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The family was obviously suffering, having no funds for food and clothing. John hadn’t given them much thought since he came back from the army. He hadn’t even spoken of them until she started poking and prodding. He cared for his villagers much more than for his own flesh and blood. In the meantime, they were probably counting pennies and stretching every piece of bread on their table so they could eat another day. Sam’s stomach churned from the thought. She needed to give up thinking about things she couldn’t change. They were here now. She and John would make certain they never suffered again. If she ever found him, that was. She was worried he’d lapsed back into one of his mood swings. She sighed a long weary sigh and headed out of her bedroom door.
Sam finally found John about an hour later. He was merrily drinking ale with the workers in the midst of the celebration. She squeezed her way until she stood right next to him.
“Wouldn’t you rather accompany me to the dance floor?” she asked, gently taking a mug of ale from his hand.
He held the mug tighter, so she couldn’t draw it away. “Sorry, Angel. I’m afraid I’d rather drink.”
Sam drew a tight smile over her face. “And I’d rather dance.”
She finally wrestled the mug from his hands and put it on the table. Then she took him by the hand and drew him away, accompanied by the low whistles and appreciative murmurs of the villagers, who’d witnessed their brief struggle.
Despite her claims of wanting to dance, she walked right through the dancefloor and stopped only as they reached the woods.
“What are you doing?” She whirled on him as soon as she stopped in a clearing far enough from anyone’s hearing.
“I am celebrating.” His speech was a bit slurred.Is he foxed?“Isn’t that what you wanted me to do? Celebrate?”
“Since when does celebrating imply drinking? I thought you gave up indulging in spirits!”
“Well, I decided it was time to give them another chance.” He tried to turn away from her, but she put a staying hand on his arm.
“John,” she said soothingly. “Look at me.”
As he did, she almost gasped. She saw such pain in his eyes that she wanted to wrap him in a hug and never let him go.
“I failed them,” he said hoarsely. “Just as I’ve failed everybody.”
“Stop that!” she said harshly. “You didn’t fail everybody!”
“I’ve failed my father, my fellow soldiers, my brother’s family.” He paused and ran a hand through his hair. “Isn’t that enough?”
“You haven’t failed me! I am here, and I am happy because of you. You haven’t failed these villagers or the soldiers who moved here and found their home. Look at them! Happy, content. You”—she pointed a finger at his chest—“made it happen. And how can you say you’ve failed your father when you’ve restored the land he abandoned? And as for your brother’s family—”
John interrupted her with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I’ve failed my father by being born. By surviving the war, when none of his actual children survived in the peaceful country.”
Sam stared at him, uncomprehending, as he went on.
“I am a bastard. You didn’t know it, did you? Not legally, as my parents were married when I was born. But I am a child of an unknown lover my mother took in her husband’s absence.” He laughed bitterly. “Don’t tell me I didn’t fail you. I haven’t told you the truth about me. Would you have married me if you knew?”
Sam just stood there in shocked silence, unsure of what she was hearing until his last words finally registered in her mind. “Is that how low of an opinion you hold of me? Do you truly think the circumstances of your birth have ever mattered to me?” She narrowed her eyes, when she’d rather punch him painfully in his gut, or his head. Any part of him, really. She wasn’t that picky.
“It could have been a valet, or a footman,” he said with a grimace. “You thought you married a baron, but I might be a servant’s son. Your children could have the blood of a serving-class fop,” he sneered.
Suddenly, she felt like she was going to be sick. Nausea hit her hard, and she didn’t feel like standing there and putting up with his drunken self-pity. She might be carrying his child at this moment, and he was standing there, feeling sorry for himself and taking it out on her. Insulting her and sneering at the mention of their unborn child.
“You know what?” she shouted at him. “I don’t give a fig whose blood my child has in his veins. As long as he doesn’t inherit this ridiculous habit of self-pity to the point of being pathetic. All I need from you is for you to be a decent-enough father, but to be honest, right now I don’t think I want you around my child when he comes!”
Sam didn’t realize she’d put a protective hand over her abdomen as she vented her frustration until she saw the direction of his gaze. His eyes were wide and filled with abject horror and disbelief. Was he that disgusted by the idea of having a child with her?
“You are increasing,” he said quietly without taking his eyes off her abdomen. It was a statement of fact, not a question.
“No,” Sam said and took a step back, without removing her hand from her abdomen.
“Yes, you are,” he said, advancing on her. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
He caught her by the arm as she retreated one more step.
“I’m not with child,” she said with little conviction.
