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She was ravenously hungry, but she bided her time, for she did not wish to disturb the earl’s sleep. She bathed, dressed, and brushed out her tangled hair, pulling it back from her face with a velvet ribbon. She was on the point of going to fetch her breakfast when Scargill quietly opened the door and peered warily into the cabin.
He said nothing, merely looked at her with worried eyes.
“I am quite all right, Scargill,” she said, “and so, I fancy, is his lordship.” She turned at the absence of any sound from the bed and saw him stretching gracefully, the covers barely covering his belly.
“Ye’re ready for your lunch, I trust,” Scargill said cheerfully.
“Lunch?”
“Aye, madonna. Ye slept the clock around. And ye, my lord, ye’ll join yer brave wife?”
“That I will,” the earl said. He bounded out of bed and stretched prodigiously.
“And how is my brave wife?” He pulled her into his arms and nuzzled his chin against the top of her head.
Scargill was clucking good-naturedly behind him, the earl’s dressing gown already in his hands.
As Cassie ate, trying not to wolf down her food, she was aware of the earl’s eyes upon her, narrowed in concern.
“For heaven’s sake, my lord,” she said, “I have no intention of collapsing into hysterics.”
His answering smile did not reach his dark eyes. “You were quite right, you know, cara, he was the fourth man. The serpent wrapped about the sword—it was on his left arm.” The earl shook his head and softly cursed. “If only I had had his shirt stripped off before I flogged him. We would have known then, and none of this would have happened. Can you talk about it, Cassandra? Tell me what happened?”
How
strange, she thought, she could think about the previous night quite calmly. She faltered only when she told him of the stiletto, clutched in her fisted hands. She shuddered, memory vivid.
“Remind me, cara,” he said at last, “never to get into a violent argument with you.”
A cleansing smile lighted her face. “You have nothing to fear, my lord, for you, I am persuaded, hold me and all my abilities in healthy respect.” She paused a moment, frowning. “I goaded him, you know, taunted him, trying to make him tell me who had paid him to kill us. But he would tell me nothing. Not even a clue, my lord, save it was a man. He said the man would make him rich.”
The earl stroked his unshaven jaw. “The mystery remains, then. I did not tell you, Cassandra, but before I left Genoa, I arranged to pay a sizable reward for the name and removal of Luigi’s employer. That is one reason I decided we should go to England. I wanted you in no danger until I discovered him. It never occurred to me that we would carry one of the assassins with us.”
“Do you think we shall ever know?”
“Given the number of enthusiastic villains who will try to fatten their purses, I am willing to wager that we shall.”
Cassie took one of his large hands into hers. “At least we are safe now, my lord.”
“Sometimes, my love, I am doubtful that I deserve you.” At the gleam in her eyes, he added in a lazy drawl, “But then I think of you floundering and utterly impotent at arranging your own affairs and my heart is warmed.”
She laughed, deep and warm, and he held her against his heart.
Epilogue
The earl smoothed a single curl of Cassie’s hair back from her forehead. Looking at her in sleep, it was impossible to tell that she had just given birth. But their child, a beautiful boy, lay curled peacefully in a small cradle next to Becky Petersham’s bed.
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.”
