by Anne Stuart
Or nightmares.
“COME AND GET me,” Peter snarled into the telephone.
“Dear boy, do you have any idea what time it is?” Doc Pitcher responded sleepily. “I didn’t get to bed till after midnight, and these old bones need their rest. Now you just calm down, go back to bed, and I’ll be along to talk to you in a few hours.”
“I don’t need to talk. I need you to take me back to Maison Delacroix.”
“Don’t be absurd, boy. You can’t go back now. After that little stunt you pulled last night you’d be better off keeping away for a few weeks until I manage to calm everyone down. Hell, I couldn’t believe the mess you made.”
“I’m going back today. I don’t care what you tell them. Tell them there was no room at Shady Oaks. Tell them you’ve got me on new drugs that make me completely passive. Tell them I got a double dose of shock treatments and I won’t do anything but sing ‘Dixie’ for the next six months. Tell them anything, but get me back there.”
“No. You just simmer down, Peter. I don’t know what bee you’ve got in your bonnet, but it’s nothing we can’t work out.”
“If you’re not here in an hour, Doc, I’ll get home myself. It’s not more than a mile to the main road—I can walk that in a matter of minutes. And then I’ll hitch a ride with the first car that comes along and walk in the front door at Maison Delacroix as if I belonged there.”
“You know what you’re saying, boy? You’ll bring us all down in flames.”
For a moment Peter hesitated. Doc had put himself on the line over and over again for the sake of an old friendship and justice. To threaten him would be beyond ingratitude; it would be unforgivable.
He took a deep breath. “Doc, I have to get back there today. Now. And I need you to cover for me.”
“What is it, son?” Doc’s voice dropped to a lower register. “It’s not like you to lose it at this stage of the game.”
“I didn’t spend the night alone. Margaret showed up. And then took off this morning as though she’d spent the night with Jack the Ripper.”
“Oh, hell.”
“My sentiments exactly. If I don’t get home she’ll run.”
“You think she’ll go to the police? Tell them about our little masquerade?” Doc viewed the probable destruction of his career with no more than vague interest.
“I don’t think so. I think she just wants to get away from all of us.”
“Don’t you think that would be the best thing for both of you?”
“For her, maybe. Not for me, Doc.”
“You’re running a hell of a risk.”
“I don’t mind. Not for my sake. But I don’t want to take you down with me.”
Doc laughed. “Don’t worry about it, boy. I’m well past retirement age. They’re not going to do anything more than take my license away and slap my wrist. At my age I’ll just laugh in their faces.”
“Will you come, Doc? It shouldn’t take you more than an hour to get here.”
“What’s this ‘hour’ crap? Any good old boy could drive that stretch in thirty-five minutes. And you start thinking. We’re going to have to come up with a hell of a good excuse to get you back in the house that quickly. It had better be a dilly.”
“It will be, Doc. Trust me.”
THE HAMMERING AND sawing woke Margaret up. She opened her eyes blearily, but the day was still gray and gloomy. The emptiness of her stomach suggested noon, but she couldn’t be sure. It didn’t matter. She was awake now, thinking of Peter, and she doubted she’d be able to sleep again for days.
Someone, probably Lisette, had already used most of the hot water. Margaret took a lengthy, lukewarm shower, anyway, scrubbing her hair, her skin, her body, trying to wash Peter away, the feel of him, the taste of him, the intoxicating scent of him. It was a waste of time.
She headed first for the kitchen. Mrs. McKinley barely acknowledged her presence as she continued rolling out pie dough, watching with a jaundiced eye as Margaret raided the refrigerator.
“I didn’t know you came back,” she said, still concentrating on the pastry.
“I did.” Margaret poured herself a glass of milk and climbed up on the stool with her plate of cold chicken. “Does it matter?”
“Not much, I suppose. You gonna be here for dinner?”
“I expect to. Do you need some help?”
“I can handle it.”
