by Anne Stuart
"Con was out of town for the week. I went back to Demonwood that night, went to her bedroom, and told her I loved her. I begged her to run away with me. She was very sweet, Mary. She told me she loved me like a brother, but that she was married to Con and loved him more than anything in the world. And that she'd forget I had ever mentioned a thing to her. And she kissed me very gently, like a sister, sending me away, when Con walked into the room."
"Oh, God," I breathed, imagining the scene with real horror.
"He just stared at us. And then he slammed out of the room, out of the house. I tried to follow him, tried to explain, but by the time I got outside he was gone. There was nothing I could do but ride home, Mary, and tell myself I'd explain to him the next day. He had every right to hate me, but I couldn't let him think that Kathleen was anything less than he thpught her. He worshiped the ground she walked on, and she deserved it. She was the closest thing to a saint I've ever known."
"What happened then?" I demanded testily, not being terribly saintlike myself. Kathleen O'Malley Fitzgerald sounded like a shallow, prissy bore to me, but I knew perfectly well why I felt that way. After such a paragon, it was no wonder Con would look at no other woman with any tender feelings.
"I never saw her again." He stopped his pacing and stared at me, reliving the horror of it. "She was found at the bottom of Perry's Ledge the next day."
"And what did Con do to you?"
Peter shook his head dazedly. "Damn near killed
me. He showed up at Stonewalls the next morning looking like a crazy man. God knows how I was able to stop him—make him believe me. But I did. He must have known in his heart of hearts that Kathleen would never have betrayed him."
"But you think he killed her?"
He hesitated. "Yes. And only because I saw the look in his eyes that night. It wasn't a rational anger, Mary. It was a madman's rage."
"I wouldn't have thought one would react too terribly rationally if one found one's beloved wife and best friend in a compromising situation," I said drily. "I would have killed you both right there and then." And suddenly a great wave of relief washed over me. That was exactly what Con would have done, if he were to kill anyone. He wouldn't have come sneaking back, he would have done it quickly and brutally right then, in the heat of the moment, before his rage could cool. "He couldn't have killed her," I said with marvelous assurance.
"What other alternative is there?" Peter asked sadly. "I saw his face after they found her—the guilt and horror are hard to forget. The only other possibility was that she killed herself, and that I refuse to accept. Kathleen loved life—she would never have committed suicide. And she would never have killed her own child after waiting so long for it."
"But you think Con would?"
"Mary, he didn't know she was pregnant. I was the first person she told, and only because she was bursting with the news. And Con's capable of fearsome rages. That's why I've wanted you out of the house. There's no telling what might set him off. If he were to find out about Maeve .. ."
I had heard enough for one day. Suddenly I was very tired, and no longer so sure that Con was blameless in the death of Saint Kathleen. I wanted to go home and crawl back into my warm bed in my icy room, shut out the horrible images of Kathleen's body rolling down that hillside. I rose abruptly. "I think I'd better go home now, Peter. You can come with me if you want, but I'm sure I'll be fine."
"Of course, I'll come with you!" he protested. "You don't seem to understand, Mary. I love you!"
Do you? I wanted to say wearily. It seemed as if Peter Riordan had a terribly consistent habit of falling in love with Connell Fitzgerald's females, and with seemingly disastrous results. And I was one of them, forbidden as it was.
Chapter Seventeen
Demonwood was dark and still when we arrived home that afternoon. The heavy threatening dampness seeping into my bones seemed to presage rain rather than snow, and Peter assured me that such was a definite possibility. "There's an old saying about Vermont weather," he announced boyishly. "If you don't like it, stay around for a few minutes and it's bound to change."
He reached down and took the reins from me. "You go on in now. I'll stable this disreputable old nag for you before I head back."
"Would you like to come in?" I relented, but Peter smiled in the gathering dusk.
"Now, Mary, I gave you my word. If I'm to win your hand in holy matrimony. I'll have to be a veritable saint. Though I wouldn't mind the chance of proving to you how little Maeve really means to me."
