Читать книгу Bought by the Rich Man - Jane Porter - Страница 10

CHAPTER FOUR

LOCKED inside the cottage, Sam listened as he knocked once on the cottage door, then twice.

Three times.

And each time he knocked, it was harder, louder.

She glanced back to the living room where Gabriela still slept, but if Cristiano continued pounding on the door, he’d wake her soon.

“Open the door, Baroness.” Cristiano’s deep voice, although muffled by the dense wood door, still reached her.

He sounded angry. Angrier than she’d ever heard him. In Monte Carlo he’d been cynical, mocking, terse—but never angry.

He must have leaned closer to the door because when he spoke next, his voice was perfectly clear. “I’ll give you to the count of three before I break the door down.”

She said nothing. He had to be bluffing. The door was thick, old, it would be impossible to break down.

“Baroness, I don’t make promises I don’t keep. Keep that in mind as I start counting.”

A shiver raced down her spine as she stood in the dark icy cottage. She craved light, and heat, craved safety but there was no safety for them now, not with Cristiano Bartolo on the other side of the door.

“One.”

Sam held her breath, nerves stretched to a breaking point.

“Two.”

“Wait!” Sam pressed her face to the door. “You can’t break the door. It’s hundreds of years old. It’s been here longer than any of us has been alive—”

“Then open it now, before I say three.”

Hell. Sam’s hands trembled as she struggled to unbolt the lock, but it wasn’t just her hands that shook as she swung the door open. The cold air rushed at her, surprised her. She hadn’t realized the temperature had dropped so low.

“What are you doing here?” Sam faced Cristiano on the step outside. Moonlight outlined his profile, lit his dark hair, and yet it was his features that captured her attention. His jaw jutted, his full mouth pressed thin, and his dark eyes blazed. He was very unhappy with her at the moment.

Cristiano gave her a long hard look. “That’s a silly question.”

“You better go before I call the police.”

“You don’t have a phone, Baroness. And apparently, you haven’t any gas or electricity.”

He’d already figured that out, had he?

Sam shivered, hugged her arms closer to her chest. “You have a phone, and I’ll call the police.”

“Good. And then we can have a nice little chat with your Cheshire police about child smuggling.”

“Child smuggling! I have her passport, her birth certificate—”

“That doesn’t give you permission to take her out of the country. You’re not her legal guardian yet. You haven’t gone through the proper channels at all. The fact is, you broke so many international laws, Baroness, you’ll be spending years behind bars. Now, move.”

He was tall, so tall, that she had to tip her head back to see his face. “No.”

He didn’t even hesitate. “Then I’ll let myself in.”

Cristiano stretched an arm over her head, pushed the door open and lifting her in one arm, carried her into the cottage where he kicked the door shut and dropped her none too gently onto her feet. “Where is she?”

“Who?”

In the dim light she could see his expression and it wasn’t pleasant. “For an intelligent woman, you’re shockingly naïve.”

He gave her yet another shadowy, contemptuous look. “I’m here, Baroness, in your Cheshire cottage. I’ve traveled the same route you did, having spoken with numerous people at airport ticket counters. So where is she?”

Sam swallowed, nodded with her head. “On the couch in there. She fell asleep while I tried to get the fire going.”

“Which you couldn’t do.”

“I couldn’t find matches in the dark.”

“So what was your plan? To stay out here and freeze?”

Sam looked away, rightly chastened. It had been foolish coming here. Foolish and dangerous. “I’d hoped in the morning to find the matches.”

“And what were you going to eat? I’m certain you haven’t gone to a store for groceries.”

“No.”

He shook his head, looked as if he’d say more but changed topics. “Have you a fire laid then?” he asked, peeling off his coat.

“Yes. Logs and kindling.”

Aided by moonlight, he walked into the main room with its great stone hearth. The cottage was several hundred years old, with a low, beamed ceiling that once warm, kept it snug. Crouching next to the hearth, he shifted some of the split logs around, piled the dry kindling higher at the base of the logs then used a lighter from his pocket to spark the kindling.

It took a few minutes before the kindling really caught, but soon the fire was blazing. Sam gratefully held her hands to the fire’s heat. “It was cold,” she confessed. “And I was worried. Thank you.”

“You can ask for help,” he said.

Her head lifted and she shot him a dubious look. “From you?” She rubbed her hands together before extending them again over the flickering gold flames. “The one that intended to return Gabby to Johann?”

“I didn’t say I’d return her. I said I’d do what’s right.”

“You must see that having Johann look after Gabby isn’t right. You must see that for yourself, you must see what he is—”

“I do.”

Her gut burned. “Then spare her heartbreak. You don’t have to care about me, or my feelings, but care about Gabriela’s feelings. Please don’t hurt her.”

“I won’t.”

“You don’t think taking a child from her home isn’t traumatic?”

