by Anne Stuart
"You're seven years older than I am, Maeve," I said brutally, not lulled by her gentle beginning. "You just turned thirty."
"You little bitch," she hissed, her false affability vanishing. "Don't you dare mention that to anyone or I'll. . . I'll . . ."
"You'll what?" I called her bluff.
She smiled again, her pink lips curling into a smug little grimace. "That's exactly what I was going to talk with you about, Mary dear. It's not that I so much need your help . . . I demand it. And a few other things besides."
I huddled deeper into the quilt, suddenly very unhappy. "Such as?"
She leaned forward from her perch on the arm of the chair opposite me. "You think I wouldn't hear about your little party while I was gone? You must be an even bigger fool than I thought you were." She smoothed her skirts over her slender thighs. "I've warned you before. You are to leave my husband strictly alone, Mary Gallager. I know you stare up at him with those innocent green eyes, all sweetness and light. You're very wise to know that appeals to him. But I won't have it, do you hear? I won't have him trifling with my plain little virgin cousin while he ignores me!" There was a bewildered expression on her face, as though she couldn't comprehend how any man could resist her fabled beauty. All her life it had brought her everything she wanted . . . the idea of it failing her now was more than she could comprehend.
"Maeve, your husband doesn't even like me," I said vainly, and she laughed, a high, lilting laugh that set my teeth on edge.
"If you believe that then you're an even bigger fool than I thought you were. He's bewitched by you and your sweet little ways. But I won't have it, do you understand? I won't have you trying to take my place, queening it over his boring friends."
"Of course not, Maeve," I said soothingly.
A sly look came over the chiseled features. "Have you been bothered by nocturnal occurrences since you've been in this room, Mary darlin'?"
I was suddenly alert. "What do you mean?"
"Why, the ghost of poor stupid Kathleen, of course. Clanking her chains and moaning and sobbing behind the walls."
"How did you know?" I breathed.
"You silly, stupid fool!" she said dispassionately. "One would think you were just off the boat, to be taken in with all that idiocy. I had Mrs. Carpenter arrange that for you. I wanted you to leave Demonwood. You're a lot tougher than you look, though. You stayed."
"Indeed I did. Why should it be so important that I leave here?" I demanded.
She rose then, and glided across the polished floor to the ornate paneling beside my massive bed. With a deft movement of her beringed hand, the panel swung out into the room, leaving a gaping hole in its place.
"A secret passageway," Maeve said triumphantly. "It leads to an unused portion of the attics—the ceilings are too low to store much. At the end is a back stairway I had put in while Con was on one of his interminable business trips. It leads down to the stables and is really quite useful. I couldn't afford to give up such a convenient exit."
"Really?" I questioned coldly. "I suppose there's no need for me to ask why."
"No need at all. I either visit Robinson or take Moon Maiden and ride over to Stonewalls. We have beautiful nights this' time of year." She smiled innocently.
"Peter told me he was finished with you," I protested weakly.
"And you believed him? You're even more gullible than I thought. Such innocence!" she mocked, leaning forward, and I caught a trace of her spicy scent wafting over me.
"Why do you do it?" I found myself asking, fascinated despite myself.
"I don't like to sleep alone," she said simply, as if that made all the sense in the world.
"Have you told Connell that?"
"Oh, is it Connell now? Before you were calling him Mr. Fitzgerald this and Mr. Fitzgerald that," she sneered. "Con and I have an agreement. When it pleases the two of us we share a bed. Otherwise we find our amusements elsewhere. Discreetly, of course." Her violet eyes narrowed. "But he's been less than discreet with you, my dear Mary. And you needn't think I'll give him up to your tender mercies. I intend to stick with this marriage until I tire of Con, not the other way around. I've yet to find someone with enough money to keep me in the style to which I've become accustomed."
"Then why don't you leave Peter alone?" I demanded hotly, knowing full well my protective rage would only fan her determination to destroy him. "He's hardly wealthy enough for you—surely you could find someone in Europe who'd fit your specifications."
