Miracles in the Making (9 page)

Stranger by Morning: Chapter One

Chicago, Illinois, 1986

“Where the hell have you been?” Jonathon Saint Lorraine screamed nastily, following on his son’s heels as the tall chestnut-haired teenager strolled through the front door of the large house situated on North Howe Drive, a black evening jacket swung drunkenly over one shoulder. “It’s past twelve o’clock,” he raged. “I told you to be home three hours ago! You were off gallivanting around the city with some degenerate hooker no doubt.”

“I was out.” The fifteen-year-old continued across the wide foyer, his stride deceptively casual. “There’s no point in pretending like you care. We both know you don’t.”

“Don’t talk back to me, you ungrateful little bastard,” Jonathon snapped. About to continue, he stopped as if to collect himself. “Christian,” he stated, in a tone of one who had been pushed to the breaking point and was exerting every ounce of his effort to keep from exploding, “it strikes me that this discussion is both useless and unnecessary. Go to your room and stay there for the rest of the night.”

“Fuck you.”

As he reached the doorway dividing the large entrance from the rest of the house, Christian could almost hear his father’s teeth grinding. He was sorely tempted to glance over his shoulder, for the sole reason of seeing the full effect his words had on his sire. The pleading expression reflecting in his mother’s soft brown eyes, however, as he passed by her on his way into the hall, quickly doused the idea.

He hated his father. As a result, any chance to flout the son of a bitch’s command was worth whatever punishment would result. In recent weeks, however, Jonathon had begun to take his fury out on his timid wife instead of his rebellious son, a fact that infuriated Chris but one that—short of murdering the bastard—he was helpless to stop.

Jonathon enjoyed having control over people, in the workplace and at home—especially at home. Over the last year Chris had sat back, watching with gleeful satisfaction as, with each of his transgressions, that control slipped a little more. At first, his infractions were small—a fight outside a nightclub and arrests for underage drinking. When that had not been enough to unnerve Jonathan, however, he had resorted to crimes which were far more serious.

Six months ago, a strange man, whom he had never before encountered, caught him driving his neighbor’s car across state lines. As a result, the local courts charged him with grand theft auto. Luckily, due to the far-reaching influence possessed by his family as well as the help of a very expensive attorney, the judge lowered the charge to mere joyriding. Certain his father would be furious, Chris was surprised when he received only a slap on the wrist and a chilly order to cease his shenanigans. After that, his crimes became progressively worse until two months ago they had culminated in his first real offense.

That night he broke into his father’s business and stolen forty thousand dollars along with a large 14-karat gold Rolex valued at around eight thousand dollars. It took his father one month and another twenty thousand dollars to discover who stole the items.

When at last he did, he was both embarrassed and outraged. Instead of allowing Chris to go to prison, as by all rights he should have, Jonathon marched him out of the police station and into the waiting limo.

Once they reached the daunting brick structure where the family resided, he had hauled Chris from the car and into his study where, without one word, he had delivered his own brand of punishment in the form of a brutal beating that left Chris with two broken ribs and a black eye.

No one asked how he acquired the injuries. No one dared. Instead, they accepted the lukewarm explanation given to them by Jonathon that his son fell from a very high tree. After that it didn’t take his father long to discover his one weak spot—his mother and sister. As of late he used them against him, wielding his newfound power with all the harsh strength that a blacksmith wields a hammer, slamming it down whenever he got out of line.

One day, he pondered as he ascended the stairs, he would get them away from Jonathon, as far away as he could. He just needed to figure out how.

* * * *

“Daddy!” Reese exclaimed, sprinting towards the open door where her father, damp from the pounding rain outside, had entered.

Though exhausted from the long hours he spent at the foundry where he worked for most of the past forty-five years of his life, the sight of his daughter racing towards him at the end of a long day never failed to bring a glow to his heart and a smile to his weathered face.

“Have you been hiding from your mother again, sweetheart?”

Looking sly, Reese shifted her gaze a little to the side.

“So you have,” Patrick guessed, following her eyes across the scarred wooden floor to the ragged couch covered in a handmade patchwork quilt a few feet away.

Giggling, Reese swung her head around and stretched her arms skyward.

With a jovial chuckle, her father swept her up in his arms, giving her a tight squeeze.

“Guess what? Guess what?” the little girl expounded, staring up into her father’s expressive features.

“Well, let me see,” Mister Donavon joked. “You got an A on your history test this morning.”

“No, silly,” Reese replied, enjoying the lighthearted game. “Guess again.”

Affecting a pretense of ignorance, Patrick attempted, “You found a lost kitten on your way home from school and your mother said you could keep it.”

