Chapter 15 #2
Maggie was disconcerted. The other woman did not seem pleasantly disposed toward her.
“I…I…I am a friend of Francesca Cahill’s,” she managed to say.
“And a friend of the family’s.” Her cheeks were even hotter now and Evan’s image loomed in her mind when she did not want him there, not ever, and especially not now.
“Have you come to order a gown?” she asked in some desperation.
The countess raised her eyebrows. “My modiste is in Paris, my dear,” she said coolly. “I would hardly order a dress from you.”
Maggie was shocked by her rudeness.
Bartolla spoke again. “And I do think you meant that you are a friend of Evan Cahill’s?”
Maggie felt cornered, trapped. She did not want to entertain the other woman now. Worse, she had an idea of why Bartolla Benevente had come.
“What is wrong? Do I frighten you?” Bartolla mocked.
In that instant, Maggie realized that this woman hated her. The countess wasn’t the lady she had thought her to be. She was too terribly nasty. Had Evan told her about the kiss? There could be no other explanation! “I don’t know why you are here,” Maggie whispered. “Would you like some tea?”
“I am not sitting down at your table with you to sip tea,” Bartolla said, her tone vicious. “I am a countess! My home in Italy is a palace! I live uptown in a mansion! I did not come here to be a friend to you, Mrs. Kennedy!”
Maggie backed up. The apartment was small and she hit the edge of the kitchen table, where she had been working. “He told you,” she whispered, her heart racing with alarm and fear. “It was a mistake—it is my entire fault—I am sorry!”
Bartolla’s eyes widened. There was outrage in them. “He told me what?” she demanded. “You little whore, what have you done? Do I even have to guess? You jumped into his bed, didn’t you?”
Maggie gasped in shock at being called such a name and at the suggestion that she had behaved so shamefully. “No! I would never do such a thing. It was only a kiss! Just one single kiss! And I know you are marrying him. I am happy for you both. It will never happen again, Countess!”
Bartolla was still, and she lifted both dark, plucked brows. “A kiss,” she repeated. “One single kiss?”
Maggie nodded, biting her lip. “It should have never happened.”
Bartolla took two steps and loomed over her.
“You are damn right it should have never happened. He is not for the likes of you, Mrs. Kennedy, but you already know that, don’t you?
Gentlemen only use trollops like you as a diversion, as entertainment, on a cold, lonely night. They marry women like me.”
Maggie stiffened. “I am not a trollop. I work very hard to feed my—”
“Yes, you work,” Bartolla said low. “You are a seamstress. He is a Cahill. I am a countess. I am sure that even your befuddled brain can do the arithmetic.”
Maggie somehow drew herself up. “You do not need to be so insulting.”
“How dare you tell me anything!” Bartolla exclaimed. “He is not for you. So turn those blue eyes elsewhere—or you will be very sorry, indeed.”
Maggie held her head high. No one had ever spoken to her in such a manner before. “I know we come from different worlds. You do not need to threaten me. The kiss was a mistake. It will never happen again.”
“I will do more than threaten you, Mrs. Kennedy. Do you not have four children?”
Maggie felt the world stop turning. The flat had become still.
“You have four small children,” the countess said again with a smirk. “It would be a shame if anything were to happen to any one of them—like that sweet little girl on the floor?”
Maggie ran to Lizzie and picked her up so abruptly that the toddler wailed in protest. Holding her tightly to her breast, she faced the countess, shaking with fear and outrage. “You would threaten my children?”
“Stay away from Mr. Cahill. He is not for your kind,” she said, marching to the door. She paused, glancing back at Maggie with visible anger. “I strongly suggest you send him away if he ever calls here again. Good day, Mrs. Kennedy.” She left, closing the door behind her.
Maggie moved. She put Lizzie down and ran to the door, throwing the bolt home. Then she stood there, aware that she was panting. She could not seem to get enough air.
It had only been a kiss.
