Long-Lost Bride

by Day Leclaire

“Just one. I promise, it’s the last.”

  “I’d feel better if she promised it was the last.” He propped his hip onto the corner of his desk and fought to control his impatience. Over the past month, he’d found that particular skill more and more difficult to master. “Let’s have it, sweetheart. What’s the catch?”

  To his concern, she wandered toward the far end of his office where a large picture window faced out the front of the house. “This would be a perfect place for a Christmas tree,” she murmured.

  “We already had that discussion, remember?”

  She wrapped her arms around her waist, looking suddenly small and alone. “I was hoping you’d changed your mind.”

  “Not even a little.”

  “But Sarita—”

  “Forget about the damn tree, Shayne, and tell me what the Doña wants.”

  She turned, taking unfair advantage of his soft nature by allowing huge, glittering tears to fill her eyes. “She’s a child, Chaz. She doesn’t understand that you have some personal reason for hating Christmas. All she knows is that she’s alone and without family—at least family she recognizes—and it’s Christmas. Only there’s no music and no laughter, no tree or presents.”

  He straightened and cautiously approached. There was something going on here, something that escaped him. “Why do I have the funny feeling we aren’t talking about Sarita, anymore?”

  She paled and he knew he’d struck a nerve. “I...I’m sorry.” She clasped her hands in front of her and tilted her head to look directly at him. Her chin quivered in a way that twisted him into knots, but she didn’t back down, refusing to give in to her distress. “You’re not the only one who has bad memories of past Christmases. But I’d never take them out on a child. I’d do everything I could to give her happy experiences, hoping that they’d give them to me, as well.”

  He reached for her with a gentle hand and brushed away a tear that had tumbled loose. “What happened to you, sweetheart? Why all this commotion over a silly tree?”

  “I just want Sarita to be happy.”

  His eyes narrowed. “I don’t think so. Why is it so important for you to decorate the house? Come on. Spill it.”

  The quiver had spread to her sweet, vulnerable mouth. “I—I’m not feeling well. I think I’ll go lie down for a little while.”

  “Honey—”

  She shook her head, backing away from his outstretched hand. “Please, Chaz. Give me a little time alone.”

  “Wait a minute. We need to talk. You haven’t told me about the Doña’s condition. And dammit all, Shayne, I want to discuss this Christmas business with you.”

  “I don’t think I can.” Her voice broke. “Not right now.”

  With that she turned and fled the room. Every instinct he possessed urged him to give chase, not to wait until she’d had time to deal with whatever demons haunted her, but instead force them into the open. He hesitated, suspecting he was listening to raging male hormones, the sort that wanted to sweep her into his arms and fight those demons for her, instead of the more rational part of his brain that urged him to abide by her wishes.

  He checked his watch. One hour. He’d give her one hour and then they were going to have a long talk about their past and about Sarita, about their marriage and about their future.

  And then he’d give in to those raging male hormones.

  CHAPTER NINE

  To My Long-Lost Bride,

  Another year has gone and winter has arrived again. Or has it always been here? Sometimes it feels that way. I look outside and see a blanket of white as beautiful and untouched as you were the first time we kissed. So many years have passed and yet the memories haven’t dimmed.

  I don’t understand that. Our love died long ago, the embers long since turned to ash. And yet I look out my window and there you are, as clear to me as the first time I saw you in the Montagues’ garden.

  You’ll stay in my thoughts, wife of my heart, a sweet memory I’ll allow myself to recall just once a year. You linger in the far recesses of my mind. A laughter-filled voice. A tantalizing scent. A heart-stopping smile.

  I’m keeping you there, where you’ll be safe, where we can visit in my yearly dream, where you remain... my wife from long ago, the only one I’ve ever loved. A Forever Love.

  CHAZ eventually found his wife in their bedroom, curled up on the mattress, fully clothed and sound asleep. An hour had come and gone long ago, but an emergency with one of his animals had intruded.