"I don't need to test you," I assured him, scrambling down from Old Sally's broad back. "I've made no promises, Peter."
He looked down at me, his joie de vivre in no way quenched by my sober warning. "I'll be over early tomorrow," he announced blithely. "We'll talk about it then."
As I watched him lead my sturdy horse away, it amazed me that he had no idea what my troubled emotions were. But then, even I couldn't sort them out. Some blind, unreasoning part of me wanted everyone to go away but Con, knowing as I wished it how impossible it was.
"Did you have a nice visit?" Lillian questioned softly as I shut the massive front door behind me. I jumped a foot in the air, startled.
"Lillian!" I breathed nervously. "I didn't see you."
"The hall is very dark," she said noncommittally, smoothing down her skirts with nervous hands. "Did you have a nice visit with Mrs. Riordan?"
I'm afraid I blushed, and Lillian noticed with a gently raised eyebrow. "I . . . I didn't get a chance to see Mrs. Riordan," I confessed. "Peter and I were . . . were talking."
"Really, dear? How nice; I had no idea that you and Peter had much in common. Apart from Maeve, that is."
The acidity in her tone startled me, and my face must have shown it, for she quickly apologized, drawing her arm through mine. "I'm sorry, dear, I don't know what's gotten into me. It's this weather, I suppose. I hate the winters here. They're so damnably long." She sighed. "We'll be alone for supper tonight; Con's going out."
"And Maeve?"
"You should know by now she never bothers to eat with her female relations. It's men that she cares about solely. We'll have a nice evening together, Mary dear."
The last thing I wanted to do was spend an evening in a tête-à-tête with Lillian, I wailed inwardly, and then wondered at the lack of charity in my thoughts. When I had first met her back in Boston so very long ago it seemed we had so much in common. Now I felt uncomfortable and unhappy with her, so that I longed to escape to the privacy of my bedroom and ponder why Con was obviously avoiding me. Probably regretting his moments of weakness in the library last night.
"That will be nice," I agreed mendaciously. "We haven't seen enough of each other since you returned from Europe." I pulled off my bonnet. "I'll just run upstairs and check on Daniel."
"He's going with Con," she said smoothly before I could move away. "There's nothing for you to do tonight but relax. I'm sure you haven't had a day off in weeks and months—Con's not the most considerate employer, I know."
Words of defense sprang to my lips and hastily I pushed them back. Lillian was far too observant—she recognized and disapproved of my fascination for her brother. "My duties aren't terribly strenuous," I replied noncommittally.
"But you'd welcome an evening off, wouldn't you, dear?" she insisted, and I could do nothing but agree. "Meet me in the library after you've changed and we can have a glass of sherry before dinner," she continued, and I nodded, moving up the long winding stairs with less than my usual enthusiasm.
I spent little time on my dress that night, knowing as I did that Con would be nowhere in sight. The bruises Robinson had inflicted on my milky white skin were less angry-looking than the night before, and I couldn't contain a shudder that passed over me as I thought of the consequences of my shortcut through the stables if Con hadn't rescued me.
I had made my decision to leave—there was no turning back. The knowledge depressed me as I listlessly brushed my hair, but I remained fir
m. There was no way I could live with myself if I continued to stay in such a situation. The question was, could I live without seeing him?
Demonwood was unusually still as I made my way down the stairs to Con's library. The lamps were lit in the pretty, wood-paneled room that had somehow escaped Maeve's corrupting touch, and Lillian was nowhere in sight. An etched silver tray containing a crystal decanter of sherry and two glasses rested on a little gilt table that must have been spirited in when Con wasn't looking.
"Damn the sherry!" I muttered, and tipped a generous bit of Con's Irish whiskey into my glass.
But the effects of the overheated room after a long chill ride and the spirits were predictably soporific, and in a few moments I was curled up in the cozy armchair that rested back in the shadows, wrapping my black shawl around my green wool shoulders.
I awoke with a start, to see Con and Peter standing by the French doors that led outside to the snow-covered terrace. One small oil lamp had been lit, throwing fitful shadows over the front of the room, leaving me in a concealing blanket of darkness.
