Winter's Edge

by Anne Stuart

"You're only young once," she answered her pointedly, flopping down into the rocking chair by the cold fireplace. "How nice of you to come for lunch, Lisa," she said suddenly. "Where are Aunt Ermy and Uncle Willy? I'm sure they'd be desolated to miss you. Especially since we haven't seen that much of you recently."

  Lisa flushed, and it was with surprise that Molly realized that she'd inadvertently scored a hit. So Patrick hadn't been going to see her as often as it appeared. Perhaps that situation wasn't as much of a sure thing as she had supposed.

  "They've gone off on a visit," Patrick said glumly, and Molly's eyes met his dark blue ones with a tiny shock. He didn't want Lisa here either. He had forced her in here to protect him. She controlled her wry amusement.

  "Really? For how long?"

  "Tonight and part of tomorrow." He shrugged. "I'm not really sure."

  "But then you and Patrick will be all alone here tonight!" Lisa's violet eyes were round as she put into words the thought that had been preying on Molly's mind for the last few moments. "And it's Mrs. Morse's evening off."

  She seemed to know more about the domestic arrangements at Winter's Edge than Molly did. But Molly could afford to be generous. She smiled sweetly. "Oh, that's all right, Lisa. We are married, you know."

  "I know," she shot back in a low voice, quietly declaring her enmity. She meant to have him, Molly knew, and Patrick just as definitely wanted to avoid her. Molly discovered her mood had improved substantially.

  "Patrick, dear." Lisa rose gracefully and put one slim, beringed hand on Patrick's arm. "Do you think we could perhaps go for a ride this afternoon? I have so much I've been longing to talk with you about." Her violet eyes shone in her lovely face, and Molly wondered how any man could withstand her.

  "Sony, Lisa," Patrick said. "I'm taking Molly to the doctor's this afternoon."

  "You're what?" Molly said in horror.

  "I told Mrs. Morse I'd take you. It's her afternoon off and I might as well take on some of my marital responsibilities."

  If Lisa had looked sullen before it was nothing compared to her current expression. Molly would have almost found it entertaining if she weren't so appalled at the thought of Patrick driving her to her pregnancy test.

  "I'd rather have Mrs. Morse with me," she said faintly. "It's a female problem."

  If she hoped to embarrass him she failed. "That's all right, Molly," he said with callous cheer. "I'm a sensitive New Age kind of guy. I want to be there for you."

  And all she could do was swallow her snarl of disbelief.

  The ride to Dr. Turner's neat little clapboard house was short and uncomfortable. Neither of them said a word, and Molly tried to concentrate on the countryside. It was all just vaguely familiar. Things were coming back in tiny little bits and pieces and the feeling was oddly unsettling. Most of the faint traces of memory were brief and unhappy. She could begin to recall a tiny part of her wedding night, though it all came to her from a great distance. She could remember taking off the white dress and crying, crying. But she couldn't remember Patrick by her side, taking her into his arms, drying her tears, comforting her. And when she tried to force remembrance it would vanish completely, like a wicked, willful child playing hide-and-seek.

  "Do you want me to come in with you?" Patrick sounded impatient, and she realized it wasn't the first time he'd asked the question. They had pulled up in front of the doctor's office while Molly had been daydreaming.

  "No!" she said with a shriek. "I mean, I'm going for a…a female exam and…"

  "I believe they're called a pelvic exam," he drawled, and she could feel herself flush with embarrassment. Surely a dedicated wanton couldn't flush? "You need your birth control updated?"

  She lifted her head, fighting past her mortification. "What do I use for birth control?" she asked curiously.

  "I haven't the faintest idea."

  That should have given her a clue. But she was too nervous, doubly so with Patrick watching her, to think about it "It shouldn't take long," she said, sliding out of the passenger seat. "You could come back in about half an hour."

  "I'll be waiting," he said. And for some reason she didn't find that the slightest bit comforting.

  Comfort didn't have much to do with her exam either. After she was finally maneuvered into that embarrassing and inelegant position on the examining table she met the doctor's annoyed face with innocent trepidation.