  Gazing down at Shayne, he wondered again why she’d been so upset earlier. He frowned over the protective way her arms were folded, the fetal position she’d assumed, and the slight reddening of her nose. And suddenly he knew the truth beyond any shred of doubt. He sank onto the edge of the bed. She’d discovered she wasn’t pregnant and thought it meant a fast end to their short marriage. That’s why she hadn’t told him, because she’d suspected he’d send her away. He sat there for a long time, struggling to understand the disappointment that ate at him. He didn’t want more complications in his life, did he? And yet...

  A soft knock sounded on the door and Chaz opened it, surprised to find Mojo standing there, holding an overloaded tray. “The little missy just picked at her dinner, so I thought I’d drop this off,” the cook explained with an abashed expression. “Maybe you can get her to eat something.”

  It amazed Chaz to realize how quickly she’d found a place in the hearts of his men. But then... Hadn’t he tumbled just as hard at their first meeting? “I’ll see what I can do,” he promised.

  Taking the tray, he set it on the dresser and glanced at his wife. She looked frighteningly vulnerable, adrift in the center of their mattress. Perhaps he’d slip her into a nightgown. If she woke, he’d feed her as he had their first evening together. Only this time, he’d try not to make her cry. For some strange reason, her tears worked him into an uproar, something he’d prefer to avoid, if at all possible. He opened one of the dresser drawers he’d cleared out for her use, intent on finding the briefest scrap of nightwear he could find.

  The drawer was empty.

  What the hell? One after another, he yanked them open, finding every last one bare. For a horrifying moment he thought she’d decided to leave him. That instead of telling him she wasn’t pregnant, she’d just go. Fury gripped him. This was all Isabella’s fault! She’d agreed to turn over his daughter and Shayne had taken that to mean he didn’t need her anymore and packed her bags. Only one thing had kept her from disappearing into the night. She’d fallen asleep before she could make good her escape.

  He crossed to the closet and ripped open the doors. A single dress hung there, but it was enough to loosen the fistlike knot that had formed in his chest. And then he saw it. Shoved off to one side on the floor of the closet he found her suitcase. Bits and pieces of silken underclothes spilled haphazardly over the side and she’d draped a knit shirt on top. The clothes were in reasonable order, but something about the way they’d been pushed around told him they weren’t packed in anticipation of a hasty departure. A frown pulled his eyebrows together as understanding slowly dawned.

  She’d never unpacked.

  For one full month she’d lived out of her suitcase and he’d never even noticed. His breath expelled in an audible hiss. He knew what it meant. She’d known practically from the start that she didn’t carry his child. This was her silent acceptance of the impermanence of their marriage. Her unstated fatalism nearly brought him to his knees. She planned to leave. Not today. But sooner or later, she’d neaten those bits and pieces of silk and lace, zip up her case and he’d lose her, just as he had all those years ago. Only this time it would be permanent.

  No. No way.

  He didn’t know when it had happened, but at some point in the past few weeks, he’d gone from wanting a swift end to his marriage, to wanting to keep her with him forever. Not that he loved her, he assured himself. Hell, no. He wasn’t capable of loving anyone. But she’d gotten...comfortable to be with. Convenient
to have around. Necessary in some inexplicable way. Not that he’d tell her that. Like as not, she’d take it the wrong way. Either she’d be insulted or she’d read more into his declaration than he’d intended.

  He stared at the bed with hungry eyes. Maybe he could give a gentle hint, tell her without words how he felt.

  The idea appealed immensely. Removing the suitcase from the closet, he carried it to the ladder-back chair and set it on the seat. The sun had given way to dusk and he wouldn’t be able to see for much longer without switching on a light. But he didn’t want to wake Shayne until he’d finished.

  Quietly, he opened the drawer to the nightstand table and removed the matches stocked there. Winter storms frequently knocked out the power and the first time he’d fumbled for a flashlight and found the batteries dead, he’d made a habit of keeping a hurricane lamp filled and ready. He lit the wick and turned it low. The soft glow barely kissed the small mound Shayne made in the middle of the bed. Satisfied that it wouldn’t disturb her, he turned his attention to the suitcase.

