by Anne Stuart
"Why, to warn you to stay away from my husband, of course," she replied sweetly. "I've seen the way you look at him, the way you primp in front of mirrors when you know he's going to be around. Oh, yes," she recognized the look of annoyance on my face. "Mrs. Carpenter told me about that. She thought you were interested in Peter Riordan, but I knew better. It's my husband you want, isn't it?" There was no change in her lazy, curious tone.
"No, it's not," I said flatly. "Your husband is a married man and I'm a woman with strong morals. And even if he weren't married I wouldn't be interested." God, what a liar I was becoming. "I don't see what it matters to you, Maeve. I've gathered from our family that you haven't been the image of a faithful wife."
She smiled at me, a sweet beguiling smile devoid of feeling. "The Gallagers do love to gossip, don't they? Con and I have a very civilized arrangement. He goes his way, I go mine. As long as we keep our various affaires de coeur relatively discreet, things go along quite smoothly. But I won't, Mary Gallager, have him trifling with my raw-boned cousin. If it weren't so insulting it would be amusing."
I chose my words carefully, masking the heady combination of hope, disgust, and fear that swept over me. "I can't imagine," I said slowly, "why you think your husband is enamored of me. For heaven's sake, Maeve, he's done no more than be polite. If he were looking for a . . . a mistress I'm sure he'd find someone a lot prettier and more of his station.
"Maeve," I said gently, "haven't you looked in a mirror recently? How could any man look twice at me with you around?"
"You'd like me to believe that, wouldn't you?" She rose, and her nightdress trailed on the floor around her. "I don't mind his meaningless flirtations, his short-term mistresses. He's always picked women of the world. Until you, Cousin. I've never been very fond of you. And I certainly don't care to be shamed in the eyes of my neighbors that my husband preferred a clumsy creature like you. If I find there's any basis for my suspicions I'll see that you leave, either by choice or by force." There was a note of steel behind her fragile voice, and I didn't doubt her for one moment.
The door to my room sprang open, and there stood Daniel, his dark blue eyes shining with excitement. "Merry Christmas, Mary," he burbled. "I've been awake for hours. You . . ." his voice trailed off as he spied his mother, and a look of dismay crept over his expressive face, the blank unhappy look shuttering down.
"Well?" she said coolly. "Don't you have anything to say to me, Daniel? Or has my cousin tried to steal you away from me too?"
"Maevel" I said in a warning undertone. At the same time her only child moved reluctantly forward and planted a chaste kiss on her proffered cheek.
"Hello, Mama. We weren't expecting you back so soon."
"Apparently not. Go back to your room, Daniel. We'll all have Christmas breakfast in another hour, and then you may see all the presents I brought back for you. You'd like that, wouldn't you?"
His lack of enthusiasm should have been evident even to the most disinterested of observers. His mother, however, had more important things on her mind, and at Daniel's nod she turned her back on him, dismissing him from her suspicious thoughts. "Remember what I said, Mary." And, taking one of her son's thin wrists in her hand, she swept from my attic bedroom.
I took a long time in my dressing that morning, preoccupied with my conscience and, I must confess, my vanity. Despite the absurdity of Maeve's accusations, one nasty, worrying little core of truth nagged at me as I dressed in a warm dress of forest green wool, wrestled with me as I tried to tame my wild black curls, subdued me as I pinched my pale cheeks to put a bit of color into them. I did lust after her husband, most shamefully, and for that I should announce at breakfast that I must return to Cambridge. My green eyes stared at me solemnly from the mirror, and I knew that I wouldn't do it. Just another week, I temporized. To let Daniel get used to his parents' return.
"My, my, don't you look lovely?" Maeve greeted me innocently from her seat at the head of the table, for all the world as if we never had a confrontation in the early hours of the morning. My usual seat, I noticed with an unreasonable pang. "And who are you dressing up for, may I ask?"