“But haven’t you just done the same? Haven’t you taken her from Monaco, the only home she’s ever known, dragged her across the English Channel, plopped her in a car, driven her for miles to where? Chester? Upton? Wherever we are?” He shook his head, expression grim. “From her perspective, this frozen gray place must seem like Timbuktu.”

“It’s England, not Timbuktu.”

“For an Italian child it’s the same thing.”

Sam stood, straightened. “Her mother was Spanish, not Italian.”

“Catalonian, actually.” Cristiano’s lashes dropped, concealing his dark eyes. “And I knew her mother quite well, so let’s avoid a who-knows-more competition.”

They were both sitting close to the fire, speaking in hushed voice but this last pulled Sam up short, and she stared at Cristiano, mouth open. “You knew her mother?”

“Yes.”

Sam sucked in air, a great gulp but it didn’t fill her lungs, didn’t help, did nothing to dull the throbbing in the back of her head. “Before Johann?”

“Yes.”

Sam couldn’t look away from Cristiano’s taut features. “What happened?”

“Life happened.” His expression was utterly blank, no emotion in his face or tone. “Gabriela’s mother moved on. But that’s not the issue now. The issue is you, running away with Gabriela—”

“I took her on a trip. I can do that. I’m her stepmother.”

“That’s right. Baroness van Bergen.” And he smiled, his teeth flashing white, but it was such a hard, unforgiving smile that Sam shivered inwardly.

Cold or fear, she wondered? Or maybe it was more dread, because that’s what filled her stomach in hard heavy bricks. “I wish you wouldn’t call me Baroness anymore.”

“What then?”

“Samantha will do.”

Cristiano’s head tipped and in the yellow-gold light of the fire he studied her through narrowed eyes. “You’re such a contradiction, Samantha. On one hand, you’re so very prim and proper, and then on the other you’ve this fierce spirit—”

“Can you tell me more about Gabriela’s mother? Gabby used to ask about her. I never knew what to tell her.”

“She was a film actress.”

“Not that. More like, her personality. What was she like?”

“Mercedes?” He paused, reflected. “Beautiful. Lively. She was a great deal of fun.”

“Is Gabby very like her?”

“I think Gabby’s a mix of her mother and father.”

Sam turned, looked at Gabby where she slept on the couch cocooned in blankets. “I’ve wished for years that Gabriela had a different life. I’ve wished it were more stable, more predictable. I tried to give her everything. It’s one thing for an adult to struggle, but it’s another for a child.”

“Has Gabriela suffered?”

“I’m sure she has. We both have to a greater or lesser extent. There’s never enough money. Johann’s rarely home. He may be Gabby’s father, but he’s shown her little love and even less attention.”

“Was he so different before you married him?”

“No.”

Cristiano watched her. “But you thought you’d marry him anyway, marry into a life of privilege?”

“It’s never been a very privileged life. I worked hard.”

“And I bet you just hated being a baroness.”

“Yes, I did. It was false.”

“False?”

“Johann didn’t love me and I didn’t love him. It was a marriage of convenience, that and nothing more.”

“Nothing more?”

Her own lips curved, in an equally hard cynical smile. She’d changed so much since Charles died, he wouldn’t even recognize her if he was alive now. “Nothing more.” Shivering, she held her hands up to the flames to try to warm herself. “I was convenient to marry.”

She leaned closer, stared into the flickering fire with its red and gold flames feeling the weight of years of secrets and silence on her. “You see, Mr. Bartolo, before I was the baroness, I was the van Bergens’ nanny.”

“The nanny?” He sounded shocked.

Sam looked at him, lips twisting wryly. “I’ve never told anyone before. Johann forbid me from telling people. He didn’t want anyone to know I’d been the hired help, but in private he never let me forget. It was one of the ways he ridiculed me—I was just a working girl, not an aristocrat like him.”

“You should have left him,” Cristiano said flatly.

“And what? Leave Gabby?” Sam drew a breath, her chest tender and glanced down at her hands bare of any rings. Johann had bought her a ring but he’d asked for it back when money got tight. “I couldn’t do that. Not then, not now, not ever.”

“Why are you so devoted?”

“I don’t know. I suppose Gabby needed someone to love her, and I—” She broke off, aware of how close she came to saying the words, and I needed someone to love. She finished the thought differently. “I like to be useful.”

“Johann found you useful?”

“I did what he needed me to do.”

“Including keeping Mercedes’s family away.”

Sam winced. “A mistake. I thought I was keeping a family together. I thought I’d be a good wife.” A good mother.

His eyes, dark in the firelight, met hers and for a long unblinking moment he just looked at her, as if he could see into her. “We all make mistakes,” he said at last.

