Chapter Thirteen
LUCY LOOKED INTO ROBERT’S eyes and saw the certainty and the determination there.
“You would want a wife in your bed and an heir for Methven,” she said.
She saw the leap of heat in his eyes. “I would,” he said. “I require an heir.”
“Then I can’t marry you,” Lucy said in a rush. “I can’t sleep with you. I can’t give you an heir. It’s impossible.”
She was not sure what she had expected him to say to that.
She had not thought that far ahead. She had seen no further than blurting out the truth.
Now, to her surprise, he said nothing at all.
He demanded no explanations; he did not contradict her or ride roughshod over her words.
Instead his gaze swept over her thoughtfully and she felt the trembling inside her ease and the tight knot of panic in her chest loosen a little.
“I suspected as much,” he said. A faint smile tugged the corner of his mouth. “Tell me more about that.”
Startled, she stared at him. “You don’t mind?”
He shrugged, the tiniest hint of tension in the line of his shoulders.
“Lucy,” he said, “you went to a hell of a lot of trouble to run away from me. At every point you have refused my offer of marriage even at the cost of your reputation. What sort of fool would I be if I had not realized that there must be some...” He paused.
“Some very important reason why you felt that you could not wed me?”
He looked up suddenly and her heart jumped at the expression in his eyes. “I flatter myself that you do not object to me personally, but if I am mistaken, perhaps this would be the moment to tell me.”
Unbelievably she felt a flutter of laughter in her chest. “Robert,” she said.
“No, I...I do like you—” It was only then she realized quite how much she did like him, and felt alongside the leap of excitement in her blood a sickening lurch of misery that she was so damaged that what they might have had together could never be.
Robert got up and came across to her, sitting on the edge of the table, one booted leg swinging.
“I am encouraged to hear it,” he said. “So tell me, Lucy, if we cannot wed, what reason could possibly be strong enough? After all—” His tone had hardened a little.
“You were prepared to marry MacGillivray.” His voice was dry. “He was your perfect ideal.”
“There is no such thing as a perfect ideal,” Lucy said.
It felt good to be so honest after so many years of pretense.
It felt as though something had opened inside her, spilling out the truth at last. “Lord MacGillivray was a good man,” she said, “but he was ideal only in the sense that he was safe.”
“He did not want to bed you,” Robert said softly.
A flame burned deep in the blue of his eyes.
“You chose MacGillivray because he did not desire you.” His hand was beneath her chin forcing it up so that she was obliged to meet his eyes.
“You are afraid of intimacy,” he said. His fingers were cool against her hot cheek.
His eyes searched her face, all humor gone now.
“No,” Lucy said. “I am afraid of the consequence of intimacy, not intimacy itself. I am afraid of pregnancy and childbirth...” Her voice cracked.
“Why are you scared, Lucy?” Robert said.
“What happened? Tell me.” His voice was very quiet, steady and soothing, and he took her hand in his, drawing her to her feet and over to the fireside, where there was a cushioned settle.
He pulled her down to sit beside him. “You can tell me anything,” he said.
“My sister Alice,” Lucy said. “She was my twin. She died in childbirth.” Suddenly the pain of memory caught her. It felt as though it was ripping her in half. She put an arm across her stomach to keep it in, but it was too huge, too violent. She gasped aloud with it.
“Help me, Lucy! I am so afraid!” The words, like a cry in the dark, echoed through Lucy’s mind.
She put her hands over her face, then let them fall. Her eyes were dry, the tears locked up inside. She had never once cried over Alice’s death because she was afraid that once she started, it would be impossible to stop.
“It started the night you came to Forres,” Lucy said.
“Alice was watching the gentlemen on the terrace that night. She saw Hamish Purnell and fell in love with him at first sight. Well,” she corrected herself, “she fell in love with the idea of being in love with him. It was a schoolgirl crush at first, but it became so much more. Only at the time I did not realize.”
She screwed her eyes up tightly. She had never talked about this and now she could feel the panic growing in her, locking her muscles, making her heart pound. Her chest felt tight.
