Secrets

by Brenda Joyce

  He lo­oked her grimly in the eye. "The one thing I'm not is a damn li­ar." He win­ced. "Sorry. I ha­ven't known too many la­di­es. La­di­es li­ke you, an­y­way."

  The ti­me his com­p­li­ment was inad­ver­tent but so ge­nu­ine she was mo­ved to te­ars. "That's all right," she sa­id softly. "I don't un­der­s­tand."

  "I sho­uld ha­ve ne­ver lis­te­ned to Rick. I've ne­ver co­ur­ted a wo­man be­fo­re, it just isn't in me."

  "Co­ur­ted a wo­man?"

  "I was trying to co­urt you." He lo­oked at the flo­or. "It was a stu­pid idea."

  The tho­ught of him co­ur­ting her might ha­ve be­en thril­ling, gi­ven dif­fe­rent cir­cum­s­tan­ces; it co­uld not be ple­asing now. Her te­ars wel­led un­con­t­rol­lably. For she knew that his co­ur­t­s­hip had not­hing to do with lo­ve. She co­ve­red her fa­ce with her hands.

  "Don't cry," he whis­pe­red, ago­ni­zed. "I'm sorry. I am."

  She sho­ok her he­ad. "I'm not re­al­ly crying." But all she co­uld think of was that his co­ur­t­s­hip had ever­y­t­hing to do with her in­he­ri­tan­ce and not­hing to do with his fe­elings for her. His flat­tery must ha­ve be­en a lie, too. She was crus­hed.

  He lif­ted her to her fe­et as she wi­ped her eyes. His hands we­re warm and strong, inex­p­li­cably of­fe­ring com­fort. She pus­hed them away. "Let's talk," he sa­id, wat­c­hing her.

  "Abo­ut why you we­re co­ur­ting me?"

  "Ye­ah."

  Re­gi­na sta­red at his som­ber ex­p­res­si­on, her vi­si­on still misty. "I al­re­ady know. It has to do with the mar­ri­age Rick wants, do­esn't it? You've ag­re­ed. So­me­how he tal­ked you in­to it."

  Sla­de's pos­tu­re be­ca­me de­fi­ant. "He didn't talk me in­to an­y­t­hing," he sa­id shortly. "I'm used to Rick. He might be ab­le to swe­et-talk you, but not me."

  Re­gi­na did not bot­her to dis­pu­te him. "Why wo­uld you co­urt me if not with mar­ri­age in mind?"

  "I didn't say that," he sa­id grimly. "Mar­ri­age is on my mind. Do you… wo­uld you… want to get mar­ri­ed?" She sta­red. Ne­ver had she se­en such de­ter­mi­na­ti­on in a man's eyes be­fo­re-yet des­pe­ra­ti­on lur­ked right be­ne­ath the sur­fa­ce. She sup­po­sed that she had just re­ce­ived a mar­ri­age pro­po­sal, as of­f­hand and aw­k­ward as it was, from the most han­d­so­me, vi­ri­le man she had su­rely ever met. But it was not ma­de out of lo­ve, or out of any ho­no­rab­le in­ten­ti­on what­so­ever. Te­ars crept back in­to her eyes. Her emo­ti­ons we­re dan­ge­ro­usly over­w­ro­ught. Be­fo­re this mo­ment, she might ha­ve sa­id yes. No mo­re. "No."

  He was very still. The­re was no ex­p­res­si­on on his fa­ce. A long si­len­ce en­su­ed. Re­gi­na wis­hed he wo­uld le­ave- so she co­uld cry-and pack.

  "I fi­gu­red you'd say that," he fi­nal­ly sa­id. "Even Mi­ra­mar can't en­ti­ce you in­to sa­ying yes."

  It was a flat sta­te­ment. Her fists clen­c­hed. She wan­ted to sho­ut at him that Mi­ra­mar was not on her mind, and that he co­uld in­du­ce her easily eno­ugh if he wan­ted to, if he wo­uld only try, if he wo­uld only ca­re, just a lit­tle, but she did not. She was not go­ing to be a fo­ol, she was not. This man of­fe­red her not­hing but pa­in. She wan­ted lo­ve.

  "I want you to lis­ten to me." He pa­ced to­ward her. Re­gi­na sho­ok her he­ad. "No. Don't bot­her. The­re's not­hing you can say to chan­ge my mind."

