by Anne Stuart
Molly shook her head, frowning in annoyance. "This doesn't have anything to do with Patrick," she snapped irritably, remembering the feel of his hot mouth on hers. She shivered and sipped at the cranberry juice. She didn't want to drink. She didn't like the idea of alcohol, and if she really was pregnant it gave her an even stronger reason to abstain.
She wondered how her two so-called relatives would react to the notion of a pregnancy. With screams of horror, no doubt. She imagined Aunt Ermy would try to drag her off to the nearest abortion clinic if she could.
"Of course it doesn't have anything to do with Pat," Aunt Ermy chimed in. "Do you suppose my poor little girl would let herself be browbeaten by that towering bully? I warned him when I saw him tonight—I wouldn't stand by and let him order you about."
"And what did he say to that?" Molly asked curiously.
Uncle Willy snorted. "Told her what she could do with her advice, and that he'd order you about as much as he pleased. Ermy didn't care for that much, did you, dearie?" He laughed again, and the sound was a high-pitched giggle.
Molly rose suddenly, disgusted by the two of them. "I think I'll go up to bed," she said. "It's been a long day and I still don't feel recovered from this morning."
"Oh, yes, Willy was telling me about your accident." Was there a slight emphasis on the word accident? Aunt Ermy seemed all solicitude. "You really should be very careful, Molly dear. Certain people could find your death very convenient. Very convenient indeed. If I were you I wouldn't go out alone." She nodded her head meaningfully, and Molly calmly considered hitting her.
"Thank you for your concern, Aunt Ermy," she said in a deceptively even voice. "Patrick has already suggested the same thing. I'll be sure to take very good care of myself." She started out of the room, Beastie at her side. He obviously cared no more for those two than she herself did, Molly thought gratefully.
"Don't forget your cranberry juice, Molly." Willy placed the cool glass in her hand.
She took it with her, managing a tight-lipped smile of thanks.
Chapter Nine
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He shouldn't have kissed her. He'd done a lot of stupid things in his life, so many he'd lost count, but kissing her yesterday had to be one of the worst.
He could make all sorts of excuses. She was standing in his darkened bedroom, looking up at him as if he were a cross between Jack the Ripper and Tom Cruise, acting as if she'd never seen a man's naked chest before. When he knew she'd seen a lot more.
He wasn't sure what made him put his hands on her. His mouth on hers. The anger that consumed him whenever he saw her, thought of her. Curiosity, to see just what she'd learned from all the men she'd been with.
He'd been tempting fate as well. Checking to see whether he could remain immune to her. He should have known he couldn't. The touch, the taste of her, had burned itself into his brain.
Why couldn't life be simple? Why couldn't he have fallen in love with someone like Lisa Canning? Lisa, who'd offer him everything and expect not much more than energetic sex and a certain tolerant discretion.
Why did he have to want someone like Molly?
It had been a mistake, but not a fatal one. So he'd kissed her. So he'd felt her arms, tight around him, and the tremor that rippled through her body. He'd heard that soft, plaintive sound she'd made in the back of her throat, and he'd frozen. He'd had the sense to push her away, send her away.
And he had the sense to keep away himself.
It wouldn't happen again. If worse came to worst he'd take what Lisa Canning had been offering so blatantly, just to get it out of his system.
Sooner or later Molly would grow tired of this charade, tell the police what they needed to know, and then he could get rid of her. And in doing so, he'd spike his father's final, biggest wish.
It had to be a charade. There was no way she could possibly be the wide-eyed innocent she appeared to be.
And it was his own stupid fault for wanting to believe her. Thinking with his hormones instead of his head.
She'd have to admit the truth. Whatever the hell the truth might be. And then the two of them could go their separate ways. Forever.
So why didn't the prospect seem more like a victory, instead of petty revenge?