I was about to move, to announce my presence, when the controlled rage in Con's voice held me motionless, an unwilling witness.
"This is the fourth time, Peter, that someone has tried to murder me. Twice in Boston, I was set upon by thugs—I have several knife scars as souvenirs of the last encounter. Someone shot at me only a few days ago—at a time when no sane hunter would be out."
"Con, you're a very rich man—you must have a lot of enemies," Peter protested weakly, but Con continued inexorably, almost as if he hadn't heard.
"And then this morning, Peter, when Perley Robinson was far away and completely incapable of anything remotely physical, this morning someone tried to run me down with a wagon."
"You could trace the wagon," suggested Peter.
"I already have. It's Father Lejeune's—stolen this morning and left abandoned on the other side of the Gore." Con's voice was flat.
"B . . . but couldn't you recognize the driver?" he stammered.
"He was all muffled up."
"Con . . . you can't believe that I'd try to kill you! How long have we known each other?"
With a sudden explosion of anger Connell smashed his fist down on the mahogany desk and I winced for him as I thought of his wounded hands. "Damn it, Peter, you can't expect me to trust you! You've allowed yourself to be seduced by both my wives, all the time professing your friendship for me. You've been carrying on with Maeve for over a year now; you needn't bother to deny it. I didn't give a damn what you and she did. But when my dear, faithless wife is obviously trying to murder me what do you expect me to think when there's an accomplice around?"
"You must be mad!" Peter exploded, angry now. "-Maeve would never . . ."
"Maeve has admitted it," Con broke in brutally. "Apparently she fancies the idea of herself as a rich widow. She wants both you and my money."
"That's absurd! Mary and I are going to be married."
"What!" If Con had been angry before, now his rage was awesome to behold. "If you've been laying your filthy hands on her . . ."
"What the hell does it matter to you?" he shouted back, lost to all senses of decorum. "You seem to forget that you're a married man."
"I haven't noticed you showing much respect for the sanctity of the marriage bonds."
"It's none of your damned business!"
In the blink of an eye Connell had grabbed the shorter man by the shoulders and shoved him up against the wall. Fitful shadows danced around the dark room, adding to the unreal aspect of the scene I was witnessing. "Leave her alone," he grated in a quiet, deadly voice. "Leave her alone or I swear I'll kill you."
Absolute stillness reigned for the next long moments—only the crackling of the apple logs on the blazing fire breaking the grim silence. And then, as suddenly as Con's rage had begun, it left, and he released Peter and strode from the room as if all the hounds of hell were after him. Peter shook himself, straightened his tweed jacket, and followed him out of the room.
I found Lillian busy at one of her interminable pieces of needlework, her squat little body bent over her work in the gaudy pink-and-gold sitting room that suited Maeve's lush beauty to perfection. She squinted up at me out of her soft brown eyes.
"I wondered where you were, dear," she murmured plaintively. "Con and Peter were having a dreadful row in the library so I came in here. I do hope you didn't become involved in their wrangling?"
"No, I didn't hear a thing," I lied, looking innocent.
"Well, they're gone now. Come and sit by me, Mary, and we'll have a nice relaxing chat." She patted the orangey-pink brocade seat beside her.
But a less relaxing evening I have seldom spent. The threatening, uncertain weather must have communicated itself to Lillian, for a strange, inquisitive mood plagued her; she was restless, probing, almost threatening with her questions and insinuations. I held her off with vague replies and a look of bland incomprehension until, later over dinner, she suddenly demanded, "Are you in love with my brother?"
I stared at her with just the right amount of mild amazement, hoping my naive demeanor would continue to fool her suddenly suspicious nature. "No, Lillian, I'm not in love with your brother," I soothed her, still hoping against hope that I wasn't lying to myself. And her. After all, how could I be in love with a man I scarcely knew? A married man? It was an insane infatuation, one that would pass as soon as I removed myself from Con's vicinity.