I met her spiteful gaze calmly, seating myself as far away from her as possible. "It's Christmas, Maeve. And we're expecting visitors." She shrugged nonchalantly. "If you mean Peter you needn't have bothered. I told him we'd be otherwise engaged today. Though of course you'd know better than I would about Mr. Riordan's plans. Con, darling," she addressed her husband in plaintive tones as he appeared in the dining room door. "You're late. You missed my little cousin's lovely entrance. I'm sure it was planned for your approval—you know what an effect you have on women." She smiled up at him with deceptive sweetness, and I could feel a rush of color flood my face. I pulled my gaze away from Con's distant expression and concentrated on my cup of coffee.
"Maeve, couldn't you spare us? Just for this one day, couldn't you control your sick fancies long enough for us to enjoy Christmas?" His lovely voice was very tired, and I could feel my treacherous heart rush out to him. Deliberately I pulled it back. "Where's Daniel?"
"Here, Papa." My charge appeared from the kitchen, and never in my life had I seen such a change in anyone. I had expected him to receive his father with the same reserve with which he had greeted his mother. I was totally unprepared to see him launch himself across the room into his father's waiting arms.
Maeve and I were forgotten or ignored in the eager conversation that followed. Every country, every village they had visited in Europe was subjected to a myriad of questions that showed a heretofore undemonstrated interest in geography: The details of life at Demonwood underwent the same exhaustive treatment, all the while Maeve picked at her food, a disconsolate droop to her pink mouth.
When she could stand it no longer, she rose, deliberately knocking over her half-finished cup of coffee. "Why don't we finish this fascinating conversation in the library?" she said brightly. "I would think a normal boy might be interested in the presents we brought home for him, at great expense and trouble."
Reluctantly he drew his attention away from his father. "Of course, Mama. It's just that it's been so long since I saw Papa. . . ."
"It's been five months longer since you last saw me," she snapped, her smile vanishing. "Come along." She started toward the door, then turned to me, as if suddenly remembering a victim. "Oh, Mary, you needn't rush your meal. We won't be needing you this morning. This will just be a family time, with the three of us." An expression of triumph curled her lips as I sat there, embarrassed and unhappy. I could feel Connell's eyes on me, an unreadable expression in them, and hurriedly I lowered my own gaze to my plate.
"Maeve," I heard him begin in his cold, angry voice, but her lilting tones broke through.
"It's Christmas, darling. I thought you wanted us to have a pleasant time today."
I stole a glance upward, to see the look of cold dislike he shot at her. "You're incapable of it, my dear."
"But for your precious Daniel's sake I must try, mustn't I?" she inquired sweetly.
I could feel the violence in the room, the barely restrained fury within the tall, lean man staring down at his faithless wife, and I wondered what she had done to merit such raw, fresh hatred. If, as Maeve insisted, things had been as civilly distant for so many long years, then I couldn't imagine how the dislike emanating from Connell could have been kept at such a fever pitch. Unless something new had come to disturb the already troubled waters of the Fitzgerald household.
My appetite vanished, I threw down my damask napkin and stood up. "Have a pleasant morning."
Con turned to me, an almost longing expression in his dark face. "We would be honored to have you join us this morning, wouldn't we?"
"No," snapped Maeve. "We'll . , ."
At the same time I spoke. "I'd prefer to be alone, thank you. If no one objects I thought I might go for a ride."
"The snow's too deep," he said, and I was aware of that strange intensity suddenly being directed at me. It was a mesmerizin
g feeling, and I steeled myself against it. Maeve seemed to know all too well how her husband affected me; it would never do for the man himself to recognize it.
"I'll manage," I responded coolly. "I'll see you all later." He watched me from those dark, hypnotic eyes for a moment, then shrugged, dismissing me. They left, and I stared after them with a feeling curiously akin to bereavement.
There was a biting wind whipping around the house, through the stunted bushes that were Carpenter's idea of formal landscaping. I pulled my cape closer around me as I scuffed through the freshly fallen snow.
Moon Maiden, my favorite mount, greeted me with a friendly whirrup as I entered the stable. Robinson looked up from his seat by the stall, a sullen look on his smugly handsome face.
