“I am going to sit in the chair by the fire,” Robyn announced to the maid. “Could you please find me a robe to wear, and some slippers?” She spoke briskly. Fortified by a lunch of chicken broth and excellent crusty bread, she was determined to take charge of her life after too many days of allowing other people to control her actions.
Mary, who seemed to see her role in life as one of endless anxious protest, clucked nervously. “Ow, my lady, ‘tis too soon for you to leave your bed. You’ll catch your death of cold. The wind has shifted to the north, and ‘tis a bitter day outside.”
“Then you should tell William to turn up the thermostat,” Robyn said. “Get the furnaces blowing some nice hot air.”
“Yus, m’lady.” Mary looked bewildered, but Robyn refused to be deceived by the maid’s apparent inability to understand simple English. Of course Mary knew what the word thermostat meant. Earlier today, for a brief moment, Robyn had allowed herself to fall into the trap being set for her. When Mary had said so convincingly that the date was 1746, Robyn had let herself slide into the fantasy being woven around her. But now she was in control again and determined to be on her guard.
Obviously Mary didn’t believe the year was really 1746. The maid gave no sign of being insane, which she would have to be in order to think she was living more than two hundred years in the past. So since Mary was lying—must be lying—Robyn was forced to conclude the maid was part of a deliberate conspiracy.
Which led to the question of what, exactly, the conspiracy was intended to achieve. Robyn couldn’t think of any convincing reason why several people, including Zach’s brother, would want to perpetrate a massive fraud on her, but she was confident she would come up with a credible rationale sometime soon. The most likely explanation of her fantastic surroundings was that William’s cruel hoax had something to do with the antiques scam being worked through the Bowleigh Gallery. Robyn couldn’t believe it was pure coincidence that William had imprisoned her in a working model of an eighteenth-century manor house, surrounded by precisely the sort of pseudo-antique furniture that was being illegally sold through the Gallery.
The maid returned from her foray into the closet, an off-white woolen gown draped over her arm. “Here be your new winter robe, my lady. Shall I help your ladyship to put it on?”
“I can manage, thank you.” Robyn slipped her aims into the padded, silk-lined sleeves of the robe. The deep pleats of the skirt swirled around her knees, settling into stillness with a smooth whisper of sound. The seams rested comfortably along her shoulder—the perfect size. The woolen cloth was so soft and fine Robyn couldn’t resist stroking the delicate folds of the robe. She had to hand it to William and his cronies; they sure knew how to do a fabulous job of faking antique workmanship. This robe appeared hand-sewn, and the cloth hand-woven. It would fetch a small fortune if it ever went on sale in a New York boutique.
Realization dawned with the impact of lightning tearing through a dark night sky. “Of course,” Robyn breathed, looking at Mary through new eyes. “Now I understand where I am and what’s going on. This is a factory, isn’t it? This is where you’re turning out all those fabulous fake cabinets that are ending up in the Gallery, right? You’re making furniture, and maybe clothes and artifacts, too. The whole ball of wax, in fact.”
Mary bobbed her head. “Yus, my lady. Your ladyship has the right of it. We do make furniture and wax for the candles.”
“You’re admitting it?” Robyn couldn’t conceal her astonishment. “Just like that? No attempt at denial? What in the world do you do about Customs, or do you ship the pieces in as acknowledged reproductions and fake the paperwork later?”
“I don’ know, my lady. Whatever you say is very true, my lady.”
Robyn clenched her fists in frustration. “If you’re not going to answer me truthfully, for heaven’s sake say so. Don’t be so damned obsequious! You’re driving me crazy!”
“No, my lady. I mean yus, my lady.” Averting her gaze, Mary crouched into a kneeling position, so that she could guide Robyn’s feet into a pair of white velvet slippers. Straightening, she extended her arm, but avoided touching Robyn. “Does your ladyship wish to hold on to my arm, or do you prefer to walk to the fireside alone, my lady?”
“Alone,” Robyn said curtly. She felt a twinge of guilt over her curtness when she saw the maid cringe, then told herself not to be a fool. Mary was playing a role, and Robyn had nothing to feel guilty about, nothing at all. On the contrary, her rudeness was entirely justified, given the appalling way she had been denied adequate medical treatment during her illness.
Head held high, deliberately ignoring Mary, Robyn walked over to the chair by the hearth, delighted to find that she could cover the distance without needing the support of a single piece of furniture.
