Chapter 7
“Ralph tells me your fishing expedition was a success,” Heather remarked lightly when Maxim joined her in the blue salon before their evening meal.
“I believe Cook is even now preparing our catch for dinner,” Maxim confirmed as he poured a glass of sherry for her and a brandy for himself. “Leaving some for Ralph’s luncheon tomorrow, of course.”
Heather had spent an hour in the nursery with Ralph earlier, bathing him and reading him a story once he was abed, before he fell into an exhausted sleep following the activities of the afternoon.
Even then she had not left the nursery or her seat beside Ralph’s bed for several more minutes as she instead gazed down at her son. Maxim’s son. The son she had learned she was expecting only weeks after Maxim had left her to return to his regiment.
She had held out hope for his return those first few weeks, or at least for some word from him, knowing it was not always possible for soldiers to send letters from abroad. But after almost three months of silence, she had no other choice but to accept Maxim had considered their relationship to be nothing more than a summer fling. Put more crudely, she was someone for him to fuck while he was in England on leave. And just as easily forget once he had returned to his regiment and the company of his friends.
Keeping her pregnancy to herself for any length of time had been impossible, of course. Being so slender to begin with, it had been a simple thing for her mother’s eagle eyes to note the slight thickening of Heather’s waist and the increasing size of her breasts, and question Heather regarding these changes.
Having already kept the pregnancy—and fear—to herself for some weeks already, Heather had broken down and told her mother of the child she was expecting. That very evening, there had been a meeting of her whole family. Her father and brothers had all demanded to know the name of the man who was responsible for her condition.
Heather had been reluctant to tell them and had refused at first, but when her father threatened to have every man in the district questioned until he found the culprit, she’d had no choice but to admit Maxim was the father of the babe she now carried.
She had no idea what had transpired in the conversation that took place the following day between her father and Lord James Smythe, Maxim’s father and the Earl of Carlton. Only that her father had returned to inform her that if Maxim could not be located in the next month, then she was to become James’s wife.
Heather had protested, of course, insisting she should wait for Maxim to come back to Cornwall before doing anything so drastic as marrying another man, most especially his own father.
James had come to her a month later and gently explained that he had tried repeatedly to contact Maxim, to no avail. That he had even traveled to London in search of his son, only to learn that Maxim was away fighting and not expected back anytime soon. James had then offered her marriage, stating it was the honorable thing for him to do and for her to accept, for the sake of her babe if not herself.
By this time, Heather was almost four months into the pregnancy, with a noticeable outward curvature beneath her gowns. Something that was causing gossip among the locals and threatening to bring scandal down upon her whole family.
She was nineteen years old, pregnant with the child of a man who had, for all intents and purposes, deserted her, but was instead being offered marriage and respectability by his widowed father. Being the local magistrate at the time, James assured her he would ensure Ralph’s birth was registered as being later than it actually was, legitimizing her son in the eyes of the law and Society.
It had been the latter that persuaded her, and she had done the only thing she could at the time, both for her baby and her family, and married James. The love she had once felt for Maxim had been turned to ashes by his callous desertion, and the future of her unborn baby was all that mattered to her.
By the time Maxim returned to Cornwall almost a year later, Heather felt nothing but contempt for him. James had believed his son should be told the truth of Ralph’s parentage and the reason for their marriage. Heather had pointed out that knowledge would not change the fact that her marriage to James existed and would continue to do so in the eyes of the law. That to tell Maxim he was Ralph’s father would only result in more heartache for all involved.
James had never been comfortable with the lie, but Maxim’s cold behavior toward Heather during that visit and her own lack of feelings toward Maxim had convinced him that it would be better to leave things as they were.
Heather was content to let Maxim think what he liked about the reason for her marriage to his father, that she was after the Carlton title and fortune, or whatever else he chose to think badly of her. All that had mattered to Heather was Ralph’s future. His legitimate future.
Nor had Maxim suspected that the baby brother he was presented with was, in fact, already almost three months old rather than the newborn Heather and James claimed him to be. There was no reason why Maxim should have done so when he would not have been around babies often enough to know the difference between a newborn and a baby of a few months old.
