“You might be expected to protect this fallen woman. You are under her spell. She has made you her partner in sin!”
As Serena took her seat, her dark blue-gray gaze met that of the gambler in mute distress.
“She made me nothing,” Ward said, his eyes steady. He turned back to the elder. “The problem is what I’ve done to her; what you and I have done, Elder Greer. Don’t you think you’ve hounded her enough?”
“If you would protect her, you are cast in the same devil’s mold.”
“That may be,” Ward grated, “but we’ll see just how close an acquaintance I have with old Nick if you say another word. My advice to you is to get back on your horse and ride toward town as fast as you rode out here.”
“You are interfering with the Lord’s work!” the elder declared, then backed away as Ward took a step toward him. “This won’t be the end of it,” he cried, shaking a fist. “It won’t!”
Ward turned back to Serena. “Go on home. I’ll ride along behind to be sure he doesn’t make any more trouble.”
“What — what about Consuelo?”
“Timothy can take her in his livery rig. I have my horse.”
He did not wait for a reply but, nodding to the open-mouthed stableboy to shut the door, strode off to where his mount was tied to a wrought-iron grave fence.
The elder looked after him, the stare he divided between Ward and Serena’s carriage malevolent, then, turning with many backward glances and unintelligible muttering, he did as Ward had suggested.
The closed town carriage rocked on its springs as the stableboy climbed to the box beside Jack. With a jerk, it rolled away down the hill.
Serena had expected Ward to turn back toward town as soon as they reached Bristlecone. He did nothing of the kind. He dismounted and came forward in time to help Serena out and hand her up the steps. Under the veranda, she turned to him, her manner at its most formal.
“I appreciate your coming to my rescue just now.”
“That fanatic is becoming a nuisance,” he said, ignoring her expression of gratitude. “Something is going to have to be done about him.”
“I don’t see what. He isn’t actually harming anyone.”
“It’s possible he can be persuaded to look for sinners elsewhere. As for the harm he’s doing, it doesn’t pay to underestimate his kind. There are people who listen to them.”
“At any rate, it was kind of you to keep him away from me.”
“Kind?” He gave her a mirthless smile, unconcerned for the exasperated snort sounded by Mrs. Anson just behind them, waiting for Serena to enter the house before her. “If I didn’t know better, Serena, I would say you were trying to get rid of me.”
“I am rather tired,” she began, not quite meeting his eyes.
“I’m sorry, but we have things to talk about.”
“I fail to see—”
“I’m sure you can bring them to mind if you try. And then there’s the will. Nathan’s attorney will be along presently. He asked me to be here for the reading, since I have an interest in a certain provision it contains.”
“You?” Serena sounded as startled as she felt.
“You needn’t let it worry you. As I understand it, I’m not a direct beneficiary.”
As the implications of that remark struck her, Serena flushed. “Very well,” she snapped. “You had better come into the house.”
Nathan’s attorney was thin and self-effacing, a middle-aged man whose diffident mien made it possible to overlook the sharpness of his eyes. He stared around at the company assembled in the study, adjusted his pince-nez, and cleared his throat. His duty was a sad one. He apologized for intruding so quickly upon the sorrow of the occasion, but it had been his experience that it was best to get the legalities out of the way as soon as possible. He was sure they all, and Mrs. Benedict in particular, were anxious to learn how they were placed, as it was difficult to plan the future otherwise.
The document, when read, was simple. It contained a substantial bequest to Mrs. Anson and her daughter, a sizable one for the Negro coachman under his full name of Jackson Lee Grant, and a remembrance to the stableboy. The sum of a million dollars was placed in trust for Sean Benedict, with his mother as joint trustee with the close personal friend of the deceased Ward Dunbar. The great house known as Bristlecone was also to become the property of the minor, Sean Benedict, along with its contents and appurtenances. Serena Walsh Benedict was to have residence privileges there for her lifetime. The management of the property would be a function of the aforesaid trust, with decisions to be made concerning its maintenance and additions to be taken jointly by Serena Benedict and Ward Dunbar, until such time as Sean Benedict reached his majority.
