Demonwood

by Anne Stuart

  A look of bitter amusement flashed briefly in his dark face. "I should think that would be rather obvious. Your contempt and disgust were made perfectly plain earlier today."

  "I . . . I . . ." I fumbled for the proper words, the right words to reassure him without committing myself. I was far too vulnerable as it was, and I knew with a certainty he would break my heart. "You don't understand," I murmured, looking down. And for the first time I noticed the hand that held my wrist so tightly. It was bruised and swollen, the knuckles raw and throbbing. Forgetting myself completely, I took his hand in my free one, whispering, "Your poor hand!" And I could feel tears well up in my eyes. Quickly I ducked my head, but he was too fast for me. His other maimed hand went gently under my chin, and he forced my face upright to meet the questioning look in his stern eyes.

  "I won't apologize for beating Perley," he said, his lovely voice harsh. "I wish I'd killed him. But I'm sorry you had to see it." And that wounded hand, that had a few short hours ago nearly murdered a man, traced my neck and throat with the gentlest of touches, until I was shivering again, but this time not from the cold.

  And still the tears kept running down my face. I had always been a great one for crying, tears came often and easily to me and I enjoyed the release. This time, however, I hated them, and the more I tried to control them the more freely they flowed. "Connell," I whispered. "Please. Let me go."

  And in answer he pulled me slowly, inexorably into his arms, and his mouth met mine, gently, inquisitively, as if savoring some rare and wondrous delight. I could feel myself opening up and flowering beneath his touch, and my arms went around his neck as I responded, holding nothing back, not even pride or self- respect.

  But the cold Vermont winters must have conspired to save my immortal soul. As a blast of cold air touched my bare skin I came to with a start, dragging myself away from his intoxicating caresses, struggling to pull my disordered nightgown back around me. I was halfway to the door before he reached me, drawing me once more into that hypnotic embrace. But this time he didn't kiss me, thank God, or I would have been powerless to resist any longer. He merely held my trembling body against the long, lean length of him, his face dark and unreadable as he looked down into mine. Whatever answer he was seeking from me must have been there in my stunned, defenseless face, for he smiled, that small, loving smile that had shattered me the first time I met him, and his brooding eyes lightened for a moment, so that he looked like the young man in Lillian's portrait.

  "You'd better go up now," he said after a long, breathless moment, loosening his hold on me with slow, sensuous reluctance. Without his strong arms supporting me I swayed, feeling faint. "Unless you want to stay?"

  If he had touched me, even put out a hand I would have gone to him gladly. But like a gentleman he refused to use undue pressure, and I could not make the move on my own.

  "I can't." I started once more for the door, and this time it was his voice, his lovely musical voice with just the trace of the Irish in it, that called me back.

  "Are you in love with Peter?" The question came out of the blue, and I turned and stared at him with unfeigned amazement.

  "Of course not!"

  "You'd never lie to me, would you, Mary? You'd never keep anything from me?" he asked softly, and with a small chill I remembered how many times I had lied to him already to cover his wife's misdeeds.

  "No, I wouldn't lie to you," I lied once more, and he seemed satisfied. I was already in the hall when he called me one last time.

  "And are you in love with me, Mary Margaret Gallager?" he asked gently. And without answering I turned and ran down the hall, up the stairs to my cold, virgin bed.

  I overslept the next morning, and when I awoke the air was warm and leaden, disaster oozing out of the skies. The clouds were dark and threatening outside my many windows, and I dressed quickly, despite the unaccustomed warmth of the air, eager to escape from the depressing climate of my room, eager and yet half- afraid to see Connell once more. I was halfway down the stairs before I realized that some instinct had made me choose my plainest, most somber dress of so dark a blue that it was almost black. It matched my feelings of foreboding, and yet, despite all my misgivings my heart sang beneath my tightly corseted breast.

  "You're too late for breakfast," Mrs. Carpenter announced glumly as she left the dining room. "Everyone else in this house has been up and about for hours while you've been enjoying a holiday. If you go out to the kitchen you can have coffee and nothing more. I can't waste my time cooking special meals for other servants."

  "Coffee will be fine," I replied cheerfully, my determined goodwill spilling over even to her grim presence. I followed her ramrod stiff figure out to the kitchen. "Where . . . where is Daniel?"