“Where are the others?”
“It’s two in the afternoon, Margaret. Gertrude and Eustacia are napping, Remy’s passed out in the library and Lisette went shopping. Just a usual day, I’d say.”
“Sounds like it. You sure you don’t want some help?” The thought of wandering around the empty rooms with nothing to do for the afternoon was Margaret’s notion of hell. She had to find something to keep her busy, something to keep her from thinking about Peter.
“The day I can’t manage to cook dinner for six people is the day I retire,” Mrs. McKinley said sourly.
It took Margaret a moment to count. “Six people? Then Wendell must have come back early.”
“Wendell’s still in New Orleans as far as I know,”
“Then who?”
“Who do you think, Margaret? Peter’s come back from the asylum. And he’s coming down for dinner.”
HE STOOD IN THE shadow of the ancient oak, oblivious to the heavy rain as he watched the house. No one would have guessed he was out there, watching, waiting. They wouldn’t believe he’d be hiding by the charred remains of the guest house, breathing in the scent of wet burned wood, a smell that lingered even after two years.
The look on Rosanne’s face had lingered, too, as he’d squeezed the life out of her. She’d taunted one man too often, and she’d picked the wrong one to play games with. He’d loved her—he really had, but she’d simply been using him. Using him as a weapon against her husband. Worst of all, she’d only considered him a minor annoyance. Peter really wouldn’t care, she’d said. He might even find it amusing.
But he hadn’t laughed. He’d reached out for Rosanne, and somehow his strong, large hands had wrapped around her throat. She hadn’t been frightened—she thought he was weak and harmless, always in Peters shadow, and she’d kept it up, teasing him, her eyes lighting up with a momentary excitement, until she’d realized he wasn’t going to stop. That was when she began to struggle, and he’d liked it.
By the time he’d realized what he’d done, he’d known he would have to cover it up. He wasn’t going to pay for what Rosanne had done to him. For what Peter had done to him.
So he’d set the fire and run, and no one had ever had the slightest notion he was the one who’d murdered his dear cousin’s wife. Not good old reliable Wendell.
He leaned back against the thick-trunked oak, hiding behind the veil of Spanish moss. History was repeating itself. Once more Peter wanted his woman, once more Peter had tried to steal what was his. But Peter wouldn’t get away with it this time, either. He’d escaped his rightful punishment the first time around, despite Wendell’s best efforts. Not this time. This time he wasn’t going to get off with pretended insanity when he went to trial. He was going to be executed for the murder of Margaret O’Rourke Jaffrey. And Wendell would be there, watching.
Chapter Eighteen
MARGARET LOCKED her door securely, wedging a straight-backed chair underneath the handle for extra security. She had no intention of leaving her room, facing Peter, until she was good and ready to. She had no idea what sort of yarn Peter and Dr. Pitcher had spun to the gullible family. Peter had said they all suspected that Peter’s insanity was faked, but none of them, even the formidable Gertrude, knew for certain. If they accepted him back one day after he’d trashed the drawing room, then they would have to start facing the truth.
Her bedside lamp made a small circle of light
in the room. It was late, after ten o’clock, and the sounds in the old house carried to her waiting ears. Peter had already gone back upstairs—she’d heard the soft beat of his footsteps, the slamming of the heavy door. She didn’t care where the others were. She was tempted to sneak downstairs and raid the kitchen, but she restrained herself. With her luck she’d run smack into Gertrude, and that was one person she wasn’t quite ready to face. She didn’t know whether to believe Peter or not, whether Gertrude had really sent her into Peter’s arms, but she didn’t trust any member of this goddamned family, and the sooner she escaped, the better.
She leaned back against the pillows, closing her eyes. There was something bothering her, some little detail that nagged at the back of her brain, and she couldn’t quite focus on it. Something Peter had said that didn’t seem quite right.
