Venus, he supposed, and not a star at all.
Just as it had last night, Shae’s long hair had worked itself free of its bonds. It fluttered about her shoulders, then behind her like a ragged banner in the breeze.
“You want me to leave here?” He hadn’t even realized he’d come back to the same place where they had met just yesterday. He’d been wandering, walking aimlessly for hours, trying to decide how to respond to what had been one of the worst days of his life. He’d done a great deal of thinking, but he couldn’t begin to imagine why his presence here would matter to Shae Rowan.
“I’m using this spot to sort out my problems. I don’t believe it’s wide enough to shoulder yours as well,” Shae said. He thought she tried to make a joke of it, but the expression on her face fell short of a smile.
“I look that bad?” he asked, annoyed at the idea that he might make some sort of pathetic spectacle in public.
She nodded, and he recognized in her green eyes an echo of what he’d felt the night before. It woke in him a longing, a wish to know her better. Tread cautiously, he warned himself. He’d just been wounded by one woman. Did he wish to pass this one the knife? She might be quite lovely, but what use could he have for this gypsy artist in his life?
“I don’t normally walk up to men I’ve recently met and throw them off the beach,” Shae told him. She stooped to pry the curved edge of a white baby’s ear shell from the damp sand. She picked up the rounded object and brushed it clean with careful fingers. “I thought you wouldn’t mind, though, if I asked about my bird. Please tell me he’s still living.”
Phillip gave in to an urge to smile, so relieved he felt to offer her this comfort. “Before I left the house, I checked on him. He’s hopping about splendidly, pecking at the crumbs my sister feeds him. Her name is Justine, and she loves animals. After she’s through spoiling him, your finch might not want to go home.”
Shae stared down at the white shell. “Thank you, Mr. Payton. Thank you for taking care of him.”
“You mustn’t call me ‘Mr. Payton.’ Phillip, please, and you are welcome. I’m afraid I owe you far more than that small service.”
“Why? I’m still the same ‘crass female,’ as you put it, who let down your good friend.”
He continued walking, passing a young family and then a man stooped by the years, who was making determined progress, bowed but unbroken as an old workhorse. Out of the corner of his eye, Phillip glimpsed Shae following.
“My ‘good friend’ deserved to be embarrassed,” Phillip said. He forced himself to pause, to turn and look into her face. “He deserves much more than that, as far as I’m concerned. I apologize, Miss Rowan. My behavior here last evening was unforgivable.”
“Of course it wasn’t,” she protested, “because I’ve forgiven you already. But what changed your mind?”
“Ethan Lowell’s betrayal, among other things.” He looked down at his damp feet, surprised that he had walked into the water’s edge. The warm surf foamed about his bare ankles. Hours ago, he had rolled up his pant legs and taken off his shoes. He couldn’t remember for the life of him where he had left them.
Shae took his hand in one of hers. “Ethan’s far worse than I imagined, if he would betray a friend like you.”
At her touch, his gaze traveled up to join hers. Gently, he raised her hand toward his mouth and kissed it once. Emotions swept across her face in quick succession: frank enjoyment, sadness, and then guilt.
She looked so vulnerable, so warm and real, that he couldn’t help but draw her closer to him, couldn’t deny the impulse to pull her into his arms. She did not resist, but came to him as though it were as natural as the act of breathing.
He bent his head and pressed his lips against hers, tasted her unexpected sweetness, then delighted when he felt her begin to kiss him back. But just begin for in a moment, she pulled back, as if awakening from a dream.
When he reluctantly released her, she drew away and stared at him oddly, as if she didn’t know what to make of a man who would take such liberties on a public beach. He fully expected her fury, but instead she dropped her gaze.
“Will you keep my bird a few days?” she asked quietly, and the pink light that fell on her face darkened with her blush. “I’m not certain where I’ll be.”
“Of course, but, Shae, what’s happened?”
She shook her head, denying some domestic cataclysm, if he was any judge. Denying, too, what had passed between them. The decrepit carpetbag offered evidence of a recent, swift departure. “I I plan to spend a few days with a friend. If you don’t mind, I’ll come get the finch early next week.”
