed her son over to Bran’s keeping. She trusted him, which in itself was surprising since she had sworn never to trust any man again for any reason. Perhaps she clung to Peter too tightly. Even Bran had alluded to it. But her son was sickly from the moment he was born. He always caught the slightest sniffle. Loosening the leading strings may be the prudent thing to do.

  The positive change in her son had been swift. Ever since his father died. No, ever since Bran entered his life. Peter was thriving in Bran’s company. The fact Bran treated her child with compassion and kindness had her wondering if they all could have a life together.

  Enough silly daydreaming. Back to the task at hand.

  Oakby had brought a trunk from Crossley’s eighteen months ago. She walked to the chest and lifted the lid. Oakby had not asked Quinn to unpack it apparently, as his clothes were still neatly folded inside. Dropping to her knees, she rifled through the contents. The clothes could go to the church charity, no use seeing them go to waste.

  Inside the trunk she discovered a large leather pocket contained four large bundles of letters, all neatly tied. Some were clearly showing the signs of age. Angeline’s curiosity got the better of her.

  Once she sat at the small desk in the corner, she pulled the ribbon holding the bundles together. Angeline glanced through its contents. Some letters were addressed to her late husband, but the majority of them were addressed to Sir Anthony Crossley in Oakby’s florid script. The yellowed envelopes could easily be divided into two distinct handwriting styles.

  She started to read. Angeline had no idea they had known each other at school and since the age of fourteen. Oakby’s youthful letters were full of yearning. He was clearly infatuated. She could understand why even though she abhorred Crossley. The man had been handsome, until corruption had taken its toll. Angeline quickly scanned the letters they had written all through school up to attending university.

  The emotions were growing more intense with each passing year. More blunt and descriptive. Obviously they had consummated their mutual lust during university. She opened another letter addressed to Oakby from Crossley when they were twenty-two years of age.

  I beseech you, Nigel, move on. There can be nothing between us. You are embarrassing yourself and me with these wretched love letters.

  Angeline picked up another letter dated a week later in Nigel’s writing and read.

  After what we have shared, Tony, how can you go off for weeks at a time with those filthy women? I love you. My life, my soul, and my body are yours. Do with them what you will. My home is yours. Please, come home, my love.

  Another reply from Crossley.

  What happened between us was merely an experiment on my part. I am always willing to try anything that will give me pleasure. I will admit being with you gave me extreme gratification, but there is more to be had with others. I cannot and will not commit myself to one person only. I utterly refuse. Accept it, Nigel.

  The next six letters were engrossing to read. Oakby poured out his young heart and soul to Crossley, begging and pleading for his love and his attention. How could she reconcile this love-struck youth with the debauched man that she had known as her husband?

  The mantel clock ticked away the minutes and hours. Angeline became immersed in the drama unfolding within the contents of the letters. Only in one letter did Crossley acknowledge feelings toward Oakby. By this time, they were in their late twenties. Crossley would spend a little time with Oakby only to leave him and pursue his own depraved adventures with both sexes, but this one particular letter must have broken Oakby’s heart.

  You have worn me down, Nigel, with your constant need for reassurance. I am not capable of any deep and enduring emotions. But the ones I do possess are yours. If you need to hear the words, I will write them on this page. Refer to this letter when you doubt my feelings toward you in the future. I will never utter them aloud no matter how deep in the throes of passion.

  Love is a poet’s device, but if it means I have a profound and abiding affection for you, then call it love if it will appease you. Dismiss any dreams of us growing old together on some country estate, hound dogs at our feet. It will not happen. If you wish to be in my life, you will have to live my life, for good or ill. The choice is yours.

  The next letter was from Oakby. Angeline wondered if they ever spoke face-to-face of their emotions. From their letters they apparently had not, at least not about their deepest, truest feelings. It appeared they were apart more than they were together.

  If I must follow you down your nefarious and sinful path, I shall. Anything to be with you and be part of your life. I will, however, draw the line at women. The thought of being with one fills me with abhorrence. I beg you to seek your doxies out of my sight and knowledge. Grant me this one concession at least.

  If so, then I will do whatever you want. Sink to any level. Become a cold and emotionless bastard. For I cannot live without you. These absences are tearing me apart. My heart aches beyond imagining. If I had known loving you would hurt this much—but I will take on the pain gladly, even if it eventually rots my soul. As long as we are together.

  The letters were not as frequent after this point; Angeline could only conclude that Oakby had given in, and they followed that dissolute path together. Obviously, considering her shocking wedding night and the fact Crossley was in attendance. She wondered who decided that Oakby needed an heir. Had to be Crossley, for he was in control of her late husband more than she had originally thought. Oakby became as he predicted: cold, emotionless, with a rotted soul.

  Though the hate for her husband still burned bright, a tiny fragment of pity entered the mix. Oakby had been deeply unhappy. But it was not a reason to take it out on her. Or their son. Not at all.

