Garnet nodded. “You’ve been very … helpful, Mr. Fairfax, and I thank you.”
He grinned. “As I said, my pleasure.” And his grin faded into a thin smirk as he met Deacon’s glare. He held it for a long moment, long enough to convey his contempt and a sense of sweet vengeance for what he considered Deacon’s betrayal. If Sinclair had just gone along with things the way he’d promised, it never would have had to have come to this. The planter’s vanity was at fault for his family’s circumstance, and not Tyler’s for simply doing good business. His grin broke wide again. “Good day to you all.”
With just the four of them in the parlor, an awkward tension settled beneath the civility. Hannah was the consummate hostess, but even her innate gentility couldn’t overcome the fact that she and her son were being pushed from their home. And she wasn’t such a fool as not to see something looming, dark and dangerous, in the history between her son and this woman.
“So,” Deacon drawled, with deceiving nonchalance, “Fairfax is having your things sent over. All ready to occupy enemy territory, then?”
“We wouldn’t want to put you out,” Prior vowed, with what seemed to be sincerity.
“I thought that was your intention … wasn’t it, Mrs. Prior?” When Garnet wouldn’t answer with more than an impenetrable stare, he concluded tightly, “Don’t concern yourself with our welfare.”
Prior cleared his throat uncomfortably. “I know this is rather bad form to be discussing such things, but Mr. Fairfax confided that you were without funds.”
“That’s none of Mr. Fairfax’s or your business, sir.”
“I would not wish to be accused of tossing a widow from her only shelter.”
Deacon smiled thinly. “Then you’ll return our property?”
“No.” Garnet’s flat statement was followed by a more benign intention. “What we had in mind was an offer of employment.”
Deacon went white with rage. “You want my mother to become your servant? You can go to hell, Mrs. Prior.”
He was surprised by the feel of his mother’s hand upon his sleeve.
“Deacon, mind your language. I would like to hear the offer.”
“Mother—”
She regarded him with a calm censure. “There is no shame to be found in honest work. And I would rather support myself than be a burden to my children.”
“But Mama—”
She turned from his dismayed look to smile at Garnet. “What is it that you have in mind, Mrs. Prior?”
“I would like you to stay on, Mrs. Sinclair, in your own rooms, of course, to act as our housekeeper. It’s a role you are well familiar with, and it would not be taxing … except to your son’s pride, perhaps.” She slid Deacon a cool glance, observing the way his lean features sharpened with compressed fury.
Hannah thought for a moment, then nodded. “I think I should find that satisfactory. I’ve no desire to leave this place, and I would take pleasure in teaching you its history.”
“Our history, Mother. Why would the Priors be interested in that?”
“Of course I’m interested,” Garnet corrected. “I’m interested in discovering everything I can about the things I’m involved with. Ignorance is one’s own worst enemy, I’ve learned.”
Though Deacon didn’t wince outwardly, inside he cringed at her flat summation. She’d had the best of teachers, hadn’t she?
“And you, Mr. Sinclair? Have you any plans?”
Deacon met Prior’s polite inquiry with a dismembering stare. “Do you mean to offer me a position in your household, as well? Blacking your shoes, snipping the ends off your cigars, putting a crease in your trousers?”
“Nothing so insulting as that, dear fellow.”
“It’s all insulting, sir. Your presence here, your smug charity, every bit of it.”
Prior drew back, nonplussed by the fierce verbal attack, but Garnet took it in stride, saying smoothly, “Don’t aristocrats work, Mr. Sinclair? Is it an insult to do whatever needs to be done in order to survive? I hadn’t thought your sensibilities would be so delicate.”
Deacon said nothing, so she continued.
“Believe me, Mr. Sinclair, I am well aware of your talents and would not waste them employing you as a valet. I’ve something else in mind, something that would involve you with the growth of your properties.”
“My former properties, you mean.” But he was listening now, very carefully.
Her gaze chilled. “Exactly.”