The urge to keep her here was undeniable. He might not need this woman in his life, but right now he needed someone, anyone, to fill the painful void both Rachel and his former friend had left in him. With all the upheaval in her own life, Shae must need an anchor as badly as he did.
He would have to be so careful, Phillip warned himself, too aware of how her touch inflamed him. His lips felt fevered, needful, with the memory of their brief, soft kiss. But he was a grown man, responsible for his own business. Surely, he could govern his body’s wants as well. He could talk with her just talk, and both of them could take whatever comfort that act offered.
“Have you eaten yet this evening?” he asked quickly, seizing upon the first excuse he thought might keep her with him. “Would you care to join me for a meal? If I can remember where I put my shoes, that is.”
She stepped backward once again and shook her head. “I really must be going. They’ll be expecting me. Thank you, though, for everything. Goodbye.”
She started away from him, then paused. At her hesitation, he felt relief surge through him. When she reached out her hand, he extended his to meet her. Without touching him, she dropped the baby’s ear shell into his palm.
“Take this to your sister,” Shae explained. “Please give her my thanks as well.”
Phillip nodded, and looked down at the pale, fat spiral. Shae Rowan had surprised him once again, he thought, but she was right. Too self-conscious to walk the beach herself, Justine would treasure that perfect shell, given with such honest gratitude.
He felt bereft when he looked up and saw Shae hurrying away from him. It seemed wrong to watch her vacate this stretch of beach, where she surely belonged.
“Don’t go back to Ethan. He doesn’t deserve you.” The sea breeze stole his whispered warning and spun it downwind, away from her.
He resisted an impulse to run after her, to tell her what he knew of Ethan’s plans. The thought brought with it unpleasant memories of Rachel, of their conversation late this afternoon. He recalled other things as well, the warnings that he should have heeded, some occurring months ago. How clear they all seemed, now that he knew better. How crystalline appeared his ex-fiancée’s flaws in this new light.
Phillip turned toward the gulf waters and stared at a pair of dusky plovers winging toward their nests, toward home. Thinking of the shore birds, he wondered if plovers took their mates for life. Then his gaze slipped backwards, and he stared in the direction of Shae Rowan’s retreat. He stood rooted to that spot, just watching, long after her silhouette had disappeared from view.
*
Shae leaned against the wrought iron fence where she’d tied Delilah to empty the sand from her shoes and readjust the bandage on her cut foot. The mare raised her head and nickered again in the direction of Austin Street and her evening ration of grain. The stubborn beast had tried to take the bit into her teeth to return home, but, with some difficulty, Shae had mastered her.
Shae cursed herself for walking on the beach. Now, her wounded foot had swollen so painfully she could no longer hide her limp. Though she knew she must see Lucius, she dreaded their conversation just the same. Somehow, the idea of truly knowing her mother’s fate both attracted and repelled her. She decided the hour was too late to attempt it anyway.
Once she replaced her shoes, she smoothed her blouse and
skirt as best she could. If only she could straighten her mind as easily, to free it of the memory of Phillip Payton, of their kiss.
She had always felt so compelled to guard herself from Ethan’s groping. In the time they spent alone, never once had she forgotten her aunt’s and father’s admonitions, nor her fallen mother’s fate.
So what on earth had happened on the beach? Something powerful washed through her at his touch, his very gaze. Something that made her very much afraid of what she could allow to happen.
Afraid and curious. And eager.
She shook her head to clear it. One kiss on the beach meant nothing, only that she felt frightened and alone. So she had lost her head this evening. Was it any wonder, with all that had occurred?
She realized now how foolish she had been to fly out of the house so quickly, without so much as a toothbrush or a single change of clothes. But at least not all was lost. Though Cynthia would chide her for rejecting Ethan and perhaps dig unpleasantly for details, she would at least help her friend through the next few days. Wouldn’t she?
Shae refused to think beyond that question, refused to focus past tomorrow, when she would feel strong enough to confront Lucius. If he had written the note, if he had had her mother’s cameo this long, he hadn’t done his duty as her friend. She may have been a girl when Mother vanished, but she’d since grown to womanhood. Protecting her was no excuse for silence.
