The Rakehell Regency Romance Collection Volume 2(77)

She risked one question. "Have you any recollections of your sons?"



He paused. "Fun, happiness, then disappointment, anger. Grief, and relief, and shame at being relieved. I didn't blame them, but I hated Marielle for making a fool of me."



"So you think she tricked you into marrying her?"



"That's always possible. If I thought she cared about me, or I had compromised her in some way. Then I found out she was unfaithful, with a man her father didn't approve of."



"But he approved of you?"



"Of course," he said promptly, with a hint of aristocratic hauteur. "A good Catholic family, a long line of noblemen stretching back for centuries, closely associated with the monarchy. Of course the Revolution changed all that, but we had family holdings in Portugal, Spain and England that we were able to use as bases of operations to help the emigres fleeing from the Terror. Gather information to help the English send them packing back to their own country."



He shuddered then, as though the information had been wrung from him by force.



She digested this startling burst of information briefly before asking, "And your wife's lover?"



"A Bonapartist sympathizer. Glad Spain had allied itself with France to crush poor little Portugal. He had to be got rid of," he said in a cold tone so unlike his usual one that she shivered despite the heat of the day.



"And Marielle?" she asked in a chilled whisper.



He clutched his head, dropping their packages. She clung onto him as he groaned, and tried to prevent him from falling into the road. She thanked God that at least they were not in the center of Brimley.



"Come, darling, sit down on this rock," she urged, dragging him to the side of the road.



Alexander sat down heavily, panting and gritting his teeth, his head buried in his hands.



Despite the sun beating down on them, she felt frozen to the bone, and wrapped her arms around herself, rubbing the upper parts with both hands to stop her shivering.



Well, why not? The Revolution had affected many families. He would have been a small boy when his parents had been forced to flee France. They had made a new life for themselves in England, had had extensive holdings in the Iberian Peninsula. He had been able to work and live in a number of countries with his language skills. It was logical for him to be a merchant. It all made sense to her now.



But still it made her very nervous. He was certain his wife and her lover were dead. How could he be so sure?



Because he was involved with their deaths, came the terrible thought.



Or the French had killed them during the war? Or someone else? His sons were dead too. That suggested their home had been attacked, and he had survived somehow.



"Are you all right?" she asked softly, when he continued to sit there with his head hanging low between his shoulders.



"It was so powerful, like a bolt of lightning though my brain."



"Did you recall it all?"



"No. There are still some things in the shadows. But, well, for a moment, I thought I could see you."



"What do you mean?" She knelt down in front of him to look into his eyes, but they seemed the same to her.



"I saw you standing in the hall at home, at the vicarage. There was a storm, pounding, something breaking. You had something shiny in your hand. Then there was blood and I heard a scream."



"It couldn't be me. It was something you remembered."



"No. Marielle was fair-haired. You're dark, like a raven's wing. It was you I saw, Sarah."



She tried to keep her tone patient. "But Alexander, you can't even see the hall. How would you know it was ours?"



"Please, just trust me," he begged, gripping her hand hard. "It was you. You need to be careful." He clutched her to his chest convulsively.



"I will be," she promised, stroking his cheek and leaning into his embrace. "But you have to take care too. All of these memories gushing out. It isn't good for you. I nearly lost you the other night when you were so ill."



"What do you mean?" he asked in horror. He gripped her shoulders hard. "What do you mean?" he asked again in a more urgent tone, shaking her lightly



She could have kicked herself for blurting it out. She had sworn she would not tell him...



"Are you well enough to walk, or would you like me to fetch a conveyance from Brimley to take us home?"



"I can walk now," he said, though he didn't look it.



Hut he got to his feet. She gathered their scattered parcels quickly, took his arm, and helped him along. As they walked, she told him the story of what had happened in the wee dawn hours on May Day.