Red lily by nora roberts ebook

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Lincoln City Libraries. Even when she went mad, she knew it for a lie. Her son lived. Held him for ransom. How could it be otherwise when she could feel his heart beat as truly as she felt her own? Reginald had taken what was hers, using his money to buy the silence of those who served him.

Done with her, she thought as she buttoned the gray dress with trembling fingers. Finished now that he had what he had wanted. A son, an heir. Offering her money and a voyage to England in exchange. He would pay, he would pay, he would pay, her mind repeated as she groomed herself. But not with money. Oh no. Not with money. She was all but penniless now, but she would find a way.

Of course she would find a way, once she had her darling James back in her arms. The servants—rats and sinking ships—had stolen some of her jewelry.

She knew it. But what could she expect from the thin-lipped scarecrow of a jeweler? He was a man, after all. It was a trinket, really. Too delicate, too small for her tastes. But she wanted it, and tore through the messy maze of her bedroom and dressing area in search. Wept like a child when she found a sapphire brooch instead. As the tears dried, as her fingers closed around the pin, she forgot the bracelet and her desperate desire for it.

Now she smiled at the sparkle of rich blue stones. It would be enough to provide a start for her and James. She would take him away, to the country perhaps. Until she felt well again, strong again. It was all very simple, really, she decided with a ghastly smile as she studied herself in the glass.

The gray dress was quiet, dignified—the proper tone for a mother. She had no servants now, no dressmakers to fuss with alterations. She would get her figure back once she and James found their pretty country cottage. A quiet look was better, she concluded. A quiet look was soothing to a child. The drive out of the city to the grand Harper mansion was long, cold, and costly. But it was worth the price of a private carriage.

How else could she bring her James back to Memphis, where she would carry him up the stairs to his nursery, lay him tenderly in his crib, and sing him to sleep?

In her mind he was a newborn still. The carriage rolled down the long drive, and Harper House, in all its glory, stood commanding the view. The yellow stone, the white trim were warm and graceful against the harsh gray sky. Its three stories were proud and strong, accented by trees and shrubs, a rolling lawn.

He ruled like a king. One day, one day, her son would usurp the father. She would rule Harper House with James. Her sweet, sweet James. Though the windows of the great house were blank and glazed by the sun—secret eyes staring out at her—she imagined living there with her James.

Saw herself tending him there, taking him for walks in the gardens, hearing his laughter ring in the halls. The house was his, so in turn, the house was hers. They would live there, happily, only the two of them. As it was meant to be.

She climbed out of the carriage, a pale, thin woman in an ill-fitting gray dress, and walked slowly toward the front entrance. The man who answered wore dignified black, and though his gaze swept over her, his face revealed nothing. His left eyebrow lifted, the barest fraction. He is your master.

Mama is here. You must calm yourself, and tell me what is the matter. Havers had a kind face, and added a gentle smile. Perhaps you could sit for a moment and compose yourself. Another trick. She made it to the second floor before she collapsed on weak legs. A door opened, and the mistress of Harper House stepped out. She was beautiful, sternly so, with eyes like chips of blue ice, a slender blade of a nose, and plump lips that were curled now in disgust.

She wore a morning dress of deep rose silk, with a high collar and tightly cinched waist. My son. She walked to a pretty granite hearth and turned so the fire smoldered behind her, and her eyes stayed cold when the door shut quietly.

It holds no interest for me, nor do you. I had assumed that women of your ilk, those who consider themselves mistresses rather than common trollops, had enough wit and style not to step their foot into the home of what they like to call their protector.

Is Reginald here? All the frenzy and fury had drained out of her, leaving her cold and confused. Her hearth, her parlor. Her son. I have his blanket in the carriage. I came for James. They said he was dead, but I hear him crying. I need to find him, sing him to sleep. I could almost pity you. But I, at least, am innocent.