  Yet she did not mo­ve, and he did not ce­ase co­ming. Her he­art ham­me­red im­pos­sibly hard. He wasn't thro­ugh and she knew it. A part of her had to he­ar him out. That fo­olish, ho­pe­less part of her. He didn't stop un­til he sto­od di­rectly in front of her, so clo­se that she co­uld easily to­uch his che­ek if she da­red. His warm, strong hands clo­sed on her ten­se sho­ul­ders. "You wo­uld be mis­t­ress of all of this," he sa­id, his vo­ice une­ven.

  She wis­hed des­pe­ra­tely that he wo­uld mo­ve away. This clo­se; his mag­ne­tism was just too dan­ge­ro­us. "And you wo­uld ha­ve my mo­ney." Her vo­ice was even less ste­ady than his.

  "Not me. Not me per­so­nal­ly. I ne­ed yo­ur in­he­ri­tan­ce to sa­ve Mi­ra­mar. We're ban­k­rupt, Eli­za­beth, and if we don't ma­ke our back pay­ments so­on, the bank is go­ing to ta­ke Mi­ra­mar away from us."

  Re­gi­na gas­ped. "Is that the truth?" But even as she as­ked, she saw the fi­er­ce de­ter­mi­na­ti­on in his eyes, the des­pe­ra­ti­on, and she knew that it was. And may­be it was then that she knew, too, that her fa­te was se­aled.

  "It's the truth," he sa­id harshly. But his eyes glo­wed. "But ha­ve you ever se­en a pla­ce li­ke this, ever?" He sho­ok her on­ce for em­p­ha­sis. "Ha­ve you ever se­en mo­un­ta­ins so bre­at­h­ta­king? Whe­re el­se can you go and lo­ok one way, out ac­ross the in­fi­ni­te oce­an, and the ot­her way, down in­to a swe­et-smel­ling val­ley? Ha­ve you ever se­en ski­es li­ke this-ski­es that are so blue they're al­most the pur­p­le of iri­ses? Ha­ve you go­ne down to the be­ach yet? I'll ta­ke you," he sa­id, not wa­iting for her to an­s­wer. "The­re we­re wha­les pla­ying out at the po­int this mor­ning. Ha­ve you ever se­en a ma­ma wha­le pla­ying with her one-ton pup?"

  Te­ars we­re slowly fal­ling from Re­gi­na's eyes. Sla­de wasn't hard. He wasn't hard at all. He was a ro­man­tic. He was in lo­ve with Mi­ra­mar, and may­be, just may­be, she was in lo­ve with him. "N-ne­ver."

  "I can't let all of this go," he sa­id, grip­ping her hands. His eyes we­re bright and mid­nig­ht-blue. "I can't, I won't. Can you un­der­s­tand that? Dam­mit, Eli­za­beth, I'm sorry I didn't just co­me right out and be ho­nest with you from the first. I wan­ted to. I re­al­ly did. Rick pus­hed me in­to the god-aw­ful idea of co­ur­ting you." He win­ced, clo­sing his eyes bri­efly. "I knew I co­uldn't do it."

  Te­ars slip­ped down Re­gi­na's che­eks. Whis­per-soft, she sa­id, "You co­uld do it, Sla­de. You are do­ing it."

  He didn't he­ar her. "But wo­uld it be so bad? You'd be the mis­t­ress of all of this. You'd be the mis­t­ress of one of Cod's most spec­ta­cu­lar cre­ati­ons. You we­re go­ing to be the mis­t­ress of all of this an­y­way. You'll be the mis­t­ress of Mi­ra­mar." His ga­ze was scor­c­hing. "The mis­t­ress of Mi­ra­mar."

  He still held her hands, tightly, but she knew he wasn't awa­re of it. He was con­su­med with Mi­ra­mar, not her. "But I can't re­mem­ber," she whis­pe­red, her last pro­test. "I ha­ve no me­mory." And she left it to him to see how il­lo­gi­cal and un­t­hin­kab­le such a pro­po­si­ti­on was.

  "And may­be you ne­ver will get yo­ur me­mory back," Sla­de sa­id bluntly. "But you'll al­ways ha­ve this. You'll al­ways ha­ve yo­ur pla­ce he­re, you'll al­ways be­long he­re. Mi­ra­mar is fo­re­ver. Don't you see?"

  She saw; she saw ever­y­t­hing, she saw too much. She tri­ed to pull her hands free, and he sud­denly re­ali­zed what he'd be­en do­ing, be­ca­use he let her. She wi­ped the te­ars from her che­eks.