Heather had not regretted that decision then, nor did she now.
“Thank you.” She now accepted the glass of sherry from Maxim, careful that her lace-gloved fingers should not make contact with his. Something he was fully aware of if the self-derisive curl of his top lip was an indication.
He moved to sit down in the chair opposite her, once again appearing very distinguished in his black evening clothes and snow-white linen. “Did Ralph also tell you that he and I explored the caves before we went fishing?” He studied her from beneath lowered lids.
Heather instantly schooled her features into disinterest. “No, he did not tell me that,” she answered coolly. “But perhaps that is because he is forbidden to go into the caves.”
Maxim’s eyebrows rose. “Surely not when he is with a responsible adult?”
Heather eyed him mockingly. “Are you responsible?”
His mouth quirked. “So I am led to believe, yes.”
She snorted. “By whom?”
His expression became guarded. “Many people.”
“Such as?”
Maxim sat forward. “Are you spoiling for another fight between us, Heather?”
Was she?
Perhaps.
It was only that she was unnerved by the amount of time Maxim was spending with her son. His son.
Ralph had talked of nothing but Maxim as she bathed him earlier. Of the adventures the two of them had shared down in the cove—with the noticeable omission of exploring the caves, of course. Her son already had a serious case of hero worship where Maxim was concerned, James having considered himself too old to explore caves and go fishing with him.
What if during the hours the two spent together, Maxim should somehow realize Ralph was his son? She had no idea how he would make such a discovery when even Ralph’s birthday next month was not his true one. But even so, she could not dispel her inner feelings of unease.
Would Maxim attempt to take her son away from her if he discovered the truth? As their closest male relative, Maxim was already Ralph’s guardian in the eyes of Society, and none would think it odd if he took his “brother” into his own household. It was a possibility Heather refused to contemplate. She would fight with everything she had to ensure that did not happen. Even continuing to keep Ralph’s true parentage to herself.
She sighed deeply. “You must know as well as I that the two of us being here together is far from an ideal arrangement.”
Of course Maxim knew that. Just as he knew his real reason for returning to Treganon House had nothing to do with the smuggling in the area or finding Napoleon’s spy, and everything to do with once again spending time with the woman seated across from him.
The sophistication and confidence Heather had gained over the last few years in her role as countess in no way detracted from the wild passion he still sensed—knew—flowed beneath those refined attributes. If anything, Heather fascinated him even more now than she had all those years ago.
“What happened to you, Heather?” He turned her own question of earlier back on her.
She arched one dark brow. “Motherhood and being a wife happened to me,” she dismissed in a hard voice. “Responsibility happened to me.”
Maxim found it intriguing that she had said motherhood before being a wife. Possibly because, as he had always thought, her marriage to his father had not been a love match. The two had seemed happy enough in each other’s company whenever Maxim had chanced to see them out and about in Society, but he also knew that his own mother, dead these past twenty years, had been the love of his father’s life. Another reason the second marriage and his father’s choice of bride had been such a shock to him.
His eyes narrowed. “Do you intend to marry your lover?”
Heather appeared taken aback by the question before she slowly, deliberately, relaxed the tension from her shoulders. “I very much doubt it.”
“Why?”
“Because I have no intention of marrying again. Ever.”
“Were you so unhappy with my father, then?”
Her expression softened. “On the contrary, your father was one of the kindest and most caring men I have ever known.”
There was that word kind again.
But what had Maxim expected? That Heather would confirm his suspicion it had been a marriage of convenience on his father’s part, giving him a companion in his older years, and monetary benefit and social standing for her?
If that was the case, then he had been mistaken. There was no doubting Heather’s sincerity of affection when she spoke so warmly of his father.
“It is a pity his eldest son possesses neither of those traits.” Maxim rose restlessly to his feet to replenish his brandy glass, aware he was once again drinking too much but needing something to dull the raw pain he felt following Heather’s praise of his father.
