Secrets

by Brenda Joyce

  "Don't you go wor­ryin' bo­ut her, Miz Re­gi­na. Last night she do­ne drank her­se'f to sle­ep, she did. She's pas­sed out cold. You let her be." Josep­hi­ne was un­for­gi­ving. "She sho­ul­da be­en tos­sed out of he­ah long ago."

  Re­gi­na wasn't cer­ta­in that she ag­re­ed, for Rick and Vic­to­ria had be­en thro­ugh twen­ty-th­ree ye­ars of mar­ri­age. She was glad that it was not up to her to for­gi­ve and for­get Vic­to­ria's bet­ra­yal, and she wor­ri­ed abo­ut Rick and Ed­ward. She was abo­ut to ask Josep­hi­ne what she tho­ught abo­ut Ed­ward's flight when the so­und of Rick sho­uting drew her at­ten­ti­on. Ex­c­han­ging a con­cer­ned lo­ok with the ho­use­ke­eper, she ran in­to the di­ning ro­om. Rick was in full tem­per, and his an­ger was di­rec­ted at James. "What the hell has got­ten in­to you now?"

  "You he­ard me," James sa­id calmly. But he was we­aring a stub­born ex­p­res­si­on, one Re­gi­na re­cog­ni­zed, ha­ving se­en it on all of the De­lan­za men. "I only ca­me ho­me to get a few things. I'm not sta­ying."

  Re­gi­na mo­ved clo­se to Sla­de, ta­king his hand, no­ti­cing that he was pa­le. Rick po­un­ded the tab­le. "I won't ha­ve it!"

  James re­ma­ined calm. "I'm not sta­ying. That's fi­nal. But I wish you wo­uld un­der­s­tand."

  "I un­der­s­tand, all right! First Sla­de left me, now Ed­ward, and now you!" Rick crum­p­led in­to a cha­ir. "What ha­ve I do­ne?"

  Sla­de was on his fe­et and aro­und the tab­le, pla­cing his hand on his fat­her's sho­ul­der. "Rick, Ed­ward didn't le­ave you, he left be­ca­use of his mot­her, and you know it. And I'm ho­me now, to stay. James is hur­ting, Dad. Lis­ten to what he has to say."

  Rick lo­oked up, his eyes wet. He blin­ked fu­ri­o­usly. "Hell! Go on, you got so­met­hing to say, say it!"

  James to­ok a bre­ath. "Once Mi­ra­mar me­ant so­met­hing. On­ce the­re was a fu­tu­re. I wor­ked hard for ye­ars for that fu­tu­re. No mo­re. It's me­anin­g­less to me now." His to­ne be­ca­me ple­ading. "Rick, can't you try to un­der­s­tand how I fe­el? For the past fi­ve ye­ars I've be­en bu­il­ding a ho­me he­re, a ho­me for me and Eli­za­beth and our chil­d­ren. My dre­ams we­ren't dre­ams, they we­re de­lu­si­ons. Well, ne­ver aga­in. Tho­se dre­ams are de­ad and bu­ri­ed. I can't stay. I don't know whe­re I'm go­ing and I don't gi­ve a damn, but I do know I can't stay he­re. Ever­y­w­he­re I lo­ok I'm re­min­ded of what I on­ce wan­ted-what I al­most had." He la­ug­hed bit­terly. "What I tho­ught I al­most had."

  Rick bo­wed his he­ad. "You think I'm so cal­lo­us I don't un­der­s­tand? You want to know the truth? Last night I co­uldn't sle­ep, not just be­ca­use of Vic­to­ria, but be­ca­use I knew, I al­re­ady knew, you we­ren't go­ing to stay." He lif­ted his he­ad. "Go. Go. Find what you ne­ed to find, do what you ha­ve to do."

  James bre­at­hed in re­li­ef. "Thank you." Then he smi­led at both Sla­de and Re­gi­na. "Be­si­des, the fu­tu­re-Mi­ra­mar-be­longs to them. Isn't it ob­vi­o­us?"

  * * *

  Ten days la­ter the ra­ins stop­ped. The gray ski­es cle­ared. The sun ap­pe­ared. The hills aro­und them we­re no lon­ger ba­ked yel­low from the sun, but lushly gre­en. Yet no one was ple­ased. James had ma­de it cle­ar that he wo­uld le­ave on the first cle­ar day they had.

