Once Upon an Irritatingly Magical Kiss by Bree Wolf

Chapter Thirty-Eight

A Mother’s Return

Seated at his desk, Thorne looked up from his papers, his gaze drawn to the window where his new sister-in-law, Harriet, was once more galloping off into the distance.

On her own, no less.

Smiling, Thorne chuckled. By now, he was well aware that the Whickertons did things their own way. Most parents of the ton, he supposed, would have objected to their daughter riding off without a chaperone of some kind. However, Lord and Lady Whickerton—Charles and Beatrice!—strongly believed that not only their son, but also their daughters had the right to make their own choices.

As well as their own mistakes.

Thorne promised himself that he would grant Samantha the same rights, the same freedoms, the same choices. After all, how would he have felt if he had been forced to live his whole life directed by others, dependent on other people’s whims?

No, it was unimaginable.

A knock sounded on the door to his study before Reuben stepped into the room. “I beg your pardon, Sir. You have…a visitor.” The old man’s lips thinned in a rather disapproving way. “She insists on speaking to you.”

Thorne frowned. “She? Did she give a name?”

“A Mrs. Miller.” Reuben’s lips thinned even further, and Thorne could see that the man spoke with great reluctance.

Rising to his feet, Thorne stepped around his desk, his gaze fixed upon his butler, trying to understand what had raised the man’s disapproval in such a way. “I cannot say that I’ve ever heard her name.”

Reuben swallowed hard. “Mrs. Miller claims to be…Miss Samantha’s mother.”

Thorne’s jaw all but dropped as he stared at his butler. “Pardon me?”

Reuben cleared his throat. “Mrs. Miller insists on speaking with you regarding her…daughter.”

All of a sudden, the clock situated upon the shelf to his right seemed to tick with a loudness it had not possessed before. Each second seemed to crawl by with agonizing slowness as Thorne continued to stare at Reuben. He could feel every muscle in his body pull tight, every breath accompanied by a sense of almost painful dread. Why now?

Ever since he had found Samantha upon his doorstep, Thorne had wondered about the child’s mother. He had spent months trying to find her. Yet eventually he had given up, certain that he never would. Samantha had become his, and his alone.

Now, after years of it only having been the two of them, they had found a family to call their own. Christina was his wife, and slowly, step-by-step, she was becoming Samantha’s mother.

Thorne loved seeing the two of them together. He loved the way Samantha turned to Christina, snuggled into her side or reached for her hand, her eyes glowing with trust and love, the same way they did when she looked at him. Through Christina’s stories, they had found a way to one another, often huddled up together in the evenings, Samantha’s head resting upon Christina’s shoulder as Christina continued her tale of the fairies that lived out in the forests.

The glow upon his daughter’s face never failed to make Thorne pause in his step whenever they sat in this manner and his little daughter listened, listened most carefully, and imagined. He could see it in Samantha’s eyes. Christina’s words drew her away from the here and now, allowed her to dream in a most wonderful way.

Samantha looked utterly happy and at peace in these moments, and Thorne could not help but fear what her mother’s sudden reappearance might do to his daughter’s life.

“Shall I send her away, Sir?” Reuben asked, a hard look in his eyes.

Thorne cleared his throat, willing his thoughts back to the here and now. “No. Please, send her in.”

“As you wish,” Reuben replied, that same disapproving tone still in his voice as he withdrew.

Thorne listened to the echo of his footsteps receding. He all but held his breath as silence once more stretched from one moment to the next. And then, his ears picked up the sound of footsteps coming closer. Not only one pair, but two.

Indeed, Thorne could not say what he had expected; however, when Mrs. Miller stepped into his study, he could not help but stare. His eyes swept over her pale face, searching for similarities between her and his precious daughter.

Her pale blonde hair was pulled back into a neat bun, giving her angular face an even sharper edge. He could see that she was thin, frail even. Her skin was pale to the point of concern, and she seemed in desperate need of a good meal; in fact, several of them. Her linen dress looked faded and washed so often that its color had been lost. The hem was frayed, and he could see holes along the seam of her sleeves.

“Mr. Sharpe,” Mrs. Miller addressed him in a faint voice, her blue eyes wide as she attempted a courtesy, “I am so grateful you agreed to see me.”

Thorne gestured for Reuben to leave them alone and then turned to the young woman. “Mrs. Miller, I presume.” His gaze swept over her face, trying to determine what had brought her here after all this time. “What can I do for you?”