How was Heather supposed to answer such a comment? Maxim had once been everything to her, the sun, the moon, and the stars. She had believed him to be everything she required in a man, handsome, confident, sexually satisfying, as well as possessing the same caring and kindness as his father. But it had all been a ruse so that he might lay claim to her body. Maxim had felt no interest in her heart then, nor did he now.
“Yes,” she answered evenly, feeling nothing but relief when Coombe appeared in the doorway to announce dinner was ready to be served.
The conversation between herself and Maxim was becoming altogether too personal.
“How is Wessex?” She attempted a less controversial subject once they were seated at the dining table. She knew the marquis from her years of attending the London Season and his occasional visits here.
Maxim smiled ruefully. “Not looking forward to having his father’s ward arrive back from France any day.”
“Lady Jocelyn?” She looked surprised. “But I have always found her to be a charming young lady.”
Maxim had never taken much notice of Lady Jocelyn Forbes, apart from noting she was very beautiful, so he could not comment. “Ralph tells me you are teaching him to speak French,” he remarked instead.
Was it Maxim’s imagination, something he expected to be there if Heather was a spy for the French, or had she tensed as soon as he asked the question? Certainly her fingers appeared to be gripping her soup spoon rather tightly before she placed it carefully back down without eating.
She took a sip of her wine instead. “I have always believed it is easier to learn a second language when you are younger rather than older.”
“But why French?” Maxim persisted.
She gazed at him coolly. “Because I know the language well myself, and once the hostilities are settled between our two countries, I expect they will once again become one of our leading allies in regard to trade.”
“I had no idea you even spoke French,” Maxim remarked lightly.
She snorted, a snort which seemed to infer Maxim knew very little about her at all. “I learned in the nursery.”
“Why?”
“My mother has relations living in Paris.”
He had not known that either. Perhaps Adelle Turner merited a little more investigation than her daughter. He would look into doing exactly that tomorrow.
He nodded. “Ralph’s accent is impeccable.”
Heather arched one dark brow. “You speak French?”
“Yes,” he confirmed tersely.
“I had no idea.” Once again, she turned his own remark back on him.
Maxim made no reply. His reason for learning the language had to do with his role as an agent and spy for the English Crown so that he might enter France and pass as a Frenchman himself. Something he could not share with Heather.
During those months spent in the dark and damp French prison cell, he had often wished he had no knowledge of the language. At least then his tormenters would not have been able to mentally torture him with their taunts of what they were going to do to him next. It would have been preferable not to know rather than anticipate the pain yet to come.
Heather gave a rueful smile. “How little we really know about each other.”
Maxim knew that was partly due to his not being able to talk of his work in France for the English. But also because words had not been necessary between the two of them six years ago. They had spoken with their desire and passion for each other, with kisses and caresses, the taking of each other’s bodies. To know that he abhorred the ballet but adored the theater had not seemed important, any more than Heather’s likes and dislikes, apart from during their lovemaking, had seemed of relevance. The two of them had communicated on a physical level Maxim had never experienced before or since.
“We have the opportunity to learn more of each other now,” he said huskily.
“To what purpose?” she challenged.
He frowned his impatience. “For Ralph’s comfort? So that his mother and brother are not constantly at odds with each other?”
Heather’s gaze became flinty. “I doubt that will be necessary, considering the number of times you have been here to see him or the interest you have taken in him the last five years.”
Maxim easily met that hard and dismissively gaze. “It has become obvious to me in just a few days that Ralph is sorely in need of a male companion.”
“And you believe that companion should be you?”
“Who else?”
Her mouth firmed. “He has my brothers and father. He does not need to become overly fond of a man who will disappear from his life for years at a time.”
“It does not have to be that way—”
“But it is that way, Maxim,” Heather snapped. “It has always been that way. You are that way, appearing totally involved one day and then completely gone the next.”
Maxim had a feeling they were no longer talking about Ralph. “I had a duty to my regiment and the Crown.”
“One that prevented you from sending word either by letter or courier of your well-being and when you would return?” she scorned, confirming Maxim’s thoughts. “Your father was very worried when he was unable to contact you for almost a year, and then you just swanned back into our lives without so much as a word of explanation for your long absence.”