  Vic­to­ria was go­ne. She had di­sap­pe­ared wit­ho­ut even a no­te, al­t­ho­ugh she had ta­ken se­ve­ral trunks. Rick se­emed to be re­li­eved. Re­gi­na tho­ught that it was bet­ter this way; he was spa­red ha­ving to send her away. And the­re had be­en no word from Ed­ward, al­t­ho­ugh they had le­ar­ned that he had ta­ken a nor­t­h­bo­und tra­in in Tem­p­le­ton. Sla­de told her that he tho­ught Ed­ward might ha­ve go­ne to San Fran­cis­co, fin­ding tem­po­rary so­la­ce with Xan­d­ria. Re­gi­na fer­vently ho­ped so.

  What was left of the ho­use­hold gat­he­red to wish James well and see him off. He was in go­od spi­rits. Sla­de had sa­id that James had to find his own des­tiny, and Re­gi­na ag­re­ed. Rick was re­sig­ned, but Re­gi­na knew he clung stub­bornly to the be­li­ef that one day James wo­uld re­turn to stay.

  Josep­hi­ne hug­ged him, we­eping. Lu­cin­da mo­ved in­to his arms and kis­sed him de­man­dingly on the lips, clin­ging. James re­tur­ned both her open­mo­ut­hed kiss and her warm em­b­ra­ce, ca­using Re­gi­na to lo­ok away, blus­hing. Ap­pa­rently they had for­med a ten­d­re of so­me sort for one anot­her.

  It was Re­gi­na's turn. In less than two we­eks she had grown very fond of James, and tho­ught of him as a fri­end and brot­her. She ga­ve him a hard hug. "I'm so glad we ha­ve met," she told him ear­nestly. "I wish you the best, James, only the best."

  James win­ked at Sla­de. "It lo­oks li­ke my brot­her has ma­de out li­ke a ban­dit."

  Re­gi­na lo­we­red her vo­ice. "You must pro­mi­se me to co­me back in six months."

  James's eyes wi­de­ned.

  "I ha­ven't told Sla­de yet, but I am go­ing to tell him to­night. You shall be an un­c­le."

  James who­oped and ga­ve her an exu­be­rant hug.

  "What did she say?" Sla­de as­ked sus­pi­ci­o­usly. "She'll tell you in her own go­od ti­me," James re­tur­ned, smi­ling.

  The men sa­id the­ir go­od-byes. Mo­re unas­ha­med hugs fol­lo­wed, with many mo­re pro­mi­ses. James mo­un­ted up. Re­gi­na slip­ped un­der Sla­de's arm, Rick on her ot­her si­de. James ga­ve them a wa­ve of fa­re­well and spur­red his bay for­ward. Wa­ving back, they wat­c­hed him trot­ting away. He tur­ned and lif­ted his hand one last ti­me and di­sap­pe­ared aro­und the bend. The­re was a mo­ment of si­len­ce. "I gu­ess he's got so­me so­ul-se­ar­c­hing to do," Rick sa­id. He sig­hed. Then he slap­ped Sla­de's back. "Let's see if we can't get so­me work do­ne to­day, son." He stro­de to the barn. Re­gi­na re­gar­ded her hus­band. "Sad?"

  "No." He smi­led. "I'm not sad at all. I he­ard what you sa­id." "You did!"

  He lif­ted her off of her fe­et and spun her aro­und. "Anot­her ge­ne­ra­ti­on of De­lan­zas!" Set­ting her down, he to­ok her hand and lif­ted his ga­ze to the gre­en mo­un­ta­ins which ro­se sharply aga­inst the ho­ri­zon. "Now I'm mo­re de­ter­mi­ned than ever to ma­ke Mi­ra­mar a part of the fu­tu­re-a part of the­ir fu­tu­re." He lo­oked past the ho­use, whe­re the win­ter-gray oce­an but­ted up aga­inst the hil­lsi­de. "1 al­most envy them. The twen­ti­eth cen­tury is daw­ning, Re­gi­na-new, dif­fe­rent, ex­ci­ting, fil­led with chal­len­ge, and with pro­mi­se."

  "You are a po­et," she whis­pe­red, le­aning in­to him. "You are a vi­si­onary."

  He la­ug­hed. "I am a re­alist, swe­et­he­art. And I think this is the per­fect ti­me to tell Rick. Don't you?"

  "I wan­ted you to ha­ve the ho­nors," Re­gi­na sa­id, and hand in hand, they fol­lo­wed in his fat­her's fo­ot­s­teps.