  The old witch wasn't fooled for an instant. "You mean where is Mr. Fitzgerald, don't you?" she snapped, all pretense of courtesy gone. "He's out hunting with your charge."

  "Oh, yes," I murmured, sipping the scalding, bitter coffee she had grudgingly poured for me. "Daniel said they might go before his father left."

  "You should know as well as anyone that Mr. Fitzgerald changed his mind about leaving." Her seamed gray face tightened with disapproval, her apple cheeks trembling with rage. "You ought to be ashamed of yourself, carrying on with your poor cousin's husband beneath her very nose! You're nothing but trash, and the worst kind. You're . . ."

  Calmly I walked out of the room, taking my coffee with me, leaving her still spluttering with indignation. She was lucky I hadn't flung the scalding contents all over her stuffed bombazine bosom. When I finally reached a spot where I could no longer hear her spiteful voice I stopped, staring without seeing at the walls in front of me.

  So the rumors had spread from the church to Demonwood. That was only to be expected, and who knows, perhaps the rumors came from Demonwood in the first place. And the amusing thing, I thought bitterly, was that there had been no truth to the whole thing other than my own shameful longings. Until last night. Someone must have spread those nasty tales with nothing more than pure evil mischief in mind, and it chilled me to think I had such a wanton enemy.

  "Mary, darling," Lillian's soft voice called out to me from a nearby doorway. She had taken possession of the lavender sitting room, and the contrast between her somewhat sallow complexion and the pastel walls was particularly unfortunate. Dismayed at my disloyal thoughts, I forced a warm smile to my lips.

  "You shouldn't be up yet," she protested in her gentle voice. "After such a shattering experience yesterday, I would think you'd want to stay in bed for a day or two."

  I barely controlled the start of surprise I had felt at her words. For a moment I thought she referred to my accidental (or was it really?) midnight rendezvous with her brother, and then belatedly I realized she meant Robinson's abortive attack. "I'm fine, Lillian," I reassured her. "A good night's sleep took care of everything. I'd almost forgotten it happened."

  "How strong you are," she said mistily. "When I think of what might have happened if Con hadn't gotten there in time . . ." she shuddered. "It was sheer luck that he happened to be outside just then, or no one would have heard your screams."

  "Well," I said with great practicality, still preoccupied, "Con was outside, and he did hear me, so no harm was done."

  "I wouldn't say that," Lillian said softly. "They say Perley Robinson won't last another day." I stared at her in disbelieving horror, and she nodded. "Maeve has gone to see him. I hope for his sake she's in time."

  "Oh, my God," I whispered, sickened.

  "I warned you about Connell, didn't I?" Tears sparkled in her great brown eyes. "He can do . . . can do terrible, terrible things when a rage takes hold of him." She took a few tiny steps toward me, then hesitated. "I'm even afraid he might have had something to do with the Colonel's death."

  "Lillian, no!" I protested. "He's not like that."

  "You saw him yesterday in the stable. You saw what he did to Perley with just a little provocation."

  I was
about to point out to her that my being raped and beaten was a bit more than a little provocation, when she continued. "But here I am talking about tragedies when you've had enough troubles in the last few days," she chided herself. "Everyone's gone off for the time being . . . why don't you go see Mrs. Riordan? She's been asking after you quite insistently, you know. The ride will do you good. We're in for a storm tonight or I miss my guess. We might be snowed in for days—this'll be your last chance for some fresh air and freedom for quite a while. Go on, then." She made a little shooing motion, smiling at me like a benevolent mother hen. But the look of worry lingered around her fine eyes, and I was filled with pity for her. She had had too much tragedy in her short life. Given time, surely I could convince her that it wasn't really Connell that was keeping her here, it was her own cowardice. Just as surely as it was my own wickedness that kept me a prisoner, not any words or promises Connell Fitzgerald had even hinted at. He had offered me nothing, not even the possibility of some back-street affair, and I was a fool to stay on in this compromising and volatile situation with my adulterous heart on my sleeve for all to see.

  But I knew better than anyone that I wouldn't leave Demonwood until I was forced to. And for the very simple reason that although my upbringing, my moral obligations told me I must leave, my heart stubbornly refused to give him up.