“So, Mrs. Prior, how exactly do I fit into your plans? I assume you have plans.”
“Oh yes, carefully laid plans. For the properties.”
And, obviously, for him.
“And they are?”
“I understand your acreage used to be put toward hemp production. Since the bottom has fallen from the cotton market, that is no longer a profitable endeavor. I—that is, we—plan to turn the majority of the acres over into planting rye. We’ve made an arrangement with Mr. Fairfax—”
“Fairfax?” He spat out the name. “Dealing with Fairfax is how I ended up with nothing but the shirt on my back. You’re a fool if you think you can do business with the likes of him.”
Her stare cut through him. “I’m not interested in hearing your advice, Mr. Sinclair. It hasn’t served you particularly well, after all.”
He clamped his jaw shut. Let her learn the hard way, then.
When it was clear he had no more to say, Garnet went on with her vision for Sinclair Manor. “The remaining acres we’ll share out, collecting off a portion of the crops.”
“So I’m to scratch in the dirt for a living while you live off my toil like a fat tick?”
“Charming illustration. But no. I daresay you would not make a tolerable farmer. We plan to set up a store in town where those who work our lands can obtain supplies and necessaries on credit against their harvests.”
“Another means to suck off them,” he murmured dryly. She ignored him.
“I—we should like you to run that store for us. I already know you have a talent for mathematics and have seen proof of your merciless business dealings. In return, you can earn a decent wage to apply toward repurchasing some of your acreage, if you choose, and you can continue to live here. I want to be in close communication with those who work under me.”
“So you are in charge?” He glanced over at Prior, who seemed more interested in the carved molding on the fireplace than in matters of finance.
“Yes, I am. What is your answer? Are you too proud to work for a woman?”
He wasn’t thinking about that at the moment. He was calculating rapidly. The offer was no longer an insult, but an opportunity. “I could buy back my lands.”
“An acre at a time, Mr. Sinclair. Have you that kind of patience?”
“I can wait forever for something that I want.”
She looked away quickly, as if hiding something in her expression. Before he could wonder what it was, a familiar sound came from the foyer: dog toenails scrabbling for traction on the polished hardwood floors.
Boone burst into the parlor, skidding halfway across the room on the first rug he came to. He’d grown from a gangly pup to half the size of a horse, and all of it muscle. He scrambled up, focusing on Deacon with a remembered ire. In two great leaps, he’d crossed the room, and with a single lunge, knocked Deacon to the floor. As he grabbed the massive head to hold the snapping jaws away from his face, he heard a small childish voice intrude.
“I’m sorry, Mama. I tried to keep him outside, but he gots loose.”
“Get back, Boone.” Garnet was hauling on the animal’s collar. “As you can see, Boone has fond memories of you, too, Mr. Sinclair.”
The moment he was freed from the dog’s weight, Deacon rolled to his feet in search of the child who’d called Garnet “Mama.” The boy stood just inside the door, shyly regarding him. A terrible pain twisted through Deacon’s insides, for here was evidence of Garnet’s relationship with the much older Brit. The fragile-looking boy
studied him through Garnet’s dark eyes beneath a shock of tawny hair inherited from Prior.
This was the child they’d made between them.
But in looking at the boy, Hannah Sinclair saw something totally different.
She saw the boy her son had once been.
She knew.
Garnet watched Hannah Sinclair’s features purse with confusion, then brighten with recognition.
But would she say something and spoil all Garnet’s plans?
“William, please take Boone back outside.” As the boy came to grab onto the leather collar with both hands, she admonished, “Go with William, you big ox.”
Boy dragging dog exited the room, leaving a new tension behind.
“William,” Hannah whispered. “Is that his name?”
“After my father.”
“How is your father?” Deacon asked, dreading the answer.
Garnet stared at him through emotionless eyes. “He died in a federal prison. Thank you for asking.”
If he took that information like a double-barreled blast to the gut, he absorbed the impact without flinching.