  AVON BO­OKS pro­udly an­no­un­ces

  PROMISE OF THE ROSE

  by

  Brenda Joyce

  Co­ming in No­vem­ber 1993

  The fol­lo­wing is a pre­vi­ew of

  PRO­MI­SE OF THE RO­SE, 's sen­su­al new ro­man­ce from Avon Bo­oks.

  EDINBURGH NOVEMBER 16, 1093

  The­re was no ti­me to mo­urn.

  Mary knelt at the bed­si­de of the Qu­e­en, her mot­her, numb with shock. She did not know how long she had knelt the­re on the hard, cold sto­ne flo­or, nor did she re­ali­ze that she still held her mot­her's li­fe­less hand. She had be­en ra­ised a de­vo­ut Chris­ti­an, but now, when she ne­eded com­fort from God, if the­re was any com­fort to be fo­und, she co­uld not sum­mon up a sin­g­le pra­yer. Her mind was blank, fro­zen.

  The­re we­re no te­ars. It was as if her body we­re fro­zen, or as if she too, we­re de­ad. News of her fat­her's mur­der had co­me three days ear­li­er. He had
be­en am­bus­hed ne­ar Al­n­wick by the Earl of Nor­t­hum­ber­land's for­ces, ro­uted and kil­led. In the bat­tle her el­dest brot­her, Ed­ward, had be­en mor­tal­ly wo­un­ded, dying shortly af­ter the­ir fat­her.

  Mary had not cri­ed, for one blow had co­me too qu­ickly on the he­els of anot­her. And then Qu­e­en Mar­ga­ret had fal­len des­pe­ra­tely ill upon news of Mal­colm's de­ath; she had ne­eded Mary mo­re than ever. She had not left her mot­her's si­de in days, hel­p­les­sly wat­c­hing as the Qu­e­en slip­ped clo­ser and clo­ser to de­ath. The­re had be­en no ti­me to mo­urn then, and the­re was no ti­me now.

  Be­ca­use for­ces of hat­red and am­bi­ti­on and gre­ed we­re clo­sing in on her.

  She re­ali­zed she was hol­ding Qu­e­en Mar­ga­ret's hand. Mary re­le­ased it wo­odenly. The Qu­e­en se­emed se­re­ne in de­ath, and even in de­ath she was be­a­uti­ful-a be­a­uty that was far de­eper than her fa­ir skin and nob­le fe­atu­res. The Qu­e­en's re­al be­a­uty ca­me from true go­od­li­ness and ho­li­ness, it ca­me from a lo­ving, sel­f­less he­art. No one de­ser­ved to die less; no one had wel­co­med de­ath mo­re.

  Mary lis­te­ned to the ke­ening gri­ef fil­ling the ma­nor, ec­ho­ing wit­hin its thick sto­ne walls and re­ver­be­ra­ting from the co­ur­t­yard out­si­de. T'was not just kin gri­eving for the­ir Qu­e­en, all of Edin­burgh wept as well-and all of Scot­land.

  The­re had be­en so much tre­ac­hery, Mary tho­ught, awa­re for the first ti­me in ho­urs that her kne­es ac­hed. She did not da­re think fur­t­her. Mo­re tho­ught might le­ad to even gre­ater gri­ef, and she knew she co­uld not be­ar such a bur­den. Not now. Not to­day.

  If only she co­uld pray. If only she co­uld find com­fort, as her mot­her had, in God.

  She cros­sed the Qu­e­en's hands, and, sta­ring at her mot­her, she tho­ught she felt a flic­ker of an­gu­ish de­ep wit­hin her so­ul. The eerie sob­bing fil­ling the cas­t­le se­emed to grow and ec­ho and clo­se in on her. Sud­denly Mary wan­ted to ke­en too, wan­ted to scre­am and wa­il, and a hot rush of te­ars fil­led her eyes. She cho­ked, ba­rely ab­le to bre­at­he, her mot­her's fa­ce swim­ming be­fo­re her eyes. No! No, she co­uld not, must not, un­der any cir­cum­s­tan­ces, fall apart now!

  Mary was sud­denly on the ver­ge of col­lap­se, and she tur­ned away from her mot­her, sha­king, des­pe­ra­tely fig­h­ting the ri­sing gri­ef. The ke­ening and sob­bing of the cas­t­le se­emed lo­uder now, mo­re per­va­si­ve. "Mot­her, I'm sorry," she gas­ped sud­denly. "I lo­ve you so much and I'm sorry I've fa­iled you-so sorry!"

