by Rosalyn West
Because it was herself and her own faltering emotions she couldn’t trust, she let his offer pass in silence.
His hand dropped to her shoulder, resting there without pressure. But to Patrice, the weight of it was spirit-crushing.
“Patrice, you said it yourself. I’m not our father.”
With that curious claim, he left her. No accusations. No demands. Just that opening for her to turn to him. And the veiled promise that he might not judge as harshly as he had been judged.
She sat at her family’s table for a long while, shivering and uncertain, trying to decide where to turn with her troubles. She loved her brother fiercely, but she knew where he stood concerning Reeve. He’d made that very clear. There would be no calling Deacon back once he was set on the path of family honor. She couldn’t be sure if he would force her to wed the man who’d taken her prized purity, or if he’d choose simply to kill him. She could lose either way.
She’d lost so much already to the whim of war and her own capricious nature. She’d had the promise of security torn out from under her twice; with the death of her father, with the sacrifice of Jonah. Deacon was smart and loyal and coldly cunning. He would always see to their protection—always. But Reeve, with his quixotic moods and unspoken agendas, could she afford to risk her heart, her future, on him? He’d given no guarantees. She blushed to remember the way she’d wailed his name in the throes of pleasure. But wouldn’t she find the same pinnacles of delight with any man she might marry?
She considered Tyler Fairfax, replacing Reeve’s bed with his. The sharp green fire of his eyes instead Reeve’s deep secretive depths, the grace of his sinewy form rather than abruptness of Reeve’s hard contours. She tried to imagine Tyler’s mouth, his hands, his body meshing with hers, driving her to the point of abandon and beyond.
She gasped and jumped out of her chair, greatly disturbed and cold all over. No, not the same. Not with anyone else. She rubbed her palms over her arms to restore their warmth, the intensity of her reaction upsetting her.
There was a knock at their front door. Wearily, she went to answer it, then paused in the foyer when she saw Deacon already there, opening the door to the last person she expected to see on their doorstep.
Reeve Garrett.
She watched the stiffness spread through her brother’s stance like ice across a shallow pond.
“Garrett. Is this a social call?”
Reeve’s gaze touched upon Patrice’s pallid features but didn’t linger. “No.”
“Then what kind of business brings you here this time of the morning?” Challenge bristled in his tone even as hospitality demanded the door stay open.
“My father’s.” He bent to pick up a huge box and strode inside with it, heading straight for the dining room, passing Patrice without comment. Patrice and Deacon followed, both of them wary of him and each other.
Reeve had the box on the table and the lid off. Patrice gasped as he unwrapped the first piece of elegant stemware.
“The Squire wanted Patrice to have these. Specified it in his will. I’m afraid the set is short one of the glasses.” He glanced at Patrice, then went on in the same brisk clip. “Anyway, here it all is. Do whatever you want with it.”
Patrice came close to peek into the box. A poignant pleasure constricted her words as she placed her hands lovingly on the contents. “Thank you, Reeve.”
She looked up at him, gratitude glimmering in her eyes. His narrowed into unreadable slits as he took a step back, increasing the distance between them.
“No need to thank me.”
His tone had the same effect as a hard shove. Her emotions staggered, taken aback. Was he afraid she meant to cry defilement while Deacon stood right behind her? Did he expect her to come undone because the attraction between them pressed in like the sweltering summer heat, making her light-headed and oddly breathless?
He should have known better.
“Thank you for the extra burden on your time for delivering them, is what I meant.”
His mouth formed a thin pale line, scarcely moving as he said, “No trouble at all.”
Finding no excuse to prolong his visit, Reeve nodded to her, then to Deacon with the same crisp formality. He’d reached the door when Hannah hurried down the stairs, a ship under full sail in her billowy flounces.
“Why, Mr. Garrett! I didn’t know you’d come to visit.” A quick glance chastised her children as she extended her hand.
Reeve took it up gallantly. “ ‘Morning, ma’am. It wasn’t a visit. Jus’ tying up some loose ends from the squire’s estate.”
