Still, I mustn’t complain. Blake takes good care of Mama. He gives her money every month, a generous amount, she says.
I waited for the bruises to heal before I came home to see Mama so she and Rachel wouldn’t know. The pages of this journal are the only place I dare talk about this. I must always be careful to keep it hidden in my special place here at home. If Blake becomes so enraged because I make gravy with lumps or talk too much about Papa, I shudder to think what he’d do to me if he ever found this book with all my complaining.
If only I could hide myself here as easily. If only Papa hadn’t died—but he did, and I’m a married woman now.
Analise felt the desperate anguish of being trapped, saw before her a lifetime of nothing but pain, pain that assaulted her on both physical and emotional levels. Within a matter of months, Elizabeth had changed from a sheltered, happy girl who dreamed of rainbows to a scared wife who cringed every time she heard her husband’s voice.
She wanted to help that girl, have Blake thrown into jail, teach Elizabeth to stand up to him, but at the same time, she realized that neither had been a possibility in 1912.
A sudden noise from downstairs jolted Analise back to the present. She held her breath, listened carefully. There it was again—a floorboard creaking! She was no longer alone in the house!
Heart pounding furiously, she laid down the journal and switched off the light. With a start, she realized it had grown dark while she read.
The sound came again. She hadn’t imagined it.
She forced herself to control her frantic breathing. Maybe if she remained very quiet and still, the intruder would leave, wouldn’t think of looking for her in the attic.
But something rose up in her. No! She’d hidden from things too long, and where had it gotten her? Blake had always found her, had continued his cruelty.
Well, Blake was gone, turned to dust, couldn’t hurt her now, and if whoever was downstairs intended to try, she’d beat him to the punch. With trembling fingers, she groped in the darkness until she found the largest knife.
Someone was coming upstairs, trying to catch her unaware, just as he had in her dream. But this time she had the advantage. This time she could hide in the shadows. This time she could push him or stab him, defend herself!
Moving rapidly and soundlessly on bare feet, she tiptoed down the attic stairs and slid along the wall until she reached the second floor landing, the same place her attacker had stood in her dream.
A massive, hulking shadow moved stealthily up the steps.
Terror rose from her chest into her throat and threatened to choke her, send her into a mindless panic. But from somewhere even deeper, anger gave her the strength to remain rational and wait.
As the figure reached the top and looked around, her heart seemed to stop its furious pounding and shatter into a thousand pieces. Even in the dark, she recognized Dylan’s features.
Paralyzed by fear and pain, she could do nothing but watch as he turned on the landing and started down the hallway toward her room. Even with his suspicious actions, she hadn’t really believed he could hurt her...hadn’t wanted to believe it.
Obviously he could...and would.
Her great resolution of a few minutes before had come to naught. She hadn’t pushed him, hadn’t stabbed him...wasn’t sure she could. If it had been a stranger...
But it wasn’t. The man stalking her, making her blood run cold with terror, was the same man who’d stayed with her through the fearful tests at the doctor’s office, the same man who heated her blood with another emotion every time he touched her.
She tore her gaze away from him, made herself face the reality of her situation. She had to get out of there before he came back and found her.
She flew down the stairs, making no effort to be quiet, only to get away. As she reached the front door, she snatched the key ring off its hook. Already she could hear footsteps behind her, pounding along the hall, down the stairs.
She raced across the yard to her car, fumbling frantically for the right key. But her fingers shook so badly she dropped the ring. As she stooped to retrieve it, Dylan charged up and yanked it from her grasp.
She still had the knife in her other hand. She focused on one spot—his throat. He wasn’t a person, only a target. She drew back her arm and aimed.
He jumped backward, dodged and grabbed her arm.
“Analise! It’s me!”
She kicked at his shin, her movements hampered by the narrow skirt she’d worn to work. She landed only a glancing blow, but he swore loudly. Then, with a sudden move, he locked one leg around hers, turned her and pinned the hand holding the knife behind her back.
Blind, desperate fury at her vulnerability propelled her onward. She tried to kick him again with her free leg, and they both fell to the street, Dylan landing on top.
She lay trapped beneath his weight, but unwilling to admit defeat. Struggling vainly, she searched for a weak spot.
“Damn it, stop!” he panted. “I’m sorry I frightened you. I’m not going to hurt you.”
Gradually, one by one, his words penetrated, and her mania ebbed marginally. She lay still, not quite believing, but biding her time, waiting for her chance.
“Drop the knife, and we can both get up,” he said cautiously.
“No,” she gasped, unwilling to surrender something he obviously feared. “Get away from me first.”
He mumbled a few more expletives as she felt his weight lessening, though he still clutched her arm. With a sudden movement, he released her completely.
She rolled away and came up in a crouch facing him. He stepped back, both hands raised in front of him. “Now, just relax,” he said, his words jerky from his own breathlessness, though he was making an effort to sound soothing. His hair was mussed, his shirt was pulled half out of his blue jeans, and he didn’t look threatening at all. He looked appealing, masculine.
“What were you doing sneaking into my house?” she demanded.
“Trying to check on you, make sure you were all right. I was worried about you. Your lights never came on.”
