Chapter 49
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
ROWEN
“Bienvenue en Angleterre, mon cher Comte,” Cassandra bit out her ironic welcome to the pretend French count who was her uncle.
“You were always a sharp wit as a child, weren’t you, Your Grace?” Alastair let out a throaty laugh.
Rowen gestured at Morgan and his guard to leave Alastair with them in the chapel’s small withdrawal room where the scent of damp wood and musty tapestries thickened the air.
“Where is Uncle Robert? What of him?” she asked.
“My brother did not survive the passage to France. He took ill on the ship and never recovered.”
“But you recovered nicely, didn’t you?” said Rowen.
“One must survive. I found my cousin’s French widow in Lille, a countess, married her and took over his business. Made myself over and was quite put out when the blasted troubles made staying on in France impossible.”
“And your wife?” asked Cassandra.
“Alas, dead.”
“Was she fond of rose perfume, I wonder?”
His lips tipped up. “She was.”
“What a pity for you that I detest it.”
Rowen slammed his hand on the small round table in the centre of the room, and the vase of flowers tumbled over. “Why are you here?”
“I want what was stolen from me.”
“You presume much.”
“First, your father betrayed my trust,” Alastair said, then turned to Cassandra. “And you, clever girl, seduced the son and flourished, whilst your uncle rotted.”
“Go no further,” Rowen’s voice hissed. “I told you, you were done here. To never return.”
“Ah, but I have returned for the sake of justice, Your Grace. Justice. Do you think the Church’s blessing makes your lie into truth?” His eyes flared as he studied them for a reaction, but they gave him none. “I know.”
Rowen’s eyes narrowed.
“I know the child is not yours. You took it from your dead friend, didn’t you, Cassandra?
I had you followed many times on the island, and then, suddenly, you disappeared.
” He let out a sigh. “And today, what a beautiful, fraudulent masquerade you held here for the survival of the house of Oakley.” An eyebrow arched, his chin lifted.
“Restore what was taken from me: my house, my income, my name, or I shall strip yours bare.”
Rowen’s every muscle strained against his skin. Cassandra remained still.
Alastair’s gaze sharpened at his niece. “Unable to give him an heir, my love?” His tone had softened eerily. “That precious maidenhead of yours that I protected so well and for so long went to bloody waste. What I could have done with you—”
A guttural roar exploded from Rowen’s lips, and his arm flew, his fist landing on Alastair’s face.
Alastair’s head swung, and he fell back on the stone floor.
Grunting, he pitched himself against the wall, struggling to stand.
“You must restore what I am owed, or I shall tell the world of your deception.”
“There is no deception.”
“There are two!” Alastair retorted, wiping at the blood on his chin. “One is bundled in its blanket, and the other is bundled in the earth of Tidesfar.”