Mercy

by Jean Brashear

  But they couldn’t ignore the truth anymore. “Yes,” she said, smoothing Tansy’s hair away from her face. “He’s gone. But we remember him, don’t we? He’ll be with us as long as he’s in our hearts.”

  Tansy gripped harder. Curled more tightly. “I don’t know how to be alone,” she cried. “How do you stand it? He was always there, always part of me, and it’s as if someone ripped out my insides.” She whipped her head around to stare at Mona, and Mona thought she’d never witnessed so much hopelessness in a person’s eyes. “I…shot him, Mona. The other half of me, and I…killed him.” Horror bloomed as her voice dropped to a whisper. “How do I live with that? How do I survive without him?”

  Mona pulled Tansy’s trembling body close as her own eyes stung. “You let us love you until it gets better.” She squeezed Tansy, willing her own strength into her sister’s wire-tight frame.

  “I want Michael so much,” Tansy said. “But he’s gone, too.”

  “I know, sweetheart,” Mona said as she stroked her sister’s back. “I know.” She stared into the darkness and once again cursed Lucas Walker. She soothed her sister until the exhausted Tansy relaxed in her arms.

  Mona eased Tansy’s head onto the pillow.

  “Mona?” Tansy’s voice was heavy with sleep.

  “Yes?”

  “I have to go back tomorrow.”

  “Back?”

  “To visit Daddy. He’ll be lonely.”

  Oh, Tansy. Ever the gentle soul, she couldn’t even punish the man whose selfishness had led to the destruction of her life. “Are you sure?”

  There was a long silence. Mona thought Tansy was asleep until she spoke faintly. “He didn’t mean for any of it to happen. And…he lost Paris, too. All of you did.” Grief thickened her voice.

  “Oh, honey…” Mona sat down beside Tansy. “Remember what Lucas said—it was an accident. No one blames you. Please don’t blame yourself.” She touched Tansy’s cheek and felt tears on her hand. “We’ll get through this, I promise.”

  She petted Tansy’s hair until she was sure Tansy had fallen asleep. Then, worn out herself, she headed for her bedroom, fighting a wave of dizziness. Quietly, she crept through the darkness to their bathroom. Holding on to the counter, she drew a glass of water, willing her head to steady and her stomach to stop rolling. Not now, she begged. Not—

  “Des?” She woke up on the floor, Fitz’s eyes wild on hers. “Stay right there—I’m calling an ambulance—” He started to rise.

  “No—”

  “Goddamn it, something’s really wrong. Just stay right there while I—”

  She grabbed his arm. “I’m not sick, Fitz.”

  “Bullshit,” he shouted. “You’re losing weight and you’re pale and—”

  “Pregnant.”

  “I don’t care what—” He stopped dead. Whirled, eyes wide. “What did you say?”

  “I’m pregnant.”

  He sank to his knees beside her. “But—how—”

  “The usual way, I think,” she said, smiling.

  Fitz tugged her into his arms, joy flaring in his eyes. Then he went still. “Are you going to—” He cleared his throat. Looked away, then back. “I meant it, Des, when I said that you’re what’s most important. If you’re not happy about this—”

  She pressed one hand to his cheek. “I’m happy.” She laughed, certain at last that she really was. “Scared bone-deep, yes. I don’t know if I can be a good mother, Fitz. I can’t give up everything the way my mother did, and I don’t want to do this wrong.” She took his hand and kissed the palm, then placed it over her belly. “But I do want your baby.” She saw his eyes fill, felt her own burn. “I’m sorry I—”

  Then she could say nothing more as he embraced her and kissed her within an inch of her life. Mona responded fervently, clutching at his broad back.

  Then he drew away. “You’re sure?”

  She studied the hazel eyes she loved so much, listening, too, inside herself. Then she nodded. “Yes. Yes, I’m sure.”

  Fitz whooped and scooped her up, grinning. “I am so good with babies, you won’t believe it.”

  She put a cautionary hand on his chest. “No commuting, though,” she warned. “Don’t press your luck.”

  He laughed, the old Fitz laugh, the one that was free and easy and all hers. “No commuting. Scout’s honor.”