At this point, Serena sent Ward, lounging against the wall at the back of the room, a quick glance. He returned her a mocking bow before she gazed forward again. What had Nathan been thinking of, leaving things in such a way? Was it an attempt, in the event of his death, to square things with Ward for taking her and Sean from him, a macabre bit of matchmaking? If so, it must have been written into the will before Nathan had made his most-recent discoveries.
The remainder of the estate, the lawyer continued, including various holdings in mines, real estate, railroad stock, and other securities, all listed exhaustively, and with a combined value in excess of three million dollars, was bequeathed to Serena Walsh Benedict, her heirs and assigns, forever.
The attorney would leave a set of papers with Mrs. Benedict. If there was anything she didn’t understand, or if she should require a fuller accounting at a later, less distraught time, he would be at her service. She might send for him at any time, at her convenience.
The lawyer’s careful respect was an indication of how wealthy she had suddenly become. It was a burden of intolerable weight. For Nathan to leave her so much was a parody of justice. If he had never met her, never married her, he would still be alive to enjoy his millions. To have them handed to her was overwhelming; she could not have felt more guilty if she had murdered Nathan for them, if she had in truth plotted with Ward to cause his death.
None of what she felt could be expressed, however. She had to summon a smile, act the hostess over tea, express all the correct sentiments until the gathering had dispersed and the attorney was ready to take his leave. She saw Ward walk with the stooped, graying man to his buggy, their heads together in close conversation. Sighing deeply, she turned from the door and mounted the stairs to her room.
She had not spoken to Ward, not seriously. It was just as well; she had nothing to say to him. Perhaps he had divined that for himself without her having to put it into words. She supposed that someday soon they would have to have this thing out, but not now. Please God, not now.
She had left word that she did not want dinner. Mrs. Anson had not liked that; it upset her routine. How much longer would the woman stay, now that she had enough, if she was careful, to keep herself and her daughter without working?
Serena would miss Dorcas. The girl was under her mother’s thumb, and she would never be bright, but she was learning to do things as Serena wished, and even to take pride in her work. She did not chatter, or pry. Her uncomplicated presence could sometimes be comforting, and if her smile was a little vacant, at least it was not a frown.
The girl helped Serena out of her black gown and undid her laces. She ran a hot bath, and while Serena lay soaking, laid out her nightclothes and mended the fire. When Serena emerged, Dorcas picked up the hairbrush and stood waiting beside the dresser bureau.
The slow brushing of her hair was soothing, easing Serena’s sense of strain and fatigue. Dorcas would have gone on and on if Serena had not stopped her, but at last the lustrous strands lay over her shoulders in a shining cape, the ends curling slightly about her waist.
“Are you going to bed now, madam?”
“No, not yet. I have a lot of thinking to do, and I may read awhile. Then I may make an early night of it.”
“Mama said your l
amp was on all night last night, and the night before, too. She said you weren’t missing Mr. Benedict, though, not like we are.”
“Maybe not, but I didn’t know him as long,” Serena said gently. “You may go now, Dorcas.”
“Can’t I get you anything else?” Dorcas placed the brush on the dresser top. “Would you like a glass of warm milk? That’s what Mama gives me when I feel bad.”
Once laudanum had made her sleep. Was there any in the house? She dismissed the idea with a shake of her head. “No, thank you, Dorcas.”
“Shall I help you off with your wrapper?”
Serena glanced down at her cream lace peignoir with its flannel backing and black ribbon tie. In the Regency style, like the gown worn underneath, the fullness of the long skirt fell from a high waist just under her breasts. The scooped neckline had a bertha collar that fell in soft lace ruffles over the wide sleeves. With so much material, it was warm without being heavy. A favorite, it had been Mrs. Anson’s idea to give it the touch of black.