She sat down and glared at the maid. “Okay, if you won’t talk, maybe William can tell me what’s going on here. Why don’t you let him know I’m up and about, and willing to hear the details of whatever nifty scam he’s trying to work. I guess he wouldn’t have gone to so much trouble to keep me here unless he has some deal he wants to propose to me.”
“You want to speak with the master, my lady?” The maid carefully placed an embroidered footstool beneath Robyn’s feet.
Robyn gritted her teeth. “All right, we’ll play this by your rules. Yes, Mary, I want to speak with William. With your master.”
“Very good, my lady. Shall I bring a shawl for your ladyship? ‘Tis drafty today, with the wind blowing so fierce.”
Robyn gripped the arms of the chair and stared hard-eyed at the groveling servant. “Enough, Mary. Cut the English yokel act and just get William in here, okay?”
“Certainly, my lady. I’ll fetch him instanter.”
“And cut the phony slang, too. It’s getting tedious.”
“As you wish, m’lady.” Mary scurried from the room.
William came in less than five minutes later. He bowed to Robyn, hand on heart, but didn’t approach her, or touch her in any way. This afternoon, he had chosen to wear a more modest outfit than the day before: gray woolen knee breeches, gray silk stockings, and a full-skirted coat of black broadcloth, the lapels buttoned back to reveal an embroidered silver waistcoat. The lace at his cuffs and throat was as flowing and elaborate as before, but he had hidden his hair beneath a layer of white powder, so that he looked like an escaped footman from Disney’s version of Cinderella. Robyn wanted to laugh, to throw his ridiculous appearance back in his face, but the laughter died in her throat and she found herself staring at him, heart pounding just a little too fast.
“Nifty costume,” she said, hoping he wouldn’t hear the catch in her voice. “Was that manufactured here on the premises, too?”
“No, these clothes were made for me the last time we were in London,” William said. “I am sorry if they do not meet your high standards of sartorial elegance, but I have spent the morning closeted with my steward, and did not change before coming to see you. I offer my apologies.”
“Stop it!” she commanded. “For God’s sake, William, stop this absurd pretense! I’m not delirious anymore and it isn’t working.”
“I do not understand which pretense you refer to, Arabella. But let us not waste time in useless, mutual reproach. The children have been asking to see you, and I have ordered them to be brought here. The baby as well. You haven’t yet held your new son, and it is time for you to make his acquaintance.”
Robyn looked at him coldly, but inside she felt hot with anger. “You have a sick mind, William. I can’t imagine how someone as honorable as Zach ended up with a brother as callous as you.”
He inclined his head with a hint of weary mockery. “So you have often remarked, my dear. But do, pray, show a modicum of kindness for your children. They have been sorely worried about you and would appreciate some small display of affection from their mother.”
Robyn recoiled. “Surely you haven’t drawn real children into this scheme? William, that’s disgusting. How can you sleep at night, knowing what terrible harm you’re doing to so many innocent people?”
William turned to her, and if she hadn’t known better, she would have sworn that his blue eyes darkened with genuine bewilderment. “Will you believe me if I say that I am not aware of having committed any act that merits your scorn?”
“Your treatment of me after I was shot—”
“Ah, I see.” The tension in William’s shoulders visibly relaxed. “Arabella,” he said gently. “You were not shot. This belief that you have suffered a bullet wound is but a figment of your delirium—”
“Don’t try to feed me that bullshit! What about the three-inch scar on my scalp? Is that a figment of my imagination, too?”
“Of course not. Alas, it is very real. But it is the result of your accident last Friday, not the result of a bullet wound.”
Robyn’s heart was pounding so fast it was becoming difficult to breath. “Tell me about my accident,” she said abruptly.
“You do not remember it?”
“No, apparently not.”
“Unfortunately, I cannot enlighten you as to many of the details since you told nobody where you were going. You left the house alone, in the late afternoon, perhaps forgetting how early the nights draw in at this time of year. Or perhaps you had some assignation for which you wished total privacy—”
“Are you trying to suggest I was sneaking out to meet a lover?”
“I did not say so.”
“But you damn well implied it.”
He looked at her coolly. “You may interpret my remarks however you please, Arabella. Suffice to say that I have no definite knowledge of why you felt it necessary to leave the house at dusk, without the escort of your groom.”