She was sick again the next morning. This time she didn't wreck the carpet—she had thoughtfully provided herself with an empty wastebasket on the chance that this morning would parallel the others. She was vaguely hoping against hope that she'd be well this morning: no little babies to complicate her life. But fate didn't want to cooperate. She lay back in bed, shivering with the aftermath.
This time she didn't fall back asleep. It was stormy again, and the steady beat of the rain seemed to pound even louder in her throbbing head. There was no point in delaying—she climbed wearily out of her oversoft bed and prepared to face the day.
There was no one stirring in the darkened kitchen. And no wonder—5:30 was a bit early even for a farm. She made a full pot of coffee, lit the fire that had already been laid in the hearth, and huddled close to it. Eventually, somewhere in the middle of her second cup of coffee, the rain slackened off a bit, and she listened to the noise of an approaching car with interest. It was her dear husband in the old van, presumably back from a night in the arms of the grieving widow. The surge of anger and jealousy that swept through Molly frightened her, and she put down the cup with trembling fingers.
She saw him long before he saw her. There was a cold, discontented look on his lean face, which pleased her enormously. It certainly wasn't the proper expression for a man returning from a satisfying night of love.
He ran in the door, shaking off the clinging raindrops from his long black hair. Then his eyes met hers, and he stopped dead.
"Good morning," she greeted him evenly, willing herself sternly to forget the last moment she had seen him, the overwhelming reaction she'd had to his kiss.
He moved closer into the room, relaxing slightly. "You're up early," he observed. "Is there any more coffee?"
"In the carafe." She picked up her cup and took another sip, the trembling in her hand down to a bare minimum. "How's Lisa?" She could have kicked herself for saying that.
"Fine," he said brusquely. "She sends you her love." And, taking his cup with him, he left the room.
Cursing herself for a fool, Molly rose from her seat and began puttering around the kitchen. She discovered a cache of day-old muffins and proceeded to heat them in the oven. Placing them daintily on one of the old Spode plates and adding butter and homemade jam, she carried them into Patrick's office.
He looked up from the paper he was staring at, and frowned. "A peace offering," she stated, before he could open his mouth to order her from the room. "I'm sorry for what I said in the kitchen. It was uncalled for." She didn't honestly believe that, but she expected Patrick wouldn't agree. "Would you like some more coffee?"
"I'll get it," he said, but she took the cup from him in a peremptory fashion.
"You eat your muffins," she said grandly, sailing from the room. In a moment she was back, with two cups. She sat down opposite him and watched him out of demurely lowered eyelids, letting her gaze trail along the lean, smooth lines of his body, the tired planes of his tanned face.
"All right," he said abruptly. "You want togetherness, we'll have togetherness. Why don't you answer a few questions, dear wife? Think you can do that?"
"I doubt it. I don't have any memories."
"The convenient amnesia. I guess it must be catching—I keep forgetting that you lost your memory."
He was in a foul mood, she thought. Obviously the wrong moment for improving their relationship. She rose, but his hand shot out, clamping around her wrist, and she slopped her mug of coffee. He didn't release her, and she refused to sit. She stood there, staring down at him, wishing it gave her even the slightest advantage. It didn't.
"So tell me, Molly dear. Are you still insisting someone pushed you down the cellar hole?" he asked in a silken voice. D
espite the firmness of his grip, his thumb was absently stroking the tender inside of her wrist
"It was the truth."
"And you're such a great expert on the truth, aren't you? What happened the night you left here?"
Damn him, she thought, wishing she could break free. She knew if she tugged again it would just end up in an undignified struggle. "I don't remember," she said stubbornly.
"And you expect me to believe this miraculous case of amnesia? This incredibly convenient memory loss that lets you off the hook, as usual."
"Actually, I expect nothing from you," she said in a cool voice.
"That's wise. Because that's what you're likely to get."
"How nice that we've got that settled. Would you like to let me go?" She asked in her most matter-of-fact tone. It still took on the subtext of a cosmic question. Would he let her go? When?