I barely controlled a start of unpleasant surprise. I had assumed the stables would be deserted—assumed he'd have the holiday off with the rest of the servants. But for some reason, like Mrs. Carpenter, he'd chosen to stay and welcome the returning travelers. "What do you want?" he demanded in a sulky tone of voice, not bothering to rise.
The barely restrained insolence was even worse than his usual leering innuendos, and I controlled my anger with a noble effort. "Could you possibly saddle Moon Maiden for me?" I requested in my sweetest voice. "I thought I might go for a ride this morning."
"Well, you can think again. You ain't going nowhere, at least not on Moon Maiden, you ain't. She's the Madame's horse, and she'd skin me alive if I let anyone else ride her."
"Then why did you allow me to ride her before?" I asked, disappointment stinging me.
"Madame weren't here," he said faintly, and spat in the straw behind him. "Now if you were wanting I should saddle Lucifer for you. . . ."
"I'm not a good enough rider for a brute like Lucifer, and well you know it."
He rose, and swaggered across the brick floor to stand uncomfortably close to me, emanating an odor of sweat, horses, and some sickly sweet cologne, a Christmas present from a female admirer, no doubt. "I think you could handle anything or anybody you put your mind to, Miss Gallager." He smirked a loose- lipped smirk and leaned closer. "If I didn't have other irons in the fire I might be interested in taking you on. There's something underneath that prim and proper exterior. And Perley Robinson's the boy to bring it out. You'd be a right nice handful." He eyed my unfortunately lush curves with an appreciative eye.
"Oh, really?" I questioned icily, my rage bubbling to the surface. "Well, then, I suppose it's just too bad for me that you're . . . preoccupied." I turned on my heel to leave, but one grubby hand reached out and grabbed my arm, pulling my unwilling body closer until it rested against him.
"You oughtn't to be so high-and-mighty," he muttered roughly. He turned his head and spat again, then turned back to me. "There's others around here who ain't so particular." I squirmed helplessly against his grasp, disgusted and outraged. "Yessir, when it comes to certain things the mistress ain't so particular, and you don't have to be neither. I could . . ." I shut my ears to the coarse, nasty, vivid things he was suggesting, trying to shut my mind off too. I ceased struggling— it was only increasing his sense of power over me. ". . . and you'd like that, wouldn't you? I never met a woman who didn't."
"Perley!" Carpenter appeared at the door, looking like a small, gnarled, avenging angel. "Haven't you got anything but bones in that pretty head of yours? Let her go, for God's sake!"
Reluctantly his grip loosened, and with an upsurge of energy I yanked myself free. "What business is it of yours?" he said sullenly.
"If anyone up at the house got wind of the fact that you've been interfering with the teacher you'd be in more trouble than you could shake a stick at. The Madame would have you turned off without notice, boy. She likes to keep her men to herself."
The thought of Maeve and this loathsome young stallion sickened me even more, and I turned and ran out of the stable. But not before I could hear the rest of Carpenter's warning.
"It doesn't matter to me what you do with the girl. But there's such a thing as time and place, my boy. Mr. Fitzgerald would just about break your neck if you touched her. Take my word for it."
I sped through the snow, paying no heed to what direction I was headed. Branches whipped at my face, pulling my hair free from the useless pins. I stumbled and fell once more, then rose and ran again, into the dark glowering confines of the woods, of Demonwood with its ancient maples, its young and threatening pines, anywhere away from that house of pain and sorrow, of evil desires that controlled all of us. Until by their own volition my feet began to slow, and I was moving through those woods at a slow, steady pace, trying to control the frightened, angry pounding of my heart.
It was a direction we had never wandered in, Peter or Daniel or I. The path I was following was wide and well-packed, only the most recent layer of snow was untouched. My curiosity aroused, I was no longer nervous of the haunted wood. Indeed, with the sun shining down through the trees, silvering the snow around me, I felt more at peace than I had in quite a while. There was no aura of violent death around here.
The path widened, turned a corner and joined with a narrow, well-kept road. My feet were wet and chilled through my moroccan leather boots, my cape and dress were snow-covered. If I were wise I would turn back, control my curiosity.