“Maybe I needed some fresh air,” Robyn said cynically.
“That is... conceivable, I suppose, although you have never been noted for your love of the outdoors. In any event, we believe the carriage horse must have bolted as you returned to the house. It seems that you did not have the strength to rein the horse in, and you were dragged beneath the overhanging branches of the hawthorn tree that stands at the entrance to the courtyard. The thorns gouged a deep and painful cut in your scalp, and you also suffered a severe blow to your temple when you were thrown from the carriage. The doctor suggests that the blow to your head is causing this strangely selective loss of your memories—”
“Give it up, William,” she said tiredly. “I wasn’t even here last week, much less riding a horse. You know I was in New York, working with your brother Zach—”
William spoke crisply. “My dear, you must try to remember that Zachary has been declared a traitor and that it is not wise to speak of him. Our good King George and his government have rightly set a price on my brother’s head following the fiasco of the Young Pretender’s rout at Culloden, and I have forbidden all mention of my brother’s name in my house. We are Tories, loyal servants of the Hanoverian kings, and it is dangerous for you to forget that fact.”
Robyn struggled to her feet. “Stop it!” she yelled, pummeling his chest with her fists. “Stop trying to pretend it’s 1746! You can’t push these horrible lies down my throe—”
William put his arm around her shoulders. Gently, but impersonally, he guided her back to the chair. “Sit down, my lady, and try not to overset your emotions. We have all been most impressed by the fortitude with which you have endured the pain of your accident, and we are certainly delighted that your premature labor resulted in the birth of another healthy child. For the moment let us concentrate on the happiness of successful motherhood and forget these painful recriminations.”
The happiness of motherhood. Before she could stop herself, Robyn lifted her hands to her breasts, which ached and throbbed with the excruciating fullness of their milk. She didn’t realize she was crying until William pulled a scented handkerchief from the lacy cuff of his shirt and handed it to her.
“Come,” he said quietly. “Dry your tears, my lady. I hear your children approaching.”
“Not... my... children...” she whispered despairingly.
William didn’t answer her. He swung around and seated himself in the chair placed at the opposite side of the fire. “Enter!” he called out at the sound of shuffling feet and a faint scratching on the panels of the door.
To Robyn’s overwrought nerves, it seemed that a dozen people entered her bedroom all at once. Gradually the jostling mass of bodies sorted themselves into two adult females dressed just like Mary, three small children, and a plump young woman garbed in drab, rusty black, who was holding a tightly swaddled bundle. Robyn turned hastily away, determined not to look too closely at that frightening bundle.
Even before the maids placed restraining hands on their shoulders, the three children all tumbled to a full stop just inside the entrance to the bedroom. They looked instinctively toward William, clearly waiting for instructions. Did they need directions for speaking their lines in a prearranged dialogue? Robyn wondered.
“Come in, children, and pay your respects to your mother,” William said, smiling encouragingly. “As you can see, she is feeling very much better, but you must not shout, or you will give her the headache. George, Frederick, you first. Approach your mamma and make your very best bows.”
Two boys of about five years of age, identical in appearance and presumably twins, stepped forward in unison. They swept into bows that were passable imitations of William’s earlier performance.
“You look very well, Mamma,” one of them said as he straightened from his flourish. “And we were happy to meet our new bruvver. We are glad the angels sent him here safely.”
Robyn didn’t know what to say, or how to reply, so she said nothing. The twins exchanged wary glances.
“We have been out riding,” said the second twin, giving up on the notion of discussing the new baby. “We rode to Uppingly Woods and Jake says we have egg... eggsellent bottom.”
“And Monsieur Petain says we will be the death of him,” said the first twin.
His exasperated brother kicked him in the ankle. “But we didn’t mean to spill ink all over Monsieur’s nightshirt,” he reassured Robyn, sounding anxious. “It was a aggsident.”
“The spider, too, Mamma. The spider in Monsieur’s book was a aggsident as well.”
Robyn astonished herself by starting to laugh. Heart pounding, she stared at the two little boys lined up in front of her. She looked at their eager, worried faces and the twinkle of mischief in their eyes and her laughter died. Her mouth went dry. She wanted to scream at them to stop playacting, to stop participating in William’s cruel deception, but something about their innocent, childish expressions cut off the angry words before they could emerge. The twins were genuinely worried, she realized. They looked at her longingly, as if they needed to be reassured that she was indeed alive and well. Even worse, from Robyn’s point of view, was the distinct impression she gained that they were afraid to approach her too closely.
