Demonwood

by Anne Stuart

  She giggled again, having had more than a drop of the good Irish herself. "Oh, which convent they should pack you off to, I imagine," she chirruped. "A little repentance for your bad temper would do you some good."

  "Are you serious?" I demanded, appalled. Not that I didn't love the good sisters, but a lovesick nun was not exactly orthodox. And suddenly a longing to see Con swept over me—a longing so strong I wanted to scream with pain and wanting.

  "No, of course not, darling. They're going to marry you off to the first taker. They've been interviewing applicants."

  "Over my dead body!" I snapped, and another roar of laughter burst forth from the parlor. I stamped my foot in fury. "Damn them!" I snarled. "How dare they think they can dispose of me that way?"

  "I don't think they intend to consult you in the matter," Pauline giggled, then sobered abruptly as she saw the tears of rage and unhappiness starting in my eyes once more. "Oh, now, Mary, don't cry. It's going to be all right, truly it is. Trust me."

  "I don't trust anyone," I said with weary bitterness, and at that moment the parlor door opened and Connell Fitzgerald himself walked through.

  "I think I'll be making myself scarce," Pauline giggled, and disappeared past his forbidding figure. Neither of us noticed.

  "What are you doing here?" I demanded in a rough voice after a moment.

  His face was unreadable in the afternoon sunlight. "I came to see how you are," he said stiffly, ill at ease for once.

  "As you can see I'm fine," I replied shortly. "You needn't bother your conscience about me."

  "It's not my conscience that's been troubling me." He smiled wryly, and my treacherous heart turned over. Firmly, I fought my weakness.

  "How's Daniel?" I asked after a moment.

  "He's fine. He'd like to see you."

  "Would he?" I was furious to find that my voice shook, and I averted my eyes from his dear, distant face. "He's welcome to come visit anytime."

  "We . . . we thought you might care to visit us. You always liked the farmhouse," he offered this diffidently, as if my response made no difference to him. As perhaps it didn't. And then he offered the coup de grace.

  "I was also wondering if you might consider marrying me."

  "Are you mad?" I breathed, numb with rage at the depth of his mockery of me. "What have they been saying to you?" If my secret had slipped out unbeknownst to me I would die of mortification, I surely would.

  "What is there that they could have said?" he countered, and I remained mute, staring angrily out the window, anywhere but at his aloof face that would capture me if I let it.

  He stared at me then, the man who was so sure and powerful and rich, and he seemed strangely uncertain, endearingly so. "It's not as though I'm a terribly good bargain," he continued, almost as if he hadn't heard me. "I've lost two wives and I didn't treat either one of them terribly well. For what little excuse it offers, I never loved either of them."

  "You didn't love Kathleen?" I demanded, a small spurt of hope springing within me.

  "It was a family arrangement. We were good friends, but she was very shy and quiet and retiring. I need an amazon like you." He smiled again tentatively, and I could feel myself weakening. "I'm very rich," he added. "You could always marry me for my money."

  "Just because you bought one Gallager doesn't mean we're all for sale," I said coldly, moving away from him to stand looking out over the streets of Cambridge. I stared down with unseeing eyes, begging him to convince me.

  "Your price is above rubies," he quoted softly. "There's no way I can apologize for what I tried to do to you so I won't even bother. I'm trying to make amends . . ."

  That tore it right there. I turned to him with tears of rage in my eyes. "So you decided to come and make an honest woman of me, did you? It's the gentlemanly thing to do, isn't it? But you forget, you stopped in time. I'm still pure—your conscience needn't trouble you."

  He swore then, a short expletive that was forbidden even in our man's household. We were so far apart, at different ends of the room, and I could feel any chance I had of happiness slipping away because of my bitter tongue. I knew of no way I could cross the long distance. My pride and my hurt were still too strong.

  Perhaps he realized that, perhaps not. "I can see I'm wasting my time," he said shortly. "Forgive me for bothering you." And he turned to go.

  "ConI" He turned back, a look of absolute . . . desolation on his face, and an astounding thought came to my wretched mind. "Are you in love with me, Connell Fitzgerald?" I heard myself ask him softly, paraphrasing his words to me. I couldn't even begin to believe in the possibility of it being true.

  "I would think it rather obvious," he said wryly.

  "But it isn't obvious at all," I replied from the opposite end of the kitchen, holding my breath. "If you care about me . . ."

  "Mary Margaret Gallager, you idiotic female, I've been in love with you since shortly after we met! Why the hell do you think I came all this way to listen to your foolish blathering?"

  And at such loverlike words I crossed the room to him in two quick leaps.