Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 82367 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 412(@200wpm)___ 329(@250wpm)___ 275(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82367 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 412(@200wpm)___ 329(@250wpm)___ 275(@300wpm)
He wouldn’t hit her, he needed her unmarked as he sold her off. Her mother… She knew that woman would strike her without hesitation. But waiting was what she did so well, and she continued to do so now. By the fire, enjoying the warmth.
Her father shook his head as he neared. She faced him, the flames at her back, and was saddened by how she didn’t recognize him anymore. The man who had used to make her laugh and smile had long vanished. The gambling had done that to him, taken away the man she’d been devoted to and given her this impersonator. To be fair, the changes had begun before the money issues, the older she got, the worse it became.
“We need to talk about your brother.”
“As you and Mother constantly remind me, I’m worthless, fat and a waste of space. I fail to see how I can be of help to your son who can do no wrong.”
“See, Bradford? I told you, impertinent.” Her mother pointed at her with narrowed eyes.
“You will help your brother get what he wants. Go talk to the earl’s sister and get close to him. He wants to learn to box from a man who studied under Richardson.” A slight hesitation. “Even with his skin color, the man was impressive. Anyone who was at a coronation can’t be all bad.”
She thought about arguing but held her tongue because…really? This was what she wanted as well. Another chance to be around Bryn and put her own plan into action. Rosamunde shrugged and again faced the flickering flames, holding her hands out as she hid her glee. Her parents were pushing her to do the one thing she wanted.
“Not that it matters to you two, but this feels like you are whoring me out. I’ll do it, but under protest.”
* * * *
Bryn slumped in his chair as he stared at the tumbler he held, the amber liquid inside sloshing around as he rotated his wrist.
“You are quiet, my son.”
“Hello, Mama.” He set the glass down on the table nearby as he stood to kiss her cheek and help her to a sofa. “Everything okay?”
“I merely wish to spend time with my son, is that so wrong?”
He grinned at her and shook his head. “Not to me. But I also know you, Mama. You can’t hide things from me.”
And she couldn’t, no matter how she may try. The first seven years of his life it had been only the two of them. Survival had depended on them communicating without fail.
“You’re leaving.”
He retook his seat, nodding. “I don’t belong here, Mama.” Reaching for his drink, he swirled it again before sipping. “I’m not needed.”
“You, my son, are always needed.”
Giving her an indulgent smile, he rested his ankle on the opposite knee. “I miss America. Even the country isn’t the same.”
When she nodded, he knew she understood. His mother had been known as “the Heart of the Mountains” and had grown up in the wilds of the American west.
Here he had begun to feel hemmed in.
“Are you coming back?”
Fear had seeped into her tone, and while he knew she longed to keep her children close, he also knew she wouldn’t ever stop him from leaving if that’s what his soul called for him to do.
“Of course. You’re here.” He tipped his head to the side. “Besides, I need to be here for Falcon and Keely’s wedding.”
Her laugh warmed his heart. “Those two have far to go before they are ready for that.”
“You see it though, don’t you?”
“Everyone but your sister sees it.” She crossed her legs and readjusted her seat on the sofa.
And Falcon won’t admit it. He sees it but is in denial.
Even now, having been a marchioness for over twenty years, his mother favored dressing in buckskins. Sure, she would dress differently when out of the house, but inside she preferred to keep her comfort.
“Are you stopping to see family?”
A difficult question, really. He had family in Ireland and Africa as well as America.
“Conar and his family on the way.”
She nodded. “Finding a wife while you are on your adventure?”
A flash hit him and he bit back a groan as all he could see was Rosamunde. In his bed. Flushed from his touch. Pregnant with his child.
“Excuse me, milady, milord. There is a visitor for young Lord Wetherstoft.”
“Show them in,” he said, needing to get his mother off the track of his finding a wife.
“Very good, sir.”
The man vanished and he drained the remainder of his drink. In the middle of setting the empty glass on the smooth table, he looked up when the butler stepped back in the room. On his heels, Rosamunde Fletcher.
“Hmm,” his mother commented as she rose. “Perhaps she has already been found.”
“Miss Fletcher to see you, my lord.” The man bowed and walked away.