An elderly woman answered the door at the Browning home. With her wispy cloud of white hair, she might have been here as long as the columned Greek revival house had stood. Certainly, the Irishwoman had served the Browning family far longer than Cynthia’s twenty-one years. Behind her, a hanging double gas light brightened the doorway against the early evening gloom.
“Miss Rowan,” the woman nodded as she stepped back to allow the frequent visitor entrance into the foyer. “Would Miss Cynthia be expectin’ you?” No admonition soured her thin and lilting voice.
Shae was grateful, thinking of how Aunt Alberta might react if Cynthia showed up unescorted after eight o’clock in the evening and untidy to boot. She shook her head in answer to the woman’s question. “No, she isn’t, Margaret, but I thought I might stop by.”
Margaret smiled. A green-eyed dragonfly pin Shae had made her for her birthday lent a spot of brightness to the woman’s plain, dark blouse. If she noticed Shae’s wrinkled attire and her untamed locks, she was kind enough to hold her tongue.
“I’ll fetch Cynthia. Why don’t you be sittin’ in the front parlor?” Margaret invited.
Shae watched the old woman move toward the conservatory, where Cynthia undoubtedly fussed over her rare, tropical plants. In spite of her own worries, Shae smiled at the thought of the delicate tendrils and the tenderness her friend invested in their care.
Shae hobbled across a burnished, walnut floor and into the front parlor, where she sat primly at the edge of an elegant, carved chair. As always, she allowed the beauty of the room to cheer her, the flowered, chintz upholstery, the sunny yellow walls. Everything in the room reminded her of light and summer. Everything but Mrs. Browning’s ebony piano, which gleamed coldly across the room, as proud and soulless as its owner.
As if on cue, Mrs. Browning glided in, a pleased smile lighting her pinched face. Her tiny form never bobbed, as if she rolled on unseen wheels beneath her elegantly ruffled skirt.
“Dear Shae,” the matron offered. The diminutive woman reached out as if to embrace her daughter’s friend, then seemed to lose interest as Shae moved to meet her.
Embarrassed, Shae drew back and smiled a cautious greeting, though she doubted Mrs. Browning had ever found her “dear.” Even to Shae’s face, the woman had often expressed incredulity after Ethan ignored her daughter in favor of a “common tradeswoman”. Mrs. Browning must be delighted at the collapse of that relationship.
“How sad you look this evening,” the older woman told her. Despite her words, her expression offered scant sympathy, laced liberally with triumph. “How simply miserable. You must be devastated, what with losing your one chance to marry well. Your father must be furious.”
Shae nodded, ignoring the temptation to roll her eyes at her friend’s mother. “I so value your compassion,” she lied quietly. “I was hoping I might stay here for a night or two.”
Cynthia bounced into the room, her blue eyes shining with excitement. “Oh, Shae. I’m so sorry. You must share the details with us. How horrible you must be feeling, with your future all in ruins.”
Shae stared, dumbfounded. Was this the same young woman she had last week helped to repot plants? The same friend whose eyes teared over root-bound ferns? She wondered that foam didn’t drip from Cynthia’s chops, she seemed so ravenous for gossip. Shae sagged into the carved chair again, like a sail devoid of wind.
Cynthia settled into an overstuffed sofa. Her plump behind, beneath its bustle, made quite a dent. Mrs. Browning lowered her stylishly padded rear beside her daughter’s. Both leaned forward, like a pair of foxes over an unattended, fluffy chick.
Shae felt sick. She’d long ago realized that Mrs. Browning wished her daughter to dump her socially less fortunate companion. What Shae hadn’t wanted to admit was her friend’s true nature, which was growing more apparent by the hour.
“There’s not very much to tell,” Shae shrugged. “I simply couldn’t bring myself to go last evening. All those people and their gossip . . .”
Mrs. Browning, the lead gossip, nearly beamed. “It’s really just as well, dear. Certainly, you aren’t up to traveling within that social sphere.”