“I don’t think so,” Serena replied. “I believe I’ll sit up before the fire.”
“Good night, then, madam.”
“Good night, Dorcas.”
The door closed quietly behind the girl. Serena passed a hand over her eyes. She was exhausted, but not sleepy. She should be, but she wasn’t. She hadn’t slept in three days, not since they had brought Nathan home to her. She was tired and her eyes were as scratchy as if there was grit under the lids, her arms and legs felt heavy, and the bed with its covers turned back for the night looked inviting, but it was her mind that would not let her rest. It turned endlessly, remembering, sorting, judging, always returning, no matter how she tried to block it, to Ward and his vow to see Nathan, to set her free.
She was free. What now?
The evening advanced. The twilight deepened to darkness. She tried to read, but could not settle to it. She stared out the window, watching the sighing wind moving the trees. She put on the gramophone, playing all the roles one by one, cranking until her arm ached. She buffed the ovals of her nails to a sore and shining pink, then, flinging down the silver-backed buffer, sat rocking, staring into the fire. When she grew stiff from inactivity, she paced up and down the bedroom, her wrapper fluttering around her and her shadow moving across the wall, slipping silent and ghostlike around the room. The weather must be turning warmer, she told herself. The fire felt too hot, suffocating her, taking all the air.
With a soft tread, she left her room to pad along the hall. Her wrapper flowed around her, billowing in the drafts that eddied in that long open space. The hallway was empty of the boxes and trunks that had filled it four days ago. Everything had been put back in its place, Mrs. Anson’s antidote for sorrow.
The house was quiet, everyone asleep. Serena stopped outside the nursery, listening. Nothing stirred. There was no sound from the back stair leading to the servants’ quarters on the third floor.
Pale as a wraith, she retraced her steps, moving with assurance. She had come to know this house well. She passed the closed door of the room where Nathan had slept. It was still as he had left it, and was likely to remain that way for some time. No matter how long she lived here, or how well she knew Bristlecone, she could not feel she had the right to change his room, dispose of his possessions. She was an interloper. Nothing could change that. Nothing.
The moonlight shone behind the stained glass above the entrance door. Serena kept her wide gaze on the glowing colors as she crept down the main stairs. They had fallen across Ward’s face that night, cast by the light of the chandelier in the hall. Red, blue, and gold, they had mottled his features, making him look strange, as if he had been beaten.
She could not go on like this. Perhaps a glass of warm milk would help. Making it would at least give her something to do.
She stopped. There was a faint light in the hallway below, coming from the study. It should not have been left burning. Mrs. Anson was most conscientious about that kind of thing; Serena had never known her to fail to extinguish all lights and lock all the doors and windows.
Her gaze moved to the great front entrance door. It had not been bolted. She hesitated a moment, then moved on down the stairs. Mrs. Anson had been upset. Maybe she hadn’t gone to bed yet, after all? Or maybe she had retired early, leaving these tasks to Dorcas? If the girl was used to the responsibility’s being her mother’s she might have forgotten. Regardless, it had to be seen about. The times were too unsettled for such carelessness.
There was no one in the study. A kerosene lamp with a ball globe over the glass chimney sat on a side table. Serena opened the door into the dining room. It was dark and deserted, nor was there any sound from the butler’s pantry beyond.
Serena swung back to the side table and picked up the lamp to light her way down to the kitchen regions. On second thought, she turned in the direction of the hallway. She would lock the entrance door first.
Both hands were going to be needed for the heavy bolt. She set the lamp on the marble bench of the hall tree and stepped toward the door. She was just reaching for the locking mechanism when she heard a scraping sound outside. The door began to open, swinging wide so she had to step quickly out of the way.
