by Susan Wiggs
"How very noble, Mr. Adair. But now I understand why you showed such scant concern for me. Good God, every time I got into trouble, I prayed you'd care enough to punish me, to bring me back in line. But you never did. You just sat back and let me ruin myself. The others felt the back of your hand when it was warranted, but not me. Never me."
Genevieve was crying quietly into her hands, Roarke sighed wearily. "You were different, Hance," he said. "So sensitive, so wild. You had a spirit that defied restraint. I knew no amount of beating would purge you of that."
Hance made a curt, mocking bow. "Thank you for that favor. Thank you for letting me bury myself in iniquity."
Genevieve raised her tear-stained face. "Hance, we can explain."
"That's exactly what I want. An explanation is all I want from you."
"Your mother was my dearest friend in London," Genevieve said softly. She turned her eyes to the window, watching droplets collect and run on the glass. "She was my only friend." She'd told Hance that before, and his jaw ticked impatiently. But then she told him the other things, about Prudence Moon and Edmund Brimsby.
Hance sat perfectly still, his face an unmoving mask.
"She loved him, Hance. She never stopped loving him."
"She was a whore," Hance said tonelessly.
Roarke's arm shot out and grasped Hance's collar, twisting it savagely. "Don't you dare," he said. "Don't you ever, ever refer to Prudence in that way."
"It's what she was. You were the only reason she didn't die in disgrace. I suppose I should thank you for that, too."
Roarke released Hance and threaded his hands into his hair. The one thing he would never tell Hance was something he didn't even want to ask himself. Would he have married Prudence if he'd known she was carrying another man's child?
"You're part of this family," he said. "I've never thought of you as anything but my own son."
Hance didn't react. Instead, he asked about the man who'd sired him, probing until Genevieve told him the whole story. And then he left.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Even hours after they'd tumbled from their sturdy rope-frame bed each morning, the taste of Luke still lingered on Mariah's lips. She knew it was ridiculous, but a perpetual smile tugged at her mouth, and she went about each day's work full of blithe, breathless feelings that made it seem as if her feet never quite reached the ground.
In the three months she'd lived with Luke on the farm, she'd known a happiness so intense it was almost frightening. He was as much a part of her as her own heart, as the tiny throb of life that she was now certain quickened within her.
For a week or two she'd been bothered by queasiness and certain tender aches. Welcome signs, because they confirmed her hope.
Holding Gideon's hand in hers, she made her way up a gentle slope to where Luke was tending corn. Aided by some of the girls at Nellie's, Mariah was learning to bake and cook. The still-warm loaf in the basket was her best yet, and she was eager to share it with Luke.
She paused just below the field to watch him for a moment. Only Luke could look so much a part of the land he worked. He knew just how to plant and where. Never would Luke make the mistake of putting sweet potatoes in the swollen, rich lowlands that would yield corn fourteen spans high. He was a consummate farmer, with an innate knowledge of earth and seasons.
In the burgeoning warmth of the June day he'd stripped off his shirt. Sunlight glinted over his tautly muscled torso in a way that made Mariah's mouth go suddenly dry. His mane of burnished copper hair framed a face Mariah found so endearing that she—a woman who had always disdained weeping—was sometimes moved to tears.
Luke glanced up and gave her the smile she would gladly have laid down her life for. The smile that told her how much she was loved.
Gideon ran ahead and was promptly swung about and wrapped in a bear hug. The two were fast friends now, Luke's hearty indulgence matched by Gideon's idolizing love.
"I'm going rock hunting today, Luke," Gideon told him proudly. "Mariah said she'd help me. Tomorrow you'll be able to eat your hominy out of a geode bowl just like the Injuns!"
"I'd like that, Gid."
"What about your lunch?" Mariah asked the boy.
"Golly, Mariah, I'm still full from breakfast. Can't I go now? Please?" He was dancing impatiently from foot to foot.
"Go on," she said indulgently. "Start in the woods at the edge of the stream. I'll join you in a little while."
She and Luke looked fondly after the boy as he scampered down the hill. Luke put on his shirt and paused for several greedy swallows of water from the can he always kept close at hand. Finally, he bit into the bread. A grin spread across his face.