  God above, if only he had confessed to her about loving Crossley, she would have allowed them to live a separate life far removed from her. In another life, perhaps she and Oakby could have been friends. She would have kept up the pretense of a marriage so he could be with the one he loved. As Bran had said, it was no matter to her what two consenting adults do in private. If only her husband had been kinder, a decent human being. If he had ever been one. Well, the proof was in the letters. He was decent. Once. His love for Crossley killed it.

  Instead, Oakby had made her as wretchedly despondent as he was by dragging her into his secret and dissolute life. And he had threatened to remove her child.

  No. Rot indeed, Nigel.

  Angeline’s attention was drawn away from the letters when she heard Peter call for her. Before she had time to slip the correspondence in the desk drawer, her son burst into the room, with Bran following behind. Peter’s face flushed with pleasure and good health.

  “I rode, Mama, a real horse! Uncle Bran rode with me but I sat on a horse.”

  Angeline cocked an eyebrow. “Uncle Bran?”

  Bran shrugged. “Yes, I gave Peter leave to address me as such. Do you object?”

  She could hear the challenge in his deep voice. Surprisingly, she did not object. In the matter of a couple of days, Peter was flourishing within this new-found male camaraderie.

  Peter hugged her tight. “I am going to have lessons in the early spring, Mama. It’s all arranged. While we were there, Uncle Bran bought a Christmas tree from Mr. Tilden. He owns the stable and farm we v
isited.” Peter’s eyes flashed with enjoyment; the sight warmed her heart.

  “Sounds wonderful, dearest, but you must go with Anna and wash up. You have lessons today.” Angeline rose and walked to the bellpull, giving it a couple of quick tugs.

  “But Mama—” Peter objected.

  “Go with Anna, there’s a good boy,” she replied with gentle firmness.

  Peter turned toward Bran and gazed at him with admiration and affection. He ran to him, and hugged tight.

  “Thank you, Uncle Bran, for everything.”

  A lump formed in Angeline’s throat. It appeared as if Bran were struggling with the same affliction.

  He patted Peter on the head and said almost inaudibly, “I enjoyed the day, too, Son.”

  Anna arrived and led the boy from the room.

  Bran took out a handkerchief and blotted his forehead. He was sweating profusely and looked horribly pale.

  “Are you all right?” she asked worriedly.

  “Too much fresh air I would imagine. What are you doing?” He pointed to the letters scattered all over the desk.

  “They were in Oakby’s trunk, the one he brought from Crossley’s.”

  Bran absently moved aside the many letters. “Some are quite old. Whatever happened to Crossley?”

  “I am surprised you hadn’t asked before now,”

  “It’s because I actually don’t care what happened to the cretin. But tell me anyway.”

  “He currently resides at the asylum in Brighton and has been there for close to two years. He has syphilis. He is quite mad. Before that, he stayed for six months at the syphilis ward in London’s Royal Free Hospital before being transferred to the asylum. The last time Oakby went to see him; the doctors informed him Crossley would not live out the year. He may be dead now for all I know. He hid his condition until the sores, hair loss, and the shaking of his hands could no longer be ignored. The disease settled in his brain. Nothing to be done.”

  Bran nodded. “A fitting justice though I know little about the matter. I thought venereal disease was passed between women and men?”

  Angeline hated discussing this, but Bran knew so many of her secrets already. “It can be passed between men. Crossley also had a taste for strumpets. He fornicated with men and women both much to Nigel’s heartbreak.”

  Bran inclined his head toward the empty brass bed frame. “And Oakby?”

  “Yes, he had syphilis as well. He caught it from Crossley I assume, but who really knows? The symptoms manifested two years ago.”

  Bran frowned, concern etched on his face. “Dear God, not you or Peter. I know venereal diseases can be passed on to children—”

  Angeline briefly touched his arm. “No, Bran. Oakby did not have it when we—as I said before, he did not come near me after Peter was conceived. I’ve had no sexual congress with anyone since. We were spared,” she exhaled. “He went downhill fairly quickly, and lost the will to live. The love of his life had brought him to this sorrowful state.”

  Bran laughed cruelly. “Love? What in bloody hell does love have to do with any of this?”

  “These letters are filled with emotion and are very revealing. There was love involved between them. A deep, abiding, and very complicated love. It went horribly wrong,” she whispered. Much like her and Bran, but in a different way.

  “I cannot believe that you feel sorry for them. After what they put you through? Put us through? This is beyond the pale. I—”

  Bran started coughing violently. Beads of sweat broke out on his forehead.

  Angeline rushed to his side. “You are not well!”

  She took his arm to steady him, as if she could hold him up. Bran stood well over six feet in height and was as solid as an oak tree.

  “I began to feel progressively worse as the day went on. That’s why I purchased the tree today. It will be delivered soon. If you could assist me to my room, I would be very grateful…”

  Bran collapsed at her feet.

  Chapter 8

  Surely he was dead. Bran had to be for he was enduring hell. It was as if flames consumed his body from his toes to his throat. It was bloody obvious he had a fever. Believing he was about to be consumed in flame, his body then felt as if it had been plunged into ice water. He shuddered and shook, he would never be warm again. He was aware of the scent of chamomile and the gentle fingers touching his forehead.

