Jane Porter - Bought by the Rich Man

Cristiano was right, morning did come early, but the fire never died out and Sam found out later, when she woke, it was because Cristiano had gotten up repeatedly during the night to add more logs to keep the cottage warm.

Gabby, for her part, was delighted to discover they had company. “You!” she said, bounding out of her bed on the couch as she spotted Cristiano entering the house, carrying a stack of firewood. “You came to see us in England!”

“I did.”

Gabby grabbed one of the blankets and wrapped it around her shoulder as he stacked the split logs next to the hearth. “You played cards with Papa.”

Sam turned sharply towards Gabby. “How do you know that?”

“He did, didn’t he?” she asked innocently. “And he took Papa’s money, too.”

“Gabriela!”

The girl looked from one to the other. “Didn’t he?”

Cristiano tossed a log onto the fire. “Yes,” he said bluntly as sparks hissed and shot from the fire. “He wasn’t a very good cardplayer.”

Gabby nodded thoughtfully and she chewed her lip. “That’s what Sam says, too.” And then her expression cleared. “Maybe you can play some cards with me.”

Sam nearly choked on her tongue. “I don’t think he plays the kind of games we play, Gabriela.”

“I can teach him,” Gabby answered. “Go Fish and War is easy.”

“I think I remember how to play.” Cristiano smiled faintly as he brushed his hands off. “In fact, I used to be very good at War.”

“Really?” Gabby’s tongue poked out, touched the corner of her mouth giving her a slightly naughty look. “I bet I’m better than you.” She leaned forward, said in a stage whisper. “I beat Sam. I beat everyone.”

Sam blushed with embarrassment but Cristiano laughed, a deep masculine sound that rumbled from his chest.

“You are your father’s child, aren’t you?” he said, but he wasn’t looking at Gabby as he spoke. He was looking right at Sam.

And suddenly Sam understood even though she didn’t want to. Last night she’d ignored the facts, but this morning she couldn’t play ostrich. It was all beginning to make sense. The card games, the high stakes, the ruthless moves, the seizing of family and assets…

She was forced to ask questions now, forced to piece it together bit by bit.

Perhaps this wasn’t just a gambler’s impulse move…

Perhaps all along Cristiano had ulterior motives…

Perhaps Cristiano, not Johann, was Gabriela’s father…

But those fragmented thoughts were forgotten as Gabby scrambled to the window and announced, “Someone’s coming! It’s a lady and she looks mad.”

Sam tucked a blond curl behind her ear and exchanging swift glances with Cristiano, headed for the door. But on opening the door, Sam froze as she caught sight of the white-haired woman bundled in a thick gray wool. “Mrs. Bishop,” she whispered, rooted to the spot.

The elderly woman looked equally stunned, her annoyance giving way to shock. “Samantha?”

Sam closed the distance and gave the older woman a swift hug. “What are you doing here?”

Mrs. Bishop clasped her hands on Sam’s shoulders. “I should ask you the same! You gave us all quite a scare. I’d heard there were lights here last night, and I insisted Gilbert, my son-in-law, drive me over.” She paused, tilted her head back, searched Sam’s face. “It’s been so long, my girl. Where have you been?”

“Away.” Sam tried to smile but couldn’t. Suddenly the past was rushing back, painful memories she didn’t want, couldn’t bear. Charles had died eight years ago and yet suddenly it seemed as if it were just yesterday. “How is everyone? And where is everyone? When did the Rookery close?”

“Not long after you left.”

“I see.” Sam bit her lip, and she did see, she knew exactly what had happened. Without Charles to run things there probably wasn’t funding, or the management, to keep the orphanage open. “Would you come in?”

Mrs. Bishop nodded, and followed Sam back into the cottage but her expression fell as she took in the cottage’s deplorable conditions. “You can’t possibly mean to stay here. The cottage is a wreck. There’s no water, heat, plumbing. What are you thinking?”

Sam smiled, but tears filled her eyes. “I don’t know.”

Mrs. Bishop saw the tears and shaking her head, clucked, “It’s not been easy, has it, my girl?”

Mrs. Bishop’s kindness would be Sam’s undoing and yet Sam knew she couldn’t break down here, not in front of Gabby, not with Cristiano standing just a stone’s throw away, listening to everything being said. Which reminded her, she ought to make introductions. She couldn’t very well pretend Gabby and Cristiano weren’t here.

But Mrs. Bishop had spotted Gabby already. She clapped her hands, bent low. “And is that your little girl?”

Gabby scampered to Sam’s side. “Um, yes.” Sam put an arm around Gabby’s shoulders. “I’m her…her…nanny.”

“And my mum. My stepmum,” the little girl corrected. “You see, she married my dad. Johann van Bergen. But he left us. There were problems with money.”

Mrs. Bishop’s head shot up and she stared aghast at Sam. “Is this true?”

Sam flushed. “More or less.”

“And is that why you’re here?” Mrs. Bishop continued worriedly. “You’ve nowhere else to go?”

Put like that it sounded absolutely appalling. A desperate Sam dragging a little girl across the continent to a derelict orphanage in Cheshire.

Her mouth opened, her throat worked, but there was no ready answer. Just the sting of tears she wouldn’t cry, and the bite of memory, the ache of heartbreak.

She’d grown up here, gone to school here, and would have lived here as Charles’s wife if he hadn’t died. No wonder she’d run here when she didn’t know where to go. Until she was eighteen, the Rookery was her entire world.

“We’re in transition,” she said, finally finding her voice. “But I thought until we were more settled, it’d be nice to visit.”

Mrs. Bishop’s light blue gaze, though watery, missed little. “Are you in trouble, my girl?”

Sam’s cheeks burned and she shook her head swiftly and before she could stumble her way through another feeble protest, Cristiano moved forward.

“Samantha wanted us to see her home,” he said, sliding an arm around Sam, his hand resting lightly, and yet provocatively, on her hip. “She thought it was important we knew where she came from.”

“Yes, of course.” Mrs. Bishop was nodding and clucking again. “You’ve heard then all about her life. So much tragedy for one so young.” She regarded Sam with a look of tenderness. “I was the head housekeeper when she came to stay with us at the Rookery. It was a very difficult time but we loved her and she adjusted, although there were many nights we heard her crying.”

“ Mrs. Bishop ,” Sam remonstrated, going hot and cold. Mrs. Bishop’s shared memories were nearly as painful as Cristiano’s arm against her lower back, his hand warm on her hip, her body exquisitely sensitive.

“I know it’s hard, Samantha,” Mrs. Bishop said, reaching out to touch Sam’s cheek. “But if he loves you half as much as we do, he’ll want to know everything.”

Sam shuddered. “He knows enough.”

“So you’ve told him all about Charles, then?” Mrs. Bishop’s expression gentled even more. “Ah, that was a tragedy no one’s forgotten—”

“Mrs. Bishop.” Sam’s voice came out strangled.

But Mrs. Bishop so engrossed in her memories and stories seemed oblivious to Sam’s agony. “It was horrific. No one could believe it, no one knew what to do. Our beautiful Sam, a bride and a widow all in the same night.”