  "It wo­uldn't be so bad," Sla­de sa­id in­ten­sely. "How co­uld you say no to all of this?"

  Re­gi­na wet her lips. How co­uld she say no to this man?

  Sud­denly he cup­ped her chin in one lar­ge palm. The­ir ga­zes loc­ked. In that fle­eting se­cond, Re­gi­na tho­ught she knew all the of his so­ul, tho­ught she knew all of the raw des­pe­ra­te ne­ed fil­ling his he­art.

  "You're our only ho­pe," Sla­de sa­id. "You're my only ho­pe."

  It had be­en an il­lu­si­on, of co­ur­se, and the fe­eling of kno­wing him mo­re in­ti­ma­tely than she knew her self pas­sed. Re­gi­na pul­led her fa­ce free of his pa­ir then reg­ret­ted the loss. "You're not be­ing fa­ir," she whis­pe­red.

  But she al­re­ady knew her an­s­wer. And she knew she was mo­re than stu­pid, mo­re than a fo­ol. She didn't know who she was, co­uldn't re­mem­ber h
er past, or her fi­ancй, but she was go­ing to marry Sla­de. And she wasn't do­ing it for Mi­ra­mar, she was do­ing it for him. And may­be-pro­bab­ly-she was do­ing it for her­self.

  Chapter 11

  They wal­ked past the ho­use to­ward the be­ach. The hil­lsi­de slo­ped gently down to the oce­an whe­re the wa­ves be­at the sandy sho­re. When they re­ac­hed its ed­ge, they we­re stan­ding on top of an im­ma­cu­la­tely cle­an, cre­am-co­lo­red du­ne. A path wo­und on down to the be­ach whe­re a small in­let fa­ced them. On both si­des of the co­ve the du­nes ga­ve way to taw­ny-hu­ed rock and fi­nal­ly to so­aring, pi­ne-rid­den cliffs.

  They pa­used, sta­ring out at the vis­ta. The sun dap­pled the oce­an, gulls gli­ded abo­ve them, ca­wing, and the surf was snowy-whi­te aga­inst the pe­arl-hu­ed sand. They we­re the only pe­op­le in sight; it felt as if they we­re the only ones in exis­ten­ce. Re­gi­na felt her bre­ath catch at the ma­j­esty of it all.

  Sla­de sa­id not­hing. He had not sa­id a word sin­ce she had ag­re­ed to marry him. The im­pen­ding mar­ri­age sho­uld ha­ve cre­ated a deg­ree of in­ti­macy bet­we­en them, but in­s­te­ad it se­emed to ha­ve cre­ated aw­k­war­d­ness and ten­si­on. Re­gi­na won­de­red at his tho­ughts, but did not da­re ask him what they might be. In truth, she was af­ra­id to know. She ho­ped he was not reg­ret­ting the­ir de­ci­si­on. It se­emed, still, mo­nu­men­tal­ly fo­olish. Yet she was not reg­ret­ting ac­cep­ting him. How co­uld she? He had res­cu­ed her, of­fe­red to pro­tect her, and now, his pas­si­ona­te pro­po­sal ha­un­ted her.

  She so­ught to bre­ak the si­len­ce and the ten­si­on. 'Is this whe­re you swim?"

  "Yes, but it's not as calm as it ap­pe­ars. It's ro­ugh. Don't you try to swim he­re."

  She sto­le a glan­ce at him. She ho­ped he was con­cer­ned abo­ut her wel­fa­re. And if he wasn't qu­ite con­cer­ned abo­ut her yet, she was de­ter­mi­ned that one day he wo­uld be. He was sta­ring out at the sea, un­wil­ling or unab­le to lo­ok at her; may­be he was sta­ring out at Chi­na. His pro­fi­le was hard and per­fect and too han­d­so­me for words.

  "And the wha­les?" she as­ked, not se­e­ing any sign of the big mam­mals.

  He po­in­ted to­ward the nor­t­hern po­int of the co­ve. "They're go­ne," he sa­id, and he co­uld not qu­ite ke­ep the di­sap­po­in­t­ment from his to­ne. "But they we­re out the­re ear­li­er."

  "Oh," Re­gi­na sa­id, di­sap­po­in­ted as well.

  Sla­de still didn't lo­ok at her. "But they'll be back. They al­ways co­me back. They can't stay away from he­re."

  "Li­ke you?" Re­gi­na whis­pe­red.

  He fi­nal­ly tur­ned to her. "Ye­ah," he sa­id ro­ughly. "Li­ke me. Let's go. The­re's no po­int in sta­ying now. They won't be back to­day or even to­mor­row. They won't be back aga­in un­til next ye­ar."

