by Cheryl Holt
Slyly she said, "Your friend, Paulie. He is a sweet, sweet boy...."
"Paulie?"
"A little—how you say—rough around the edges, but..."
"Paulie is here?"
He turned to rush inside, but she grabbed his arm and stopped him in his tracks, surprising him with the strength of her grasp. "The boys are sleeping," she said. "Paulie is proud to be
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wearing one of his captain's shirts as his nightdress. He thinks his Captain Pendleton is a great man." She spat dramatically into the dirt. "But what I am wondering is this: What could this boy know about his beloved captain that would break my lady's heart?" Pensively she tapped a finger against her lip. "What could it be that this American has brought crashing down upon all of us?"
Lucas's pulse began to pound. "Is Penny awake?"
Colette leaned near, muttering remarks in French that sounded as though he and the future generations of his family had just been cursed throughout eternity. “I warned you, mon capitan."
There was a flash in the dim light, and he noticed that she was wielding a knife. It looked dreadfully familiar. “Give me that," he ordered, reaching for her hand and trying to wrench it away before she could hurt either one of them, but she was quicker than he suspected, and she stepped back, holding the sharp blade low, where any man would hate to have it aimed.
"I will find out what you have done," Colette promised, "and when I determine the depth of your duplicity, I will cut you open and scatter your entrails for the scavengers."
The woman was mad!
Shaking his head, he walked past without responding to her drivel. He crept through the door and into the pantry, and he paused. Then, nearly on tiptoe, he moved toward the kitchen, wondering at the absolute silence until he saw Penny. She was still dressed, sitting at the table with her back to the wall, a location from where she could easily view botii doors. Though the room was dark, a sliver of moonlight shone through the window and ignited her hair in a shimmer of white. She looked ethereal, ghostly, and cold. Very, very cold.
The length of the table suddenly seemed huge, the expanse of wood looming between them large and unnavigable. She was turned sideways in the chair and absently staring out the window into the yard. Probably she had been watching as he'd ridden in, as he'd lingered in the barn door, contemplating all
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the ways he'd failed her, as he'd sneaked across the yard and exchanged insults with Colette.
"Penny?" he asked cautiously. "What are you doing up?" She didn't turn. Didn't speak. Didn't so much as appear to heed him. "I'm going to light a lamp.'' He thought she shrugged at the suggestion but couldn't be certain. Moments later a small flame caught, doing its best to bring cheer to the pervasive gloom, but it did nothing to warm the chill in the air or melt the icy fear clawing at the core of his being.
She continued to look out the window, toying with the edge of the lace curtain, and he wanted to implore her to speak, though he knew beyond reason that he didn't wish to hear whatever comments would eventually tumble out.
Just when he'd concluded she would never begin, she said, "I was thinking about Adam St. Clair."
"Adam?" He didn't recognize the name. "Who is that?"
"He was my first fiancé." She sighed, lost in painful memories. "From the time I was a girl I was advised that I would grow up to marry him. When we became engaged I was only seventeen. I thought he loved me madly, passionately. I was such a fool."
"Why would you say that?" he asked kindly. He had heard parts of this heart-wrenching story but never in its entirety, and he repeated what he always did when she'd shared a few of the details. “Who can understand the correct path at such a young age? You can't blame yourself for anything that happened back then."
"Do you remember ... I've recounted how he resolved to marry someone else."
"Yes," he said.
"Someone he truly loved. Not me."
"His loss," Lucas insisted quietly, hating this waiting, this skirting of the issue. A vile topic was lurking and ready to be discussed aloud, and all he could do was brace himself for the pain she would inflict once it was mentioned.
"I never revealed all of it." She paused, still staring outside.
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"He married my sister. Well, not really my sister. My half sister, I guess she'd be. She is my father's by-blow from an affair he had many years ago."
She waved a hand meant to encompass all of Harold's numerous affairs, and Lucas cringed at the implication that there were uncounted numbers of his abandoned children scattered about the countryside. How many were there? How many other siblings did Harry have about whom he would never know? How many would be thrown up in Penny's face in order to shame and embarrass her? And what about Harold's wife? Gad, no wonder the poor woman hardly went out in society. Who knew what she might encounter?
Penny continued. “After Adam and I parted, you can't imagine how many people delighted in announcing the fact that she was really my sister. They loved to recite how my father and her mother had supposedly shared a grand amour. They relished the opportunity to rub salt in my wounds and laugh because I was so horrid that Adam would choose a bastard girl over me. I heard it all. Every cutting, snide observation."
"I'm sure his preference didn't have anything to do with you personally," he said, realizing that any commiseration was inadequate.
"I saw them once, you know? Just last year." Her eyes narrowed as she gazed to a distant time. "I was at a garden party. The hostess was Italian, so I guess she wasn't aware of all the circumstances surrounding us, because we'd all been invited. Fortunately I noticed them before I went outside. They were with their baby daughter, and'' —Penny swallowed a surge of emotion—"they were so happy. I was hidden from the other guests, so I spied on them for as long as I dared, and it was painfully obvious how much Adam loved them both. I couldn't help thinking that I was glad for him. I was glad that he'd found such meaning in his life, and that he'd been wise enough to have the good sense to pass me by. It helped to understand that he was truly fond of her. The realization tempered some of the sting."