“Well, no,” Reese replied, taking a moment to give the matter further contemplation. “That would be nice, but it’s much better than that. Give up?”

“I can’t imagine what could be better than a kitten,” Patrick said. “I know,” he exclaimed as though he were experiencing a great revelation. “How could I have not guessed.”

Holding her breath, Reese waited, her excitement obvious, as he intentionally prolonged the moment.

“It wasn’t a kitten you found,” he announced after what felt to Reese like an eternity. “It was a puppy!”

“No!” Reese replied, shaking with gleeful mirth. “Much better—my birthday is only one day away. I’m going to be a whole year older. Isn’t that wonderful, Daddy, a whole year!”

Not proof against his daughter’s bright smile, Patrick threw her high in the air.

“That’s wonderful, darling,” he replied when he caught her. “You know, I never did forget.”

* * * *

He genuinely meant it, but along with his joy came a twinge of sadness, a whole year.
She was growing up too fast,
he pondered, his crystal blue eyes deepening to a dark navy.

Patrick was proud of all of his children. His three boys were becoming fine young men with a notion for hard work and a strong moral backbone. Sure, they all had a bit of fire in their blood, but they were young yet. They would mellow with age.

However, Reese—his youngest child and only daughter—held a special place in his heart. In that way he supposed he was much like every other father. He could not help it. Tomorrow she was going to be nine years old; it didn’t seem that old, really—except to him, it was. Before he knew it, she’d be ten and then sixteen and then, well, he’d just as soon not think about that, nine was old enough.

Setting his daughter back on her feet he watched as she ran to the bottom of the rickety staircase, where a tall lithe woman with fading blonde hair stood with open arms. Lifting her daughter off her feet, Katarina gave Reese a tight hug, sending her husband a warm smile over the top of her shoulder.

“Come, Reese,” she said, directing her attention to the little girl whose hair was much the same as hers had once been, “it’s almost dinner time. You’d better go wash up.”

Setting Reese back on her feet, she gave her a soft nudge. Her daughter raced up the stairs, taking them two at a time. At the top, she swung around the banister and skidded into the upper hall, disappearing from sight. Nodding her satisfaction, Rena turned her attention away from the now empty staircase and started walking towards her husband, her steps slow and a weary smile set on her lips.

“I missed you today,” she said, her voice quiet as she wrapped her arms around his well-muscled neck.

“Ah and I you, Rena darling.”

Taking his wife in his arms, Patrick placed a hot kiss on her lips, drawing her ever nearer as he did. He pulled back as the front door burst open, emitting three rowdy boys, all of whom dripped with a liberal amount of mud.

* * * *

“I won!” the oldest of the three shouted over his shoulder, darting across the room and flopping down in front of the fireplace where a fire was burning on the grate.

“No way, Niki,” his younger brother retorted. Setting aside his ball and glove the boy went to join his sibling by the fireplace. “It was a tie. You didn’t even hit the base!”

“I did.” Nicoli shot his brother a cocky grin. “You just didn’t see it, Gabi. You were too busy making eyes at that redhead with the big eyes and the even bigger…”

Glancing at his mother, he observed her frown of disapproval and stopped short.

“Sorry, Mama,” he said. Determined to get in one last jibe he finished with staunch resolve, “He was though, you know.”

Both boys turned to their younger sibling for support.

With a wide spread of his hands the youngest of the three boys regarded the other two with a helpless frown, sat down on the hard floor, and without a word began removing his sneakers.

~

London, England

“Jason? Do stop ignoring me so.”

At his mistress’s request, the duke stepped away from the window where he lingered, glowering with fervent distaste at the stagnant city street located outside the translucent glass pane. Jason Rutherford, Viscount Ellis, Earl Hargrove, and third Duke Thornfield turned to acknowledge the provocative female propped on one elbow amongst the smooth silk sheets covering the bed behind him.

“It’s about time you learn a little patience,” he informed the slender redhead with a bite, already moving to resume his position.

Afraid she would lose her lover’s attention if she did not rush to speak, Lady Katrina Morton tripped over her own words. “If anyone lacks some type of serenity Your Grace, you are the guilty party, sorry as I am to admit such a great debacle.”

A half step from the window, Jason changed directions. His movements rapt, he strode to where his sizable bed was located at the center of the chamber. As normal, he employed noble care sinking down at the edge and observing his feminine quarry.

“If that were true,” he responded, “I would have demanded your services long before now. The way I see it, because I have done so at all, you should consider a veritable honor. The fact that I strained to employ any measure of civility speaks for itself. You have no room to complain, my angel.”

Not sure, whether to be more shocked or offended by the harsh remarks, Lady Morton leapt to her feet, her anxiety clear as she grasped for the green silken cover resting in a lifeless pile near her heels.