"So that's what you've been doing all morning," he said. "And I thought you were writing."
"I managed to finish my piece for Mr. Bradford as well," she said smugly.
He brushed a crumb from his lips and kissed the top of her head. "An accomplished writer who also knows her way around the kitchen. You certainly look proud of yourself."
Mariah took both his hands in hers and stared into his eyes. "I am proud, Luke. But not for the reasons you think."
He frowned at her sudden grave look. "Then what—?"
She brought one of his hands to her lips and kissed it. "Luke, I'm going to have our baby."
Even though it was a natural outgrowth of the love that filled their nights with splendor, Luke gasped in surprise. Every smile he'd ever smiled paled in comparison with the one he gave her now, as he pulled her into his arms.
"Mariah… honey," he whispered against her hair. Then he covered her face with kisses so ardent that Mariah soon realized the day's work would never be finished if she let him continue. Reluctantly, she moved away.
"We've both got things to do," she told him, drawing a shaky breath. "Gideon's probably half a mile up the creek by now."
Luke helped her to her feet, then stopped to pluck a single perfect daisy from the fringe of the field. He folded her fingers around its stem and pulled her into his arms for a last lingering kiss. Leaning down, he curled his tongue wickedly into her ear.
"Tonight I intend to finish what we've started," he promised.
Color flooded Mariah's cheeks as she backed away. "Luke Adair, if you know what's good for you, you'll—"
"Yes?" He grinned challengingly.
"You'll do just that!" she retorted. His rich laughter followed her as she ran up the hill.
Hance rode until his horse quivered and snorted in protest. Noting the sweat that glistened over every inch of the beast, Hance slowed to a walk. The fact that he'd nearly ruined a good horse on the wild ride from his parents' farm the night before only heightened his anger. He should have known better. He should know that no horse was swift enough to ride down the demons that plagued him. Two quarts of whiskey hadn't purged him of the bile of betrayal.
He rode through a thick wood where the floor was carpeted by ferns and the mountain laurel had burst into bloom. Hance grabbed savagely at a dogweed twig and broke it off, deriving little satisfaction from its destruction. He took a long swig of whiskey from his flask; his throat was so used to the liquor that it had long ceased to burn. Cursing, he tossed the flask away.
That was the problem, Hance decided darkly. There was nothing, no one, to lash out at. His mother was long dead. He couldn't condemn Genevieve and Roarke for their selflessness. Even Nell Wingfield couldn't be blamed; her only sin was telling the truth that his loving, misguided family had so carefully concealed from him.
Tension twisted in his gut. The murderous rage he'd felt the day he'd killed Artis Judd was nothing compared with this. The bottom had dropped out of his life, and he was falling into a void, powerless to stop his descent.
"Gideon!" A voice, clear and sweet as a bird song, pierced the silence of the forest.
Hance drew his horse up, stiffening with recognition. And then he saw her. Mariah Parker. No, Mariah Adair now. She had a more legitimate claim to the name than Hance had
. Framed by a pair of pokeberry bushes, she looked as fresh and sweet as summertime itself.
"Gideon!" she called again. "Gideon, where are you?"
Although her brow was furrowed slightly in annoyance, it was clear to Hance that she was a supremely happy woman. Even as she called and scolded, she held a daisy in her hand and from time to time would run it across her beautiful cheek, a soft smile tugging at her mouth.
The tension inside Hance burst. He dropped from his horse and lashed its reins to a shrub, feeling almost relieved. At last he'd found an outlet for his rage.
He didn't stop to examine his reasoning. Mariah and Luke had no right to be happy, to mock him with the perfection of their own lives. Hance wouldn't rest until he'd ruined that happiness with his brand of revenge. Luke was the eldest son now. He had it all—the premier position in the family, the mate of his heart, a farm that promised to be successful.
And Hance had nothing. Not even a name of his own. And not Ivy. Oh, God, he thought, a red haze of rage swimming before his eyes. This time he'd really lost Ivy.
He wanted to even the score, to take from Luke the one thing he cherished above all others, just as Ivy had been taken from him. Clenching his fists, he stepped into Mariah's path.