"Don't you have any questions you want to ask me?" he said lazily. "Since you've been so extraordinarily frank this morning, why don't I return the favor?"
"What would you do if I was pregnant?"
It worked. He dropped her wrist as if burned, and the winter blue of his eyes turned to ice.
"I wouldn't give a damn," he said after a moment. "Unless you tried to pass it off as mine. You wouldn't get very far with that, so I suggest you don't even try. Are you?"
"Am I what? Pregnant? Or trying to pass the child off as yours?"
"Either one."
"Neither one," she said pertly. Not a complete lie. She didn't know that she was pregnant—she was just guessing. "I was just daydreaming."
"More like a nightmare if you ask me," he snapped.
"You don't like children?"
"I like children. I don't like you."
To her horror she could feel tears start in her eyes. And it seemed to horrify him just as much, for he rose, suddenly contrite. "Molly, I…"
Before he could finish she had run from the room, anywhere to keep him from seeing her appalling weakness. She couldn't even curse him for a thoughtless bastard; his final softening had precluded that.
Perhaps it was all a lost cause, she told herself tearfully when she reached the haven of her room. She would be much better off if she did keep out of his way. He had told her to, time and time again, and she hadn't listened, stubbornly seeking him out. Looking for something. A faint sign of approval, or even affection?
She knew perfectly well she wanted more than that. And she would never get it—she'd learned that in another lifetime, and that knowledge stayed with her, even as her memory eluded her.
If she had any sense at all she would just stay in her room, passing the time as best she could until this period of waiting was over.
Unless she was pregnant. The thought came unbidden, and resolutely she pushed it away. That was one problem she would not worry about until she had to. But the period of time before her doctor's appointment stretched before her as a yawning abyss.
Muffins. She'd brought him muffins and coffee, a peace offering, and he'd thrown them back in her face. He didn't want peace offerings from her. He didn't want her sweet and shy, looking up at him as if she were sixteen again and he was everything she'd ever wanted.
He didn't want to believe in her again. Didn't want to be seduced by her green-blue eyes and her hurt innocence. She wasn't innocent, and she wasn't hurt. And whatever it was she wanted from him, it couldn't be something he was willing to give.
Pregnant. What a twisted, horrible idea. Fortunately he knew she couldn't be. They'd run every test known to man on her while she was unconscious in the hospital, including a pregnancy test. There was no way she could be carrying somebody's bastard. She deserved his contempt for even thinking she could pull off a stunt like that.
But still, she never used to cry. When she'd looked at him, tears filling her eyes, he'd known a shaft of pain, sharp and deep, and he'd wanted to touch her, pull her into his arms, soothe and kiss her.
Damn her. And damn him.
He shoved himself away from the desk and headed outside. He needed to get away from here, and from her. Just until he could get his crazy, irrational yearning under control.
He wanted to believe her. That was the craziest part of it all. He wanted to trust her one more time.
He was a fool.
There was no future for them. She'd leave, and he'd get on with his life. Why couldn't he get that through his stubborn brain?
Of course, what if he was dead wrong? What if she was telling the truth, about her amnesia, about everything? She might really be in danger.
No. That was too much to contemplate. She was a tramp, a scheming little liar, and if he started believing in her again he deserved everything he got. He'd made that mistake once before. He wouldn't make it again.
Some project, Molly decided, was necessary if she was to survive the next twenty-four hours. There was no way she could manage to get a home pregnancy test kit without a lot of explanations, explanations she wasn't willing to make. If she was going to confine herself to her room, then she needed to do something about making it livable again.
She began clearing the dresser drawers of their meager contents. The mountain of purchases she had made a few days before had been swallowed up in the massive piece of furniture, and she was finished in next to no time. She piled the clothing on the shelves in the similarly bare closet, then began clearing off the tops of dressers, tables and night stands. Half of the junk she threw out, the rest went into the closet with the clothing. She stripped the bed and carried the dirty linen down to the kitchen and Mrs. Morse.
