Devil's Embrace by Catherine Coulter
Exhaustion beckoned him to bed, but he was too elated to give in to sleep just yet. He touched his lips to her cheek and strode soundlessly across the thick carpet to the narrow curtained windows. He eased back the heavy burgundy velvet curtains and peered out at the south lawn and the home wood beyond. A half moon muted the vivid October colors of the trees, their leaves heavy with dampness after a brief rainstorm. He dropped the curtain, wondering idly if Dr. Milpas, a man of excellent repute with a string of successful births to his name, was at last resting in comfort after an afternoon spent sitting in sodden clothes in a mud-filled ditch, cursing his broken leg.
The earl looked back at the large Tudor bed, its stolidly English oak frame and thick burgundy hangings so unlike the delicate furnishings of his bedchamber in the Villa Parese. He grinned at the thought, for it was Cassie’s. She appeared lost in the featherdown depths of the bed, a fluffy cover pulled to her chin. “Little fool,” he said softly to her under his breath. He should have guessed she would not go through her labor as would other ladies. He saw Eliott in his mind’s eye, his face perfectly white, clutching his wine glass and whispering, “Oh my God.”
Trust Cassie to say not a word about it during the Harvest Day festivities. She had sat beneath the red and white striped canvas canopy on the wide, sloping east lawn, not wanting anyone to know, not wanting to spoil anyone’s enjoyment of the yearly event that she herself had planned. She greeted each of his tenants throughout the morning, taking no part in the dancing to be sure, and presided beside him at the mid-afternoon dinner, more quiet than usual, he realized now. But he had not remarked upon the occasional tensing about her mouth, or her absence of appetite, his attention distracted by his duties as master of Clare Castle.
There had been so much gaiety, such high spirits, particularly on the part of Eliott and his bride of five months, Eliza, that no one noticed Cassandra’s forced smiles. He had not guessed that anything was amiss until Becky motioned to Cassie at the close of the long meal to rise and stand beside him under the billowing canopy. He had looked at her with a questioning smile on his lips when she did not immediately rise to join him. But she averted her face.
“Cassandra.” His sharp voice stilled the boisterous talk about the table. He saw a lone tear streak down her cheek.
“I am sorry, my lord,” she said, “the babe will not wait longer.”
“Oh my God,” Eliott said.
Cassie wailed in frustration, “But our people are still here.”
“How long have you been in labor?”
“You needn’t shout at me, my lord,” she said.
“Well?”
“Since early this morning.”
“You stubborn little wretch.”
“Really, Anthony,” Eliott said.
But Cassie laughed.
Becky Petersham was on her feet, tottering a bit perhaps, her voice high and commanding. “Eliott, send a footman for Dr. Milpas. Eliza, help me assist Cassie to bed.”
The earl held up a restraining hand. “No, Becky, since my foolish wife has not had the good sense to say anything, she will have to bear with my attentions.”
He held out his hand to her, but she could not move at that moment, for a contraction ripped at her belly.
“I cannot,” she panted.
“At least you are not so fat that I can no longer carry you,” he said, and lifted her into his arms.
She gasped, and clutched her arms tightly about his neck, for the contraction still gripped her.
“What a Harvest Day you have chosen to give me, cara. Steady, love, I’ll have you more comfortable in a moment.”
“I don’t think you can,” she said.
She was gritting her teeth together to keep herself from crying out when the earl was informed of the carriage accident an hour later.
Becky Petersham wrung her hands in soundless agitation. “What are we going to do?”
“Fetch me Scargill, Becky.”
“What?” she fairly shrieked at him. “Even you should not be in here and now you want another man. Oh, my poor Cassie.”
“She is young and quite healthy, Becky,” he said calmly. “I have a fancy to deliver our babe, and Cassandra, I think, would prefer it in any case.”
His confident words sounded hollow in his mind not long thereafter. Cassie’s hands clawed at his with each contraction, as she struggled to keep hold of herself.
