In My Wildest Fantasies

Chapter 23

It should have not have come as a surprise to any of them that the rain would not let up during the ten-hour journey to Creighton Manor. They were cooped up inside the coach the entire way-Rebecca, Devon, and Blake, who had insisted on accompanying them, after Devon had explained the situation to him.

The trip was cold and damp and endless. Water poured down the coach windows and the horses trotted through miles of puddles and muck. Rebecca sat next to her husband, but they could speak of nothing personal. She could not ask him if he forgave her for all the trouble she had caused, as Blake was always present.

Even if he had not been, something would have held her back from more intimate communications with her husband, for he was preoccupied and gravely silent. He was determined to solve the immediate problem of Mr. Rushton's attempts to blackmail her and her father.

By the time they arrived at Creighton Manor, it was past dark. The coach pulled up at the front entrance, and though Rebecca was exhausted from the journey, she could barely keep from stepping out of the coach and running inside to see her father.

She had not said goodbye to him before she left almost a month ago, and though she had been furious with him and continued to be uncertain of him now, he was still her father. He had once been the center of her life.

Which was why none of this made sense to her, and why she felt as if the entire world was crumbling to pieces under her feet.

The door of the coach opened at last, and Rebecca waited for her husband to step out and offer a hand. He escorted her to the door, and she rapped on the knocker.

The maid answered. "Lady Rebecca!" Mary lunged forward and threw her arms around Rebecca, then spotted Devon and Blake behind her. "Begging your pardon, it's Lady Hawthorne now, isn't it? Good heavens, would one of these gentlemen be your husband?" She let go of Rebecca and stepped back.

"Yes, Mary. This is Devon Sinclair, Marquess of Hawthorne, and his brother, Lord Blake. We have come to see Father."

Mary curtsied to both of them and took their coats. "Welcome to Creighton Manor," she said.

"Go and fetch him right away, please," Rebecca said. "We will wait by the fire."

"Yes, your ladyship."

Mary picked up her skirts and dashed up the stairs, while Rebecca led the way to the stone hearth in the great hall. She held her chilled hands out to warm them over the fire.

Devon and Blake crossed the hall slowly, looking up at the high timber ceiling, the stone walls and sparse furnishings.

"What a magnificent house," Blake said.

Rebecca managed a smile. "Thank you. Father has always been reluctant to modernize it, so it still shows its medieval origins, though the south wing is new. My grandfather had a ballroom added with crystal chandeliers. Unfortunately it's never been used. At least not in my lifetime."

Devon and Blake reached the fire and stood beside her to warm their hands as well.

"It is good to be here," her husband said, lifting his exhausted gaze to meet hers, and for the first time that day, he gave her a small nod of encouragement. It was not much, but it was something, and it revived a tiny fragment of hope.

His gaze turned upward and swept around the expansive hall, which had once been used for feasts and banquets. "This place is very different from Pembroke Palace," he said. "I can see why you felt secluded."

Just then she heard that familiar tapping upon the winding staircase. Her father's cane. She turned.

He took the final step and reached the ground floor. His white hair had not been combed, his clothing was shabby and wrinkled, as if he had not donned a fresh shirt in days. How old he appeared, as he hobbled across the hall toward her.

Suddenly she was overcome by despair, and walked straight across the room into his arms. "Father, I am so sorry."

But what did she have to be sorry for? She had only been trying to save herself from a life of misery.

And what of the accusations? She could not bear to think of it being true.

"No, my dear," he replied, wrapping his frail arms around her. "I am sorry. I have been weak. I failed you."

She pulled back to look into his eyes. She wanted more than anything to understand what he meant. Was he implying he had committed a terrible sin? Or was it simply an apology for arranging a marriage she did not want?

She turned around and looked at her husband, who was watching her.

"If you wish, Blake and I can see to the horses."

"No, Devon, please stay." She turned to her father again. "We have come a long way to speak to you."