  "You're here to see me about a possible pregnancy, Mrs. Winters?" she demanded with the awfulness of a member of the Spanish Inquisition.

  Molly nodded mutely. In a moment Dr. Turner drew back.

  "That's all," she said brusquely. "You can get dressed. See that she gets a complete series of blood tests run on her, then bring her to my office." She started for the door, and Molly sat up, yanking the sheet up over her.

  "Am I pregnant?" she demanded nervously.

  Dr. Turner stared at her for one long, incredulous moment. "In my office," she repeated abruptly.

  Molly was to remember that look of incredulity as she underwent the nastiness of blood tests and three painful finger-pricks. The nurse was a bloodthirsty butcher who took fiendish delight in probing for her recalcitrant veins. It was a full two and a half hours after she first entered the building, and she was practically in a state of nervous collapse by the time they brought her back to Dr. Turner's office. Molly sat there in the small, paneled room, trying to force an interest in the framed licenses and degrees, the walls of medical texts, bracing herself for the news that could change her life forever.

  At least no one had brought Patrick in to hear the news. There was something to be said for good old-fashioned sexist GPs, Molly thought with a trace of gratitude.

  Dr. Turner entered the room quickly, and sat down opposite Molly, her head lowered. She was the very image of the old-fashioned country doctor, lined face, tired eyes, and Molly wondered what she had done to earn her displeasure, or to cause this sudden… was it embarrassment?

  "I hear you've lost your memory?" the doctor said abruptly, staring out at her from faded blue eyes.

  "That's true," she answered slowly.

  "I guess that accounts for it," Dr. Turner said, half to herself. "You're perfectly recovered from that fall except for a few bruises."

  "I know that." Molly brushed the information aside. "What I want to know is whether I'm pregnant or not."

  The doctor leaned back, a look of sudden amusement crossing her weary face. "Well, now, Mrs. Winters, virgin birth is not a medical impossibility, but in your case I think we needn't worry."

  Molly stared at her in unblinking shock. " 'Virgin birth'?" she repeated, astonished. "You're telling me I'm a virgin?"

  She nodded. "First one I've seen on a girl over seventeen in I don't know how long. " She chuckled, then sobered suddenly. "Is there something I should be treating your husband for?"

  "You should know that better than I," she said bitterly. "Aren't you his doctor?"

  "Well, he's never complained, but then, men are funny about that sort of thing," Dr. Turner reflected. "They're ashamed of it."

  "I doubt that he has any problem in that area," Molly answered, thinking of Lisa Canning's smug self-assurance. "He just doesn't care much for me, I suppose."

  "Could be, could be. I think maybe I better see him anyway." She peered at Molly across the desk. "You tell him to come in next week some time."

  "I don't think so," she answered, the idea horrifying her. "We're not on very good terms."

  "So I noticed," Dr. Turner said, then wheezed with laughter at her own joke. "Nevertheless, I want to see him anyway. In the meantime we'll see what those blood tests turn up—you look a bit peaked to me. We'll find out what's causing you to toss your cookies, young lady, don't you worry. Though I imagine it's nothing more than stress. We'll call you when we get the results." She dismissed her with a wave of her hand, and there was nothing Molly could do but leave, with one question answered and a million more started.

  Patrick was sitting in
the waiting room, surrounded by sneezing parents and wailing children. He was large and out of place in that feminine setting, and yet he looked curiously at ease amid the chaos. He rose when she came out, raised an eyebrow inquiringly, and then followed her out into the parking lot.

  A light rain had begun to fall. She waited for him to unlock the car, climbing in as she prayed he wouldn't ask her what she'd gone to see Dr. Turner for.

  She should have known it would be a waste of time. "So," he said, as he pulled out into the highway, "are you pregnant?"

  She glared at him. So much for her illusion that she'd manage to fool him. "No," she said in a little more than a snarl.

  "Just as well. Trying to foist another man's child off on me wouldn't do wonders for our relationship."

  "I didn't know we had a relationship," she said in acid tones.

  "We don't. Let's keep it that way, shall we? Look on the bright side—we don't have to put up with each other for much longer."

  "It's a small comfort," she said bitterly.