"But everyone falls in love with Connell," she replied a little wildly. "You can't imagine what trouble we've had with the housemaids. One by one they all succumb to his charm. Who would know better than
I how often it happens? He can be so charming, can Con. I don't want your heart broken, Mary."
"My heart isn't about to break," I said firmly. "I'm made of sterner stuff than that. I won't deny Connell's attractive—I'd be lying if I did." I slipped my wool shawl from my shoulders and made a fanning gesture —Lillian always had her rooms damnably hot.
"I've seen you look at him, when you think other people aren't watching," she accused me, jabbing at her rich creamy custard, turning it into an unappetizing jellied mass.
"Have you now?" I could feel a slow flush mounting to my pale cheeks, and I cursed my fair complexion. "You've imagined it then," I said staunchly. "As a matter of fact, Lillian, you've nothing to worry about in that direction. Early this afternoon I received a proposal of marriage from Peter Riordan."
It was her turn to look startled. "Really?" she breathed, some of the strange tension seeming to drain out of her plump little body. "Perhaps I've been mistaken . . ."
"Perhaps you have," I allowed myself a small bit of righteous indignation. Rising with great dignity from the dining room table I tossed my damask napkin down beside the fancy china and started for the door.
"Have you accepted?" she demanded suddenly.
I paused with one shaking hand on the gilt doorknob and met her feverish gaze with cool anger. "Lillian, I have no idea what is wrong with you tonight! It's absolutely no business of yours what answer I give Peter, nor whether I'm in love with Con or not. If I am, that's my problem, not yours."
Hot tears filled her large brown eyes, and she rushed to the door, taking my resisting hand in hers imploringly. "Now I've made you angry! I haven't meant to offend you, Mary dear, it's just that I care about you. I don't want to see your life ruined by my brother's selfish immorality. Don't forget, I've seen the mistresses he's kept during the last ten years, and I've seen how badly he's treated them."
"Your brother has made no immoral or selfish suggestions to me," I replied, concealing the pang I felt at hearing of his other women. At least in this I could be truthful. "I don't think it's something you need worry about. I think you underestimate him, Lillian."
The tears of distress and pity welled over and spilled down her plump cheeks. "Oh, my poor dear, I only wish I did."
There was nothing I could say to this, no reassuring reply I could
offer her. She seemed firmly convinced that her brother was an insanely jealous murderer, and who was I to try and tell her otherwise. I shook my head sadly. "If you don't mind, Lillian, I think I'll retire now. I'm still a bit shaky after yesterday." And yet, that desperate struggle in the stables seemed weeks ago. What had Perley muttered? Something about hearing that I admired him. Who could have possibly told him such a nasty, provocative lie? My unknown malicious enemy, I could only suppose. "Have you heard anything more about Perley?" I spoke up.
Lillian simply shook her head, the fuzzy brown strands tumbling from her untidy coiffeur. "Yes, you go up to bed, dear. Perhaps things will have taken care of themselves by tomorrow morning, who knows? I am sorry, my dear."
"Sorry about what?" I demanded, moved by the sudden deep regret in her quiet voice.
"Oh, about everything," she replied vaguely, and turned away.
Alone in my attic bedroom, I tried to shake off the aura of depression and gloom that Lillian's dire predictions had stirred up in me. The damp heaviness in the air, which even a blazing fire couldn't begin to dispel, added to my unhappiness, and I would have given almost anything for a good stiff belt of Irish whiskey to warm my body and soul. But nocturnal wanderings were at an end for me, and in order to purge myself of my lachrymose mood I wrote an eight- page letter to Pauline, full of* whining, moon-struck nonsense, which I promptly tore up and threw on the fire, feeling slightly better. I followed that up with a short and direct note telling her I was coming back as soon as I could arrange it and would explain the details later. I put it to one side, suddenly too tired and sad to continue. Undressing slowly in the unusually warm room, I put on a light cotton nightdress as a welcome change from the heavy flannel I'd been huddling in for the past few months and snuggled down wearily into my warm bed.