  Would he die? Fevers had been known to carry off the sturdiest of men. Perhaps it was this house. The place was bloody cursed. His son had died here, and so had Oakby. This house had witnessed heartbreak, grief, and acts of corruption. How ironic it would be if he breathed his last in this cursed pile of stone? He had never told Angeline that he still loved her. Had never stopped loving her. Yet another regret to add to his long list.

  Bran writhed on the bed, his mind swirling in a fevered haze. There was a crash. He had knocked something over. How he wanted to tear the room apart, but had not the strength even to lift his head off the pillow. Bran cried out, but he could not be sure what he said. Then he was restrained, and he fought back the best he could.

  His nightmares were coming to pass. He often had this nightmare. Sampson holding him down while Crossley and Oakby had their way with him. Being tossed on the ship, in one way, had been a blessing. For whom wants to be used as a plaything for reprobate aristocrats. Bran had observed the way Crossley had lustily gazed at him during those two weeks, and being made aware the two men watched him with Angeline made the whole sordid situation more squalid than it already was.

  Oakby and Crossley were dead of their sexual excesses. Perhaps justice did reside in this desolate world after all. However, if he had nightmares from two weeks in their custody, what of Angeline? He began to understand the depth of the damage done. He tried to fight off the restraining arms, but he was too weak.

  “Angeline, my love…”

  * * *

  Angeline turned to Doctor MacLeish who was holding Bran’s thrashing arms. She wiped Bran’s forehead with a cold cloth, but it proved difficult as his head tossed to and fro.

  “Will he survive?” she asked worriedly.

  “The fever is at its zenith. If he survives the night, chances are he will pull through. There is a particularly virulent strain of influenza in this area at the moment. I will not lie to you, Lady Oakby. The fatality rate is well above fifty percent. This cold weather is exacerbating the problem.” The doctor pointed to the bottle on the bedside table. “Hand me that. I will administer a tincture of laudanum to calm him. Patients suffering from high fever often hallucinate or relive past terrors. This will quiet him.”

  Angeline felt helpless and useless. The thought of losing Bran was too horrible to contemplate. When he cried out her name and said “my love” her heart cracked and burnt black bits fell away. She long ceased praying to God for anything, but she would gladly sink to her knees to pray for Bran’s recovery. He wanted a life with her. He would come to her bed on her invitation. It was time to decide what she wanted.

  Bran, at last, began to calm once the drug took effect.

  “The medicine should silence him for a few hours. Allow him to sleep, my lady. It is the best thing for him. When he does awake, try to get him to take some fluids and keep him warm. I will return in the morning. Unfortunately, I have many other patients to attend to.” The doctor reached for his leather satchel and hurried from the room.

  Bran was nude with only a sheet covering him. One well-formed, muscular leg dangled over the side of the bed. His bare chest heaved as he took shallow, wheezing breaths. She dipped the cloth in the cool water and sponged off his torso.

  Touching his skin affected her profoundly. His body was magnificent. He could be carved in marble he was such masculine perfection. Here Bran laid deathly ill while she admired his rugged form. Her breasts swelled in her bodice and she felt a decided wetness between her thighs.

  The first physical reaction she’d had since Bran reap
peared in her life. The first genuine one she’d experienced since he had left. No, not left—since he had been taken away against his will. How horrible it must have been to awaken and find yourself on a ship heading for a strange country. It made Angeline admire him all the more. Through sheer determination he had built a fortune. In what? How self-absorbed she’d been—wallowing in her own misery—she had not even asked him about his life in Canada.

  Angeline would sit with him all night, tend to him, and see him well. They both had a lot of time to make up for.

  * * *

  Bran cracked open one eye. The room was awash in darkness. He ached all over and sweated liberally. He tore off the three quilts he was covered in and threw them to the floor. He tried to sit up but groaned and sank back into the pillows. The sheets and pillow cases were drenched. Was he going to live? It did not feel like it at this moment. As far as he could tell, he was alone in the room.

  He shifted his weight. All manner of wayward emotions tore through him. Regret, guilt, impatience, and desire. When had he a woman? It had been quite a while, for he’d been too busy planning his trip to Herne Bay and plotting his revenge.

  Six months previous, Bran had sent one of his more trusted employees ahead to investigate the doings in Herne Bay. Charles Van Doren had informed him of Oakby’s crippling debt, but he had said nothing of Oakby’s illness. His agent had not dealt with Oakby directly, but his solicitor, Sir Alastair. Obviously they had kept the sickness secret.

  Speaking of illness, how in hell had he become so sick? Was it the ill-advised run through the streets without proper outerwear? Had he caught a malady on the ship across the Atlantic? Could it be the change in weather from Canada to here? Or all of the above? Bran wiped the sweat from his face with the corner of the sheet. He’d lost his train of thought. What was he thinking about? Ah, yes.