Her social sphere, she meant. Even so, Shae didn’t care to argue that the whole idea bored her. Neither of the Brownings would believe her anyway.
“There’s a rumor about that Ethan asked you not to come last night, that the real split occurred beforehand,” Cynthia reported.
Shae laughed aloud, despite her misery. So, her “betters,” unable to believe that she would turn her nose up at a Lowell, had constructed a more palatable version of events. Remembering her aunt’s opinions concerning Cynthia, she wondered if the tale began with her so-called friend. Or, more likely, with her mother, since Cynthia had never excelled at anything as creative as inventing her own stories.
“I really don’t care what anyone thinks was the cause,” Shae said, disappointing both of the women. “Right now I’m more concerned with having someplace to spend the night until my father settles down.” She would never trust these rumormongers with the true reason she’d departed home.
Cynthia’s eyes cut toward her mother’s and the two exchanged an inscrutable look.
“We’d simply love to have you, dear,” Mrs. Browning crooned, “but we’re having people over in a little while. Some of the same people you no doubt wish to avoid.”
“The Lowells?” Shae asked. Neither woman was dressed as for a party, and nothing in the house bespoke it. She realized they were lying, but she decided to see if feigning ignorance would gain her anything. “Don’t worry. I’ll stay out of sight.”
“I’m afraid, under the circumstances, it wouldn’t be appropriate.”
“We truly wish we could,” Cynthia chimed in. She glanced once more at her mother. “But maybe it would be a good idea if we weren’t seen together for awhile.”
Until she captured Ethan, she was saying, Shae presumed. They were banishing her permanently from their presence and her last toehold in polite society. Shae cursed herself for the hurt that washed over her. She’d been so foolish, so naïve, not to expect this. Still, the betrayal stung, and she found herself remembering Phillip Payton on the beach this evening, the pain in his hazel eyes because of Ethan’s mysterious breach of faith.
Standing abruptly, Shae spun on her heel and limped toward the door. Unable to resist the impulse, she turned and blurted toward her former friend, “Ethan Lowell will never have you! He thinks your behind might sink the El Dorado.”
Cynthia’s mouth dropped, and her mother’s face pinched itself into a
pucker.
Shae glared at Mrs. Browning. “And he finds it odd that you so loathe me, since Cynthia tells everyone your own father plays piano in a house of ill-fame in some frontier hell-hole.”
Mother turned on daughter, horror etched in every wrinkle on her face. “What is it you’ve been saying about me?”
“I never” Cynthia protested, though she had. She often laughed with others behind her mother’s back at the woman’s vain pretensions, as if she hadn’t inherited the lot.
“Come now, Cynthia. Don’t lie to your mother. I’m sure she’ll find your party jokes amusing, don’t you think?” Shae stood and offered the pair a deep, sarcastic curtsy. “If you’ll excuse me, I must be going.”
She doubted that either Browning woman heard her leave the room. They were too busy shouting accusations and denials.
“Miss Shae,” a frail voice whispered as she moved toward the front door.
Shae turned toward Margaret. Mischief brightened the old woman’s clouded eyes.
“For shame!” she scolded, catching Shae into a surprisingly robust embrace. “Setting those two hens peckin’ at each other. It’ll take these Irish arms a half a day to sweep up their pinfeathers.”
Margaret kissed her cheek and then said, “May the road rise to meet you.”
“May the wind always be at your back,” Shae continued, as her mother had once taught her. Knowing she might not see the Brownings’ servant again, might not hear that voice that so reminded her of Mother’s, she couldn’t bear to finish the old blessing.
No matter, for as she left the house for the last time, Margaret called the last line after her. “May God hold you in the palm of his hand.”
Without an idea of where she might turn for shelter, Mary Shae fled into the soft darkness of the starry, Gulf Coast night. But not on horseback, for Delilah, too impatient to wait for her mistress, had somehow pulled loose a rein and trotted home.
CHAPTER SEVEN
And horrid stillness first invades the ear,
And in that silence we the tempest fear.
Night Winds Page 8