“I gather you would like for me to leave?” Katrina inquired of the Duke.

As Jason stood along with her, his face revealed no sign of emotion.

“Since there is other business which requires my attention,” he began, his voice edged with graceful sentiment that he didn’t in truth feel. “I see no reason for you to remain. Yes, Lady Morton, I must agree. Your departure would be a far better decision.”

As he reached the door connecting the bedchamber to the hallway Jason paused, his thoughts even now ruffled by images of the disturbing beauty who he had encountered on his recent visit to Ashford.

To the woman beside him he stated, “I will see that my servants attend you. Though be warned, you may consider this your last visit to this manor, especially if it is to be one of a personal nature. Good evening Lady Morton.”

Jason swung the door wide and strode into the townhouse’s hallway, coated on both sides by a dim, golden light. On the verge of slamming the door in his path, he gave his head a frustrated shake. With infinite determination, he forced from his mind visions of a young English beauty who continued to haunt him.

Satisfied with his temporary success, he started for his study, convinced he would complete the few minor pieces of business that awaited him there. Once finished, he could prepare for the events to take place later that night.

* * * *

Across the city, the townhouse located at 73 Grosvenor Street—home to Lord and Lady Blakely—shimmered furiously against the London night. It was ablaze with light flowing from its rich interior, alive with unique decorations. Every few seconds an individual hurried past one of the four windows, set into the gray stone of the townhouse’s main story.

“Lady Blakely,” one of the servants called, once again hurrying past the glass. “Please, excuse my interruption, but where was it you said you wanted these flowers? I do apologize, your ladyship.”

Lady Leticia Blakely, wife of Lord Markus Blakely exhaled. “Of course Martha,” she responded to the aged maid. “I requested they be placed here, in the ballroom—on the table near the main entrance. I would like my niece to see them as soon as she enters. The golden daffodils have always been one of Ariel’s favorites.”

“Aunt Leticia?” Approaching her aunt from behind, Ariel stretched up, giving the middle-aged woman’s right shoulder a light tap.

Leticia jumped at the unexpected contact. The gray-streaked, light brown hair that thickened her head shivered in alarm. Still, as her niece rounded to her front side, she acknowledged the girl with a short laugh.

“May I help you?” Her words on the tail end of the fond chuckle.

Ariel, who was apprehensive and wary, now relinquished some of her tension. More cheerful, she explained, “It’s only that I have, at last, completed my unpacking. I wondered if you might be able to tell me when the ball is to take place. That way I can be prepared. As I’m sure my father has long since told to you, I do have a tendency to wander.”

“Don’t worry darling,” Leticia informed her niece. “I will be sure to let you know when the time comes. I will send one of my servants to alert you.” With a sympathetic smile, Leticia patted the young girl on the head. “Ariel?” she inquired on the heels of her statement. “Don’t get too comfortable, my dear. After all, you are aware, are you not, that in two days we will travel to our estate in the country, and you will be required to at least partially repack.”

“Thank you, Aunt. Oh, the flowers are gorgeous.” Grateful for this fresh knowledge, which before that point she had been unaware of, Ariel gave Leticia a tight embrace, then swung away. Unsure where to go, she wandered towards the library, hoping that once there, she could discover a small measure of quiet.

“Lady Blakely.” Positioned a few inches inside the room, the Duke of Thornfield rested one shoulder against the thick mahogany molding that lined the sides of the doorway.

“Your Grace?” Clearly startled by her premature visitor, Lady Blakely shifted her attention to the duke. “Whatever brings you to this gathering at this early hour? My heavens, no other guests have even arrived yet. Please don’t take offense. I am, of course, pleased by your company.”

“As always,” Jason returned with a light laugh, “you are an extremely affable hostess. Might I ask, what has you acting so jittery at this time?”

Eased by his relaxed approach, Leticia strolled to where he stood, temporarily disregarding the room, she had entered only moments before. “More than one matter,” she admitted with a sigh. “It’s no wonder all the ladies love you as they do,” she informed Jason, shifting subjects abruptly. “You have an incredibly affluent way of dealing with them. If I were not a married woman—but you know what I am trying to say.”

The duke lifted her hand and then grazed her fingers with his lips. “Your husband is a lucky man. Which reminds me of the reason for my arriving at such an early hour—I wish to speak with him about one of the shipping companies in which we both hold a share. I gather he is available?”

“Yes, Your Grace.” Leticia straightened and withdrew her hand.

Though he did possess a streak of genuine courtesy, Jason was, far more cynical and overbearing in nature than he was kind and compassionate. Though few were aware of the fact, to those individuals who socialized with the duke on a regular basis the point was easy enough to recognize.

~