Christmas At Pemberley: And the Bride Wore Prada

But Tarquin didn’t hear her. He was already gone.

‘I feel awful,’ Natalie confided to Rhys that evening, as she sat with a troubled expression in front of the dressing table in their room. ‘I know Wren’s been trying to get pregnant, she told us so. It was inconsiderate and selfish of me, blurting out my news in front of her like that—’

‘No, it wasn’t,’ Rhys said firmly. ‘You did nothing wrong. You were excited and you wanted to share our news. You meant no harm. Tark knows that. And Wren did ask you.’

‘I know, but I still feel terrible.’ Her voice wobbled in remembered pain at Wren’s anguished expression. ‘She wants a baby so badly.’

‘Well, Mrs Gordon,’ Rhys said as he came up behind her at the dressing table and leant down to encircle her in his arms, ‘I can think of something that might make you feel marginally better. Take your mind off things.’

‘Oh? And what’s that?’ she asked, and frowned. ‘A rousing game of draughts? A cup of tea and a tin of chocolates? A television programme?’

‘Well, you could call what I have in mind rousing, I suppose.’ He nuzzled the sensitive skin behind her ear. ‘Or we could take our time, and make it last.’ His lips made their slow way down her neck to the slope of her shoulder.

She closed her eyes and leant her head back as his mouth warmed her skin, inch by delicious inch, and her breath quickened. ‘I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mr Gordon,’ she murmured.

He pulled Natalie to her feet and into his arms. ‘Let me give you a demonstration, then.’ He lowered his mouth to hers and kissed her, very thoroughly, and Natalie soon forgot everything but the irascible, aggravating, and decidedly sexy Scotsman in her arms.

‘Did you leak my story, Tom?’ Helen demanded as she grabbed the pack of cigarettes on the dresser – she had two left ‒ and thrust one between her lips.

At the other end of her mobile phone, there was a sharp intake of breath. ‘Leak your story? No, damn your eyes, I most certainly did not! Why would I do that?’

‘Then tell me how the news of Dom and Gemma’s upcoming wedding ended up in the Probe’s Tweeper feed this morning!’

‘I’ve no bloody idea. Someone else up there in the land of kilts and cold weather must’ve found out. It’s not inconceivable, you know. Someone probably overheard you in the pub, or on the street, blathering away into your mobile phone.’

‘I haven’t been to the pub,’ she said through gritted teeth, ‘because we’re still housebound by the snow. And we haven’t seen the Tarmac in a week. And I don’t blather.’

‘Then it’s someone at the castle. Who else knows about this wedding?’

‘Who doesn’t?’ Helen retorted. She took a deep drag on the cigarette to calm herself and went over the list in her mind. Tarquin, Wren, Nat and Rhys, Caitlin, Colm—

Her eyes narrowed. Colm. Of course! She’d told him about her desire to score an exclusive story on Dominic and Gemma’s wedding. She’d admitted how important it was to her, how badly she wanted to quit being a hack and become a real writer.

She’d told him she wanted to look in the mirror without despising herself.

And she thought he’d understood. She’d confided in him. She’d bared her innermost soul to him. She’d trusted him. And he’d betrayed her at the first opportunity.

She exhaled a plume of smoke and crushed the cigarette out.

The ginger-haired, conniving bastard.

The next morning, snow greeted Colm as he got out of bed and cast a glance outside. Flakes still fell thickly; overnight, at least another half-foot had blanketed the sloping hills and frosted the roof and turrets of the castle.

It’d be beautiful, he thought dourly, if it wasn’t so much of a bloody nuisance to clear away.

He was about to turn aside when he saw a figure in a woollen cap and a puffa jacket sliding and slipping down the snow-covered drive.

‘Helen! What in God’s name?’ he muttered, and flung on some clothes and a coat and thundered downstairs. Was the woman touched in the head, going for a walk in weather like this?

‘What the devil are you doing?’ he shouted as he stormed outside and confronted her halfway up the drive. ‘Have ye lost your mind? It’s a proper blizzard out here! It’s nae a day to be out for a walk!’