"What in the world is all that?" Mrs. Morse cried, brandishing a spatula.
"Laundry," she said briefly. "Could you get Ben and someone else to help me move furniture today? I've decided something has to be done about my room."
"And what furniture were you planning to put in its place?" she demanded. "I can't take another day off right now to go shopping."
"I want all my furniture from the attic," she answered her, helping herself to another cup of coffee. "I don't care what happens to the junk in my room—we can throw it out for all I care. I just want the room to look as it used to."
Her stern face softened. "Well, I've got no quarrel with that. It just about broke my heart when you did that to your pretty little room. All those fancy drapes and everything—they don't belong in a house like this. I'm just glad Patrick put his foot down when you wanted to tear up the old oak flooring."
"So am I," she said in a subdued voice.
"Go on ahead, then, dearie. I'll get you some breakfast. Coffee and muffins aren't enough to keep a body going. And next time you get up early, remember to turn off the oven when you've finished using it."
"Did I forget?" She blushed faintly, as if caught doing something naughty. "I'll try to remember next time."
"See that you do. Now sit down and I'll be with you in a minute."
Ben arrived a few minutes later, accompanied by Toby. "Just the people we want to see!" Mrs. Morse greeted them as they entered. "Molly needs some furniture moved—do you think two big strong men like you could take care of it?"
"I'd be glad to." Ben smiled, and Molly thought to herself that he surely didn't hold her responsible for hitting him on the head the night of the fire. "How about it, Toby?"
"Certainly." He smiled at her engagingly, his clear eyes warm and intense. "I was just looking for someone to go riding with me, but Patrick seems to have taken off. If Molly will take his place when we're done then I'm your man."
She looked out at the dark and drizzly sky. "It's hardly the weather for it, is it?" She couldn't imagine why she'd feel the slightest hesitation, but she did.
"Oh, the weather will clear up, my word as a gentleman," he said solemnly.
She was being ridiculously paranoid, and she knew it. "Of course I'll go riding with you," she said suddenly, ashamed of her doubts. "I've just been waiting for someone to ask." And if she waited for her husband, she thought, she'd wait until hell froze
over. She rose and brought her dishes over to the sink, suddenly aware of Mrs. Morse's subtle air of disapproval. "Follow me and I'll show you the furniture."
Within twenty minutes the room was stripped of every piece of furniture, and only the rug and drapes remained. She sent Ben and Toby off with their firm promises to return a couple of hours later for the second installment, and, armed with some tools she had purloined from Patrick's tool shed, she set to work ripping up the carpet.
It had been glued down around the corners, and the residue was a nasty, sticky mess, requiring repeated scrapings, rubbings, and washings. But by lunchtime she had the soft, downy stuff dumped in the middle of the floor with the satin curtains and valances piled on top, and her room was beginning to look more like it should.
She dragged the stuff out into the hall and down the two little steps to the attic door. Dumping it in one corner, she stood back to take a closer look at her old furniture. And then she noticed what she hadn't seen before. One of the drawers in the mahogany chest was partly open, and inside was a dried bouquet, the yellow roses faded and dead. And somewhere inside a warning bell rang. She stared at it for a full five minutes, trying desperately to force her memory to work, closing her eyes and summoning up the past. But it remained out of reach, mocking, teasing.
By two o'clock that afternoon the bedroom was once again as beautiful as it must have been before she married Patrick Winters. The oak flooring shone with the glow only old and lovingly tended wood has, the small kilim rugs setting it off perfectly. The furniture belonged in the room, as that other stuff never had, each old and sturdy piece complementing the others. She climbed up on the huge old bed, a mate to the one in Patrick's room, and stared around her with a sense of accomplishment and satisfaction. If she could put this part of her life back together with just a little hard work, surely the rest of her problems could be dealt with as successfully. Perhaps there was hope after all.