Chapter 16
Emma opened her eyes, blinking in the murky darkness. Her dreams had been so vivid—the man with the knife, slashing at her, his familiar eyes vivid, but this time they were someone else’s eyes, someone’s uncovered face, and she sat up in sudden panic.
It took her a moment to catch her breath, and then she forced a shaky laugh. In her nightmare the marauding attacker had been no other but Mr. Amasa Fenrush, chief surgeon at Temple Hospital, his eyes mad with murderous fury.
Which was, of course, a total absurdity. Her attacker had been huge, Fenrush was a small, bird-like man. He had almost colorless blue eyes, her attacker’s eyes had been small and black, like currants. On top of that, the thought of such a fastidious man as Fenrush lowering himself to a brawl in a rain-soaked field was simply absurd.
It was no surprise that her sleeping mind had chosen Fenrush. If she had to name one person who truly hated her it would be her erstwhile superior, and a part of her was dreading what was awaiting her when she returned to London. He wouldn’t take his demotion with any good grace, particularly by a woman, and she rather dreaded facing him.
And then there was Brandon. His appearance in her dreams had been no surprise—he’d been haunting them since he’d strode back into her life. If she were truthful she’d admit he’d haunted her for almost four years, but she steadfastly refused to consider it.
She tried to summon up the healthy irritation that kept him at arm’s length, but she couldn’t remember why she was angry with him. He hadn’t done anything to hurt her. In fact, it seemed as if he’d actually been kind to her, in his own way. In her sleep-drugged state she couldn’t remember much, she just had a general sense of unease, but the memory of Brandon was different. He somehow felt . . . right.
She opened her eyes again, growing slowly more alert as her memory filtered back. Brandon Rohan was the farthest thing from “right.” He was engaged to marry a very sweet, very unhappy girl. And yet he’d kissed her—several times, very thoroughly, and she hadn’t fought him.
Hadn’t fought him? She’d gone willingly, damn her idiocy! Hadn’t she learned after all this time?
The house seemed almost unnaturally still, even for the dark of night, and then she realized what was different. The lashing rain had finally stopped.
It was well after midnight—she’d always had an instinctive sense of time, whether it was close to dawn or dusk, and it didn’t fail her now. It was the depth of the night, the time she usually woke when her sleep was troubled. A sound finally came to her—the muffled wail of a miserable baby, and she recognized her unhappy goddaughter.
The floor was cold beneath her feet when she rose, reaching for her heavy shawl. The crying was getting louder now, and she pushed open her door, making her way slowly down the hall, wishing she’d at least had stockings to warm her bare toes. When she finally returned to her self-contained rooms in London she’d appreciate the tight confines that enabled her to stay warm. One always assumed the wealthy had the best in life, but those who lived in these grand old houses were probably freezing to death. She’d take her rooms in the slums any day.
She slipped into the nursery, closing the door behind her silently, only to stop short, wishing she were anywhere but there. Nanny was nowhere in sight, neither were any of the nursery maids. Instead a man leaned over the cradle, speaking in a soft, soothing voice to his infant niece and goddaughter, and Emma wondered whether she could slip out of the room before he noticed.
Brandon didn’t lift his head, but his warm voice carried across the room. “Are you going to just hide there in the shadows, Emma, or are you going to help me with this squalling brat?”
While the words were harsh, the tone was at direct opposites, and there was no mistaking the tenderness in the man as he reached down toward the crying baby. She didn’t need to see this. She was already having a difficult time sorting out her feelings for this unpredictable man—there was nothing more guaranteed to melt her heart than the sight of a big, strong man caring for a baby.
He looked beautiful in the candlelight as he reached down and picked up the infant. His too-long hair was loose, he was wearing only breeches and a shirt, and he was everything she had ever dreamed of, cradling the infant against his chest before he turned to look at her, and the undamaged side of his face came into view.
It was only then that she realized she’d been mooning over his scarred face, seeing the man, not the damaged flesh, and it was one more reminder that she was in dee
p trouble.
“Where are the servants?” At least she could sound cool and controlled.
“Benedick sent them away. We’d managed to calm the wee scrap, and my brother wanted to check on Melisande. Apparently she’s been having difficulty sleeping and he didn’t want to disturb her.”
Wee scrap. The Highlands must be having a subtle effect on him. It was no wonder—he’d been up there for more than three years. The last thing she wanted to do was move closer to him, but the cries were growing louder, and she crossed the room in efficient strides before she could give in to the temptation to run away. He was hardly going to start kissing her again when a baby was crying, and a small part of her regretted that fact. “Why didn’t you send for someone?”
He glanced down at her. “She’s eaten and had her nappies changed—there’s nothing anyone can do that I haven’t. You don’t have to have tits to care for a baby.”
“They do help,” she said dryly. “Give her to me.” She reached out her arms, and Brandon raised an eyebrow.
“You think you can do better with her?” he said, rocking the baby gently as she nestled against his broad chest.
“Of course.” In truth, she wasn’t sure. There seemed no better place in the world than resting against his shoulder—but Alexandra didn’t seem to be enjoying it properly, the foolish wench.
“You’d best sit down first, and I’ll give her to you. You’re still looking a bit pale,” he said, surveying her critically.
“It’s too dark for you to see that,” she said crossly, moving to the large chair Nanny used when the children needed rocking.
He leaned down and put the infant in her arms, and he was suddenly too close, too warm, his mouth. . . “I’ve been paying attention,” he said. Then, thank God, he moved away.
Alexandra squirmed against her, mewling in unhappiness, rooting against her breasts with blind need. “She’s still hungry,” Emma announced. Trust two men to think they knew a thing about babies! “You’ll need to get the wet nurse back, quickly, before she works herself up into a full-blown tantrum.”
He glanced around him. “Where’s the bell-pull?”