  His arms tightened, and his face grew solemn. “Sweetheart, I—” His voice crackled with emotion. “We’ll make it work, I promise. You won’t regret this.”

  Mona’s own eyes grew damp. “Let’s go tell Tansy.”

  Kat emerged from the cab in front of Armand’s Gramercy Park brownstone, fighting the urge to go back, think some more, come up with some foolproof strategy. She’d been absorbed, as they all had, with Tansy after her world had collapsed once more. The shrink Mona had called hadn’t pulled punches. Tansy was in for a fight. There would be bad days, and she would have to grieve properly for Paris. She would have to learn to live without her other half, but Dr. Samuels was optimistic that with love and support, Tansy would make it. The only problem was that Tansy was pining as much for Lucas Walker as for her twin.

  Kat was thinking very hard about bearding the lion in his den. Walker was still in New York, Fitz said, but not for long.

  But Kat had her own lion to beard first, right here in this brownstone. As she walked up the steps, she almost back-pedaled. She wasn’t ready. She hadn’t figured out the perfect words, but Armand was leaving tomorrow for Europe, and her gut told her this couldn’t wait. You never used to be a coward, Kat. Before she could chicken out, she pushed the doorbell.

  Travers, the ancient butler from the Delacroix Beacon Hill mansion, opened it. “Miss Gerard,” he noted without warmth. He’d come to New York with Armand almost twenty years ago, certain that the young master needed him to provide a touch of civilization in the melee that was New York. He’d never left. Though he was far past retirement age and did little of substance anymore, he was devoted to Armand, and Armand would never ask him to leave. Travers’s expression made it clear that his down-the-nose assessment of Kat the first time they’d met hadn’t changed.

  It had never bothered her before, but tonight she could use an ally. “Is he here, Travers?”

  “Mr. Delacroix is engaged in preparations for his trip, miss.”

  Her stomach clenched. “Does he plan to be gone long?”

  He looked askance. Need-to-know basis only was what he conveyed.

  It only fueled Kat’s fears. She gripped Travers’s forearm. “I have to stop him.”

  Thick white eyebrows snapped together. He looked down at her hand, then back at her face.

  She couldn’t afford to care. “Lighten up, Travers. I screwed up, okay? I love him. I’m sure you think I’m the worst possible person for him, but he loved me until two days ago—but I didn’t realize it. I have no idea if I can make him love me again, but I can’t let him leave. If he does, I’m scared that—” To her horror, her voice cracked. She took her hand off his arm and stepped back, humiliated and blinking away tears. She faced the door.

  Her hand was on the doorknob when she heard his voice, that frosty, patrician tone. “Miss Gerard.” He cleared his throat. “I believe you’ll find Mr. Delacroix in the garden just now.”

  Kat gripped the knob, fighting the urge to run. Or bawl like a baby. She looked back. To her surprise, his usually stern gray eyes held a flicker of warmth. “Thank you, Travers.”

  “Very good, miss.” Dignity resumed its proper position on that ancient face, and he stepped out of her path. “As you know your way, perhaps I’ll resume packing.”

  Kat ignored the jitter in her stomach and remembered Scarlett. “Take your time, Travers.” She straightened and tossed her head. “If I do this right, you’ll only have to remove it all.”

  She almost thought she saw the faintest twitch of his lips as he gestured her forward.

  Kat descended the steps to the kitchen of the four-story b
rownstone. Just one room wide, each level’s rooms opened onto each other, Armand had explained. The kitchen floor, once frequented only by servants, was Kat’s favorite by far over the more formal parlor, living area and dining room above. She’d never seen the bedroom levels or the rooftop terrace.

  The kitchen was warm and welcoming, as was the breakfast nook and sunroom. Through the expanse of glass, she saw Armand in his garden. She’d teased him often about being a gentleman farmer, but in truth, he’d wrought miracles, all through the labors of his own hands. He refused to hire a gardener, saying that digging in dirt was therapeutic, that it kept him in touch with the rhythms of the seasons. It was incredibly peaceful, yet brimming with life even in these early days of spring.

  But Armand didn’t look at peace now. His handsome face was pensive as he brushed one hand over a patch of vibrant red tulips.