And then she could no longer deny the truth. She was desperately in love with Evan Cahill, a man who was so far above her he might as well have been the king of Great Britain. Somehow, the countess had guessed.
Maggie wiped her eyes, only then realizing she was crying.
She had thought the countess a great lady, like Francesca or her sister.
But she wasn’t a lady, never mind her wealth or her breeding.
She was horrid and nasty; she was evil. Maggie had genuinely wanted Evan to have a life of happiness and love.
Now she was appalled. But the countess was pregnant.
It was his duty to marry her, no matter her real nature.
Maggie hurt for Evan now, but there was no helping it—there was no helping him.
Bartolla Benevente had no right to threaten the children. But Maggie had the terrible feeling that the countess had meant her every word. She tried to tell herself that she need not worry. After all, she did not expect to see Evan Cahill ever again.
Hart stepped outside of the court building with his lawyer.
He rubbed his wrists, feeling the cold steel of the manacles he no longer wore against his skin.
He wasn’t sure he would ever stop feeling it.
It was a gray day that looked as if it might rain, but he did not notice the cloudy sky or the buildings lining the street.
He kept seeing the dark gray walls of his cell, the single narrow mattress, the dirty sink, the iron bars and the hostile but avid stares of the other prisoners.
He kept seeing Francesca, whom he had ruthlessly hurt—and who would never give up on him, or so she claimed.
There had never been any doubt that he would be released immediately on bail, but beneath the clothing he wore, his skin was damp and clammy.
Calder, don’t you dare throw that rock.
The boy ignored his brother, grinned, and threw the rock—hard.
They had just arrived at his brother’s father’s house.
His brother had a father—a real father—and a pretty, kind stepmother and a bunch of other brothers and even a little sister, too.
The boy saw that he had missed the window by an inch.
He laughed at his older brother, running away, outside.
But Rick followed, seizing him and dragging him back. You need to apologize! Why did you have to do that? Did you want to break the window? Do you want them to send us away? Do you want them to send you away?
The little boy had apologized, carefully watching the pretty red-haired lady, wary and waiting to see what she would do.
But she hadn’t beaten him or yelled at him.
She hadn’t said a word about the rock. She had asked him to sit down at the kitchen table, where she had given him a cookie and a glass of milk.
Calder stole my notebook!
The entire family turned to stare at the little boy.
Calder, did you take Rourke’s notebook?
Of course he had, because the boy was a spoiled prince and he loved his stupid notebook, which was filled with really stupid notes so he could achieve stupid high grades, making his parents love him even more than they already did.
It’s only a stupid notebook, he protested stubbornly. He already knew that they whispered about his incorrigible behavior at night when they thought they were alone—and now he could see their disappointment. He was glad—he didn’t care—he didn’t need this big, fake family that wasn’t even his.
His brother’s father trapped him in the bedroom he shared with his brother and one of the man’s other sons. You can’t do whatever you feel like doing! You know better—I know you know better. You have to apologize to Rourke.
The little boy watched the man closely, waiting for the real punishment But he sighed and came closer, clasping his shoulder.
I know this is difficult for you. I know you miss your mother.
Losing someone is hard, and it’s hard fitting into a new family.
Just try, please? I know you know the difference between right and wrong.
Hart shut off his thoughts abruptly. He hated thinking about that pathetic child.
He had desperately wanted to belong—no matter how badly he might behave.
He had desperately wanted any kind of attention, and he had been as desperate to push and test the Braggs, to see if they might love him no matter how he behaved.
But it had been a losing battle. That child had not belonged, certainly not in the Bragg family.
He hadn’t even belonged in his own mother’s family. Remembering that hurt.
His mother, Lily, had given her love to her firstborn, Rick.
Not that he could blame Lily. She had been too tired and then too ill to deal with his wild antics.
It had been easier for her to let her older son manage the young, recalcitrant one.
And that had only led to more mischief and disobedience.
It was almost as if Lily had stopped caring, as if he could do anything and she would merely smile at him and collapse in her bed. And then, of course, she had died.