by Anne Stuart
“Don’t worry about me, Wendell. I can look out for myself, and for Carrie; I’ve spent enough time doing it.”
“I wish you’d let me help.”
The words were spoken quietly, but she heard them.
“I don’t need help. But thank you for offering.”
“If you do, will you come to me?” he persisted. “I may not seem like a hero on a white horse, but I can be very stubborn.”
She smiled at him. “I think you’re very heroic. Yes, if I need help I’ll come to you. I already have. This job means a great deal to me. It’s the first step toward independence.”
“Grandmère doesn’t approve of independence.”
“No, she doesn’t, does she?” Margaret said. “There are times I don’t approve of Grandmère.”
Wendell looked faintly shocked at such heresy as he pulled the car to a stop. “Don’t let her hear you say such a thing.”
“I’d say it to her face.”
“I believe you would,” he said, his voice admiring. “Would you like to go for a little walk before we go in? We’re not due in the drawing room until six.”
“Another time.” She was already out of the car and halfway up the broad white steps. “I want to check on Carrie.”
“Carrie’s fine, Margaret.” There was no missing the frustration in his voice.
She didn’t bother to respond, just continued her dash into the hallway of the old mansion.
Mrs. McKinley said she hadn’t seen Carrie. Eustacia and Gertrude were sound asleep in the drawing room, both emitting gentle snores from their well-bred mouths. Carrie’s bedroom was empty, and there was no sign of her in the garden.
Much as she hated to, she finally knocked on Lisette’s door. After the debacle of the pink dresses Margaret sincerely doubted Carrie would be visiting her vain older cousin, but she’d exhausted the other possibilities. Almost.
It took a moment before Lisette responded, opening her bedroom door a crack and glaring out. “What?” she demanded, her voice sharp.
“Have you seen Carrie anywhere?”
“She certainly hasn’t been bugging me. She has more sense than that.”
“No one’s seen her.” There was an edge of desperation in her voice, one she would have preferred not to show Lisette, but where her daughter was concerned pride went out the window.
Lisette opened the door a bit wider. “Why not check our resident Bluebeard?” she suggested sourly.
That was of course what Margaret had to do, and she wasn’t even aware of the door shutting quietly behind her. She hadn’t wanted to go up to that third floor any more than she could help it. But she had to find her daughter.
The sound of voices behind the thick pine door at the top of the third-floor landing was reassuring. Not just Peter’s slow, deep voice, but another male voice, one she guessed belonged to one of his guards. They were laughing, and Carrie’s higher voice joined in.
The door was unlocked, opening easily beneath Margaret’s shaking hand. She plastered a calm smile on her face, telling herself there was nothing to worry about, as she pushed open the door.
The smile vanished as she realized what they were doing. “Gin,” Carrie said triumphantly, oblivious to her mother’s presence as she laid the cards on the card table.
“There’s no beating you,” the guard said genially, pushing a pile of m & m’s toward Carrie’s greedy hands.
But Peter had spotted Margaret. He watched her, motionless, the cards still in his hands, and his green eyes were wary. After a moment the others were aware that he was staring at someone, and they followed his gaze.
“Hey, Ma,” Carrie greeted her cheerfully. “Look at all the m & m’s I won.”
Keep cool, Margaret warned herself. Don’t start screaming. “You’ll rot your teeth, kid,” she said evenly enough.
“I’m not going to eat them all at once, Ma. I’m gonna hoard them.” She scooped up the brightly colored candies and tucked them into her pockets.
“Hey, aren’t you going to give me a chance to win back some of that?” the guard demanded cheerfully. “You just wiped me out of m & m’s.”
“Nope, Georges. These are all mine.” She rose and headed toward the door. “Did you want me for something, Ma?”
“In a minute. Go on down and get ready for dinner.” She was proud of how calm and even her voice sounded. Even her daughter was fooled.
