Doomed to Torment Read online

  And Angus couldn’t cope with reliving the helplessness that came with his son’s terror all over again.

  He abruptly stood. “I have an appointment with the chairman of the preservation society. Take that to the incinerator, please. If you care to join us for dinner, Isolde, your company would be welcome.”

  Denying her time to respond, he strode from the room. He had promised to keep Camille safe and failed. No matter how badly Isolde drove him to distraction, he would not fail to protect his son.

  Chapter Two

  Alone in the spacious, tapestry-covered room that served as his office, Angus sat behind his oversized desk and stared at the colorful wall. For the first time in his life he had lied to someone. He’d looked Isolde in the eye and claimed he had a pending conference call. Just because he needed an easy way out.

  Because Isolde McLaine did something to him that he couldn’t explain. She challenged him when he least expected it. She had never afforded him the deference an employer deserved. Unfortunately, she made it utterly impossible to think about anything other than the many ways he wanted to explore her gentle curves and even softer skin.

  Which had been why, until the last year, he’d spent more time away from Hatherly than he had inside it. Why a part of him had been glad when Isolde quit, even if a greater part of his being had stood up in outrage.

  Angus sighed, dropped his head into his hands, and rubbed his eyes. Ten minutes alone with her and his body felt like stone. His insides twisted against the same achy feeling Isolde produced every time he caught a whiff of her sweet heather perfume. Every time her eyes held his a fraction too long.

  Every time he witnessed her playing with Thomas. Like Camille had once done.

  He groaned as his deceased wife’s memory rose and lifted his head. In so many ways Isolde reminded him of Camille. Her hair, her long lithe stature, the way she carried herself with unspeakable dignity, and yet somehow managed to avoid all traces of arrogance.

  She also had been the only woman to enter his life—and there had been many in the immediate years after Camille’s death—who included Thomas in all she could.

  Laughter drifted through the open window behind him. He swiveled in his leather chair to look across the lawn, a smile playing on his mouth at the sound of Thomas’s happiness. But as Angus’s gaze locked on his son, his chest clamped inward. He moved to the edge of the chair, instantaneously possessed by fear. Thomas stood at the bank of the River Dewent, skipping stones into the water. He laughed again, and bent toward the surface.

  Angus bolted to his feet. “Thomas!”

  The distance between Hatherly and the river didn’t even register as Thomas stuffed his hand into the water and leaned closer. Angus’s world tilted sideways. Not out there. Not on the moss-covered rocks where Camille had slipped.

  He shoved around the corner of his desk, knocking a stack of papers onto the floor in the process. At a jog, he burst through the doors, down the hall, through the kitchen to the rear entrance. As he shoved the heavy timbers open, Thomas plunged his hand into the water and giggled once again.

  Angus ran across the lawn. “Thomas! Get away from there!”

  His bellow had the opposite effect—his son startled. Jerking upright, his right foot slipped on the slick moss. He stumbled forward, grasping for the large boulder further up the shallow bank.

  Angus reached him before his little fingers latched onto the rough rock. He grabbed Thomas by the elbow and hauled him onto the grass. “For God’s sake, Thomas, how many times have I told you to stay away from the river?” To Angus’s shame, his voice held the sharp bite of fury. He took a deep breath, expelled it slowly as he looked into his son’s wide-eyed expression.

  “Father, I was just catching frogs. It’s shallow here. I can walk all the way across.”

  It was shallow where Camille fell too. But Thomas didn’t remember the way his mother hit her head, how she’d lain there breathing in the water…

  Angus shook his head. “All it takes is an inch of water. Come along now.” He gave Thomas a gentle push toward the house. “Isolde’s come to pay a visit.”

  “Isolde!” Thomas’s down-turned expression brightened. “Where is she?”

  “Down in the cellar. But she’s—” Before Angus could finish telling his son that Isolde was in the middle of something and would join them for dinner soon, Thomas took off like a rocket.

  “I have to tell her about the tadpoles!” Thomas’s excitement rang halway across the lawn like a clear bell.