The twins were scared of her, Robyn thought, scared of how she might react. Just like Mary.
Robyn swallowed hard, trying to grasp hold of emotions that were spiraling totally out of control. “Anyone can have an accident,” she said to the twins, resisting the crazy impulse to open her arms and hug the two little boys tight against her heart. “And I’m sure the ink will wash out of Monsieur’s nightgown.”
The twins smiled in relief at her mild response, but William spoke sternly. “Your mama is too generous. You will come to see me in the study before dinner tonight and explain just what you were doing with Monsieur Petain’s nightgown in the first place. I wish you always to remember that your tutor is a fine scholar and he is to be treated with the greatest respect.”
“Yes, sir.” The twins did not look in the least alarmed at this imminent interview with their supposed father, but Robyn couldn’t help casting him an anxious glance. “You won’t... punish... them. Please, William? I’m sure they meant no harm.”
His gaze raked her face. For no logical reason, when his eyes met hers, she felt herself blush. His mouth tightened and he spoke abruptly. “Have no fear, my lady. With such a charming champion to plead for them, I shall not beat your sons. At least not this time.”
The twins grinned at each other without even a twinge of foreboding. Despite William’s threats, Robyn had the odd impression that they feared her a great deal more than their supposed father. She held out her hands, beckoning them closer, curiously anxious about these children she had never set eyes on until now.
“I hope you dressed warmly when you went out riding this morning. Mary tells me it is very windy outside today and it would be easy to catch cold.”
The boys looked impatient at what they clearly considered a boring reminder, but she thought she heard William let out a tiny sigh of relief. Because she had temporarily accepted these imposters as her children? she wondered. Because she was buying into the fantasy that they had been outside, learning to ride, and getting up to mischief with their tutor? She could think of no other reason.
“We wore mufflers, Mamma,” one boy said.
“And mittens and woolen stockings.”
“There is ice on the pond,” said the other. “Freddie and me is going sliding on the pond tomorrow.”
“Jake is going to show George and me how to put sliders on our boots so that we may go faster an’ faster.”
“Make sure the ice is thick enough,” Robyn said, feeling an alarm that was as instant as it was irrational.
The twins sighed in unison. “Yes, Mamma.”
They were sturdy, good-looking little boys, and she couldn’t help giving them another smile. “I know you think I’m being a boring old fusspot, but I don’t want you falling into the water and coming back to me frozen into icicles.”
They both giggled and would have said something more, but the little girl who had been standing behind them in the doorway lost patience and pushed forward, shaking her mop of soft, light brown curls. The charm of her chubby, unformed features was marred by a sulky expression.
“I wan’ sit on you’ lap,” she said, clutching at Robyn’s knee, her mouth pursing into a pout. “George and Fweddie is taking too long. Mamma, do you like my dwess?” She twirled around, light and surprisingly agile on plump baby feet.
“It’s very pretty,” Robyn managed to say, although her anger had returned with such overwhelming force that she could hardly think straight. “You’re very pretty.”
Good grief, she exploded in silent, internal rage. Where in the world had William recruited this little girl? The child was scarcely more than a toddler, certainly no more than three. How in the world had a three-year-old been trained to address a perfect stranger as Mamma? A child actress? Come to think of it, William lived in L.A. and might have friends working in Hollywood and the movie industry.
The little girl was squirming, trying to get comfortable on Robyn’s lap. “Do not muss your mother’s robe,” William said quickly. “Perhaps I should hold you, Clementina.”
“No, she can stay here.” The way she felt about William right at this moment, Robyn couldn’t bear the thought of any child coming near him, not even a well-trained child actress.
The little girl stopped squirming and looked up at Robyn, staring at her long and hard. “What have you done to your eyes?” she asked at last. “Your eyes is funny. Where is my real mamma? You is not my real mamma.” She started to cry, huge gulping sobs that seemed too large for her minuscule, baby-plump frame. “I want my real mamma!”
Robyn glared at William, almost speechless with fury. “What did you tell her?” she demanded, trying to keep her voice low and calm for the sake of the child. “Surely to God you didn’t pretend to a baby like this that I was really her mother?”