She catapulted herself at him, her face contorted with anger, arms cartwheeling as she pummelled him mercilessly with her fists. ‘You backstabbing bastard! How could you! After I trusted you, you couldn’t wait to run to the phone and call the news desk and – and screw me over!’

Colm muttered an expletive as she kicked him – hard ‒ in the shins. Only the fact that her feet were encased in wellies saved him from significant pain. He reached out and grabbed her by the wrists, not easy to do given her whirling, flailing limbs, and dragged her towards him as he snapped, ‘What the hell are you on about, woman? Have you lost what little sense God gave you?’

‘I have sense enough to know you leaked my story to the Probe,’ she gasped, struggling furiously to free her hands from his.

He stared at her. ‘What? What story? What are you talking about?’

‘You called and told them all about Dom and Gemma’s secret Christmas wedding, didn’t you? How could you do that, Colm? I trusted you! I trusted you enough to tell you,’ she let out a harsh sound between a laugh and a sob ‘everything about myself. I told you about David. About our baby. About our life...our life together, the life we n-never got to have, all because of a fucking lorry driver who f-fell asleep at the wheel...’

She collapsed against him and wept.

His arms came around her after a moment, circling her as she sobbed and pummelled her hands ineffectually against his chest.

‘It’s not fair,’ she railed. ‘I lost everything that mattered to me that night, and it was my own damned fault! If only I’d stayed home, if only I’d refused to go, David would still be here, and I’d be shouting at him for tracking mud over the kitchen f-floor yet again, and we’d have our l-little b-boy. He’d be nearly two by now.’

Colm held her tightly and let her weep. He waited, patting her awkwardly now and then on the back as great, jagged sobs escaped from her, and he felt his own throat tighten.

‘I ken, lassie,’ he muttered into her woollen cap. ‘I ken more than you know.’

She lifted her blotchy, tear-swollen face to stare at him. ‘Do you? How can you possibly understand?’ Scorn laced her words. ‘You’ve never had a child. You’re not even married.’

‘I was married, once. When I was younger.’

Surprise stilled her tears, and Helen let out her breath with a hitch. ‘You were? Really?’ She wiped her nose with the back of a gloved hand. ‘What happened ‒ did your wife fail to measure up to your high standards? Did she talk too much? Or did she use all of the hot water?’

‘She died.’ His words were abrupt. ‘Her name was Alanna. She died giving birth to our son.’

Helen blinked, shocked. ‘She? Oh, Colm...my God -‒I’m so sorry. I-I didn’t know.’

He shrugged and let her go, and his face closed. ‘How could you possibly know, when I never told you?’

‘So you have a son. What’s his name?’ she ventured after an awkward silence.

‘He didn’t make it. The midwife discovered the babe was in breech, with the umbilical cord wrapped around its neck. The doctors did everything they could, but I lost Alanna. And I lost my son. The two people I loved most in this world,’ he snapped his fingers ‘gone, like that.’

Helen opened her mouth to offer him words of comfort, words of apology and understanding; but before she could find the words to speak, Colm turned on one booted heel and made his way through the snow and back to the cottage.

Chapter 24 (#ulink_19f9b6a0-62e1-5274-9758-6d30f072d36f)

Helen stared after Colm in consternation, then struck out after him. It wasn’t easy going, with two foot of snow on the ground and more coming down. But it was bloody cold, and she’d no intention of standing here and freezing to death on the grounds of Draemar castle.

‘Colm!’ she called out a moment later, out of breath as she struggled through the snow. ‘Wait, damn you.’

He stopped and turned around, scowling. ‘Why in hell did you ever leave the castle? You should’ve stayed there. You’ll never get back up the hill now. You’ll lose your way in this whiteout, and they won’t find your body until spring.’

‘Then I suppose you’ll have to force yourself to be hospitable,’ she snapped, ‘if you can manage it, and invite me inside until the snow lets up, won’t you?’