“How old is your son, Mrs. Prior?”
She met Hannah’s soft gaze without betraying her inner panic. “He’s four.” She watched the woman doing the math before sliding a look at her son to see if he’d done the same figuring.
But no questions crossed Deacon’s tight expression. His stare was deadened.
“A handsome boy.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Sinclair. We’re very proud of him.”
“There’s a room on the west side of the stairs just right for a child. Plenty of shelves where the sun won’t wake him. It was Deacon’s when he was a boy.”
Garnet forced a smile. “I’m sure it will do nicely.” Anxious to turn the topic elsewhere, she asked, “Mr. Sinclair, have you decided upon the job?”
He was silent for so long, she felt sure the answer would be no. Then he surprised her by saying tonelessly, “I’ll move my belongings back into my room.”
“Would that be the master suite?” At his nod, she supplied a taut smile. “I think it’s only fitting that that room belong to my husband and me, don’t you? I’m sure there are other suitable quarters.”
“Perhaps one of the old slave cabins would appeal to your sense of fairness.”
“Whatever you feel appropriate, Mr. Sinclair.” His sense of pride still moved her.
Everything about him still moved her.
Had she expected any different? If she had, she wouldn’t have gone through the elaborate lengths it had taken to reach this point in her plans for the future. She couldn’t afford to forget what a dangerous man Deacon Sinclair was, because of his former profession and because of the way he still acted upon her heart.
And because of the innocent life that hung in the balance between them.
Her heart had nearly stopped beating when she’d first seen Deacon again. Her every memory sharpened, her every sense cried out. And for a brief instant, when he’d met her gaze, she thought she’d seen a hungry longing clouding his gray-eyed stare. She’d almost given it all away right then and there … except for a little boy playing out in the yard. She had to put him before all else. He was the reason she’d come to find this man who’d deceived and betrayed her.
Was this the real Deacon, so cold, so distant and contained? Was this the same man who’d rocked her in his arms and made love to her so sweetly? The one who’d made her want to believe so desperately that all had not been a lie? She saw no evidence of that man here before her. True, he was shocked and angered by the way she’d come back into his life, but it was more than that.
If the man who’d come to her door five years ago was tough, this one was cut from stone. All emotions that would have softened the edges of his facade—qualities of understanding, forgiveness, regret, or even guilt—were absent. If she’d been drawn to the glimpses of tenderness he’d shown her, she’d no proof that those feelings existed any more. If they ever had at all.
Had it all been pretense? Could any man be so good at spinning lies? Or had she just been too young, too gullible, to know the difference?
That’s what she’d come to discover. And what she’d seen so far was more intimidating than encouraging.
How was she going to get to know the true man behind the granite bearing and impenetrable stare? Her future depended upon it—hers and William’s.
She could afford this man no mercy. She knew she was being heartless, and she hated herself for it. But she needed him to see that she wasn’t some simple country girl who could be manipulated by a kiss … at least, not anymore. What could he accuse her of that could be worse than what he’d laid upon her?
If he expected her to show any sympathy for what he suffered now, he was mistaken. The past few years had wrung the naïveté from her. The memory of her father wrung all charity from her. Her father, who had never intentionally harmed a soul. Her father who had died an agonizing death in a prison run by those to whom he’d remained unwaveringly loyal.
And Deacon Sinclair had put him there to suffer for what he hadn’t done, and to die for it.
But, oh, Deacon was nice to look at. And oh, how easy it would be to let go of the desires yet simmering beneath the surface. But one thing she’d been taught since he’d left her, other than what a terrible price trust could exact, was control—control of her actions, control of her thinking, control of her life. Seeing him, however, proved there was no controlling her heart.
If she couldn’t control it, she would have to contain it. Just as he contained whatever else moved behind the lean, hard lines of his expressionless face. He’d taught her a degree of toughness she’d never attained on her own. Heartbreak and disillusionment shored up her resolve. So she would be careful. She would betray nothing of her true intent. And she would learn what she’d come to Pride County to discover.
