Chapter Forty-seven

W inter closed in around Clydon with a white blanket of snow that was not likely to melt completely until spring. Reina secretly liked this time of year, even though viands grew stale and moldy, and men’s tempers snapped from inactivity. ’Twas a time when women could do things there was never enough time for otherwise. Tapestries were started and completed ere the season ended, clothes made for the next year’s special occasions, new talents discovered, recipes discussed and experimented with. ’Twas a warm, cozy part of the year with all hearths blazing, a time when relationships developed more strongly. Did a woman want to take the supreme luxury and just lie abed for a day and do naught, she could do that, too.

Reina did that often, simply because her small frame had difficulty carrying so much added weight. Ranulf teased her unmercifully about her new size, insisting he liked it so much he would see to it she was often kept overweight. Surprisingly, he came home more often than she would have expected, considering Sir Henry was still in the field. He showed up for every feast day, and was home for the Twelfth Day celebration to pass out the perquisites, or bonuses, to the manorial servants; the food, clothing, drink, and firewood that were their traditional Christmas due. He stayed that time until Plow Monday, the first Monday after Epiphany, when the villeins raced their plows across the common pasture to determine how many furrows each man could sow that year.

But Ranulf did not arrive for the one holiday she was sure he would not miss, Candlemas, at the start of the second month of the new year. ’Twas now a week after, and Reina was due to have her baby any day, but he had still not shown up. After he had promised he would be there for the birthing, what was she to think except that something dire had happened?

Walter was quick to tell her she was being silly to worry. He had not gone on this campaign with Ranulf, nor did he mind staying behind, being newly wed to Florette. But what did he know of a woman’s fear? And yet, realistically, Reina knew he was right.

Rothwell had scurried home as Ranulf had predicted he would, but that had not been the end of it. Sir Henry had decided he needed lessoning for his audacity and had taken the Shefford army west to besiege Rothwell’s keep, and so it had been under siege these past two months, with very little actual fighting.

Ranulf’s forty days’ service had expired, but what did that matter when a man was enjoying himself? That he had stayed on to fill the ranks had caused another fight between them, which he, of course, won, and she, of course, forgave him for. The lout simply loved a challenge, any challenge, and she would perforce have to get used to that aspect of her life with him. It would become easier as the years passed. There would be times when he would be home so much she was like to wish him gone. And there would be times when he was late again in returning and she would worry herself sick. There would also be the times of loving to make up for it all.

Verily, what did she have to complain about? That Ranulf was not there for the birthing of his first son, who arrived on time and without undue complication? Aye, she would not let him hear the end of that. And yet ’twas forgotten when he entered their chamber a mere hour after the ordeal was over, and came directly to the bed to take her in his arms.

He was contrite and elated all at once, and how could she scold him when he showered her with love? His excuse for being late was a good one. Lord Guy had finally returned to England and had summoned Ranulf to Shefford for their first meeting, which had gone very well. He had even insinuated that he would not take it amiss were he asked to be godfather to this first child of theirs. Reina could only laugh. ’Twas not like her overlord to be subtle about his wishes. Ranulf must have duly impressed him, which meant she had naught else to worry about on that score. Her father’s little deception for her sake would never come to light, and his last wish was fulfilled. She had married the man of her choice, as he had wanted.

Theodric hummed softly as he rocked Guy in his arms. The three-month-old infant was fast asleep, but he was in no hurry to put him down in his bed. Wenda was combing Reina’s hair, still slightly damp from her bath. Theo no longer complained that the girl had usurped his duties, not since he had taken over the care of Guy, whom he adored. He was worse than any mother when it came to fretting over the baby. Reina sometimes thought that he envied her the nursing of him, and would do that, too, if he could.

Lady Ella preened herself in the center of Reina’s bed. Her most recent batch of kittens cavorted on the floor, making Wenda giggle every so often. Reina was amused by them, too. She had not liked it when her nemesis had decided to have this litter under her bed, sneaking into the room to do so. Reina had tried moving them at least into the antechamber, but Lady Ella would cry and scratch at the door until it was opened, then pick up the kitten she had carried there and rush into the room with it. Ranulf had said not a word, leaving the decision to Reina. What decision? The cat had made up its mind and there was naught anyone could do about it.