Something in his voice nearly moved her to tears. He sounded almost sympathetic and that was unbearable. She bunched her hands in her lap, fighting emotions she didn’t know how to manage. Her life, like Gabby’s, hadn’t been easy, and in her life there had been few people looking out for her. Just Charles, and then Charles was gone as suddenly as he’d come into her life.

“Whatever happens,” she said hoarsely, thinking she shouldn’t have come back to the Rookery, shouldn’t have returned here at all. “Do not pity us. We don’t need your pity.”

“I don’t think I mentioned pity.”

Her teeth scraped together. She dropped her voice lower. “Maybe not. But I can see what you’re thinking.”

He dropped his voice even lower and leaning forward, he caught her chin in his hand, tilting her face up to his. “Then I need to buy you some glasses, Samantha, because apparently you can’t see a damn thing. You can’t see what’s in front of you—good or bad—and that’s a problem. Not just for you, but Gabriela.”

His hand burned where it touched her chin, her skin flaming hot, hotter. His touch was firm, sure, a finger at her chin, his thumb beneath, close to her throat. She shuddered a little. Everything was wrong. Nothing was right anymore. Her entire world had upended and she felt as if she were standing on top of her head. “I didn’t think you cared about Gabriela.”

Abruptly he released her, sat back. “It’s late,” he said shortly, “nearly two in the morning. We’ll talk more in the morning.”

She nodded, confused by his rapid mood change but too worried about antagonizing him to ask for an explanation. “There are two bedrooms, but they’ll both be cold.”

“Are the beds made up?” he asked, standing.

“Yes. There are extra quilts in chests at the foot of each bed.”

“Which room is yours?”

“It doesn’t matter. I’m just going to sleep in here near Gabby.”

He started to leave and then stopped in the shadowed hall. “Maybe you weren’t the wife you hoped you’d be, but surely Johann wasn’t the husband you’d hoped for, either.”

Sam’s eyes burned. She’d never admit it to Cristiano, but she hadn’t really expected much from Johann. She’d worked for him before they’d married. She knew who he was, and what he was, and maybe that’s why she accepted his proposal. It was a paper marriage, was meant to be a loveless marriage. She knew she’d never love anyone the way she’d love Charles…and quite frankly, didn’t think she deserved love after losing Charles.

“Isn’t there a saying,” she said softly as the fire fizzed and popped, “be careful what you wish for?” Sam looked up, met Cristiano’s hooded gaze. “It’s true. I learned that one the hard way, too.” She grimaced, wrapped her arms tighter around her knees. “Anyway, it is late. Good night. Sleep well.”

Cristiano was right, morning did come early, but the fire never died out and Sam found out later, when she woke, it was because Cristiano had gotten up repeatedly during the night to add more logs to keep the cottage warm.

Gabby, for her part, was delighted to discover they had company. “You!” she said, bounding out of her bed on the couch as she spotted Cristiano entering the house, carrying a stack of firewood. “You came to see us in England!”

“I did.”

Gabby grabbed one of the blankets and wrapped it around her shoulder as he stacked the split logs next to the hearth. “You played cards with Papa.”

Sam turned sharply towards Gabby. “How do you know that?”

“He did, didn’t he?” she asked innocently. “And he took Papa’s money, too.”

“Gabriela!”

The girl looked from one to the other. “Didn’t he?”

Cristiano tossed a log onto the fire. “Yes,” he said bluntly as sparks hissed and shot from the fire. “He wasn’t a very good cardplayer.”

Gabby nodded thoughtfully and she chewed her lip. “That’s what Sam says, too.” And then her expression cleared. “Maybe you can play some cards with me.”

Sam nearly choked on her tongue. “I don’t think he plays the kind of games we play, Gabriela.”

“I can teach him,” Gabby answered. “Go Fish and War is easy.”

“I think I remember how to play.” Cristiano smiled faintly as he brushed his hands off. “In fact, I used to be very good at War.”

“Really?” Gabby’s tongue poked out, touched the corner of her mouth giving her a slightly naughty look. “I bet I’m better than you.” She leaned forward, said in a stage whisper. “I beat Sam. I beat everyone.”

Sam blushed with embarrassment but Cristiano laughed, a deep masculine sound that rumbled from his chest.

“You are your father’s child, aren’t you?” he said, but he wasn’t looking at Gabby as he spoke. He was looking right at Sam.

And suddenly Sam understood even though she didn’t want to. Last night she’d ignored the facts, but this morning she couldn’t play ostrich. It was all beginning to make sense. The card games, the high stakes, the ruthless moves, the seizing of family and assets…

She was forced to ask questions now, forced to piece it together bit by bit.

Perhaps this wasn’t just a gambler’s impulse move…

Perhaps all along Cristiano had ulterior motives…

Perhaps Cristiano, not Johann, was Gabriela’s father…

But those fragmented thoughts were forgotten as Gabby scrambled to the window and announced, “Someone’s coming! It’s a lady and she looks mad.”