Peter still hadn’t moved from his spot at the card table, watching her, as if he knew the bone-shaking rage she was about to unleash. “Georges,” he said, pushing away from the table, “why don’t you go see if Mizmac has dinner ready?”
Georges looked from Margaret to Peter. “You sure, Peter?”
“Positive. Take all the time you need.” He rose, his eyes never leaving Margaret’s.
“All right. Keep me company, petite,” he said to Carrie as the two of them headed down the stairs. “I want to know some of your gambling secrets.”
“I cheat,” Carrie announced cheerfully, her voice floating upward. “All the best gamblers do.”
Margaret wanted to throw up. She shut the door behind them, moving into the room toward Peter, shaking with fury and despair. “God damn you,” she said, but he wasn’t about to let her finish. He caught her arm in his, and while the grip didn’t hurt, it also didn’t allow her any mobility.
“Listen,” he said between his teeth, his anger equaling hers. “I told you your daughter was safe with me. I’m not going to hurt her, for God’s sake. And Georges was right here all the time, to assuage your sick paranoia. Where the hell do you get off coming up here like a Valkyrie, dragging her away—”
“I didn’t drag her away,” she said fiercely. “And I have every right to protect my daughter—”
“You don’t have the right to visit your sick fantasies on her innocent mind. You don’t have the right to come storming up here because she was visiting.”
She yanked at her arm, but his grip was inexorable. “Damn it, I don’t care that she was visiting,” she hissed. “I’ve let her have dinner up here with you, haven’t I?”
“Then what?” His anger receded into confusion.
“The gambling, you idiot! My daughter was gambling.” And to her absolute horror she burst into tears in front of him.
They weren’t pretty tears. Lisette could probably cry pretty tears, but such a feat was beyond Margaret. She cried with great, wracking, painful sobs, and the more she thought about not wanting to cry in front of Peter, the more she cried.
In less than five seconds she was pulled into his arms, pressed against the strong, comforting warmth of his chest. She should want that even less. She couldn’t, wouldn’t accept comfort from him, but he was giving her no choice, forcing her body to mold against his, forcing her to give in to her tears, to her fears, to give in to him.
She didn’t know when someone had last held her. The only person to touch her in years had been her daughter, and a nine-year-old can’t comfort a thirty-two-year-old, no matter how much she wants to. Margaret had learned to shrink from a man’s touch, but Peter’s was too soothing, too hypnotic to fight. She needed someone to hold her. She needed Peter.
She had no idea how long she stayed in his strong arms, weeping. She’d never grieved for Dexter, for the slow destruction of her dreams. She hadn’t let the fear and uncertainty in—it had been too important that Carrie feel safe. But she couldn’t cry forever, even if the man who held her seemed ready to let her. As the tears finally slowed she realized that her hair had come loose, falling over her shoulders in a shower of fire. If he’d loosened it she hadn’t felt it, and she had to doubt that he would have done such a thing. His hands were gentle, tilting her tear-streaked face up to his.
“Marguerite,” he murmured. “Chère. You can’t spend your life terrifi
ed that your daughter will inherit her father’s weaknesses.”
“I don’t want her gambling.” Her voice was watery, hiccupy, but still stubborn.
“Will you keep her away from Monopoly and Trivial Pursuit?” he continued. “You can’t protect her forever. She’s not at all like Dexter was as a child, I promise you. Her life is different, and worrying about things like that are as useless as worrying about whether she’ll inherit her cousin’s murderous tendencies or insanity.” He laughed at her stricken expression. “You never thought of that, did you? Don’t think of it, ma belle. Think of what a tough, brave, wonderful little girl you have. Don’t worry about bad blood, or you could end up with a self-fulfilling prophecy.”
She should step away from him, but she couldn’t. She was lost, mesmerized. He held her with one arm, as his hand stroked her face. Maybe Peter was hypnotizing her as his cool, deft fingers stroked her flushed, tear-streaked face.
“Is there anyone else . . .” she began, then couldn’t finish the question.