Who was she kidding? Nothing Peter said seemed quite right. She couldn’t believe a word the man uttered, and if she was going to get any sleep at all she needed to put him out of her mind.
Hunching down in the bed, she punched the pillow. If only she could stop listening for his footsteps. He couldn’t be asleep, not so early, unless he was as worn out from last night as she was.
Damn! She didn’t want to think about that. She didn’t want to think about his mouth on hers, his hands molding her body to his. She needed to think about something prosaic, unromantic, uninspiring.
Wendell fitted that description, poor man, she thought with just a trace of a smile, and then her smile vanished. That was what she’d been trying to remember. Peter said Wendell had been paying private detectives for two years and they’d come up with nothing. Margaret had gone over Wendell’s books, gone over every speck of paper work in that once untidy office. There was no record of any private detective.
It was probably just an oversight. In his efforts to protect Peter’s secret, Wendell must have kept his records separate. Maybe. Or maybe Peter was lying. Maybe he hadn’t been paying private detectives to uncover the truth, because the truth was he was guilty.
Rolling over onto her stomach, she buried her face in the pillow and moaned. None of this made any sense. If Wendell returned before she made her escape she’d ask him. She probably wouldn’t want to hear the answer, but she’d ask him, anyway.
The rain was heavier by now, beating against the glass doors that led out onto the veranda, beating against the window. At least the thunder and lightning hadn’t returned. The heavy, soaking rain was bad enough, and for a moment Margaret wondered whether the roads might flood. The land was low around here; the bayou and the rivers already close to overflowing. Maybe she was a fool to wait. Maybe she should drive over to the Fontaines and snatch Carrie away before it was too late.
She couldn’t do it. For one thing, she owed Carrie this last time with her friends. For another, despite her better judgment, she wasn’t quite ready to run.
She heard the twist of the doorknob as she lay face down in the sheets, but she didn’t move. There was no way she’d have to accept any unwanted visitors. She didn’t have to respond to any knocking on the door, any demands for her attention. She could simply lie there in bed and ignore everyone.
It happened so quickly she didn’t even have time to scream. The French door smashed open, bringing wind and rain sweeping into her room. Bringing Peter, tall and menacing and soaking wet, advancing on her with dark fury in his face.
She scrambled off the bed, away from him, away from her locked and barricaded door. “Get out,” she said, breathless.
He looked very, very angry, his green eyes glittering with rage. He didn’t look the slightest bit crazy, however. Just determined.
“Go ahead and scream, chère,” he suggested, his voice cool and cynical. “No one will hear you, but try it, anyway. Remy’s passed out in the library, and Eustacia and Gertrude are watching television.”
“What about Lisette?”
“She didn’t come back from shopping. There’s no one to save you, Marguerite. There’s just you and me.”
She darted toward the broken French doors, but he was too fast for her, catching her arm and swinging her around to face him.
“Are you frightened, Margaret?”
His long, beautiful hands reached up and encircled her throat. She didn’t dare struggle, didn’t dare run. She knew those hands were immensely strong. They could squeeze the life out of her in moments. She stood still, mesmerized, as his sensitive thumbs pressed against her windpipe.
She remembered those hands on her body and the glorious things they had done to her. She remembered that angry slash of a mouth on hers, tender, teasing, arousing. She remembered his hungry eyes, slumberous with passion and arousal, and she knew she was a fool.
Reaching up, she placed her hands over his. She was still wearing the filigree ring which she’d found on her dresser. It glinted faintly in the lamplight, mocking her doubts. “If we’re going to make a go of this,” she said, her voice slightly husky, “you’re going to have to stop trying to scare me every time you get mad.”
For a moment he didn’t move, just looked down at her, a bemused expression on his face. And then he slid his hands down her arms, suddenly gentle, pulling her closer. “And you’re going to have to stop running away every time I scare you,” he whispered against her lips.
“I’m not running now,” she said.