Sam tucked a blond curl behind her ear and exchanging swift glances with Cristiano, headed for the door. But on opening the door, Sam froze as she caught sight of the white-haired woman bundled in a thick gray wool. “Mrs. Bishop,” she whispered, rooted to the spot.

The elderly woman looked equally stunned, her annoyance giving way to shock. “Samantha?”

Sam closed the distance and gave the older woman a swift hug. “What are you doing here?”

Mrs. Bishop clasped her hands on Sam’s shoulders. “I should ask you the same! You gave us all quite a scare. I’d heard there were lights here last night, and I insisted Gilbert, my son-in-law, drive me over.” She paused, tilted her head back, searched Sam’s face. “It’s been so long, my girl. Where have you been?”

“Away.” Sam tried to smile but couldn’t. Suddenly the past was rushing back, painful memories she didn’t want, couldn’t bear. Charles had died eight years ago and yet suddenly it seemed as if it were just yesterday. “How is everyone? And where is everyone? When did the Rookery close?”

“Not long after you left.”

“I see.” Sam bit her lip, and she did see, she knew exactly what had happened. Without Charles to run things there probably wasn’t funding, or the management, to keep the orphanage open. “Would you come in?”

Mrs. Bishop nodded, and followed Sam back into the cottage but her expression fell as she took in the cottage’s deplorable conditions. “You can’t possibly mean to stay here. The cottage is a wreck. There’s no water, heat, plumbing. What are you thinking?”

Sam smiled, but tears filled her eyes. “I don’t know.”

Mrs. Bishop saw the tears and shaking her head, clucked, “It’s not been easy, has it, my girl?”

Mrs. Bishop’s kindness would be Sam’s undoing and yet Sam knew she couldn’t break down here, not in front of Gabby, not with Cristiano standing just a stone’s throw away, listening to everything being said. Which reminded her, she ought to make introductions. She couldn’t very well pretend Gabby and Cristiano weren’t here.

But Mrs. Bishop had spotted Gabby already. She clapped her hands, bent low. “And is that your little girl?”

Gabby scampered to Sam’s side. “Um, yes.” Sam put an arm around Gabby’s shoulders. “I’m her…her…nanny.”

“And my mum. My stepmum,” the little girl corrected. “You see, she married my dad. Johann van Bergen. But he left us. There were problems with money.”

Mrs. Bishop’s head shot up and she stared aghast at Sam. “Is this true?”

Sam flushed. “More or less.”

“And is that why you’re here?” Mrs. Bishop continued worriedly. “You’ve nowhere else to go?”

Put like that it sounded absolutely appalling. A desperate Sam dragging a little girl across the continent to a derelict orphanage in Cheshire.

Her mouth opened, her throat worked, but there was no ready answer. Just the sting of tears she wouldn’t cry, and the bite of memory, the ache of heartbreak.

She’d grown up here, gone to school here, and would have lived here as Charles’s wife if he hadn’t died. No wonder she’d run here when she didn’t know where to go. Until she was eighteen, the Rookery was her entire world.

“We’re in transition,” she said, finally finding her voice. “But I thought until we were more settled, it’d be nice to visit.”

Mrs. Bishop’s light blue gaze, though watery, missed little. “Are you in trouble, my girl?”

Sam’s cheeks burned and she shook her head swiftly and before she could stumble her way through another feeble protest, Cristiano moved forward.

“Samantha wanted us to see her home,” he said, sliding an arm around Sam, his hand resting lightly, and yet provocatively, on her hip. “She thought it was important we knew where she came from.”

“Yes, of course.” Mrs. Bishop was nodding and clucking again. “You’ve heard then all about her life. So much tragedy for one so young.” She regarded Sam with a look of tenderness. “I was the head housekeeper when she came to stay with us at the Rookery. It was a very difficult time but we loved her and she adjusted, although there were many nights we heard her crying.”

“Mrs. Bishop,” Sam remonstrated, going hot and cold. Mrs. Bishop’s shared memories were nearly as painful as Cristiano’s arm against her lower back, his hand warm on her hip, her body exquisitely sensitive.

“I know it’s hard, Samantha,” Mrs. Bishop said, reaching out to touch Sam’s cheek. “But if he loves you half as much as we do, he’ll want to know everything.”

Sam shuddered. “He knows enough.”

“So you’ve told him all about Charles, then?” Mrs. Bishop’s expression gentled even more. “Ah, that was a tragedy no one’s forgotten—”

“Mrs. Bishop.” Sam’s voice came out strangled.

But Mrs. Bishop so engrossed in her memories and stories seemed oblivious to Sam’s agony. “It was horrific. No one could believe it, no one knew what to do. Our beautiful Sam, a bride and a widow all in the same night.”