“Is there such a thing as too much love?”
Renfrey's words had the sound of quiet contemplation. Hearing it, Carita's tingling senses expanded still further. It seemed, as she looked into the fathomless depths of his gaze, that she knew him. She had intimate knowledge of his body: the powerful bands of muscle that encased it, the strong skeleton beneath, the heart that beat so fiercely inside. And knowing him, she ached for his touch as she might for food after an eternity of fasting.
On a quick-drawn breath, she said, “My Aunt Berthe, my mother's older sister, certainly thinks so. She claims my mother was too frail in body and spirit for physical closeness. She says my father knew it would be so, must have guessed in the beginning that his passions were too strong, his needs too demanding. Therefore he killed her.”
“And you believe it?”
She faced him squarely. “I have no reason to doubt it.”
He was silent while the blowing hem of his cape brushed the diamond-glitter of dust from his boots. He set the ferrule of his cane on the toe of one and rested both hands on the silver handle. At last he said, “She must have been a woman of uncommon beauty.”
“They say so; I never knew her.” She heard the regret in her own voice, something else she had never noted before.
“I expect you are her image.”
The flush that rose at the compliment was painful in its intensity. Her vanity, however, was untouched. “My aunt says not, though the resemblance is there. I am more like my father, which is unforgivable. I have his strength.”
“You would, of course,” he said, and smiled to himself.
Carita watched him, and she wondered. But no, it was unlikely that he could know anything of her situation. He was only a chance-met stranger, and perhaps an accomplished trifler with the female sex. He might be—was without doubt—good at reading the desires of a woman's heart. But that was all.
Or was it? The warmth of his smile seemed for her alone; the look in his eyes caressed her. She was encompassed, held prisoner, by the sheer male force emanating from him. With these things was something more that was like mystic recognition. And possibly the handiwork of fate.
“What of your mother?” he asked, delicately probing. “Did she regret the loving?”
It was a personal question, like his personal comments. She should not answer, should not stay to exchange another word. Yet the compulsion was strong. She said, “There is nothing to show that she did. My aunt regrets it enough for both of them.”
“And has accomplished her revenge against your father by transferring it to you?”
A frown drew her brows together. “Why should you think so?”
“She has made the memory of your mother bitter with regret and turned you, with her claims, into the daughter of a murderer. Encouraging you to despise your father, she has taught you to disavow the part of yourself that is like him.”
“Not—intentionally.”
“No? But you can't deny she has proved her lack of concern for your well-being. After all, she has sent you here alone, without a chaperone, on All Hallows’ Eve, the one night in the year when anything can happen.”
Carita had never thought of it like that. Still, she said, “Perhaps I came of my own choice.”
“I salute your loyalty; it is a lovely virtue. But does your aunt deserve it?”
Between confusion over the compliment and recognition of her own doubts, her protest was weak. “She must be given some consideration for caring for me since I was born.”
“But if she can't or won't protect you, now that you are a young woman, it could be time for you to seek the safety of a gold band.”
“Hardly,” she said, “if you mean the kind that comes with a husband attached.”
Laughter flashed like lightning across the darkness of his eyes, then vanished. “You sound so certain. Perhaps you've been married?”
The violent shake of her head threatened to loosen her small hat of feather-trimmed felt. “No, thank goodness. Rather, I've seen the husbands chosen by my aunt for her daughters.”
“You weren't impressed?”
The solicitation in his voice was, she thought, completely spurious. “One of them drinks all day and falls asleep at dinner with his face in his soup; the other sleeps during the daylight hours and drinks all night with his male friends.”
“And on the strength of their example you shun matrimony.”
“I haven't the temperament for it.” Her face was without expression. He could not know the subject was distressing to her.
Renfrey was thoughtful. “I will grant that I have little experience with the cool and pallid passions of the church, but you don't have the look of a nun.”
“The problem,” she said in stringent tones, “is not a lack of heat.”
“What an intriguing admission—” he began with a wicked smile, then stopped. “No,” he corrected himself. “That was a statement of information, I think, not an invitation to dalliance. The question is, then: What are you afraid of?”
The night wind shifted the fullness of her wide skirts so they brushed the tombs on either side. The friction crumbled old lichen from the surfaces into black flakes that sprinkled down onto the worn gray silk, catching on the circular bones of the hoop underneath. Above them in the night sky, a trio of bats swooped in silent delirium on brown velvet wings, mouths open to catch the mosquitoes which danced in the air. Voracious, the small flying animals combed the air with their teeth for what they needed in order to live. As did all creatures, each in its own way.
Releasing the breath she had caught, Carita said in stark denial, “I’m not afraid of you.”
“Indeed not; why should you be?” he said. “I am no threat.”
But he was, and she knew it. Before this night, there had been no one who might have answered the need inside her, no image to use for a hook on which to hang her dreams. She would not have believed there was someone who could fill the aching void in her heart, yet this man was pushing his way inside and settling there, bit by bit, like a homing night owl in a hollow tree.