“Anyone else in the family with such lamentable tendencies?” he guessed. “No, Marguerite. No more gamblers, no more lunatics, no more murderers lurking in the family. Only Uncle Remy with his fondness for mint juleps. There is no inherited madness in the family. Your daughter’s blood is untainted.”
“But . . .”
Suddenly he released her, moving away, turning his back on her and staring out the barred windows for a moment, and through her gradually diminishing misery she could see the tension thrumming through the muscles in his back. Then he turned, and his smile was charming, devoid of intensity.
“Besides, you’re such a tigress you could probably overshadow any Delacroix or Jaffrey tendencies. Don’t worry about your daughter. She had no more than normal interest in the game, and no more than normal delight when she won. She didn’t mind losing in the slightest. When we were growing up Dexter used to throw tantrums when he didn’t win.”
She believed him, and felt even more foolish. “You’re right, I’m sure,” she murmured. “It was stupid of me to get so upset.”
His eyes darkened for a moment, and he reached out to touch her, but before he could she drew back. “Not stupid. You’ve had to be so careful for so long it’s little wonder you overreacted. Go and reassure your daughter.”
“She probably thinks I’m crazy.”
“No, Marguerite. She knows who the crazy one is around here,” he said lightly.
HE’D LET HER GO, watched her go, and told himself what a helluva guy he was. There had been a point, when she was soft and vulnerable in his arms, that he could have had her. Or at least have come a lot closer to it.
But that wasn’t his goal. He couldn’t do that to someone who’d been through too much heartache in the past few years. He couldn’t add to her problems, and he couldn’t add to his own.
So he’d cheered her up and sent her away, ready to forget about the man in the attics. If only he could forget about her so easily.
He had to get out of there, and fast. Time for Peter to have a relapse. He looked over at the card table. It was littered with cards, and a couple of brown m & m’s had been overlooked. So had George’s cigarettes and lighter.
Georges went in for disposable lighters. This one was blue plastic, the color of Rosanne’s eyes. He flicked it experimentally, and was rewarded with a bright, true flame. Time to up the ante, he thought. Time for one of crazy Peter’s tiresome incidents. Maybe he’d start on Lisette’s wardrobe.
Chapter Eight
MARGARET DIDN’T care if she was going to be late; she wasn’t about to show up for the obligatory pre-dinner drinks and gossip with her eyes red and puffy with tears. Lisette would jump to the wrong conclusion, and everyone would stare. Getting a cold washcloth from the bathroom that she shared with the shadowy Eustacia, she lay back on her bed, reliving the past few hours, the past few moments.
There was no denying it any longer. She was wildly, stupidly attracted to Peter Delacroix. It was as insane as he was purported to be. She’d spent the afternoon with a sane, handsome, stable young lawyer whose behavior was becoming ever more flattering. Wendell was a good, decent man, and if she was just a bit more open to his gentle flirting, then something might possibly come of it.
Nothing could come of her infatuation with Peter. Apart from the fact that he was certifiably insane and convicted of murder, there was the point that a wife-murderer was hardly the best candidate for matrimony.
Not that she wanted to get married again. What she wanted, needed, was to be able to take care of herself and Carrie. She didn’t need to dump her responsibilities on the nearest pair of broad shoulders, even if those broad shoulders came equipped with a vintage Jaguar and the loveliest house she’d ever seen in her life.
She was sounding as cold-blooded and money grubbing as the worst Las Vegas hooker. She was fooling herself if she thought she could find any kind of peace or contentment at Maison Delacroix. Here she was, torn between becoming a gold digger or falling in love with a madman, and . . .
Falling in love? Where had that absurd thought come from? She didn’t even know if she believed in love anymore. Not that kind, at least. Falling in love was a trick your hormones played on you, and it only led to heartache. She was never going to go through that again, she’d decided that long ago, and she had no reason to change her mind.