  When she cracked the door, he glanced up. Immediately, he came to his feet with that easy, muscular grace of his. Concern tripped over his features. “Is Tansy all right?”

  She didn’t answer for a moment, studying this man who’d been the most important part of her life since the day they’d met. Newly awakened, she wondered how she’d missed it for so long, how she’d been so blind. Armand was the furthest thing possible from her father. He’d paid attention to her for years, gently but steadily urging her away from the worst of her excesses, always there to pick her up when she wouldn’t be dissuaded from them.

  “Katharina?”

  She stared into the green eyes she trusted more than any in the world. “It’s not Tansy,” she said. “It’s me.”

  His dark brows drew together. “What’s wrong? Has something happened?”

  “Yeah,” she admitted with rue. “You might say that I finally got my head out of my ass.”

  He went very still but said nothing.

  He wasn’t going to make this easy. She drew a deep breath to steady herself. “Is it too late, Armand? For us?” She stepped closer. “Because I can’t allow it to be. You can’t leave now, not just because I was stupid. You’ve seen me be an idiot a thousand times and you didn’t walk away then.”

  Armand turned slightly, looking out over his garden.

  She grabbed his elbow and pulled, but he was too strong. Too solid. He’d always been solid. Always been there.

  “Damn it.” If he wouldn’t face her, she’d go to him. “I won’t let you do this. You can’t just run off to Europe.”

  Arms crossed over his chest, Armand lifted one patrician eyebrow. “I have business interests in Europe. I believe you’re the one who’s perfected the art of running.”

  Temper did a tap dance on her control, but these were high stakes now. “You can’t insult me.” She sniffed. “I’m not going to get mad.”

  “A first.” He headed toward a patch of crocuses. “You must be proud.”

  Kat shut her eyes, counted to ten. Okay, five.

  Then she raced across the stepping stones and slipped in front of him. “I get it. Paybacks, that it? I’ve been a jerk, so you’re going to out-jerk me.”

  His beautiful mouth tilted at the corners, and all at once, she wanted another kiss, to see if she’d imagined the punch of the first one.

  “I think one child in a relationship is more than enough.”

  Desperate to break his distance, Kat crowded him. She slid her fingers into his hair and dragged his head down, sealing her mouth to his. At first he stood there, wooden, so she pressed her body along the length of his and poured every ounce of skill she’d ever developed into kissing the socks off him.

  For long seconds he didn’t respond. Her bravado evaporated and a creeping sense of despair filled her. She drew her mouth away. “Armand, what do I have to do? I can’t bear it if you go. Please don’t leave me.”

  “Damn you, Kat,” he muttered, yanking her back. Then he was kissing her with a hunger that made his first one seem child’s play.

  Relief swept over her in a cooling wind. Kat forgot about keeping the upper hand, or protecting herself, or any of the games she’d played with any other man. This was Armand, and she’d almost lost him—

  She stopped abruptly, placing one hand on his chest. “I didn’t blow it all the way, right? You’re not giving up on me yet, are you?”

  “Christ, Kat, you do try a man’s patience.” He shook his head, then traced her mouth with one long finger. “Katharina. You were aptly named for Shakespeare’s shrew.”

  “I won’t be a shrew anymore, not with you. Cross my heart, hope to die, stick a needle—” She drew an X over her heart, but before she could finish, Armand took her fingers in his hand and brought them to his lips, chuckling.

  “Of course you will. Don’t make promises you can’t keep.” His eyes grew solemn as he touched their entwined fingers against first her heart, then his. “But for whatever misbegotten reason, I seem to have a taste for shrewish redheads with evil tempers and no impulse control.”

  “Oh, Armand…” As the cold fear leached from her bones, Kat felt suddenly drained. She leaned her head against his chest. “I’m so sorry. It’s just—I saw what happened to Mama and to all of us, and I was terrified of surrendering myself to any man.”

  He stroked her hair. “And now?”

  “Now there’s—” One hand fluttered. “This.”

  “This?” One eyebrow arched.

  “You know.” She shrugged. “Us.”

  “Is there an us, Katharina?”

  She shivered at the chance she was taking. “If those kisses are any example…” She cocked her head. Grinned. “Maybe I need another sample to be sure I’m not judging too quickly.”