The fury in his face was obvious. Instantly, she recoiled, dropping the daisy to the forest floor.
Hance laughed maliciously. "You're right to back away, little squaw. My feelings for you haven't changed since that first night we met. I mean to finish what we started."
Just a short time ago, Luke had said those very words to her, and she'd been filled with warm anticipation. Coming from Hance, the words filled her with terror. She clutched unconsciously at her midsection.
"Hance, please."
It was exactly what he wanted to hear. Luke's wife, begging for mercy. He seized her, winding his fingers savagely through her hair and jerking her head back, forcing her to look into his eyes. Mariah could see nothing but his rage, the cruelly twisted smile he gave her.
Neither one of them noticed the small boy who appeared on the scene briefly and fled.
Ivy toyed with the food on her plate, managing to avoid eating even the smallest bite. Her mother held her tongue for as long as she could. But finally it became too much.
"Dear, you must eat your lunch. And you're far too pale. You should start thinking about getting out."
Ivy stared out the window. She didn't see the twining yellow jessamine there but Hance with that irresistible smile on his beautiful face. Why did you have to lie? she asked him. By now the ache in her heart had become familiar, almost comforting despite the pain. It was the only thing that told her she was still alive.
At that moment the houseboy approached the table. "Someone to see you, Miss Ivy," he murmured.
Grateful for an excuse to leave her parents' sympathetic looks and shaking heads, she went to the foyer.
"She's waiting at the kitchen entrance," the houseboy explained. Frowning, Ivy went to the back of the house.
An elaborately garbed woman stood on the doorstep, her face concealed by a huge ornamented hat.
Ivy stopped and stared in surprise. "Miss Wingfield."
Nell's hands moved nervously over the ribbons that adorned her dress. She attempted to smile.
"Hello, Miss Attwater. May we talk?" She hesitated, as if fully expecting to be ejected from the house. But she didn't know Ivy, Who possessed none of the false propriety of her peers.
"Come in," she said immediately, guiding Nell by the elbow.
"No, I—" Nell looked pointedly at the cook and a maid, who had stopped working to listen. "Could we go outside, Miss Attwater?"
"Of course," Ivy said, leading the way to the rear garden.
"I have something to say to you," Nell announced hesitantly. "I should've spoken up three days ago. But it was only today that I learned to regret the things I've done." Absently, she plucked a jessamine blossom and toyed with it. "I've just seen Reverend Rankin," she continued. "Lord, that man had every right to condemn me for upsetting his parishioners last Sunday, but he didn't. He invited me into his fold."
Ivy wasn't surprised. Adam Rankin was the epitome of Christian tolerance. "I'm glad for you, Miss Wingfield," she said.
"Miss Attwater," Nell said, "I've come to ask your forgiveness. I feel responsible for driving you and Hance Adair apart practically on the eve of your wedding."
Ivy looked away, feeling a familiar stab of pain. "You had nothing to do with that," she said brokenly. "It was all Hance's doing that he went to your—your house. His disloyalty had nothing to do with you."
"My house… ?" Nell looked confused. She thought for a moment, then shook her head. "Ah, yes, I remember now. Hance did come by." She caught the look on Ivy's face. "It wasn't like that," she added hastily. "He had quite another reason for coming. I owed him money, you see, and—"
Ivy's shoulders began to shake with sobs.
"Honest, Miss Attwater," Nell continued, "that's all that happened. God forgive me, I did offer him some, ah, company, but he refused. Quite adamantly."
Ivy swiveled around, eyes wide. "Really? That's all there was to it?"
"Of course."
"But when I asked Hance about it he—he made no attempt to deny it!"
"The way I remember it, you didn't give him much of a chance, Miss Attwater."
"Oh, my God," Ivy murmured. "I didn't, did I? I'd been talking to the Beasley twins and I—" Suddenly she flung her arms around Nell. "Thank you, Miss Wingfield!"
Nell looked nonplussed for a moment, then her face broke into a grin. "I hope the two of you can patch things up. Hance and I have had our differences but I've always admired the man. Reverend Rankin says it's never too late." Nell laughed. "If he thinks my soul is salvageable, then anything is possible!" She stood up, looking as if she'd relieved herself of a great burden. "I've got to go, Miss Attwater," she declared. "I mean to spend all this month training my girls to cook and make beds and draw baths. The Liquor Vault is about to be converted to a proper boarding house!" She went away humming to herself, leaving Ivy staring after her.