Hannah’s gaze went soft with sympathy. “Poor dear. How hard this must be for you to handle. I truly wanted to express my condolences yesterday, but what with the weather and the shock and all … I hope you understood?”
“Yes, ma’am.” He smiled, flustered by her kind attentions.
“Deacon said he spoke to you on the behalf of our family, but I did want to add my own sentiments.”
Reeve’s gaze slid to Deacon’s impenetrable facade.
Patrice chilled. Deacon never said anything. Her brother hurried his family out of the Glade without a word of regret, without a syllable of thanks. The thought of such an intentional insult would devastate their mother. And Reeve knew it.
But he turned back to Hannah with his most humble smile. “Yes, ma’am. Your son was very gracious, and I thank you for your sincerity. I took much comfort in it.”
There wasn’t a touch of cynicism in his words, no reason for Hannah to suspect he told anything but the truth.
“I’ve got to go now, ma’am. Thank you again for presiding over things at the Glade like you did. I won’t forget your kindness.” He kissed her soft hand to prove he meant it. And his slashing stare at Deacon said he wouldn’t be forgetting anything else, either. “Deacon. Miz Patrice.”
Reeve let his smile uncramp once he stepped out onto the porch. Patrice answered things for him quite nicely with her stony silence.
He’d spent restless hours anxiously conceiving a way to see her before he went out of his mind. He remembered the glassware, the way her look had gone all dewy and dreamy over it and he’d seized upon that convenient explanation for his visit. He’d promised to give her time and didn’t mean to pressure her. Yet he feared time would push a distance between them that he’d never breach again. He thought she might need reassurance and a show of support. And he had to know where he stood.
The minute he’d stepped over the threshold of Sinclair Manor, he’d known the truth of it. Patrice cowered behind her prim and proper manners, afraid to say boo to their feelings for one another. As if ashamed. As if she was sorry. As if she’d rather die than have her starchy brother know she’d been with a man of no consequence, a man like Reeve Garrett.
Feeling the fool for letting himself believe in her again, he stabbed back his heels, and Zeus lunged forward, carrying him swiftly off Sinclair property.
Chapter 23
Too cowardly to endure another moment of pretense in her brother’s company, Patrice retreated to her room, only to have her sanctuary disturbed by her mother’s gentle presence. Hannah settled on the bed beside her and after taking up her daughter’s hand, asked, “What’s wrong, dear? And don’t tell me you’re ill, unless it’s a sickness of heart.”
The opportunity was too important to let slip away.
“Mama, were you and Daddy in love when you married?”
Hannah gave her a startled glance, then quickly recovered. “We hardly knew one another, dear. Of course, I knew who he was, everyone knew the Virginia Sinclairs. We’d danced a quadrille or two at summer parties, but we’d never shared any conversation or unchaperoned time together. Those times forbade such intimacies between young people. Our fathers considered us a good match, and arrangements were made. That’s how things were done then.”
“So you married a stranger?”
Hannah laughed softly. “Heavens, I knew all about your father. He was ambitious, prot
ective, honorable, hardworking. All the men were—at least those worth knowing. They had values and would not compromise them. So you see, I knew exactly what I was getting. I only hope your father was not disappointed.”
“In you? Oh, Mother, how could you think so?”
“My family had tolerant views. He and my father often argued. Avery didn’t like his opinions challenged, especially in public. I made the mistake, shortly after we wed, of expressing myself on the slavery issue at the governor’s tea.”
“What did Father do?”
“Nothing, dear. He didn’t speak to me for weeks and pretended not to hear me or even acknowledge my presence in the room. Looking back, it all seems so silly, but then, I was young and terrified of being sent home to my father in disgrace.”
“So what did you do?”
“I apologized, of course. Profusely. And I promised never to unman him in public again.”
Patrice’s mood sank pensively. “How awful for you, to have views and be forbidden to express them.”