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"I'm sure it did.. .."
“And I thought how lucky I had been to have escaped a loveless marriage to him—one like my mother's to my father— because I would still have a chance to experience joy with another. You see ... all I've ever wanted is to find a man who loves me the way Adam loves my sister." Finally she turned and stared him down. "Do you love me, Lucas?"
He'd never admitted the sentiment, had avoided the strong emotion all his days, and the utterance was lodged so far inside his throat that he couldn't bring it out even though he loved her beyond imagining. What good would it do for her to know anyway? It didn't change anything. It didn't fix anything.
"Do you?" she repeated sharply into the embarrassing silence.
He flinched, understanding that he would have to muster the courage to confess what she meant to him, although before he'd even started, he figured he'd bungle it like everything else he'd attempted lately.
"Yes, I do, Penny. I love you."
"How bloody convenient." She tossed his declaration back in his face. Then, shocking him to the limit, she asked, "Are you armed, Lucas?"
"What?!"
"Are you carrying a weapon?"
"I have a pistol," he admitted. Astonishing him again, her hand came out from under the table, and he saw that she possessed one of her own, and it was aimed very much as Colette's knife had been.
Was he to pass the remainder of the night being waylaid by irate armed women?
"Where did you get that thing?" He fought the urge to leap across the table and wrestle it away from her, because her fingers were gripping the stock so tautly that her knuckles were white.
"It's amazing what sorts of useful items are hidden in this house," she said. "A woman can find just about any object
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she
needs to get her hands on. Would it surprise you to learn that I can load this? That I can fire it?"
"No," he said, realizing that although she was fraught with tension, she was holding the pistol correctly.
"My brother likes to shoot. He showed me." She gestured in front of her with the tip of the barrel. "Your pistol ... I'd appreciate it if you'd place it on the table. Carefully, please."
"What are you about, Penny?" he asked, shaking his head in consternation. ' 'First Colette accosts me outside and threatens me with a knife. Now this!"
"Just do as I ask," she commanded shortly.
He didn't believe she'd shoot him intentionally, but accidents happened all the time, and he didn't want to see that tense finger squeezing the trigger any more tightly than it already was. "I have to reach behind my back."
"Fine. Do it slowly."
He retrieved the gun, gently resting it on the wood and shoving it across.
"Anything else?" she asked. "Perhaps in a pocket or up your sleeve?''
"No," he lied. "Nothing else." He wasn't about to part with the small pistol—his last resort—kept in his boot. Apparently she'd decided to accept his untruthful admission, and she pushed both her weapon and his own off to the side, though she kept hers within range. At least she'd lowered the blasted thing, so he felt encouraged enough to ask, "May I sit?"
She nodded to a chair, and he tentatively pushed it back. As he settled down, she advised, "Keep your hands where I can see them."
"For heaven's sake, Penny! What's going on? What's happened?"
From under her apron she retrieved an envelope and tossed it across the table. "I presume this is yours."
His eyes widened. The note! Westmoreland's note from the previous day. It had to be. A thousand questions swirled through
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his head. How had she come to have it? What did it say? What had she discovered?
Obviously nothing good. He chanced a glance in her direction. The joyous, playful woman to whom he'd grown so affectionately attached had vanished, only to be replaced by this ruthless, dangerous adversary. She looked like one of those ice carvings he'd seen occasionally at fancy suppers.
The envelope lay between them, an inanimate object filled with prevarications and deceptions, and it seemed to swirl in confusing circles, making him dizzy just from gazing upon it His hand ached to snatch it up, but he couldn't move. He knew Westmoreland; knew his style and his opinion of Penny, so whatever was written inside would be blunt and brutal.
"Read it!" she ordered, and me frantic inflection underlying her tone gave him the tenacity he needed to pick it up and turn it over.
The seal was already broken, and he pulled the parchment out and hastily scanned the text. Although it was nothing more or less than he expected, reading such a barbaric response made him feel as though he'd just received a physical blow. Penny had obviously read it too. What must she have thought!
He reread the last line. Kill her. Don't. It matters not to me. Severe, merciless sentiments from a severe, merciless man, but at least Lucas had had weeks to come to terms with the manner in which Westmoreland's mind worked. Penny had just acquired the cold, hard facts about her father, and it had to be a bitter dose of reality. Yet, at the same time, he couldn't help believing that maybe it was just as well that she'd finally discovered what type of person he actually was. She'd always suspected that he was a cold-blooded bastard intent on his intrigues and outcomes, but surely, this went beyond even her crystal-clear imaginings.
Let her have no illusions, he thought. He met her gaze with a steady one of his own as he tried to discern the best way of explaining why he hadn't, why he couldn't, send her home.