  Yanking open the first dresser drawer, he loaded it with delicate scraps of temptation. He stood there for a full minute trying to decide whether he’d be considered perverted if he folded her female fripperies instead of leaving them in a jumbled heap of pastels. Gingerly, he sorted the pile, not quite folding, but carefully arranging the tiny scraps into sections based on usage. That finished, he made short work of the rest, either stacking the articles of clothing into a drawer or hanging them in the closet, the decision based solely on its wrinkle-ability. At the very bottom of the suitcase, he found the mask she’d worn to the Cinderella Ball.

  The bells greeted him with happy, silvered voices. Lifting his Stetson off the top of the bedpost, he draped the mask there, slapping his hat on top. The combination of hat and beaded mask made him grin. Then he turned and eyed the suitcase, his amusement fading. He picked it up and crossed to the nearest window. Shoving up the sash, he sent the case hurtling out into the frigid night air, taking a perverse delight in his actions.

  “Chaz?” Shayne lifted onto one elbow, blinking at him with huge sleepy eyes. “Was that my suitcase you just threw out the window?”

  “Yup.” Supreme satisfaction edged his voice.

  She sat up, shoving a tumble of pale hair from her face, looking quite delightful in her confusion. “But... Why did you do that?”

  “I was making a statement.” He crossed to the dresser and picked up the tray and placed it near her on the mattress. “Hungry?”

  “I don’t understand.” She drew her knees toward her chest and wrapped her arms around her legs. “What sort of statement?”

  “You’re a smart woman. You figure it out”

  Her lashes flickered downward, then lifted. An expression every bit as hungry as his lit the darkness of her gaze. “Should I assume I won’t be going anywhere soon?”

  “Good guess.”

  “Even though Isabella will let Sarita stay? Even though you won’t need me much longer? Even though... Even though we don’t know for sure whether or not I’m pregnant?”

  Oh, he knew. And he intended to take that excuse away from her right this very second. “I’m changing the conditions of our marriage agreement.” He thrust out his jaw. “Any objections?”

  “To be honest,” she admitted wistfully. “I sort of liked the clothes I had in my suitcase.”

  “I didn’t throw out your clothes, just the case.” To prove his point, he opened one of the drawers and removed a particularly fine bit of black silk. If he were honest, he’d admit he’d had a few perverted thoughts about this particular piece of nothing while putting it away. With any luck at all, he’d turn those thoughts into action. “See? All your belongings, safe and sound.”

  Safe and sound until he ripped them off her.

  “You know this doesn’t change anything, don’t you?”

  Returning to the bed, he removed the plastic wrap covering one of the plates. He passed her the sandwich Mojo had prepared and waited until she’d begun nibbling on it before continuing. “This place needs a bit of work, but it’s in a good location and has serious possibilities. I’ve worked on some of the ranches around here before and like the area. This is where I want to raise my daughter. The people are friendly and the town wholesome.”

  Shayne slanted him a quick glance from beneath her lashes. “Are you trying to sell me on the place?”

  She planned to leave him. The certainty took hold. “Do I need to?”

  “It occurs to me that we’ve never settled certain issues.” She picked at her sandwich, scattering crumbs across the spread. If their conversation hadn’t turned so serious, he’d have teased her about it. “Maybe we should discuss them now.”

  He didn’t want her telling him about the baby she wouldn’t bear. Not tonight. “And maybe we should take things one day at a time.”

  A flash of pain flickered across her face and she returned her sandwich to the plate, half-eaten. “Did you ever look for me, Chaz?”

  Damn. Where had that come from? He didn’t have the energy for this sort of discussion. “I looked,” he stated briefly.

  “But Rafe made it impossible for you to find me, didn’t he?”

  He thrust a hand through his hair. “Do we have to talk about this now?” He didn’t want to open old wounds, to discover whether or not anything still festered there. Some matters were best left untouched. It was safer that way. “I looked. I didn’t find you. End of subject.”

  “How long did you look?”

  “Shayne—”

  “A day?”

  A ripple of anger raced through him. “Let it go, honey.”

  “A month?”