  She saw him glance over at her. He didn't know where her fury was coming from, and she'd be damned if she'd enlighten him.

  They completed the drive back to the farmhouse in brooding silence, and Patrick didn't bother to switch off the engine when he pulled up outside the kitchen door. "I don't need to ask whether you can look out for yourself tonight," he said. "You're good at that. I may not be back for dinner. If you get nervous you can always give Mrs. Morse a call. Just don't bring any of your little playmates over. I'll be back sooner or later and I really wouldn't like to find you trying out whatever Dr. Turner gave you."

  "She gave me vitamins," Molly snapped. She wanted to hit him. "And you needn't worry about me. I'm used to being alone."

  "I'm not worried about you," he said in a rough voice. And he drove away without another word.

  Molly slammed things around the kitchen in a fine bad temper. The house was cold and empty, and for the first time she wished that her so-called aunt and uncle hadn't chosen this Friday for their visit. Unless they left her here alone on purpose, Molly thought, suddenly frightened. She sipped at the ginger ale she had poured herself, heartily sick of cranberry juice, and stared out the window at the darkening countryside. She had had two near-fatal accidents in the last two days. Rather an uncomfortable coincidence, she thought.

  With an athletic grace she hadn't known she possessed, she swung herself up onto the scrubbed counter and sat, lost in reflection as the sun sank lower and lower behind the farm buildings. Perhaps Patrick wouldn't be back at all tonight. Perhaps some hobo would come and finish the job on her and they would find her body in a tangle on the floor. There was something going on here, something she didn't like, and the vague snatches of memory that were coming back to her had taken on an ominous tinge. The night of the fire was slowly coming back. She could remember her absolute fear and horror at the sight of the flames licking their way around the stable, could remember Patrick, his face lit up by the orange-red fire, fighting desperately to get in and free the poor, tortured horses. And there was someone beside her, someone laughing quietly, deep in their throat, at the horror in front of them. And she remembered when she was alone, she ran.

  But this wasn't enough to go to Patrick with. For one thing, he wouldn't believe her; for another, she had absolutely no idea of the identity of her companion. It could even have been a woman, for all she knew.

  No, there was nothing she could do until more of the past decided to reveal itself. In the meantime she could only wait, and watch out, as Toby had warned her.

  She thought back to his gentle concern, knowing she should feel some sort of reassurance that someone cared. But all she could think of was the sharp, strange look in Toby's eyes as he'd warned her about Patrick. His urgency somehow struck her as odd and eerie.

  It could have been wishful thinking on her part. She didn't want to think Patrick was capable of hurting her. But what did she really know about him, apart from the fact that half the time he seemed to despise her? He couldn't be the one out to hurt her, could he?

  Mrs. Morse thought the sun rose and set with him, but then, she was admittedly prejudiced. And everyone else Molly had met, from Toby to Aunt Ermy to old friend Willy, even to subtle remarks from Lisa Canning, had warned her to beware of her husband.

  She'd stupidly refused to listen. She was certainly not being very wise. But as she stared out the window at the coming night she knew she would continue to shut her ears. To trust her heart, even if it made no sense at all.

  She finished her drink and jumped down from the high counter. It was past six, and no sign of Patrick. Perhaps he wouldn't return tonight, she told herself, irritation simmering within her at the thought. Perhaps Lisa's arms were too strong a temptation even for such a saint as Patrick Winters. She set the stew on the back burner and started it at a low flame. Such a noble man her husband was. She slammed the oven door. Such a considerate gentleman. She threw a handful of silverware onto the table. Such an excellent, restrained fellow. She kicked savagely at the trash can in her way.

  She finally ate a furious and solitary meal at half-past eight. At that point she was beyond rage. She knew that if he came in she would hurl her plate with its scorched meat and vegetables at him without a second thought. It was probably just as well that he was nowhere to be seen.

  And then she began to brood. Steadily, as she sat in front of the sputtering logs she had tried to coax into a fire. Beastie appeared at the door and elected to keep her company, and for this small, or actually quite mammoth piece of companionship, she had to be grateful.