Anger replaced the fear. “What were you doing watching for my lights in the first place? Why are you always watching me?”
“Why? You fall down the stairs and wake up thinking you’re somebody who died before you were born, and you don’t consider that reason enough for me to check on you, to be concerned about you?”
“Or maybe I woke up saying I thought I was somebody else, pretending I didn’t remember anything about my life or how I got down those stairs,” she challenged. “Maybe you’re afraid I really do remember, and maybe that’s reason enough to check up on me.”
He didn’t answer. His stoic expression returned. “Why were you headed for your car? I thought you’d forgotten how to drive.”
“I forgot that I forgot. I was scared, in fear for my life. If I could have gotten into that car, somehow I’d have figured out how to drive away from you.”
He gazed at her for a long moment then shook his head. “Can we continue this discussion inside before some neighbor calls the cops on us?”
Analise drew in a deep breath, looked around her and took notice of her surroundings, her situation, the fact that she’d ripped a seam in her skirt, still clutched a large knife in one hand and probably looked even more disheveled than he did.
“On the porch,” she said, unwilling to be alone in the house with him in spite of his protestations of innocence.
He inclined his head in a brief gesture of agreement, and they walked to the porch together.
As the overpowering anger and fear left her, she began to notice the aches and pains...a scraped elbow, a battered knee and several places that would, by tomorrow, add more dark bruises to the ones she already had from her fall.
She wrapped her arms about herself, fighting off the sensation that her body had looked and felt this way before after one of Blake’s rages. But there was a difference. Her spirit wasn’t broken as Elizabeth’s
had been.
“I really am sorry I scared you,” he reiterated when they stood in front of her door. “I knocked and called your name. When you didn’t answer, I tried the door and it opened. It wasn’t locked. After all that’s happened, I was worried.”
It wasn’t a good enough explanation. “How did you know I hadn’t just gone to bed early?”
He didn’t reply for a long moment, but when he did, he faced her squarely, and his words held no apology. “I can see your bedroom window from mine. You didn’t go in there.”
A thrill of something embarrassingly akin to desire rushed through her body at the idea of a connection between their bedrooms. She shoved the absurd feeling aside, mentally assuring herself it resulted from the adrenaline still flooding her veins from her recent fright. It wasn’t possible to fear a person one minute and be attracted to him the next.
As if he could read her mind or felt the same emotions as she, he stepped backward, crossed his arms over his chest and stood with his back against one of the porch pillars. His posture exuded defiance.
“In the future, you might try knocking a little louder,” she said. She knew she sounded irritated and hoped he would think it was directed at him when in fact she was equally irritated with herself for being unable to control this inappropriate attraction to him. “I was in the attic. I didn’t hear you.”
“In the attic?”
“Looking through some old papers I found up there.”
She knew she should have told him that what she’d been doing in the attic was none of his business, but she couldn’t resist baiting him, studying his response for any sign of interest in hidden papers she might have found.
She wasn’t disappointed. Even in the dim glow from the streetlight, she could see the dark fire blaze in his eyes.
At the same time, she was disappointed. Whatever she’d hidden in the house, she didn’t want it to be something she’d had to hide from Dylan. In spite of everything, she wanted to believe he’d only entered her house out of concern for her safety.
“What kind of old papers?” he asked, and it was more than an idle question.
She hesitated but could think of no way to push her slight deception any further since she knew nothing else about the papers she thought she’d hidden. In fact, she couldn’t be positive they even existed. “I found an old journal hidden in the attic. Elizabeth Dupard’s journal, a record of her life, her father’s death, her marriage to Blake Holbert. His family founded our town.”
Dylan’s gaze became distant, focused somewhere beyond her. She turned automatically to see what he was staring at, but she saw only his house.
“The bastard owned the factory.”
She whirled in surprise. The voice had traces of an accent, didn’t sound quite like Dylan. When he’d brought her home from the doctor and she’d first seen Phillip, he’d assured her in a similar voice that she didn’t have to go back. But tonight the strangeness was stronger as was the familiarity she couldn’t quite place.
He took a step closer to her, lifted his arms toward her.
Though he was looking at her, she wasn’t sure he really saw her. The whole thing, especially after her recent fright, was totally disconcerting.
“What did you just say?” she asked, snapping out the words.
That stopped him. He dropped his arms and blinked, shook his head, and the faraway expression was gone.
“Nothing,” he said in his own voice. “You were talking about the town founder. He owned a factory. That’s how the town started. That’s all I meant.” He seemed more confused about his odd statement than she was.
“Come in and see the book,” she invited impulsively. One part of her whispered that she might be putting herself in danger, asking him into her house like that. But the idea existed only on an intellectual level, didn’t reach her emotions, didn’t instill any fear in her. Maybe she’d been so frightened of everything lately, she’d used up her quota of fear. Or maybe she wanted to be with him more than she feared him.
He looked at her for a long moment, and she sensed some sort of battle raging behind his shuttered gaze and outthrust jaw. “Thanks,” he finally said, and she didn’t know which side had won.