"You'd like that, wouldn't you? You'd like me to go off and leave Con and Peter to you. As a matter of fact, I nearly did, and my dear sister-in-law was most helpful in that regard. She'd like nothing better than to be given a free hand with her precious Connell and Daniel." She made a moue of distaste. "But I had misjudged the gentleman's sincerity. So I returned home to the bosom of my loving family. Where everyone so obviously adores me." She shut the secret door with a snap, and I shivered at the thought of my vulnerable state during the months I had been here.
"What I expect of you, Mary," she continued, suddenly brisk, "is to let me in and out through your room at night, without a word to anyone, of course, and to bear me company when I feel like taking a leisurely afternoon visit. Now that Lillian's returning I have to be doubly careful, and you'll provide just the protection I need."
I stared at her, amazed at her self-assurance. "I thought Lillian approved of your flagrant adultery."
She chuckled, a deep throaty noise that was infinitely appealing, and tossed her honey-blond hair back over one white shoulder. "Oh, she does. But she knows that if Con ever found out she'd lied to him he would never forgive her. He might even . . ." She shuddered suddenly. "You're lucky I'm warning you away from him. Con's a very dangerous man."
"I don't believe you," I said flatly.
"You'd like to think I was lying, wouldn't you? You'd rather not believe me when I tell you that I know for certain that he murdered Kathleen, and that he'd murder me if he caught me with a man."
"You're right, I don't believe you."
"Believe what you like. Con knew I was having an affair with Peter, the very man who . . ." she stopped abruptly, shuddering, and despite myself I could recognize her fear as real.
"I think you overestimate his feelings for you," I said matter-of-factly, hoping it was true. "But even if you're right, why do you take chances? Why do you continually give him cause to be jealous if you're convinced he's a cold-blooded killer?"
"But that's half the charm," she replied sweetly. "I know you could never understand that—perhaps you're lucky." She stared off into the shadows for a moment, her angelically beautiful face lost in thought. "Anyway, that's neither here nor there. I'm counting on you to supply a cover for me while I'm off on my various . . . visits. You'll do that, won't you?"
I pulled the quilt around me resolutely. "Absolutely not! You must be mad to think I'd be any party to your filthy habits."
"Oh, I'm not mad, not mad at all. If you don't do what I ask you," she ran her pink tongue over her avid lips, "I will send you away and begin to concentrate all my spare energies on little Daniel. It's amazing to think of the things a person could do to a frightened, overly sensitive nine year old. Perhaps you ought to check on him tonight before you give me a definite answer."
A sudden cold fear clutched my heart. "What have you done with him?" I demanded in a whisper.
"Why don't you go and see?" she smiled seraphically, stretching her lean, sensuous body out on the huge bed.
Throwing off the quilt, I grabbed my nightrobe from the back of my chair, ignoring Maeve's curious stares at my white, nude body. I ran from the room and her mocking eyes on icy, bare feet down the stairs and corridors of the darkened house to Daniel's bedroom door. At first all was silent, and my hand hesitated on the brass doorknob. Until I heard the muffled sobs.
As quietly as possible I opened the door, slipping inside on silent feet. Daniel's bedroom was far removed from all the other members of the fami
ly, so that my stealth should have been unnecessary. Some trace of feminine instinct must have prompted it.
He was lying face down in the bed, his thin shoulders shaking with barely suppressed sobs.
"Daniel?" I whispered softly, and was aghast to see him cower away from me in mindless terror.
"Daniel, it's only me, Mary," I said gently, placing a hand on his cringing shoulder.
He let out a muffled shriek of pain at my touch, then subsided into soft whimpers.
"Oh, Daniel, my poor angel," I murmured brokenly. "What did she do to you?" I squeezed his hand reassuringly and slowly, gradually his sobbing lessened and then finally stopped. He raised his tear-drenched face to mine, and managed a semblance of a smile.
"It's all right, Mary. It's not so bad this time, really it's not."
"Your father has to be told," I exclaimed angrily, feeling sick inside.
"No!" he cried. "Please Mary, don't! You don't understand. If . . . if he ever found out he might . . . might hurt her."