  “Yes, damn it. A month.”

  “A year? Did you keep looking for a whole year?”

  Each question sliced deep, ripping toward that dark, bitter place, a place he didn’t dare touch. “You don’t know anything about it, Shayne,” His tone was too low, too harsh. Too close to the edge. She was going to leave him. He had to get her to stop before he did or said something he’d regret, before he drove her away. He forced a deadly note in his voice. “Be smart. Drop it. Now.”

  “Was it longer than a year? Or did those twelve months pretty much cover it?”

  “Did you hear? Stop!”

  Her dark eyes flashed with a contradictory mixture of velvety softness and sharp reprimand, as though her emotions were at war with her reason. “You gave up, didn’t you?”

  For an instant he didn’t move. A distant roaring filled his head, preluding the coming of an anger so deep and so old and so relentless that it drowned out every other feeling or consideration. He exploded from the bed, the bells on her mask startled into a frantic jumble of sound. Rational thought vanished, the thin veneer of civilization stripped away and replaced with sheer animal rage. With a guttural shout, he snatched the tray from the bed and threw it with every ounce of strength toward the nearest wall. Dishes shattered.

  He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror over the dresser and flinched. For what he saw was a man reduced to his most primitive state. Vivid color scored his cheekbones, the wild glitter in his eyes fired by deadly intent. Even the atmosphere in the room had changed, burning with the scent of fury, as though ancient pheromones had been released, igniting the urge to attack. He sucked air into his lungs, desperate to regain his control, shaking with the effort.

  “I searched, damn you!” The raw words howled from a bottomless well of pain. “He bought off my private investigators. I sent you letters. You never answered. Where were you, Shayne? Why didn’t you come to me.”

  “I came.” She approached, adorable, foolish woman, braving his wrath with gentle hands and soothing words. “At least, I tried to.”

  The coldness returned, sweeping over him and he welcomed it. Embraced it. Clung to it. It would protect him from feelings he refused to acknowledge. “What stopped you, Shayne?” He turned on her like a wounded animal, intent on inflicting as much damage
as possible before giving in to his own agony. “What possible excuse could you have?”

  “I...” Sadness shadowed her expression. “I had a small accident.”

  He discovered in that moment that he had a heart and that this woman controlled its every beat “An accident,” he repeated stupidly. An accident. The accident

  He shook his head. No. Not that Not the car wreck that had scarred that sweet, beautiful body. Not while she’d been coming to him. Not the one she’d told Mojo about, all the while shooting him quick, nervous glances, as though half-expecting him to reject her because of a few scars.

  “I did that to you?” he whispered. “Your scars were my fault?”

  “No!” She was in his arms, wrapping him in warmth. “It wasn’t anyone’s fault. It was a freak storm and a small rock slide on a bad corner. I lost control of the car.”

  “Rafe. He was trying to stop you, wasn’t he?”

  “He wasn’t chasing me, if that’s what you were thinking. He’d discovered where I was going and planned to intercept me at the airport. I was lucky, Chaz. If he hadn’t come down the mountain when he had—”

  “Don’t!”

  She broke off, pulling back ever so slightly. “You’re shaking!”

  “You’re damned right I am.” In one swift movement, he yanked her knit shirt over her head and tossed it aside. “And in a minute, you will be, too.”

  Her bra came next, neatly removed with a flick of his fingers. As much as he wanted to fill his hands with her softness, he had more important duties to take care of first—like getting her naked and on the bed where he could feast on her at his leisure. Unfastening her slacks, he worked his thumbs into the waistband and tugged everything that wasn’t skin off her legs.

  In less than thirty seconds, he had her exactly as he wanted her, the way he’d fantasized since that first passionate encounter before their wedding. Hell, if he were honest he’d admit it was a desperate memory he’d clung to for nine long years. Sweeping her into his arms, he carried her to the bed. He set her down, her body barely denting the mattress. She stared up at him without a hint of shyness and he found he appreciated that calm, direct gaze, relieved that her scars hadn’t stolen that from her, hadn’t filled her with self-loathing or embarrassment.