Wringing her hands, the woman met his eyes hesitantly. “Is my daughter well?” She dropped her gaze to her hands before looking up at him once more.

Thorne tensed at her question, finding himself displeased to hear another speak of Samantha as their daughter. “She is well.”

Mrs. Miller’s face softened, and a deep sigh left her lips. “Thank you. Thank you for taking care of her all these years. I am most grateful to you.”

A thousand questions assailed Thorne along with a thousand thoughts he did not dare dwell upon. “Why did you leave her upon my doorstep?” he asked in a voice that was far from friendly. “How could you set her down and simply walk away?” With his eyes fixed upon her, he took a step closer. “I had people looking for you for months.” He shook his head as the disbelief of those early days returned to him. “How could you simply leave her?”

Tears welled up in Mrs. Miller’s eyes, and she wrung her hands in a way that made the sinews stand out white, even more so because of her frailty. “I could not think of another way,” she sobbed, her thin frame trembling almost violently. “I did not wish it, but it was the best I could do for her.”

Thorne closed his eyes and inhaled a deep breath, seeking to calm the turmoil in his own heart. Until this moment, he had not been aware of the anger he had harbored toward her. “Why?”

Her mouth opened, but no words came out. Instead, she suddenly seemed to sway upon her feet, her face paling to such an extent that Thorne jumped forward and grasped her by the elbow. “Perhaps you should sit,” he said steering her toward one of the two armchairs under the window. Then he turned and poured her a glass of brandy. “Here, drink this.”

Breathing fast, Mrs. Miller accepted the drink and took a small sip, coughing as the liquid burned down her throat.

Thorne sat down in the armchair beside her, his eyes returning to search her face.

For a long moment, Mrs. Miller stared down at the glass in her hand. Then she sat back and lifted her chin. “When she was born, my husband had just died in a mining accident,” came her frail voice, choked with tears. “And I…I have a son. His name is Owen, and he is seven years old. He…” Once more, she looked down at the glass in her hands. “He is sickly. He has been since the day he was born. His legs…He…He cannot walk.” She looked up at Thorne, and large tears rolled down her cheeks. “He needs me. He needs me in a way that…” She shook her head, fatigue marking her features. “I did not know what to do.”

Thorne heaved a deep sigh as the woman’s words snaked their way into his heart. Indeed, was she not one of those he sought to protect? Thorne knew it to be true when his gaze returned to her. He tried to push aside his own emotions and to look at her with untainted eyes. Yes, her life was a struggle. Even before her husband’s death, Thorne doubted that the family had been well provided for. On her own, however, Mrs. Miller had been unable to support herself and her children. Yes, it had been a reasonable choice for her to leave her daughter with him. A choice she had made to protect the child she already had as well as the one she had just brought into the world.

An impossible choice, but a choice, nonetheless.

“I am deeply sorry for your loss as well as your struggles,” Thorne said gently, still at odds about how to feel. It seemed there were two different people within him: the father who sought to protect his family and the man who had spent years fighting for the plight of those who did not have a voice. “May I ask? What brings you here today?”

Mrs. Miller swallowed, then reached up to brush away the tears. “I came to see her, and…” Her gaze fell from his as she bit her lower lip. “I came to ask for your help.” Almost fearfully, she peeked up at him through lowered lashes. “My son… He…”

Thorne rose to his feet and moved a few steps away before turning around once more. “What is it you’re asking?” he inquired, unable to banish that odd sense of dread or perhaps foreboding that still lingered. He could not explain it, yet neither could he rid himself of it.

Inhaling a deep breath, Mrs. Miller pushed herself out of the armchair. She seemed unsteady, her hands stretched out for balance, and Thorne wondered when she had last eaten. Then, her eyes returned to him, and she crossed to where he stood. “I am asking for your help,” she said softly, forcing a smile onto her face. Then she lifted her hands and placed her palms upon his chest, her face lifted toward his. “Of course, I’d be more than happy to repay you for your efforts.”

An icy chill crawled up Thorne’s spine as he stared down at her upturned face. His stomach twisted and turned, and his hands reached out to grasp her wrists, to remove her hands from his person. “Mrs. Miller, I must insist—”

The sound of someone clearing her throat drew their attention toward the door, and Thorne found himself looking at his wife, her blue eyes narrowed and her jaw tense as she glared at them. “How dare you?”