Anger lingered in his kiss, in the pressure of his mouth against her. Anger and redemption. He slanted his mouth across hers, one way and then another, kissing, demanding, angry and loving.
She kissed him back, trembling in his arms, relief and despair sweeping over her, only to be washed away by his kiss. A moment later she was lifted in his arms and dropped on the bed. He followed her down, covering her slender body with his large, cold, wet one, and his bones dug into hers, his hipbones pressed against her, his shoulders and ribs hard against her softness. She wrapped her arms around him, her legs around him, pulling him tight against her, and she kissed his rain-wet face, his mouth, the rough stubble of beard on his cheeks and chin.
She wanted him. She wanted him to wipe out the doubts and fears with the oblivion only he could give her. She arched her hips against his, reveling in the swell of his response, and she shut her eyes, willing him to take her.
He didn’t. She could feel the effort it cost him, the tension lacing through his muscles, as he lifted his face from hers, held himself rigid in her arms, kept his needs, her needs, under control.
His hand brushed her face, with such tenderness that she wanted to weep. Turning toward him, she kissed his palm, then opened her eyes to meet his troubled gaze. “What are we going to do?” she said.
“I don’t know. But we can’t go on like this.” He pulled out of her arms and was off the bed before she could stop him. She looked up at him, silhouetted against the French doors, and for a moment she thought she saw a shadow beyond him. She blinked and it was gone, and she realized it had to be an illusion of the rainy night and the live oaks surrounding the old house. Peter turned and headed back out the door, and it took all Margaret’s willpower not to beg him to come back.
“I was here the afternoon Rosanne was killed,” he said abruptly.
“I know.”
“I had reasons for saying I wasn’t.”
“I imagine you did. You must have seen someone.”
He nodded, shutting his eyes for a moment. “Uncle Remy was running away from the fire. I couldn’t believe he had anything to do with it, but I didn’t want to subject him to the kind of questioning I had to go through. He’s really a gentle, harmless soul, and I don’t think he could have stood up to it.”
“You don’t think he could have . . .?”
“Absolutely not. Someone else was there that afternoon. Somebody else killed Rosanne and set that fire, but I didn’t want to believe it.”
“Where are you
going?” she asked in a calm enough voice, climbing back off the bed.
He paused just outside the door, the rain drizzling down on him. “To find Wendell,” he said grimly.
“He’s not here. He’s in New Orleans,” she said, moving after him.
“Is he? I’m not so sure about that.” Without another word he vanished into the rain-swept night.
By the time she reached the doors he’d disappeared. She could hear the sound of the television in the distance, the prosaic, comfortable sounds of a sitcom filtering up to her room. She looked at the latch on her door, splintered by Peter’s strong hands. She could only hope Peter was wrong, that Wendell wasn’t there, that he didn’t have the answers to the questions Peter wanted to ask. Because if he did, they could lead to something irrevocable.
She pulled the French doors shut in a futile effort to keep the rain out. For a moment she considered climbing back into bed and pulling the covers over her head, hiding from everything until the morning dawned and the awful rain stopped.
She couldn’t do that. Somewhere in the night Peter stalked the answers, and she couldn’t rid herself of the terrible suspicion that those answers would be even worse than the lies.
Remy was still sound asleep in the library, snoring faintly, when Margaret tiptoed past the open door. Eustacia and Gertrude were also asleep, the joys of Golden Girls reruns lost to their appreciation. Mrs. McKinley was nowhere in sight, and Margaret could only suppose she’d gone home early. She couldn’t blame her. It wasn’t a night to be out prowling.
The drawing room was dark and cold when she stepped inside. The workmen hadn’t done much of a job repairing the glass doors Peter had smashed, and the wind and rain swept in through the broken panes. She didn’t bother to flick on the lights, walking instead to the broken door and staring out into the night. Someone had nailed boards across it, a feeble enough repair. She leaned her head against one, staring out into the inky night, searching for Peter, the only light in the room the faint reflection from the hall.