  Chuckling, Angus folded his arms across his chest and watched with a wistful smile. He would miss Thomas this fall. Miss the laughter that brightened the grey clouds hanging over Hatherly. Maybe his son could convince Isolde to stay a while longer. They could share one last summer together with Isolde as their guest, not Angus’s employee. Per her own words, if she didn’t work for him, she wouldn’t hold back from the desire he had touched so briefly on that one unforgettable night.

  ****

  Isolde rummaged through the crate of photographs Angus had insisted on throwing away, pausing as her fingers hit something hard at the bottom of the box. She pulled the object out and squinted at a framed photograph of Angus, Thomas as an infant, and a beautiful blonde who could only be Camille.

  She tipped the photograph to better see in the poor lighting. Camille cradled Thomas while Angus looked over her shoulder, tender affection softening his expression. The stark honesty reflected in his gaze made Isolde’s lungs feel tight. Several times she’d witnessed something similar when Angus looked at Thomas, but never this depth of emotion, never the raw way he looked upon his wife.

  And Isolde couldn’t deny a small part of her longed for him to look at her the same way.

  She closed her eyes, savoring the warmth that filled her veins, ignoring the fleeting stab of envy. He had loved Camille. He made no attempt to hide that. But how long had it been since Angus had felt anything other than the temperate way he approached life and business? Only one other time had he given in to obvious feeling, however remote it might have been—the night they had almost become lovers. She hadn’t made the connection then, but now, the contrast between the photograph and the man she’d come to know was so obvious that she couldn’t deny he’d felt something when he kissed her.

  Sighing, she opened her eyes once more and focused on Camille. She wore her long hair in a thick braid that lay over a slender shoulder. A pale blue sweater gave her eyes the color of a cloudless summer sky. She was delicate and lovely, qualities that didn’t surprise Isolde in the least. After all, Camille hailed from an old family. Money had afforded her many luxuries, and Angus wouldn’t have married anyone less than breathtaking. He didn’t have to—women flocked to him like St. Patrick drew snakes.

  Why he wanted her, she couldn’t explain. From all she’d heard, Camille was as delicate in personality as she was in stature. And while Isolde had been quiet as a mouse for most of her immortal existence, the last decade, when she’d finally moved away from Scotland and Fintan and forced herself to become self-reliant, she’d become anything but meek. Angus and she battled wills more often than they didn’t. She never withheld her thoughts, never curbed her tongue.

  She certainly wasn’t demure, like the woman in the photograph.

  “Isolde!” The breathless exclamation accompanied the heavy drill of small feet on stone steps. “Isolde! The eggs hatched!”

  Isolde lifted her head, a smile already forming.

  Thomas skidded into the room. “You’ve got to see the tadpoles! They’re huge. And they like the moss and the little pool you made for them, just like you said they would!”

  “Do they really?” Suppressing a laugh, she outstretched her arms, inviting Thomas to a hug.

  “Oh yes!” He tumbled into her arms awkwardly and hugged her tight. Drawing away, he pushed a hand through unruly blond hair and gave her a crooked grin. “I’ve been feeding them the frozen spinach we put away.” His grin faded, and a frown pulled
at his mouth. “But Father doesn’t like me down by the river. I can’t go every day.”

  She ruffled his already mussed hair. “I’m sure they appreciate when you can come. They’ve got food too, remember? The current brings it to the pool.”

  “I guess.” Shrugging, his grin returned in full force. “I’ve missed you. What are you doing down here?”

  “I missed you, too.” She glanced at the framed picture in her hand, weighed Angus’s words for all of two seconds, and then passed the photo to Thomas. “Looking at some of your old pictures.”

  He took the photograph and dropped to sit by her side. Quietly, he studied what he held. The uncustomary frown reappeared, and Isolde inwardly cringed. Maybe Angus did know what he was talking about. Maybe Thomas was better off not remembering his mother at all, if seeing her made him so unhappy.

  “What’s wrong, Thomas?”

  The tiny creases in his brow deepened as he lifted blue eyes to hers. “Why are you in the picture with me and Father, Isolde?”