“My father was worried?”
“Yes.”
“But not you?”
“Why should I have been worried?” Her gaze glittered as it raked over him contemptuously.
Even so, Maxim looked at Heather searchingly, looking for something, some sign that might tell him she had been worried by his long absence too. There was nothing except that glittering challenge in her eyes.
Her chin rose. “Shall we resume eating our dinner before it becomes cold? I do not believe discussing the past to have ever been of any benefit to anyone,” she added dismissively.
There were still so many questions Maxim would have liked to ask her.
Had she been at all bothered by his long absence?
Had she made any effort to seek him out?
Had she loved him then?
Did she care for him now?
He asked none of those questions as they resumed eating their dinner. Heather’s cold expression gave clear indication her emotions were so closed off to him now there was no common ground upon which they might agree or converse. She did not even seem to approve of his deepening friendship with her son.
Maxim found himself liking Ralph for his own sake rather than because he was the boy’s brother and male guardian. Ralph obviously adored his mother, but not in any way that made him a mama’s boy. Instead, he was an adventurous and outgoing child. A brother to be proud of.
Not that Maxim thought Heather would be interested in hearing that from him either, as she steered their conversation to the safer subject of the estate and his future plans for it, if any.
Maxim was aware that his responses to their conversation were becoming shorter and shorter as the meal progressed. Telling him—a warning—that their earlier conversation regarding his absence from Cornwall for all those months and the reasons for it, would require he drink an excess of brandy tonight until he passed out. If he did not he would be plagued with the nightmares that haunted him when he could no longer fight the memories of his capture and torture.
Heather was completely disoriented when she woke in the darkness of her bedchamber, having no idea what could have brought her awake so suddenly.
The silence and stillness in the house told her it was very late—or very early, considering she had not been able to fall asleep the previous evening and had lain reading a book until well after midnight. She—
Heather sat up abruptly at the sound of someone shouting. Had a previous similar outcry been the reason for her interrupted sleep?
What on earth—
She quickly threw back the bedcovers to stand and pull on her robe before venturing out into the candlelit hallway.
Her brow creased as she was met with only silence.
Perhaps she had still been asleep and only dreamed that sound of shouting—
“Putain de betard!”
Maxim…?
It certainly sounded like his voice, but who on earth could he be swearing at so harshly in the middle of the night?
A burglar, perhaps?
Except…
Maxim was talking in French.
Heather padded softly down the hallway on bare feet, not absolutely sure what she was going to do when she reached Maxim’s bedchamber. But if he continued shouting, he was going to wake the whole household—
“Non, vous connard!”
Heather knocked briefly on the door before quickly entering. There was a single candle alight on the dressing table, revealing the man lying on the bed as he thrashed about, his closed eyes showing he was still asleep and obviously in the grip of a nightmare.
A naked man lying on the bed.
The clothes Maxim had been wearing the evening before lay scattered about the floor of the bedchamber. The bedcovers had been pushed to the foot of the bed, and they now lay in a heap on the floor. A fine sheen of sweat covered his completely naked body as he continued to fight his nightmare assailant.
A body that was as lithe and muscular as it had always been, perhaps even more so, but which was also covered in scars from his neck down to his feet. The most predominant one encircled his waist from his back around to his navel.
Heather was barely breathing as she closed the door softly behind her to cross the room and stand beside the bed. She avoided looking at the flaccid but still lengthy cock that lay against Maxim’s thigh, but noted there were several scars at his groin, very close to but not quite touching the furred sac beneath that flaccid cock.
The numerous scars on Maxim’s body were more livid than ever close up. Dozens of them. Some ragged, as if the flesh had been torn. Some obviously from a whip. Others clusters of straight lines that might have been caused by a knife or other blade. These had not healed well but resulted in ridged, red lines.
Because none of these wounds had received treatment or stitches, Heather would hazard a guess. Whoever had done this to Maxim had intended inflicting the most pain possible and given no aftercare.
But how?
Why?
More to the point, what could she now do to help him escape from his nightmare?