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Sam still pleaded her case. “I’m an honest person, and fair, Cristiano. If I give you my word—” Her voice broke and she pressed her hands together against her chest, held them there as though her heart hurt. “I’m as straight as they come. If you take the time to get to know me, you’ll see I’m trustworthy.”
He couldn’t look at her, couldn’t let the agony in her voice touch him. She was emotional now, but later she’d see that he was right. Later, when she remarried and had a family of her own, she’d be grateful he’d taken Gabriela back. “Forgive me, but you know the expression, once bitten, twice shy.”
She ducked her head but he saw the first tear fall. “Please.”
Don’t think about her, he told himself, don’t look at her. This isn’t about her. It’s about family, his family, the family that didn’t exist anymore. Gabby was all there was left. Gabby was the last Bartolo. He had to have her back. He needed her back. That was all there was to it.
“This isn’t personal,” he said after a moment as another tear fell. “And it’s not a punishment.” He softened his tone, tried to comfort her, if such a thing was possible.
It was silent for a few minutes as Sam stared out the window and he concentrated on the road. There wasn’t heavy traffic, just a few cars and trucks and they were all traveling very slow.
“You said three,” she said as he overtook a car. “You said there were three reasons.”
He glanced at her, saw the bruised softness at her mouth, the terrible sadness in her eyes and it cut him. In the beginning, maybe he had wanted to hurt her. Maybe in the beginning he’d been driven by revenge, but he didn’t know her, had thought she was one thing—a cool, impervious blonde—but that wasn’t Samantha. Beneath the beautiful blond exterior was everything he’d ever wanted in a woman—warmth, tenderness, intelligence and loyalty.
“You’re stunning,” he said bluntly. “And I wanted you for myself.”
CHAPTER SIX
HE TOOK her because he wanted her.
It was inconceivable to Sam that anyone could desire her that much. She didn’t feel desirable. Didn’t feel like a woman should feel.
And yet with him sitting so close, his large, powerful body crowding the car, she couldn’t help but be aware of him, aware of the words he’d just spoken, and the nuances still humming in the air.
The back of Sam’s neck tingled. Her stomach somersaulted. Her body felt odd all over—too sensitive, too aware. She didn’t like the feeling at all, and she didn’t want him to want her. She didn’t want anything to do with him. Not now, not ever.
Reaching into his leather coat pocket, Cristiano retrieved his phone and after pushing a couple of buttons, handed it to her.
“Call Mrs. Bishop,” he said calmly, “her number’s right there. Let her know we’re on our way to pick up Gabriela.”
In no mood to argue, and missing Gabby, Sam dialed the number and Mrs. Bishop answered. They chatted for a moment but when Sam said they were getting close to the house to pick up Gabby, Mrs. Bishop protested. “Oh dear, that’s a shame. The girls are planning a puppet show. I’m helping them with the costumes now.”
Sam felt a pang. At the Rookery she’d played with the same puppets. They were Mrs. Bishop’s, from her own childhood and she used to bring them to the orphanage on wet weekend afternoons so the children could play. “You’re not making new costumes, are you?”
“But of course. New plays need new costumes.”
Sam smiled, remembering Mrs. Bishop’s needle wizardly. Mrs. Bishop was the one who’d taught Sam to cook and sew, which had been very useful skills when Sam reached the nanny college in Manchester. “Gabby must be having a ball.”
“She is, Sam. She’s a lovely thing and the girls are having such a good time together. Do let her stay until dinner. There’s no hurry getting her home, is there?”
“Let me speak with Gabby then.”
Gabby howled when she took the phone from Mrs. Bishop. “You can’t pick me up now! We’ve made up our own play. It’s our own story and we’re making costumes and everything!”
“But you’ve been there for hours, Gabriela.”
“But I don’t want to go! We made cookies and had a tea party and Mrs. Bishop is helping us with the puppets. They have a puppet stage with red velvet curtains and we’re going to do our play in it.”
Sam glanced at Cristiano, covered the phone’s mouthpiece. “Gabby wants to stay and play longer. They’re going to have a puppet show.”
“She’s doing well, then?”
“Yes. She’s having a great time.”
“Then let her stay until later this afternoon. I can pick her up before dinner.”
Sam told Gabby and then Mrs. Bishop what Cristiano had said, and then, call finished, Sam hung up and handed the phone back to Cristiano.
“I’m glad she’s having fun. Except for school, she doesn’t get to play with other children all that often,” Sam said, although on the inside she felt torn. She was glad Gabby was having fun but for Sam it was awkward and uncomfortable being alone with Cristiano. “Johann wouldn’t let her go to other people’s houses, and her friends from school weren’t allowed to come home.”
