Robin paused to let her absorb that before he finished, "Your father didn't abandon you carelessly, but because he cared so much. I think he wanted to give you, with his death, the security he was unable to give you in life. He was wrong not to know that you would rather have had him for whatever months or years were left, but his action sprang from love."
Maxie's brown eyes came alive then. She buried her face in her hands and whispered, "I don't know why, but that makes all the difference in the world."
"You and your father were everything to each other," Robin said quietly. "No matter how insulting strangers were, no matter how much you were taunted for your Mohawk blood, you always knew that your father loved you. To believe that he had killed himself, with no word or thought for you, was like being told that your whole life had been built on a lie."
She raised her head and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. "How did you know that when I didn't?"
"By delving into the shadowy corners of my mind, you also opened yourself to me." He stepped over to her and covered her ears. "When a woman mourns, she cannot hear," he quoted. "Let these words remove the obstruction so you can hear again."
He laid his hands lightly over her eyes. "In your grief, you have lost the sun and fallen into darkness. I now restore the sunlight."
He knelt before her so that their eyes were at the same level, then crossed his hands on the center of her chest. Her heart beat steadily against his palms. "You have allowed your mind to dwell on your great grief. You must release it lest you, too, wither and die."
He took her hands in his. "In your sorrow your bed has become uncomfortable and you cannot sleep at night. Let me remove the discomfort from your resting place." He raised her hands and kissed first one, then the other. "More than anything else in his life, your father wanted you to be happy. For his sake, you must find your way out of the darkness."
She closed her eyes, tears running down her cheeks. "How did you remember all that, Robin?" she whispered.
"The words are graven on my heart, Kanawiosta."
Opening her eyes, she said, "My father and I never discussed his health. He hated being weak. To take his own life, knowing that I would benefit and he would be spared suffering—it is exactly the sort of thing he would do, but I was too selfishly wrapped up in my grief to see that for myself." She gave a damp-sounding laugh. "Leave it to Max to be inefficient about ending his life. Without me, he was hopelessly disorganized."
"The most important things are always the hardest to see." Profoundly glad that she could laugh again, Robin released her hands and got to his feet, then leaned against the desk. Now that she had passed the crisis, he was acutely aware of her nearness, and her utter, unselfconscious desirability. Looking for distraction, his gaze fell on the burning tobacco. "Is there a special meaning to this?"
"Tobacco is sacred to my mother's people. It's burned to carry prayers and wishes to the spirits."
As Robin had said before, he believed in making sacrifices to the gods of fortune. He took a pinch of dried leaf and dropped it on the smoldering mound.
"What did you wish for?" she asked.
"If I tell you, will it prevent the wish from coming true?"
She smiled. "I don't think it makes a difference."
A moment ago, he had told himself that it was not the time to speak, but when he saw her irresistible smile he threw caution to the winds. "I was wishing you would marry me."
Her levity faded and she leaned back in the chair, tugging the coat around her. It had a faint, friendly scent of Robin. She had wanted the garment because in the future, when she was alone, it would remind her of what it was like to be in his arms. "That's a dangerous habit you have, offering marriage. If you aren't careful, I might accept."
"I would like nothing better," he said gravely.
She sighed and glanced down at her linked hands. While the question of her father's death was unresolved, she had been able to avoid this discussion, but she no longer had an excuse.
She raised her head and studied him. Robin was only an arm's length away physically, yet his blondness, casual confidence, and bone-deep aristocratic elegance represented a chasm too wide to bridge. "I think we are too different, Robin. I'm the child of a wastrel book peddler and a woman considered a savage by your countrymen. You are born of centuries of wealth, breeding, and privilege." She tried to speak evenly, as if her conclusion were easy and obvious. "The idea of marriage appeals to you now, but I think in time you would come to regret it."
"Would you have regrets?" he asked softly.
"Certainly I would if you did," she replied, knowing that her simple words contained the essence of the dilemma. Loving him, she would be unable to endure his regrets. No matter how carefully he hid them under politeness and charm, she would know.
"You're wrong, you know. The differences between us are superficial, but the similarities are profound," he said intensely. "We were both born outsiders, Maxie. In your case, it was because of your mixed blood, never wholly belonging with either your father's or your mother's people. I know something of what you endured because in spite of wealth, privilege, and endless noble ancestors, I was a natural misfit, no more at home in my world than you were in yours.
"Perhaps it would have been different if I'd had a mother, or if my father had been able to bear the sight of me." His expression became ironic. "But I probably would have been a misfit even if my mother had survived. Every generation or two the Andrevilles throw up a black sheep, and my keepers were convinced that I was one before I was out of leading strings. Something had only to be forbidden to attract me. Everything I did was wrong, proof of my natural wickedness. I questioned things that shouldn't be questioned, disobeyed orders I disagreed with, made up stories that were seen as malicious lies."