“Oh, no. My views were heard, loudly and often. In you, my dear. You spoke up for everything I kept quietly to myself. You were my champion, and imagine your father’s shock when he could not control you. You frightened him to death.”
“Me?”
“Of course. Men are their most blustery and belligerent when they have to justify what they’ve done. They dislike being made to feel guilty or not in control. A woman who questions or demands reasons threatens them. A husband depends upon his wife for unwavering support, even when both know he’s wrong.”
“But that’s living a lie!”
“A small illusion perhaps but nothing so terrible. What is it you want in a husband? For him to provide and protect his family. For him to go out each day to face whatever hardships await him so you feel secure. What would you give in return?”
“Children?”
“Delightful, yes, but an added worry upon the shoulders of a man who is now both husband and father. Peace is what a man wants from his wife, a place to feel safe from worldly pressures. When in his home, a man wants understanding, not strife. Respect is the only reward he needs from his family.”
“What about love? Did you love Father?”
“Not with youthful passion, no. Passion makes demands and is often cruel to those who cannot control it. Admiration, respect, trust, those are things that bond a man and woman for a lifetime. I loved your father for his stability. I loved his determination, his pride, even when he was his most bullheaded. I loved the fact that there was nothing on this earth he would not do if I asked it of him. I bore his children, kept his household, and made him feel comfortable in confiding his worries and woes to me. I understood the importance of my role and was content to keep it, and he loved me for that.”
Patrice stayed silent. These weren’t the words she’d expected to hear. She’d wanted marriage to be romance and indulgence, not practical complacency. Her confusion must have shown, for her mother put an arm about her shoulders for a bolstering squeeze.
“It’s not a prison, Patrice. It’s glorious freedom … if it’s with the right man. If I hadn’t thought your father was that man, I never would have married him.”
“How do you know? I mean, I was pledged to Jonah, and I never felt—I never knew—”
“If he was the right one? He’d have made you a fine husband, which is why we agreed to the match. He could have been the right man, if you hadn’t found that man already.”
Patrice sat completely still, not daring to betray herself with the slightest movement. Her mother went on unconcerned.
“I always liked your Mr. Garrett. A good choice, even if he was not your father’s choice.”
Patrice twisted on the coverlet to stare at her in dismay. “If you knew I was in love with Reeve, why did you allow me to say I’d marry Jonah?”
“Loving and living with are two different things, Patrice. You may have loved him then, but you didn’t have the strength to live the life he would have demanded of you. You were too young, too full of your own needs for a complicated man like Reeve Garrett. Jonah was wiser, more willing to forgive your inexperience than his brother would have been. It was not an easy decision to make, but it was made with your best interest in mind, just as the one we made for Deacon years before. Your father and I thought Jonah would be the stabilizing influence you needed, neither harsh nor wild. I’m sure you would have made him a good wife, Patrice, had things not turned out as they did.”
If Jonah hadn’t died. If she hadn’t been forced to grow up so fast. If Reeve’s return hadn’t quickened those old desires.
“Do you think I’d make a good wife for Reeve?”
“That depends?”
“On Reeve?”
“On what you’re willing to give up to have him.”
What was she willing to give up to have Reeve Garrett? If she truly loved him, why was there no easy answer?
Hannah touched her chin, guiding it toward her. “It’s more than Mr. Garrett, isn’t it? What else has you so concerned? Is it your brother? Don’t look so surprised. You see, I know your father never had any overseas investments.”
“Oh, Mama. I’m so worried about Deacon. He’s in terrible trouble, I know it. He’s so—”
“Like your father.” Hannah sighed. “Perhaps you should pay another visit to your banker friend and see what he can do.”
Patrice gaped at her. How could she have been so wrong about the woman who raised her? Hannah Sinclair was anything but unaware. For the first time, Patrice could see her gentle, guiding touch upon the family, unobtrusive but always there.
“Go into town, my dear. See Mr. Dodge. Have your brother take you. Use the time on the road to talk to him, not lecture at him. He loves you, Patrice. He’ll listen.”