“Why will not the babe come?” he bellowed at last.
Cassie looked up at his face, and there was suddenly fear in her eyes. “Am I to be like my mother?”
“Don’t be a fool, Cassandra,” he said. “You are nothing like your mother.”
Pain glazed her eyes, and she turned her face away, her fingers dropping listlessly from his hand.
“Cassandra! Dammit, you will not give up! Look at me!”
“I am sorry, my lord.”
“I do not want you to be sorry, I want you to show some spirit! Dammit, Cassandra, give me my child!”
He ripped the light cover off her. “Now, push down! All your strength, Cassandra, else I shall beat you. Again!”
He splayed his hands over her swollen belly and pressed down.
She screamed, a high wailing cry that rent the silence of the bedchamber.
“The babe is coming!” Scargill shouted.
The earl’s hands gently closed about the small infant’s head, covered with a mass of curling black hair. “Again, Cassandra. Push!”
He caught his son with a shout of triumph, and laughed aloud when the small mouth opened on a fierce angry wail.
The earl walked over to the black-mouthed fireplace. He kicked the red embers with the toe of his boot and watched the scarlet flames dance upward. He smiled again at the indignant look on his small son’s puckered face. The tension was beginning to pass from his body. He breathed deeply and let himself relax, admitting fatigue into his mind.
He stretched and bent down to retrieve his waistcoat, tossed heedlessly onto the carpet. He felt the small square of paper folded in the pocket, and slowly drew it out.
There must be a beginning and an ending to everything, he thought, and unfolded the sheet. The letter was dated in late August and written in flowing script, undoubtedly by a learned servant.
It should not surprise you, Antonio, that it is I who am to part you from your English guineas. It required only my word to the proper people that I wished to have the brave Andrea at my side. The stupid lout scarce tried my ingenuity, my friend, either before or after he had the pleasure of meeting me. Indeed, he was on his knees begging me for his miserable life, a little joke that my men enjoyed. He has taken his rest in hell.
As to his employer, Antonio, he tried very hard to convince me it was your half-brother, Bellini. A pity that greed should break the bonds of blood. I have always been a simple man, my friend, and your instructions were clear. It was quite a shock to Signore Bellini and his charming contessa to be trussed up like chickens and brought to my palace of delights. He died well, if it is any consolation. As for the contessa, I find her a savory morsel, though she offers me little sport. My fair Zabetta wishes you luck with your mad countess.
Addio, my lord earl,
Khar El-Din
The earl read the letter once again, and looked over at Cassie. He wadded the paper slowly into a tight ball and tossed it atop the glowing embers. He watched as the smoke engulfed it and it burst into brief orange flame, then collapsed onto itself as blackened ashes.
He turned at a soft sigh that came from the bed, and quickly strode over and sat beside Cassie. He smiled into her unclouded blue eyes and traced his finger down the straight line of her nose.
“I had thought, love, that you would sleep until the new year.”
“Our son, my lord, he is perfect?”
“Since, at the moment, he strongly resembles his father, I daresay he is as close to perfection as possible.”
Her answering smile was weak. “I feel so very empty.”
<
“I trust so unless you plan to give our son a twin brother or sister.”
“Thank you, Anthony.”
He cocked a black eyebrow at her. “You, my lady, did all the work. I merely yelled at you a couple of times.”
“I remember another man’s voice. That wretched doctor was not here, was he?”
“Nay, it was Scargill. That wretched doctor suffered a broken leg from a carriage accident.”
She looked quite pleased.
“I’ll think you a witch, Cassandra, if you don’t wipe that self-satisfied look from your face.”
She drew a deep breath and he saw that she was remaining awake with difficulty.
“I used to think you the devil himself, my lord. If I am a witch, then we are well suited, I think.”
“Very well suited,” he said, and kissed her with infinite tenderness.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Epilogue
Catherine Coulter, Devil's Embrace
(Series: Devil # 1)