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‘It’s…it’s too soon to know,’ she protested.
‘That was not what I asked you,’ Max pointed out. ‘You have told me of your plans for my son’s adult future, but what of his childhood? You have said nothing of that.’
Ionanthe frowned.
‘What I want to know is how will he grow up?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You and I both lost our parents before we were fully adult. You were pushed into the shadows by a grandfather who lavished all his attention on your sister. You must know as I do how much every child yearns for the security of being loved?’
‘Yes, of course I do. I shall love my son.’
‘But you do not love me, and he will sense that and be confused and hurt by it. Children always are when their loyalties are claimed by two parents who are opposed to one another.’
Both Max’s voice and his expression were grave and heavy.
He genuinely cared about the emotional welfare of a child who might never exist, Ionanthe realised, with a small ache of surprise and sadness.
‘You’ve been so long I’ve had to come and find you, and it’s a long walk from my kitchen.’
Ariadne’s arrival as she puffed towards them brought an immediate end to their conversation.
‘The men are still waiting for you to come and look at the tree,’ she told Ionanthe in a chivvying voice.
‘I’ll come and look now,’ Ionanthe said.
‘Christmas trees! A whole lot of fuss and bother, if you ask me,’ Ariadne complained.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
THE Christmas tree was a perfect fit, with the star which Max had placed on its topmost branch just touching the ceiling of the great hall. Its branches were now decorated with the homemade garlands and painted cones that she and the children had been busy making for the last two days, along with the familiar decorations Ionanthe remembered from her own childhood.
She touched one of the fragile glass baubles with a tender finger. It was from the set that her parents had bought one year when they had taken them to a German Christmas market. The bauble might be slightly tarnished, but Ionanthe saw it with the eyes of love and it was still beautiful. Just looking at it reminded her of the smell of warm gingerbread and the wonderful warmth of her father’s large hand holding her own.
So many happy memories of a childhood in which she had felt loved and safe until her parents’ deaths. Her mother and father had adored one another. Even as a young child she had somehow sensed that and been warmed by it. Ionanthe frowned. She was not going to allow Max’s comments underlining the fact that he did not love her and that any child they had would suffer because of it to affect her.
They were still sharing the same bedroom and the same bed, but for the last two nights, since the confrontation between them in the library, they had slept in it as though they were miles apart. Max hadn’t made one single move to approach her, or to apologise for what he had said. She certainly wasn’t going to be the one to approach him. After all, she had done nothing wrong.
Except plan to bring up his son and heir to ultimately act against him and everything she thought he stood for.
It wasn’t easy trying to pretend that nothing was wrong, but for the sake of the children so excitedly waiting for Christmas, and for the sake of their parents and grandparents who had made it plain how thrilled and honoured they felt to have them both here, Ionanthe felt that she had to make an effort. It was hard when she was having to strive desperately to pretend that she felt nothing for Max other than anger and contempt when the truth was—
Blindly she stepped backwards, gasping in shock as she bumped into the heavy wooden step ladders she had forgotten were there, striking her funny bone against one of the steps. A wave of nauseating dizziness from the sharply acute pain surged over her, causing her to sway slightly.
Max, who had been talking to Tomas, saw Ionanthe bump into the ladders and then clutch at her elbow, her face losing its colour as she swayed giddily. Immediately he hurried to her side, taking hold of her hand and demanding, ‘Are you all right?’
‘Of course I’m all right,’ Ionanthe lied, trying to pull free.
The truth was that she felt terribly weak and sick, and would have given anything to rest her head on Max’s shoulder and feel his arms close round her.
‘All I did was catch my elbow,’ she continued, when he refused to let her go.
A surge of love for her so strong that it felt as though it was drawn from the deepest core of him rolled over Max. Initially, in the aftermath of their quarrel, he had handled things badly, Max admitted to himself. He had spent most of the previous night lying awake, longing to turn back the clock. And not just because of the suspicions they’d had, the misjudgements they had both made about one another which had led to their quarrel.
Ionanthe’s impassioned outburst about the Veritas Foundation and the man who controlled it, her obvious partisanship and admiration for both the organisation and the man behind it had, even if she herself could not know it, put him in a completely untenable position. He could not in all good conscience continue to withhold the truth from her—but how was he to tell her?
She was very angry with him, and her pride was hurt by his misjudgement of her. He knew that and he understood why. But that meant that this was not a good time to tell her that the man she so admired and had put on a pedestal, scornfully telling her husband of her hero’s moral and charitable achievements, and how far short of him he fell, was actually the same man—him. She would be justifiably angry and—far more important to him—she would also be hurt.