He held up his misshapen left hand. "The Latin word for left is sinister, which says a great deal about how left-handers are perceived. The tutor I had before I went away to school thought I used my left hand just to spite him. Sometimes he tied it behind my back so I must use the right, other times he beat my left palm with a brass ruler until it bled." He smiled without humor. "I was probably one of the few boys in England who thought that public school was an improvement over life at home."
For the first time, she fully understood the desolation of his childhood. No wonder he thought he wasn't very good at love. How had he survived with his humor and sanity and kindness intact? Her heart ached for him and Giles, two lonely boys who deserved so much better than what they had received. Thank God they had at least had each other.
Still... "Granted that both of us grew up feeling like outsiders," she said slowly. "Is that enough of a bond to hold us together? Are we defined by our weaknesses?"
"Not by our weaknesses, but by our trust." In his white shirtsleeves he looked lean and strong and overpoweringly attractive as he lounged against the desk, his hands curved around the edge. "We dare show our weaknesses only to those we hope will understand and accept us in spite of them. Even when I scarcely knew you, I found myself speaking of things I have told no one else, had barely even admitted to myself."
"That is part of what worries me, Robin," she said, matching honesty with honesty. "I wonder if you want to marry me because I was there when you were hurting. Have you come to think I am special because you needed to talk and I listened? Would any woman have done as well?"
"Do you think so little of my judgment?" He smiled with a sweetness and intimacy that melted her heart. "No other woman could ever be the same. With you, I am whole."
Seeing that she still hesitated, he said softly, "You taught me many things, but most of all, about love." He took a deep breath. "And I do love you, Kanawiosta."
Maxie sucked in her breath as she heard the words she had never thought to hear. "You said you were not very good at love."
"I didn't think I was, but between you and Giles, I've recently received an intensive education in the subject," he said wryly. "I believed that I loved M
aggie as much as I was capable of, and that she left me because it wasn't enough, because there was some vital deficiency in me. Now I know it was not that I was incapable of loving more, but that I had not met the woman I could truly fall in love with. Maggie tried to explain that to me once, but it was beyond my understanding."
He was silent as he searched for words. "With Maggie, there were always emotional limits. With you, Kanawiosta, there are none." His knuckles whitened as he gripped the edge of the desk. "The morning we left Ruxton, you implied rather strongly that you loved me. Was that wishful thinking on my part?"
His words were a shining joy that filled her like the sun's radiance. "Lord, Robin, of course I love you," she whispered. "All my talk of our differences, my doubts about England—they were only smoke. My true fear was that I cared too much to be your wife if you didn't love me."
His coat fell from her shoulders as she stood and opened her arms. Robin walked straight into them.
From the beginning, their bodies had known that it was utterly right to be together. This time there was no doubt, only fierce, compelling desire.
They were lying on the Persian carpet, most of their clothing off, when Robin pulled back. "Damnation, I'm doing it again." He rested his forehead on her bare breast, his chest heaving. "I have trouble remembering that you don't want to make love in this house. I'm sorry." He smiled ruefully. "A pity it's too cold and wet for the garden tonight."
He was starting to move away when she slid her arms around his neck. "No need to go all noble, Robin. Now that I know that you love me, being here doesn't bother me at all."
His face became vivid with laughter. "I'm very very glad to hear that."
He bent to her breasts again. She arched against him in wordless response to his mouth and hands and intoxicating nearness. Even more than fire, there was tenderness and understanding and mirth, all woven together into an emotion far greater than the sum of its parts.
This time passion was not a gift of solace, but a sharing of their innermost selves. She felt as if she were soaring through the tangled skeins of his spirit. Though the dark strands were still there, they no longer shivered with anguish, while the bright, sun-spun threads of his being flowed around her with joy and laughter. Together, they were whole.
Afterward she lay trembling on top of him, her hair spilling over his chest and face. Tenderly he smoothed it back so that he could see her face. "Really, love, we're going to have to get back into the habit of doing this in a bed. Stone altars and library floors definitely have their place now and then, but they aren't especially comfortable."
She stretched her body along his, loving his lean strength. "It's very comfortable where I am."
He smiled. "You do make a superlative blanket."
She crossed her arms on his chest and rested her chin on them. "Feeling like a hopeless outsider is wretched when one is growing up," she said thoughtfully, "but from what I can see, many interesting people start out that way."
"I've noticed that." He stroked her naked back lovingly. "I've also found that one needn't stay a misfit forever."
She grinned. "The two of us fit together perfectly."
After a spell of peaceful silence, Robin murmured, "You're sure it didn't bother you to make love here?"
"Quite sure," she said lazily.
He linked his arms around her and rolled swiftly over so that he was above. Her raven hair wove ebony patterns across the burgundy richness of the Persian rug, framing her exotically beautiful face.
"In that case, my love," he said softly, "let's do it again."
Epilogue
It was a perfect day for a wedding, and the gardens at Ruxton were ideal for the ceremony and the wedding breakfast. The guest list was small, and many had been at Maxie's first London dinner party. The people she had met that night were becoming the closest friends she'd ever had.