"She deserves it," I said shortly, hesitating anyway. "She can't be allowed to do this to you."
He half rose, his pale young face contorting with pain. "I'd rather have her beat me," he said with a pitiful maturity, "than have my father hang for murder. And he'd kill her if he found out, Mary, you know he would."
I sank back down by his bed hopelessly. "I wouldn't blame him," I said fiercely. "I'd like to kill her myself."
There was nothing I could do for his poor thin little back with its flayed and bruised skin. If she had done worse before it was a wonder no one had noticed. But poor Daniel had sworn himself to secrecy, and there was nothing I could say or do to betray him.
I mounted the stairs slowly, holding my murderous rage barely in check. Maeve was waiting for me, a half-smile playing about her pink lips, her lovely eyes bright with amoral humor. I could barely keep myself from flying at her and wiping that small, evil smile from her face.
"What did you use on him, Maeve?" I questioned hoarsely, closing the heavy oak door behind me. "What did you use on the poor, innocent babe to give him such bruises . . ."
She shrugged. "My riding crop, Mary dear. I'm afraid I can't help myself sometimes—I have a wicked temper." The lips drew back over her perfect teeth in a travesty of a smile. "I assume you didn't rush screaming to dear Connell?"
"He's back?" I questioned, torn between my fear for Daniel and the deadly outcome of any disclosures I might make.
"Of course he's back—he can't bear to be parted from you," she simpered. "But that's to end right now. I have infinite faith in your intelligence. If Con knew I was in the habit of beating his precious blue- eyed son I don't think I'd have long to live. But then, neither would Con."
"How can you do this?" I whispered in horror. "He's your son, Maeve! Your own flesh and blood!"
"I don't give a damn what he is! He means nothing to me, just nine months of discomfort when I thought Con adored me. Little did I know that was all he married me for. Right now he's the only thing his father cares for, and it gives me great satisfaction to do a little damage in that direction. If I can't hurt Con any other way I'll gladly hurt him through his son."
"If you touch him again I'll kill you myself," I said desperately.
"But, Mary, you don't have to," she replied limpidly. "All you have to do is help me slip out of the house every now and then. Just think of all the good you'll be doing, keeping Con's suspicious nature free from doubt, protecting your precious Daniel from his evil mother."
"Won't Con notice that you're absent from your bed at night?" I questioned desperately.
She laughed mirthlessly. "Con hasn't come near me in three months, my dear cousin. Not since he met you."
"What if I refuse?"
She leaned forward, a cold steely glint in her lavender eyes. "Then you'll precipitate a crisis that there's no escaping from. The next time I'll beat him where it will show, and there'll be no stopping Con. How many deaths would you like on your conscience?"
I stared into those beautiful, soulless eyes for a long time, and I was convinced. "Just yours," I snapped. "Just yours, Maeve."
"But you'll do as I say, won't you?"
I nodded. I had seen Con's temper—I couldn't doubt his fury would be murderous.
She leaned back, satisfied. "I thought you would. You're very wise. And I'd advise you not to mention this to anyone, not even to Lillian. Things have a habit of getting around, you know."
"Does Peter know?" I had to ask.
She smiled enigmatically. "Perhaps. You should have learned by now that Peter does what I tell him to. As does everyone else around here. Even Lillian."
"When is she returning?"
"Sometime toward the end of the week, Con said. You should be delighted. Someone to keep you company. You can sit around and talk about how terrible I am." She rose. "We'll try out our new arrangement tomorrow. I'm so glad you've decided to see things my way."
"All right," I agreed numbly, for what choice did I have? "But you swear you'll leave Daniel alone?"
"Absolutely. I won't even glance in his direction. And Mary . . ."
"Yes?"
"Don't forget the other part of our bargain. My husband is to be left strictly alone. You should be glad I'm warning you away from him. All you'd get would be another shanty Irish brat in your belly and Con would be on to new conquests. You should be more grateful . . ."
Something in me snapped. "Get out of here!" I hissed. "I've given you my word. I know honor means nothing to you, but you'll have to accept it this once."