“Why?” Cristiano asked.
She looked at him, and then away, and glancing out the window, Sam noticed the first snowflake fall, and then another, and another. The flakes were scattered, slow, as if indecisive about what they were going to do. “I don’t know. But Gabby used to cry about it. Johann and I fought about it. It didn’t matter. He never changed his mind.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I am, too.” Maybe it was the delicate snow flurries, or the pale silver and pewter sky, but Sam felt a rush of emotion so strong she had to bite her lip to keep the tears from filling her eyes again.
She missed so much right now.
She missed virtually everything. Her parents. Charles. Even Gabby, although Gabby wasn’t gone yet. “I love her,” she whispered, concentrating on the view outside the car window where the snow was coming down faster and thicker now in dense white flurries. Some of the snowflakes were so big they looked like bits of lace dropping from the sky and yet they were weightless, and temperatures must have continued to drop as the snow was sticking to the ground. “Even if you take her from me, she’ll always be my girl.”
“Then make the transition easy on her.” Cristiano’s voice sounded as cold and hard as the bare limbs of the trees outside. “Help her adjust. Don’t pull her in two.”
It was still snowing as they reached the Rookery, and the small gamekeeper’s cottage never looked smaller or darker. Sam couldn’t imagine spending the rest of the afternoon alone in the dark cottage with Cristiano.
As he parked “I think I’ll go to the Rookery and see if I can’t locate some candles for tonight,” Sam said. “The pantry used to be full of them. Every now and then we’d lose electricity and we depended on candles and kerosene lamps to get us through until the backup generator came on.”
“Do you know where the lamps are?” Cristiano asked, carrying the last of the groceries into the kitchen.
“They should be in the pantry, near the candles. It’s where we kept the emergency supplies.”
“I’ll go with you, see what we can find.”
It was dark inside the Rookery. Power to the abandoned orphanage had been shut off, but once Sam got the back door open, she didn’t need lights to find her way around. She’d grown up here, spent over fifteen years here. The Rookery, for better or worse, was home.
Just as she thought, she discovered boxes of candles, matches and three old kerosene lamps in the pantry off the kitchen.
“I’ll take the lamps back to the cottage,” Cristiano said.
Sam nodded. “I’ll just have a quick look around. I’ll be back soon.”
With a candle to light her way, Sam walked through the Rookery’s high arched hallways. The old Persian carpets were threadbare and covered only portions of the stone floor and every now and then her footsteps echoed, a too-loud clatter that bounced off the vaulted ceiling.
Nothing had changed, she thought. The furniture was all here, just a few pieces like the piano and the Georgian sofa in the parlor were covered. Everything else was exactly as she remembered. The large oil landscapes still covered the walls. The back room facing the garden was still lined with tables and chairs. That was the room they studied in, reading and writing papers and doing homework.
She’d thought the house would be dustier, dirtier, but everything was fairly tidy, and although a few cobwebs clung to the corners, it wasn’t the mess she’d imagined.
Mrs. Bishop must still come in and clean, Sam thought, climbing the first of the stairs, and knowing that Mrs. Bishop still made an effort hurt more than even desertion did.
It was brighter upstairs. The windows on the second floor hadn’t been boarded over and Sam’s breath caught in her throat as she glimpsed the oil portrait hanging at the top of the stairs.
Reverend Charles Putnam.
Her Charles. Sam looked—his handsome face, his gentle expression, the kindness in his brown eyes—until she couldn’t look any longer. He’d been her prince, her knight on a white stallion. He’d been better than she deserved.
Turning away, she pushed open one of the bedroom doors and crossed to the tall multipaned window. In this bedroom Sam could believe that time had stopped.
Nothing had changed from the night eight years ago when the world as she knew it ended and a new life began.
She’d been standing here, not far from this very window, when word had come that Charles had been killed.
She’d just begun to undress, to change from her wedding gown into her going away outfit.
Sam exhaled in a short, hard painful puff. Her fingers curled into her palms. Twice a bride, she thought, and still a virgin. But to lose Charles, the way she had…
Sam reached out to touch the windowpane. The glass was chilly, slick, a stark contrast to the lush plum velvet curtain panel, the velvet curtain the same fabric draping the bed.
God how she hated this room. And loved this room. It was Charles’s bedroom, the room they were to share when they returned from their honeymoon trip to Bath.
Swallowing hard, around the thick lump filling her throat, Sam pressed her fingertips against the glass and then let her hand fall away.
Without a last look around, Sam left the bedroom, closed the door and was hurrying toward the staircase when she remembered the candle she’d left in the hall.
Sam was just returning for it when she saw Cristiano on the stairs. “Having a look around?” he asked.