His brow crinkled with apprehension. "I understand." He limped toward the fire.

"Lord Creighton," Devon said, "allow me to present my brother, Lord Blake Sinclair."

They shook hands.

Her father gestured to both men. "Look at you, brothers without a doubt. The same dark features and self-assured demeanor."

Rebecca was quick to interrupt. "Father," she said, "we must speak to you about Mr. Rushton. He came to Pembroke Village, and he is not prepared to give up his intentions to have me as his wife."

The flames from the fire reflected in her father's eyes as he glanced uneasily at each of them. "You spoke to him?"

"I did," she replied. "He has made some grave accusations."

He paused, then spoke harshly. "What has he told you?"

Rebecca could not bring herself to say it. She was thankful when Devon answered for her. "He has threatened to expose you as a murderer, sir."

Her father backed away from them and sank into a chair. He cupped his forehead in a hand. His fingers were trembling. "Lord help me."

She went to him and knelt, resting her hands on his thin knees. "Is it true, Father? Tell me it is not."

At last he dropped his hand, and she could see his face. "Did he try to use this to force you to leave your husband?"

She nodded. "He expected I would obey him to protect you. But you must tell me, Father, is there anything to protect? I cannot accept what he says as true. Tell me he is lying."

She stared into her father's eyes, searching for the truth.

"Of course it is a lie," he told her. "You know I am not that kind of man."

For the longest time, she sat and stared at him. She wanted to believe it, truly she did, but something inside her was not yet satisfied. She thought of the note about the bracelet.

"Mr. Rushton says you gave a bracelet to a woman named Serena Fullarton. In fact, he has a letter that she allegedly wrote, and he claims that she is your victim, and is buried here on the estate."

His hands were shaking as he looked up at Devon and Blake. "I do not know that woman, nor do I know how she obtained my stationery. Perhaps Rushton stole it in order to frame me, so that he could have you."

"But did you know about the letter?"

He hesitated. "No, I swear it."

None of this was making sense to her. She wanted to shake her father. She was having a hard time believing any of what he was saying. "If you are innocent, why did you give in to him? Why did you not stand up to him and defend your honor and protect my happiness? Why did you not refuse his demands? Or send for the police?"

There was pleading in his tone. "I have not been well in recent years, Rebecca. You know that. I am not young and strong like your husband. I did not have any fight left in me." Tears pooled in his eyes, and he covered his face with a hand. "I am a coward, afraid of everything, even leaving this house."

"Do not say that, Father."

She could hear the shame and humiliation in his voice.

"You have been so good to me," he said. "So devoted. I should have fought harder to keep you here with me."

"But I could not remain here forever," she said. "I am a woman now. I needed to live my own life."

She felt a hand on her shoulder-her husband's hand, squeezing gently. "It is almost midnight," he said. "We must go."

"Where?" her father asked, taking hold of her wrist as she tried to stand. "What are you going to do?"

"Rushton expects your daughter at his door tonight," Devon explained, "and he has threatened to expose you as a killer if she does not obey. I mean to confront him, sir, and inform him that she will never be his. She is my wife now. This blackmail must stop."

Her father stared for a long time at Devon, blinking up at him, then at last he spoke. "This is the second time you have offered your assistance, Hawthorne, when I have found myself in a difficult predicament. I am grateful."

"It is more than a difficult predicament, Father," Rebecca said. "The man has accused you of murder."

Her father's Adam's apple bobbed. "He is a villain. He has always been so, you know it yourself. He is obsessed with you and will do anything to have you. I have not been strong enough to oppose him, but it is clear your husband is very different from me." He stood and limped to Devon and grabbed hold of his wrist. "I have had enough of this pain and turmoil. Do whatever you must to protect my daughter. She deserves happiness, and Rushton will destroy any hope of that. Please, do what you must…"

Rebecca recognized a look of comprehension in her husband's eyes as he took hold of her arm and led her toward the door. She, too, understood her father's message.

He wanted Rushton dead.