“You is not my mamma!” The little girl howled some more. Mary and William both jumped up and lunged forward. William moved faster than the maid, whisking the sobbing child away from Robyn’s lap, swinging her up and over his head before nestling her in the crook of his arm.
“Papa is going to take you flying. Look, you are a bird, sailing up in the sky. Flutter your wings or you will fall.”
Clementina flapped her hands and laughed delightedly, forgetting her tears in an instant. “More!” she commanded. “More swings, Papa. More bird. More more!”
“Shh,” he said quickly. “We must not make too much noise or your mama will not feel well. She has been very ill and you cannot climb on her lap for a little while yet, Clementina.”
“My old mamma is gone away. This is a new mamma. She has new eyes.” Clementina’s face crumpled. “I want my proper mamma. I don’ wan’ my new bruvver. My new bruvver is silly.”
William nodded almost imperceptibly to one of the servants, and the woman hurried forward, curtsying to Robyn. “My lady, I’m right sorry for what she is saying. I will take the child back to the nursery so that she does not disturb you. Come along, Miss Clementina, you have been a bad girl. A naughty, bad girl, and everyone is very cross with you.”
“No, don’t say that! She hasn’t been naughty at all!” Robyn protested, horrified at the callous way in which the child was being blamed simply for speaking honestly. She held out her hand to the little girl, forcing herself to smile in a calm, friendly way. “It was really nice to see you, Clementina. Will you come back and visit me again tomorrow?”
Clementina inspected Robyn thoughtfully. “Are you going to be my new mamma for ever an’ ever?”
Robyn couldn’t decide how to answer. In the end, she smiled again and answered as truthfully as she could. “I will be here to look after you for a little while, Clemmie.” She had no idea where the nickname came from. It simply slipped out, as natural and easy as if she had used it a hundred times before.
She saw two of the maids exchange astonished glances. The taut, hard lines of William’s mouth relaxed. Robyn realized with a shock that everyone was immeasurably relieved that she hadn’t lost her temper at Clementina’s innocent remarks. They had obviously expected her to be furious with the child. Why? Why in the world would they expect her to behave so badly? she wondered.
“Take Miss Clementina back to the nursery,” William said to the nursemaid. “And the boys should go, too. We must not tire the Lady Arabella.”
“Oh, no, Papa!” The twins’ response was instantaneous. “We would much rather stay here with you.”
“But you will, of course, do what you have been asked,” William said mildly. “Otherwise I might feel obliged to suggest to Monsieur Petain that he should give you an extra lesson in French grammar tomorrow.”
“We are going, Papa,” the twins said hastily. They turned to Robyn and swept deep bows. “Sleep well, Mama. We shall look forward to seeing you tomorrow.”
The children and most of the maids trooped out, but when the plump servant carrying the bundle would have left with the rest of them, William held out his hand and stopped her. “Since your mistress is feeling so well, I am sure she would like to hold her new son for a little while. Annie, will you step forward so that her ladyship may see her child?”
Robyn clenched her teeth. “Don’t do this to me, William.”
He came and stood beside her chair, his expression implacable, although his voice sounded quite mild. “My dear, it is for your own good. I am sure you will feel easier in your own mind once you have seen what a fine healthy child your new son is. If you are worried that he is misshapen in any way as a result of your fall, you may put such fears entirely to rest.”
Robyn felt her stomach lurch. She turned her head away, staring obstinately toward the window. She heard a restless, mewing little cry, followed by a shushing sound from the servant holding the baby. Beneath the rhythmic shushing of the maid, she heard the snuffling, wheezing noises of a tiny infant stirring from sleep.
She couldn’t bear to look, but she couldn’t bear to continue looking away. Feeling as if her head were weighted with lead, Robyn swiveled around toward the source of the sound. The plump, homespun-clad nurse held out the bundle, her expression difficult to define. Robyn thought she saw sadness and maybe a touch of resentment behind the carefully arranged features, but she couldn’t be sure.
The servant dipped into a curtsy. “I been feeding him regular, my lady, and he’s a healthy child, for all he’s still tiny. My milk’s the best, everyone around here reckons that.”
Robyn’s hands were shaking as she held out her arms. “Give the child to me.”
The nurse placed the tiny white bundle in Robyn’s arms. The baby was wrapped so tightly that only his face was visible. His eyes were screwed shut, his skin appeared red and wrinkled, and his mouth was pursed, ready to cry at a moment’s notice. As Robyn closed her arms around him, he suddenly blinked and opened his eyes.