  Her nerves were on edge. She sat huddled in that great chair, her feet tucked under her, staring over her shoulder every few minutes. The hours passed slowly, so slowly, and she knew her nervousness was pure foolishness. All the doors were locked and bolted; no one could enter without her knowing it. She had no intention of letting her errant husband return to his bed without a few choice words.

  She must have dozed off, for the next thing she knew the grandfather clock in the hallway was chiming midnight. She stretched, and rose, some of her pique abated from the uncomfortable little nap.

  "I suppose we might as well go to bed, Beastie," she said to her companion, and he seemed to nod his massive head sagely, following her up the stairs. She gave no thought to her husband's possible return. He could find his own way in, she thought savagely. If he bothered to return before daybreak.

  She washed, brushed her teeth and changed into one of those flimsy nightgowns before climbing up into the firm confines of her ancient cherry wood bed. She was tired, angry, and troubled, and what she needed more than anything was a good night's sleep.

  She fully intended to get it.

  Patrick knew just what kind of trouble he'd be in if he went home that night. The house was deserted—no one would be there but Molly. Asleep in her room, her blond hair flowing over the pillow, her mesmerizing eyes closed. As long as he waited until she was thoroughly asleep he'd be safe.

  He found he was smiling in grim amusement. It was a strange situation indeed, when a man over thirty was afraid of his child bride. He hadn't thought he was afraid of anything, but Molly scared the hell out of him.

  No, it wasn't Molly who scared him. It was the way she made him feel. Like there was a chance for them after all, when he knew only too well that love was a delusion and women were hopelessly fickle. Hadn't his mother taught him that? Hadn't Molly made certain he'd learned the lesson all over again?

  There was no sign of Toby at the small apartment he rented over a nearby stables, a fact which under normal circumstances would have bothered Patrick. Toby was an odd one. He'd known him since they were kids, but Toby had always been a little off center, a little shy, just the slightest bit obsessive.

  He had no other friends as far as Patrick knew. No love life whatsoever. So where the hell was he at twelve o'clock at night?

  His apartment was locked, or Patrick would have let himself in and made h
imself at home.

  There was nowhere else for him to go.

  Well, that wasn't strictly true. He could go to Lisa Canning's, and be sure of a welcome. He'd succumbed a few times, when he was mad, when he was lonely, when he'd had too much to drink to be able to refuse what she so blatantly offered.

  But Lisa wasn't what he wanted. He knew what he wanted. She lay sound asleep in her bedroom back at Winter's Edge, and he couldn't have her. Wouldn't have her.

  Not if he had any sense of self-preservation. He was going to leave her strictly alone.

  If he could.

  Chapter Twelve

  « ^ »

  The door slammed open, ripping Molly from a sound sleep, and the light in the hall streamed in her room, silhouetting the tall, furious figure who stood there.

  "What the hell do you mean by locking me out of my own house?" Patrick's voice was dark with anger.

  She turned to the little clock beside the bed, trying to squash down her initial panic. Three-thirty. "I assumed you weren't coming home tonight," she answered haughtily, pulling the sheets around her thinly-clad shoulders. "I'm nervous when I'm left alone at night." She switched on the light and met his angry gaze with a cool assurance that matched Lisa Canning's most intimidating stare.

  "Oh, but you weren't alone, were you?" he demanded with mock sweetness, coming to stand by the bed. He was even more handsome than usual, the anger and frustration making his deep blue eyes glitter in the dim light. He'd been drinking, not enough to make him drunk, just enough to give him an edge. It should have frightened her, but instead she wanted to reach out and soothe away the angry lines in his forehead. She didn't dare. Besides, she was equally furious.

  "What do you mean by that?" she said stonily. "Of course I've been alone. Which is more than I can say for you."

  "Then why did I see Toby Pentick's blue car driving away from here as I came in?" he demanded in a voice as cold as ice. "At three o'clock in the morning!"

  "You're crazy," she snapped. "There was no one here, and even if there was, it's none of your concern, now is it? It's not as if you have any use for me." She stared at him defiantly, trying to hide the pounding of her senses, the heavy, frightened beating of her heart.