Robert took her hand again. His was warm and comforting. He rubbed his thumb gently over the back of it, soothing, back and forth. It gave her the strength to go on.
“Purnell was married,” Lucy said, “but still he started an affaire with Alice. She would slip away to meet him in the woods. She thought it was all impossibly romantic. I warned her to be careful, but she would not listen to me. Alice had a great ability only to hear what she wanted to hear.”
Suddenly she was angry with Alice, her anger as fresh and vivid as though her twin’s folly had happened only yesterday. “I knew what she was doing was wrong. I told her—” She stopped, caught out by a sob that tore at her lungs.
“What happened?” Robert’s voice was very quiet.
“It ended,” Lucy said. “Or so I thought.” The words tasted bitter in her mouth.
She had been very naive and she hated herself for it.
She stared at Robert, not really seeing him, seeing instead Alice’s face.
“After a while I realized that there was something wrong. Alice was always bright and impulsive, laughing where I was serious, frivolous where I was staid. But then she changed.” She looked down at her hands, at her fingers interlinked with Robert’s, hers pale, his tanned and strong.
“She became thin and quiet and withdrawn. It was as though all the color had drained out of her.”
“She was pregnant,” Robert said.
Lucy nodded. “I was terribly hurt that she had not told me. I felt as though I had failed her in some way, that she did not want to confide in me.” It still hurt now, the thought that Alice had not trusted her. They had always told each other everything. Except this time was different.
“Did you tell anyone else?” Robert asked.
Lucy shook her head. “Alice made me swear to tell no one, made me promise on our mother’s grave.”
Of course she had agreed. They had kept each other’s secrets always. And even though Alice had kept this from her for so long, even though it was the biggest and most frightening secret in the world, too big to hold alone, Lucy had tried. She had tried so hard.
“Such a huge secret to carry on your own,” Robert said, his words echoing her thoughts. “I am sorry you had to do that.”
“Alice planned to have the baby in secret and give it away and that way no one would know,” Lucy said.
“She was so afraid of getting into trouble.” She stared into the red heart of the fire.
“I had never realized, because Alice always seemed so brave, but beneath it all she was just a frightened child herself. And I was no better.”
“You were very young,” Robert said, “and no doubt you were terrified too.”
“I was sixteen,” Lucy said. It felt like a lifetime ago, as though it had happened to a different girl. Yet it was as fresh and painful as a new wound.
“Alice went into labor prematurely at seven months,” she said. “I was with her when it happened. Neither of us knew what to do. It was terrifying.”
The cold, the bitter chill she always felt when she remembered, was lapping at her now.
She wanted to push the memories away, to run and hide as she had always done, yet something stronger, something at last more powerful, was helping her on.
She felt it in the strength and reassurance of Robert’s touch and saw it in his eyes.
“I knew that something was going wrong,” Lucy said, “but Alice begged me not to leave her. Even at the end she was so scared of getting into trouble, so I left too late and when I finally ran for help...” She stopped.
“I could have saved her,” she whispered.
“I could have saved the child. If only I had gone sooner. But I did not.”
She stopped. Her teeth were chattering. She felt exhausted, cold to her bones.
“Lucy,” Robert said, and there was so much gentleness in his tone that she shook to hear it.
She wanted to put her hands over her ears, to block out his tenderness, because she was so close to the edge of control now that she could not bear it and she knew another word from him would bring her down.
“It was not your fault Alice and the baby died,” Robert said. “Don’t punish yourself. You did what you thought was best. You were sixteen, Lucy. You have to forgive yourself.”
“I can’t,” Lucy said. The tears were very close now and it terrified her because she had never cried for Alice and the baby, she had never dared to cry, afraid that if she started she would never stop.
But now she felt the huge rush of desolation like an unstoppable tide and it was too late, it was on her and over her and she cried and cried and Robert held her shaking body against his until she had soaked him with her tears, as well.
“Sweetheart...” Robert’s grip on her tightened and he held her closer still. She was shocked by how good it felt to be held like this. A part of her, the old fear, wanted to draw back, but Robert’s arms were unyielding about her and after a moment she accepted him and the comfort she craved.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “So very sorry.”