  Chuckling, Isolde shook her head. “That’s not me, Thomas. That’s your mum.”

  “She looks like you.” He thrust the photo beneath her nose.

  Me? Isolde blinked. She bent forward to better see what Thomas observed, and the amused smile hovering on her mouth froze in place. A moment ago, she’d studied Camille and saw the woman Angus married. Now, as she looked at the same picture as Thomas might see it, with the detachment of someone who didn’t recognize the person for who she was, she recognized the similarities. Their hair was the same color, their build nearly identical. No wonder Angus had kissed her.

  The earlier stab of envy became a deep slash. The something he’d felt wasn’t because of her, but because he had slipped into the world he loved, the world he couldn’t escape—Camille’s world.

  Damn it. She should have taken these things to the incinerator as Angus insisted. If she had, she could have remained blissfully ignorant.

  Swallowing down a lump of disappointment, she forced a smile to her face. “Your mother is much prettier than I am, Thomas.” She ran an affectionate hand through his hair. “And she’d be so proud to see you now. Do you remember her at all?”

  Still looking at the picture, he shook his head.

  Her heart twisted once more, as the reality of what Angus was doing struck again. Thomas deserved to remember his mother. He shouldn’t be forced to give up the only memories that remained—the photos, Hatherly and its roomfuls of family mementos. He’d despise his father once he was old enough to understand what Angus had done by turning Hatherly Hall over to the National Trust. Even if the preservation society would keep the majority of the estate intact, none of this would ever be Thomas’s again.

  “Maybe you can convince your father to tell you some things.”

  “Do you think he would?” Hope lit Thomas’s face.

  “I think you should ask him.” She took the picture from Thomas and placed it back inside the crate. From a small pile near her knees, she picked up the initial photograph she’d found and handed it to him. “Here. This is you on your third birthday. Start with this. Ask him about that day.”

  “Which day?” Angus’s smooth baritone echoed from beyond the arched opening of stone.

  Isolde’s head snapped up and her eyes widened. Oh, dear ancestors above. He’d heard them. Now there would certainly be hell to pay.

  Angus’s broad frame filled the arched entrance. For a moment, simple curiosity registered in the lift of dark eyebrows. In the next heartbeat, however, his gaze landed on the crate she had yet to take to the incinerator and the photograph in his son’s hands. Green eyes sharpened to the color of dark jade. Where the faintest glimpse of a smile had hovered on his mouth, anger pursed his lips into a harsh line.

  He pulled in a breath, lifted his cold glare to Isolde. “Thomas. Go upstairs. Now.”

  Chapter Three

  “But Father, I—”

  Angus pulled in a deep breath to temper the anger that burned through his veins. His gaze flicked to his son, then locked on Isolde’s defiant expression once again. To his surprise, his voice remained level, but unyielding. “Go upstairs, Thomas. Don’t argue with me.”

  A harassed sigh escaped his son’s lips as he begrudgingly rose. Muttering something Angus didn’t want to decipher, he trudged out of the room. Angus waited until his footfalls reached the top of the stairs. “Shut the door, son!”

  The slam of heavy wood answered.

  The sound broke the thin veil of control around Angus’s fury. He strode into the room and came to a stop a foot away from Isolde. “What do you think you’re doing?” His bellow echoed off the tall stone walls. How dare she defy him and subject Thomas to the terrors all over again.

  She opened her mouth, anger coloring her cheeks. Then she snapped it shut and deliberately smoothed her palms down her thighs. Far more calmly than Angus had anticipated, she answered, “He asked me what I was doing. I’m not going to lie to him, Angus. You might, but I won’t.”

  Lie to him? He wasn’t lying to his son. For God’s sake, he was preserving Thomas’s well-being the only way he knew how. He coiled a hand into a tight fist, resisting the urge to reach down and jerk Isolde to her feet. The woman needed a sound shaking. Thomas was his child, not hers. What he learned in life was Angus’s decision, no one else’s. Now wasn’t the time to bring back memories that had nearly put his child in the hospital.

