Because We Belong (Because You Are Mine #3)(86)
“She was raped,” Ian grated out.
“My mother agrees,” Lucien said regretfully. “Unlike the police officials, she was familiar with the cycles of Helen’s schizophrenia. She’d never seen your mother decompensate to the level she fell to during that time period. It was clear to my mother she’d experienced a severe trauma. Helen didn’t speak for nearly a month after the incident. My mother thought for sure when she discovered Helen was pregnant that she wouldn’t be able to carry the child to term, she was so debilitated. All signs point to the conclusion that when Helen denied Gaines, he eventually resorted to rape. It’s not as if there isn’t clear-cut proof that he was familiar with those tactics,” Lucien said bitterly.
Ian’s grandmother laughed in the distance, the sound echoing off the walls of the Great Hall. It took Ian a few seconds to even recognize the familiar sound for what it was.
“And your mother gave birth nine months later,” Lucien finished heavily.
“I can see why you wouldn’t want your mother seeing me,” Ian stated after a pause. He and Trevor Gaines looked appallingly alike, after all. If it weren’t for the difference of their eyes, they might have been twins. Lucien’s mother obviously remained ignorant of the fact that her seducer and Helen’s rapist were one and the same man. If she were to meet Helen’s son, however, the truth would be slammed home by the simple, blatant evidence of Ian’s face.
“I do want you to meet my mother someday,” Lucien said fiercely. “Of course I do. I’m just trying to convey to you the complexity of the whole thing.”
“I would never let her anywhere near me, if I were you,” Ian said, walking past Lucien to the Great Hall.
He suddenly wanted nothing more than for this whole conversation to be over. Lucien halted him with a hand on his upper arm. Ian looked at his brother, anger—that old, familiar companion—starting to bubble beneath the surface of his calm façade. Not anger at Lucien, but at some unknown, vague grayness that seemed to return in that moment to press down on him like a suffocating pall.
I can’t escape it, no matter how hard I’ve been trying to for the past week, since the second you looked into Francesca’s startled, glistening eyes as she stood in that reception line.
“You’re my brother. She’s my mother,” Lucien hissed. “Of course I want my family to meet someday. You’re not Trevor Gaines, Ian.”
The fury reared in him, seeming to constrict his throat. He jerked Lucien’s hold off him, a snarl shaping his mouth. He had that tight, hot feeling in his chest again that made breathing difficult. When he turned, he saw Francesca standing in the hallway, a startled expression on her face. He froze. Half of her face was radiant from sunshine, the other cast in a shadow from the grand staircase.
“Lucien? The car is here.” Her gaze narrowed on Ian. She took a step toward him. “Ian? Are you all right? What is it?”
He didn’t reply. Too much emotion had erupted in him too quickly. He walked ahead of both of them to the Great Hall and started up the stairs, taking two at a time. He’d already said his good-byes to Elise, and he couldn’t force himself to take part in small talk at the moment. He did his best to ignore the sensation of Francesca’s dubious, worried stare at his back.
* * *
It was technically too cold to ride a motorcycle, but Ian dressed for it, and the winter day was sunny and unseasonably mild, the temperature inching up to the high thirties. When he saw more than a half dozen press vans outside the main entrance security gate, he cursed bitterly under his breath and thought of turning around. His grandfather had told him that several news stations had called his secretary this morning about the shooting at Belford Hall yesterday, asking for interviews and a statement. James had denied requests for interviews, but he and Ian had come up with a basic statement, saying that all the visitors at the press conference and the family were safe, and deferring to the Stratham police for official news of the crime. The break-in and shooting had been made all that much more sensationalistic because it involved an earl, his heir to the title, and Ian himself, who had been making a reappearance on the business scene. In addition, the crime had happened during a well-publicized and well-attended press conference, the gunshot itself being picked up by press cameras. According to Anne, the press conference and chilling gunshot interruption were being replayed continually on national and local stations.
Screw it, Ian thought, waving a hand at Cromwell at the security gate, and turning onto the road a moment later. The press didn’t know who was behind the black helmet with the face visor. Although certainly many of the people who lived locally knew that the earl’s grandson was fond of motorcycles, he noticed that the majority of the vans were from London stations. If they chose to chase him, let them. He was edgy and restless enough to crave a challenge. Besides, he’d blow them away on the sleek MV Agusta he straddled.
He ripped past the vans parked on the side of the road at a lightning-fast pace, actually half hoping one or several would follow. He saw only a couple surprised, pale faces peer at him from the vehicle windows, none of them alight with the thrill of a chase, however.
The chill air rushing past him as he roared down the country roads was sufficient for clearing his head, though, seeming to blow out some of his anger and crystalize his thoughts.
He craved some numbing off.