She said, “Some fears cannot be explained.”
He was not to be put off with ambiguity. “You aren't afraid of the dark, or even the unknown, else you wouldn't be here. You obviously aren't timid of the opposite sex, and we have settled that you don't have the disposition of a nun. I don't understand. Can it be you are afraid of dying like your mother?”
“You might put it that way,” she answered in tight evasion.
His eyes narrowed at the corners. “No, I don't think I would, after all. Perhaps it's living that is your secret horror? And loving?”
“No.” The word was stark.
“No, but something very close to it,” he mused, relentless. “Is your aunt also to blame for that?”
He was far too acute for comfort. “Really, I don't believe it's—”
“Any of my affair? Agreed.” He paused. “It's one thing to be ruled by your own terrors, you know, but something else again to yield to the fears of others.”
“Or the persuasion?” she suggested, with an edge to her voice. Her gaze was direct if a little defensive.
He laughed, a sound resonant with warm and accepting humor. “Especially the persuasions. Or worse, their overweening passions. Unless you don't know your own mind—or prefer to pretend you don't.”
“Letting someone else take the blame for whatever may happen then?”
“Or the credit,” he said with audacity.
She watched him and wondered again exactly what was in his mind. And she wished she knew what had brought him there and what he intended, but was afraid he might tell her if she asked. It would never do to be certain, for then she would be forced to go. Which was, she discovered, not at all what she wanted. Not yet.
“Walk with me,” he said abruptly, his gaze intent on her face. “For just a little while?”
It felt as if he had read her mind; there had been a momentary and incredible sense of inv
asion followed by warm unison. No, impossible. She must have initiated that small merging herself, must have failed to guard her thoughts because she was too absorbed in guarding her emotions.
His invitation should be refused; she knew that beyond doubting. All the reasons that made acceptance futile and unwise clamored in her head along with the certain consequences. Louder still, however, was the urging of instinct.
Her manner withdrawn, she said, “Walk where?”
“Anywhere. Nowhere. Must there be a destination?”
“It's usual.” She added, “Also more prudent.”
“I thought,” he said with astringency, “that we had dispensed with prudence along with fear?”
Her gaze was calm. “Did you? I was not aware of it. But I must return to my aunt's house. If you care to walk in the direction, I have no way of stopping you.”
He inclined his head with a trace of irony. Replacing his silk hat at a jaunty angle, he moved toward her, offering his arm for her support. As she reached out to take it, however, he snapped his fingers and whirled away. Stepping toward the family tomb with fluid grace, he returned with the vase she had been sent to find.
“You wanted this, I think.”
How could she have forgotten? The answer was in the form of the man before her. Foolish, so foolish. She murmured her thanks, not quite meeting his gaze as she accepted the piece of white porcelain.
To stroll at Renfrey's side along the rows of tombs toward where the gate stood open had all the tremulous excitement of the forbidden. Carita salved her conscience with the knowledge that it would be for only a few short minutes. At the same time, she savored, carefully, the close company; it was so very rare.
Her aunt had done her duty by taking an orphaned babe into her home, but Carita never felt as if she belonged; there was always a sense of being there on sufferance. As she grew older and her cousins, her aunt's daughters, married, she had been left the sole companion of her aunt. The two of them had sadly little in common, however, as Carita had no liking for gossip and hand work such as funeral jewelry made from human hair, and her Aunt Berthe cared nothing for books or ideas.
Taught from an early age to make herself useful around the house, Carita had only discovered after she came of age that the household subsisted on money left behind by her father for her care. By then, service, like isolation, had become a habit.
Renfrey matched his pace to hers without apparent effort. He was an able escort as they wove in and out among the tombs, steering her clear of entanglements and around obstacles. She could feel the warmth of his body, sense the taut muscles and sinews under the broadcloth of his sleeve beneath her grasp.
He had thrown back his cape so that the lining had a blood-like sheen as it dipped and swirled behind his shoulders. In his free hand he swung his cane, batting at the dusty heads of weeds. Well-balanced, it seemed rather heavy, as if it might have a sword concealed in its glinting, silver-tipped length.
The night flowed, timeless and lavender-gray around them, shutting out all else. Behind them, a gray cat followed at a distance, a soft-slipping shadow leaping from tomb to tomb with insouciance, mincing down the gravel walk, starting at shadows to streak ahead then sit waiting for them.
Conversation being an accomplishment expected of a lady, Carita said after a moment, “You are not from New Orleans, I think? Are you visiting relatives or friends?”
“What makes you think this isn't my home?” The words were accompanied by a quick downward glance.
“The way you speak, for one thing,” she said. “You have an accent I find hard to place. Then you appear a gentleman, yet I've never seen you at the theater or any of the balls of the winter season. The social circle here is small; we should have met at some time or other.”
“Actually, I arrived only recently,” he said.
“From Europe, perhaps?”
“Among other places, from Turkey to Taipei.”
“A world traveler,” she said dryly.