  “I told you to burn that crate. If I’d thought for a minute that you’d show those photos to Thomas, I’d have done it myself.”

  Isolde shot to her feet. “Then do so! Thomas has no idea who is mother is. He thought it was me in that picture, Angus! Camille is his mother—do you think she’d want you to help him forget her?” With a sharp kick, she sent the crate skidding into the toe of his boots.

  “You have no right,” he ground out tightly.

  To his surprise, Isolde nodded. “You’re right. I don’t. He’s your son. You make the decisions. You know best, don’t you?”

  The bitter sarcasm that laced her words punched Angus in the gut. She was in no position to judge. She wasn’t a parent, couldn’t possibly understand the conflict over doing what he thought was right and knowing Camille would hate him for burying her memory. All the anger he’d ever felt over her death, the helplessness he’d experienced when he’d found her in the river, the frustration of not knowing how to raise a child alone exploded. “You weren’t there! You didn’t stay up through his nightmares. He couldn’t sleep, he couldn’t eat—the doctors wanted to hospitalize him, Isolde!” Bending, he swiped the crate into his hands. “I will not put Thomas through that again. Do you hear me?”

  Denying her the opportunity to respond, he shot her one last scathing glare, pivoted, and stormed through the archway, crate in hand. Across a narrow hallway, he kicked open the door to the incinerator’s room and yanked on the chain to the overhead light. He came to a stop at a short table that held a half-full cauldron of ash and dropped the box onto the worn wooden surface before flinging open the furnace’s hatch. At the same time, he reached into the crate and grabbed the first thing that came in contact with his fingertips—the framed photograph. As he turned to toss it into the roaring flames, Camille’s smile reflected in the light. He paused, hearing Isolde’s unbending words. Do you think she’d want you to help him forget her?

  Anguish broke him. With an unsteady hand he touched Camille’s pretty face. She’d loved Thomas so much. Loved them both to fathomless limits. And while Angus had overcome grief, he was denying his son the tangible evidence of the love he had once cherished, all opportunity of ever knowing his mother. Camille wouldn’t want Thomas to forget any more than Angus wanted him to remember.

  “I don’t know what to do, Cami,” he whispered as a fine sheen of moisture blurred his vision.

  He blinked back tears he hadn’t shed since he’d finally accepted she wasn’t coming back and swallowed hard. But the answering silence offered no comfort. He was alone
in this. The happy family he held in his hands didn’t exist. He had to make the decisions for Thomas’s well-being, trust his judgment not to lead him astray. Depending on Camille to answer wouldn’t happen—she hadn’t whispered a word in five long years.

  All he had left to guide him were memories of plans they’d made, decisions they’d once agreed on. None of which ever encompassed what to do upon the other’s death. They’d been too young to think life would tailspin. Too confident in the bright future they intended.

  Now, all Angus had of the life they’d dreamt of was a room full of things he himself had forgotten and the overwhelming fear that somehow, like he had failed Camille, he would fail his son.

  Biting down emotion he didn’t want to feel, he tossed the framed picture of the idealized life he once understood into the furnace. He watched the colors bleed into a muddy sea, stared unseeing as their faces warped. When the edges of the wood caught fire, he shut the door and left the room to the muffled sound of shattering glass.

  ****

  Isolde marched through the upstairs foyer in search of Nadine, driven by angry steam. Angus was making the biggest mistake of both his life and Thomas’s, and she refused to stay and become a part of it. That woman in the photograph deserved to be remembered. Thomas had the right to know his mother.

  She careened around the corner as a maid she didn’t recognize shut the front doors behind the last exiting tourist. Nadine lingered inside the museum, pulling down the blinds on the windows and setting the security system. Isolde stalked through the heavy glass door and slammed it shut. “I hate him.”

  Nadine jumped, but quickly gave in to a chuckle. “It went that well, did it?”

  “He’s a fool, Nadine! Thomas saw a picture of his mother—he thought it was me! He has no memory of that poor, sweet woman. And Angus is intent on keeping him from ever learning about her.” Surprised by the depth of her anger, she silently counted to ten to curb the shaking in her limbs.