Giles and Desdemona had stood up with the bride and groom. In a fortnight, Maxie and Robin would return the favor when the older couple became man and wife.
After the serious eating was done and the toasts had been drunk, Robin bent to her and said quietly, "Shall we take a walk? Our guests can manage without us for a few minutes."
"I'd like that."
Hand in hand, they strolled through the gardens, which were magnificent with early summer scents and blooms. In a few short weeks, Ruxton had become the home of her heart.
As they wandered into the woods, Robin said, "Did I mention how much I like your gown? I've never seen anything like it, but it suits you perfectly."
She glanced down at the exquisitely beaded and fringed dress with pleasure. It had been a wedding gift from Margot. "It's a loose interpretation of a Mohawk wedding costume. I sketched out the design and Margot found a dressmaker who was willing to make it even though she didn't have any dyed porcupine quills."
Sunlight shafted through the leaves and small birds fluttered on all sides, filling the air with music. She nodded toward them. "Look at all the songbirds around us, Robin. It's as if they've come to help us celebrate."
He grinned.
Suddenly suspicious, Maxie looked more closely at the grass beside the path. "Lord Robert, did you tell the gardener to sprinkle grain along this path to bring the birds for us?"
He laughed, unrepentant. "What's wrong with creating a little magic? When I first saw you at the Wolverhampton fairy ring, I thought of Titania, the fairy queen."
She joined his laughter. "And I thought of Oberon. Our imaginations work in similar ways."
"Among many other things." He hesitated, then said, "I probably shouldn't ask, but these days, when you think about the future, do you have a sense of its course?"
She nodded. "Many, many happy years with you."
He raised their hands and kissed her fingertips. "That's what I was hoping."
The path led to a clearing that Maxie had not seen before. In the center was a fairy ring like the one at Wolverhampton. She stopped and gazed at it, feeling absurdly happy.
Robin drew her into his arms and gave her a kiss of aching sweetness. Then he whispered, "Now, Kanawiosta, show me again how to listen to the wind."
The End
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Thunder and Roses
Dancing on the Wind
Petals in the Storm
The Perfect Rose
Excerpt from
Thunder and Roses
Fallen Angels Series
Book One
by
Mary Jo Putney
Chapter 1
Wales, March 1814
They called him the Demon Earl, or sometimes Old Nick. Hushed voices whispered that he had seduced his grandfather's young wife, broken his grandfather's heart, and driven his own bride to her grave.
They said he could do anything.
Only the last claim interested Clare Morgan as her gaze followed the man racing his stallion down the valley as if all the fires of hell pursued him. Nicholas Davies, the Gypsy Earl of Aberdare, had finally come home, after four long years. Perhaps he would stay, but it was equally possible that he would be gone again tomorrow. Clare must act quickly.
Yet she lingered a little longer, knowing that he would never see her in the cluster of trees from which she watched. He rode bareback, flaunting his wizardry with horses, dressed in black except for the scarlet scarf knotted around his throat. He was too far away for her to see his face. She wondered if he had changed, then decided that the real question was not if, but how much. Whatever the truth behind the violent events that had driven him away, it had to have been searing.
Would he remember her? Probably not. He'd only seen her a handful of times, and she had been a child then. Not only had he been Viscount Tregar, but he was four years older than she, and older children seldom paid much attention to younger ones.
The reverse was not true.
As she walked back to the village of Penreith, she
reviewed her pleas and arguments. One way or another, she must persuade the Demon Earl to help. No one else could make a difference.
* * *
For a few brief minutes, while his stallion blazed across the estate like a mad wind, Nicholas was able to lose himself in the exhilaration of pure speed. But reality closed in again when the ride ended and he returned to the house.
In his years abroad he had often dreamed of Aberdare, torn between yearning and fear of what he would find there. The twenty-four hours since his return had proved that his fears had been justified. He'd been a fool to think that four years away could obliterate the past. Every room of the house, every acre of the valley, held memories. Some were happy ones, but they had been overlaid by more recent events, tainting what he had once loved. Perhaps, in the furious moments before he died, the old earl had laid a curse on the valley so that his despised grandson would never again know happiness here.
Nicholas walked to the window of his bedroom and stared out. The valley was as beautiful as ever—wild in the heights, lushly cultivated lower down. The delicate greens of spring were beginning to show. Soon there would be daffodils. As a boy, he had helped the gardeners plant drifts of bulbs under the trees, getting thoroughly muddy in the process. His grandfather had seen it as further proof of Nicholas's low breeding.
He raised his eyes to the ruined castle that brooded over the valley. For centuries those immensely thick walls had been both fortress and home to the Davies family. More peaceful times had led Nicholas's great-great-grandfather to build the mansion considered suitable for one of Britain's wealthiest families.
Angel Rogue: Book 4 in the Fallen Angels Series Page 35