  "Perhaps I will go," I agreed suddenly. "It seems like ages since I saw anyone outside of Demonwood. Stonewalls would be just the place." I had more than one reason to visit the Riordans. I needed help badly —I knew in my heart of hearts I had to leave, but I had to make sure Daniel was safe before I left. All I could do was throw myself on Peter's mercy and guilt.

  The ride through the damp, silent snow was uneventful, and yet I had a curious sense of unease, as if someone was watching from behind the curtains of pine trees that lined the narrow, snow-packed road. I had felt the same aura of being spied upon yesterday, and determinedly I shook my head to shake the cobwebs and absurd thoughts free from my tangled brain. My pace was slow and steady, as befit my mount. Old Sally was a work horse, a stately dowager who carried my ample weight upon her swayed back with easy dignity. Under normal conditions I would have enjoyed the ride, but hovering around me was a dark, frightening presentiment of evil, and I kneed the old lady forward with sudden fright. If I had been even more of a coward I would have turned back to Demon- wood then and there, but grimly I stiffened my backbone and rode onward. I was a Gallager, made of sterner stuff than to run at a shadow.

  "Mary!" Peter greeted me with unfeigned delight as I rode up to the unpretentious entrance of his mother's rambling house. "I'm delighted to see you!"

  "Are you?" I questioned caustically. "I'm not sure you'll think that for long."

  Sudden concern paled his handsome face. "Is something wrong, Mary? Is Maeve . . ."

  "Maeve's fine," I replied grimly. "And nothing's happened. Nothing new, that is. I came to talk to you."

  '"I was on my way to town," he said uneasily, ever one to escape unpleasantness.

  "Town can wait. What I've come to say to you can't." I felt for all the world like a stern schoolmistress, bringing a truant to justice, and Peter's guileless, helpless face added to the impression. There seemed to be far more than ten years between our ages, and I was definitely the elder. He hesitated, then reached up and helped me down from Old Sally's back.

  "Why are you riding that old thing?" he asked in a light voice. "Surely Con has better horses in his stable than this. What about Moon Maiden?"

  "Moon Maiden belongs to your mistress," I stated bluntly, watching him flinch from my frankness. "I wouldn't touch a thing that belonged to her."

  "Except her husband and child," Peter shot back, stung, and I could feel a guilty flush mount to my cheeks.

  "I suppose you've heard the rumors?" I asked in a flat voice.

  "How could I avoid them?" He looked away from me. "They say you're Con's whore, Mary. Is it true?"

  My green eyes met his troubled brown ones calmly. "No, it's not. And you should know better than to ask." I moved away from him into the house. "True or not, I've decided there's nothing for me to do but leave Demonwood. But before I go I'll need your promise."

  "You can't leave!" he cried, bewildered, following me like a helpless puppy through the warm, seemingly deserted house. I waited until we were alone in the small, firelit study before I replied.

  "I've been helping Maeve sneak out to meet you for the last three weeks," I announced bluntly. "You know perfectly well that she creeps in and out through my room at night, forcing me to be an unwilling accomplice to her . . . her trysts."

  There was real concern in his face. "Mary, I had no idea she was involving you. I'm sure she didn't realize the position it would put you in. She's young and thoughtless, sometimes, Mary, but not really bad. You should have explained to her. I'm sure she would never . . ."

  "Peter, are you blind?" My voice rose in a little shriek of amazement. "She knew perfectly well what it would do to me, to force me to lie to Connell and Lillian, to aid and abet her adultery. She deliberately involved me, and then reveled in my unhappiness." I threw myself down into one of the leather chairs by the fire and stripped off my gloves. "Surely you're not so bewitched that you don't know what kind of woman my cousin is? She's one who enjoys hurting other people, enjoys her power over them. Don't you understand anything about her? Peter," I said desperately, "she beats Daniel. Beats him until the poor babe can scarcely move!"