  The­re was no res­pon­se, of co­ur­se, and no re­dem­p­ti­on. It was too la­te, it wo­uld al­ways be too la­te. Thro­ugh the ram­b­ling of her tho­ughts, Mary knew she must ma­ke so­me ef­fort to fun­c­ti­on. She wi­ped her eyes with the sle­eve of her torn tu­nic. The­re was no qu­es­ti­on that mo­re di­sas­ter was abo­ut to fol­low-she co­uld only ho­pe that the­re wo­uld be a bri­ef res­pi­te. Too much was at sta­ke. Li­ves we­re at sta­ke; a kin­g­dom was at sta­ke.

  As that slim stab of re­ality in­t­ru­ded in­to Mary's emo­ti­ons, she be­ca­me awa­re for the first ti­me of anot­her dis­cor­dant so­und fa­intly un­der­pi­ning the lo­ud ca­cop­hony of the wa­iling Scots. It was li­ke the gen­t­lest rum­b­le of dis­tant thun­der, but the sky was a cle­ar and clo­ud­less blue. It co­uld only me­an one thing. Mary fro­ze.

  De­ar God, not so so­on!

  The­re wo­uld be no res­pi­te!

  The do­or to the Qu­e­en's ro­om cras­hed open and Mary jum­ped in fright. "Edmund's go­ne!" The vo­ice of her brot­her, Ed­gar, fa­irly ec­ho­ed in the si­lent, sto­ne ro­om. His fa­ce was very whi­te and pin­c­hed, his eyes red and swol­len. He, at le­ast, had wept un­til he co­uld we­ep no mo­re.

  "What do you me­an?" With Ed­ward de­ad, Ed­mund was now the­ir el­dest brot­her.

  "I me­an the bas­tard's go­ne! Go­ne!" Ed­gar was usu­al­ly calm, un­na­tu­ral­ly so for a se­ven­te­en-ye­ar-old, but he was nigh hyste­ri­cal now. "And Do­nald Ba­ne's the Ta­nist! The word just ca­me! His army lan­ded at the Forth of Clyde yes­ter­day-they must be at the Avon now!"

  Mary grab­bed Ed­gar's arm. Do­nald Ba­ne had be­en proc­la­imed King, and he had co­me out of his long exi­le in the Heb­ri­des, with an army, to cla­im the thro­ne of Scot­land. Every sin­g­le one of her brot­hers sto­od in the way of the suc­ces­si­on-they must flee. "Whe­re is Ed­mund?" Damn her ras­cal­ly brot­her for de­ser­ting them now!

  "Go­ne, go­ne, oh, God, I pray f is not true!"

  "You pray what isn't true?"

  "It's sa­id he's jo­ined Do­nald!"

  Mary gas­ped. Her sen­ses re­eled. That the­ir brot­her sho­uld bet­ray them now was in­com­p­re­hen­sib­le. And out­si­de, the thun­der be­ca­me lo­uder.

  "I fe­ar, Ed­gar, that Un­c­le Do­nald is clo­ser than the Avon Ri­ver." She glan­ced to­wards the shro­uded win­dow. "Ro­und up the boys. We must run." The­re was no do­ubt abo­ut it-a hu­ge mo­un­ted army was ra­pidly ap­pro­ac­hing.

  "We can not le­ave her," Ed­gar sa­id, fal­te­ring, ba­rely glan­cing at the­ir mot­her.

  "Of co­ur­se not. Send me Fer­gus, or­der hor­ses and a cart. Qu­ickly, run!" She sho­ved him from the ro­om.

  She hur­ri­ed to the Qu­e­en, pan­ting. Mary pul­led the co­vers of the bed up to wrap her ca­re­ful­ly from he­ad to toe, all the whi­le lis­te­ning to the gro­wing so­und of the earth qu­aking be­ne­ath the on­co­ming ri­ders.

  Anot­her blo­ody war was abo­ut to des­cend upon this land, and her be­lo­ved co­untry was on­ce aga­in at sta­ke. Do­nald Ba­ne co­uld not ig­no­re the fact that Mal­colm had left fo­ur li­ving sons who might one day se­ek the thro­ne he had co­ve­ted his en­ti­re li­fe. Only with the­ir de­aths wo­uld his dre­ams be truly se­cu­red. Hur­rying, Mary co­ve­red Qu­e­en Mar­ga­ret's fa­ce with a she­et. They wo­uld bury her at the Ab­bey of Dun­fer­m­li­ne, whe­re they wo­uld al­so se­ek a tem­po­rary re­fu­ge-sho­uld they ma­na­ge to es­ca­pe.