Right? If only she could stop thinking about him. About the soothing touch of his cool hands on her face, the steely, disturbing strength of his body against hers, the mocking light in his eyes that annoyed and enticed her at the same time. How could she be so caught up with a madman and a murderer? How could she be so drawn to a man demonstrably worse than the blood relative who ruined her life.
No! She was not going to see herself as a victim ever again. She was no pathetic flower crushed by a bully. She’d been the one who was so infatuated with Dexter that she’d ignored all the warning signs until it was too late, she was six months pregnant and broke, and at least he’d never hit her.
So was she doing it all over again? Just how big an idiot was she? Peter Delacroix could fit the description of the worst man imaginable for her to crush on, but wasn’t that exactly what she was doing? Remembering his warmth, the scent of his skin, the feel of his mouth against her hair as he cradled her weeping body.
Her eyes flew open at the sudden memory. He’d kissed her! Surreptitiously, when all his conversation was a mockery. He’d kissed her, and he hadn’t wanted her to know. Why? And why did the realization break her heart and burn her body? Why wasn’t she smarter by now? Hadn’t she learned anything after all?
She sat up on the bed in the darkened room, the wet washcloth falling into her lap, as the unexpected rationalization hit her. What if he wasn’t a murderer? Wasn’t crazy? Wendell said he’d spent his trial protesting his innocence. It was only after he was convicted that he did an about-face and confessed. Maybe he had reasons for lying.
After all, he didn’t seem like a man who was uncontrollably ill. Apart from the fact that people didn’t use matches in front of him, he was as rational as anyone in this wretched household. Even more so.
She knew who she could ask. Dr. Pitcher was coming for dinner that night, as well as for the court-mandated biweekly checkup of the prisoner in the attics. She’d find a time alone and flat out ask him. She couldn’t be so stupid, so delusional, so irresponsible to fall in . . . fall for a hopeless mental case. Her fierce protection of Carrie ensured she couldn’t be prey to such a weakness.
It felt like a reprieve. It took her only a moment to pull on her wretched black dress, refasten her hair and wash the rest of the tears off her face. It was a lucky thing her eyelashes were naturally dark, she thought, or she’d have streaks of mascara all down her face. She’d never gotten in the habit of wearing much makeup, and given the unsettled nature of her life in the past two years,
it was a lucky thing.
She practically danced down the broad, winding stairs, not daring to stop and consider why she was feeling so exuberant. Life suddenly seemed full of possibilities, possibilities she didn’t dare consider too closely. Still she couldn’t quite wipe the smile from her face.
Her good mood lasted through the meal, but not much beyond it. When Dr. Pitcher disappeared upstairs to check on Peter, Margaret excused herself to make sure Carrie was settled for the night. Her daughter was sound asleep, the damning pile of m & m’s on the linen-draped bedside table. Margaret stared at them, waiting for the familiar tightening in her stomach as she remembered her daughter’s gambling. It didn’t come, and she shook her head at her own foolishness. Then, feeling unconscionably naughty, she reached down and took the last green one and popped it in her mouth.
The upper hallway was deserted when she sank down on the uncomfortable chair to await the doctor’s descent. She could hear Wendell and Lisette wrangling on the floor below, and the distant chink of dishes being washed. Eustacia and Remy were on dish duty that night, and it always took the two of them longer. No one would come up and overhear her question. If she could only think of the best way to phrase it.
It had been a long day, and she hadn’t been sleeping well. She’d almost drifted off to sleep, when she heard Dr. Pitcher’s steady footsteps descending the third flight of stairs.
“You should be in bed,” he said as she rose to meet him. “Peter’s trouble enough, not to mention Gertrude’s complaints. I don’t need someone falling over from exhaustion.”
“I’m fine,” she said. “I just wanted to talk to you. About something . . . delicate.”
He nodded, his eyes wise and understanding. “Of course. Though if you’d rather come to my office we could be guaranteed of complete privacy.”
“I don’t have a car. Besides, it won’t take long.”