When the door opened and Ranulf walked in, Reina was delighted. She had thought with Lord Hugh’s arrival this afternoon that Ranulf would not retire until much later. But one look at him staring aghast at Theo holding Guy and she groaned inwardly. That he had not discovered ere now that Theo had taken charge of Guy was due only to Theo’s clever timing.

Ranulf did not mince words; he simply bellowed, “Out!”

Theo was no longer frightened to death by Ranulf’s roars. He gently laid Guy down in his basket and walked stiffly from the room. Reina gave a nod to Wenda to fetch the basket and leave them. The argument she was about to commence would probably get loud enough to disturb Guy’s sleep.

“You have offended Theo,” she began quietly enough.

“I will do more than that do I find that catamite near my son again, lady. I will not have Guy influenced—”

“Do not use that excuse, Ranulf,” she interrupted sharply. “The only one like to influence your son is you, and well you know it. You would have it no other way, and that we both know. As for Theo, he has lived here his whole life. In that time he has had the care of two babies and three children, myself included, and I might add that I was the only female he has attended. He has not influenced any of us adversely, nor is he ever like to.” Then, on a softer note when she saw he was actually listening to her and no longer frowning quite so sternly: “He loves Guy as if he were his own. He would never do aught to hurt him. Now which is more important? That your son receives the best care? Or that you continue to hold a grudge because Theo admires your magnificent body?”

That caught him off guard. “Magnificent?”

“Aye.” Her smile broke through.

“I did not know you thought so.”

Was he embarrassed? Sweet Jesú , how she loved this man, with all his quirks and faults and endearing qualities.

“Have I not told you, my lord?”

“Nay.”

“I must have shown you.”

He really was embarrassed. Reina grinned and slowly crossed the room to him. Deliberately, she let her bedrobe slip down one shoulder, and saw his eyes ignite. He might have been disconcerted for the moment, but ’twould not last long, and in fact, lasted no longer than it took her to reach him. She was lifted off her feet to dangle in the air. This was how they had met, the only difference being the passion that smoldered in his eyes now was not anger.

“Christ’s toes, woman, when you look at me like that…”

“What are you waiting for?” she asked thickly, and wrapped her arms around him until there was not a breath of space between them. “Want me to drag you to bed for a change?”

She did not have to ask twice.

ALL I NEED IS YOU

by Johanna Lindsey

the sequel to A Heart So Wild

What happens when a New York sophisticate has a run-in with a female bounty hunter?

Find out in Ms. Lindsey’s captivating romance

From Avon Books

New York, 1892

I t was actually a beautiful night in early spring, the night Damian Rutledge III’s world fell apart. Everything had gone right that day: the flowers had been delivered to Winnifred shortly before Damian arrived to pick her up, the engagement ring he’d designed had been finished that morning. They had even reached the restaurant on time, for once the heavy city traffic not interfering with his schedule. And dinner had been superb. He was going to ask the big question as soon as he took Winnifred home.

Her father had already approved the match. His father had been delighted. They made a perfect couple, he the heir to Rutledge Imports, she the heir to C.W. it hadn’t been kicked over but was still in reach.

“Cut him down.”

No one heard Damian. Three men had tried to stop him from entering the office, until they heard who he was. The men were too busy sifting through what they deemed evidence to pay attention to a choked voice. Damian had to shout to be heard.

“Cut him down!”

That got their attention, and one uniformed officer blustered indignantly, “Who the hell are you?”

Damian still hadn’t taken his eyes off the body. “I’m his son.”

He heard several mutterings of sympathy as they cut Damian Rutledge II down—pointless, meaningless words that barely penetrated his shock. His father was dead, the only person on the face of the earth that he really and truly cared about. He had no other relatives. His mother didn’t count. She had divorced his father when Damian was still a child and had gone off to marry her lover, causing quite a scandal at the time. Damian had never seen her again and had no desire to. She had been, and would remain, dead in his heart. But his father…

Winnifred didn’t count either. He’d planned to marry her, but he didn’t love her. He had been hopeful that they would get along splendidly. After all, he could find no fault with her. She was beautiful, refined, and would make a fine mother for the children they would have. At present, though, he couldn’t even call her his fiancée, could think of her as little more than a stranger. But his father…

What few friends he had didn’t count either. After his mother’s rejection and abandonment, he’d never let anyone get really close. It was simpler that way. It kept emotional pain out of his life. But his father…

“—obvious suicide,” he heard next, then, “There’s even a note.” And this was shoved in front of Damian’s face.