"I'm going to give you one chance," she said harshly, "and
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one chance only, to clarify what has been going on, so I suggest you use your time wisely." He opened his mouth to begin, but she held up a hand, stopping him before any words could come forth. "It's amazing, really, how accurately I've come to know you. For you see, I can tell that your mind is already conjuring a half-dozen stories that you imagine might placate me. So, I warn you now: My patience is at an end, and I will not listen a second time. I have cared for you, and therefore I am willing to give you one occasion to justify your actions before I leave you forever. If you choose to use this opportunity to spout lies, so be it."
Giving a swift nod of agreement, he was stunned and frightened by how fast she'd made her decision to go. He had to alter it.
"It's not what you think," he started, and instantly realized that he sounded like an idiot.
"Which part?" She snorted in distaste. "You haven't kidnapped me? You're not blackmailing my father? My father will not pay to have me returned? You're not going to murder me?" She leaned forward and whispered, "Which part is not what I believe it to be?"
"I would never hurt you, Penny."
“Too late! You already have!" She tapped her fingers angrily on the table, her loathing clear and excruciating to witness. "So... it's all true?"
"Yes," he admitted, his shoulders slumping with defeat.
"Did you inform my father that you were going to kill me?''
"I did," he said into the damning void, "but I didn't mean it."
"How terribly lucky for me!" She stood. "That's all I need to know. Good-bye, Lucas."
She rounded the corner of the table, and he grabbed her arm. Though she didn't physically shake off his grip, her eyes were like a pair of pliers, pressuring his fingers with her steely regard, but he refused to let go. He couldn't allow her to depart, not
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without hashing out the whole affair to its unbearable conclusion.
"You told me you'd listen," he asserted.
"So I did, but I find that there is no longer anything you could possibly say that would be worth hearing."
"Wouldn't you like to know the truth? I'll tell you every bit. I swear it."
"And now—now?—I should give credence to whatever crazed tale you choose to relate? What an incredible amount of gall you have! You must assume that I am the greatest dimwit who ever lived."
He swallowed, visibly unnerved by the anger that was flowing from her in waves. She'd left both pistols on the table, which was good, because if she'd still been clutching one of them, she might have shot him through the middle of his black heart. He'd have deserved nothing less.
"I've wanted to tell you," he said, "from the very beginning, but I didn't know how—"
"Answer me this! Are we married?"
"No, we're not." The admission came out more abruptly than he'd intended, and its effect was overwhelming. Her knees buckled, and he had to guide her into a chair lest she slide to the floor. Once she was safely reclined, he added, ' 'But I want us to be!"
"Oh, God, please be quiet!"
"I won't!" he said. "I wish to be married to you more than anything in the world. I've been dying to repair the mess I've created, but how could I confess to you that ... that..."
"... that the ceremony was false?" she finished for him.
"Yes."
Tears welled into her eyes and began to fall. "How could you be so heartless? Didn't you have any respect for my feelings? Have you enjoyed one minute of genuine tenderness toward me?"
"Always! Always, Penny," he insisted. "You know it's
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true. From the very first there was a special relationship between us. You felt it too! I know you did."
"I felt it. You're right. / did. But what about you? You've been happy enough to drop your trousers at a moment's notice, but it was never more than that for you, was it?" She shook her head in distaste, in despair. "For you to sit here now, after luring me away from my home and family ... For you to say to me that—on your part—it was love after all ... That is absolutely beyond what I can bear!"
"I didn't intend it to happen this way!"
"Stop it!" She placed her hands over her ears as thoug
h his comments were hurting her physically. "Just stop it! I can't tolerate your alibis and justifications."
"But I need you to understand all the circumstances." He paused. "Please, Penny!"
"Who was the minister?" she asked, struggling for breath.
"My brother, Matthew."
"Ah, yes, your sparring partner." She laid her face on her palms, the tears coming harder, dripping through her fingers and down her wrists. "Lord, but I am such a bloody imbecile."
"No, Penny, no!" he soothed, rubbing his hand along her back, but she shook it off. "This is all my fault. Mine alone! You didn't know. You couldn't have known!"
He couldn't stand to see her cry, to see her distressed or unhappy. Spreading his arms, he tried to scoop her onto his lap, where he could cuddle her until the worst of the emotional storm had passed, but even though she was distraught, she realized what he calculated and fought her way out of his grasp.
Rising again, she took one step, then another, moving a chair in between them. Using it as a barrier. Using it as protection. "You have the audacity to attempt to comfort me? After all you've brought about?" His touch had become repugnant, and her entire body shuddered.
Would this be the way it would end? Would she depart hating and detesting him? No, he couldn't let it happen! He studied
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her as she trembled, and he said quietly, "It started as an argument between your father and myself."
“What could my father ever have done to you that would make it acceptable for you to commit so many wicked offenses against me in return?''
There was no hope for it; he was going to have to disclose all. Perhaps he'd always wanted to. He gestured toward the chair. In her condition this was definitely news she should hear while seated. Reluctantly she complied.
He commenced with "Do you remember that night... when we talked about Harry and his mother?"
"Yes," she said, still wary, watching his every move. "You told me you had just learned who had fathered her child. That he was an Englishman, and you were trying to—"