He stared up at her with a blue, unfocused gaze. Robyn stared back at him, while her heart turned somersaults inside her chest. This infant was truly newborn, no more than a few days old. And during her delirium, she had fantasized about giving birth to a baby boy.
The baby soon got tired of staring. His eyes squeezed shut. His mouth opened wide and he let out a loud, angry cry, a bellow that changed almost at once into a thin, high wail. The sound tore at Robyn’s nerves and ate into her guts, making her frantic with the need to appease the baby’s obvious discomfort. Something wet and warm spattered onto her hand and she realized it was milk, dripping out of her nipples onto the baby’s swaddling bands. Without stopping to reflect on what she was doing, without a thought for William’s continued presence, she pushed aside the folds of her robe and held the baby to her breast.
He felt warm and damp in the crook of her arm, a tiny weight that seemed to fill a gap the size of the universe inside her soul. He rooted around for no more than a second or two, then latched on to her nipple and sucked greedily. The release of pressure inside her breasts was so wonderful that Robyn almost cried. She leaned back, resting her head on the winged corner of the chair, stroking the transparent fuzz of silky hair on the baby’s head. The strands felt soft, softer than anything she had ever felt in her life before. Unable to prevent herself, she bent over and nuzzled her cheek against the top of the baby’s head, aching with the need to be close, to feel the baby’s skin in contact with her own. The baby stopped sucking for a second, lost her nipple, and started to cry.
She laughed because he looked so ridiculous, so totally adorable, with milk bubbling on his lips, his eyes puzzled, and his cheeks turning scarlet with frustration.
“What a fierce little fellow you are to be sure,” she murmured, rubbing his back until he calmed down and let out a milky burp. “Here, try the other side and maybe we’ll both feel more comfortable.”
For several minutes Robyn was oblivious to everything in the room save the steady sucking of the infant at her breast, and the corresponding relaxation of tension inside her. Gradually, as the pressure of excess milk eased, she became aware of the silence in the room, and the odd, waiting tension emanating from William and the nursemaid. She ignored them both, reaching inside the swaddling bands to loosen them so that the baby’s diminutive hands could poke out and curl around her fingers. She gazed at his nails, hypnotized by their minute, pink perfection, and rubbed her thumbs across the roly-poly softness of his wrists.
The baby fell asleep, breathing heavily, sated with milk. Her milk. She eased him away from her breast and held him up to her shoulder, rocking gently as she patted his back. She had half a dozen nieces and nephews, and at one time or another she had helped out by rocking every one of them to sleep. The motions she was going through with this tiny infant were familiar. The sensations rioting inside her were totally new.
A burning log split into two, tumbling into the grate with a clatter and a shower of hot orange sparks. She glanced toward the sound and saw that William had moved to stand in front of the fireplace. His booted foot rested on the fender and he was gazing at her, his eyes dark, his face wiped utterly clean of expression. Somehow, despite his outward appearance of complete self-possession, she knew that inside he was seething with a mass of unresolved emotions. She stared back at him, meeting his gaze head-on, forcing herself to look at him—really look at him—for the first time.
Like Zach, he was quite tall, she guessed more than five-ten, but less than six feet, with broad shoulders and a narrow waist. His hips were hidden by the full skirt of his coat, but his legs were long and showed to definite advantage in the silk stockings and knee breeches he was wearing. Despite his fancy getup, she had no doubt that he was truly Zach’s brother. Now that she looked at him closely, she could see many similarities to Zach, not only in his straw-blond hair color and penetrating blue eyes, but especially in the strong, square thrust of his jawline, and in the narrow, aristocratic bridge of his nose. His mouth, too, was like Zach’s, firmly drawn but sensuous, promising both passion and tenderness to some lucky woman. It wasn’t at all difficult to believe that he was Zach’s brother.
The baby hiccupped, and Robyn closed her arms protectively around him. William’s gaze flickered to the child, then returned to Robyn.
“I did not expect you to feed the child yourself,” he said, breaking a silence that was still thick with an odd sort of tension. “I trust that your generosity today will not make it more difficult for you to stanch the flow of your milk tomorrow.”
“Why should I stanch the flow, as you put it? Don’t you want me to nurse the baby myself?”
