Deadly Vows. Brenda Joyce

of pains in her leg.…

      And then he had received the damn wedding invitation, only a week ago!

      He was certain he could support Francesca’s marriage to someone else—someone worthy of her. Hart was not that man. But what could he do? He had tried to persuade her to delay, and she had refused. Now, he would have to stand aside and be ready to pick her up when Hart shattered her into tiny pieces. Bragg had not a doubt that was what his half brother would do.

      He realized that the automobile was still running and he turned off the ignition. Reluctantly, he got out of the roadster, placing his goggles on the driver’s seat. The holiday weekend loomed. He would take his wife and the two girls fostering with them to the tiny village hamlet of Sag Harbor, on Long Island’s north shore. He had spent all of the prior night at his office at police headquarters, taking care of paperwork that only he could manage—the perfect excuse to stay overnight at the office. It wasn’t the first time; he had begun keeping a change of clothing there. He was astute enough to realize that he dreaded returning home. He wasn’t sure when he had begun to avoid his marriage.

      The anger was long gone. It had been replaced by guilt. He had treated Leigh Anne terribly before she was injured. While she did not blame him for the accident, he blamed himself. His cruelty had put her in such a state of distraction that she had been run down.

      As for the lust, every time he thought about reaching for her, she would turn away, or feign sleep, or make some excuse that one of the girls was awake, needing her.

      He was hardly a fool. Leigh Anne was a passionate woman, but she was also vain and she couldn’t stand the changes the accident had wrought in her body.

      She had even told him to take a mistress; she had even asked for a divorce. How ironic it was. He had been the one who had wanted a divorce when she suddenly reappeared in his life in February, while she had insisted on reconciliation! He wondered what was left for them, if they didn’t have conversation, understanding, affection or sex. He would never turn his back on her now. Even if he knew rationally that the accident wasn’t really his fault, she was his wife. If he didn’t take care of her, who would?

      He walked grimly past a small black gig and gray horse parked in the driveway. He instantly recognized the vehicle, and his tension increased. Leigh Anne must have summoned Dr. Finney.

      He focused on the fact that she must be in more pain—it was preferable to thinking about their volatile and unhappy relationship. He started up the brick path to the small house he had leased, hoping the girls were in the park with their nanny so they would not witness Leigh Anne’s distress. He stepped into the house, plastering a smile on his face. Instantly he heard a noise on the stairs. Katie came barreling down the staircase so swiftly he reached for her, afraid she would trip and fall. Her small face was taut with worry. His heart lurched with dismay.

      He knelt. “What’s wrong?”

      “Mrs. Bragg hurts so much,” she cried, looking at him as if he might be able to somehow save the day. She was dark haired and seven years old.

      Katie was always anxious. When she came to them after her mother’s murder, she had refused to speak or eat. Now she spoke, although not frequently, and ate like a little horse. She even smiled from time to time, especially when Leigh Anne was at her best and mothering her. But she worried about her foster mother all the time and he knew it was not healthy for her. He clasped her thin shoulders. “Katie, Mrs. Bragg was badly hurt in that carriage accident. Now and then, she will have some old pain, left over from her injuries.”

      “Why won’t it stop?” she whispered, her dark eyes huge and despairing.

      “She has her good days, too. I am going to go upstairs to see what Dr. Finney has to say. Where is Dot?”

      “She is having lunch.”

      “Why don’t you join her. Aren’t you hungry? Mrs. Flowers is a wonderful cook.” He managed a smile.

      Katie did not smile back, but she reluctantly turned. He hurried upstairs, his heart racing. Amazingly, he was anxious. He paused on the threshold of their bedroom, wondering how a man could live this way—in dread of going home, to a place without laughter and affection, without sex; in a state of constant apprehension. And then there was the guilt.

      Leigh Anne wasn’t dressed yet. She wore a modest blue silk wrapper, her jet-black hair piled indifferently atop her head. She had the covers up and a wool throw over her lap, as if she was cold. Finney sat by the bed, speaking with her, patting her hand. His wife remained terribly beautiful, but she appeared as fragile as china.

      Leigh Anne saw him and sat up straighter, as if stiffening her spine and squaring her shoulders. He slowly entered the room. “How are you?”

      She said, “The pain is worse.”

      Dr. Finney walked over. The two men shook hands. The doctor spoke softly. “I have given her some laudanum, to dose herself at night. She says she cannot sleep.”

      “There is nothing wrong with her leg,” Bragg said tersely. “Those broken bones have healed.”

      “Considering there was so much damage, I suspect she will always have some discomfort with her right leg. Try to make sure she does not rely on the laudanum to sleep. She should only dose herself if absolutely necessary.”

      “I’ll see to it,” Bragg said. “Let me walk you out.”

      “I can manage.” Finney gripped his shoulder. “See you later, eh? At Hart’s wedding?” He shook his head, as if in disbelief, and walked out.

      Slowly, Bragg turned.

      “I heard every word,” Leigh Anne said, her cheeks flushed.

      “I am sorry you are in pain,” he returned.

      “Where are the girls?”

      He was aware of how much she had come to love Katie and Dot. He wondered if she was desperately clinging to them. “They are having lunch.” He approached, and her eyes widened. As he sat down on the bed by her hip, she tensed visibly, and he wondered if she thought he meant to try to make love to her. In that moment, there was no desire, just a fatigue that felt ancient.

      But he knew himself. If she were to reach for him, he would lose himself in lust. He said carefully, “It’s after one. Shouldn’t you be getting dressed?”

      She hesitated. “I do not feel up to the wedding.”

      He was shocked. Leigh Anne loved society affairs, and although it was late June, this event would be in every single social column from Bar Harbor to Charleston. He thought about the fact that she hadn’t gone out in the past few days, not even to be pushed about the block or across the square in her wheelchair. When they had first met, she had been one of Boston’s reigning debutantes. Until recently, Leigh Anne had attended almost every luncheon to which she had been invited. She had been at his side at every supper party and charity she had deemed important to his career. He understood that she was melancholy, but it would only become worse if she did not get out.

      She grimaced. “Of course I will come. And you’re right, I should begin getting dressed. Where is Nanette?”

      He had had to hire a lady’s maid to help her bathe and dress. As his finances were precarious, he had let the male nurse go. “I will send her up,” he said as lightly as possible.

      She forced a smile, avoiding his eyes. He went to the door. Then he halted. He hated seeing her so despondent. But how could he cheer her up? Maybe he should tell her that she did not have to go to the wedding if she truly did not feel well. Bragg turned.

      Leigh Anne was pouring brandy from a pint-size bottle into her cup of tea.

      FRANCESCA HAD BECOME very familiar with many of the unsavory, crime-ridden lower wards of Manhattan. Still, it was a large city, filled with slums and tenements, factories and saloons, with neighborhoods populated by Germans, Italians and Irish, not to mention Russians, Poles and Jews. In the course of her many adventures, she had even learned that there