When he was able to focus on the words, he read, “I tried to get over it, Damian, but I can’t. Forgive me.”

He snatched the note out of the policeman’s hand and read it again…and again. It looked like his father’s writing, if a bit shaky. The note also looked like it had been stuffed in something, a pocket or a fist.

“Where did you get this?” he asked.

“On the desk—in the center of it, actually. Hard to miss.”

“There is fresh stationery in that desk,” Dam ian pointed out. “Why would this note be crumpled if it was written just before…?”

He couldn’t finish the sentence. The policeman he’d looked at merely shrugged.

But another suggested, “He could have been carrying that note around for days, while he made up his mind.”

“And brought his own rope, too? That rope didn’t come from this office.”

“Then obviously he did bring it along,” was the easy reply, then, “Look, Mr. Rutledge, I know it ain’t easy to accept when someone you know takes their own life, but it happens. Do you know what it was that he couldn’t get over, as the note says?”

“No, my father didn’t have any reason to kill himself.”

“Well…looks like he felt differently.”

Damian’s eyes turned a wintery gray, pale as shadowed snow. “You’re just going to accept that as fact? You’re not even going to look into the possibility that he was murdered?”

“Murdered?” The man all but smirked. “There’s easier and much quicker ways to kill yourself than dangling from a rope. Know how long it takes to actually die from hanging? It ain’t quick unless the neck snaps, and his didn’t. And there’s easier and much quicker ways for murder to be done than by hanging.”

“Unless you want it to look like suicide.”

“A bullet in the head would have done the trick if that were the case. Look, do you see any signs of struggle here? And there is nothing to indicate that your father’s hands had been tied, so that he couldn’t prevent the hanging. How many men do you think it would take to hang a man his size, if he didn’t want to be hung? One or two wouldn’t have managed it. Three or more? Why? What motive? Did your father keep money here? Anything of value missing that you can see? Did he have any enemies that hated him enough to kill him?”

The answers were no and no and no, but Damian didn’t bother to say it. They had drawn their conclusions based on the evidence at hand. He couldn’t even blame them for settling on what looked so obvious. Why should they dig any deeper just on his say-so, when they could finish their paperwork on this and go on to the next crime? Trying to convince them that this was a crime that needed further investigation would be a waste of his time and theirs.

He still tried. He spent two more hours trying, until each policeman had come up with an excuse to leave. Sure, they’d look into it, they had assured him, but he didn’t believe it for a minute. Sop for the grieving relative. They would have said anything at that point just to get out of there.

It was midnight before Damian entered the town house he shared with his father. It was a huge, old mansion, too big for just two men, which is why Damian had never moved out when he had come of age. He and his father had lived there companionably, neither getting in the other’s way, yet both accessible when one or the other felt like conversation.

He looked at his home now and found it—empty. Never again would he share breakfast with his father before they left for the office. Never again would he find his father in his study, or in the library late of an evening where they read and discussed the classics. Never again would they talk business over dinner. Never again…

The wealth of tears that he had been holding back came now and wouldn’t stop. Damian didn’t make it up to his room, but there were no servants about at that hour to see his lapse from stern rigidity. He poured a glass of brandy that was kept on his bureau for when he had trouble sleeping, but he was too choked up to drink it.

He would find out what had really happened, because he would never accept that his father had ended his own life. There was no evidence to the contrary, no sign of struggle, yet Damian knew his father had been murdered. He knew his father too well, they had been too close.

Damian Senior wasn’t a man who prevaricated or attempted pretense. He never lied, because he gave himself away anytime he tried. So if something had been so terribly wrong to lead to desiring death as the only alternative, Damian would have known about it. Yet they had been planning a wedding. There had even been talk of remodeling the west wing of the house for more privacy if Damian wanted to bring his wife there to live. And Damian’s father had been looking forward to having grandchildren to spoil. He had been waiting several years now for Damian to settle down and start a family of his own.

Besides all that, Damian Senior had been genuinely happy with his life. He had no desire to ever marry again. He was perfectly content with the mistress he kept. He was wealthy in his own right but had also inherited a large fortune. And he loved the business that he ran, that had been founded by his own father, Damian I, and that he had since expanded very successfully. He had everything to live for.

But someone had felt otherwise. Forgive me? No, those weren’t his father’s words. There was nothing to forgive his father for. But there was much to avenge.