"Oh, I believe you, Mary darling." She started for the door, in an excellent humor now that she had gotten her own way. "You have too much to lose not to obey my instructions to the letter. And don't think you can turn to Peter or anyone else for help. They wouldn't believe you."
"Maeve."
She turned, a beautifully shaped eyebrow lifting in delicate inquiry.
"I hope," I said slowly and carefully, "that someday, someone murders you as they did Kathleen, and that it's slow and painful and very frightening."
She smiled, her pink mouth curving upward smugly. "But then your true love would hang, my dear. Isn't that just what you're trying to avoid? So where would it get you?" And she shut the door softly behind her.
PART TWO
Chapter Thirteen
The next few days were absolutely hellish. True to her word, Maeve appeared at my bed sometime around midnight the next night, a smug, secret smile on her face as she slipped through the door to meet whichever lover enjoyed her favors that night. The thought of Peter's behavior sickened me, and I lay for long hours in that bed, expecting Con to burst through the door and denounce me. It was dawn before she returned, her tawny golden hair tumbling down her back, angry bruises on her slender, delicate arms, a dreamy look on her sated face.
"So you're still awake?" she noted as she shut the panel behind her. "Do you want to hear all about it?"
"Go away, Maeve," I said grimly, "or you'll be sorry you pushed me too far."
"Certainly, my cousin, certainly." She laughed again, and my taut nerves screamed. "I think you're jealous." And with that she left me to three more hours of fitful sleep.
My appearance at breakfast that morning was hardly scintillating—even Connell, who had studiously ignored me since his return to Demonwood, commented on my hag-ridden appearance. "Didn't you sleep last night, Mary? You look exhausted."
"I . . . I had a headache," I lied. "It kept me up most of the night."
Maeve, who to my surprise had made an early appearance at breakfast looking completely rested, smiled triumphantly, and I cursed myself for lying to him. "You poor thing," she murmured solicitously.
"I know what it's like to suffer from headaches. Why I'm an absolute martyr to them, aren't I, darling?"
Con stared at her across the table with a cold dislike, unmoved by her vibrant beauty. "I wouldn't know what ills of the flesh you suffer, Maeve. I'm sure you enjoy a great deal
of pain." There was a curiously pointed edge to his voice, and Maeve blushed a deep, unattractive color and subsided for the moment. And remembering the marks and bruises on her arms I was even more nauseated.
"Lillian's returning tomorrow on the afternoon train," Con announced abruptly. "I've decided that Mary should accompany me to meet her."
My heart leapt, then sank as I saw the malevolent expression on Maeve's face. "I fail to see why," she said coldly.
He stared at her for a moment, as if considering an answer to her carping voice. "Mary and Lillian are friends," he replied after a moment. "I thought it would be enjoyable for them both if Mary were to meet the train with me."
Maeve's eyes glittered evilly, and I remembered her son's tortured back with sick alarm. "I don't think I can go," I said hastily. "Daniel and I have fallen behind in his Latin—we should work on it for the next few afternoons."
"I didn't ask your opinion of the matter, Mary," Connell said coldly. "I happen to be your employer— you'll do what I tell you to do." He drained his cup of coffee. "Besides, Daniel's too young for Latin."
"No, I'm not, Father," his son said stoutly. "It's my favorite subject—all those wars and stuff."
"If it's your favorite subject, why have you fallen behind in your studies?" he inquired mildly enough, and both Daniel and I flushed a deep, beet red.
"I thought he needed extra work on his ciphering," I jumped in hastily after a moment. "And I thought his Latin would be all right if we neglected it. He's really very good, you know. He might have the makings of a classics scholar."
"And what would you know about such things?" Maeve mocked. "Oh, I had forgotten. You always were a bookworm when you were younger. I should give you a hint or two, Mary dear. You'll never find a husband if you are too clever. Men simply don't find intelligent women attractive. I, for instance, have no pretensions of intellectuality."
"True," I agreed cheerfully. "But then, not all men are like your husband." I rose and signaled for a reluctant Daniel to accompany me.