She nodded, praying he didn’t see the sheen of tears in her eyes. Her past was private. She didn’t discuss it with anyone and she refused to give Cristiano another reason to mock her. “I’m done, though. I’ve seen enough.”
“You haven’t been to the third floor yet.”
She was desperate now to get out, to escape the Rookery and its press of bittersweet memories. “I know what’s up there. I used to live up there. All the children slept upstairs.”
“Is it just one big room?”
“Yes, filled with dozens of beds, dozens of children who grew up without their mothers and fathers.”
Back in the cottage, Sam put the kettle on the fire Cristiano had laid again this afternoon in the old cast iron stove. She stood at the kitchen window as she waited for the water to boil and watched the dense white flurries coming down. It was so quiet, so beautiful, she thought. The snow was thick and still and it covered everything in every direction.
Footsteps sounded behind, slow measured steps on the wooden floor. Sam immediately tensed, jittery all over again. Her stomach flipped. Her breasts felt tight. Goose bumps covered her skin.
She hated his effect on her.
Hated that she was so aware of him.
She didn’t know why he did this to her.
She glanced over her shoulder. His arms were piled high with firewood for the stove. She had to concede he’d been quite dedicated when it came to keeping the fire burning, the wood bins filled, and the cottage warm. “Thank you.”
He nodded.
“Would you like a cup of tea?” she asked, trying to cover her awkwardness.
“No. Thank you.”
She turned back to the window. The snow wasn’t letting up. It just continued to fall, adding to the white mounds blanketing the walls and ground outside, making the late afternoon unnaturally bright.
“It just keeps coming down,” she said, all pins and needles as Cristiano arranged the wood in the bin by the stove. Her hands tightened on the edge of the farmhouse sink. Be strong, she told herself. Be confident.
“We don’t get many storms like this,” she continued, feeling a perverse need to fill the silence. She’d never been much of a talker, usually preferred to let her young charges chatter, but right now she felt like a high-strung child herself. “But when we do get a storm, all of England shuts down. We don’t know what to do with the snow. No one’s prepared, you see.”
It hadn’t snowed like this in Cheshire in years or she would have heard about it. And this was a true storm, the snow coming down in thick silent flurries and the snow stuck, forming dense white drifts on top of the barren window box, the bench in the garden, along the old stone wall. The whirling snow nearly obscured the great oak trees standing guard beyond the garden wall, the trees just dark hulking shadows in silent fields. It just kept falling.
He was rising, moving toward her, and he had such a leisurely way of walking, as if he had all the time in the world and there was something about his easy confidence that unnerved her even more. She’d never felt that confident about anything in life. She’d always been fearful, always afraid.
He stood next to her at the window over the sink to see what she saw. He wasn’t even looking at her but she could feel him, his heat, his energy, his strength. He was so big and imposing, that it was almost as if he’d covered her world with his.
Nothing was the same since she’d met him.
Nothing about her felt the same, either.
Her emotions were all over the place. Her fears had never been stronger. She was on the edge of tears constantly but even then, she couldn’t let go and cry, not really. Yet it would be such a relief to give in to the tears, such a relief to just let go of all the hurt she kept locked tightly inside of her.
But her feelings were too deep, the losses in the past too stunning, that even now, she teetered between pain and nothingness. It was as if she’d shut down somehow, somewhere, given up. Given up hope. Given up life. Given up anything that didn’t have to do with Gabby.
“It was hard for you visiting the Rookery,” Cristiano said now.
His observation was as unexpected as it was accurate. “Yes.”
“How old were you when you were brought here?”
“Six.” Just a year older than Gabby. Sam bit into her lip, fought the wave of dark emotion, the fierce undertow of grief. She couldn’t think, couldn’t let herself be overwhelmed. Stay numb, she told herself, stay in control. Maybe if she hadn’t lost her parents and Charles both she’d be a different person today, but she had lost them, and she couldn’t change the past. She was who she was. She was what she was.
A woman who worked for others.
A woman who only lived for others.
“It doesn’t look like a bad place.”
“It wasn’t,” she whispered, hearing the catch in her voice, hating that she sounded so fragile, as if she could be easily broken. But she wasn’t fragile. She’d been toughened, by time and loss. She wasn’t going to break and she’d get through this. One way or another. She’d manage. She always did. That was the beauty of it. Pain didn’t destroy you. It just made you stronger.
But it hurt like hell until you got to the other side.
She felt Cristiano’s gaze rest on her. “How long has it been closed up?” he asked.
“Years,” she answered softly, the white porcelain sink smooth beneath her fingers. “At least eight.”
He wasn’t even pretending to look outside anymore. He was looking at her, only at her, and the weight of his inspection made her shiver. “How long have you been widowed?”