It was as if the sun had reappeared after days of darkness. Ivy sprang up, running into the house. "Sanford," she called to the houseboy, "have the chaise brought around. I'm going out immediately."
She went to her parents, who were still in the dining room. "I've made a terrible mistake," she said hurriedly. "Hance was wrongly accused of—Oh, I was so damned stupid to listen to the Beasley twins! He didn't lie to me after all!"
"Ivy, what are you saying?" Dr. Attwater asked. "You're not making any sense."
"Of course it makes sense," she said jubilantly. "I still love Hance. Oh, God, I never even gave him a chance to explain—"
Dr. Attwater landed his fist on the walnut table with a clatter, silencing Ivy. "Now listen to me. You can't just go running back to Hance Adair, or whatever his name is. Nothing can change what he is."
Ivy's eyes widened. "Whatever are you talking about?"
Mrs. Attwater's face crumpled. "Oh, Lord, George, she doesn't know …" She stared at Ivy with pity in her eyes. "Darling, we found out that Hance was born illegitimate. That is why you can't marry him."
Ivy drew a deep breath, stunned. So that was what Nell Wingfield had been trying to tell her. "Can't I? Can't I?" she asked. "Sweet, merciful God, Mother, do you think I'd let a thing like that stand in my way? I rejected Hance because I thought he'd lied to me about something that mattered."
She grabbed an apple from the bowl on the table as she ran from the room. Her appetite had suddenly returned.
The sound of Mariah's screams made Luke run even faster, leaving Gideon far behind. He had no doubt it was Hance; Gideon had described a yellow-haired man with a black horse.
Luke knew why Hance had chosen to vent his rage on Mariah. The gossip was all around town, repeated with relish by those who'd witnessed the scene at the church last Sunday. Luke had reacted with shock to the idea that Hance wasn't Roarke's son. He
'd even felt a measure of compassion that Ivy Attwater had broken their betrothal.
But all Luke felt as he pounded through the forest was rage. And cold, abject terror. Mariah was in the early stages of pregnancy and in no condition to fend off Hance.
Luke rushed headlong onto the scene. The daisy he'd given her earlier lay trampled beneath scuffling feet. Hance had torn Mariah's bodice and was groping savagely at the shift beneath.
The towering fury that roiled within Luke gave him more strength than he'd ever possessed. He grabbed Hance by the collar and ripped him away from Mariah. With one swift movement, Luke spun him around and drove his fist into his face, laying open the flesh above his cheekbone.
Hance tried to elude Luke's rain of blows, putting up his arms. Uttering disjointed curses of loathing, Luke penetrated the defense and slammed his fists at Hance again and again. A thunderous kick to the midsection sent Hance sprawling to the forest floor, and Luke immediately dropped to his knees, preventing Hance from rolling away. Again and again he beat that face, hearing the sickening crunch of his own blows with dark satisfaction. Somewhere in the back of his mind he remembered another fight. A fight that had ended in the death of Black Bear, his enemy. Luke found himself craving that result once more.
Finally, Mariah's voice penetrated the red fog of rage that engulfed Luke.
"Stop, oh, God, Luke, please stop! He's not fighting back!" Luke felt her hands on his shoulder. "You'll kill him!"
"Exactly," Luke snarled, not letting up.
"You'll never forgive yourself, Luke."
At last he stopped and straightened slowly, feeling drained and somehow unclean, as if soiled by his own dark desire to kill. Shuddering, he pulled Mariah to him.
"Are you all right?"
She nodded. "He—he's been drinking. He was half out of his mind, I think."
Together they stared down at Hance's inert form. His face ran with blood, cut raw by Luke's fists. His nose was shattered, and one eye had swollen shut.
Wordlessly, Mariah plucked Luke's handkerchief from his pocket and daubed at the wounds. Hance moaned and stirred, then opened his good eye. He put his tongue out tentatively, touching a deep split in his lip.