  A variety of emotions played across his face: outrage, pride, defiance, and finally shamed despair. "Oh, God, Mary, I know what she's like. But I swear I never thought she'd go that far!" he cried, turning his back to me to stare into the fire. "I know what a slut, what a monster she can be. But she's . . . she's mesmerized me. When she's around I can't call my soul my own. Don't you think I realize that I'm cheating on my oldest and closest friend, the man that's been like a brother to me? And yet I can't help myself. I tell myself that I won't see her, that I'll refuse to come when she sends me one of her teasing notes. And each time I go, hating myself and hating her. Sometimes I'd like to kill her, like to wrap my hands around her pretty throat and choke the wicked, scheming life out of her . . ." his voice choked up, and I could feel pity well up in me for him. Impulsively, I rose from my chair and moved across the room to his side, placing a gentle hand on his arm.

  "I know you can't help yourself, Peter," I said softly. "It's all right, really it is." He had buried his face in his hands, but at my words he slowly lifted his head and stared at me with dawning hojae.

  "Mary," he breathed after a moment or two, "you wouldn't consider marrying me, would you?"

  "What?"

  He turned to me then, all eagerness. "Oh, Mary, I could make you happy, I know I could! When we were together this fall I'd forgotten all about Maeve, I'd almost broken free of her spell. If only she'd stayed away longer I would have been free. You were coming to care for me, Mary, I know you were! I could make you love me."

  "Peter," I said gently, but he went on like a man possessed, ignoring my quiet interruption.

  "We'd go far, far away from here. We could live in Europe, in any city or country your heart desired. I'm a wealthy man. Not as rich as Con, of course, but rich enough. You'd never want for anything." He grabbed my unresisting hand. "Say yes!"

  "Peter." I put my other hand on his, restraining him. "You don't love me. You love Maeve."

  "I don't love Maeve," he said angrily. "She's a sickness, a disease. You could cure me, if only you would. Tell me at least you'll consider it."

  I looked into his shining face, so eager and alive, and my intermittent cowardice assailed me. "I'll think about it," I agreed. And indeed, I would. The picture he painted was a very attractive one, money and an adoring husband at my fingertips. And I had no doubt that he would be adoring, once I had removed him from Maeve's territory. I had always wanted to see Europe, to return to Ireland, the land my grandparents had escaped from. And maybe in time I'd f
orget the shadow of a tall, black Irishman with the bluest eyes I had ever seen.

  "Mary, angel!" He pulled me into his arms, and I turned my face up willingly for his kiss. And it was a nice kiss, warm and loving and full of passion, and it left me entirely unmoved. No tightening in my stomach, no tingling feeling, nothing even close to the storm of emotion Con's touch aroused in me. And I wanted to cry.

  "Shall we tell Mother?" Peter asked eagerly.

  "Tell her what? I haven't agreed to anything," I said calmly, hiding my intense disappointment. "I won't even consider it until Maeve leaves. She must be made to, Peter! For all our sakes."

  "I'll get rid of her," he swore with sudden intensity. "Mary, you won't regret this, I swear you won't. We'll go to Ireland for our honeymoon. You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

  "I would indeed," I said coolly. "If I agree to marry you, it would be very nice. But right now I think I'd better get home."

  "I'll accompany you." He jumped up.

  "To see Maeve?"

  "I'll leave you at the front door . . ." he swore. A sudden shadow crossed his handsome face. "But, Mary, there's something I have to tell you. Before someone else, someone like that prying bitch, Lillian, fills you full of lies. When you agree to marry me, I want it to be with an open mind, knowing the terrible things I've done and forgiving me anyway. Mary . , , I'm responsible for Kathleen Fitzgerald's death."

  Some secret inner part of me had been expecting this, dreading this. "What exactly do you mean?" I demanded slowly.

  "I was very young when Con married Kathleen. In my early twenties and very impressionable. And I worshiped Con, always emulated everything he did. So when he fell in love with Kathleen O'Malley, it stood to reason that I would fall in love with her too." He cast a worried look at my stony face, then began pacing back and forth, speaking in a hurried, low voice, as if he wanted to get it out as fast as he could.

  "I kept my love for her a secret, Mary. I would rather have died than betray Con then. Until one night when he was out of town she told me she was finally pregnant. She had just heard and wanted to tell someone. It had been a bitter thing between the two of them—her barrenness. I suppose I had always hoped against hope that eventually they'd break apart and she would turn to me. That afternoon when she told me she was pregnant I knew I was lost. I suppose I lost my head then, Mary." He took a deep, shuddering gasp.