“In a fashion. I am thinking of staying, though whether I will…depends.”
“On what?” It seemed a natural question.
“Developments.” He went on with hardly a pause. “You enjoy your life here? You never think of leaving?”
“Often,” she said. “There is so much beyond this one place that I would like to see.”
“Then you aren't happy?”
“Oh, who would not wish for some change, however small? No matter. I am resigned if not content.” The understanding in his voice was addictive; she must beware of it.
His glance was skeptical. “What do you do with your days?”
“Very little you would consider of interest,” she said in even tones.
“Permit me to guess. You direct your aunt's servants in their cleaning; you order the meals, see to the shopping. You mend and sew and embroider linens. Yes, and you fetch and carry and run the small errands your aunt finds inconvenient.”
“How did you—” she began, then stopped as she saw the answer.
“Yes, the usual life of a spinster living with a relative. Only you are far too young and lovely to deserve the name, much less be resigned.”
“You consider I should be doing all those things for a husband, I imagine.”
“For yourself, in your own home, though the man you may choose to join you would also benefit.”
“And have legal right to my services, not to mention ownership of the house?” There was a waspish edge to her tone.
“The house may or may not belong to the man,” he said, “but the home is always the woman's province where a man is only a guest. She can make him as comfortable or uncomfortable as she pleases.”
“But not be easily rid of him?” She gave him a steely look.
He halted and a frown appeared between his dark brows. “Does that mean you want me to leave you? You have only to say the words and I will be gone.”
“We were not,” she said with acid satisfaction, “speaking of you.” She kept her steady pace.
Renfrey made no reply. Catching up with her in two strides, he walked on a few steps before he said, “What of your father? Have you seen him recently?”
“I've not seen him at all,” she answered. “He went away when I was a few weeks old.”
“You never knew him, then. A pity.”
“So I've often thought. My aunt, of course, feels otherwise.”
His words measured, he said, “I believe he did what he thought was best in leaving you with her.”
It was Carita who stopped this time, forcing him to come to a halt beside her. Her voice compressed, she said, “You speak as if— Can it be you know him?”
Renfrey's gaze was considering. “I met him once.”
“Where? How did he look? Was he well?” Excitement made the words tumble from her in near incoherence.
“It was in Paris, I think,” he answered, taking her questions in turn. “Or was it Rome? A distinguished gentleman, cosmopolitan, learned. He had a great interest in antiquities. And he seemed in robust health.”
She moistened her lips. “It was he who told you about me, wasn't it?”
“We talked of your mother, of her death and how much he missed her. He had received reports of you which worried him. There was a suggestion that I might seek you out if ever I found myself in New Orleans.”
She digested that and found it disquieting. She said, “For what purpose?”
“The meeting? No purpose was given. I should think, however,” he went on deliberately, “that it would be for the usual reason—the thing which most concerns a man with a daughter who is a beauty with independent ways.”
“Courtship? Marriage?” The words were tight as she turned her head to stare straight ahead.
“If it should come to that. There is, of course, no obligation. On either side.”
“That's all that passed between you?” She could not help looking at him again, searching for she knew not what. There was nothing in his face that shoul
d not have been there. Delicately and in silent trepidation, she sent out a mental probe for more.
Odd. There seemed to be a barrier which prevented her from penetrating his thoughts. She had never encountered such a thing before.
His features hardened momentarily before an ironic smile tugged at his lips. He said in answer to her question, “What else should there be?”
“A great deal. My father might, if he had been fair, have given you a warning.” She inhaled on a small gasp. The words had been in her mind, but she had not meant to say them aloud.
“Of what kind?”
Should she speak? Was it at all wise? She had never given herself away before, but then she had never been in a position where she felt it might be required.
Controlling her breathing with valiant effort, she said, “He might have told you it was dangerous to know me.”
“Dangerous,” he said as if had never heard the word.
“Even deadly,” she added. “Especially if you should—presume to love me.”
“There is a reason, I suppose?” The inquiry was tentative, almost reluctant.
“Indeed,” she answered with her head held high. “The man who spoke to you of me happens to be a warlock.”
“Ah,” he said, a soft sound it was impossible to interpret.
“And I,” she said with mingled pride and despair, “I am the warlock's daughter.”
2
Renfrey surveyed Carita slowly, from the shining silver-gilt hair under her small hat of felt and feathers to the beautifully symmetrical shape of her body and down to the gray-silver hem of her skirt that swept the ground. In the moonlight, her features were pale perfection, as remote as the carved angel on the tomb behind her. The wind shifted his cape, brushed it against her so the silk-on-silk made a soft, whispering sigh. It seemed he felt the contact with every last fiber of his body.
“If you are the daughter of a warlock,” he said in trenchant admiration, “what does that make you? A witch?”
“I wouldn't call myself so.” Her gaze met his without evasion.
“But you are not like other women?”
“No, I have never been as they are.” The moon sailed behind a gray wraith of cloud, leaving her face in shadow. The light faded, as if with the dulling of her spirit.
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