  Re­gi­na re­ac­hed out and res­t­ra­ined him. "And if you we­re le­aving, you wo­uldn't be back for anot­her ye­ar eit­her, wo­uld you? Or even two?"

  "You se­em to ha­ve le­ar­ned a hell of a lot abo­ut me in the few days you've be­en he­re."

  "How co­uld I not he­ar so­me of the things Vic­to­ria has sa­id?"

  "Vic­to­ria is one per­son not worth lis­te­ning to."

  "Why, Sla­de? Why did you le­ave ho­me to be­gin with?"

  He stif­fe­ned.

  Re­gi­na re­ali­zed the ex­tent of her auda­city. "You are go­ing to be my hus­band," she whis­pe­red.

  In an­s­wer, he be­gan wal­king down the path, and Re­gi­na hur­ri­ed to fol­low. The sand was de­ep and soft, ma­king it dif­fi­cult for her to ke­ep up with him. Fi­nal­ly he spo­ke, not lo­oking at her. "Rick. I got ti­red of be­ing told how rot­ten I was."

  Re­gi­na's he­art twis­ted. "I don't be­li­eve that. A fat­her co­uldn't pos­sibly tell his son that he is rot­ten."

  "Not in so many words," Sla­de ad­mit­ted. "But he was al­ways on my back. It was cle­ar he tho­ught me a lo­ser, whi­le James was per­fect."

  "Rick lo­ves you." The words pop­ped out be­fo­re she co­uld stop them.

  He whir­led. He was li­vid. "What the hell do you know?"

  She trem­b­led but sto­od her gro­und. "I know what I see and he­ar."

  He cur­sed. "You've be­en he­re, what? Three, fo­ur days? You don't know an­y­t­hing!"

  "I'm sorry," she sa­id qu­ickly. She had known from the first that Sla­de wo­uld not be re­cep­ti­ve to her opi­ni­on of his re­la­ti­on­s­hip with his fat­her, and now she knew when to ret­re­at.

  He be­gan wal­king aga­in, fas­ter now, as the path spil­led on­to the be­ach. Re­gi­na he­si­ta­ted. He was wor­king off his an­ger, she saw it in his long hard stri­des. She was af­ra­id that he was not just angry with Rick, but with her. She kept her dis­tan­ce, sta­ying be­hind him, let­ting him walk off the ten­si­on. She was cer­ta­in that an­ge­ring him at this new and fra­gi­le sta­ge of the­ir re­la­ti­on­s­hip was not a go­od idea.

  She bre­at­hed de­eply, suc­king in the fresh salty air, trying to so­ot­he her ta­ut ner­ves, let­ting him out­dis­tan­ce her. She wo­uld be mo­re ca­re­ful in the fu­tu­re. Ali­ena­ting him had not be­en her in­ten­ti­on. They had the­ir who­le li­ves to le­arn abo­ut each ot­her, to sha­re de­ep-and pa­in­ful-. Then she re­ali­zed that un­less she re­ga­ined her me­mory, he wo­uld be do­ing all the sha­ring, and she wo­uld be do­ing the lis­te­ning. She ten­sed a lit­tle at the tho­ught. Yet re­ga­ining her me­mory now wo­uld de­fi­ni­tely ca­use mo­re prob­lems than it sol­ved.

  For­cing her mind el­sew­he­re, she ga­zed aro­und her. The sla­te-blue oce­an ap­pe­ared to be en­d­less, se­am­les­sly blen­ding in­to the fa­ded-blue ho­ri­zon. Abo­ve the cliffs on her right, two hawks we­re gli­ding, et­c­hing cir­c­les in­to the sky aro­und one anot­her. It was an ef­for­t­less and spec­ta­cu­lar bal­let. On both si­des of her, the be­ach rol­led away, glin­ting al­most whi­te with the iri­des­cen­ce of pe­arls. She in­ha­led de­eply aga­in, a fe­eling of con­ten­t­ment sud­denly was­hing over her. She wo­uld ne­ver grow ti­red of this be­ach, of Mi­ra­mar. Her he­art told her that.