The kind of man Deacon Sinclair really was.
“Mama, whose child is that on the porch?”
They all turned as Patrice Sinclair Garrett lumbered into the room. Despite the chill outside, she was flushed becomingly and slightly breathless. And huge with child. Seeing the company, she drew up short in surprise, then embarrassment.
“Please, excuse me. I didn’t know you were entertaining.” Her hands went to her burgeoning middle as if she could hide her pregnancy behind the spread of her palms. She knew how sensitive her mother was to her displaying her “delicate” condition in public. An annoyance to Patrice who felt as healthy as one of her husband’s brood mares and just about as delicate.
“They’re not company, Patrice. They’re the new owners of the Manor.”
Her animation faded. She glanced to her brother, seeking some reason for the odd tension in his tone that went far beyond the sentiments he’d expressed thus far. But Deacon was closed down tight, his posture rigidly correct, his features shuttered. At his sides, his hands fisted, his knuckles shifting restlessly. Perplexed, she focused on the interlopers who were there to steal their home.
“Forgive me if I don’t say ‘Welcome’ under the circumstances.”
“Patrice,” Hannah scolded, mortified by her children’s sudden lapse of manners.
“So, you’re Patrice.” The dark-haired woman advanced with hand extended. Patrice took it gingerly as she studied the other through a critical eye.
What she saw was a voluptuously shaped creature with boldly sensual lips, snapping black eyes, and enviably flawless skin. And money. That was obvious from her Paris clothes. But money and lineage were two different things. One could possess money these days without any claim to pedigree. She guessed this was the case with the woman before her, not because of anything she didn’t do—she was elegant and genteel—but a little too eager to convey the bored sophistication of a true Southern aristocrat. Who was she, then? Northern carpetbagger trash? If that was so, why couldn’t her brother take his eyes off her? Deacon Sinclair wasn’t one to stare at a woman just because she dis
played more curves than the hourglass-shaped vase in their foyer.
“Should I know you?” Patrice asked, puzzled by the woman’s familiarity with her.
“No, of course not.” She pressed Patrice’s hand firmly, then smiled. “You’ve no reason ever to have heard of me. I’m Garnet Prior. My husband and I will be your new neighbors. The child outside is ours. His name is William. And when is yours due?”
Patrice raised a russet-colored brow at the directness of the question. She could imagine her mother’s gasp of horror. So she smiled. “In about a month.”
“And you’re up and about?” Her dark gaze said clearly, “Good for you,” and reluctantly, Patrice liked her for her unconventional stand. “Perhaps you should sit down and rest a moment.”
“I feel fine, just big. I’m not here for a visit. That will have to wait for another time.” Her mood cooled. “My husband and I have come to collect my mother and her belongings.”
“Then you might as well visit, because she’s staying here.”
While Patrice stood in confusion, Deacon explained the situation stoically.
“Mother and I will be remaining on in the generous employ of the Priors.”
Reeve Garrett strode in, coming to place supporting palms beneath his wife’s elbows. Having heard that last, he remarked, “A decent day’s work won’t harm you, Deacon … you arrogant bastard.” That last was added for his wife’s hearing alone. Her elbow jabbed back, making him suck air before continuing. “So all the trunks in the hall get toted back upstairs, then.”
“I can show you where they go,” Hannah offered, anxious to escape the room to gain some perspective on what she now suspected.
“Lead the way, Miz Hannah.” He touched a kiss to Patrice’s temple. “Are you all right, ‘Trice?”
“Quit asking. I’m fine. I’m not about to have this baby in the middle of my brother’s parlor.” Then her attention shifted to the invading couple. “Or should I say, the Priors’ parlor.”
Garnet betrayed nothing, an equal for Deacon in keeping an impassive front. “As long as you’re going up, perhaps you can show us where our rooms will be. I’d like to freshen up a bit.”
The Men of Pride County: The Pretender Page 9