She had the satisfaction of seeing that for some reason her question had totally amazed him. He drew in a deep breath. “I had not even considered the possibility that you would nurse the child yourself. You have never been willing to play nursemaid to any of your other children. In fact, you said on several occasions that the thought of a mewling infant tugging at your breasts disgusted you. It did not occur to me that you would be willing to change such strongly held convictions.”
His words pierced the lethargy that had suspended Robyn’s thought processes and lulled her into placidity while she nursed the baby. Belatedly she realized that her situation had passed over from bizarre into the realms of total and utter fantasy.
She had just spent twenty minutes nursing a newborn infant.
For a moment she felt fear, fear so deep and enveloping that her heart seemed to stop beating. Then, just before the fear could consume her, she realized that there was only one possible explanation for what was happening to her.
She was dreaming.
She half expected to wake up the moment the realization hit her, as so often happened with dreams. But this time, for some reason, she remained sleeping and the illusory world of her dream remained intact.
Even so, the realization of what was happening left her limp with relief. Robyn relaxed in the chair, settling into her dream, willing to endure the experience now that she knew what was happening. She stared at William, amazed at the intriguing workings of her subconscious. Why in the world had she conjured up such an extraordinary man? What was her subconscious trying to tell her?
“You know, you really are a strange fantasy,” she said. “Why have I given you Zach’s body, his brother’s name, and a character that seems lifted straight out of The Scarlet Pimpernel? And why have I given myself a baby, for heaven’s sake’? If you’d asked me when I’m awake, I’d have said I wasn’t all that interested in having children for at least another three or four years. I think of myself as a dedicated career woman.”
She gave a rueful chuckle. “Hey, maybe this dream is trying to tell me something.”
The nursemaid leaned forward and snatched the baby from out of Robyn’s arms. “Her ladyship’s talking the devil’s talk again, my lord. Please, my lord, you must send word to the parson and have him come to her, or she’ll fetch trouble to us all.”
Robyn yawned, then wondered why she felt so sleepy in the middle of a dream. “Honest to Pete, I don’t know where all this crazy stuff is coming from. Why do you suppose I’m fantasizing about a dour nursemaid who’s full of ignorant superstitions?”
“If you are asking me that question, Arabella, then I fear that I cannot answer you.” William put his arm around her waist, drawing her to her feet. “Come, my dear, you must return to your bed and rest. I will bring you dinner myself and see if you are recovering your wits... your strength... as you should. Perhaps nursing the baby was too much for you. Women of high birth have delicate constitutions, and I should not have allowed you to overtax your resources. It could be dangerous to the equilibrium of your mind.”
Robyn frowned. “William, you’re a pain in the rear end, you know that? You’re most definitely not behaving the way you should. Heck, this is my dream, I want to have more control over it.” She chucked him under the chin. “Why don’t you smile and show me what you look like when you’re in a good mood? I think you might be quite sexy if I could ever get you to smile.”
The nursemaid spoke low-voiced from the doorway. “Do you need me, my lord? I don’ want to stay with her ladyship when she do go on so crazy like. Frightens me, ‘er do.”
William nodded impatiently to the maid. “I have said that you may go. Take the child back to the nursery. I will tend to the Lady Arabella.”
Robyn scowled. “I’m not Arabella, I’m Robyn.”
William slipped the robe from her shoulders and lifted her into the bed. “Whoever you wish to be, my lady, you should sleep and recoup your strength.”
Robyn scowled. “Why won’t you behave the way I want you to behave? Why can’t I control the figments of my own imagination?” A worrying thought occurred to her. “Maybe I’m not sleeping. Maybe I’m unconscious. Big time, long-term unconscious, which is why I can’t wake up. Maybe that bullet penetrated my skull and I’m hooked up to machines and everyone thinks I’m a vegetable. Maybe that’s why this dream is so weird and out of control.”
“I certainly don’t think you’re a vegetable, Arabella. I know that you are a beautiful woman.”
She laughed, deciding not to fight with the vagaries of her own subconscious. “Right, that’s me. A very beautiful woman. I’m blond, blue-eyed, and I have long slender legs with great thighs, just like I always wanted. You know what, Willie baby? I shouldn’t complain. On second thought, this dream is getting better.”
William didn’t look amused. “On the contrary,” he said curtly. “I fear that from my point of view it is fast turning into the most horrible of nightmares.”