  Fer­gus burst thro­ugh the do­or. He was a big, sa­va­ge man who had be­en with her fat­her from the be­gin­ning- and till the very end. Gi­ving Mary one long lo­ok, Fer­gus gat­he­red Qu­e­en Mar­ga­ret in his arms as if she we­re a we­ig­h­t­less doll. Mary ran be­si­de him as they hur­ri­ed down the cor­ri­dor. "What of Ed­mund?"

  "He's no a part a this fa­mily any mo­re," Fer­gus sa­id grimly as they stum­b­led down the dark cor­ri­dor. They rus­hed out­si­de in­to the co­ur­t­yard, whe­re the bright sun­light mo­men­ta­rily blin­ded Mary. Her brot­hers we­re al­re­ady mo­un­ted, her yo­un­gest brot­her Da­vid, only thir­te­en, trying man­ful­ly to hold back his te­ars. Fer­gus la­id the shro­uded Qu­e­en in the back of a hor­sed­rawn cart.

  Mary sud­denly fro­ze be­si­de her mo­unt, awa­re that an ut­ter qu­i­et re­ig­ned in the co­ur­t­yard, rep­la­cing the dis­har­mo­ni­o­us cha­os that had exis­ted just mo­ments ago. All so­unds of gri­ef and wa­iling had ce­ased. All the nor­mal so­unds of li­fe we­re al­so ab­sent-the­re we­re no cro­wing ro­os­ters, no yap­ping dogs, no chil­d­ren's chat­ter, no smit­hie's blows. Not even the jan­g­le of the­ir men's mo­unts so­un­ded. Only si­len­ce ec­ho­ed wit­hin the dark, tim­be­red walls of the ba­iley. A stran­ge, frig­h­te­ning si­len­ce, une­arthly and un­na­tu­ral. Mary knew that she was lis­te­ning for so­met­hing, but she did not know what. And then it struck her-the omi­no­us drum­ming be­at of the in­va­ding army had ce­ased.

  She was too ex­pe­ri­en­ced not to know what that me­ant. The army had hal­ted… to po­si­ti­on them­sel­ves for an at­tack.

  Fer­gus was­ted no ti­me, he bo­os­ted Mary ro­ughly on­to her ma­re. Mary stra­ined
to he­ar even a hint of the dan­ger that lay out­si­de the walls of Edin­burgh, but she co­uld dis­cern not­hing. "T'is Do­nald Ba­ne, is it not?" she as­ked, high-pit­c­hed, bre­aking the stil­lness.

  Fer­gus le­aped on­to his own big stal­li­on. "Nay."

  Mary whe­eled her mo­unt next to his as the big he­avy ga­tes we­re thrown open. "Then, who?"

  The glan­ce he shot her was long and dark.

  Mary felt it all, then: fe­ar, fury, hat­red, and most of all, dre­ad. For she knew now who, and what, lay out the­re, awa­iting them, stal­king them. She ut­te­red one word to the strong man be­si­de her. "No."

  "Ay, las­sie, I'm sorry, I am," Fer­gus sa­id softly. "T'is the de­vil his­self, Nor­t­hum­ber­land's whelp."

  Mary he­ard her own mo­an of fe­ar. Her ma­re mo­ved briskly for­ward amidst the ot­hers, be­si­de Fer­gus. Mary re­ali­zed she had stop­ped bre­at­hing, and with ef­fort she ex­pel­led her bre­ath.

  Fer­gus ha­ted him, with go­od re­ason, and had al­ways cal­led de Wa­ren­ne the de­vil. Mary ha­ted him too. God help her, she ha­ted him, and fe­ared him, mo­re than she had ever ha­ted or fe­ared an­yo­ne. The Earl of Nor­t­hum­ber­land's he­ir, Lord Step­hen de Wa­ren­ne. Her fat­her's mur­de­rer, her brot­her's kil­ler, and ul­ti­ma­tely the man res­pon­sib­le for her mot­her's de­ath.

  He was al­so the fat­her of her un­born child-he was al­so her hus­band.

  And if he ca­ught her now he wo­uld kill her. She was run­ning for her li­fe.

  THE MOST SEN­SU­O­US VO­ICE IN RO­MAN­TIC FIC­TI­ON

  "Bren­da Joy­ce has a dis­tin­c­ti­ve style that cap­tu­res and do­esn't let go."

  Johan­na Lin­d­sey

  CAP­TI­VE

  THE GA­ME

  AF­TER IN­NO­CEN­CE

  PRO­MI­SE OF THE RO­SE

  SCAN­DA­LO­US LO­VE