There was no time to be frightened. One moment she was alone, the next Ward stood in the open doorway. He stopped still, but if he was surprised to be greeted at the door by an apparition in white, no sign of it appeared on his features. There was about him the freshness of the moon-drenched night. He towered over her, the width of his shoulders blotting out the darkness, his eyes holding the fire of emeralds. Behind her, the lamplight spluttered in the draft, its glow outlining the sweet curves of her body in a white-gold nimbus. The night wind swirled outward with her rose fragrance, moving the folds of her wrapper, catching her dark tresses, blowing them lightly around her arms, wafting them toward him.
“Serena,” he breathed.
“What are you doing back here?” she asked, confusion in her eyes, though there was a proud tilt to her chin.
“I never left. I was just taking a look outside. Looks like we’re in for a change of weather.”
His words were commonplace, but not so the look in his eyes. His presence explained the burning lamp, the unlocked door.
There was strain in her voice as she spoke. “How dare you trespass on the hospitality of this house without invitation?”
“I would dare more than that, Serena love.”
“I don’t know what you expect to gain!”
“One thing,” he answered, his face like a mask. “You.”
He stepped inside, taking the door from her nerveless grasp, closing it behind him. There was in his manner, in the finality with which he shut the heavy front panel, a sense of purpose that made her retreat from him. He followed, a grim smile curving one corner of his mouth. She moistened her dry lips with the tip of her tongue. She should say something, but she could not think.
Abruptly, she whirled to run. She was captured before she had taken a second step. His arm clamped around her waist in a circle of iron. He bent and, catching her beneath the knees, lifted her high against his hard chest. She kicked, flailing at him, scratching. He accepted her blows and the tearing of her nails without flinching, as if he did not feel them. Shifting her in his arms to imprison one hand between them, he swung toward the stairs.
“Ward, no!”
He took the steps effortlessly, his only answer the tightening of his grip.
“Put me down or I’ll scream.”
“By all means, if an audience is what you want.”
His voice was deep and steady. The determination in its low timbre sent a shiver along her spine.
“This — this is despicable, unendurable,” she said, her voice lower. “I’ll loathe you.”
“Do you think that will matter, when I know you see me as a cold-blooded killer already?”
She had forgotten. How was it possible? In her wrath and fearful anticipation that image of him had been wip
ed from her mind. True or not, she could not let his words stand. “No, no I don’t.”
“Oh, yes. I saw the look on your face when they brought Nathan home, and I’m afraid you do.”
The acid irony of his words held her immobile for the length of time it took him to reach the top of the stairs, turn down the upper hall, and stride into her room.
As he kicked the door shut and turned toward the bed, she stiffened, her fingers closing on the collar of his shirt. He paid no heed. With two quick strides, he covered the distance to the paneled bed and dropped her upon the soft, thick mattress.
Serena gave a cry as she fell. Her hold on his collar jerked him off balance for a moment before her grip was broken. The coil springs beneath the bed jounced, creaking in protest. Using their resilience, Serena flung herself away from him, rolling, sliding, uncaring of her gown and wrapper pushing upward, riding high on her thighs. He put one knee on the bed, launching himself after her. His hand closed on her wrapper. The ribbon tie was loose; with a twist she slipped out of it, leaving it in his grasp. Her triumph was short-lived. Seeing her object, he reached with the other hand, catching the ends of her hair. She was brought up short, half on, half off the mattress.
Ward pushed to a sitting position. Without releasing her hair, he balled her wrapper in one fist and flung it into the corner. His expression watchful behind the screen of his lashes, he wound the long dark strands he held around his hand, drawing her nearer, forcing her back on the bed. The tension on her scalp was warningly taut, but not painful, though it could become so if she fought him. Her breasts rose and fell with her quickened breathing. Her soft lips were parted, and there was the shadow of apprehension she would not admit behind the defiance in her eyes.
He stretched out his fingers to push the sleeve of her gown down her arm, leaving her shoulder and the swell of a breast bare. Leaning, he brushed his lips over their warm, rounded surfaces. She drew back slightly, and he slipped his arm behind her, the corded muscles knotting until she had no choice except to sway toward him once more.
Love and Adventure Collection - Part 2 Page 129