Deacon didn’t question his mother’s request that he take Patrice into town to do her errands. The ride was uneventful and silent, both brother and sister preoccupied by troubles tied up with the other. Deacon dropped Patrice off in front of the dressmaker’s but didn’t remain to actually see her go inside, relieving her of having to tell him a lie.
Patrice felt a strained undercurrent ripple through the citizens of Pride as she hurried down the walk. Tension created a palpable static, like the crackling before a lightning storm. Those she encountered hushed their whispering to stare at her oddly, then turned from her attempts at a greeting. It reminded her of their treatment of Reeve at the Glendower gala. But why would they shun her? What reason would they have, unless … Unless they somehow knew about her and Reeve.
Cold panic settled in her stomach, hurrying her steps toward the bank. She didn’t try to hide her destination. Deacon would learn of it soon enough.
“Why g’morning, ma’am.” Dodge came to his feet, cigar clenched between his teeth as he smiled and pulled out her chair. Patrice sank into it, desperate to appear nonchalant beneath his too-observant gaze.
“Mr. Dodge, how are you?”
“Well, I haven’t had any sacrifices left on my steps lately, so I suppose I’m doing all right. Unless the good people of Pride are planning something on a grander scale.”
Patrice swallowed hard. “Why would you think that?”
Dodge pinned her with a direct gaze. “Something’s got them all stirred up today. Fairfax and his unpleasant friends have been circulating some kind of ugly talk. My guess is there’ll be a run on sheets at the mercantile.”
Gathering her courage, she asked, “What kind of talk?”
“No one exactly confided in me, but it has to do with some goings-on out at the Glade last night. You know anything about that, Patrice?”
She cringed in her seat, rattled, anxious. “Why would I?” She glanced away, sure he could read lewd acts all over her expression. Which he apparently could.
“So if you’re not here to taunt me with the fact that I’m the only one in this whole damn county with no love life, I’d guess you’re here on business.”
Used to his s
hocking bluntness, she didn’t bother with blushes. “Help me, Dodge. I-I don’t know what to do. If I can’t find some way to buy our debt back from Tyler, I-I’m afraid of what might happen. This is my fault.” Tears sprang to her eyes and to her embarrassment, she couldn’t keep the dampness from falling in a scalding stream. “If I hadn’t pushed my brother so hard—If I’d only stopped thinking of myself long enough to understand what he was struggling with—”
Dodge’s handkerchief was in her hand. She blotted her eyes as he crouched down beside her chair, all burly sympathy.
“It’s not your fault.”
“It is!”
“No.” He sound so certain, so convincing, she gave a miserable sniff and blinked forlornly. He smiled and opened one arm wide. “I’m told I have a good, solid shoulder.”
Without hesitation, she leaned upon it, relying upon its broad strength while searching for control. His arm made an uncompromising loop about her, the gesture sheltering, comfortable in its warmth and unpressuring weight. He gave her the time she needed to pull her ragged seams together, not speaking, just there with sturdy, dependable support. Finally, she straightened to met his gaze, finding it calm, encouraging.
“What can I do, Dodge?”
“Your brother’s going to have to do it. I can go to him, or he can come to me.”
“You can go to hell.” Deacon’s cold tones intruded like a harsh slap. “Get up, Patrice, before I forget you’re my sister.”
Dodge’s hand settled upon her shoulder, holding her down as he slowly stood to face the seething Southerner. “Nothing’s going on to get riled up over, Mr. Sinclair. It’s just business.”
Deacon’s eyes slitted. “Funny business. I’m not laughing.”
“Deacon—”
“Shut up!” he hissed down at her. She shrank back. The fearful movement didn’t escape either man. Deacon froze over. Dodge became dangerously soft-spoken.
“Mr. Sinclair, your sister came to ask for my help. She’s done nothing wrong. She’s concerned about you.”
“What kind of help, Yank? Help to bury us all the faster?”