  Sla­de had pa­used ne­ar the po­int whe­re the wha­les had pla­yed that mor­ning. Wis­t­ful, she wis­hed she had se­en them. She wat­c­hed him turn, ga­zing to­ward her, a dark sil­ho­u­et­te aga­inst the soft pa­le sand. Slowly he be­gan to ma­ke his way back to her. She smi­led. The­re was no an­ger in his le­isu­rely stri­des. Still smi­ling, she wal­ked down to the wa­ter's ed­ge, ma­king su­re to stay just out of re­ach of the bre­aking wa­ves. It was a fi­ne mo­ment to sha­re with a man li­ke Sla­de, with the man who wo­uld one day be her hus­band.

  Ca­re­less of her pretty sho­es, she dip­ped her to­es in the ri­vu­lets of wa­ter. He was a com­p­li­ca­ted man. But she did not mind. She fo­und him fas­ci­na­ting and now, en­ga­ged, she co­uld fre­ely ad­mit it. Per­haps he was a dark man, but she did not re­al­ly think so. She had se­en his soft, sunny si­de on­ce too of­ten. She tho­ught that she co­uld be a go­od hel­p­ma­te to him. She in­ten­ded to be. She wo­uld ma­ke su­re the­re was mo­re sun­s­hi­ne in his li­fe than sha­dows. She gre­eted him with a smi­le. "It's lo­vely he­re! The ti­de do­esn't ap­pe­ar ro­ugh now, the bre­akers are so far from sho­re. What abo­ut wa­ding?" His glan­ce was not qu­ite clo­sed. "Wa­ding's okay." Re­gi­na won­de­red if she da­red. Then she grin­ned, sat down in the sand, and pul­led off her sho­es and stoc­kings.

  He glan­ced at her ba­re fe­et and an­k­les. Re­gi­na knew she was be­ha­ving sha­me­les­sly, but they we­re en­ga­ged, and his in­te­res­ted re­gard thril­led her. She smi­led up at him.

  His mo­uth al­most qu­ir­ked. "Is this what they te­ach la­di­es abo­ut de­por­t­ment in fancy
pri­va­te scho­ols?"

  She la­ug­hed, the so­und as cle­ar as a bell. "You do ha­ve a sen­se of hu­mor! Un­for­tu­na­tely, sir, I do not re­mem­ber, but I do not think so!"

  The cor­ners of his mo­uth fi­nal­ly lif­ted. "Pro­per de­por­t­ment is bo­ring, an­y­way."

  Re­gi­na was abo­ut to get up when he held out his hand. Her he­art ca­re­ened. She to­ok it, al­lo­wing him to lift her to her fe­et. The warmth and strength of his hand did funny things to her pul­se. Re­co­ve­ring, she ga­ve him a lo­ok, then skip­ped past him to the surf. "How wo­uld you know?" she te­ased.

  He grin­ned. "You're right. How in hell wo­uld I know?"

  Re­gi­na pa­used, her skirts clen­c­hed in her fists, her fe­et bu­ri­ed in soft, wet sand, wa­ter tric­k­ling over her to­es. Sla­de's smi­le was de­vas­ta­ting. "You are very han­d­so­me when you smi­le, sir," she sa­id. It was an un­der­s­ta­te­ment. She tri­ed to ke­ep her to­ne light and flir­ta­ti­o­us, and she tho­ught she suc­ce­eded. But she was re­eling, not just from the im­pact of his go­od lo­oks, but with the po­wer­ful de­si­re to sho­wer him with sun­s­hi­ne so he co­uld smi­le fre­ely and mo­re of­ten.

  Sla­de's smi­le di­ed swiftly. He sta­red at her.

  Re­gi­na felt he­at suf­fu­sing her fa­ce and she qu­ickly step­ped in­to the bub­bling fo­am of a small, ret­re­ating wa­ve. She felt Sla­de's eyes bo­ring ho­les in her back. She had me­ant what she sa­id, but she had ne­ver in­ten­ded for him to ta­ke her flir­ta­ti­on so se­ri­o­usly. She won­de­red if he wo­uld wa­de with her.

  Lif­ting her skirts, she ven­tu­red out fur­t­her, the wa­ter lap­ping her cal­ves, but not far eno­ugh to co­me clo­se to the bre­akers. She da­red to glan­ce back over her sho­ul­der. Sla­de had be­en wat­c­hing her; he qu­ickly eyed the sand at his fe­et.

  Sla­de was ob­vi­o­usly not go­ing to play in the wa­ter with her. In­s­tantly, a very cal­cu­la­ting no­ti­on ca­me to her mind. She tri­ed to dis­miss it. But it just re­fu­sed to go away. Co­uld she re­al­ly be so de­vi­o­usly fe­mi­ni­ne?