They went in, and she locked the door. Dylan had said the door was unlocked when he came in. She could have sworn she remembered locking it when Phillip left. But if she had, how had Dylan gotten in?
For that matter, if someone had pushed her down the stairs, how had that person gotten inside?
“Are you okay?” Dylan asked from behind her, and she realized she’d been staring at the lock for some time.
“Yes, I’m fine.” She turned her attention to him, faced him squarely. “I was just thinking that I probably need a new lock. It would be pretty easy for someone to break in here.”
“A child with a library card could do it,” he agreed smoothly. “You really should get a dead bolt. I’ve been telling you that for some time. I’ll pick up one tomorrow and install it for you.”
And keep a copy of the key? she wondered, but she kept that thought to herself.
“Let’s go to the kitchen,” she suggested. “I need to put this back.” She indicated the knife. “And you can put on some water for tea while I bring down the journal.”
When she opened the kitchen drawer to replace the knife, the sight of her hand wrapped around its handle brought a dawning realization. She had just been reading about Elizabeth’s fear and inability to defend herself against her husband. With that knowledge fresh in her mind, plus the anger generated by the injustices done to Elizabeth, she herself had found the strength to repel someone she feared meant to harm her.
Unfinished business, Lottie had said.
She tossed the knife into the drawer and shook her head to clear the confusion.
She was Analise Parrish, not Elizabeth Dupard. She wasn’t a Victorian-era woman with no rights, tied to an abusive husband. She was an independent woman. Because she felt sympathy for someone who’d lived and died in an unfortunate time period didn’t mean she had been that person.
But she couldn’t dispel the vivid picture of Blake looming over her, his breath hot on her face when he shouted, his fist hard and painful as it smacked against her face, her stomach, her arms. She couldn’t dispel this new feeling of victory, of freedom, of pride at being able to take care of herself, whoever she was.
Dylan watched Analise as she stared into the drawer of knives, apparently completely absorbed in them, almost in a trance. What could she possibly be thinking about? Surely not wielding the knife against him again.
It had been stupid of him to break into her house. He’d made a grievous error, allowed himself to indulge in panic when the evening turned dark and the lights didn’t come on...panic for her safety as much as panic that she’d somehow gotten away and gone to Phillip. He’d almost paid dearly for his foolish behavior. He had no doubt she’d have cut him if she could have.
But if she really had found some hidden book and he got to see it, if it was the right book with the right information, it would be well worth the risk. He didn’t for a minute believe her mumbo jumbo about it being a journal of some dead woman and wasn’t sure why she’d told him that, then agreed to let him see it. But he wasn’t going to pass up the chance.
“Analise?”
She looked up, eyes slightly dazed but alive with pleasure, lips curved upward in a faint smile. “Oh, yes,” she said. “The journal.” She closed the drawer. “I’ll just run up and get it.”
“I’ll go with you.” He told himself he’d made the offer so she wouldn’t have a chance to hide the book from him. But even as he mentally uttered the excuse, he knew the real reason was much simpler...the idea of being alone with her in the dark attic was tantalizing.
“All right.” She agreed readily, her expression guileless. Whatever she’d found upstairs, she saw no problem in showing to him. Which could mean it was worthless or that she, in her current condition, didn’t know what it was.
As he followed her up the wide staircase, a sudden image flashed across his mind of her tumbling downward, her slender body crumpling in a heap at the foot of the stairs. A chill darted down his spine at the idea that she could have come so close to death, that her crystalline gaze and soft skin could have been lost to him forever.
He set his foot down hard as he stepped onto the landing, reminding himself forcefully that his primary concern was to learn her secrets. She might be sending his libido into overdrive, she might be stirring strange protective feelings in him, but she was still Analise Parrish, ex-wife of Phillip Ryker, and still somehow, for some reason, connected to Phillip.
Seemingly unaware and innocent, she led him into the dark attic.
Chapter Eight
They entered the attic and, in the faint glow coming from downstairs through the open door, she retrieved a flashlight off the floor. “It was in there,” she said, indicating with her light a hole in the floor and the paint and rubble from her efforts at exposing it.
He knew immediately this wasn’t what he was looking for.
This was nothing that had been hidden during the time period that concerned him...unless she’d pried loose the windowsill and set the whole thing up so she could pretend that she’d found whatever she was about to show him. Perhaps he’d be smart to reserve judgment until he knew more.
She sat on the floor and picked up the book. It appeared to be an antique, exactly what she’d told him, the journal of a long-dead woman. He knelt behind her, close enough to feel her warmth.
“Listen,” she said. Aiming the light onto the open pages in her lap, she began to read excerpts from the life of Elizabeth Dupard.
Oddly compelled by the diary entries of this woman he’d never met, he moved closer, straining to see the writing. It wasn’t a good idea, he knew. The journal was obviously useless to him, and sitting so close to Analise in a dark attic wasn’t the type of action that would allow him to keep his goal uppermost in his mind. He ought to at least suggest they go downstairs where the light was better, where they could sit with a table between them. But the words never came out. He sat, tantalized by Analise’s nearness, fascinated against his will by her and by the details of a dead woman’s life.
Shifting Shadows Page 10