  Armand’s smile was wide and warm and everything she could have wished. “Allow me to demonstrate again.”

  Tansy had kissed Mona goodbye in the cab, refusing to let her sister run interference for her any longer. Mona was radiant with her joy about the baby. It was time for Fitz and her to celebrate, not be dragged down by Tansy’s sorrow.

  “Afternoon, Tansy,” the elevator operator said. “You ready for your father’s big night?”

  “Getting close,” she agreed, doing her best to smile.

  The apartment was dark when she entered. “Daddy? Mrs. Hodgson?” Silence bore down, and she pressed one hand against the entry wall. “Daddy?”

  No answer.

  She walked slowly toward the living room, plunged into shadows except for one small opening in the heavy drapes.

  Her father sat there motionless, staring out over the park.

  “Daddy?” She walked closer, heart beginning to pound. “Why aren’t you at rehearsal?” She came up beside him and saw his eyes, fixed and open, and for a moment, fear clawed its way up her throat—

  Then she saw it. One tear, trembling on his lashes. He blinked, and it spilled over, winding a lonely trail down his weathered cheek. He looked a thousand years old.

  “I can’t.” His voice was barely a whisper. “My fault…all of it. Paris…Juliette. Gone, both gone. My poor Titania…so hurt.”

  With one trembling hand, she reached out, letting it hover over his head. For a moment, she contemplated the park, no longer her place of magic. No longer Paris’s home. Her vision blurred, and she glanced away.

  She straightened her shoulders. Let her hand settle on the curve of his skull.

  And rest there. “You must go back. You have to finish.”

  “Why?” His voice was gritty with pain. “Why are you here, Titania? After what I’ve done, why would you come to me? There is no pardon for what you’ve suffered at my hands.”

  For a long time, she studied him without speaking, this man who’d loomed so large in her life. Finally, she knew what to say.

  She spoke softly at first, searching for the words. “‘The quality of mercy is not strain’d, It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven/Upon the place beneath.’” Her voice gathered strength, and she stroked her father’s head with one hand. “‘It is twice blest; It blesseth him that gives and him that t
akes…’”

  An agonized moan convulsed her father’s frame. His head fell forward, his shoulders shaking.

  Tansy knelt and wrapped her arms around him.

  What he owned made a pitiful stack, Lucas thought, as he folded the few clothes he’d gathered during these brief weeks. Just as well. He’d need to travel light. No room in his life for belongings.

  Who was he kidding? There was nothing but room in his life. Endless emptiness. Days stretching out into weeks and years with no purpose. For over half his life, Tansy had been the backbone of his days, the spine of his dreams and goals, no matter how hard he’d tried to make it different. Even surviving each day of hell in Attica had been for one reason—to serve out the sentence he’d been assessed to protect her. He’d told himself a thousand times that he couldn’t wait to get away, to leave the past behind and get started on his future.

  It was all bullshit. Without Tansy, there was no future, no reason for joy. He would miss her forever.

  Lifting out the last T-shirt, he saw the envelope, faded and ancient. It had formed his purpose for so long, and now that purpose was over. He lifted it with fingers that weren’t quite steady, then sank to the cot, holding it in both hands. Pondering the graceful feminine handwriting, as familiar as his own.

  Finally, he opened it.

  Dear Lucas,

  Carlton says that you murdered Paris, but I don’t believe it. I can’t. The young man I know loved my twins. You promised me you would protect them, and I’ve placed my trust in you. You would not betray me. The agony of Paris being gone would eat at you, too. In my heart of hearts, I am certain of that.

  You’ve had a difficult life, Lucas. There’s goodness in you; I can’t believe you intended it to happen. I’ve asked Martin to help you, to forgive you as I do. If something went wrong, it must have been an accident. I’ll believe that to my dying day.

  You came to me as a boy, half-wild and so hungry for love. Paris and Tansy loved you, Tansy most of all. She’s trapped in silence, Lucas. Half her heart is lost. After this is over and you’ve been cleared, I’m invoking the promise you made me. Protect her, Lucas. Help her heal. When I am gone, she will need you even more.