But the curiosity of a Gallager is a powerful thing, one that I couldn't resist on such a fine Christmas day. It would be my Christmas present to myself, a fine bit of indulgence after a thoroughly unpleasant, hateful morning. I would satisfy myself as to what lay at the end of this road, and if it turned out to be something horrid then it was no one's fault but my own.
I don't know what I expected. Not the sight that met my eyes some half a mile onward. Nothing exotic, threatening, or even terribly exciting. Just a rambling old farmhouse nestled among the trees.
No smoke came from the chimneys, curtains were pulled across all the windows, and snow lay heavy on the ground around it. But the place was as neat and trim as love and money could make it, the roof had been freshly shoveled, and a cleared pathway led straight to the front door.
Not being blessed with an active conscience that morning, I made my way up the front porch and peered in the window. A small chink in the curtains allowed me to see into a large, welcoming living room. The furniture consisted of looming shapes covered with holland covers, with a sad and deserted look to them. I moved to the door, hoping against hope that the caretaker of this place (and it was obviously well- tended) had forgotten to lock up.
The door opened without the slightest difficulty, and I hesitated on the porch for a moment. It was too easy—if I had any sense I would turn right around and head back to Demonwood.
At that moment a sharp wind blew, chilling me to my very bones. Without further hesitation I stepped inside the shelter of the house and shut the door behind me.
Chapter Eleven
My first order of business, after I had ascertained that the house was truly deserted, was to start a huge, roaring fire in the living room fireplace. Kindling and nice, dry maple was stacked beside it, with sulphur matches hung in a tin box on the freshly painted wall nearby. Once a goodly blaze had begun crackling, I took off my snow-covered shoes and began to explore the neat, enticing little house.
Faith, it was a lovely house indeed! Everything that Demonwood should have been, but missed by a yard. The floors were silky polished hardwood, the walls hung with delicately patterned paper, not the gaudy pinks and golds or the lugubrious browns of the Fitzgeralds' house. The furniture was old, beautifully crafted and infinitely useful. No delicate French settees for this house, thank you. Rag rugs covered the floor at various intervals, and the multipaned windows looked out over the countryside from their comfortable nest.
There were books all over the house—I couldn't remember if I had ever seen so many books. Books in the library, books in the living room, books in each bedroom, and even books in the kitchen. And then I realized that was part of the problem with Demon- wood. Except for C
onnell's study (and my room, of course) there wasn't a single book in the entire house.
I wandered around the slowly warming room, staring at the leather and gold bindings, taking down an interesting volume now and then, whenever one happened to catch my eye. Whoever lived in this place had loved learning, and I found myself wishing that the owners were still around. They could have provided me with friendship when the Fitzgeralds began their hateful scenes.
I should have known, of course. And indeed, it was with a curious sense of destiny that I pulled down the worn copy of Keats and read the name written boldly on the flyleaf. Connell Patrick Carradine Fitzgerald.
And whose house would it be, I asked myself sternly, located a hand's reach from the stately halls of Demon- wood. Where do you think the Fitzgeralds lived before they built that hideously new mausoleum? I went back up the twisted stairs to the front bedroom and looked once more on the paintings of the two children, so alike and yet so different. The boy looked very much like a livelier version of my quiet Daniel. Connell as a boy had had dark curls, the same glowing blue eyes as his son and a look of laughing devilment about him. Something had wiped that laughter from him, and I wondered if it had been Maeve or Kathleen. Or both.
Lillian sat beside him in the portrait, her soft brown eyes turned toward her younger brother with worshipful adoration, a plain little dab of a thing even then. And then I chided myself for my uncharitable thoughts. Lillian was my friend—it wasn't for me to judge her appearance.
I stayed in the deserted farmhouse until the fire died down, curled up in one of the covered chairs with the Keats for company. Very carefully I scattered the remaining coals on the hearth, straightened the dust covers and redrew the curtains. I hoped no one would realize anyone had been inside. I intended to come back here whenever I got the chance, and I had the strong feeling that they would try to stop me. But I wasn't going to give up the first haven of peace I'd known since I arrived in Lyman's Gore.
